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:1HE RESIDUARY LEGATE
THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
GUERNDALE
an
BY
F. J. S T I M S O N
[). s. OF DALE]
Ba log nidoa de aaufio no hay pujaros de ho^aao. 1< ~-Z)o/i Quijott
New York
international Association of Newspapers and Authors
1901
CWTMGWT w
CHA3LLS SCRJBNER'S
?s
2.922.
GUERNDALE.
600k
CHAPTER I.
* Mow. JMt at *e rsry essence of Maa ooosuts ia I
U satkfied. tones aaew. and *o for ever ; so the
ia a cootiaataJ aVpartare from the key-note ; k waader* in a Aimmmd ways. bi4
ahray* OMBCS hack to it at fast"
ON one of those dreamy afternoons in August,
when all audible life in the country drowses
away to a faint murmur, and we float through the
day as the shifting clouds drift across the sky, you
could scarce do better than saunter into the old
churchyard at Dale. There is an indefinable charm
about our New England graveyards which is often
lacking in more pretentious cemeteries. There is
little gleaming marble and heavy stonework ; and
the greater part of the rude slate slabs is just suffi-
ciently moss-grown to deaden the sound of the drop-
ping nuts. The signs of recent bereavement are
few; most of the stones are softened and stained
i
2 GUERNDALE.
into harmony with the sap-stained pines about them
The quiet tenants of the place seem rather spell'
bound than dead ; and the sunset air breathes softly
about the old carven letters, as if wooing the dead
to forget that they had ever lived. Life seems so
old a story, and so long, so very long, ago. And
even in the first rich bloom of autumn, just Avhen
the fruit of the labored year is most perfect, nature
seems to have an occasional day of hush and pause,
as if debating whether it were worth while to go
through the old story of winter, spring and summer
once more. None are more sad than these days,
when the earth, in all the flush of accomplished
labor, sighs. It is like the sadness of a man at the
crown of his ambition ; of a bride in her honey-
moon.
Dale is an old Massachusetts village, lying nearly
lost, far up among the Berkshire hills ; and such a
day as this was wearing away the letters on the
churchyard stones, many years ago ; and some such
fancies as these were drifting through the mind of a
boy, lying by the bole of a tall hemlock, and look-
ing dreamily from under his long lashes at an old,
slate gravestone. Had you come upon him sud-
denly, you would have started at seeing him, so
intensely still he lay ; as one starts at a squirrel,
motionless, just before it flashes along the wall and
vanishes. Even his eyes, deep and dark as they
were, seemed rather to absorb light than to give it
out. Otherwise, an ordinary-looking boy enough,
except for a vague expression of sadness, which,
after a moment's study, seemed not so much an ex
GUERNDALE. 3
pression as an hereditary cast of feature. He had
been reading, with some difficulty, part of the old in-
scription on the slate before him :
"... oeporteb tljm
" 3To 0ingc n .Hlmies of obb*e fyonb*
" QVnb sec 2* fpainee rob vete r* bamneb."
and, in a curious, half-boyish, half-mature way, was
thinking about it. From the part of the epitaph that
was yet legible, it seemed a matter of some doubt
to which of two possible places the departed spirit
had gone. And yet the nature of the stone was
clearly intended to be laudatory : carren thereon was
the rude semblance of a weeping willow, shading an
urn of classic shape, while a bat-like cherub sur-
mounted the name :
.fUietresse Slntu HJnar
obit s 7tl) of JnlB 1700, t. 81.
He wondered whether Mistresse Anne Dyar knew
she was dead, and if she were aware of the ambi-
guity of her epitaph. Or perhaps the unknown'
rhymer really thought that the windows of heaven
commanded, as an advertisement would say, a fine
view of hell.
All this rather carelessly ; for hell had long since
ceased to be a very tangible fact, even in the year of
grace 1838, and in the mind of an impressionable
boy. To be sure he had heard old Dr. Grimstone
lay down the precise location of hell, and then enter,
with appalling realism, into a detailed description ef
4 GUERNDALE.
the ground-plan thereof. He had even taken, as in-
tended for personal application, the reverend Doc-
tor's denunciation of children of sin and creatures of
Satan, and had slunk home considerably abashed
in consequence. But when the Doctor, between
churches, came to his mother's house for dinner
which occasionally happened, for his father had been
a clergyman and laughed very heartily at his own
jokes, besides calling him " Sonny " and giving him
a quarter, he began to fancy that the good old Doc-
tor's eloquence depended very much upon scenic
effect, and that the Devil was not such a very terri-
ble personage in private life after all. He knew that
most of the people in Dale, if asked directly as to
their belief in the localities aforementioned, would
have answered unhesitatingly in the affirmative ; but
was not this from motives of propitiation and a pru-
dent regard for possibilities ? Did people really care
as much, hope as much, fear as much as they pre-
tended ? It was very pleasant lying half buried in
the long churchyard grass that afternoon. Life was
rather an easy, simple thing, and all about him
seemed to suggest a sort of grave amusement at
people's making such a to-do about it.
Suddenly the boy started up upon his elbow. His
whole appearance and attitude changed ; he no
longer seemed part of the hour and the place, but a
truant school-boy who had strayed thither by mis-
take. His eyes sparkled with fun as he ran rapidly
across to the high stone wall which skirted the dusty
country road. Soon after, the prattle of a girlish
voice was heard. The boy crouched for a spring
GUERNDALE. 5
over the wall and a merry surprise, but drew back
suddenly into the shade, as he heard a strange voice
pronounce his name.
" Guyon Guerndale who is he ? "
" Oh ! " said the girl, " don't you know ? " And as
the two little figures pattered away, Guyon heard the
beginning of a long explanation. But he still re-
mained in the shadow of the wall, as if surprised or
shy ; and, as the two children disappeared among the
willows at the bend of the road, he turned and wan-
dered slowly home, keeping by the meadows at th
base of the churchyard.
CHAPTER II.
" Alles ist nicht todt, was begraben ist." HRINK.
IN the days when the hilt of a sword better fitted
a gentleman's hand than the quill of a pen, and
when the owner of the sword was probably simple
enough to take more pride in his well-shaped leg
than in his clerkship in short, in the year sixteen
hundred and eighty-eight, there lived in the county
palatine of Durham an old cavalier and baronet, Sir
Godfrey Guerndale. A right stout arm and a right
true heart had Sir Godfrey, and made bold to be-
lieve in God and the king. Devoted to the house of
Stuart, he followed its fortunes to the bitter end,
though its fortunes were but misfortunes, and the
end his ruin. While he saw and deplored the
cowardice, irresolution, and misgovernment which
worked the downfall of that dynasty, he could not
see why, if James Stuart was a coward, Godfrey
Guerndale should be a traitor. So he was ever ready
with his counsel and his sword ; and the one was
despised and disregarded, while the other was used
and thrown away. Finally, the battle of the Boyne
was followed by ignominious flight and abandonment
of the cause he thought righteous, and Sir Godfrey
was in disfavor for the ?ame loyalty and devotiou
GUERNDALE. 7
his rightful lord had so little prized. His lands en-
cumbered, his fortune wasted, his very plate melted
down, he found himself, in the prime of life, without
a cause and without a king. Disgusted, once for all,
with the unworthy Stuarts, he refused to take part
in the numerous Jacobite intrigues which even then
were forming ; unwilling to accept as final the re-
sults of a half-fought contest, he disdained to seek
favor at the hands of one whom he considered an
usurper. Like many another loyal gentleman, tak-
ing with him what remained to him of fortune and
ol faith, he sought refuge and retirement in the new
world. His wife, a French lady of the Court of
Louis XIV. one of the noble family of La Roche
Guyon refused to accompany him, and saved him
the trouble of compulsion by leaving him for an old
friend, an ancient companion of the Merry Monarch.
Remaining about the Court of St. Germain only so
long as was necessary to run his sword through this
gentleman, Sir Godfrey departed for America. His
only son, then a youth of fourteen, accompanied
him more by his father's will than his OAvn inclina-
tion ; for Guy was a precocious boy, and even at
that early age considered his father a fool. There
also went with him an old and valued servant, John
Simmons by name, who passed the rigors of the long
voyage in drinking strong liquor and cursing Dutch
William and his master's French wife.
All this did not tend to give Sir Godfrey a taste
for New England society, which consisted chiefly of
Puritans, who would, in the words of Sir John Den-
bam, " quarrel with mince-pies and disparage theh
8 GUERNDALE.
best and dearest friend, plum-porridge ; fat pig and
goose itself oppose, and blaspheme custard through
the nose." Sir Godfrey was fairly disposed toward
these people, and presumed, as he intended not to
trouble them, they would do, or rather leave undone,
as much for him. Having acquired by purchase
from the Indians a large tract of land in what was
then a wilderness, Sir Godfrey lived the retired life
of a studious country gentleman, and waited and
watched for the birth of a Stuart worthy to be re-
tored.
But that event never came. The old baronet lived
long enough to give the name of Guerndale to the
settlement springing up about him, and died, as he
had lived, a disappointed man, soured by the trea-
son of his friend, the falseness of his wife, and the
unworthiness of his king. He was not much known,
and perhaps as much feared as respected among the
simple and bigoted Puritans of the neighborhood.
His quiet memory soon faded away, and what little
is now known of him is due chiefly to the researches
of genealogists and antiquarians. In the early col-
lections of the Massachusetts Historical Society there
is some mention of him, and I think Jones mentions
the Guerndales as among the Tories of the American
Revolution. All the early traditions of the family,
however, cluster about his son, " Bad Sir Guy," a so-
briquet first awarded him after his death. His rep-
utation, being positively evil, soon obscured that of
his father, which was negatively good. He failed
utterly to understand Sir Godfrey's Quixotic devo-
tion to an idea, and his sole desire was to return to
GUERNDALE. 9
that country from which he regarded himself as un-
justly exiled ; and not to the Court of St. Germain,
out of power, but to the Court of St. James. But
he no more wished to return as a needy supplicant
of royal favor than as the blind adherent of a lost
cause. He meant to regain that position which his
father had cast away so foolishly; to shine again
among the gallants of the Court ; to be once more
lord of those broad demesne lands in Durham, held
by the little onerous service of guarding the bones of
St. Cuthbert from the devil. For Guyon did not
fear the devil, and did not think this would be diffi-
cult
Still, to accomplish all these things, money was
necessary ; and money he would have. He must
return in a manner befitting his rank and station.
He was not a miser ; he did not desire gold for its
own sake, but as a means to an end. But that means
was indispensable ; and he must get it all costs. His
father's attachment to the king was loyalty ; his own.
was measured by self-interest. He became a tool of
young John Churchill, and afterward a soldier under
Queen Anne, thereby mortally offending his father.
It were an endless task to mention the numerous
blots on his reputation. Thirty years ago his mem-
ory was yet alive in Dale. If we are to believe the
old gossips, pillage, piracy, and treason were among
the least of his crimes.
He soon disappeared from the army, leaving an
evil odor behind him ; and it was hoped he was
dead, until, after his father's death, he turned up at
Guerndale with a young and beautiful wife.
10 GUERNDALE.
Old Solomon Bung, the village story-teller, always
accompanied this part of the story with a knowing
shake of the head and the fragmentary phrase, "But
they do say . . . ." Whatever they do or did
say, the memory of this poor girl is the one bright
edge to the story, for she loved her evil lord de-
votedly ; and with her sad, but winning smile, she
soon became a universal favorite, particularly among
the poor, or that class which most nearly approached
the poor in those days of rustic plenty. Even wicked
Sir Guyon seemed the better for her ; and all might
in the end have been well, had it not been for the
catastrophe which brought the name of Guerndale
into lasting notoriety.
Old John Simmons had faithfully aided his mas-
ter, Sir Godfrey, in the labor and troubles which at-
tended his settlement in New England. When the
mansion-house was built, he settled contentedly down
in one corner of it with his pretty little Puritan wife,
who acted as housekeeper for them all. If we may
trust old stories, one of their sons, Philip, was by no
means a comfort to his father and mother in their
declining years. Living some distance from the
nearest settlements, he was not iinbued with the
spirit of the honest people of the neighborhood, but
became a protege and a pupil of the many roving
Indians who yet lingered about the place. To suc-
ceed his father in the servile position he seemed to
Philip to occupy, soon became distasteful to him ;
and when old John died, an event which happened
about the time of Sir Godfrey's death, Philip took
iiis father's hard-earned savings, and his wn pick*
GUERNDALE. II
ings and stealings, and bought a parcel of freehold
land adjoining the Guerndale estate. Here Sir
Guyon found him on his return, married, and living
the life more of a hunter or scout than a farmer. In
him he recognized a kindred spirit, and soon re-
vealed to him his schemes for obtaining that wealth
which Guyon so eagerly desired.
The real resources of New England were then but
little known. Projects which now would be attrib-
uted to the visions of a madman, were then soberly
undertaken, and regarded as prompted by a laud-
able spirit of exploration. The old myth of El Dor-
ado had not quite disappeared from the minds of the
settlers ; nor had they yet realized that the true
wealth of New England lay rather on the surface of
her soil and in the depths of her seas, than in the
veins of her barren rocks. Misled, like many a bet-
ter man, by the glitter of a valueless mineral, Guyon
passed his time in delving at the base of the ruggad
hills which lay behind his house. At his directions,
a rude smelting-furnace was erected ; and respect
for his elder's experience and determination soon
brought Philip Simmons, insensibly, to the same
position of dependence and servitude which, in his
father, he had despised. Again, though in a less
laudable pursuit, a Simmons was the faithful servant
of a Guerndale. No one else was admitted to their
labors ; secretly, so far as they could, the two mined
and smelted ; but in vain. Yet people were curious ;
and doubtless many an eye had watched the half-
swaggering, half-servile demeanor of Philip, and the
grim, eager face of Sir Guyon, when the features of
12 GUERNDALE.
both were stamped with the same greed, as they
turned over rock and sand, or cowered silently at
night over the red furnace-fire.
One night, from farm to farm ran the report that
Simmons had been murdered. A boy had been out
hunting that afternoon, and had lost himself at dusk
among the hills. Tradition says that it was a misty,
rainy day in November, and little was to be seen in
the hills save the sombre outlines of the nearest pine-
forest, and the varying shades of blackness in the
mist that marked the height of the trees. So the
boy had easily become confused as to the way, and
it was with unusual gladness that he saw bleared
in the mist the red glow of the furnace-fire. Made
bolder than usual by the inclemency of the weather
for even then the forge was regarded among the
common folk as a place at most times to be avoided
he hurried on toward the door, but stopped on hear-
ing the sounds of an angry altercation within. Catch-
ing, amid the curses, the words "diamond," "halves,"
"my fair share," he rushed to the little square win-
dow. Over it was stretched a sheet of isinglass ; and
through this he got a distorted view of the interior.
At one corner stood Guyon Guerndale, his face pale
with rage, his left hand clutching a diamond which
the boy said afterward was as large as a pigeon's-egg.
Opposite stood Philip Simmons, his back against the
door.
" Bah, fool ! let me pass ? " hissed Guerndale. And
Guerndale made as if he would pass through the
door, which Simmons still held. " Pshaw, Simmons !
be a faithful -Nervant, as your father was before, and
GUERNDALE. 13
trust to me for your reward ! I may make you a
gentleman yet who knows ? " Simmons, with a
curse, threw himself upon his master, striking him
with a clenched fist upon the lip. At this a great
flood of scarlet swept over Sir Guyon's pale cheek ;
he drew his sword from the scabbard he had buckled
over his working-dress, and struck Simmons to the
ground. Striking him twice again, he dashed the
lantern to the floor and strode out of the cabi.
All this time the diamond was flashing in his left
'hand, and the boy believed him to have take* it
with him. Rooted to the spot with fear, he could do
nothing, but heard Guerndale's heavy tread dowm
the bed of the brook which formed the only path out
of the valley. Presently the cabin took fire from
the lantern, and by its first flames the boy saw Philip
Simmons still lying on his back, with a wide gash
beneath his upturned chin. He turned, and fled to
the village.
A party was at once made up to proceed to the
smelting-furnace ; the cabin was found in ashes,
among which was the body of a man. A hue and
cry was raised for the murderer. Guerndale, not
expecting so speedy a pursuit, was found in his own
house, calmly making preparations for flight. At
first he seemed not to suppose that the villagers
would dare to apprehend him. Brought to bay, he
showed fight ; and, anxious as they were to take him
alive, he was killed by his own shot, after he had
cut and slashed a dozen of his pursuers.
That night his lady died, leaving behind her a
boy, destined to be sole heir to the Guerndale es
14 GUERNDALE.
tate. Not a very large principality, you will say,
for all that the king's escheator cared to trouble
himself about was forfeit to the crown. Hard in-
de.ed would have been the boy's lot, had not some
yeomen, well-to-do, who owed their all to early kind-
nesses of his mother, taken and cared for the poor
little creature, who already seemed unfortunate in
being born alive.
Meanwhile, Sir Guyon Guerndale had been buried,
after the good old fashion, at the meeting of four
roads, with a stake through his heart.
CHAPTER III.
" AD men are horn free and equal." Old Stmf.
TIME went on, change succeeded change, fortunes
were made and lost, families were founded and
dispersed, the little settlement of Guerndale grey;
slowly into a country town, and yet no change came'
in the fortunes of the family that gave the place its
name. It ever seemed that they lived only in the
past, and had their hopes buried with their fortunes,
at that fatal date in the early part of the eighteenth
century. To be sure, the square old country-house
was left them; but land, wealth, and position were
gone. The disgrace of the family remained, and
stamped itself upon the nature of the descendants of
Guyon the murderer. From father to son they lived
a life of dreams; absorbed in books and contempla-
tion, that strain of ambition and action, which had .
been so evilly used, seemed to be ended and buriec I
with its last possessor. His son, who came into the
world at that dark moment, struck the key-note of
the lonely, introspective nature which remained dom-
inant in the lives of his descendants. Each in turn
wrung from the soil the scanty subsistence he re-
quired, married in due time, without love, and died in
onrse, leaving, at most, two sons to perpetuate the
l6 GUERNDALE.
misfortunes of their race. Family pride they had,
but this served rather as a motive for holding aloo(
and brooding on the past, than for taking part in the
stirring events of their day. In the Revolution they
were Tories, but took no active part, and were easily
overlooked in the confiscation which followed. In
brief, they all seemed born under a cloud; each felt
it his duty to marry, and usually married beneath
his station. Unknown among the later aristocracy
growing up in New England, they refused to face
the trials and rebuffs which they would unavoidably
meet if they emerged from their traditional retire-
ment.
Curiously enough, no one had ever seen the dia-
mond since that dark November evening, but it was
believed the fatal jewel was yet retained in the family
of Guerndale. This added not a little to the distrust
with which the possessors of the stone were regarded.
Keeping the object of the crime seemed, as it were,
a ratification of the crime itself. Yet the family never
would part with the jewel; and years ago, I remem-
ber, it was believed by the older people of the town
that fortune would never come back to the Guern-
dales until they lost or threw away the ill-won heir-
loom a common tradition enough in cases of this
sort.
So time passed, and brought neither happiness to
the family of Guerndale, nor kindlier feelings to-
ward them on the part of the neighbors.
Meanwhile, the nature of the place changed with
the nature of the country. The Revolution came
and went, leaving a slight accession to the ill-repute
GUERNDALE. I?
in which the family were held. The town of Guem-
dale became the centre of an important farming dis-
trict. Then a few manufacturing establishments
sprang up along the brown little river. Social dis-
tinctions were levelled ; aristocratic ideas gave place
to democratic dogmas ; the township, from an oligar-
chy, became what my friend Randolph used to caU
a demagogue-archy. Even the old Guerndale mur-
der became a thing of the past as obsolete as an old
English tragedy by the side of Camille or Frou-frou.
Only the impalpable feeling of the towns-people to-
ward the Guerndales remained. A slight odor <
disfavor still hung about them, as the scent of oil
still lingers about the rotten Nantucket wharves.
Any old-country feeling of respect for the founders
of the town must have disappeared early in the
present century. Many people were now there,
more wealthy and influential, who could claim to be
what is in New England considered of " good family."
Several names had appeared, with due iteration,
every thirty years or so in the Harvard triennial cata-
logue, where you might in vain have looked among
the fellows and graduates for a Guerndale. Several
families had acquired wealth and position in New
York or Boston, and left a glory behind them in the
little town of their nativity, or returned to grace
their ancestral acres with pretentious modern man-
sions. The Simmoijses, for instance they had lived
many years on their farm, quite as long as the Guern-
dales ; and a scion of that stock had made an enor-
mous fortune by introducing salt fish into South
America. He had come back to Guerndale, and had
1 8 GUERNDALE.
been well known as the richest man of the place ;
and the prominent Boston family of Symonds are his
descendants. This Simmons or Symonds (who built
the Symonds Memorial Hall, at Harvard) was very
active in changing that town-name which had ever
been felt by the more progressive citizens as servile
and un-American. Who were these Guerndales, that
they should inflict their name, and their disgrace
with it, upon an American township, as if it were
their property ? They owned less land than half the
farmers about, and every one knew they had not a
cent to bless themselves with. So argued Squire
Simmons, and, thought his fellow-citizens, argued
well. But then came the question of change. Here
opinions were more conflicting. Some favored
Ephesus, some Arcadia, some New Moscow, others
Anemonevale. Squire Simmons argued tiecretly,
but long and earnestly, in favor of Simmonsville ;
indeed, it was said that he offered to build a town-
clock and a wooden steeple in the latest style, upon
the old stone towa-hall, if they would adopt that
name. But to this proposal there was much quiet
opposition, in spite of a flaming leader in the Guern-
dalt Weekly Palimpsest, calling attention to the " un-
precedented munificence latent in the generous pro-
position of one of our townsmen, that true gentleman,
whom we feel it an honor to call our fellow-citizen,
Joseph Simmons, Esq." Strange to say, among the
old farmers there was found some reluctance to nav-
ing the name changed at all ; conduct which was
characterized by those citizens who, having before
lived in other places where things were done much
GUERNDALE. 19
better, might naturally be supposed to know, as "nar-
row-minded, mean-spirited, and, worse than all, mn-
American ; for the name ought to be changed, in
the interest of progress and reform." However, thy
resultant of all these conflicting forces was a com-
promise. An objectionable syllable was dropped,
and the town was called Dale. Dale it is at present,
and Dale it will probably be to the end of the chap-
ter. Squire Simmons was in high dudgeon, and
shortly afterward he departed to settle permanently
in Boston, having previously cut up all his outlying
land into small lots, which he sold at ten cents a foot
to the employes of a large factory he was then build-
ing in Dale.
Meantime, old Mr. Godfrey Guerndale, the grand-
son of the wicked baronet, was at work as, indeed,
he had been for years on the second volume of his
" History of the Usurpations of the British Crown,"
noticing little what was going on about him, and
caring not very much. This valuable work was never
finished, but was left as a sacred legacy to his son,
the third Godfrey, who was sent to college that he
might acquire a taste for literature, which should en-
able him to complete it. At college he was shy, re-
served, and apparently morose ; known, or rafctier
unknown, by the Appellation of " Owly." Mr. Bn-
nymort once told me that he was his only friend, but
Guerndale found it impossible, with his nature, in-
born or acquired, to be completely unreserved, even
with him. To the surprise of every one it turned
out, after graduating, that he had privately married
an orphan girl whom he had met at the house of ne
20 GUERNDALE.
of the professors He studied for the ministry, but
was never able to get a parish, although he had set
his heart upon being settled in his native town.
His dearest ambition was to gain the respect and
love of his neighbors, and break the strange blight
that seemed to hang over his family. In this he was
disappointed, and he died young, leaving one son,
Guyon, who was about ten years old at the date of
my first chapter, and the world, and more than the
world, to his widowed mother. Unwilling to bear
his daily absence at school, Mrs. Guerndale taught
the child herself ; moreover, Guyon himself wa
loath to leave her, shunning the companionship ot
other children. He seemed conscious that he had
little chance of success in this world. For he might
be sure that whenever his action or his inaction was
equivocal, the worst interpretation would be put
upon it. The presumption was against him. Not
even the neighboring farmers looked upon the boy
with favor. He was a pale, uncanny child, with
eyes of a mature expression ; and they, who remem-
bered the past better than the villagers, shook their
heads and said that the name was unlucky, for
there had not been a Guyon in the family since the
wicked old baronet, who, it was even then remem
bered, slept his troubled sleep at the cross-roads.
CHAPTER IV.
" Plus doulces luy sont que cirette* ;
Maistoutes foys fol s'y fia :
Solent blanches, soient brunettes,
Biea heureux est qua rien n'y a ! * ViUt*.
" A chid . who sends, like * star, the first rays of her love
t matfh the wklte cloud of infancy." Maurice de Guiri*.
THE old Guerndale mansion is large and square,
and its color has, from time immemorial, been
brown. It is built, like all old Massachusetts houses,
of wood, and the great beams of hewn oak, hard
enough to turn the edge of any axe, bend and bulge
through the ceilings and floors. It stands on a knoll,
a little set back from the country road, and guarded
by four gaunt, Lombardy poplars. In the shade of
the house lies hushed a clear little brook, still foamy
and breathless with its hurried tumble from the hills :
?
but, after a moment's pause, it glides under the road
and sparkles down through the meadow, happily un-
suspicious of the coming mills and dye-houses. Guy-
on's earliest memories were associated with this
stream. There is something companionable about a
brook ; it lightens up a wood as a wood-fire does a
winter room. Its moods vary, its caprices change,
so that it is hard indeed if a sympathetic nook may
not be found somewhere along its course. Thi
22 GUERNDALE.
brook, in particular, was the only playmate of his
early childhood. His home stood remote from other
houses ; he had no school acquaintances, and such
few children of his own age as he had occasionally
seen in the neighborhood rather shuured than en-
couraged his advances. Thus he learned to seek di-
version by himself, and the brook became a great
favorite. It was not long before he had followed its
course up to its boggy source amid the hills, beyond
the site of the old forge about which he used to play.
The brook floated his little navy and turned his wa-
ter-wheels with that cheerful evenness of humor so
pleasing in our inanimate friends.
There are times when one finds even one's best
friend rather dull ; and one September afternoon, in
the year eighteen hundred and fifty-seven, Guyon
found himself rather poor company. Some boys had
just passed by with their fishing poles, and their
happy Saturday-afternoon talk had aroused an after-
tone of loneliness in his own thoughts. Sensitive to
moods, as all children are, though incapable of ana-
lyzing them, it never occurred to Guyon to join the
fishing-party ; but, as usual, he started up the brook,
taking with him a lately completed craft whose geo-
metrical mould bespoke the inland origin of the'
draughtsman. He walked up the hill-side toward
his favorite pool, where the water circled roxind in
momentary irresolution before plunging out from the
edge of the forest. A shady, dewy little place it was,
covered by a luxuriant grape-vine, which was the
reason that his ears were first to warn him of an in-
vasion of his haunt. Feeling instinctively the strat-
GUERNDALE. 2J
egy of surprise, he crept up cautiously and peered
through the vine, the sweetness of the song he heard
tempering his wrath as he approached, and inducing
a mood fatal to salutary sternness, for he had omitted
to adopt the ancient Odyssean precaution of stopping
kis ears. And a pretty picture he saw. Seated in
the shadow of the grape-vine was a little girl, pluck-
ing the crimson leaves and throwing them into the
pool, where they eddied around in a circle, as if dan-
cing to the song softly crooned by the little siren
above them.
Guyon stood as if spell-bound, as I believe his
predecessors in that adventure have usually been.
How long this tableau might have lasted, it is im-
possible to say ; but, his eagerness getting the bet-
ter of his equilibrium, there was a sudden plunge,
a scream, and consequent confusion. The little girl
started back in affright ; but, as Guyon emerged rue-
fully from the water, the sublime gave way to the
ridiculous, and he was greeted by a frank burst of
laughter. Rather surprised by the novelty of the
emotion, yet relieved now of embarrassment, his own
features broke gradually into a somewhat depreca-
tory smile, as he waited for her to begin the conver-
sation. This she finally did, on the offensive.
" Why did you come tumbling into my brook for ? "
Evidently, evasion as to motive and riposte as to
ownership were necessary.
" ' Tisn't your brook ; it's mine."
" And what is your name ? " (A boy would have
said, Who are you ? but, with natural feminine diplo*
macy, she produced the same effect less rudely.)
24 GUERNDALE.
"Guyon Guerndale."
And then he hesitated, as if conscious that this
Was no recommendation.
" Oh, what a queer name ! " And then, seeing he
was wounded, " Where does your papa live ? "
" He doesn't live anywheres. He's dead"
"Oh, I'm so sorry !" And she timidly put a soft
little hand out to his. I grieve to say that my hero
(but, quite as much to his own surprise as hers)
dropped his head upon his knees and began to
cry. Then, suddenly, he started up as if ashamed
" What is your name ? " he said, rather rudely, \ '
way of asserting his manhood.
" I am Annie Bonnymort, and I live down in the
big, white house by the river. Come and sit down,
Guyon Guerndale, and see how pretty the leaves go
round. And, please, don't cry. But I'm afraid you're
all wet?"
" Oh, no. I'm not wet," stoutly asseverated the
new-comer. " Besides, I like it."
Whatever inconsistency there might have been in
this last remark, it was overlooked ; and the chil-
dren were soon at ease in each other's company. The
boat was brought out, and pleased Annie so much
that he eagerly promised to make her a still better
one, if he could find another shingle. And then
confidence led to confidence ; and he told her, with
true masculine egotism, that he was very lonely, and
there were very few boys around whom he liked, and
Ned Bench and Johnnie Strang had gone off fishing ;
but he didn't care one bit. And then Annie said
that she didn't like boys very much at least, most
GUERNDALE. 2$
boys ; and Guyon at once mentally classed himself
in the smaller division, and Ned Dench and other
objectionable creatures among boys in general ; so
that the evening mist came floating up from the mea-
dow before Annie suddenly remembered that she
must hasten home, or Papa would be angry. So she
went to fiad her nurse, who was snoring under an
oak-tree, and all three walked back together.
" Papa says I may go to church with him to-mor-
row, like a lady. Do you go to church ? "
" Not always," said Guyon, feeling suddenly that
church was a somewhat desirable place.
" Do go. You are big enough to go always."
Which would not, perhaps, have been a satisfactory
reason for a mature mind. But Guyon looked for-
ward that night with unusual pleasure to church
the next day, where he would see Ned Dench and
ask him how many fish he had caught. He did not
think of Annie.
But it is not the first time in the history of ths
world that two people have met at church.
e
CHAPTER V.
"There's a great text in Galatians,
Once you trip on it, entails
Twenty-nine distinct damnations
One sure, if another fails." R. BROWNING.
" Vet the meeting-house is a kind of windmill, which runs one day in
seven, turned either by the winds of doctrine or public opinion, or, more rarely,
by the winds of heaven, -where another sort of grist is ground, of which, if
it be not all bran or musty, if it be not plaster, we trust to make the bread oi
life." THOREAU.
THE next morning, when the pine-boughs near
his window were first blurred upon the redden-
ing horizon, Guyon awoke and hastened out of doors.
Involuntarily he turned his steps toward the scene
of the meeting of yesterday. Except that the frost
of the night had turned the vine-leaves a deeper red.
nothing had changed about the little pool, and yet
it seemed to him there was a difference. This nook
in the forest was now a place to him, differentiated
in his mind from any other little woody glade; and
the day had become a date, a milestone in the vista
of the past. He felt this confusedly as he looked
about him ; there was the mossy rock which had
been the cause of their involuntary meeting, and
relieved him from his natural shyness ; there was
the little bank where she had sat and scattered the
GUERNDALE. 2?
leaves on the black surface of the pool ; and the lit-
tle shingle-boat was probably caught on the ledge of
rock just below. He almost thought that he would
tumble in again for such another afternoon, for he
was not a child to whom a damp pair of shoes meant
a cold, and an involuntary bath a serious illness.
But to-day he felt the unwelcome stiffness of his
Sunday clothes an irksome change from the week-
day suit, which had grown as wonted to his little
person as the feathers to a water-fowl.
This reminded him without the usual pang ac-
companying the thought of church, and he went
home to be brushed, after which necessary cere-
mony the boy and his mother set off in the family
"carryall," driven by the "hired man;" for it was
still the time when, in country towns, the dignity of
independent labor was felt, and any faithful retainer
of the families of Dale would have objected to the
word servant.
The church was like many another New England
meeting-house white, wooden and perched on the
top of the hill, as if to attract, by its conspicuous
presence, the attention of the Almighty to the piety
of the town. Behind it was a long shed, where the
sedate steeds of the neighborhood were tied with
their noses to the wall, as if, with the aid of wall and
blinders, to produce a state of introspective abstrac-
tion favorable to religious thought. Occasionally
even this means would fail, and the most eloquent
pause of the preacher be broken by a musical phrase
known and employed as such only by Raff, and far
from an ornamental fioritura to the conventional
28 GUERNDALE.
melodies of the choir, whose " Duke Street " and
" Amsterdam " rang far down the village street.
When the widow entered, they had ended their
roluntaiy ; appropriately called a voluntary, for they
chose their time and harmony ad libitum. This over-
ture had the double advantage of bringing the minds
of the congregation to a proper state of anxiety, and
affording them an excuse for turning around and
watching the incomers. As each beribboned girl
flaunted up the aisle, the interest became more in-
tense, especially among those girls who felt their
own efforts for Sunday review less successful. The
boys attracted less attention, and while their faces
blushed with conscious cleanliness, their looks be-
tokened disgust with all this Persian apparatus and
mutual condolence for not being elsewhere. This
uneasiness increased during the service, as their
hands sought their trouser-pockets and felt the sad
absence of the accustomed jack-knife and fishing-
line.
Guyon Guerndale paid little attention to his com-
panions in misery. He was watching a gray-haired
gentleman who had just walked in, hand in hand
with a little girl whose light brown hair and dark
brown eyes made a pretty contrast to the grave
white and black of her father's head. Guyon had
thrilled with pleasure when this gentleman recog-
nized his mother with a stately bow ; and it must be
confessed that the fact that the Lord was in his holy
temple was not so vividly realized by him as the
raore material presence there of Annie Bonnymort.
However, the long sermon was endured by him
GUERNDALE. 2
with exemplary patience. Old Dr. Grimstone took
for his text: And Zebedee went d<nvn into Bashan ; which
he developed, as usual, in many logical divisions,
somewhat as follows:
I. a. Character and previous history of Zebedee.
/3. Elucidation and explication of mistakes which
had previously been made with regard to the char-
acter and previous history of Zebedee.
II. a. Enumeration of the motives which might
have induced Zebedee to undertake the journey to
Bashan, but were not, in fact, those which did in-
duce him to travel thither.
ft. Probable reasons why Zebedee did not go to
some other place than Bashan.
y. Why Zebedee did go to Bashan.
III. A few remarks on the history natural, sacred,
and profane of Bashan ; with an apologetic digres-
sion on the bull.
Here the doctor made a pause and took a glass of
water ; which moment was improved by the boys
openly, and their elders covertly, in glancing around
at the clock. Deacon Shed gave a start, and looked
about defiantly. Solomon Bung passed down a parcel
of " lovage " to his proteges below him in the gallery,
for Solomon Bung blew the organ. This delectable
delicacy was received with some excitement, in the
course of which a palm-leaf fan slipped from the
railings and fluttered passively down on the head of
Squire Strang, the lawyer, w y ho bore it for the mo-
ment with Christian fortitude. Dr. Grimstone mopped
his face, and continued while Squire Strang looked
up to the gallery with a savage frown "A
30 GUERNDALE.
words more, my dear friends." The boys knew this
to mean twenty minutes, and murmured slightly
among themselves.
IV. What would have been the possible conse-
quences, had Zebedee gone elsewhere.
V. Triumphal return to the key-note, and reitera-
ted assertion that Zebedee went down into Bashan. This
fait accompli satisfactorily disposed of,
"AND NOW" said the doctor.
The boys sprang to their feet ; there was a general
rustle, and all rose for the benediction. The doxol-
ogy was sung with vim and rejoicing. The boys
\vaited with tense muscles for the last amen, and then,
unanimously, were no longer there. Most of the
old ladies stayed behind to compliment the minister
011 his sermon, or gossip lightly on men, women, and
things chiefly women, and the appurtenances there-
unto belonging. Mr. Bonnymort came up and be-
gan conversation with Mrs. Guerndale, and the chil-
dren were once more together.
The next half-hour was spent in walking home
under the elms ; and Guyon returned to the quiet
old house, happy in having been so lately happy,
with an invitation to tea at Mr. Bonnymort's. And
much care did his patient mother bestow upon his
attire ^which necessary offices seemed to him less
irksome than formerly), for were not the Bonnymorts
among the nicest people that had ever gone city-
ward from Dale ? And though Mrs. Guerndale
lived a retired life, she was not without that knowl-
edge which gives the word gentleman its connota-
tions ; and liked to think that, shy and old-fashioned
GUERNDALE. 3 1
as he might be, there was not a better-mannered boy
than her son in all Dale.
So Guyon went over to tea, sleek with that unusual
sleekness which careful mothers consider perfection
in a boy's dress ; paler than ever in the plain black
suit and tie which he still wore on Sundays, in mem-
ory of his father. Mourning in New England had a
faint smack of ceremony about it, which made it
linger longer about one's Sunday dress than the less
pretentious week-day garb. Somewhat embarrassed
of his person was the boy, as he entered the house ;
but the kindly old gentleman soon put him at his
ease, and he thought afterward, with some surprise,
that he had found it less difficult to talk to him than
to most of the village people ; even less so than with
the smart boys of the neighborhood, who usually
made him painfully conscious of his own demerits.
He had, indeed, been somewhat awed when the three
inarched solemnly in to tea, and were waited on by
an old man ! But this was soon lost in observing
how prettily little Annie though only nine years old,
she had told him poured out the tea, which was
then solemnly borne around upon a silver salver.
For poor Annie, as Mr. Bonny mort said, with a
quiver in his voice, had lost her mother, and seemed
older than her years.
After tea the children laid many plans for future
amusement. The boy promised to take her up in
the woods up in the great gorge where the ruins
were ; and Annie said papa had promised to send her
to Miss Laighton's school : was not he going too?
And Guyon, who had learned to read and write at
32 GUERNDALE.
home, and always rebelled bitterly at the constraint
and enforced society of school, felt suddenly a lively
desire for further instruction. Meanwhile, Mr. Bon-
ny mort read a strange language in a splendid large
book, which Annie catching sight of, begged to see,
for it was full of wonderful pictures. Nor were the
children satisfied until they had seen them all ; the
earlier ones, which were dark and terrible, as well as
the later ones, which were brighter and brighter,
until the last was almost a blank page for the light,
But in every picture was a dark, sad-eyed man, hold- 4 -
ing an angel by the hand. And Annie said she liked
the bright ones best ; but Guyon did not know, for,
he said, perhaps they would not have thought them
so lovely if they had not seen the sad ones first. At
last, when the book was ended, it seemed to him time
to go. Mr. Bonny mort asked him to come often and
see him and Annie, for his father had been an old
friend of his at college.
And Guyon walked home through the autumn
evening, wondering if Mr. Bonnymort ever liked his
father as much as he liked Annie, and decided that
he would go to school and study, and learn things,
and in the winter go "coasting" with the other
boys, and play with them, and make friends with*
them ; and so on, more than he ever thought of the
future before : for somehow it seemed to him there
was much more in the world he wished to do than he
had supposed.
CHAPTER VI.
" Loved, if you will : she never named it sn :
Love comes unseen, we only see it go." AUSTIN DoooOtt.
ONLY after many struggles with his shyness did
Guyon finally set off for school, one frosty
morning in November ; the first of a numberless suc-
cession of mornings in which he was to hurry across
the meadow, along the river, and up the avenue to call
for Annie ; then down the long street to the little
schoolhouse. And yet this first plunge into the reali-
ties of life was less terrible than he had feared. He
had learned to read and write at home, and never had
that bodily fear of books which seems to possess many
a healthier boy, as of a drawer of dentist's tools, or a
pill-box. But his great difficulty was to get along with
the other boys. He was with them, but not of them.
So you might take a bottle, webbed, and mildewed
with the damps of some ancestral cellar, the wine
ripened and mellowed, and saddened by long time
past, and decant it into a quart-jug of the sharp,
hard, New England cider. No such far-fetched
simile ever occurred to Guyon ; but he was even
then vaguely conscious that the mixture was not
happy. In the real, objective, wilful life of other
boys, his own had no part. When they thought of
34 GUERNDALE.
him at all which was much less often than Guyon
fancied they thought of him with that careless con-
tempt which one boy has for another who is not up
in his games ; who cannot throw a stone so far ; who
does not excel at top or trap, ball or marbles ; who
is not blessed with the desired and influential friend-
ship of Jim, the brakeman, much less Jo, the engi-
neer ; or Solomon Bung, supreme over all in luring
the muskrat to the steel-trap, the rabbit to the seduc-
tive "twitch-up," or in setting night-lines for those
fresh-water ghouls, horn-pout. Moreover, a crime
above all others, Guerndale liked girls for his com-
pany with Annie did not escape notice.
This ignoring of girls is a curious phase in the de-
velopment of the masculine mind. There would al-
most seem to be a polaric relation between the sexes ;
a magnetic attraction or repulsion, which varies with
different ages as a magnet itself varies with the spots
on the sun. Thus, from infancy to youth, boys run
away from girls. From youth to marriage, girls run
away from boys. After marriage, they run away from
each other.
Much healthy contempt was therefore felt for
Guyon as a girl's boy. Such weakness and frivolity
could not be pardoned, and his position was not a
pleasant one in the social microcosm of school.
And even the girls, though more lenient to his great
fault, found it hard to overlook the bad taste of
his preference ; for Annie had taken that doubtful
place which results either in sovereignty or com-
plete disapproval, as the breath of popular prejudice
turns the balance. Unfortunately, or fortunately, her
GUERNDALE. 35
father forbade her presence at a Sunday-school pic-
nic ; and when Amanda Shed expressed her opinion
that Annie was "stuck-up," it was universally felt
that this judgment was final ; and Annie was a.j>0u-
voir fini from that time forth.
And Guyon himself soon fell under the iron rod
of the great Amanda. This young lady possessed
in a high degree a fondness for the unknown in mas-
culine character. A similar trait is observed in all
children ; but in girls, it is the more noticeable, as
exercised upon a higher object. For, whereas boys
experiment upon corpora vilia, girls wish beings pos-
essed of a soul. Boys impale beetles, decapitate
turtles, starve reptiles, interfere with the domestic
arrangements of birds, and tie tin-kettles upon dogs'
tails ; it is true. But girls scarify, excoriate, and
otherwise exacerbate the boys themselves ; and while
these latter either lose their cruel curiosity on arriv-
ing at manhood, or apply it to the legitimate vivisec-
tions of science, girls do not so, but continue theif
evil practices, apparently with a mere view to sport
However, in both cases the object is the same :
boys desire to study the effect of physical emotion,
girls that of psychical emotion, on other organisms
possessed of will. Both boys and girls desire to see
which way the worm will squirm, and whether the
nature of the squirming will vary with the nature of
the stimulus ; and in neither case is there any sym-
pathy with the suffering of the corpus vile. The boy
regards the movements of the tortured turtle with
the delight of gratified curiosity ; girls and wo-
wen have perhaps the additional pleasure of a
3$ GUERNDALB.
gratified sense of power; but that is all. Indeed,
the boy is perhaps the more humane operator ; for
boys do occasionally end the process in a feeling of
disgust, remorse, or affection, according as the tor-
tured animal shows fight, dies, or pleads for compas-
sion. If it be visibly proved that a turtle cannot live
with a brick on its back, the boy may suffer a tran-
sient regret at the animal's death. If the cur he has
sought with views of kettles, or caudal applications
of fire-crackers, show gratitude for his notice and
lick the hand of the operator, perhaps the latter feels
a responding affection ; instances have even been
known where he has adopted the dog. But no such
weakness has yet been observed in female operators :
the woman never allows the subject of the experi-
ment to enter into subjective relations with her ; still
less does she adopt the poor devil of a dog. Through-
out the operation she considers the animal in a light
purely artistic. If the animal die, her blue eyes
open wider in a stare of mild surprise. If he be-
come aggressive and a bore, she utters a petulant
expression of disgust and throws him out the win-
dow. If the animal limp away with a broken heart,
she looks up with a pleased smile from her success-
ful experiment, and turns her attention to the next
subject Look at Miss Dubloon and poor Harry
Maravedi, down at Surfside last summer. Had Miss
D. any idea of marrying him ? did he ever cause her
any emotion whatever at any moment of the flirta-
tion ? Not the slightest. My word, she simply
wished to try whether he really would fall in love
with her; and if so, which way he would squirm.
GUERNDALE. 37
Her curiosity satisfied, the corpus vile has gone out on
a cattle-ranche. All of which is a good deal of ex-
planation and analysis for the simple motives of a
country girl like Mandy Shed ? My dear fellow, the
nature of the animal is the same all the world over.
In the simplest debutante or "bud" you will find all
the curious convolutions of the full-grown flower.
When Guyon first dawned upon the horizon of
Mandy Shed, he was an unknown and curious fact ;
quite different from the well-tested male creatures
by whom she had been so long surrounded, and
among whom the mot-ffordre was contempt for every-
thing feminine. Her curiosity was aroused, and
thus the strongest and most essential condition of
the reaction was provided. So she began by treating
Guyon with soft-soap and smiles. He was impervi-
ous. Then, a provoking indifference failed of effect.
Alternate malice and caprice won him not, caused
no squirming in this oddly mailed animal. Finally,
she asked him to the pic-nic.
Guyon was not page-in-waiting at a French court,
ami his answer was fatal.
He said, " Is Annie Bonnymort going ?"
It will readily be imagined that he joined her in
the pleasant country about Coventry. And often,
in later life, he wished that a considerate world of
grown people had acted as kindly as his childish
enemies.
For they left him with Annie ; and the winter
wore on, and Guyon and Annie and the woods grew
up together. In the morning he dragged her, on
his sled, to school, and back at night, coasting
35 GUEKNDALE.
down ail the hills on the way. And Saturday after
noons were devoted to all out-doors ; tiian whicl\
Guvon grew up to think, nothing, not even Annie,
could be more pleasant.
' For there were afternoons when the sky was
gray, and the country like a drawing on a slate ;
and yet in the woods the usual places of shade
were all white, and the boles of trees were white,
and the feathery labyrinth of twigs above was
all white tracery against a white sky; and perhaps
far over the gray landscape, on the horizon, was
the great gleam of a sunlit mountain, Graylock or
Monadnock. Then there were afternoons when it
was spring, despite the stillness and the snow ; the
white shroud shrank visibly, and around every tree-
trunk was a little crack between it and the snow
melting, as if to give it room to grow ; and a little
tinkle came faintly through from the hidden brook
like the music of another Orpheus to move the world
and vivify the very moss on the rocks. And there
were days with a sky of May, when the liquid air
could be seen, and yet through it the country be-
yond, like a landscape pictured in a crystal ; when
each varying shadow came out in unexpected rich-
ness of color, like a painting newly oiled. And the
boy's eyes would glow, and his face flush, and his
limbs grow nimble even his shyness vanishing, in
the loveliness of the living world. And Annie, only
partly sharing his excitement, would wonder at th
change. And even then, if Ned Dench or Ury
Sprowl came by, he would suddenly shrink back
into his usual quiet self, like a chameleon.
GUER.NDALE. |9
Guyon must have felt instinctively that the boys
did not like him, and he would offer no foothold for
their ridicule. So the boys would go by, laughing,
probably really not thinking much about him, whilo
Guyon would brood for hours on the unpleasant
things he thought they thought of him. And he
grew fonder yet of Annie.
CHAPTER VII.
** D&iiltes vous d votre optimlsme, et figurez votis bien que noun ftomm* dan*
ee moode pour nous batlrc envers et contrt tous." PKOSPBR MBBIMKK.
IT was a year after all this, the day of Guyon's
autumn afternoon reverie in the churchyard.
Annie had expected a cousin that afternoon, who
was coming to live in Dale, for a time, and so Guy
had gone off under the pine trees to watch the squir-
rels. Then he went home and found what would
most have pleased him at any other time a message
from Mr. Bonnymort for him *o come and take tea
with Annie. He felt that he should probably meet
there the owner of the strange voice, and shrank
with all his old timidity from the meeting. Still, he
also felt anxious to see him ; he wanted him to un-
derstand thoroughly that he, Guyon Guerndale, was
Annie's chosen companion and friend, and that a
third would be admitted to their pleasures only as
of courtesy, not of right. For he never doubted that
Annie would feel as he did ; he judged her by him-
self. Moreover, he had found a new brook up in the
hills, and had been reserving for Saturday the great
delight of exploring it ; thus he had a certain advan-
tage of position as to the newcomer.
When he had walked across the wide piazza, less
GUERNDALE. 41
eagerly than usual, and was about to enter the ball,
be stopped on seeing within a lady, dressed in a con-
fused elaboration of silks. She turned about, with a
portentous rustling, advanced a step or two, and said,
" What do you want, little boy ? "
Guyon was frightened and perplexed. There was
something about the attendant sweep of silk with
which the lady moved their crisp rustle seeming to
exact your attention, and preceding slightly each
movement with an ominous noise of preparation
which made the whole effect of her approach rather
overawing. Then, what was he to say to a question
" what he wanted ? " Should he reply tea f Or, that
he came by invitation ? He was just beginning, " I
think Mr. Bonnymort expects me " when a clear,
boyish voice broke in,
" Hallo, Mamma, that's Guerndale. / know him.
Saw him this afternoon sleepin' down at the ceme-
tery."
At this, the lady smiled graciously to Guyon, who
was looking with pleased surprise at the speaker,
and said that he might come in. " Oh, and you are
young Guerndale ? That is my boy Phillie Sym-
onds, and I am Mrs. Symonds."
Guyon did not seem so much impressed with this
announcement as she perhaps expected, but " Phil-
He " was already hurrying him off to the garden. " I
say," said he, "don't call me Phillie Mamma always
calls me that 'cause she thinks I'm a baby. My
name is Philip Schuyler Symonds. But you can call
me Phil. And your name, what's oh, I know,
Guyon. What a queer name ! I can't call you that^
4-2 GUERNDALE.
you know it's too long. I might call you Guy.
Where's Annie ? she's a brick, isn't she ? that is, fol
a girl. I told her so. Have you got a gun ? I have.
It's got two barrels, too. It's Jim's, but I took it
when we left Boston. Don't tell Mamma, though.
She don't know. I'm goin' off shootin* to-morrow."
He was a handsome boy, with a rosy, bright face,
and yellow curls, which grew well down over his
forehead and fell, now and then, over his quick gray
eyes. Guy felt companionship with him a novelty.
There was something aggressive about his move-
ments ; everything he did impressed you with that
nervous wilfulness, rather than will, which spring*
from animal spirits and careless self-confidence. It
was all quite new to Guy, this active, intrusive, ob-
jective person, who entered so directly into relations
with his own self ; not as other boys had been, whom
he suffered passively, so little did their orbits cross
his, but as a force of character, necessarily deter-
minable for friendship or the reverse. Guy thought
all this with that deep consciousness of a thoughtful
childhood, which feels, though it be but vaguely,
more than the philosophy of manhood can express.
Meanwhile Philip trotted along, chattering ques-
tions and paying but little attention to the answers,
to the little old pond in the garden. This pond was
a hot, sleepy place in summer ; stone-rimmed, with
water none too clear, giving a safe asylum to the fat,
yellow bull-frogs that gravely thrust their green
heads through the scummed surface of the water, or
basked contentedly on the old logs that floated hero
and there, motionless, stuck fast in the greea slinm
GUERNPALE. 43
The pond was shut in by a fringe of dingy ever-
greens, that kept off the light and seemed to inten-
sify the heat. Philip at once seized a stick, and be-
gan threshing the water, usually hitting with a huge
splash the place where the lazy green head had just
been, but was no longer. With a natural delight in
destruction, the two boys had soon a dozen or more
of the frogs ranged on the stone curb, and the pond
sc well beaten that even its most imperturbable
denizen had sought refuge in the muddy depths.
Their game exhausted, conversation became again
in order.
" What fellers are there here ? " said Philip.
" I don't know ; I don't like them. At least, not
very much."
" I saw one boy as I came up from the depot I
think I can lick him" he added meditatively. Guy
looked at him with some admiration.
" Do you collect eggs ? " continued Philip. " Mam-
ma says I mustn't take but one at a tini3, because
I don't need but one of each kind. But then, I do;
'cause I can swap the others off. This would be a
bully place for teetlybenders." And the boy looked
around, as if at a loss for action.
" Oh, I know what I'll do. I'll stump you to jump
over here ! "
And running back, he cleared the narrow part of
the pond at a bound, and landed, with a crashing of
bushes, on the other side. Guy had a dim feeling that
he was being curiously involved in uncongenial pur-
suits. However, not wishing to lower himself in the
eyes of his new companion, he made a rush, tripped
44 GUERNDALE.
on a bush, and alighted in the water, two-thirds of
the way across. Philip threw himself upon his back
and kicked up his heels in an agony of delight. As
Guy struggled up and rubbed the mud from his
eyes, he became aware that he was an object of ridi-
cule. Making a rush at Philip, the two boys closed,
and this time both rolled into the water, Guy under-
most ; while a patriarchal bull-frog sat gravely on
an old tomato-can, and enjoyed the dissensions of
his whilom oppressors.
How long this duel would have lasted it is impos-
sible to say, had not Annie Bonnymort been a horri-
fied spectator of the scene ; but, by her mediations,
peace was restored, and the sorry train returned to
the house, Philip defiant, Guy abashed, and Annie
crying bitterly at the end of the procession. Mrs.
Symonds received them with horror and opprobrium ;
and reproaching audibly ' that rude country boy,"
began coddling Philip, to the latter's intense disgust
Nevertheless, he was consigned to the upper regions
in charge of a stout serving-maid ; and Guy, receiv-
ing an intimation that that other boy had better go
home and change his clothes, found himself upon
the dusty road with a burning sensation of misbe-
havior and disgrace.
And so ended our hero's first appearance in so-
ciety,
CHAPTER VIII.
** L'araour propre, c'ett la plus grande de nos folies."
T was the first time in his life that Guyon had a
decided feeling of hate ; for his self-respect
would not suffer him to hate the other boys of his
acquaintance for disliking him without cause. It
was not that Symonds had led him to jump and
tumble in the water, had rolled him in the mud ; but
that through him he had been snubbed and dispar-
aged before Annie. And the next morning when he
hurried across the fields to her house, rather late, and
found that she had left for school with Philip, he
hated him more than before. Hastening his steps,
he stalked silently by them on the way and took his
seat in the school-room without speaking to either.
At "recess," he met Annie's invitation to come and
'play with the remark that " she might go and play
with Philip he had sums to do." And wilfully
bending over his desk, as she turned away, he did
not see the look of sorrow and wonder which came
into her soft eyes.
"Ho, ho, Guy ! I wouldn't get mad about nothin'/'
cried Philip, as he went by.
" I am not mad," replied Guy, with more dignity
than truth. But Philip had vanished, leap-frogging
4$ GUERNDALE.
the row of desks as he went, to the admiration oi
the crowd of boys about him. And so for several
days he stood upon his dignity, satisfied that his
conduct was very right and noble, though he could
not have told himself what cause he had to be of-
fended.
Now Mandy Shed had never quite got over her
pique at Guy's injury to her spurned beauty. Not
that she particularly cared about him, but she did
care about the evident preference of any one for
Annie Bonnymort. And thus it happened that Uriel
Sprowl came up one morning and found Mandy and <
our hero in close conversation. The interview was
evidently of her seeking ; but all the more fired with
jealousy was the noble soul of Uriel Sprowl.
" Hallo, Mandy! what are you talking to him
for?"
" I'll talk just to who I like just ! You haven't
any say about it, anyhow."
" Perhaps I ain't ; but if I was you, I wouldn't
talk to a thief like him."
" He isn't a thief ! " cried Mandy, indignant.
11 Yes, he is or his father was ! Oh, I know all
about it ! Sol Bung told me."
" Yes, and he murdered a man, too, and got a big
diamond for doing it. Sol Bung told me, too. And
that's the reason he lives off all alone by himself,
and don't talk to nobody / know ! " This from
Ned Dench, who had come up after Sprowl, eager
to express his own disapproval of the boy whom no
one knew.
" It's not true," said Guy, pale, but quietly
GUERNDALE. 47
" Well, if 't warn't your pa, it was your grandpa,
anyhow, and it's all the same thing."
"You lie."
" Pretty poor lot, all of yer, I guess," retorted
Sprowl ; "and, if it comes to lyin', yer lie back."
How the matter would otherwise have been de-
cided it is impossible to say ; for Guy resorted
promptly to primitive, but honest Saxon, methods
of procedure by waging his battle then and there.
Sprowl found himself lying upon the ground, look-
ing up at the blue sky, with a feeling as if most of
his teeth had been driven in.
Upon this, Ned Dench also rushed for Guy ; sev-
eral other boys joined him ; and Sprowl picked his
own self up and hurled it at our hero with all the
fury of revenge. Nevertheless, Guy backed calmly
up against a stone wall, and was preparing to take it
out in fighting, when there was a wild rush of toss-
ing fair hair and arms and limbs in the midst of his
assailants, and he suddenly found himself surrounded
by the prostrate forms of his enemies. In the mid-
dle stood Philip Symonds, his gray eyes fixed and
blazing with excitement.
" That's like you, darned mean sneaks ! Three or
four of you to pitch into one man at once ! Come
away Guy, we'll give them some more when they
want it!" And, linking his arm in Guy's, he led
him away, too much surprised and overcome to
make remonstrance. The allies sat upon the ground
and stared ruefully at one another. Mandy Shed
emerged from behind a tree, and looked at them si-
lently, her black eyes flashing with delight But no
,<8 GUERNDALE.
one spoke, save Ned Dench, who drawled out with
gravity, as he rubbed his bruised elbows alternately
with the palm of each hand,
" Wa'al, fur fireworks ! "
Thereby evincing the philosophy and good nature
of the New England countryman.
As the three other children were walking home,
Guy turned and said, with a low voice, and in a
manner quaint and constrained : " Mr. Symonds, I
was wrong in being angry with you this morning.
And I am very much obliged for your help. I shall
not forget it. And, Annie, I wish you to hear me
say so."
Philip opened his eyes somewhat, but said : " Why,
Guy, that's all right of course I wouldn't let those
fellows go for you all at once. Only I wouldn't git
riled just 'cause I tumbled in the mud "
" I was wrong " interrupted Guy, hastily, with a
slight flush. " I have said so."
Annie pressed his hand, and the children walked
along in silence.
CHAPTER IX.
" In qoefia parte dl libro detla mia memoria, dinanzi alia qunle pocc u potrebbe
feggerc, si trova uiia rubricu, U quaie dice : Jucijat Vita Nova." DA NTS.
FROM the famous day of the fight, the three
children became fast friends, and Philip, in
particular, grew to be a very idol for Guy. No one
could do anything so well as Philip, no one was so
true, so plucky, and so strong. Annie, for the
future, held but a second place in his mind, though
they saw almost as much of one another as ever, for
Philip soon made friends and admirers of all the
boys of the neighborhood. While he was off with
them as leader in some boyish diversion, Guy, who
still shrank from any one but Philip, would be ramb-
ling about alone or with Annie. But he took more
pride in the prominence and prowess of his friend
than if it were his own.
Perhaps, the boy brooded more than ever. When-
ever he was alone the memory would recur, morbid
and persistent, of what Sprowl had said. What had
he meant by it ? He had always felt that other chil-
dren shunned and avoided him. It was, then, because
thre was some disgrace connected with him and
bis family ? No, that could not be true, it must be
only because they did not like him. At all
3
5O GUERNDALE.
Solomon Bung was the man who had told the itory,
and of Solomon Bung he would have an explanation.
But old Sol was not an easy man to find, unles*
you lay in the grass under a meadow-willow, some
fine summer's day, looked up at the sky and waited
for him.
One night when the crickets and tree-toads were
still, and the gray meadow-mist rose thicker than
ever beneath the first breath of autumn, as Guyon
was passing through the marsh-land near Weedy
Pond, he saw the well-known motionless figure of
Solomon Bung. He was seated on a decayed stump
by the margin of the water ; the cork of his fishing
line bobbed merrily among the lily-pads, and the
smoke of his briar-wood pipe curled gently up about
his weather-beaten face. Old Sol had knocked
about the world in his youth enough to enjoy the
dear delight of doing nothing, now he was sixty.
Much as Guy wished to speak to him, he was too
diffident, and he probably would have passed by in
silence, had not Sol, with an encouraging "wa'al,
sonny ? " invited conversation.
"Do you get many fish ?" began Guy, with some
trepidation, for he felt the honor of a talk with so
famous a personage.
"Wai, no, can't say as the fish be as plenty as they
used. 'T ain't so much for the pout 'n' suckers I
come. It's sorter quiet out here by the pond o'
nights, 'n' a man gets away from the everlastin'
cackle o* the wimmin-folks."
" It is nice ! " assented Guy, eagerly. " I like to
be alone, too."
GUERNDALE. 5 1
"Wai, there's loneliness an* loneliness. 'T ain't
good for a little shaver like you to see too much of
hisself."
" I don't like the boys at school."
" No, an' 'taint nateral you should. Their \rays
ain't like your folks' ways, ever since ever since
the country was settled. But what's this folks say
about a rumpus you an' that 'ere Sprowl boy had the
other day ? Folks do say as how you 'n' ho had a
qita'1"
" He said my grandfather was a murderer and
and a thief ; and I told him he lied. He said you
told him so ; and oh, do tell me you know it can't
be true " And poor Guy burst into a passionate
fit of crying. Old Sol lay down his fishing-rod and
his pipe and his bait-box upon the long meadow-
grass, and took the boy tenderly in his arms, while
his leathery old face lengthene;! into such an expres-
sion of pity as a large quid of tobacco stuck in one
cheek would allow.
" Why, sonny why, Guyon boy, don't cry so, now
don't ! Why, my good little boy, what do you care
what that 'ere darned Sprowl or any other cuss said?
'n' what difference does it all make, so long as you
did n't do it ? 'T warn't you as killed old Simmons,
anyhow."
" I don't care what Ury Sprowl said," struggled
out Guy between his sobs. " But he said you told
him so, and, if it wasn't true, you had no right to."
" Wai, my boy, I'll tell you all about it. Only
don't cry there's a good boy ! You see, the fact is,
it's all true, an' it ain't. An' it happened so long
52 GUERNDALE.
ago that it don't make no difference to you, anyhow
now, does it ? Why, I know fellers whose fathers
made their money in real downright cheatin 1 /call
it ao an 1 they hold their heads now jest as high as
the next man, an* a heap higher than you nor me.
Why, there's old Simmons Symonds he calls him-
self they do say as how, when he fust went into old
Nat Langdon's counting-room, he stole hand and
fist from the uneddycated heathens and Catholics,
and such like poor devils ! "
44 Is that Philip's father ? For he is my best
friend, and his father is a gentleman in Boston, and
I know he would not do anything wrong." Guy
looked up and spoke earnestly through his tears.
44 Wai, sonny, that's neither here nor there. How-
ever, as I was goin' to say, the fact of the matter
was, you see, that your grandfather's grandfather
Sir Guyon, as old folks used to call him in them 'ere
effete times was a mighty queer sort o' man. He
was a graspin* old cuss, and his great idee was to
scrape up enough of the shiners to take him back to
England, where he could live with the kings and
princes of them old monarchies. Now, you 'n' I
ain't such darned fools as to go and suppose as how
there's gold, or anything else but gravel an* pyrites,
in these old hills. New England hills is pretty poor
plowin'. But in them ancient times folks didn't
know no better. So when old Godfrey Guerndale
died the old gentleman that bought all the country
round here his son, bad Sir Guyon, he came back
an' struck up a great friendship with a chap named
Phil Simmons, that was one o' the forefathers of
GUERNDALE. 53
your friend we was just speakin* of, or akin to him,
anyhow. He was a good-for-nothin' sort o' cuss that
used to be a-gipseyin' round mostly, suminat like
me, only he was an ugly devil an' graspin'. Any-
how, the long and short of it was, they had an old
furnace up here in the hills an' used to roar away at
it o' nights like mad, an' on Saturday nights, too.
Folks tell as how they really did find a diamond, or
a carbuncle, or suthin* of the kind ; anyhow, they
got into a muss, an' your gret-gran'father, he knocked
young Simmons on the head, dead as Chelsea, sure
enough. An' he would not let himself be taken
alive ; so he was shot down like a woodchuck, and
the rights of the story never got rightly known.
Some say as how he shot himself. I don't guess
but what your gran'father warn't so much to blame
as some other folks ; quite likely Simmons had the
first lick in the row an' got lammed, and sarved him
right ; but it never came out. And your folks
hain't, perhaps, been in much favor since ; an' that's
nateral. People will talk, and then they've had a
way o' keepin' off to themselves a good deal, and that
ain't helped 'em. Folks thought as how they might
be a little stuck-up. But some say that old John
Simmons, he that wuz the father of the one that was
killed, he stuck by your gret-gran'father, 'n' was
with him before he was killed 'n' tried to get him off
out o' the country ; an' old Guerndale he gave Sim-
mons the stun' to keep for his boy, your gret-gran'-
father. Ah, well," added Sol, relapsing into silence
and seeking for his pipe, " 't ain't no use ! "
Sol used to tell afterward how Guy's face had be*
54 GUERNDALE.
come *' sorter white an* set like " during his narrative,
However that was, the boy had stopped crying and
remained s'lent for some minutes afterward, a pause
which rnabled Solomon Bung to eliminate from their
muddy element several horn-pout, and deposit them
gasping in his basket.
"And what became of the diamond ?" asked the
boy, finally.
" Wai, folks used to say as how your family kcp'
it People don't think much o' them sort o' things
now. But Guyon, boy" and Sol lowered his voice
"they do say it was foretold that your people
never would be happy or get like other folks until
they gave away, or lost, or somehow got shet o' that
'ere precious stun ! There was suthin' kind o' queer
about the way it came to yc, an' it can't bring no
hick ! "
The old fisherman began gathering up his basket
and preparing to go. Guy still sat on the grass,
looking into the black water.
" Ain't you comin* ? " said Sol. " Most time for
you to be a-bed."
" Not yet," said the boy. " Besides, I go home the
other way."
Solomon Bung, after urging him some time in
rain, slowly plodded across the spongy meadow to
the edge of the low wood. When he reached there
he turned and looked for Guy. The boy was still
sitting beside the dead tree-trunk, quite still, his
hands clasped upon his knees. The white mists
from the pond rose up so dense about him as almost
to veil his form, dimly outlined against the sombre
OUERNBALE. JJ
mere. To the west the sunset faded in pale yellow
streaks, running in long bars across the sky, behind
the high black pines. There was no noise but the
hoarse croak of the frogs and the cry of a hidden
water-fowl.
" Can't exactly make that boy out," said old Sol,
as, after several unanswered calls, he turned and
took his way through the wood-path. "Seems to
care a lot about what folks think of him ; an' yet he
does pretty much as he likes, an' is powerful cot in
his ways."
CHAPTER X.
a . "You hold our 'scutcheon up,
Austin, no blot on it 1 You sec how blood
Must wash one blot away ; the first blot came
And the first blood came. To the vain world's ey
All's gules again no care to the vain world
From whence the red was drawn 1 " ROBEUT BNOWMXMQ.
*' A c'ascun ahna presa e gentil core. . . .
Salute in lor lignor cioi Amore 1 " DANTS.
GUY never knew how long he stayed there, sit-
ting with his head upon his breast, his dry
eyes peering into the still water. He was almost too
unhappy to move ; he sat there blindly and let his
Borrows pass over him like a flood. What matter if
be never moved ? Why not resign himself ? What
difference did it make ? So absorbed was he, that
the first he knew of any one's approach was the touch
of a little, soft, warm hand. There was poor little
Annie, breathless and trembling, looking at him
with anxious eyes.
" Why, Guidie, where have you been ? Why do
you stay away so late ? I went over to get you to
come to tea at Cousin Philip's, and they did not
know where you were. But your mamma said she
thought you had gone down to the pond. So I ran
down here ; and oh ! Guy, I was so frightened ! It
GUERNDALE. 57
was 90 late, and the woods were so dark, and but,
what is the matter, Guy dear ? "
For suddenly great drops of tears rolled down the
boy's face ; and she had never known him to cry.
But he made no sound, until, as she took his cold
hand in her warm ones, out came the whole con-
fused story of his trials and troubles ; distorted and
exaggerated, as children's griefs are, but withal a
keener sense of injustice than is left to callous
minds of men. But, somehow, when Guy, broken-
voiced, reached the end, with Annie's tender brown
eyes fixed in sympathy, it seemed to him that he
cared less than before. After all, while he and Annie
were walking homeward through the wood, he did
not care so much what Ury Sprowl and Ned Dench
might be saying. And so they came back through
the shadows, hand in hand ; and Annie, now sob-
bing herself, begged Guy not to mind it It was
only the foolishness of those people ; and they were
not nice, any of them. Besides, why should he
mind if what they said was untrue ? Her father
would not think so, she knew.
But Guy suddenly felt a longing for a world
where people were all like her father, and did not
act or think in a way he felt was not not nice. He
not only felt discontented with Mandy Shed and
Dench and Sprowl and the other children about
Dale, but with the place itself and home and nar-
rowness. Guy was not old enough to even imagine
malice ; he could not understand that people should
do ill merely for the pleasure of ill- doing. He
wished to go back with the Bonnymorts, when they
3*
58 GUERNDALE.
returned to the city, that October. He wished to go
anywhere.
Tea at Mrs. Symonds' was a somewhat formidable
affair ; but he heeded it little, to-night ; still less,
Philip's many inquiries as to why he had been so
long fishing and how many pout he had caught
Ho became more interested when he heard Philip
talking about going off next week to St. Mark's, in
Rockshire, for his first term at school. He was go-
ing to room with Leffy Lane, he said ; but he did not
want to. Leffy was a muff, and hallo ! why would
not Guy go with him ?
Guy looked at Annie, across the table.
"I should like to, ever so much," he said ; then,
seelnpr Mrs. Symonds' look, "if Mrs. Symonds is
willing, I will."
"Oh, that would be perfectly splendid as girls
say," criod Philip, adding the latter clause as an
apology for his unmanly enthusiasm. "And we can
come to Dale here, for our vacation, instead of Bos-
ton ; and we'll take our double-runner, and Snap,
and a lot of fishing-poles, and "
"Be silent, Philly, don't scream so, child," inter-
posed tli3 dominant of Mrs. Symonds' metallic voice.
But, after tea, Mr. Bonnymort and she had a long
conversation, one side of which was very much to
his credit, so far as Guy overheard, and the other not
at alt Finally, Mr. Bonnymort called Guy to him,
and asked if he had spoken to his mother about this
Guy said no ; but that he knew she would let him.
And, truly enough, the sad-eyed widow would as
*opn have thought of opposing his father in the
GUERNDALE. 59
flesh as of offering let or hindrance to anything
Guy willed.
"Ah," said Mr. Bonnymort. "Well, Mrs. Sy-
monds has no objection to your going with her son ;
only, of course, you must get your mother's permis-
sion."
This she gave, with many tears and much inward
repining. She did not say that she could not bear
to have him leave her ; she seemed afraid to let him
go. She too had caught her husband's curious,
shrinking dread of the world. She pleaded for delay,
that he was too young, that he was not fifteen.
" My grandfather was only fifteen when he went
to the war," said Guy.
"Yes, and he took the wrong side," sighed his
mother.
" No, Mamma," said Guy, " he was loyal. I know
the Tories were wrong ; at least, Miss Laighton says
so. But they had to be loyal." At which Mrs.
Guerndale smiled and kissed him, and said that only
women reasoned so, now-a-days.
So Guy was to go to school and learn to meet the
world and conquer it. Philip was much busied
about his pets and traps and implements of sport ;
but Guy and Annie passed the last week in making
the tour of the neighborhood. It was then late au-
tumn ; the last of the cardinal flowers found by Guy
flamed in Annie's hair ; but the wood was ablaze
with golden rod, and the beautiful clematis vine and
the pale purple aster. The children spent one day
about the mushy and somewhat ineffective shores of
Weedy Pond ; where Solomon Bung watched them
<5O GUERNDALE.
silently, with his kind old face, lest they should get
into danger. Then they followed up the brook
to the little pool where Guy had first tumbled Into
Annie's acquaintance. Then over the brow of the
hills beyond, where great lazy Monadnock loomed
in the crisp autumn air like a dream, and brought a
like look into the boy's eyes. They often visited the
old forge or furnace on the shady side of the valley.
One day they were sitting there looking over at the
brown sunlight, as it fell on the opposite slope of
1 wood and fern. There was a haze and a hush in
the day, falling like a shadow of thought on happi-
ness ; but above the sky was purple, and shimmer-
ing down came the long silver skeins that the mother
Mary weaves in heaven, as the old Provencal peas-
ants say: "Weaving the birth-robes for them that
are just born, being dead."
Guy had been entertaining Annie with a long vision
of his future. How, if a war broke out, as men said
might be, he would go and win such honors that he
might come back and wear the fatal old diamond on
the hilt of his sword if he liked, and no man should
say him nay. And, if he died, he would leave fair
tame behind him and a kind memory for his sons.
Annie, somewhat grieved at her own absence from
all these brilliant dreams, hinted that she feared he
would forget her, when all these fine things came to
pass. And Guy said that he never would.
The next day, the morning train took the boys ofl
for Discord. But not before Guy had taken Edward
Dench and Uriel Sprowl, Jr., successively behind
Uriel Sprawl's barn, and then and there given each
GUERNDALE. 6l
in turn, in a fair field, what Sol Bung called " an all-
fired good lickin'. He hez the old Guern'l spunk
no doubt on 't an' he'll try an' make a start."
"So he be gone up to Discut, be he?" said old
Sol to me. " Wai, wal. They do give youngsters a
powerful deal of schooling now-a-days."
Sol turned his quid meditatively for several min-
utes. " Mebbe, it's a good thing " he added. " Mebbe,
now, ef I
But it was never known what things Sol thought
he might have accomplished with educational advan-
tages. The high, shallow accents of Sol's helpmeet
were heard at this moment, in the direction of the
back-yard, but approaching the speaker, the vol-
ume of their acerbity increasing inversely as the
square of the distance. Sol hitched his trowsers.
" Wal, wal 't ain't no use."
And, as he spoke, he gathered up his rod and lines
and moved off rapidly and smoothly in the direction
of Weedy Pond.
4to0K Seconfc.
CHAPTER XI.
" In that I live, I love ; because I lore,
I live : whate'er is fountain to the one
Is fountain t > the other ; and whene'er
Our God unknits the riddle of the one
There is no shade or fold of mystery
Swathing the other." TEXNYSON.
UERNDALE never liked me at Discord, and
we saw very little of one another. Doubtless,
I should then have put it that I did not like him,
for I thought he was a muff and a fool, and prided
myself on never changing my opinions. I do not
know what he thought of me, but he never liked
me. He was not a boy of much promise at games ;
being, indeed, very young, besides weak and slender.
Symonds, who was one of the jolliest and pluckiest
little cubs we had in the school, was a great friend
of his, but even Phil, as I saw, felt sometimes ashamed
of Guerndale's moodiness and want of spirit. We
used to wonder what made them such close friends ;
but, perhaps, it was natural, for Guerndale almost
worshipped Philip. There was little enough the
poor little devil could do for a man like Symonds,
one of the most popular fellows in the school ; but
GUERNDALE. 63
he stuck to him like a leech. I do not think Guern-
dale really was such a fool as he looked ; indeed,
once in a while he would seem to try and be more
like other fellows. I remember one day we were
sitting around the south door, talking over a four-
teen-mile run of hare and hounds the day before,
Guerndale really had done remarkably well as a hare,
for he had a surprising knack of finding his way in
the woods. Lane spoke of it, and Tom Brattle said
Guerndale could do well enough when it came to
running away. This was, perhaps, rather a mean
thing to say, and Philip flushed up a little.
" I do wish Guy, you wouldn't be such a flat," said
he. " Why, there's scarcely a fellow now that can't
beat you at anything."
" Let the little muff alone and come out for foot-
ball," I cried. " You can't make a silk purse out of a
sow's ear." This sally of mine made quite a success,
which pleased me hugely, for I was not usually very
ready with my tongue. Guerndale turned quite
white, but said nothing, and afterward joined us In
the field rather to my surprise, for he usually wan-
dered off alone in play-hours. Now I was one of
the biggest and strongest fellows in the school, aad
Phil Symonds, though younger, was a beautiful
rusher. I remember well how he and I chose up
for it was a scrub-game and he, rather reluctantly,
took Guerndale as his last man.
" What am I to do ? " asked he.
"Oh, I don't know," Phil answered. "You might
as well help tend goal, I suppose. You can't do any*
thing else."
64 GUERNDALE.
Guy silently took his place, and I led off. The
game was pretty close that day, and after an hour
we only had two touch-downs. Then I got the ball
out bounds, and made a far throw to Lane, who
caught it and by a quick side run got well behind
their rushers ; I, of course, ran in from out bounds a
little ahead of the line, keeping well along with
Lane, and when Phil caught him, as I expected, he
threw the ball to me. I took it neat, and tucking
the leather under my arm started, all Phil's side af-
ter me. But I was well ahead, with only Guerndale
between me and their goal. "You're off side," he
sang out ; but I was mad at his cheek, and told him
to " shut up " and that he was a " darned little fool,"
or something of the sort. Just then I stumbled over
a hillock and dropped the ball forward. Madder
than ever, I rushed on after it, now near enough to
the goal to try a running kick. Guy must have
seen my intention ; but none the less he threw his
little corpus upon the ball head-foremost, just as my
heavy boot struck square, luckily, on his shoulder
only, and I went over like a ninepin amid a confused
noise of cheering and laughter ; while Guerndale
sang out " have it down ! " Down he had it, sure
enough, and himself on top of it, and fainted away
at that And then I was too blown to do much, and
a straight winder of Phil's ended in a goal for them.
I speak of this incident, because it is about the
only thing I remember of Guy at St. Mark's. Curi-
ously enough, I find I have described it quite in my
old self as a boy. I can see, as I write, what I then
thought and believed, what I was, what sort of a
GUEKNDALE. 65
world I centred, as if I were back there again. But
my language of those times will not carry what I
have to say now. So the reader will please forget
me, as I shall forget myself.
All this was some years before we went to college,
and by that time Guy was quite changed by his long
life in a large school. He was now a wiry, active
fellow, somewhat serious and reserved, but far from
morose. Indeed, he was most enthusiastic when
roused by anything he liked or believed in. The
summer we were sub-freshmen, Philip, Lane, Guern-
dale, and I walked through the White Mountains,
and I saw more of him. He had deep brown eyes,
which seemed to drink in light without returning it,
except now and then a reflection of the sky, and a
deep, bass voice, and when alone he was nearly al-
ways singing. He had two great beliefs, ideas, ob-
jects which quite surprised me when I first discov-
ered them. One was his intense belief in the
earnestness of life ; it was so earnest that it almost
seemed forced or artificial, or as if it depended on
some other feeling. He took things and thoughts
so deeply into his consciousness that I believe any-
thing wrong or unhappy in them caused him acute
pain, like a bruise or a broken bone. Another was
his ideal way of thinking, and he seemed to think
the world really corresponded to it. He idealized
everything his friends, his favorite public men of
the time, his favorite authors, and particularly men's
motives. He really seemed to think that all men
acted like the knights in the Faery Queen, his favor-
ite poem. I used to envy him his enthusiasm, his
66 GUERNDALE.
passion of admiration, while it lasted, and would pity
him somewhat contemptuously in his poignant un-
feappiness when his ideal was shattered, as would
sometimes happen in those days. All women are
hero-worshippers, and he was very much like a wo-
man, or rather a young girl. We often laughed at
him for this, and for his dreams.
StHl he had great energy and plenty of ambition
for active life for coming out of the cloud, as he
used to say, and living in the open. His belief in
things was intense I mean, in men and thoughts,
not works and facts ; rather in the future than the
present. And added to this was his belief in him-
sehf. Guy was not exactly conceited, but I believe
be thought that he could remove most external
things that vexed him, as a surgeon excides a tumor.
In the middle of the civil war he had sought his
mother's permission to enlist, which was refused, as
he was only eighteen ; but I think he would have gone
all the same had not the war ended. He used to
glory In the North and its victories, and declaim
eagerry to such of us as would listen to him about
the effect of a war undertaken from noble motives in
purifying and perfecting our country.
All this rather bored us, I think. He was too
high-strung altogether for a lot of jolly fellows on a
walking trip. In conversation he shot too many ar-
rows in the air to be amusing. I never could make
out what the devil he was driving at. Still, he came
as a friend of Phil's, whom we all liked.
I remember, one afternoon, we four were trudging
along the bad road between Jackson and the Glen,
GUERNDALE. fy
when a little phaeton rattled by, carrying a pretty
girl with a pink parasol. A young man, faultlessly
dressed, was leaning toward her to whisper some-
thing in her ear, with an air of matter-of-course
about him that we all felt was quite beyond us.
Then they looked at us and laughed, and Lane spoke
up : " Why, that's Norton Randolph ; he's going in
with our class." We all of us raved about the pretty
girl except Guerndale, who persisted in comparing
her to a tulip ; but when we went to Cambridge in
the autumn, and Randolph appeared for the first
time in our midst, it was with a certain glamour of
pink parasol. He had that delicious manner of a
man of the world fascinating to youth, and we were
all prepared to be influenced by him. He was
dimly reported to be very rich and to have travelled
much abroad ; moreover, he had a general sort of
air of having been all through college twenty years
before, and only being there again to see how we
managed it.
But I am dropping into myself and my impres-
sions again ; so here goes for impersonality and a
new chapter.
CHAPTER XII.
Oh, if I had course like a full stream,
If life were as the field of chase 1 No, no ;
The life of instinct has, it seems, gone by,
And will not be forced back. And to live now
I must sluice myself into canals.
And lose all force in ducts." CLOUGH.
IN the old halls of Cambridge there was nothing
sufficiently luxurious to suit the cultivated tastes
of Mr. Norton Randolph. Moreover, he said, the
college halls were infested with proctors, and proc-
tors were a race of very impudent fellows who would
come into your room without being announced.
We paid great attention to what Randolph used to
say, in those days. It was not only his great age
that impressed us he was twenty-two but the su-
perior way in which he spoke of things in general
and the world in particular.
By reason of his aversion to proctors, he eschewed
the quadrangle, and occupied the floor of a house in
the town. Thither he was wont to call a few chosen
spirits every night ; but first let me describe his sur-
roundings, as I remember them.
He occupied a study and a bed-room. On the
floor of the latter was a large metal bath-tub, per-
fectly flat and surrounded by an ornamental rim of
GUERNDALE. 69
wrought iron. This he had imported from England,
a Christian tub, as he said, being not procurable in
America. Besides a bath-tub, it was a trap for bur-
glars, as any one entering the room carelessly was sure
to trip over it. And its width was carefully meas-
ured, so that a falling proctor would just reach the
opposite iron rim with the bridge of his nose. For
this purpose, it was frequently borrowed and placed
in dark entries by men who gave wine-parties.
This machine of cleanliness and defence was fami-
liarly spoken of among Randolph's friends as the
Frog-pond. Besides it, there was a wardrobe, a
clothes-press, a dressing-table, and a large table at
the head of the bed. On this you might usually find
a reading-lamp, a box of cigarettes, a hookah, the
latest number of the Revue des Deux Mondes, Punch,
Figaro, the Petit Journal four Rire, and the Saturday
Review; a volume of Montaigne and of French
memoirs ; a prayer-book of the Protestant Episcopal
Church, a siphon of seltzer, and a bell. On the
walls was a miscellaneous collection of armor, from
a Japanese spear and a mediaeval broadsword down
to a pair of Guerin's best fleurets, and a triangular,
beautifully engraved rapier. The floor had no car-
pet, but was covered with furs and fox-skins. The
window was always opened, even on the coldest
days.
Th.e study was a room some twenty feet square,
the floor of which Mr. Randolph had caused to be
painted of a bronze green. There were many Per-
sian rugs. The walls were lined with dwarf book-
cases, and covered with old engravings ind modern
/O GUERNDALE.
etchings of the rarest sort, except over the door,
where was hung, in a meretricious gilded frame, a
chromo of Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Gen-
eral Ulysses S. Grant, with the legend Pater Satva*
tor Cust^s. Randolph always said that he preserved
this work of art as epitomizing the gradual deterior-
ation of his country. The book-cases were filled
with small duodecimo volumes (for he used to say
that nothing could be carried in the head which was
too big to be carried in the pocket), a lot of Elzivir
classics, Greek and Latin ; all the older Italian and
Spanish poets, and a smaller number of modern
works, represented by Cervantes, Calderon, Rabelais,
Montaigne, Voltaire, Swift, Byron, Goethe, Heine,
Schopenhauer, Diderot, and de Musset. For he
used to say, laughingly, since the time of Cervantes
and Rabelais it has been impossible to take the
world au s'eriettx, and his library was chosen accord-
ingly.
But the centre-table was Mr. Randolph's especial
pride. He maintained that a gentleman's centre-
table should resemble the room in D^rer'sMt/atxo/ia,
and his own, accordingly, was an omnium gatherum
of books, works of art, sporting utensils, cards,
smokables, notes, letters, beverages, sketches, pho-
tographs, maps everything except a daily paper;
for Randolph preferred, as he used to say, to view
his times from an historico-critical distance, and not
through the shilling spy-glass of an illiterate re-
porter. When he wished to let his friends know
"what things propped his mind these dark times,"
he used to have his centre-table photographed, and
GUERNDALE. Jl
send them proofs. For he never wrote tetters, on
the principle that he never had any thoughts worth
writing down.
" I sometimes wonder, Guerndale, why you came
to College."
The speaker, Randolph, was lying lazily on a
divan, smoking a cigarette.
" I ?" cried Guy, surprised, and getting up to walk
nervously about the room. "Why of course I came
here. My father came, and it was his last wish that
I should come."
"Really ? Do you know, you surprise me." And
Randolph rolled another cigarette. "Fellows whose
people have come before them usually take it in a
different way. Now, you really seem to believe in
it all."
"Believe in it? Of course I do. Why did you
come yourself ? "
"Oh, I don't mean the mere coming. But there
is only one attitude possible for a gentleman now-a-
days : to sit and think. Life doesn't amount to any-
thing ; and most of us have only come to Cambridge
to learn to be gentlemen."
"You mean, to be mere dreamers?"
" Dreaming isn't so bad. Most fine things left us
are dreams. Besides, the real may be the false and
not the true. There are visions truer than truth, as
some poet says."
*' You don't mean all that ! " laughed Guy.
" I do, by Jove ! " said Randolph, more earnestly.
"Why, if it seems absurd, take one of the stock
aphorisms that they cram down our eclectic throats
/2 GUERN'DALE.
aow-a-days a man is a man, not for what he pos
sesses, but for what he is. Now, what a man pos-
sesses is material ; what he is, is ideal. According
to this standard, you are only superior to a hod-
carrier in the ideas which you have that he has not.
But ideas are thoughts visions dreams ! Q. E.
D."
"Oh, well," said Guy, "in that half-metaphorical
sense in that light, it may be true."
" I can't help it if you grasp the wrong light, can
I ? The white light of truth, in passing through the
turbid and many-sided prisms of this world, gets
broken into many lights and various colors. A
humble chap like myself can only grab an occasional
refracted beam and sling it at you. You must put it
in the right light yourself."
" 'The idea is the act in a weaker form,' and it is
only worth anything because of the act. I wish to
do something with my life," said Guy.
" Bah ! you can't even think anything new, much
less do anything new. Besides, college men are out
of date ; they're not in sympathy with the masses.
Life, my boy, is nothing but a grim pleasantry a
silly little toy, given to man to amuse himself with
as he likes ! He usually breaks it, sooner or later,
over something or other, and it doesn't make much
difference whether he breaks it in pursuing a muse
or a mistress."
"What immoral French idiot said that ?" sang out
John Strang. " I know you cribbed it from some-
body, you second-hand satirist."
" Strang, my son, you may go now, and shut the
GUERNDALE. 73
door behind you. Your mind is too mechanical to
appreciate the finer play of fancy. Moreover, your
base insinuation of plagiarism falls flat. As an epi-
tome of modern thought, a cultivated man must
plagiarize. There is nothing new under the sun, as
that jolly old boy said in the Hebrew bible."
Strang said he had to go, anyhow, to run with the
crew, and closed the door with a grunt of disgust.
Randolph turned to Guerndale, with a sweet smile.
"No," said Guy slowly. " I mean to live my life
for what it is worth. And if you mean that, because
a fellow is highly educated, he is to take no interest
in things, it is absurd."
"Schopenhauer said that the peculiar character
of the Americans of the Northern States, was vul-
garity ; vulgarity in all its forms, moral, intellectual,
aesthetic, and social. And Renan let me show you
what Renan says." And Randolph lazily reached
for a book on the centre-table, and opening it showed
to Guy a scored passage :
" Les pays qui comme les Etats-Unis ont cr66 un
enseignement populaire considerable sans instruc-
tion sup6rieure s6rieuse, expieront encore longtemps
leur faute par leur mdiocrite intellectuelle, leur
grossidretd de mceurs, leur esprit superficiel, leur
manque d'intelligence generale."
"Now, my boy," continued Randolph, "you must
either do like the people, be of the people, or dream
if you like dream what the people of this country
ought to be and arn't. If you mean to dream,
Harvard College is the best place for you ; other-
wise not. A college-bred man in America, must
4
74 GUERNDALE.
wince in all his business, even in his social relations
in short, he must go through life holding his nose."
" Pardon me, Randolph," said Guy, excitedly.
* t I know you don't think what you say."
" Since the French Revolution, who ever could ? "
muttered Randolph, en parcnthcse.
" But," Guy went on," if you mean that a high
education unfits one for American life, I deny it.
There is a lot that is vulgar and corrupt in Ameri-
can life I know; and there is just a want of gen-
tlemenmen who have been born to ease and
enlightenment, who have got education without
narrowness, and have not been taught petty shifts
and mean motives by the res angusta domi ; men
who have been bred in the higher views of life.
There is such a thing as having too many ' self-
made ' men. Take politics for instance. What we
need there is men whose honor is above suspicion,
who have love of country without bigotry, and ed-
ucation without false prida in it ; men who are wil-
lingas I mean to be to plunge fairly into the
stream, neck and neck with the self-taught mechanic
and the untrained immigrant ; men who dare meet
and confront a demagogue on his own ground. Such
men are rare with us ; but we can each try to be one,"
The boy's words came tumbling, one over another,
almost too rapidly for utterance ; he rose and walked
nervously about the room; Randolph eyed him curi-
ously.
" My dear fellow, you talk like the back part of a
spelling-book. Now don't say bosh ! and look dis-
gusted. I admire you."
CUERNDALE. 75
Guy threw himself into a chair, lit a pipe, and
puffed impatiently. " I wish you would talk seri-
ously."
"Ah, don't require impossibilities. The world
went on seriously enough for an indefinite number
of thousands of years. Now its mood is humorous.
Stiil, I am delighted to hear you mean to pull Ameri-
can civilization up a peg or two. I was reading an
amiable old Chinese prophet, the other day, who
wrote seventeen hundred years before Christ. His
name was Lao-Tse ; he was blue about the state of
China, which he predicted would result in the arrest
of culture and partial progress backward. The sa-
gacious old heathen, as A. Ward would say, was
right, and the signs of the times he saw remind me
hugely of America to-day indolence, indifference
to metaphysical and ideal good, practical material-
ism with corrupt conditions of Government See
what this Chinese critic complained of " and again
Randolph took a book and read.
" ' The common people of the realm are, alas !
too rough, too uneducated, too comfortable if their
f meat and drink tastes good, and the girls have a
trinket, and they have a snug little household, that's
enough. The people take pleasure only in material
things, they delight in the commonplace, they only
know what is daily, ordinary, common.' I'm not a
snob ; it may be that all old families are descended
from robbers or ladies of doubtful reputation. But
there is at least some advantage in having the suc-
cessful thief a few generations back. The refining'
influence of money is all very well ; but I confess I
76 GUERNDALE.
like friends with whom the process began with theii
grandfathers.
" ' Priez pour paix, douce vicrge M arie,
Reine des cieux et du monde maJtresse ;
Priez, princes qui avez seigneurie,
Gentils hommes avec chivalerie
Car mechants gens surmontent gentillesse. 1
"Howevei," concluded Randolph, "pitch in, by
all means, if you like."
" You know what I told you a year ago, when wo
were Freshmen," said Guy, confronting him and
then turning away. " I had a quiet, sad sort of life
when I was a boy, and never thought I should care
much for action. Direct conflict with other peoples'
wills was distasteful to me. They jarred upon me.
But suddenly I changed. I felt ambitious I don't
Know why."
11 You don't know why ? "
" No, but I went to school with Phil, and then
rame here. And I can't tell you, Randolph, how
pleasant it has been for me, knowing you. You are
the only fellow I do know well, except Phil. You
are a great deal too blase, but then I think you ui
derstand things better than most men. Only, J
really can't see why you took a fancy to me ? "
" Because you read like the pages of an old book,
my boy, before the leaves have turned, or been
turned, as the case maybe," said Randolph, smiling.
Just then the door opened with a hearty kick upon
the panel, and Guy took his leave, as a troop of
young men came in, singing. As he crossed the
GUERNDALE. 77
yard, he wondered whether many men did not, after
all, think like Randolph. His moods were not so
very new to Guy. As a child, he might, in his
childish way, have thought very much like Ran-
dolph, except for the latter's humor. For humor is
a light of the mind which only comes at maturity,
and has a brighter glow in the decay of everything
else. How did it happen that he himself was so
changed ?
Outwardly, perhaps, he was not. He was shy and
sensitive ; as a rule, men did not see much in him.
But that was natural ; for he was not much, he felt,
especially by comparison with the men about him,
his friends. For Guy had chosen them as friends
for the great qualities he saw, or fancied that he
saw, in each.
Guerndale was a tremendous idealizer as well of
his friends as of the world in general. He believed
that every one of them was the expression and em-
bodiment of some high type of character or some
great excellence, which too often existed only in his
own mind. In his imagination he carried a collec-
tion of heroic ideals, and each man he met and liked
was at once properly ranked, and erected in his ap-
propriate niche. Thus his mind became a sort of Wal-
halla of worthies, the realities of whom he believed
he saw in the world about him. So he undervalued
himself ; and, perhaps, we were too ready to take
him at his own valuation. And he, in turn, was ter-
ribly afraid of being a bore, and inflicting his own
unworthiness upon our valuable society. He was *
little like the rich and diffident fifth member in dear
78 GUERNDALE.
oW Murger's Scenes de la Vie de Bohtme^ the onlj
worthy and useful fellow among a set of scape-
graces. I did not think so at the time, however.
So, when Guy entered the old, smoke-stained^
low-studded, deep window-seated room which he
shared with Phil Symonds, he felt bashful at dis-
turbing the gayety of the scene when he knew he
could not add to it. For Guy was not good at
songs and stories and young men's conversations.
A dozen or more students were lounging about in
great boyish abandan. One, sitting at an old bee>
ringed piano that filled one side of the room, wr.
struggling with a college song, while a group of*
others waited with eager breath to encourage the
performer by a chorus in which confidence was
more noticeable than precision. Symonds and John
Strang alone were not drinking and smoking, being
both provisionally in the University six, and were
telling an interested group of a brush they had had
in their barge with the Freshmen shell. Little Billy
Bixby was throwing poker hands with Van Sittart,
of New York, stopping now and then to tell a story
of the unmentionable order what John Strang used
to call profane histories and sipping from a tum-
bler of brandy and absinthe at his side. This was a
beverage he had lately introduced into Cambridge,
and his friends watched him drink it with interest
not unmingled with admiration, for it was said that
old Dr. Way land had warned Bixby that six months
of it would kill him. In a distant corner was stand-
ing Mr. Lefauc \neur Lyndhurst Lane, buttonholed
earnestly by Sfitlv Hackett, who was partially reveal-
GUERNDALE. 79
Ing some scheme of society log-rolling. Lane's atti-
tude was, perhaps, expressive of boredom, but his
face was as faultless as a society expression and an
eye-glass could make it.
" What show for the crew, Phil ? " sang out Van
Sittart over four aces, by way of keeping his counte-
nance.
" Pretty fair, I guess. We haven't much beef in
the boat, but they say half the Yale crew can't pull
their own weight."
"Pluck and science against muscle, as usual,"
said Bixby, after making an unsuccessful "raise" of"
ten dollars on a "full."
*' Billy, you can't play to-night. Better keep that
little appointment of yours it's past eleven," and
Symonds sauntered up, his golden hair tossed back,
a twinkle in his merry gray eyes, the tight blue jer-
sey open at the neck, showing a superb throat, still
flushed with the evening run of the crew.
" I've got a detur, Phil," said Guy, timidly, by
way of announcing his presence, which no one had
yet noticed. This bit of news was received with
derisive laughter. Hackett, who was secretly grind-
ing for honors, but feared such ambitions, if known,
might injure his political influence in the class,
laughed louder than the rest.
"A detur^ by gad!" laughed Phil, "what is it,
young 'un ? A ' college bible ' or Edgevvorth's Mora!
Tales ? "
" Throw you poker hands for it ! " said Van Sit-
tart.
" What the blank is a detur ? " cried Bixby.
80 GUERNDALE.
" Cut Jiabet, detur" growled Strang, amid cries of
Shop! Shop ! "Shut up, you fellows on the piano
there bien chit, chant?, as says the gentle humorist.
There is something, in the sanctity of the hour, that
suggests, to the wearied spirit, beer ! "
" Beer on Guerndale ! Magna prosit ! " cried
Van Sittart, who had spent a semester at Heidel-
berg.
Symonds went to a little refrigerator, and pro-
duced another dozen bottles of the required bev-
erage.
" Sit down, and have a game, old man ! " said
Bixb/.
" You ought not to, Phil you're on the crew,
you know," remonstrated Guy, who was anxious for
his chum's success.
" Dry up, Guy," said Symonds angrily. " Time
enough to train before the race." And the three
drew up to the table, Guy, who had a morbid fear
of being thought ungracious, joining them. Bixby
went off on some mysterious errand in a coupe.
Lane took his leave politely ; Hackett offering him
his company across the yard, which Lane refused,
on the ground that he meant to stop and see Tom
Brattle. But he did not do so, for Hackett saw him
walk across the quadrangle to his own hall.
" The damned snob ! " muttered Hackett, as he
looked after him, grinding his heel into the gravel.
When the bell rang for prayers, the four were
still at the card-table. Guy went out for a morning
walk, feeling ashamed of himself for having done
what he did not like for fear of incurring odium.
GUERNDALE. 8 1
V 7 an Sittart and Bixby, who humorously complained
that the Faculty could not expect a fellow to sit
up until such an unearthly hour for prayers, went
home ; while Phil, having lost largely, dismissed his
guests with a parting joke at the door and then
went sulkily to bed and slept till noon.
CHAPTER XIII.
* He dtc* jswaaia d mat de vous-mSme. Vos amis to dlrtmt toujouw
M Kat, drink, and play, and think that this is bliss j
There in no heaven but this ;
There is no heli,
Save earth, which serves the purpose doubly weQ . , , ,
" Eat. driulc, and die, for we are souls bereaved :
Of all the creatures under heaven's wide cope
We are most hopeless, who had once most hope,
And most beliefless, that had most believed." CUM/CH,
'* TV /T Y dear Guy ! what is the use of your grlnd-
IV JL ing away so over mathematics ? Mere form
without content. Two-and-two-make-four-and-can't-
make-five narrow, pestilent bigotry ! "
"Exact science," interposed Strang, with a grunt
"All cant and cant I hoped Kant put an end to !
Exact sciences ! When you talk like that, I think,
like poor dear Heine, of his old doctor, Saul Ascher;
Saul Ascher, with his abstract legs, his tight, tran-
scendental-gray body coat, and his stiff, cold face,
that might have served as a copper-plate to print a
geometrical diagram; Saul Ascher, who was a right-
Hue personified, and had philosophized every sun-
beam, faith, and flower, clean out of life, and left
nothing for himself but a positive cold grave; Soul
GUERNDALE. 83
Ascher (pass me a cigarette, please, Guy thanks,
much), who had an especial malice for the Apollo
Belvidere and the Christian religion; he lived on o-
ordinate paper, and when he died you felt as mu* *i
emotion as when you said, ' Let the line A B be o -
tended to infinity ! ' "
"Hold on! "said John, "till I write that dowt.
Put in my examination-paper in conic sections, i
might soften old Calculus."
" No," added the speaker, " but what do you meat
by talking of exact sciences ? How do you knov
the whole thing is anything more than phenomenal
and provisional, anyway ? Time and space, thanb
the Lord, are mere temporary curses, and won't
afflict us always ! "
These energetic speeches came softly out with the
quiet, rich accent of Norton Randolph. Randolph,
even when he used to swear, which was- seldom,
swore you an 't were any sucking dove. He now
spoke in precisely the tone he would use if remon-
strating with a girl for not dancing with him.
" Training for the mind! " replied Guyon, wkh a
.cloud of smoke.
" Gymnastics for blind puppies ' " sighed Ran-
dolph, weariedly. " In the first place, the people
don't want trained minds, an'd you want to suit the
people. In the next place, mathematics are not half
the brace that a little judicious metaphysical fog is.
Leave Cartesian co-ordinates for Cartesian contra-
dictories. You will wake up some day, as Hamilton
did, like another Faust, and find that quaternions
are as empty as the multiplication table."
84 GUERNDALE.
"Oh, dear ! " sighed Guerndale. " I wish the war
were still going on ! There, at least, Randolph, is
one thing you can't deprecate."
" I, my dear fellow ? I never deprecate. All
things are very good, no doubt. And one thing is ns
good as another. Besides, I admire the war. It is
the only instance within my knowledge, in modern
times, of a purely ideal motive swaying mankind.
It was superb to see a whole nation make a fool of
itself even as one man ! It was sublime ! They
could not have been greater asses if they had beci
poets. Moreover, they abolished slavery."
Guerndale looked at him, not knowing if he were
in jest or serious.
" O, come, Norton, you can't say that there is no
such thing as patriotism ?
" Breathes there a man with sense so great
That this or any other State
Is all the same to him?"
laughed Randolph. " When I was young, apple-
tarts were my passion. Now it is fame, freedom,
Iruth, and potage bisque. Why, my dear fellow, fame
is being known to people one despises. Power is the
consciousness that an aggregation of forty millions
of fools can probably pummel one of twenty, unless
the latter are very much bigger fools than the for-
mer. Love of country is selfishness, and as such a
perfectly dignified and proper thing. It rests on the
desire to preserve self and property from enemies.
But now there are no external enemies against
tvhom it is necessary to combine. The best civil
GUERNDALE. 85
government is the direct and local. What have
you to show, then, that this country could not be
better governed if split up into sections ?"
" Like Greece, you mean ? A lot of little states
warring among themselves ? "
"Well, even if they did," answered Randolph,
" war and conflict develop the purest emotions and
the highest nobility of character. And, at all events,
under small local governments, the drains and roads
and prisons might all be better, which, as modern
science shows us, is the one great thing. What you
feel is simply the barbaric and vulgar pride of being
a forty-millionth of a big and bad thing rather than
a millionth of something better. I can remember
when I used to feel just your way : whenever I went
to New York I used to choose the biggest steam-
boats by preference. I have got over my worship of
size and quantity. Now I would rather go to Europe
in a yacht than in a Cunarder. If you want spread-
eagle* g to Hackett. He is practising it for cau-
cuses ; it is his cue, and he will give you a dose if he
gets the idea you like it. By Jove ! why don't you
form a sort of political partnership with him ? "
And Randolph laughed from the depths of his easy-
chair.
" I don't like him ! "
"Raison de plus! He will secretly respect you.
He will pose as the self-made man, the spontaneous
pillar of his country ; and it will be his duty to hate
you as a conservative and an aristocrat. But he will
only call you foul names in public, and all you have to
do is to take them in a Pickwickian sense. Besides, i/
86 GULRNDALE.
you don't make him a friend, he will certainly over-
match you. He is mediocre, and the people want
mediocrity. As my old friend Lao-Tse said, the pec
pie like shine, not light; they don't want the lamp
of truth, but fireworks. Now, you are a bloated aris-
tocrat, and will be so Impudent as to think you can
teach the people something. Moreover, Hackett is
smart, and will hob-nob with them; and, you can say
what you like, your style of education and breeding
will put you out of tune with them. The elegant sim-
plicity, the reserve, the polite manners of the great
world, cause not only a deep aversion for coarse
men, common men of all parties, but a true hate,
which even goes as far as a thirst for their blood ! "
"Pooh! "said Strang. "I happen to 1. now that
you cribbed that from Gutrin's memoirs, for I read
it on your table the other day. And just below that
place he says : ' II n'y a pas un homme qui ait le
droit de m^priser les hommcs.' "
" Well, it is true," said Randolph. " I remember
how the men at the Union Club thronged to the
windows as the Irish societies passed by down Fifth
Avenue, at the time of the draft riots ; and we all
said the time was coming when we should have to
shoot those fellows down. Now, Hackett is enough
akin to the proletariat to know how to manage it"
Tire door opened and Hackett entered.
" We have been talking politics, Mr. Hackett,"
said Randolph "a conversation rather in your line,
I fancy?"
Hackett looked suspiciously at the speaker, and ac-
cepted the proffered chair with an assumption of ease
GUERNDALE. 8/
"Really, don't you think it is rather warm for
such an appalling subject?" and he rolled a ciga-
rette with a languid exaggeration of Randolph's
manner.
" Mr. Guerndale has been treating me to quite an
extreme dose of abolitionism," said Randolph,
" Ah ! " said Hackett, after a moment's delay ; " I
think it is a great pity that the two sides should
have been so exaggerated in the war. I think, at
best, it was an unfortunate business. The effect is
very noticeable here. A charming element of col-
lege society is lost to us in the Southerners. I don't
know as we shall ever recover it By the way, you
are from Virginia, are you not?"
Guy walked to the window.
" I don't know that I am," said Randolph, slightly
emphasizing the word in correction of Hackett's
grammatical error. " My father was ; but, as we have
just been saying, the feeling of birth is an obsolete
and narrowing sentiment."
" I came to speak to you, Randolph, about a lit-
tle club we are organizing : both for dining, and to
, enable us by organization to give a more definite in-
fluence to our opinions among the class. By getting
two or three of the more prominent men of each
section, we may privately exert a very considerable
influence, perhaps, even to a majority. And at the
dinners we hope to have elegant a charming times.
I hope, Randolph "
"Really, Mr. Hackett," began the latter, but he
was saved the labor of replying by the entry of
Lane, Bixby, Brattle, and Symonds in a burst ol
58 GUERNDALE.
laughter, caused apparently by some story of Sy-
monds as they were coming up the stairs. Soon
after Hackett rose and took his leave, somewhat
awkwardly, and with an uncomfortable sensation of
probable comments behind his back, which he
could neither avoid nor conceal. Nor was he dis-
appointed.
"There," said Strang, "goes a pure skunk."
All assented with more or less enthusiasm ; even
Phil Symonds admitting, with a sort of jovial dis-
approval, that he was a damned fool. Lane alone
was silent, but, upon being playfully urged to ex |
press himself, blushed deeply and confessed that
h thought him " a cad."
" I don't see what that sort of fellow comes here
for," said Bixby.
" Comes here for ? I fancy that it pays him better
than any of us. The faculty like that sort of thing.
They regard him as a successful graduate. He will
be near the head of his class ; orator if he can ;
leaves here with the endorsement of all the profess-
ors, two or three scholarships in his pocket, and is a
university man." So said Randolph, and Strang
nodded his head.
"Yet," said the latter, " one does ad mire success.'
"Do you ?" said Randolph, coldly; "I don't."
Strang shrugged his shoulders. " What are you
going to do this summer, Billy ? " said he to Bixby,
who was already late in his second glass of " Bixby's
mixture."
" Go to Paris, I think. Run down to Monte Carlo
io have a time. Want to come ? "
GUERNDALE. 89
''Can't," said Strung, "After the race I am go-
ing on an engineering party out to Colorado. Better
come, Phil," said he, turning to Symonds.
"Much obliged. I'm going yachting with some
fellows, and then down to Newport to stay with
Randolph, I like to loaf in summer myself."
" Why don't you go down to a sea-side hotel then,
and loaf on the piazza, and drink cocktails, and sit on
the rocks with the girls?" grunted Strang. "They
are even sillier in summer than in winter."
" O, they're well enough if they're pretty. What
more do you want ? "
" No more can we expect, certainly. What went
ye out for to see ? " grunted Strang. " A silk dress
shaken in the wind ? Well, good-night ; training
time, you know."
''Queer stick, that Strang," said Brattle, as the
door closed behind him.
" Damned cranky cuss," snarled Bixby, over his
third glass, " cocky enough for his own statue."
" Well, it takes all sorts of men to make a world,"
said Van Sittart.
| " He means well," threw in Randolph, with a tinge
of amusement in his voice.
"Any of you fellows want to come in behind the
scenes ? Some devilish pretty girls in the ballet. I
knew the prompter in Paris a little Italian fellow
and he'll get me in."
"Thank you, Billy, not to-night, I guess," said
Brattle ; then, as Bixby took his leave, " how any of
you men can stand that fellow, I don t see."
" Oh, Billy isn't so bad," said Randolph. " A cup
9O GUERNDALE.
of sack, please, Guy. Thanks, Billy isn't batf such
a fool as he looks."
" Little Parisian snob," said Lane.
" Why, Faucy, I never knew you to be so woiked
up," laughed Randolph. " What's the matter ? "
" Well," said Lane, smiling and blushing, "just
because he's got a lot of money, and impudence, and
bad style, all you fellows let him go on. His father
was an oil man or something like, and they live
over there because people won't receive them here.
Well, good-night ; I've got a party in town."
"Jove, Randolph," said Van Sittart, who had
hitherto been absorbed in poker with Bixby, "your
Boston men are the weakest little snobs of the lot.
What difference does it make who a fellow's people
are, if he shoots and drives a good drag, and plays a
square game of poker ? Time enough to cut him
when you get married."
" Lane's a curious chap," said Brattle. " He's my
cousin, and we've always been together, and he's a
good natu red fellow and all that. But he never had
an idea that hadn't been previously strained through
the minds of all the old dowagers in Boston. Yes, I
suppose he is a good deal of an ass. Hullo, Phil
you going, too ? "
* Yes," said Symonds, " Guy and I have put on a
brace for early hours. Good-night, boys I "
M Good-night, Phil ! good-night ! "
** Good-night, Guy," said Randolph, going with
him to the door. " Don't forget that walk to-mor-
row!"
M Why the deuce does Symonds chum with thai
GUERNDALE. 91
poor little devil of a Guerndale ? said Van Sit
tart
41 I'm not sure that I shouldn't put it the other
way," said Randolph. " What do you think of it,
Brattle > "
" O, Phil likes to be admired, and he can't find
anybody else to do it, I suppose," said Brattle*
"You might as well room alone, old three-of-a-kind.
Ta-ta ! " and Brattle, decorated with a velveteen
smoking-jacket and a huge pipe, took his way across
the yard.
" Disagreeable, sarcastic devil, that Brattle,"
growled Van Sittart. " Excuse me a moment, old
man, but as soon as he gets well along I'll follow."
" Stay as long as you like, Van. By the way, I
hear the play was pretty high the other night ? "
" Yes, devilish rough it was, too. You know that
little fellow, Pruyn, of Princeton, is engaged to Miss
de Ruyter, of New York a regular love-match, they
Bay and they are to be married in a month. Well,
they haven't either of them enough money to pay the
parson ; and Phil and I got Pruyn up to his room
and got a five dollar Van John on him, and he was
out $2,000 before he knew where he was. He gave
us his I.O.Us, for $1,600 to me, and $400 to Phil;
and I know he's sure pay ; for he's just that sort of
a little conscientious fool that would ; but, gad ! I
shouldn't be surprised if he hadn't money enough
to buy a wedding-present ! "
" Capital joke, by Jove ! " said Randolph, "Why
dkm't you let me in ?"
" Well, we didn't think of it in time. But, good-
92 GUERNDALE.
night, Randolph, much obliged for your hospital-
ity."
Left alone, Mr. Norton Randolph betook himself
with a sigh of relief to Thackeray. A deep smile on
his face remained as a sort of after-glow of the
gayety of the evening. After a chapter or two of
" Vanity Fair," he turned to La Rochefoucauld ; af-
ter half an hour of which he wrote and sealed the
following notes :
" CAMBRIDGE, FRIDAY.
"MY DEAR PRUYN. I won several I.O.Us, of yours the other
night and have bought the rest at twenty per cent, on their face in-
debtedness, thinking you might not like to have them floating about
just now. and would prefer having them held all by me. So I am
now your creditor ; but for four hundred only. You may pay when
you like ; but let me give you your revenge first. Yours,
" N. RANDOLPH."
CAMBRIDGE, SATURDAY.
" DEAR MR. VAN SITTART. Pruyn has commissioned me tc
square all his I.O.Us. If you will bring me yours, I can draw you
a check for the full amount, $1,600, 1 believe ? Yours very sincerely,
NORTON RANDOLPH."
" By Jove," said Randolph, rising wearily, " they
all say every other fellow is a damned fool ; and I
suppose I am the greatest fool of the lot, after all."
And going to bed, this inconsistent cynic smoked
for an hour, reading over his hookah a comedy of
Calderon.
CHAPTER XIV.
" Autrefois," uit le Diable, "pour te punir de ton impolitesse, j'aurai pris ct
emporte' ton ame ; mais qu'en fairc aujourd'hui? J'ai des Smcs a revendre."
J. JAKIN.
"The u-orks of Dr. Charming the last words of religious philosophy in a land
where every one has some culture and superiorities are discountenanced the
flower of moral and intelligent mediocrity." MATTHEW ARNOLD.
RANDOLPH used to say that he liked to get up
into the afternoon. It was the best way of re-
alizing the land where it was always afternoon. Per-
haps, it was this habit which gained for him Strang's
jesting sobriquet of " the mild-eyed melancholy
lotos-eater." His morning lectures suffered some-
what in consequence ; but he chose his "electives,"
as the optional courses of study are termed at Cam-
bridge, with a special view to the times of day the
lectures would require his presence. It was, ac-
cordingly, about one of the following day when
Randolph was interrupted over his coffee by Guern- *
dale's arrival, fit, as he expressed it, for a walk.
" What sort of weather are they giving us ?"
" Glorious ! do come on, and don't dawdle ! "
" My dear fellow, a gentleman is never in a hurry.
Are you sure the day is well out of curl-papers ?
Besides, let me see if I haven't a lecture this after-
noon "
94 GUERNDALE.
M You promised last night to come "
" Do wait a moment, Guy. I only want to make
sure that I am cutting a lecture to heighten my en-
joyment of the walk. Yes, I've got a recitation in
Ethics just the thing !"
"What a delightful old poser you are!" laughed
Guerndale. " And how absurd your studying
Ethics 1 "
"Not at all," said Randolph, seriously. " It's the
best fun in the world to see them analyzing and or-
namenting the roof after cutting away the rez-de-
chaussee and the entresol. It's one of the best jokes
of the lot"
" You seem to regard everything as a farce gotten
up for the amusement of Mr. Norton Randolph/'
said Guerndale, as they walked out into the street,
"Certainly, my sprouting Telemachus. Did you
ever read Carlyle ? Well, Carlyle in my opinion is
one of the grandest and most consummate humbugs
that the world ever produced but he said one erood
thing. He said that humor is the mood of a god.
Fancy how bored the holy first cause and sustainer
would be with ihe inanities and antics of his creations
below here if he couldn't view it all in the light of
humor ? Do you know what is the best definition of a
Bourgeois, a Philistine? He is a man who takes tilings
in general au grand serieitx. Fancy God taking men
au serieux ! The Aristophanes of heaven, as Goethe
says!" And Randolph switched off some daisies
savagely with his cane. " God help us, if he does."
" It seems to me you are suddenly taking things
rather seriously yourself."
GUERNDALK. 95
" Oh, no, my dear Guy. I beg your pardon. The
broadest farce and the deepest tragedy are so exactly
alike that it is almost impossible to distinguish them.
However, modern times have almost done away
with both, by inventing burlesque. The seriousness
of people to day is mere stage-seriousness buckram
and humbug. That is, I mean any seriousness ex-
cept such as attends their chase after money, and the
gratification of their passions ; since Quixote men
have grown ashamed of honor and love, and think
only of pursuing their fortune and gratifying their
lust. It is the seriousness of the chief augur at the
auspices ; of the charlatan with his tongue stuck la
his cheek."
" I don't think the world is all humbug," said
Guy.
" Neither do I. But humbug is the tribute men
of sense pay to fools. And if a man wants worldly
success the fools being in the majority It is a
great merit in Carlyle to attempt to show people
their own stupidity. But the trouble is, Carlyle is a
fool himself. He complained that people are all
talk and no do, and there is no other fool who talks
so much as he, and so little to the purpose."
"Still," said Guy, " I do not think that life is a
farce. And in the same volume of Carlyle from
which you quote, he has taken as a motto, Schiller's
ernst ist das Leben. Because you laugh, the world is
not laughable. Besides, I think you are more or less
of a humbug yourself. There may be some people
who learn the sad learning of laughter, but not at
your age."
96 GUERNDALE.
Randolph winced a little. " By Jove, Guy, usu-
ally you seem like a bear with all his troubles before
him, but sometimes you have a gleam of perspective.
As to being a humbug, of course I am. Most men,
who don't like the role of Manfred have to make be-
lieve a good deal. But, I stick to it : the part of
amused spectator is the proper one for a gentleman
in this world."
Guy shook himself impatiently and walked faster.
"No," said Randolph, "hear me. I think there
are four ways of taking this world : the Comical,*
the Serious, the Serio-Comical, and the Tragico-'
Burlesque. There are people who take life comi-
cally, who go in for fun and folly. They are the
fools ; they are also the happiest. Then there are
those who take this terrestrial life of grub and grind
and petty successes au grand s'erieux they put every-
thing on a level and look at it seriously. These are
the Philistines, and are second to the fools in good
fortune. The remaining two classes are both intelli-
gent, both unphilistine ; men who look at things
serio-comically they are the men of talent and of
high success, besides being the most agreeable.
And lastly, the poor fellows who alternate between
tragedy and burlesque. They are the geniuses ; they*
usually die miserably or are driven mad ; and are
called morbid by the average sensual man. They
hate convention, and scorn meanness both of
thought or aims ; they are snubbed by the Philis-
tines and stoned by the rabble. Only once in a
while a Dante or a Rabelais survives to shame his
fellow-cits. There ycu have mankind, their nature
GUERNDALE. 97
and their works : the first seek amusement, the second
are busy with affairs ; the third achieve, the fourth
suffer. Comic, Serious, Serio-Comic, Tragico-Bur-
lesque Fools, Philistines, Great men, Geniuses
Amusements, Affairs, Achievements, Agonies. You
pays your money and you takes your choice," Ran-
dolph closed, with a grin.
"And which do you prefer ?"
"Well, the world in general laughs with the fools,
praises the Philistines, worships the great men, and
Jdamns the geniuses. I laugh at the fools, despise
the Philistines, have a reasonable respect for the
great men, and pity and love the geniuses. Tell
me, Guy," said Randolph, after a pause, " I hope I
haven't shocked you ? / don't believe that God is
human at all ; but if people will insist on giving him
finite passions, I think with Heine that humor is
the only suitable mood."
"Oh, no, I am not shocked."
" I thought not. Van Sittart and Bixby and
Hackett would have been shocked. So would every
one over forty of decent character. But I thought
you and I had breathed the same air the air of a
dead faith. It hangs over this New England coun-
try like the sad gray sky of Hawthorne's novels.
Religion here was once a passion ; and we are living
in the ashes of it. Isn't it strange, this New Eng-
land history of mceurs / I think there is a worn-out
enthusiasm, a sort of nervous prostration in the very
atmosphere. We seem to be born in it. You and I
are not the only ones."
" No." sighed Guy ; and he thought of his father.
5
98 GUERNDALE.
" Do you know," added he then, dreamily, ' I have
always had a sort of favorite vision in my mind
of what you mean. Think of those grim, narrow,
hard old Puritans you hate them, no doubt."
" I hate them ?" interrupted Norton. "Why, my
dear fellow, I deplore their absence. Didn't my
amiable old great-grandfather write a famous ser-
mon on ' the Heart of New England Torn by the
Blasphemies of the Present Generation ' ?"
"Well, we admire them," continued Guy; "for
they at least had ideality and a purpose think of
the first scenes, the rude board chapel in the midst
of a clearing ; on all sides the unbroken forest of a
continent ; and the solemn congregation worship-
ping a cruel God without book or liturgy, holding a
rifle instead of a prayer-book. Ah! there was some-
thing fine in that."
*' That will do for one picture," said Randolph.
14 And then the present reaction, the failure, the cor-
ruption of it, the change from the cold, grim poetry
of their ideal to the easy fat content of material suc-
cess."
44 They came to worship God they realized a bal-
ance of trade in their favor "
44 Yes ; and then the perfect failure of that highest
attempt to realize religion ; pure religion, abstracted
of all earthly attractions, non-emotional, non-sensu-
ous. For they did fail completely. Think of that
same old barn-like church now, standing gaunt and
lonely in a cluster of modern French roofs and gin-
gerbread moulding. Religion has degenerated into
a curious social custom. I look at a New England
GUERNDALE. 99
meeting-house in much the same outside way that I
should look at a Chinese joss-house it serves as a
sort of social nucleus to a parish where they period-
ically run into debt, and cut down the preacher's
salary. If old Dr. Norton were to appear to me in
an indigestion I think that would be the proper
modern explanation and talk about my heart being
' rent by the blasphemies of the present generation,'
I should tell him that ' Fear God,' perhaps, made
many men pious, but the proofs of the existence of
God have made most men atheists. No ; Puritan-
ism neither faith nor metaphysics, the mathemati-
cal religion is a failure. The Roman Church has,
at least, the talent of making herself loved and her
children happy. At all events, Puritanism will do
no longer look at the church named Plymouth,
and think of the satire of the name. The people
want bread and circuses ; candles on the altar and
theatrical performances in the vestry, or that worse
modern vulgar abomination which is known as sen-
sational preaching. Oh, it is very funny very
funny damned funny."
" Oh, come, Randolph, you make everything out
too bad. If one form of religion has run its course,
it is not a reason for thinking the world worse. You
say yourself you don't want it why do you expect
other people to need it ? "
" Perhaps," laughed Randolph, " I am like Billy
Bixby, who admitted to me one day that he never
went inside of a church himself, but that it would
make him seriously unhappy if his mother and sis-
ters ceased doing so. ... The truth is, Gwycm,
IOO GUERNDALE.
\ve live in an intellectual air of failure. The best we
can say is, that our forefathers came for one thing
and found another a balance of trade, as you sug-
gest. It may be, what we found was more valuable
than what we sought I do not know. Still it is fail-
ure ; if it is failing only in the way that fellow failed
in getting what he wanted, who was always unlucky,
and while boring for water, struck gold. You know
Morris' ' Earthly Paradise ? ' We seem to me like
the men in that book. We sought a high ideality
what we have found is a vulgar reality."
" But, Randolph, I hate to hear you talk so.
When I said we had realized a balance of trade in
our favor, I did not mean it as a reproach. It is
surely a good thing at least, no bad thing. We
have not kept up the old ideas of the Puritans simply
because they were narrow and bad. We have real-
ized at least one ideal we are free we are edu-
cated ! "
" O my dear boy," said Norton, " don't drop back
into spelling-books. If you think the tyranny of
the coarse rabble better than that of the finer few, I
don't. As for free education, consider the fitness of
things. There must always be in this world a cer-
tain number of hewers of wood and drawers .of
water. If among that class arise one who is capable
of better things, and really wants education, let him
have it at as little difficulty to himself as possible ;
but what is not worth desiring and acquiring is
not worth having. Do not cram education and dis-
content down the throats of those who do not ask
for it Leave them to their toil, that their sleep
:'
GUERNDALE. IOI
may be sound, and their digestion unimpaired. In
the social organization, we cannot all be conscious
nerve ganglia ; there must be the healthy uncon-
scious bone and sinew and muscle as well. Free
education means free and accessible ; not compul-
sory. Let the clown remain a clown till he wishes
to be something else."
" But they vote," said Guyon.
" Ah, yes, they do. I forgot that. Well, as long
as we gauge our civilization by the broadest base,
perhaps, it is as well to raise that base as high above
the mire as it can be put. Sinc p , by our systems,
we level down, not up, perhaps we had better make
the lowest level as high as we can."
" But, Randolph, I have cornered you there.
And besides, I don't see why you deny the refine-
ment and happiness and purity of our general civi-
lization. Why not raise the mass as well as the
few ? "
" Then, I say, give them a practical industrial ed-
ucation, make them cooks, mechanics, engineers.
With all our cant about democracy, there is more
absurd cant about ' genteel ' professions than ever.
Our education is founded on old ornamental models,
designed to finish that useless article called 'gentle-
man.' Now that the masses feel their power, they
not only want to destroy present swells, but they
Avant to be nobs themselves, just as the old swells
were. Which is impossible and absurd. Granted,
one man is as good as another, then we must all turn
to and work. If you can be as good a judge as I
can, why I must be a house-painter just as soon as
1 03 GUERNLrALE.
you ; instead of which every country boy \vants to
be a counter-jumper, because he thinks it more gen-
teel than learning a trade. Why, really, Guy, alt
the old foolish ideas of the land-owning class arc be
ing picked up and refurbished for the modern eman-
cipated peasantry. Every country girl wants to be
fashionable, and every Carpenter's son wants to be a
merchant."
" I think, myself, the ' Latin and Greek and Art an-
tique' business is a little overdone."
" Guyon, let me tell you a story. My father told
it me, and I know it is true. Some years ago there
was a respectable Protestant mechanic in Boston who
had one daughter. She showed great promise, and
some ladies took an interest in her. They sent her
to a good school and gave her what is called a fine
education for a woman. That is, she acquired re-
fined tastes ; knew a few facts ; enough about the
history of the world to make contrasts and draw con-
clusions ; learned French and music, and fondness
for that cleanliness and elegance of person and sur-
roundings which is an expensive luxury of the fav-
ored few. For even to be clean in this world requires
money. Well, they did this, not with the view of
making her a teacher, which is but a limited field,
but, with great ideas, looking to give her a highei
life and influence for good in her own class. She
was pretty. Well ! At twenty she came back to her
home a small suite of rooms in a dirty tenement
They gave ner a piano and left her, each saying that
was true charity. Still she seemed unhappy, so that
it was a relief to such as kept track of her when she
GUERNDALE. 1O3
married a railv/ay employee a steady, industrious
fellow, I believe. She did not make him a good
wife : so, far from admiring her, he found her a bur-
then. He never understood her, then he despised
her, finally he took to drink and beating her. She
met a man whom she liked a gentleman. Her hus-
band was not. A year after, you met her on the
street corners. She went to the devil if there is
one. Her husband died of drink, her father of ;
shame. What do you think ?"
" I think it a case of ill-judged charity, and that it
proves nothing," said Guyon. " Spite of all you say,
I think our civilization pure and noble. American
girls are the most refined and the most virtuous the
world has known. Take the type of girl described
in Mrs. Stowe's novels "
" That is a type that is passing away, it is a relic
of the singular ideal life which did prevail here
owing to universal plenty and intelligence up to
a few years ago. Go along our seaport towns now
and you will find universal discontent, vulgarity, a
cheap imitation of bad city fashions and vice. New
England will shortly be the most immoral country we
know. And the sinister fact about it is that this un-
happiness and immorality will be found not in the
highest classes or the lowest, but in the great middle
class on \vhi- h the social life and future of a nation
depends. We are accustomed to shrink with horror
from French novels and French morals. Today the
bourgeoisie of France is purer and happier than OUT
own."
As Randolph ended they saw a fine apple-tree iij
IO4 GUERNDALE.
a field by the roadside, and he suggested that steal*
ing apples was one of the most delightful of diver-
sions. When they had filled their pockets and de-
scended from the tree, they were disturbed by the
sudden appearance of a large dog, increasing hugely
in apparent size as he descended the hill toward
them. Randoiph, laughing, suggested flight, and it
was with some exertion that they got over the gate
a short distance ahead of the dog.
" No," said Randolph, attacking one of the ap-
ples, "Compare Spenser and Spencer. Spenser
based the world on love, loyalty, courage, faith, and
courtesy. Spencer bases his on life, on competition,
and that adaptation which, were there any true faith,
would be cowardice. The latter may be necessary ;
but which is best ? "
"A third is possible," said Guerndale. "Co-
operation based on sympathy."
" Co-operation for what?" said Randolph.
Guerndale could not answer. Finally he said,
" life."
" Is life an end or a means ? "
" O, a means, of course ! "
" Means to what?"
" Happiness," said Guerndale, hesitating.
" Yes, so we come back to that happiness, the old
summum bonum ; with the difficult modern addition
that it must be reached here and now, for Spencer
and Co. have suppressed a future or ideal existence,
tx hypothesi. Ah, the philosopher's stone was a less
wild dream than this. And, as for your sympathy, go
into your highest, best, most perfect circles of soci-
GUERNDALE. 105
ety, and you find as yet no approach to the sym-
pathy which makes such co-operation possible. It
may come with the millenium. Why, now one
cannot even fall in love ! "
" Love ? " said Guerndale, musingly.
" It is a vulgar expression, I know. Look at the
crew."
They were standing on one of the bridges over
Charles River. The sun was just setting behind the
brown country hills, and through the oily surface of
the water came a boat shaped like a dragon-fly. The
six oars rose and dipped like one, and as the barge
dashed beneath them they could see the mighty play
of the muscles on the bared backs, the flush of ex-
ercise on the faces, and even the clear healthy eyes
of the oarsmen. All the vigor of animal life and
contest seemed personified in the firm flesh and deep
breath and strain of the stroke, and there he was,
Phil Phil Symonds and Guy uttered a cry of
recognition as he swept beneath the bridge, his yel-
low curls tossing in the sunlight, his oar dipping
clean in the water with clear even sweep to the
recover.
" Don't you think they can beat Yale ? " cried
Guy. " I know Phil will, and if they are only all
like him."
"Ah," said Randolph, "perhaps, the old Greek
life was the best after all."
Just then a carriage drove by with the windows
filled with the heads and arms and legs of a half-
dozen of students driving to the city for a supper
and theatre. A wild song came from the party, lee}
5*
106 GUERNDALE.
by Billy Bixby, waving out of the carriage window
an empty bottle by way of baton.
"Greek again," said Randolph, with a smile.
"Corinth versus Sparta. After all, perhaps, either is
better than Manchester."
When Guerndale told me this conversation, I said
that Randolph was a damned fool.
We had a way in those days of applying that
thet to our friends.
CHAPTER XV.
"An occasional booK has a favorable tendency to excite the foodriM, tt
warm the affections to improve the manners, and to form the character *f youth. *
LOHD CAMPMKIX, Chief-Justice of England.
" Quat fccisae juvat, facta referre pudet." Ovid,
I DID not mean to drop myself in at the end of
the last chapter, but those old days when we ail
lived and loafed and thought and drank together in
old Cambridge seem so vivid in my memory even
now, that it is hard to talk of them impersonally. I
did think Randolph a fool, with the usual qualifica-
tion we then employed, but he was a curious and
an interesting one. Besides, although he had . the
crudity of statement peculiar to youth, I don't think
he was quite such a fool as he seemed to be. I can
easily understand the influence he had over Guern-
dale. He could laugh at everything you said, and
yet with such an exquisite sympathy and apprecia-
tion of your meaning, that you thought he must be
right in laughing. He laughed softly and sweetly,
and gently led you to see the absurdity of your own
enthusiasm. And he was always on his guard against
expansion, excitement, enthusiasm. He never gave
himself to you unreservedly, but always kept a part
to himself. His idea was neither to deceive himself
108 GUERNDALE.
nor to be deceived by others, to act as if always in
the presence of an indifferent and cynical spectator.
And finally he became himself that spectator. Had
Norton Randolph been a friend of Menelaus, never
would the swift straight ships have been launched
over the wine-color'd sea, nor the ten years' pulse of
battle flowed and ebbed about Troy. So I used to
think, at least. But suppose he had been Menelaus
himself?
I am not fond of poetry usually, but Homer
always had a fascination for me, and the reader musl:
pardon a little occasional shop from him. And, if
there is something strained and halting about my
metaphors, and something a bit jerky in my style, I
am writing this part of my story down in Arizona
among mountains, and heat, and torrents, and "ye
dam salvages," in a climate where a good honest
English rail telescopes out at noon like an angle-
worm, and life is too rough for art to be over easy.
So, many a walk and talk did Guy and Randolph
have together, and though I think Guy thought
Randolph in one way not up to Phil Symond's
elbow, Phil stood, perhaps, at a disadvantage on
a long talky walky, as Strang used to call these
peripatetics. Then Guy got into a way of taking
curious courses of study, I think at Randolph's in-
stigation; namely, metaphysics. For if there be an
entire impossibility of knowing anything about the
Lord in a practical way, as these same metaphysi-
cians tell us, what the deuce is the use of befogging
one's brains and making one's self unhappy over their
quiddities and systems ? I consider Locke a sensible
GUERNDALE. 109
philosopher, and I mean to have my boys read him
when they are old enough to know better. But Ran-
dolph, and afterward G uerndale, used to turn up their
noses at Locke, and say he was no metaphysician <
all. If they meant by this that he said there was no
such thing as metaphysics, I think he was quite
right. But I have always noticed that those fellows
who believed least in religion, and hated the church
as the devil hates holy-water, particularly if there
were no music and flummery about it, and they came
'of sensible Unitarian people, were just the ones who
spent most of their time in hunting after some ab-
stract, or Noumenon, or God knows what modern
substitute for Himself, and seemed to be most un-
happy because they could not find it.
As for Randolph, Guy used to say that his light
laugh would set you to thinking more tWan one of
old Dr. Grimstone's sermons. Personally, I don't
see the value of such thinking, and, as for laughing
why, the man would laugh at the Mont Cenis tunnel.
Well, Guy began with a course in Descartes
(whose writings I don't so much object to, as his
," I think, therefore I am," seems to afford some
sort of a solid basis to start on ; though, indeed, I
think Herbert Spencer is much more likely to be
right when he inverts it and comes out somewheres
about / am, therefore I think, after no end of evolu.
tion and rigmarole from protoplasm) then he ran
through the gamut until he finally smashed up on
Schopenhauer. After this Guy got a liking for
Montaigne with his " que scais-je ? " and Charron
with his "Je ne sais," and some other duffer with
1 10 GUERNDALE.
his " Qui scait ? ' and so on. Then he brought up
on Rabelais, whom he hated ; and, the worse for
Guerndale, I thought ; for he wandered from him
into romanticism, and then into ecclesiasticism and
agnosticism ; and read the " Confessions of St. Au-
gustine," and of Jean Jacques Rousseau, and of de
Musset, and Jan in, and every other so-called con-
fession that St. Augustine, or any other drivelling
idiot, ever wrote. He cut all his mathematics and
science ; and then he left the classics because, he
said, they lacked "breadth of horizon," which ex-
pression I hav* since found in " Daniel Deronda,"i
a book somewhat popular, as they tell me, in the
States. About the only sensible things he did keep
were some hours in American History ; at which
lectures he used to have continual rows with Tutor
Otis about Franklin, and Adams, and Hancock ;
though I never could quite make out which side
cither of them took. Then he stuck pretty hard to
his Political Economy, which he seemed to have a
fairly good head for ; and I think he always had a
notion in those days of going into politics, much
as he has changed since. Curiously enough, this
brings me back to the next scene that I especially
remember in college ; and I find I have allowed my-'
self to run away with myself again. I have been
telling not what Guy saw, but what I saw, when I
expressly proposed to myself the opposite ! I must
keep myself and my way of telling the story out of
this, if I can.
The evening began with a stupid discussion on a
dry enough subject political economy. Guy and
GUERNDALE. Ill
Randolph were talking in the tatter's room. Guy,
who was conservative still, from force of habit, had
been attacking communism, internationalism, and
the general tohu-bohu which sometimes looms up
before us in these years. Randolph listened, smok-
ing as usual. It was one of his fits of depression y
but outsiders never knew when Randolph was
*' blue," except that he drank more and talked less
than usual.
" But, my dear fellow, you have got to come to
It," said Randolph, cutting the leaves of a periodical
called the Popular Radical, a new production which
some friend had sent, claiming to present the
latest discovered nuggets of truth. It had also a-
diabolical cover of black and red ink, and letter-
press printed in all the colors of the rainbow, which
latter was said to be a new device to prevent weak-
ness in the eyes caused by reading its pages. I be-
lieve the benefit of this discovery did not extend to
the brain.
" Come to what ? "
" Communism, in some form or other."
' Why ? "
" You yourself have been studying economy lately.
Haven't they taught you that the profits of all labor
must be divided in three parts : first, for the plant,
which is raw material and machinery ; second, prof-
its, which you give to the capitalist ; and third, and
only third, wages fund, which is to remunerate the
laborer ? "
" Well ? "
" Well ! It is a perfectly established fact that the
112 GUERNDALK.
proportion of profits which goes for plant has grown,
and is growing larger and larger. More and more
machinery is being needed; and, of course, the re-
ward of capital can vary within but small limits; so,
less and less remains for the merely human force,
the laborer. It is demonstrable that, under present
conditions, the state of the agricultural or manufac-
turing laborer must become more and more miser-
able as compared with that of the community at
large."
! "A cheerful outlook you take ! " said Guy.
"Well," continued Randolph, "there is just one
way of escape. Teach the laborer to be a capitalist
Give him an interest in the profits. There you hare
co-operation which is over the bridge to commun-
ism and there we are."
Guy was silent a moment. " And do you think
co-operation will succeed ? "
" No. At least, not under present conditions. It
is being tried in England at Rochdale, and at some
of the collieries. But while the education of dis-
content and the charity of pauperization go on, it
cannot succeed. Then, when it fails, and the masses
starve, you and I will have to shoot them in the
streets, my boy."
"You talk like a young Carlyle," laughed Guy.
" My dear fellow, don't insult me. Carlyle's writ-
ings are one huge, chaotic mass of rant and grumble.
He is always telling people to do, and never by any
chance telling them what to do. Now, I say that
it is perfectly obvious what to do. We hare taken
tway from the people God, and, what is more if
GUERNDALE. 113
portant practically, the idea of future compensation.
They have not found it out yet ; but when they do
they will naturally proceed to smash things. As in
this country the)' can do this by the ballot, I do
not mean that there will necessarily be any fighting
here, though it is possible. Still, things will, in a
general way, be smashed."
"So far you suggest as few remedies as Carlyle
himself," said Guy.
" My child, I have the floor." ("So has your ar-
gument," muttered Strang; but after a moment cf
speechless contempt, Randolph continued.) " Novv
we know that life, up to the highest humn.n society
from the lowest single spore, is the object of all ef-
fort ;. and all successful effort requires stiength. I
propose, as the only way of impressing the necessity
of social, moral, and physical strength on the people,
that all criminal, infirm, and insane persons be ether-
ized Their remains will, of course, be utilized in
some practical commercial way leather, bone fer-
tilizers, and the advancement of science. This may
strike you as harsh, perhaps, cruel ; but it is not so.
I can show you that the misery consequent on crime,
lack of adjustment to environing circumstances, ami,
above all, weakness, is far greater than would be
caused by my process. Besides, it is obvious that
these weak creatures and their descendants, being
ill-adjusted to their environments, must, in the long
run, die all the same, after having caused an incal-
culable amount of woe and suffering to others."
" No society has the right to kill, except for self-
preservation," said Guy.
114 GUERNDALE.
** Tlik Is self-preservation. Moreover, we 0ttortd
try to inculcate a public sentiment that to bo ether*
ized under such circumstances, for the good of the
State, is a high and noble duty. This we can do,
for similar things have often been done. Look at
the Hindoo widows, who burn on their husbands'
funeral pyre ; or, take a modern example, and see
how man/ men are ready now to die for an Imper-
fect State in a contemptible foreign war. la my
ideal State every man or woman will see that it Is far
more for the general good for them to be etherized
than as now, in England, for soldiers to die in a kir
mish in Abyssinia or AshantL Besides, think of sui-
cide. In the millenial country I speak of, when a
man becomes so weak as to wish to die, it wiH be-
come for the highest good of the State that he
should do so. Self-murder will be quite a noble act,
and every suicide a martyr."
Strang snarled with disgust
u Cork up, old man ; all taken from your favorite,
Herbert Spencer, or logically deduced," retorted
Randolph.
" But, Norton, you forget one thing," said Guy.
"You speak of the State as a thing by itself worthy
of love. But the State is a mere assemblage of
human beings, and if man does not care for his fel-
low man which seems to be a necessity of your
plan, for it shuts out sympathy, pity, and mercy ho
will not care for that aggregation of his fellow meo
which you call the State."
"Yet patriotism lias existed. If the State is to b
preserved "
GUERNDALE.. 11$
" Save the State ? " cried Bixby, who had entered,
and overheard the last remark. "Oh, dammit. Let
it spoil, and get a fresh one. You can't preserve a
nation like pickles or canned asparagus."
"Patriotism has existed," Guy replied, "when
men loved their fellows and their descendants ; when
the State was needed as a protection against outside
barbarians ; when men believed in immortal life ;
when they believed in helping the weak, in charity,
and the use of social virtues. But in your plan all
these arc wanting, for they are rooted in religious
belief."
"It is true," said Randolph, meditatively. "We
suppressed God ex hypottiesi. Nevertheless," he
added, " I believe I am right Something of the
sort exists now among the Chinese, and has for thou-
sands of years, and they, poor creatures, are still in
the darkness, and have not the broad certainty of
vision of our disbelief. Don't demur," Randolph
went on ; " I say disbelief. All thinking men are so
calmly certain of their materialism that they do not
care for longer argument They treat the writings
of clergymen who dabble in science with super-
cilious indulgence. We have got so far on that we
even speak of Christianity and other superstitions
with polite regret, as one is courteous to a beaten
adversary. Curious how the world has grown in a
few years ! You remember, even so late as Thackeray,
it was said about a skeptical old major, that when-
ever he went to church, he did it with a sort of mar-
tial bearing, as if going into battle ; and that when
he received the benediction he took it erect, wkh
' GUERNDALE.
frock coat tightly buttoned, so that there was about
him a certain suggestion of receiving his adYersary's
fire at ten paces ! " Randolph stopped to ring the
bell. " No one is even afraid to go to church any
longer, except for being bored. I think some of the
most indifferent men I knovr would go, if they would
only allow smoking."
Just then Randolph's servant entered and received
some cards on which Randolph hastily scribbled a
line. " I am going to have some fellows up here for
* little wine, Guy," said he. " You see, they are not
<;nly much better fellows, but much better philos-
ophers than you and I, and can enjoy it."
"But, Norton," said Guy, "you have been drink-
ing steadily all the evening."
"Bien, apres? I must get into training. Man, be-
ing reasonable, must get drunk, you know."
" Randolph, you know perfectly well, you never
were drunk in your life," said Guy angrily.
" Not for want of trying, however ! " laughed Ran-
dolph. "No, to tell the truth, and talk seriously, a
relic of Puritan prejudice sticks to me in that respect.
I cannot throw it off ; somehow or other, as a matter
of taste, intoxication is disagreeable to me. Ah, we
are weaker than our forefathers, and, if we are no^
our stomachs are. Rum and true religion both
gone ! What are we to do ! "
" Oh, dammit ! "
"With pleasure, but you can't," said Randolph
calmly. "There is no longer any such thing as dam-
nation."
Bixby was so charged with 'profanity that, upon
GUERNDALE. 1 1/
being suddenly touched or spoken to, he emitted a
" dammit " very much as an electric machine does a
spark.
" Sit down, Bixby, take a chair ; I have just asked
Symonds and Lane and a few fellows round to a little
wine, which I should be happy to have you join, if
you have no more tender engagement ? "
" Randolph, let up on that sort of taffy. What
kare you got to drink ? "
"Champagne and chambertin."
" Not bad, but a leetle washy, unless you mix 'em; "
was the opening speech of Brattle.
" O come, old man, put fizz into good chamber-
tin, you know; hang it all," and Bixby took
a bumper of the burgundy by way of steadying
his nerves "that's like your Boston young ones,
though "
" If your object is to get drunk, why don't you
stick to Medford rum, which is cheap and expedi-
tious ? " grunted Strang.
" No," said Randolph, " by all means let us im-
bibe with good taste. This is an aesthetic sym-
posium, as becomes a cultured Harvard man, and
not, as is coarsely expressed in the police reports
of the daily papers, a simple drunk. Mr. Bixby, I
am sorry I have no absinthe, but if green chartreuse
is strong enough "
"Ho, boys, already ahead?" sang out Phil, as
he surged in like a spring tide. " Sorry I can't
join you, but I'll put you to bed, you know. I
would, if it weren't so thundering near the race
though."
Jl8 GUERNDALE.
" I'll see that you don't, if I'm to pull seven," said
Strung. " Sh ! there is that infernal Hackett 1
know his step."
" Hush," said Randolph, "the oak is sported all
right ; he can t get in ; and, if he knocks, we're not at
home."
All were silent, and sure enough there was a knock
at the door. No one answered. Another knock
followed. Amid breathless silence, the door, to their
intense astonishment, slowly opened, and Haekctt
appeared on the threshold, where he stood in some
confusion. A roar of laughter burst from the room,
only Lane, Guerndale, and their host retaining their
gravity
"Good evening, Mr. Hackett, we thought you
were the proctor. Will you not join us ? " said Ran-
dolph, suavely
The effect of this excuse was somewhat spoiled by
an explosion from Bixby ; but Hackett appeared not
to notice it, and took a seat rather more diffidently
than usual. A silence followed.
"Really, fellows, this is dull as an examination ;**
said Brattle. " A Rubicon to take away the
chill!"
Randolph took an immense glass tankard, contain-
ing, perhaps, a gallon, which he filled with burgundy
and champagne, and passed around. Each made it
a point of honor to drink as long as he could at a
breath. Lane started, drinking delicately, and keep-
ing his eyes in the glass. Brattle followed, with 3
tremendous pull ; Bixby did equally well. Guy did
not like the mixture, but drank it calmly ; Strang
GUERNDALE. 119
nd Symonds both sipped it and passed it on to
Hackett, who drank noisily, but, as Strang noticed,
very little. Randolph received it back, and drank
rfong and deeply, which b*d little effect on him, ex-
cept that his face grew paler and his manner even
more courteous than before. The party, however,
was more animated. Story succeeded story ; Phil
Symonds having a great reputation as a raconteur^
while Strang's deep, jovial humor floated the lighter
ventures of Brattle and Van Sittart. Hackett called
for a song, and the suggestion " came home to him
to roost," as Bixby said. So Hackett rose and sang,
in a loud and somewhat uncertain voice, a ditty
which, though a good example of the lyrical art of
the day, would possibly not edify us if transcribed in
full. Relating how the hero was the drummer of a
wide awake firm, "and ran from city to city," the
fascinations of the commercial element in our society
were expressed in the statement that
" Lou lives in rooms, with a little brass bell,
And her mother is gone to the workus.
l And I waltz around quite the Sunday swell,
On a Saturday night for the circus,"
Touching slightly on the catholic tastes of the drum-
mer aforesaid, as shown by his fondness for various
young ladies, it ended by giving at once the phi-
losophy of the hero and the moral of the tale :
" And when women are false and biz is bad,
I wait, like a saint, until Sunday,
And the devil take the girls, I say, by gad,
As I get blind drunk before Monday.
120 OU1RNDALE.
" Iloway, Seth, old man ! Gk>od enough !" cried
Bixby. " By gad, fellers, that's the best song I* ve
heard since I had the measles."
Randolph had evidently listened with some dis-
gust " Will you have some more wine, gentlemen ?"
said he. "Pass the glass to Mr. Hackett, Baker."
Then, turning to Guy, "The sooner we get that fel-
low drunk the better."
Baker was an English groom, who made one of
the most perfect in door servants I ever met. I once
saw Van Sittart drink a bottle-full of Worcestershir
sauce, and then throw the castor at Baker's head fcf
giving him bad wine, and that invaluable man bore
it all with gravity imperturbable.
" Send around the Rubicon again ! " shouted Brat-
tle, who had a weak head, and was growing rather
uproarious in consequence. " We drink like Fresh-
men to-night."
A second time the bow\ was passed around. Hack-
ett drank less than before. Guy was growing very
gloomy, and drank more. Passed back to Randolph,
he drank long and deeply, until the word " Rubi-
con" was plainly visible, blown in the bottom of thi
glass.
" Hooray !" shouted Brattle. "Let me finish ir,
old boy ! " And snatching the tankard, he drank the
half-pint remaining. This, however, finished him,
and he rose, and, staggering to the door, sought the
cooler air of the street. No one seemed to notice
his departure except Randolph, who politely escorted
him down the stairs, and returned to call upon Strang
for a song.
GUERNDALE. 121
" One dead man already ! ** cried Phil Symonds.
*' Well, he died in a good cause, so to close up the
ranks ! Courage, my children ! and I will pipe to
you what John would call a Tyrtaean ditty ! "
" Shop ! " cried Hackett, " fine him a bumper."
Symonds took no notice of this remark, but began
in a full, rich baritone. Phil was fond of careless,
reckless glees, and cared more for the spirit than the
melody. So he chose that song of the British soldiers
in India, when the pestilence was upon them, and
there was no escape, and they sat carousing over their
card-tables, drinking the health of the next one that
died. It was a favorite song in my time in college :
" For God's sake, let no bells be ringing,
Let tinkling glasses be my prayer "
With the refrain, strengthened by much pounding
of the table and clinking of glasses :
" Here's to the dead already,
And hurrah for the next that dies t **
I looked musingly about our table as he sang, and
speculated on the future of the men : at Randolph,
grave, with his habitual half-smile, impredicable, in-
explicable ; at Hackett, Randolph's antithesis, long,
sallow, with unkempt hair, and keen, furtive eyes,
pretentious and insinuating of manner, though loud
of speech ; at simple, jolly Bixby ; Lane, conven-
tional and polite ; handsome Phil, with his flushed
face and superb figure, towering above us as he sang ;
and Guy, thoughtful, earnest, reserved, imaginative ;
fated for noble things, it sometimes would seem to
122 GUERNDALE.
me. Which would stay longest in the race of life f
Symonds, Bixby, Hackett ?
When Phil finished, every one had taken too much,
except, always, Guy and Randolph, and Hackett,
who was not nearly so drunk as he pretended to be.
Even Lane, the quietest of men, became animated,
and we suddenly heard his voice : " Szthe diff rence,
fellers "
"Hooray! Shut up, boys, Faucy's got a story!"
cried Bixby. "Fire away, old Blood-and-thun-
der!"
Lane was usually called Blood-and-thunder on ac-
count of the amenity of his manners and the calm of
his deportment.
" I say ! " began Lane, in a very loud voice, which
weakened as he proceeded, " the difference between
a gentleman and a cad is, that when a cad gets drunk
be is drunk, and when a gentleman gets drunk no
one knows anything about it."
"Yer don't sayi" said Bixby. "Who told yet
that neaow ? "
Lane turned with dignity and eyed him for a mo-
ment, but suddenly altered his course and walked
straight and erect to the door. " Good-night, gen
tlemen," said he.
Randolph bowed politely. Van Sittart threw aa
olive at him, which hit the door as it closed rapidly,
and, immediately after, a rumble and a crash in the
front hall assured us that Lane had safely fallen
down-stairs,
"Did you ever hear the new Toper's Chorus
boys ? " said Randolph,
GUERNDALE. 1*3
"No, No," was the cry in answer, for Norton rarely
consented to sing, and, when he did, sang well. He
poured out a glass of brandy in a slender crystal
tumbler, which bore the old Randolph crest and
motto "fortiter!" and stood up perfectly self pos-
sessed, though he must have drunk more than any
two men in the room. His face was very pale, and
his eyes somewhat larger than usual ; but his hand
was as firm as a woman's.
"It was written," said he, ''by a friend of mine,
who had a very liberal education and a large fortune.
I believe it was the only thing he ever wrote, and he
died the next month. It is a very jolly song, and he
wrote it just before he shot himself."
Ye men that have a sense of things.
Now senseless evermore ;
Or have, as poor old Dante sings
Intelletto d'amor'
Come, drink with me the toast I vow
Will take you well, 1 ween.
I drink to things that are not now,
If they have ever been.
1 drink to right, I drink to wrong,
I drink to good we seek ;
I drink to mercy in the strong,
To courage in the weak ;
I drink to life, I drink to death,
I drink to things forbann'd ;
I drink to hope, I drink to faith,
I drink unto the damned.
I leave the hell we know so well.
To toast the heaven o'er us ;
I toast the life that bibles tell
And happiness before us.
124 CUEKNDALE.
The fair true maiden whom we lova
Or shall love, when we see one
I toast the love that reigns abore,
And God, if so there be one.
I drink to worlds that are to be.
I drink to truth and beauty
I toast all things we cannot see
I drink to life and duty
All things that we have never found.
Both human and divine.
We jolly topers ! Drink around I
We'll find them in the wine 1
Little attention was paid to die song. Such men
as had their senses left did not like it. Bixbjr was
shocked.
"Why do you object because of the sentiment ?"
laughed Randolph. "My boy, this song, at least, is
not vulgar, like Hackett's ; you liked that. Moreover,
' les chants desesperes sont les chants les plus beaux. ' "
Guy was leaning his head in his hand, saying noth-
ing. It was three in the morning ; Strang and Ran-
dolph helped Van Sittart and Bixby home ; Phil went
back with Guy.
Randolph did not return to his room ; but spent
the remainder of the night In a distant walk over the
country hills, alone, smoking many 'cigars. As he
returned, the college bell was ringing for morning
prayers. Randolph had an excuse from prayers on
account of an unhealthy influence the family doctor
had discovered for him in the morning air ; so he did
not stop, but went to his room, which was foul with
ashes and tobacco smoke, and littered with over-
turned empty bottles and broken glasses.
GUERNDALE. 12$
He took the first horse-car for the city, and passed
the morning walking through the hospitals, and talk-
ing with such of the poorest patients as interested
him. Rather a curious occupation for Norton Ran-
dolph we would have thought, had we known it i
those days.
CHAPTER XVI.
"I/fcenneur c'est la po&ie du dvcir." A. oe VKMV.
IT was in the middle of the annual examinations.
At Cambridge, these trials, coming with the
canker-worms, occupy the better part of June, The
day was warm; and about three in the afternoon of
that twelfth or fourteenth of the month (I remember
the date, for a staple of conversation that day con-
sisted in cursing the Faculty for not "letting up"
on examinations for the seventeenth), a somewhat
picturesque group might have been seen assembled
at the upper end of the "yard," the part which the
grave and reverend seniors most affected. We had
struck all work some days before (out of respect for
the examinations); and our chief occupation, when
not undergoing that torture, was to lie on our backs
, in the grass, with our heels in the air, and smoke
cigarettes. University air, in midsummer, is condu-
cive to scholastic repose.
This circle of promising youths was then disposed
In a variety of attitudes under the elm trees. Most
of us were lying on cushions brought from neigh-
boring window-seats; the costumes ranged from the
recherche velveteen shooting-coat, through knicker-
GUERNDALE. I2/
bockers, and Norfolk jackets, and white flannels, to
the normal costume of the American citizen. The
circle was surrounded by a somewhat turbulent com-
pany of bull-pups, in assorted sizes, of the most ugly
varieties. The peace of the hour was only disturbed
by the occasional passage of a carriage more stylish
than usual through the quadrangle, or the descent of
a canker-worm, depending from his swaying skein,
upon the face of one of the smokers.
"Yes," said Phil, "I think they might at least
shut up their old mill on the seventeenth of June."
"What is the seventeenth of June, anyhow?" de-
manded Bixby.
"Some event in biblical history, I believe," said
Randolph drily. "Ask Van Sittart; he is under the
impression that the Mayflower was the first Cunarder
that came into Boston harbor."
"What's in you, old Ineffable?" cried Phil. "I
think you are even lazier than usual."
"I am reflecting," said Randolph, gravely, "whe-
ther the pleasure of cutting my examination and
lying here to smoke cigarettes in your charming
company will make up for the pain of being 'con-
ditioned' in Athenian Art."
"Conditioned" means, or used to mean when we
were in Cambridge, being "plucked," "ploughed,"
"pulled," "slung," or anv other euphemism for be-
ing rejected at an examination. It was possible to
remove a "condition" by a second trial; otherwise
it hung over one's head indefinitely to prevent tak-
ing a degree. Men were known in this way to ac-
cumulate as many as twenty by their senior year.
1 28 GUERNDALE.
Randolph had quite a rolling snowball of them; in
fact, I believe a " condition " in Greek composition
had prevented his ever getting any "matriculation"
or entrance papers. He had a certain, calm faith that,
some time or other, they would give him a degree, if
he wanted it. Besides, he had once passed an ex-
amination (on a bet); and at another time had aston-
ished a professor into giving him ninety per cent by
out-arguing him on an economical question. This
latter marvel he celebrated by a grand dinner at
Taft's an inn by the side of the sea we much fre-
quented by reason of which dinner, two of our party
were suspended; so that it may be doubted whether
the final fruits of Randolph's scholastic exploit were
good or evil. I wonder whether old Taft's is still
running ! Your dinners were good, old man, al-
though your turbot was chicken-halibut, and your
wines dear and sweet But it is far I would go for
one of them, out here in Arizona.
" Hello! Hackett, my accidental I mean occiden-
tal Demosthenes, what's the news?" sang Strang.
"Are you well up in making the worse appear the
better reason ? " Hackett was our class-orator.
" How much of an ear-ache are you going to give
us, Class-day ? " queried Van Sittart.
" Hope there's nothing in your jokes to call a
blush to the cheek of the most fastidious et cetera
and so forth ? " laughed Phil. " Remember the dear
little girls."
"Better take a tub and file your finger-nails,*
sneered Van Sittart again, rudely.
"Talk lower, or he'll hear," whispered Guy.
GUERNDALE. 129
*' What the deuce is the matter with you ? Whoso
blank business "
" Oh dry up, you two, it's too hot to fight," cried
Phil. Guy's face had flushed up, and Phil's bluff,
good-natured tones came just in time. Hackett
seemed not to hear all this, but took a seat next
Randolph, who liked him least of all, and yet, with
the exception of Guy, treated him most politely.
" Heard the news, boys ? Strang and Guerndale
have got honors Science and Philosophy."
A prolonged yell of approbation greeted this an-
nouncement, with much clapping of hands. This
caused several windows to be opened in various
parts of the quadrangle, whence the occupants pro-
truded their heads, with shouts of "more !" "mo-a-
ah ! " pronounced in the most grotesque and elabor-
ate falsetto. After looking up and down, and across,
and observing that the excitement was caused by
neither a pretty girl nor a dog-fight, the windows
were closed, and the occupants thereof returned in
some disappointment to their studies. A peripatetic
proctor said,
" Less noise, gentlemen ! "
" Oh, go to blazes ! " cried Bixby.
"You're dished, poor boy/' said Phil. "I saw a
wicked look in his eye."
"Well," said Bixby, " I guess another one won't
hurt me. Chance it, I'm all up, anyhow."
"Young men : In the face of this most wondrous
and passing strange occurrence which has happened
to two of our company, it behoveth us to accept the
gifts of the gods with a fitting reverence, and that
6*
I3O GUERNDALE.
those upon whom this rain of honors comes should
show themselves truly grateful. Wherefore, let us
dine at my expense and credit" So spoke Strang,
the eupeptic, if impecunious. " But, Hackett, where
are you, this day of glory ? "
"Oil," replied the orator, with elaborate careless-
ness, " I got double honors."
" Congratulate you. Well, Brattle ? Lane ? Phil ?
Randolph ? Guy ? We start at six. All agreed ?
You'll come, Bixby?"
Whether Hackett was purposely omitted in this
invitation, I do not know. But he seemed provoked,
and added, with malicious pleasure: "And Mr.
Bixby is quite right. His degree is thought very
doubtful."
" What ? Billy Bixby lose his degree ? By Jove !
Too devilish bad, old fellow ! " Quite a chorus of
sympathy. Then we all looked to see how he would
take it, A moment of breathless silence followed.
Bixby's command of terse Saxon execration was
known to be boundless. Several windows in the quad-
rangle were again opened. The inmates of Holworthy
leaned out as one man. He began feebly, with a " d."
Then he changed his formula. " The Faculty may
may go to may oh, lord "
" Wait till dinner, Billy," put in Randolph, sooth-
ingly.
Ah ! how well I remember that dinner. What a.
parcel of precious young fools we were ! The cere-
monies were opened by Bixby, who rose gravely and
read from a paper, in all dignity, and, in solemn em-
phasis, the following toast :
GUERNDALE. 13!
44 By the Sentence of the Angels, by the Decree of
the Saints, we anathematize, cut off, curse, and exe-
crate the Faculty of Harvard College, with the Pre-
ident, Proctors, and Parietal Committee thereof.
In the presence of these sacred books, with the six
hundred and thirteen precepts which are written
therein ; with the anathema wherewith Joshua an-
athematized Jericho ; with the cursing wherewith
Elisha cursed the children, and with all the curses
which are written in the Book of the Law : Cursed
be they by day, and cursed by night ; cursed when
they lie down, and cursed when they rise up ; cursed
when they go out, and cursed when they come in.
The Lord pardon them never. The wrath and fury
of the Lord burn upon these men and bring upon
them all the curses which are written in the Book of
the Law. The Lord blot out their names under
Heaven. The Lord set them apart for destruction
from all the tribes of Israel, with all the curses of
the firmament which are written in the book of the
Law. There shall no man speak to them ; no man
write to them ; no man show them any kindness ; no
man stay under the same roof with them ; no man go
nigh them. Thank you, old man," said Bixby, when
he had finished, to Randolph, "you are very kind."
And he drank a glass of wine with much satisfac-
tion.
44 Yes," said Randolph, "I think it is a neat ex-
ample of a quiet family curse illustrative of the
amenity of sectarian manners. The Jews applied it
to Spinoza,"
But I do not remember the dinner so much as a
132 GUERNDALE.
talk we had afterward ; though I believe the grub
was good. I had gone in for grind that year, and
had given up the crew ; but Phil was still stroke, and
had to cut the dinner on that account. Bixby and
Brattle were a bit sprung coming home, so we put
them with Lane, as the quietest man to drive them,
while we came back in the other carriage.
"Strang," said Guy, "why did you ask us all to
dinner before Hackett and Van Sittart, and leave
them out ? They must have been quite hurt."
"Why, hang it, young "un," shouted John, "you
had just had a row with the man yourself, and ho
treated you like a pickpocket ! I can't stand either
of those men ; I've stood 'em for four years, and now
we're graduates, and I've had enough of them."
"There's something fine about Hackett, after all,"
said Guy musingly. " Energy, purpose I wonder
what he'll do in the world."
"Become President of the United States, prob-
ably," said Randolph. "What are you going to do
yourself?"
Then, I remember, bit by bit, and phrase by phrase ;
as we grew more confidential, Guy told us of his
thoughts and aims, much as I have tried to sketch
them in this book. How he had been lonely and shy,
and then ambitious and desirous of the world ; how
he had come to college with all sorts of fervent theo-
ries and immature plans. " But now, I don't know.
Somehow or other, at this time, something seems un-
certain and most things trivial. I doubt, after all,
whether all progress in any direction is necessarily
a good thing. And shouldering the wheel backward
GUERNDALE. 133
is an ungrateful sort of task. Conservatives are al-
ways at a disadvantage. As Billy Bixby says, ' let
it spoil and get a fresh one.' "
"Ah! that's it," smiled Randolph, "the sooner
things burst, the sooner we can set them up again."
" But I am not such a p^co-curante as the mild-
eyed here," laughed Guy, " and it grinds me."
Guy had one peculiarity which I long ago dis-
covered. He rarely talked slangily or flippantly, but
when he did, he was always deeply in earnest He
had a horror of a scene, and a great fear of " posing."
"No," he continued, "I believe in doing, still in
doing, if you know not why, or what you do. This
Weltschmerz nonsense is nothing more than a sort
of world-dyspepsia. We aie weak, and life is too-
strong a food for some of us. I should be just as
ashamed of giving in to it as I should of being mel-
ancholy and misanthropic because my dinner was too
much for my stomach. Exercise is the remedy for
dyspepsia ; so occupation for Weltschmerz. There
are plenty of worthy things now-a-days. And neither
are these necessarily in what you call the Philistin-
ism of science, or in what Strang calls the affected
in -doors twaddle of culture and art. Look at the last
six or seven years of history our war, for instance."
" Guy, my boy, you are beginning to talk serious-
ly, and I do not believe you more than half believe
what you say." Randolph, too, had evidently found
out Guy's ways.
" I do," said Guy. " It was great as the Iliad."
" My dear fellow, the Trojans at least had a woman
In the case to lend it human interest No, but sert
1 34 GUERNDALE.
ously," he went on hurriedly, " if you had been ac-
tually in the ranks, passe encore- But we are coming
to a time of reaction, corruption, low ideals, rulgar
competition, general disillusion. You are too late,
my boy, ' Tout est pense, tout est dit, tout est fait.'"
And Randolph relapsed into a grin.
" Stuff," replied Guy. " Excuse me, Norton, but
the same man who said that gave the anti-phrase :
'Everything is old, and everything is new.' What is
noble and good can bear repetition. ' (Test imiter
quelqu'un qut df planter ties ckoux' "
" My dear fellow, you have chosen an unfair ex-
ample. Planting cabbages is one of the few thor-
oughly worthy occupations that remain to mankind."
" Look here, you fellows, I am going to talk a little
romantic nonsense. Norton, you, at least, believe
in honor, do you not ? And honor is but a finer,
more imaginative, form of duty. If this life is all un-
worthy, we can at least live it worthily. I started
with a definite purpose. I meant to lead an ambi-
tious, active life. And I, too, have been discour-
aged. Definite faith, to me as well, is an impos-
sibility. But life, the progress of a life, is like
ascending a mountain. In the early morning, when
we start, we see the glorious peak, the first ideal of
youth, full in front, fair in the sun. Then comes the
haze of mid-day ; foot-hills, forests, dark valleys come
between ; clouds veil the summit. Never, perhaps,
in this life do we see the final height again. We
only now can see the poor little ridge before us,
scarce worth our climbing. But if we bravely follovr
the first ideal, keeping it in mind, always ascending
GUERNDALE. 135
ridge after ridge that is duty. For what is a great
life but the dreams of youth realized in riper age .'
And so, only assuring ourselves that we are still
ascending, we shall some time reach the final height,
as sure as God lives."
"As sure as God lives, perhaps."
" ' Ein Gott lebt lasst euch nicht irren des fobels
Geschreil' And it is right to have ideals; and
youth is the time for them. Thought is given men
to remind them that there is truth immortal ; and
beauty, music, poetry, love, ray through this life's
clouds like a bow, to make men mindful of things
that in this life we never find ; dreams they are now,
but dreams that are truer than the truth that here
we know. And so I hold that our ideal may be more
real than this world's reality. And when we reach
it, be it with this life or the millionth life after this,
though each little stage seems final death, as each
mountain spur looks to us the last though each
little stage is taken with no memory of the last
when we reach the final height, the mists will drop
away, and the weary wanderings of all our lives will
lie far down below us, like a distant view. And we
shall reach it, though it be beyond the realms of time
and space, above the so-called laws of mortal science,
cause, and will, and soulless matter. ' Hoch ilber all,'
as Sch'ller says."
"Very pretty," said Randolph.
Guy gave a shrug of displeasure.
" Guy," said Randolph seriously, " do you suppose
any one around you lives with an ideal like that ?
You might as well seek to steer by the stars of
136 GUERNDALE.
heaven through the Erie Canal Those commod-
ities are worthy which have exchangeable value-
not intrinsic, mind, but exchangeable value. This
alone is real ; and, when we leave our main business,
we moderns do not want ideals, but amusements.
We live from day to day, not from day to eternity ;
we work a day's work for bread, dress-coats, brown-
stone fronts, and cigars ; our day's work done, we
want circuses. Bread and circuses ; get them ! Why
lay up treasures in heaven ? We'll never see them
again. Be smart, wide-awake, go ahead, pushing, a
live man, as they say in the business advertisements.
And pushing does not mean climbing but elbow-
ing one another down."
" But even this life lets in desire for fame, renown ;
what is a desire for immortality but a wish to live
beyond this world ? "
" Men no longer want that. They want the adula-
tion of their contemporaries. Why should we do
anything for posterity ? Posterity never did any-
thing for us. Men want flattery after the comforts
of life are obtained, we all like to be envied by our
fellow-civ.*. Social success is more prized than im-
mortality. Immortality ! What is it after all ? Who
wants it ? Who first thought of it ? Heine says,
'some fat, comfortable burgher sitting, some soft
spring evening, before the door of his comfortable
little house, with his long clay pipe in his mouth,
who thought how nice it would be so to go on veg-
etating into eternity without letting his pipe go out '
or perhaps some young lover bah ! Love, im-
mortality what nonsense we are talking ! "
GUERNDALE. 1 37
"Norton," said Guy earnestly, "do you know our
old family motto ? It is, ' Seule la mort peut nous
vaincre.' It is a fine old phrase and I mean to be
true to it. And death itself does not kill one's char-
acter, one's children, one's works, one's fame."
" If character is merely doing, you might emu-
late the piston-rod of a steam-engine. But, of
course, if you wish to perpetuate your family make
several fools live where only one lived before or
are so content with yourself that you wish to project
your little individuality beyond your natural life
As for works, the world is quite content with itself,
and won't let you tinker it up. Men are extremely
comfortable. Look at that row of ' genteel suburban
residences ! ' The very slope of their French roofs
suggests a tawdrily dressed girl over the piano in
the front parlor, her ' young man ' expected in the
evening, mother in the kitchen making bad pies
and doing all the other work her daughter is too
fine to do ; a vulgar and overworked father with a
deficiency in his accounts, mural decoration of shells
and autumn leaves, and ' God Bless our Home ! ' in
red and blue chromo over the mantel-piece."
"Well," said I, "why is not this a very fine state
of things ? If Henry IV. was right in wishing every
peasant in France to have a fowl in his pot of a
Sunday, why are we not glad that each citizen has
house, though it be ugly, and a piano, and a rib-
bon for his daughter even if they do prefer chro-
mos to etchings and burlesques to Shakespeare ? "
" It is a very fine state of things. That is just it
They are perfectly comfortable and don't wish to be
138 GUERNDALE.
altered ; and here Guy comes and makes a pother
about ideals, and ultra-mundane aims, and beauty,
and honor and all that. Their preference for bur-
lesques shows how they would treat him. We bur-
lesque everything now ; in politics, social life, taste,
literature, even religion. What are Beaconsfield,
Spurgeon, Beecher, but bouffe ? I myself am a part
of it. I, too, burlesque everything ; I even burlesque
the cynic ; and am only half earnest in my cynicism."
"You certainly do I will not," said Guy. " You
know I told you the story of that old murder about
the diamond. I do not believe it. I believe that
my great-great-grandfather was first attacked, and
that Simmons, his old servants say, was false and
tried to rob it from him."
" Was not Symonds one of Phil's people ? M
"I believe so. A great -great uncle, I think."
"Why, I thought the Symonds were great swells,"
said Strang.
" There are no swells any more," said Randolph.
" Only snobs. There are not a dozen p re-revolution -
ary families in American society. Everybody's grand-
father was a peasant, or an innkeeper, or a grocer,
or a fisherman, or a soap-boiler, or a barber, or a
cobbler. So much the better for their descendants.
But go on, Guy."
"Well," said Guy, "you may laugh; but in all
seriousness I resolved that I would keep that dia-
mond always. There was an old superstition that
our family would never be happy until we parted
with it. One of my childish ambitions was to prov
that it was rightfully acquired, and all the old scan-
GUERNDALE. 139
rial a lie. I would meet the world, and conquer it ;
and shovr the diamond when I had got back all we
lost. This was my first childish dream. Not a very
noble one, and rather silly, I suppose. Still, ' seule
la mort peut nous vaincre.' "
I was amused at this queer little streak of romance
in Guy's character. But the reader must remember
that all this talk was after dinner ; and we were driv-
ing in the evening along the sea, and we were very
young in those days, after all.
There was a long silence after this remark of Guy's.
The black outline of the city lay across the water ;
the blue hills to the south had an ashen sheen be-
neath the summer moon. Behind the domes and
spires was a great glare of yellow sunset, with bars
of ruby clouds.
" Is it not beautiful ?" said Guy.
After another silence, Randolph spoke. " It looks
like an omelette aux confitures," said he. "Guy,
my boy, when you reach the seventh heaven you
speak of, I hope you will call the attention of the
authorities up there to the bad taste of our American
sunsets."
On that same thirteenth of June two people were
sitting at a late dinner in the coffee-room of the
Royal Hotel, at Oban. They, too, were looking at
the sunset ; and the myriad faint hues of the heather
and the northern sea were deepening slowly into
night. "Yes, Annie," Mr. Bonnymort was saying,
" I think it is time for us to go home. I have taken
passage in the Scotia for the last of the month. You
I4O GUERNDALE.
see, we have been away seven years, and it is time
you should go into company. We can go up to Dale,
this summer ; and you must rest and gain strength
for the autumn. But do you not wish to go, little
girl?"
"Yes, if you wish, Papa," said the girl. " But I
do not wish to lose you."
" My child, you will see more of me than ever. I
shall have to act as your duenna. Heigho ! I wonder
whether little Boston has changed much since my
time ? I fear I am of the old school now."
"What has become of Guy, I wonder?"
" He has gone to College, and is doing well, I be-
lieve. He used to be a nice boy but something like
his father."
So it was decided that the Bonnymorts were to re
turn home.
CHAPTER XVII.
" Instruction supdricure sirieuse." Rut AN.
" Qui est-ce qu* on trompe ici T " FIGAHO.
COMMENCEMENT day at Cambridge. It no
V-x longer caused the stir and excitement of yore
in the country round about, when the Muddy River
roads were filled with a procession of carriages roll-
ing out by the wide estuary of the Charles ; when the
Cambridge Commons were crowded with booths of
hucksters, merry-go rounds, and cheap jacks ; when
the provincial clergy and gentry drove solemnly out,
behind their powdered negro coachmen, in chariots
or " carrying-chairs," belozenged or emblazoned with
the arms known to Salem, to Portsmouth, and the
old coast towns now decayed. Then, even the sailors
on the ships at the foot of Queen Street had a holi-
day, and rolled out to see the young senior sophis-
tors receive their degrees, and fuddled themselves
over black strap and other allurements in the pro-
cess. Now, the extra-collegiate world troubles itself
little over the great event ; and the two or three hun-
dred young bachelors flung upon the world scarce
cause a ripple as they sink in the sea of commerce
and craft, where few alas ! are to reappear on the
surface. The little leaven of our so-called great uni-
142 CUERNDALE.
versities is hardly felt in the national yeast, whick
patent baking-powder froths and scums the mess up
into half baked results much the same.
Not so, however, think the fair sisters and cou-
sins of these young fellows, as they flock in ribbons
and furbelows to the dusky red halls, and listen in
unappreciative admiration to the dissertations and
disquisitions, hearing with much the same feelings a
declamation on Italian Poetry and an exposition of
the Nebular Hypothesis. But it happens, by some
strange chance, that the most charming of these
visitors usually find their brothers dolce faciendi niente
on the lazy sward of Holworthy. For eleemosynary
are the systems that govern the old college; and
scholarships and collegiate honors and fellowships
are like the needle's eye to the rich. " Let him work
who must " is the principle ; which the lazier fellows
are only too ready to take advantage of.
In the great College Hall the triple-headed cer-
beri, the men of marks and honors, the future clergy
and magistry, have been holding forth to an audience
sleepy in the heat. Behind them are the gowned
professors ; below the three books on a field gules of
Harvard, bearing the motto "veritas!" But, up in
the college yard, prone upon the grass, lay such of our
friends as had, in college, sought "veritas in vino"
only. For Guy had fallen among a precious lot of
scapegraces, I fear. Most of his friends were only
sent to college to learn to be gentlemen ; and they
began by learning how to do nothing gracefully, and
perhaps some never got beyond these rudiments.
However, if in those days we were only artistic
GUERNDALE. 143
loafers, we have not all done so badly since; and even
then there was plenty of honest work. Some were
there, men of marks and men of mark; for there is a
class between Philistia and the Lotus-land, after all.
Hackett that angel of intercourse between the
powers that be and Cockaigne appeared, with a
budget of news, as usual. " Strang, old man, I am
sorry to say "
"Ah, I know," said John. "Don't bother."
"You have lost your degree," ended Hackett.
"The devil," cried Phil. "What, Strang, the
blameless, the hard headed, the sprouting Tele-
machus Why, in the name of the powers behind
the Dean ! I thought you were in the first ten, or
some such atrocity ! "
"I was," said Strang; "and they assigned me a
Disquisition ! But I refused to inflict my crude and
jejune lucubration upon a fastidious if patient pub-
lic. Wherefore the Government snailed my sheep-
skin."
"As for you, Randolph, they say that you have
finally acquired a grand total of seventeen ungx-
punged 'conditions.' They think in three years you
may get them off, if you care to try."
"Thanks, so very kind," said Randolph. "I ex-
pected as much or rather more. My burden has
increased like the national debt quite like the Pil-
grim's Progress, without a sepulchre handy."
"My deah fellah," said Hackett, with his favorite
adapted manner; "wheah did you pick up such a
curious literatchah ? I shall expect to hear you
quote scripture next."
J44 GUERNDALE.
"The Bible, it seems to me, is tne grandest book
ever written, and the first every man should read,"
said Norton simply.
"One for him," Strung chuckled audibly. Hack-
ett, having no reply ready, turned to Bixby. " Billy,"
said he, " you're dished finally. No hope this time."
Bixby jumped up briskly. " Oh, come, not really ? "
" I regret to say it," said Hackett.
" There goes my three years' vacation all in a
heap; I should really like to know what for," he
added musingly.
"O, really, my boy, when you drive up Beacon
Street, Sunday afternoon, in a Tally-ho coach," said
Brattle.
"And scour the country with another Hellfire
club like that of Medmenham," added Strang.
"And threaten Tutor Lynx to put him through in
Paris," laughed Guy.
" And treat old Professor Blowglass the way you
did ! "
Bixby's long features gradually extended into a
grin.
" I did take it out of old Blowglass, didn't I ?" said
he with a chuckle. " Gad ! how he did run ! "
" What was that ?" cried Brattle. " That must have
been the year I was suspended."
"Why," said Van Sittart, "old Blowglass had his
back turned, freezing water in a red-hot stew pan,
or going through some such shenanigen, and when
he turned round there was a cannon-cracker smoking
under his desk, about the size of four Bologna sau-
sages. All the fellows saw it at the same time, and,
GUERNDALE. 145
by gad, you ought to have seen him skip. Most of
us went out the window; the darn thing was a-fizzin'
and a-sputterin' and old Blowglass, he lit out first of
all."
" Jove!" laughed Brattle, " it must have blown all
the windows out of the old place."
" That's what we all thought," said Van Sittart.
"It was the kind of Chinese cracker they use in
Fourth of July processions when they ain't got any
artillery. All we fellows stood round the door wait-
ing to hear the thing bang. Old Blowglass was in
an awful state of funk, and went out and stood in
the middle of the yard, but the lecture-room was as
quiet as the inside of a gospel shop. Finally old
Blowglass got a lot of proctors and they sneaked in
with their handkerchiefs before their eyes, and there
was the cannon-cracker, and it wasn't loaded at all,
it was only a fuse. Of course they had Billy up be-
fore the Dean, but they couldn't do much."
"No," said Billy with a chuckle. "I had taken
the gunpowder out, and I put my kaleidoscope in-
side, and I told the Dean I was very sorry my new
case had frightened the gentlemen."
" Really, Billy," said Randolph, " such little ex-
periments in fine arts are all very well, but the
French Opera were not quite the sort of people to
bring out, Class day. It shocks our prejudices, you
know."
" O ! go it," sighed Bixby. " What else ? Any
body else ?"
" Van Sittart, I hear. And Brattle is very shaky-
He is dropped, at least"
7
146 GUERNDALE.
"Ay," taid Tom, " methought I heard something
fall. I am no squire of low degree. I've no degree
at all. That, I believe, has the true Strang ring ! "
" My children," said John, " a certain solemnity
in the hour betokens dinner. I feel it deeply."
And Strang placed his brown hand above his capa-
cious belt. " Let us shake the dust of Cambridge
from off our feet and fly to pastures new."
"I wish old Phil were here," said Guy. "It is
probably jour maigre with him. Monday is the
race."
" Gad, fellows, an idea ! " cried Bixby. " Let's
coach to Worcester ! "
The humor of the group changed at once from the
gay tone of easy banter to the gravity with which
one considers a serious matter.
" I knovr a stable at West Cambridge where they
have an old Concord coach, we might rig up as best
we can, like the real thing," continued Bixby, "and
horses from Pike's. Who can drive a four-in-hand ?
I can't drive all the time."
"Oh, anybody; what's the difference if we do up-
set?"
" My servant is an old English groom, and will
wind the horn for you," said Randolph.
"We can carry the drinks and things inside the
coach," suggested Van Sittart.
It was surprising, the sudden influx of energy.
The plastik of the party had changed at once from
ancient Egyptian to a style quite Greek in ita
motion and activity.
" Let's cut the rest of Commencement," said Bix-
GUERNDALB. 147
by. " They don't want us. Let such of us as have
degrees depute some of the virtuous to grab 'em out
of their darned old basket. We must get off by six;
I, thank the Lord, never to return."
" Except," said Strang, " when the asperities of
academic life are again mitigated by Commencement
punch."
"Speaking of punch," said Bixby, "Van and I
will look after the cellar department. Brattle, you
arrange about the coach, will you ? Strang can see
to the horses. And, Guerndale, go in town and get
some rockets and cannon crackers, there's a good
fellow. As for Randolph, he is too lazy to do any-
thing, I suppose."
"Not at all," said he; "I will store my energies
against a sudden emergency. Meanwhile, I will
stay to prod the plodders."
" But how about feed ? " said some one.
" Oh, any one can see to that ; get Lane/* cried
Brattle.
"If his aunts will let him come," growled Bixby.
" We're very sorry we can't hope to have you join
vis, Hackett," said Norton; "but I suppose your
Commencement part will interfere. Come, fellows,
bustle bustle the most beastly word in the lan-
guage I know but we must be away by six."
And Randolph, stopping only to roll a cigarette,
walked indolently away toward his rooms. The rest
had already scattered, no more to press the sacred
herbage in front of Holworthy.
It was admitted on all sides to be a great ride
that of ours from Cambridge to Worcester. A nine'
148 GUEKNDALE.
teenth century edition of Paul Revere. The com-
missariat department, consisting of Randolph's ser-
vant and the stores, rode inside, which part of the
coach was accordingly yclept the cellar, and it also
served as a hospital for such of the party as were
overcome by the heat or "otherwise," as Bixby
euphemistically put it Flags of many and various
shades of Harvard red waved from every corner.
Bixby and Van Sittart sat at the back of the coach,
dispensing ignited squibs and serpents among the
admiring multitude, and occasionally defending our
rear from the onslaught of the barefooted villagers.
The proceedings were otherwise diversified by the
persistent attempts of the same youths to render
" Fair Harvard," on the coaching horn. In this way,
if our entree into each village was triumphant, our
departure bore more the semblance of an escape.
Thus we rode through the elm-shaded Middlesex
roads, calling at country farm houses for milk or
other refreshments our supply of solids being lim-
ited where we were taken for an organized body of
tramps, and where Bixby was invariably found flirt-
ing with the daughters of the house in the milk room ;
stopping at country inns by night to pass away the
quiet hours at the card-table, to the wonder of the
natives and the commercial travellers, who were the
usual guests ; driving off in the early morning, with
the nine Harvard cheers and a boom of cannon-
crackers ; sleeping away the hot noons ; smoking,
drinking, and singing on the top of the coach ; up-
setting once, under the guidance of Randolph, who
never could be induced to hold the horses going down
GUERNDALE. 149
hill, and, to our great grief, breaking a flagon of
excellent champagne cup ; on, like a very rout of
Comus, with the two sheepskin degrees of the party
tied in pride around the whip by their own pink rib-
bons, generally making of ourselves a fearful ex-
ample to the bucolic districts ; so that the country
newspapers teemed with the enormities of Harvard
for weeks after, and dozens of country clergymen
sent their hopeful sprouts to Amherst, or Williams, or
Princeton instead ; on, while Bixby drank and Strang
grinned, and Van and Brattle played games, and
Lane preserved his politeness, and Randolph poured
cynicism into Guerndale's ear ; on to Worcester, in
a blaze of flags and fireworks, where tall, thin
youths, ribboned like an Austrian field-marshal in
blue, betokened the presence of the men of Yale.
And these same men of Yale concealed the admira-
tion which our entree must have inspired, under a
running fire of chaff, which it took the united wit
and tongue of the party on top of the coach to re-
spond to and return in due form. The Yale student,
like most American undergraduates, is fort en gueule ;
and it finally became advisable to call up Randolph's
groom, who, versed in the slang of Newmarket and
the amenities of British jockeys, succeeded in "get-
ting off several grinds," as Bixby put it, upon the en-
tire party. From the usual polite personalities, the
talk turned upon the prospects of the race, and ar-
gument from probabilities ended in quite a natural
way in argumentum adcrumenam. A rapid series of bets
were made and salted ; and Bixby and Brattle were
I5O GUERNDALE.
kept busy with their betting books, while Strang, an
old oar, and known to both colleges, was literally
loaded down with greenbacks as stake-holder.
" Gad ! " said Van Sittart, " the Yale fellows are ac-
tually backing their own crew even. Fifty more r
No, thanks got all I can carry. I say, Lane, take a
bet for the honor of the college. We can't have these
fellows offering against Harvard, and no takers ! "
Lane blushed, and timidly pulled out a fifty-dollar
note, which, with a similar contribution from Yale,
were stuffed in John Strang's capacious pocket.
But still the offers flowed in from the crowd from
New Haven. " I say," said Bixby, with the usual
formula, as he wiped the perspiration from his face,
" I wish some of our men would come. These fellows
are as rocky as a country road. Hello, Randolph,
in there ! Wake up ! "
Randolph had retired to the interior of the coach,
and was apparently wrapped in slumber.
"O, darn the fifties," cried at this moment a lanky
fellow from the sidewalk, wearing a white " plug "
hat surrounded by a broad blue band. "I go a
hundred or nothin'. Damn you Harvard men, you
can't back your own crew. Here's a hundred on
Yale ! Yale ! Ya-a-le 'n no takers."
"Yale, Yale, h 1," grunted Brattle.
Bixby began to sputter viciously from the back of
the coach. Then Randolph's quiet accents came
softly from the cellar :
" Guy up there ? Tell the gentleman from Yale I
see his hundred with pleasure, and raise him a thou
sand"
GUERNDALE. I$l
w I only said I'd bet a hundred," answered he of
the ulster, when Randolph's message was delivered
by Guerndale, "and really I haven't "
"Then dry up," put in Bixby tersely. "Put up
or shut up ! " and the coach stopped before the Har-
vard headquarters in triumph, while Van Sittart ex-
ploded a timely bomb, which soon brought the
Harvard contingent about us. An astonished police-
man on the outskirts of the crowd struggled vainly
to reach the offender, and, giving it up in disgust,
contented himself with the arrest of two small boys
at a distance.
Guy, however, was a little weary of this. He soon
got away from the others, and, hiring a buggy, drove
out to the crew's quarters on the lake. He had not
seen Phil for nearly a month, and found him brown-
er than ever ; his face well filled out, his great blue
eyes clear, his body trained down, in fine, condition
for a pull. A superb six they were, too ; but the
true Harvard cut small-waisted, though broad-
Bhouldered, long-limbed, with a general look about
them of more blood than bone.
"Well, old boy, our four years are over, hey?"
cried Symonds. " I'm afraid we shan't see so much
fun again in a hurry."
" I don't know," said Guy. " I don't know what
I shall do these next years. To-morrow I am going
up to Dale to loaf for a while. Then, I don't know
perhaps, I shall go abroad with Randolph. I wish
there were something one could study there beside*
medicine and art."
"What's the use of going abroad to grind?"
1 52 GUERNDALE.
growled Symonds. "Gad ! if I could go, I shouldn't
take much of that in mine, thank you. But the
governor's mad over my debts, and swears I've got
to go into his counting-room on the first of August,
just when I hoped to get to Paris. O, Lord ! " and
Phil sighed like a furnace. " By the way, I almost
forgot there's a devilish important thing I want you
to do for me, old man you will, won't you ? "
"Why, of course, Phil. What a question to ask
of me as if there were anything I wouldn't do for
you ; and you know it, old fellow."
"You see I wanted like the deuce and all to pot a
little money this trip. If I could raise a few hun-
dreds, I'd go to Europe in spite of the old man. If
I could only get out there, he'd send me cash to get
back fast enough. Now I went and bet a cool thou-
sand on our crew. And the fact is, Guy," and Phil's
voice sank to a whisper, "we aren't going to win
this race. Eliot has gone queer in the insides and
is all bunged up. I only found it out just now.
Now, if I lose this thousand, I can't pay it anyhow.
I bet with men I knew; so I didn't have to put it up,
and I thought we were dead sure to win. Don't say
anything about Eliot to any of the fellows at least
not until you have got it all fixed up; and I advise
you to put in a little on Yale on your own ac-
count."
Guy was silent a moment. " I'd rather not, Phil,"
he said.
"Rather not? why not, Guy? Hang it all, I've
never asked a favor of you before; and now you'd
rather not? It's all right I wouldn't bet against
GUERNDALE. 153
my own crew, of course, but to hedge is another
matter."
" But I can only get bets on Harvard from Har-
vard men our friends."
"You needn't go to our fellows take it from the
older men, the graduates. They've got to lose the
money to somebody, don't you see ? and better to
you and me than those Yale fellows."
Guy's face brightened up suddenly. "Tell you
what I will do, Phil; I'll lend you the money to pay,
with pleasure."
" Damn your money ! " said Phil. And so forth. It
certainly looked like serious trouble between those
two the first they had ever had since they tumbled
into the pond as children. Fortunately, Guy's ob-
stinacy was overcome by Phil's good nature. Sy-
mond's never could be angry long even with a
friend, as Randolph would say. And after a while
his hearty laugh rolled out again, and the two sat
chatting until it came time for the evening spin of
the crew. And Guy sat and watched them go out
prouder than ever of his chum as he saw the start,
Jthe style, and fire of Phil's quick stroke seeming to
make the boat quiver and throb through the water.
" Forty-two," said a voice close by Guy. " Hm
too much, Symonds."
"Hallo, John," said Guy, "when did you come
out?"
"Just now. Five doesn't finish. Who's rowing
five ? "
" Eliot."
" The man you were talking of an hour ago ? **
7*
154 CUERNDALE.
" You heard it ? "
14 Just as I came in besides, didn't know the con-
yersation was private."
" Well, I'm glad you did, but Phil doesn't want it
known. Eliot is out of condition; and Phil wanted
me to hedge his bets for him, but I didn't like to,
and I am afraid I have offended the dear old boy,
though he wouldn't show it, and forgave me directly,
like a brick as he is. I hope you don't think I was
wrong ? "
"I think you were right," said Strang.
" I'm glad you do," said Guy ; " though still, you
see, 1 think Phil only meant he was only hedg-
ing "
Strang began to laugh.
" What's the joke ? " said Guy, seriously.
" To hear you arguing for Phil against yourself."
Guy hated ridicule and turned away. Strang
looked after him curiously, and then out over the
lake. The sun was setting, and the still surface of
Quinsigamond like molten gold. Afar down the lake
Harvard's returning crew moved slowly, a little dark
line upon the water. From the opposite shore was
borne a faint noise of the cheering which greeted the
coming of the 'Varsity six ; Phil Symonds, stroke.
Guy drove back to the town with Strang. They
found the streets crowded with excited students.
The ordinary business of the citizens of the place
seemed suspended. The highway dignified with the
name of Main Street was really animated. On the
corners groups of blue and red ribboned young men
were eagerly discussing the latest news from the
GUERNDALE. 155
lake. The Boston and New York morning papers
of the day contained long articles on the probable
result of the race, which were anxiously read by the
students, notwithstanding they knew them to be
written by Brown of '72, a "scrub," who knew less
about the crews than they did themselves. The
apartment in the hotels which was graced by the
presence of the clerk, usually a rambling hall, with
walls covered with gaudy advertisements, and a dirty
marble floor, was thronged with that youth which,
in journalistic phrase, constituted the hope of the
country. The neighboring bar was fringed with a
continuous bibulous queue, who poured down many
and various " mixed " drinks, and made bets for more.
Occasionally a scrap of college song was heard
above the hum of conversation, soon to be drowned
by the groans of those of the rival college.
Guy and his friends, finding it impossible to get a
room, dispensed with the luxury of a bed; but Billy
Bixby discovering an apartment held by a weak
contingent of Yale men, an assault was ordered,
which promptly dislodged the latter ; and our friends,
barricading the door, held their position against all
invaders over a bowl of champagne punch. About
dawn the dregs of this were generously bestowed upon
the heads of a party who attempted an escalade from
the street. A quarter of the garrison kept watch and
ward at the window and door while the others played
unlimited loo at the centre table. Thus, heedless of
complaints from the agonized proprietor, our hopeful
graduates passed the night away.
The race was announced for early in the morning
156 GUERNDALE.
and by eleven the crews were off. Harvard took a
slight lead at the start, rowing in beautiful form.
But, with a vicious splash and jerk rowing, as all
critics said, like bargemen Yale passed them at the
mile, and ended an easy winner.
The demoralization of the Harvard forces was com-
plete. Not waiting for the regatta ball, which was
to conclude the day, our friends scattered far and
wide.
Stranggot into difficulty after the race by crushing
an Irish man's os fronds for speaking in uncomplimen-
tary terms of the esteemed university which had just
refused him a degree. Bixby stayed to bail him out,
having won largely at loo, the night before. Lane
and Brattle betook themselves to their blameless
firesides ; Randolph and Van Sittart,- to Newport,
the former with a promise to and from Guy for an
early visit. And Guy took the afternoon train west
for Dale, lying in midsummer sleepiness amid the
Berkshire Hills.
His head was still racking and his thought con-
fused with the last night's punch and hilarity, and
the green afternoon had a soothing influence. He
smoked and thought dreamily of things in general.
He had a curious feeling as if things in general had
come to an end. His college life was ended. Bien
apres ? He did not know.
What, why, wherefore, whither, and every other
accursed "'" that the devil ever invented, roiled
lazily through his mind. Even his enthusiasm
seemed asleep. He thought of Randolph, and then,
with some uneasiness, of Phil.
GUERNDALE. 157
Phil had told him after the race that he was going
to Europe anyhow ; and he had given a half promise
to join him in Paris.
And then he thought fondly of his own mother,
living the quiet life of an unobtrusive Lady Bounti-
ful in the old town up in the hills ; living as much in
the past as the present ; regretting much, but hop-
ing much also. He knew she was very fond of him ;
but he always fancied her to be comparing him with
his own father, and he knew enough of him to know
that he was very different, and that his father had
not had a successful life. A born recluse ; a man
whose highest ambition was to be clergyman in
Dale ; and, failing in that . . . . At all events,
he, Guyon, must not fail. He was for the world, the
world still, if in a high sense .... Yet was
he so sure of that ? After all, what did he see in the
world that he really desired ? He could not help
understanding Randolph when he said "there was
much to envy, little to admire" .... Then
there was society. Eire aimable et plaire auxfemmes
after all, was that the highest duty of a gentleman?
. . . . Money he had enough. Would he take
more ? Yes, he would take it, but as for laboring to
acquire it .... After all, what was he vexing
himself with abstractions for ? And he walked out
upon the platform of the rear car, where he sat and
smoked a concrete cigar.
There is something intensely sad about the New
England country. With an unkempt, half-reclaimed
raggedness it joins the wild, sad beauty of a relapse
Into nature. It is an Italy without architecture, but
I $8 GUERNDALE.
the moss clings as kindly to the wood, and the vines
hang as lazily to the stone walls, as if all the decay
of Paestum fed their growth. Not so in the ugly,
successful, manufacturing towns, but in the lazy
orchard-bounded country roads, in the mossy vine-
grown walls, behind which the square elm-shaded
mansions stare gloomily forward over a waste of for-
gotten agriculture or modern industry. Beauty of
art it never had ; beauty in life it never had ; but it
has beauty in decay. The square old farm-houses
blink through their Mindless windows, lonely and
forlorn. The young men have sought the " genteel "
in cities, and are dapper salesmen or smug commer-
cial travellers ; the daughters what does become of
the daughters? and around the old fireside, now
plastered up and fitted with an iron stove, the old
' squire ' sits with his wife, and finds even his weary
hands strong enough to manage the abandoned farm.
Meanwhile, higher grow the elms and more gaunt
and spectral the few Lombardy poplars before the
house; and closer twines the wild grape about the
rocks in the pastures, and the barren apple-trees,
forgotten in the swamps and woodland clearings.
And Guy pondered dreamily of a long talk he had
had with Randolph, the night before. " Does it
pay? "he had said, "that is the great question. It
is a frequent phrase, and, by that very frequency, a
good text, too. That question must be asked of
every end, thought, action, or mode of life. You
regret many things, I regret more, and yet they dis-
appeared in due course before that mighty logic of
that modern catechism. They did not pay
GUERNDALE. 1 59
Look at religion, the idea of God. Dr. Newlite
shows us in his book the incalculable number of
lives ; the amount of suffering ; the loss of art and
knowledge and civilization ; that has been caused
by religion, its hate and bigotry. And what has
it brought in recompense ? lias it squared the
accounts ? No, decidedly ; a God does not pay.
Love does not ; purity does not ; nobility does not.
Worldly ambition may if you consider the game
worth the candle. I don't." And Randolph had
taken a glass of champagne punch and relapsed into
his more accustomed badinage. " Vogue la galerc t
I had almost said something I had a distant idea of
believing in." Ah, if Randolph had only a dash of
Phil Symonds or rather if Phil Symonds had only
a dash of Randolph, thought Guy. And he thought
of Phil's honest, hearty smile ; and the plucky way
he had pulled a losing race. Guy's faith in Phil was
as strong as ever almost.
So he mused, as the train trundled up the grad-
ual slope from the green meadow country about
the Connecticut with its clumps of elms, to the
woods and hills of Western Massachusetts. Finally,
it stopped at Dale, and he sent his luggage forward,
choosing, for himself, the two mile walk by the sun-
set. He knew that the Bonnymorts had come home ;
and looked toward their house as he approached it.
It was seven years since he had seen Annie. He won-
dered what she had grown to be like. Two young
ladies he saw were playing croquet upon the lawn.
Croquet is at no time a very amusing game ; still less
so, except to the bystander, when played by two
voung ladies. So the younger and prettier of the
160 GUERNDALE.
two was knocking around the balls in an aimless way,
while the taller girl stood shading her eyes, looking
toward the road.
Guy was taller by a head and shoulders than the
low hedge which separated the lawn from the road ;
and, as he brushed along by the leafage, he looked
over into the croquet-ground and their eyes met.
Annie came running forward directly.
" Oh, Guy ! " she said, " I knew I should know
you again. I heard you were coming to-day." Her
face broke into the sweetest of smiles, and she
pressed close into the thick of the hedge and gave
him her hand over the blossoms. Guy felt himself
turning quite red. He had expected no such warm
greeting, thinking, indeed, that Annie had probably
forgotten him. He held her hand rather awkwardly,
not wishing to drop it into the prickles, and was
conscious of a strong temptation to address her as
Miss Bonnymort.
" Why, you have hardly changed ! " she went on.
" Come around by the gate." But Guy placed his
hand on the outer rail, and vaulted over it, hedge
and all. Annie's eyes were quite as he had remem-
bered them ; but, now that he was beside her, he
saw, of course, that she was much taller, and was
dressed in some kind of white, fleecy material The
other young lady had gone into the house.
It was already quite dark when Guy went home,
walking with the quick, uncertain step of one wha
is unconscious of his surroundings. But the last
few weeks were already an older past than the days
when he had been a child in this same sweet coun-
GUERNDALE. l6l
try ; the stars of the sky were full of a strange new
meaning for him, and the sounds of the summer
night woke memories of that old evening when he
walked back from the pages of Dante, years before.
Now as then
" Lo giorno se n' andava, e 1' aer bruno
Toglieva gli animai che sono in terra
Dalle fatiche loro "
and the time of day and the sweet season seemed
once more to be calling him to newer hoping and to
higher aims.
CHAPTER XVIII.
''M Deui fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi." IHin.
A*JNIE BONNYMORT was the daughter of a
grentleman, and a gentleman who meant his
daugnter to grow up a lady, and did not expect her
suddenly to become one when first she appeared in
company. She had never been at boarding-school.
She had never had a dozen or more dearest friends
with whom she spent the better part of the year.
She had never romped promiscuously in the hall-
ways of American sea-side hotels. She had lived
much in the country and all out-doors ; she had not
been afraid of the woods or lonely in them. As
a child, she had had unlimited use of the clef dcs
champs, without the fear of freckles before her eyes.
Much of her life had necessarily been passed abroad,
where she had lived very quietly, respecting Euro-
pean conventions, and avoiding table d'hotes. Her
manners were a rare combination of frankness and
courtesy, so that a knave feared her, a fool was de-
ceived by her, and a gertleman adored her. Yet, I
think she was too simple in thought to see all this ;
and her nature was such that the characters of those
about her were purified and ennobled by passing
GUERNUALE. 163
through her mind, and all people seemed to her bet-
ter than they were. Guy once said of her to me,
her thoughts were not thoughts, but sweet feelings.
Above all, she had two great marks of a lady
sweetness and dignity.
So the next morning Guy woke up, earlier than
usual, and found the world an easier world to get up
into. All his ambitions, beliefs, hopes, seemed to take
new color that July day. He seemed to hold a key
to the meaning of things ; he was not quite sure
how, but knew all would come right in time. He
wondered at this frame of mind while he was dress-
ing, and finally ascribed it, wholly to his satisfac-
tion, to the fresh Berkshire air. " What a pity there
is no country life in America," thought he. " If
one could only do something here something at
once national and local, as a fellow can in England.
If people could only believe in one's honesty and
singleness of purpose one might go into politics."
It was an odd breakfast table, that of Guy and his
mother. She, a woman of the past ; he, never more
decidedly than now a man of the future. Hester,
the old servant, who had heard his father preach his
first sermon, whom he had married, whose husband
had abused her, then deserted her, and left her to
come back to Dale and live in peace, while she kept
canny hold upon her earnings in the books of the
Dale Savings Bank put in her name, well out of his
clutches Hester hovered about them grimly, like
an arbiter between fate and hope.
Guy's mother seemed to him more and more to be
going back, forgetting him out of her life. Every-
1 64 GUERNDALB.
thing he did was either like his father or unlike his
father ; more frequently now the latter than the
former.
But Guy was a grown man now ; the square,
rough-hewn oaken beams in the floor creaked be-
neath his weight as they had not done under a male
Guerndale for two generations, and his mother
seemed to feel this dimly, and in some way to re-
linquish her active part in life to him. She did not
oppose him, but her will had none the less a certain
inertia of its own which it was not so easy to disturb.
Yes, Guy might live in the city now, if he liked ;
yes, she supposed he could not stay in Dale. He had
always hoped that she would take a house in the
city when he grew up ? Oh, no, she could not do
that ! She was too old now. She had hoped Guy
would be a clergyman, like his father ; but he knew
best. Of course he would have to go to the city to
practise his profession or business. She did not see
why he should have business if he was not going to
be a clergyman. No, she could never be happy in
the city. Every one had forgotten her now. Besides,
it was too far from his father, she was going to say,
but stopped. Why did he wish to go so much ? She
had always thought he would like to travel after
graduating. His father had been abroad before study-
ing divinity, with letters from Dr. Channing and from
Mr. Emerson, before he went wrong. His father had
enjoyed European society very much. Guy, too,
ought to go and see something of the world before
settling down. Why did he want to settle down La
Boston so soon ?
GUERNDALE. l6$
Guy became suddenly conscious of remembering
that Annie Miss Bonnymort had told him they
were to open their town house for the winter, and
this first memory prevented for a moment his re-
membering, in the second place, that he had decided
to study mining, and that it was best for him to study
a year or two in Boston and Cambridge before going
to Europe. " And then," he added gaily, " I can tell
whether these old hills really contain anything like
precious stones or metals, and make certain that our
diamond was never found here, and that Simmons
really tried to steal it from old Guy, though bad
enough he was, I don't doubt."
This was the first time Guy had ever alluded ta
the story since his mother had given him the stone
itself, in an old locket, and told him to wear it always,
as his father had done. If he spoke thus to let in a
little modern light and cheerfulness upon the musty
old legend, he tried in vain. It was a very serious
matter to his father, said his mother, and he should
know better than to jest about it. No good had
come to the family ever since. Evil fortune was too
serious a thing to laugh at. His poor father had
always felt that it had prevented his doing much
good in his ministry. Mining might be an honest
profession; she hoped so ; but desire for easily won
riches had been at the bottom of all their troubles.
"My dear mother," interrupted Guy, "you must
know that I don't particularly value money, except
as a means to an end."
" To what end ? Your poor father was content
with the half of what you will have."
166 GUERNDALE.
Guy had no answer ready, being distinctly coo
scious of having always maintained that the highest
life was one free from all desire, except for self-im-
provement and the country's good. " At all events I
mean to live an open life among men, and come out
of the dark corner where we have lived so long, and
you must not blame me, mamma dear, for feeling so."
The widow sighed and rose silently from the table.
When Guy was away she was devotedly fond of him ;
when he was present she enwrapped both Guy and
herself in the gloom of the past. " Where do you
go to-day ? " she said, pausing at the door.
" I I promised Miss Bonnymort to ride with her
to see some poor people in whom she is interest-
ed," said Guy. " But if you do not wish me "
"O, no," said his mother. "I had hoped you
would go with me to the cemetery to see whether
you do not think your father's monument needs
polishing. But of course you prefer your ride,"
and the widow softly closed the door behind her.
Guy felt all conciliation for the moment impossi-
ble. Moreover, he did not wish to break his engage-
ment with Annie. So he threw himself upon th
small Canadian horse, and rode across meadow ab-
stractedly, taking the ditches on the way.
In the good old times of the middle ages, whem
men and women were men and women, we know
that that modern sentimentality known as love filled
little space of life. Deeds were more common tham
words, much more common than thoughts ; and lov
existed purely as a deed, occasionally occurring in
the intervals of warfare and wassail. We also knoir
GUERNDALE. 167
that since the appearance of Werther and Manon
Lescaut, its German form has been purely a thought,
its French form impurely a deed. But the simple
and idiotic sentimentality which has been largely
prevalent among the English-speaking races was in
earlier times unknown as all men know.
Consequently, when we read of the sternest and
gloomiest face that frowned through the streets in
the bloodiest years of Florence ; of him whose life was
full of war and hate and envy, and embitteied by
exile and loneliness, we know that here at least we
shall find no trace of it. A man from whom the very
children in the streets shrank in awe ; a man whose
robes they feared to touch (for he had returned from
hell) ; in his book we shall find no morbidness, no
smack of Werther or of Gautier. And we look into
the second page of his first work and find . . . .
" When I first saw her she seemed to me clothed in
noblest blushes, gentle and pure, sunny of disposi-
tion, girdled and adorned plainly, as best befitted her
youth. At that instant, I say truly that the spirit
f life which abides in the deepest chamber of the
keart, began to tremble so that I felt it in my small-
est pulses most fearfully ; and all in trembling, it
spake these words : Behold a god stronger than I
who, coming, shall rule over me. And at that instant
the spirit of the body which dwelleth in that part
where our nutriment is administered, began to weep,
and weeping spake these words : Unhappy me ! for
in future I shall often be hindered ."
Thus we learn that so long ago as Anno Domini
1274, men's stomachs were weak enough to forget
I OS GUERXDALE.
digestion, when men's minds were busied with love.
So Burton speaks of " this heroical or love melan-
choly, which proceeds from women, and is more
eminent above the rest, and properly called love ; "
and maintains that the " part affected in men is th
liver ; and hence it is more common in men of
generous and noble dispositions."
But, perhaps, the times were as we thought them,
and Dante being but a weak creature, after all, did
not truly represent them. For see, he says : " and
I say that from that time love had lordship over my
soul, which fell so soon to his disposition, and so
much assurance and dominion did he begin to take
over me, by the virtue which my imagination gave
him, that it behooved me to do obediently all his
pleasures. And many times he commanded me to
seek to see that young woman ; wherefore I in my
youth, often went about in search of her. . . ."
Silly little children of Florence to be afraid of this
man ! Perhaps, had you run boldly up, he would
have dandled you on his knees and given you lolli-
pops after all !
How strangely beautiful is the mountain air some-
times ! This not particularly brilliant reflection was
Guy's, that morning, as he rode through the mea-
dows in the valley. Particularly, when coming from
a city or crowd ; and, most of all, in the early morn-
ing. How liquid is the light ; what a golden green
in the meadows ; what a smoky purple in the outer
forest spaces that hedge the intervale ! How white
the water lilies are, studding the still water sur-
face, the edges of the river, and the straight, black-
GUERNDALF. 169
rimmed ditches ; how vivid the purple iris, standing
in long, tall clumps and companies from out the yel-
low blossomed sedge ! How one would like to live
all the year round among all these fair things with
let me see, what is her name in your case ?
Guy's thoughts ended at the dash and went on in
a much more consistent fashion. He had scarcely
thought beyond the dash, yet. Moreover, he was
leaving the meadow and riding up the side of an
orchard slope, not far from the very pond where
Phil and he had had their aqueous encounter. Guy
sighed a little to think how Phil had improved since
then, how much better a fellow he was than himself.
Still, it w r as all the better having such a man for a
good friend. Then Phil was going abroad that sum-
mer. He had thought of going with him, but, per-
haps, it was just as well he should not. It was time
for him to be getting to work. Work was prayer,
some one had said. Not that that was any especial
recommendation. Prayer was the highest act of
man, to be sure ; but if that were all he had to do,
he might as well do it in heaven ; cut this world,
and be done with it As John Strang would say,
the highest things were always damned impractica-
ble. Perhaps he, Guy, was a man of low ideals and
worldly ends. Such as they were he would stick to
them. The re-establishment of a name, the respect
and admiration of men were yet good things if won
honorably perhaps, also, wealth and fashion. He
did not think Miss Bonnymort cared much for Mrs,
Grundy, for people in general she talked too much
of things in general. Was that she on the piazza ?
8
GUERNDALE.
some one in white no, this one was dumpy and dif-
ferent from Annie. It was Miss Brattle. He did not
particularly care to see Miss Brattle, yet was dimly
conscious of a desire to conciliate her. She looked
excessively spotless and cool, with a starchiness that
extended somewhat to her manner. Would she
shake hands ? He extended his own, doubtfully,
feeling that it was hot and smelt of the leather reins.
He had not worn gloves he hated them, in the
country.
Did he want to sec Miss Bonnymort ? Yes Annie
was going to ride with him ah that is He felt it
was somewhat rude to shut Miss Brattle so entirely
out of the excursion.
"Oh, I am to be of the party, too, Mr. Guerndale.
I am sorry for your sake but Miss Bonnymort
asked me."
There, he had offended her. So Annie asked her
she said nothing about her, yesterday. Why did
Miss Brattle insist on calling her Miss Bonnymort ?
And why was he so embarrassed ? It was only Tom
Brattle's sister and a younger sister, too, he fan-
cied. Still, she was a woman, and that made the
difference. His appearance was not irreproachable,
and his manners had been careless. A lady should
be offended by none of the coarse common-places of
life. They were sensitive, shrinking, and pure ; all
that entered the sphere of their presence should be
sweet and courteous. He felt that her womanly
sense had seen through his discourtesy ; he was not
even sure that the mental oath had escaped her
Somehovr he had not thought so much of it last
GUERNDALE. I/ 1
night ; but to-day it occurred to him that he really
was not fit to be their companion. He should be
continually wounding their susceptibilities. His
thoughts must be so different from theirs ho\v
should he refine and mould them to make conversa
tion possible ?
Just then he heard a lighter step in the hall, which
he knew was Annie's. When she came through the
door and gave him her hand, he touched it hastily,
and felt a stra?nge difficulty in looking at her. Since
Miss Brattle's remark, it seemed awkward to call her
by her first name, as he had always done. Even
when Miss Brattle went up for her riding-habit and
left them together, conversation was difficult, and
he could not help avoiding her eyes. He was al-
most afraid of her ; when he lifted her on her horse,
he was conscious of doing it nervously and clumsily.
With Miss Brattle, strangely enough, he was easier,
though he knew her less well. During the ride this
odd state of affairs continued. Either he had no
conversation, or he became garrulous and inclined
to talk about himself.
Annie looked at him once or twice in suiprise;
Miss Brattle evidently thought him a bore ; and fi-
nally thy engaged in a conversation about people
of whom he knew nothing. When they arrived at
the cottage, he stayed outside and held the horses
absently. He knew vaguely that they were calling
on the Widow Sproul, with whose son he remem-
bered once having a fight. Across the valley was an
old cider mill, in front of which he could see a cart
standing, and a horse with a stumpy red tail. FoJ
1/2 GUERNDALE.
many years he remembered the appearance of that
horse's tail.
Coming back, things were a little better ; as he
talked of Phil Symonds, and Phil was a subject
about which he could always be enthusiastic. He
felt quite pleased to monopolize Annie's conversa-
tion, and to notice that even Miss Brattle seemed to
listen with some interest. Still, when he went home,
it was with a sense of emptiness and disappointment;
his horse's nose a foot from the ground.
He did not notice old Solomon Bung, who sidled
past him, with a rod, as usual. That worthy seemed
to take no offence, but looked at him solemnly, with
that increase of wrinkles about the corners of the
eyes which served the purpose of a smile of greet-
ing. He even turned to look back at him once or
twice after he had passed.
Days soon came, however, which were less disap-
pointing. Miss Brattle went over to Lenox for a
few days, and Guy and Annie had long walks and
rides days which he put aside in his memory like
sweet sounds, and as indescribable in words. He
grew a more and more constant visitor at the Bonny-
morts'; but each time, on first meeting Annie, his
constraint seemed more marked. She was always
frank, and sunny, and kind ; but he felt his manners
cold and silent, and his conversation forced. Only
after a few minutes, when they got down in the
woods or fields, did he regain the old simplicity of
companionship. Many times Annie would notice
his reserve, and vex him by asking, with sweet sym-
pathy, about troubles which he knew were imaginary.
GUERNDALE, 1 73
Once she took his hand and asked him anxiously ii
she had offended him. His lips trembled, but he
could make no intelligent answer. He drew his
hand away hastily and turned away, afraid to meet,
her eye. He was one-and-twenty and she eighteen.
One afternoon he walked with her to see their old
acquaintance, Mandy Shed. Annie, as old Sol Bung
expressed it, was a lady as women used to be, and yet
nat'ral and not stuck up ; not so Miss Shed, who
kept them waiting half an hour while she donned a
blue silk and caused a long gold chain to depend
from her neck. She was only two years older than
Annie, but looked already thirty. Her eyes were
still bright, but her neck long, thin, and sallow, and
her complexion worn. She spoke with fretful ani-
mation of the lack of society in Dale, and said it was
much gayer at North Adams. There were some city
people there.
Poor Mandy ! the world had not gone well with
her. She had been for many years engaged to Ned
Bench, who was a salesman in some dry-goods store
in the city. He was believed to be doing well ; had
occasionally returned to Dale, showy of scarf-pin
and lavender trousers ; but his visits were growing
less frequent, and it was popularly considered doubt-
ful whether the long-postponed marriage would take
place at all. Fifteen hundred a year didn't seem
so much in Boston as it did in Dale, and it was
reported that Dench had said to one or two of his
bosom friends that he guessed he had had all he
wanted of that girl. Ned was a rising man, they
said, admiringly, as he drove by with her in his
174 GUERNDALE.
buggy, smoking an Havana cigar. Ned secretlj
felt that Mandy was growing old, and, if he married
on $1,500 a year, his cigars would be too domestic
for his taste.
It was not a pleasant call, and would have been
embarrassing but for Annie's tact and simple man-
ners. Miss Shed's voice was harsh, and her accent
voluble, but she seemed at a loss for conversation, and
her manners were rude in the attempt to avoid em-
pressement or any appearance of seeming flattered at
their visit. She thought she might stay with a lady
friend in Boston, next wintei , who had boarded
near Dale, that summer. She wao very intimate. Did
Miss Bonnymort know her? Her father was John
C. Whalen, of Whalen, Young & Skinner. Mr.
Dench admired her very much. How was Mr.
Dench? Mr. Guerndale must have seen him in Bos-
ton. He went a great deal into society. They were
very superior people the Whalens.
CHAPTER XIX.
issdquons le Christ au pied da 1'autel." DB
DESPITE these occasional new moods of Guy's,
and Annie's larger knowledge of the world,
it seemed very natural to both of them to fall back into
the old relation of eight years agone. Possibly it was
an attribute of both characters to remain the same ;
to alter little with outer circumstances. Dale itself
was much changed, however. A little more of the
old life was gone, a little more of the new had crept
in. Old Dr. Grimstone was dead, somewhat to the
relief of his parishioners. Indeed, his decease had
possibly saved him an enforced retirement in favor
of the present incumbent, a young man bred on the
Western Reserve in Ohio, whom an exaggerated esti-
mate of his own powers had led from the paternal
pork-raising to a western college, thence into divin-
ity. But he soon left the fathers of the church for
the rising suns of modern thought. Possibly his
early cultivation of turnip roots had led him to rad-
ical views ; or else, as La Rochefoucauld says, he em-
braced the wrong opinion because the best places
were already taken in the right one. He called him-
self an eclectic ; he knew the existence and names of
1/6 GUERNDALE.
many things ; and his mind had hitherto been too
fully occupied to leave him time for turning gentle-
man by the way. At one time he had dabbled in
metaphysics ; but this requiring too much mental ex-
ertion for he was a very lazy man he now con-
tented himself with the positivists. General denial
is a very comfortable mental attitude. In his ser-
mons he delighted in putting the boldest assertions
of negation in their crudest forms. Nevertheless, he
kept on easy terms with the Deity. He would occa-
sionally mention Christ with good-natured patron-
age, and made friendly allowance for the vagaries of
the Evangelists. When he treated earnestly of
things spiritual it was in quoting from Buddha, Con-
fucius, or the Koran. He read large quantities of
verse in his sermons, which were also full of meta-
phors derived from business and trade. He was act-
ively interested in politics, affected worldliness in
dress and manners, and hated to be taken for a clergy-
man. He was very popular in the parish, prominent
in pic-nics and church dancing parties, and a capital
actor in private theatricals. Wine and cards he con-
sidered immoral, but, to avoid the charge of phari-
seeism, he frequented smoking cars and familiarized
himself with bar-rooms. He was fond of taking the
maidens of his flock to drive in his buggy on Satur-
day afternoons, but his attentions were so universal
that scandal never attached.
The Bonnymorts had once invited him ex officio to
tea, where he asked "Miss Annie" to go to drive
with him, inquired who her gentlemen friends were
in Dale, sought fiercely to argue with Guy for Tyn-
GUERNDALE. 1 77
dall against the Kantian school, and contiasted the
enlightenment of his own parish with the dark and
superstitious barbarism that still afflicted countries
groaning under the Romish Church. He regretted
that he never had been across the " pond," and that
he had always resided in the country since he com-
menced his mission. He told Mr. Bonnymort, who
was an Episcopalian, that the Anglican Church was
effete.
Besides the changes wrought by this servant of the
Lord, there were others. Gas had been introduced
into the town. Some new manufactories had been
built, and there had been a considerable influx of
French-Canadian and Chinese working-people. The
employers of this cheap human energy had erected
for themselves new French-roofed houses, usually
prominent of tower or cupola, surrounded by well-
shaven little grass-plots, iron statues painted white,
and black asphalt walks. These were the prominent
parishioners of the Rev. M. Frank Hanna, and had
chiefly contributed to the building of the vestry
the new vestry. This institution was in theory a
Sunday-school for the children of the parish ; but
its more prominent use was for winter dancing-par-
ties, raffles, and private theatricals, when the small
pulpit was removed to make place for the stage.
Mr. Bonnymort spoke of it irreverently as the "Ca-
sino."
Most of the younger people whom Guy and Annie
remembered had left the town. Some few of the
girls had been married, usually to strangers ; some
of the ones so married had returned home ; others
8*
1/8 GUERNDALE.
were spoken of vaguely as "living in the city.* 1
Nearly all the young men were also in the city ; a
few were said to be " smart fellows" and doing well.
Guy learned these things from Solomon Bung. Old
Solomon Bung took a somewhat cynical view of
matters. He reminded Guy a little of Norton Ran-
dolph.
Guy went to church, the first Sunday, and found
a few of the faces he remembered. The church it-
self was more out of repair than of yore ; but the
outside had a new coat of lilac paint. He noticed
the plaster dropping from the ceiling in some places.
The service was quite different from that of old Dr.
Grimstone. It began with a quartet, adapted from
the famous sextet in " Rigoletto ; " a fine piece of
music, but not well rendered. Then Rev. M. Frank
Hanna rose, in a tight walking-coat and wispy black
tie, and addressed, in confidential tones, a somewhat
indefinite Deity. This was the prayer.
Mr. Hanna then read a passage from Max Miiller's
version of one of the Vedas, and the choir joined in
a hymn. There was a cheerful rhythm to this, which
reminded Guy irresistibly of a college chorus. Af'
ter it, the congregation settled themselves comfort-
ably, but, strange to say, they seemed alert and
interested almost as if they were at a theatre
Nothing of the old sleepy boredom was visible.
Mr. Hanna, burying his face in his hands, prayed for
inspiration " to the same Great Spirit who inspired
Shakespeare to the same mind that breathed in
the brain of Newton to the same love that pervaded
the heart of George Eliot, of Joan of Arc, of Christ."
GUERNDALE. 1/9
Guy's breath was quite taken away at this, which
was rapidly succeeded by the following sermon.
Reading no text, the minister began by taking his
open watch in his hand.
"If there be a God, I give Him thirty seconds to
strike me dead.
" If there be a God, I give Him thirty seconds to
strike me dead."
" So spake the French atheist. No doubt it was a
mad and foolish challenge. Yet, if there had been
a God such as the fancy of olden people pictured
a God to love, to hate, to be angry, to be jealous, a
Deity revengeful and fond of praise, vain and vain-
glorious such a God would have taken him at his
word. The Bible says, I am a jealous God. The Bible
is wrong." And here Mr. Hanna made a pause,
which added to the boldness of the assertion. " At
least, the scribe who copied the ancient Hebrew
writings made a mistake. We should not be fettered
too closely by noun and verb. When I find such
crude statements as this, I say the Devil's in it. I
mean the printer's devil, or copyist. For the only
devil is the devil of our own carelessness, our own
weakness. The other was a medieval myth.
" And yet, this remark of the Frenchman's was a
notable one. As an indication; it struck the mod-
ern balance of mind ; that balance of mind which
only bigots call disbelief. It was a noteworthy appli-
cation of inductive reasoning to the misconceptions of
established churches. Let us hesitate before we fol-
low all this book has to say. For the Bible is a book,
like another in most parts, better ; in some parts.
180 GUERNDALE.
worse. It is, perhaps, founded on many other books.
If it was a revelation of God, it does not follow that
it was the only one. It was written by men. Grant
that they were inspired so was Plato, Shakespeare,
Mahomet, Swedenborg ; so is George Eliot, Longfel-
low, Herbert Spencer. And Christ was a good man.
Yes Christ was a better man than Herbert Spencer.
Christ was the most divine form our glorious hu-
manity has yet assumed. Are we then to follow him
in all things ? Shall we not render unto Caesar the
things that are Caesar's ? And I say, my friends,
my brethren, my fellow-seekers for God for who
am I that I should stand above you on this platform
and tell you where to find Him, when every one of
you may learn as well as I ? My brethren, put
Christ and Herbert Spencer side by side and tell me
which could teach the other most ? If I follow the
one always with my heart, shall I follow him always
with my brain ? "
Mr. Hanna then went on to relate in brief the pro-
cess of the evolution of the world ; and how the
masses of self-conscious matter that we call brain
had gradually grown and broadened and become
complex, until each was a microcosm of the universe
outside. Was it not possible that the Bible, or a
greater part of it, was meant for weaker and more
childish minds ? It was designed by God, no doubt ;
but was it sure that God intended us always to be
satisfied with this primitive statement ? Might not
the Scriptures be a sort of primer, until we could
read alone ? Our minds, too, were made by God.
At all events, they evolved from protoplasms under
GUEKiNDALE. l8l
his superintendence. The real intention of God ii
the Almighty could be supposed to have intention
was to make the human mind a higher sort of Bible,
and the truer gospel for us modern ladies and gen-
tlemen the writings and expressions of this mind.
Nay, more, it was possible that even some of the
morals of the Bible were provisional a sort of ethi-
cal mother's milk, from which we might be weaned.
It was obvious that this was the case in some things.
Modern experience had found it necessary to sup-
plement the seventh commandment with divorce laws.
The provision regarding graven images had become
meaningless. Again, the economical doctrines of the
New Testament would not hold water at the present
day. It was clear they would result in total pauperi-
zation. In fact, many forms of private charity are
directly opposed to the great law of the survival of
the fittest. Many other texts might be cited which
required to be taken with a grain of salt. How would
they go with the immortal truth that all progress con-
sists in a change from indefinite, incoherent homo-
geneity to definite, coherent heterogeneity ? Love
one another, for instance as a statement of ethical
truth, this is bold and crude. We are required by
the discoveries of modern thought to love one
another only under certain conditions and limita-
tions.
" No," continued Mr. Hanna, " life is a struggle.
What we want is adaptation to our environment
which we call smartness and strength. The smart
man the acute, ingenious, intellectual Yankee suc-
ceeds, and deserves to succeed. In so-called charity
l83 GUERNDALE.
we simply bolster up the weak, at the expense of the
strong. We discourage true merit. Let them die.
It is right and merciful they should. But, my
friends," and here Mr. Hannagrew eloquent, " let
us remember there is one thing more. Sympathy,
sympathy is the bright star of the future that is to
render this world a heaven and reconcile us to the
thought that there may be no other. Sympathy.
Oh, my friends, my dear friends, it was lately my
fortune to come from the metropolis in a railroad
car behind a man whom former times would have
called a felon. He had committed financial irreg-
ularitieshe was a forger. The gyves were on his
wrist, and at his side there sat a myrmidon of the
law. Many and severe were the looks that were cast
at him askance by the other occupants of the car
deep and rankling, they entered into the sensitive
soul of the man before me. Bright sympathy sprang
warm in my breast. I thought that, but for my envi-
ronment, I might have been as he. He, too, may
have sought to be strong. As he pressed his burn-
ing hand to his fevered brow, I pictured to myself
the sweet home fireside for which he had done this
thing the dear wife, the woodbine-covered cottage,
the cherubs clustering around the hearth. The tears
sprang unbidden to my eyes. I thought how many
in the car might merit shame as much as he. 7
thought of all he had sought to do in the conflict
of this world. Ah, my friends, let us be sure that
what we call our laws are right, before we condemn
with moral obloquy this man. In the struggle for
existence, he had failed let us take warning by him.
GUERNDALE. 183
But society was the true sinner not this man. And
it was the fault of us around him that he sat wherd
he did that day. We, to-morrow, may be where this
man was to-day. Let us remove the temptation for
crime, and let us give the criminal our sympathy !
Faith, hope, and love and the greatest of these
three is love ! We are all equal. There is a cursed
aristocracy of virtue as well as one of rank. What
is sin ? A faulty adaptation to chance environments.
O sinner, disdain not the sinner ! "
Mr. Hanna's voice here sank into a hoarse, impres-
sive whisper ; then he buried his face in his hands,
by way of benediction, and the service closed.
Guy was alone that morning, Mrs. Guerndale hay-
ing been unusually feeble, and, reflecting on a few
inconsistencies he thought he had observed in the
sermon, he walked slowly from the church into the
churchyard across the way.
Here he threw himself on a bank of brown pine-
needles near the old oblong tomb, topped with the
argent, bend sable of the Guerndale arms. And so, as
he sat there, somewhat gloomy, Mr. Bonnymort and
Annie passed by ; and she, seeing him there alone,
and divining his mood, did not stop, but bowed with
such sweet courtesy that it seemed to him he saw all
the bounds of happiness. So he left the village and
the people, and went into the wood, for a long ram-
ble, thinking of her ; and there by Weedy Pond he
met old Sol, sitting just above the lily-pads, on the
sunny side of a rock, and blinking at a turtle on a
log.
" Whjr, Sol not at church ?" cried Guy, gaylj.
1 84 GUERNDALE.
"Wa-al, no, Mister Gun'l, I ain't."
" Why, how's that, Sol ? I thought you were on
of the old stand-bys ? "
" Wa'al, Gun'l ye see, I ain't so powerful sot on
religion ; but I do like to hear a preacher thet is ;
an' when my wife died, I did take a sorter spell o*
goin' to meetin' didn't somehow like to hev the old
pew empty, ye know. But I dunno. I sorter get
more comfort out o' God's works than I do out o*
that there young man. The fact is, when I experi-
ence salvation I take it straight. Damned ef I don't
Bonnymort's folks to hum ? "
" Yes," said Guy. " I believe they're here for the
summer."
Wanter know," said Sol
CHAPTER XX.
"Ni aimer ni hair : c'est la moitia de la sagesse humaino : ne rien dire et n
rien croire : c'est 1'autre moitid. Mais avec quel plaisir on tourne le dos a un
monde qui exige une pareille sagessc ! " ScHOPKNHAUSK.
I SUPPOSE it must have happened that night of
the walk in the forest. The summer was then
nearly over ; two months Guy had been in Dale. All
his other plans had been given up. None of our
enemies deceive us half so perfectly as we deceive
ourselves ; many and ingenious were the theories
which Guy developed in his letters to Norton Ran-
dolph, to explain his long lingering in Dale. Per-
haps Guy himself hardly knew why, though he saw
Annie Bonnymort so often. But whoso wished to
know what thing love was, might have marked him
when he met her, and marvelled at the tremor of
his eyes. And it befell, this day of the walk in the
forest, of which I speak, as often in such cases comes
to pass, that their wanderings were much prolonged ;
and they came to a rocky hill, rising out of the for-
est, whence they saw the setting of the sun.
Now Guy had finally bound himself to go to New-
port on the day following, which was a Monday,
and Miss Bonnymort was to leave on the same day
for some autumn visits. And through this last walk
l8<5 GUERNDALE.
Guy had been oppressed with a. sense of incomplete-
ness, as of something left undone ; yet knew he not
what it was, nor how best to set himself to work to
remedy it. And having been thinking much of
this for many days, the approach of the last evening
made him curiously anxious to accomplish what
thing it was that lacked. Still, beyond a strange
yearning that he might be always in her mind after
he had left her, he was conscious of no special thing
he wished to do. He did not wish to go ; but there
was no help for it, for she was going too, and he
thought of it not often. He could easily forego her
bodily presence ; but her mind to him was a king-
dom in which he wished to rule.
Now it happened that, in helping her up the face
of the rock (which was smooth and round and mossy
and covered with pine-needles), it became necessary
for him to give her his hand. This was a situation
which he had hitherto evaded ; but to-day it was im-
perative, for the place was very slippery. Msreover,
it was necessary for him to hold her hand in his
some moments, and even to impress a firmer press-
ure on it when they came to places where the rock
was steep. All this he did courteously, as became a
cavalier, and yet he found the doing of it most un-
comfortable. It seemed as if there were some dumb
force within him, struggling for utterance, yet elab-
orately pent back, and this affair of the hands weak-
ened the barriers. Although her hand was very soft,
and white, and warm, and far from an unpleasant
thing to touch on a cool autumn day, so much so
that when he dropped it hastily, as they reached the
GUERNDALE. l8/
top, he did so with some reluctance. And there was
a dear little wrinkle where the hand bent forward at
the wrist
They sat down upon the crisp, gray moss, and
watched the sunset ; that is, Annie did. Guy looked
mostly at the ever-varying expression of her lips.
Her eyes, too, were deep, and still and soft, like the
haze in a distant mountain valley, and the ends of
the brown -lashes, just where they curled upward,
were gilded by the last rays of sunlight. So he
looked silently at the sweet face, no longer child,
nor yet woman, and saw the sweet white soul that
dwelt behind the eyes, living in a light of love and
trust, and little wondered at so beautiful a face,
moulded by the soul within. Here the eyes turned
upon him, clear and frank, and his own fell in much
confusion.
" Guy, why are you so strange ? Sometimes I feel
as if I scarcely knew you. You are so different from
what you used to be. You are so formal, and far off.
Not since you first tumbled into my pond "
" My pond ! " laughed he.
" Our pond," said she. " Not since then have you
been as you are now. Dear Guy," she went on,
touching his hands earnestly, " please tell me ! Have
I offended you ? Is anything wrong ? Have you
any troubles ? "
" . ' Our pond,' " he was thinking. " Ours "
" Why are you so silent and indifferent ? Do be
what you used to be, when we wandered about these
old valleys don't you remember ? like the babes in
the woods, and I used to think you were so brave
1 88 GUERNDALE.
and manly, because you did not mind snakes and
spiders, and "
" And tumbling into brooks ! " laughed he, ner-
vously. " Seriously, Miss B Annie, I have not
changed since then in many ways. Less than you
can imagine much less than you believe."
Guy paused a moment, and began scratching off
the moss with a pointed stone. It was an old flint
arrow-head ; some Indian had shot it up into the air
a century or so before, and it had fallen here. Guy-
did not notice its shape, but went on, hurriedly,
" Do you remember the last day before I went to
school ? "
" Do I remember ? Why of course I remember,
Guy," said Annie warmly, somewhat too warmly, he
thought, considering the difficulty he found in re-
minding her of what he meant, and the way the
doing of it made his heart beat. " We spent all the
day together, finding the places where we kept
house among the rocks, and then in the evening I
cried because you had to go."
"You asked me never to forget, and I promised
that I never would."
" Did you ?" said she. " Did I ? Yes, I remember
it was up by the big pond in the woods. Well,
we have not forgotten, have we, Guy ? " she added,
laughing. " Let us part so to-day and always be
friends just the same."
"Always," he said, and then, in a lower tone,
"Always, always for me."
" How nice it will be to have you in Boston next
winter! You must come to our house very oftea
GUERNDALE. 189
See ! the sun is setting oh, look at that long pur-
ple cloud drawn like a scarf about the Greylock
mountains ! Ah, how lovely " and the dreamy
look came once more into her eyes and wound itself
into his heart.
So the bright clouds faded and they watched the
colors go ; then they looked in one another's eyes.
Guy trembled slightly ; but this time bore the look
fully, nor ever flinched. Annie was pleased at this,
and smiled ; and a star came up in the east over the
lower land, and a whippoorwill down in the valley
spoke of the night. It was time for them to go ; so
they walked home, talking of old sports and scenes,
that were to Guy as if they had been always, and
yet to him would never more be old. I think Mr.
Bonnymort saw them coming slowly over the lawn ;
but they said good-by in the old verandah, and
Annie looked up to him and said, " So, Guy we
are just as we used to be, are we not ? We have
always been like a brother and sister, you know "
She stopped, for here Guy bent down and kissed
her, and then felt he could not speak again, but
broke hastily from her and went out into the even-
ing.
He could bear no four walls that night. The open
sky seemed a lodging scarce vast enough for his
heart. That was but one throb in the mighty pulse
of nature dear mother nature, based all upon love,
love everywhere ! love in the stars that looked down
upon him from the soft quiet sky ; love in the winds,
in the faint sweet noises of the night ; love in and
through the whole world. The beauty of the night*
GUERNDALE.
the beauty of thought, of life ; he was part of all,
and they were part of his soul, and Annie's was the
fairest of it all. His soul and hers were far apart,
yet they were one, sharing in the beauty of all things
that lived. And all things did live, nothing was
dead ; the smooth broad meadows were alive, and
the dark hills bending to the lighter sky. Ah, the
fair world !
So he walked dreaming through his favorite path,
and as he came around the brow of some low hill,
there before him lay a sea a sea of silver mist, and
all the world was silvern, still and silvern ; silvern in
the white light, rimmed with the purple of the hills
and sky ; a deep black -purple where the silver points
of stars shone through. All below him and around
him lay the moonlit mist, filling all the valley mead-
ows, sifting softly through the little woody hollows,
where great black shapes of trees loomed up, and
higher hills pent up the fleecy cloud, and through it
came the rifts of evening winds. He knew not why
the tears were in his eyes, but threw himself upon
the last mossy slope below the forest, and murmured
Che e bclla, che c bella, in vague memory of some old
Italian rhyme, and lay there while the hours rolled
over his heart, and thought how it was love
" Che primft mosse quelle cose belle. "
Slowly his passion throbbed away into sweet calm ;
his happy heart grew silent, and he thought more
soberly of all he had to do, of all that he should be
to win her. Of her love he had little doubt : her
soul was rery love and tenderness ; he must first de
GUERNDALE. 19 1
serve her love, the winning it would be a later thing.
And so, with higher vision than he ever felt before,
he planned for himself a straight pathway through
the world, that he might not be ashamed to lead her
with him there.
Then he steeled himself to sober thought, as he
fancied, and to common sense. He felt clearly that
romance and sentiment were but slight basis for hap-
piness. Yes, he would succeed ; he would do this,
and that. He would not speak to her for a long time
yet i year or more. She was but a child ; if, as he
hoped, she was fond of him, he ought not to take
advantage of her affections ; he should wait until
she had seen something of the world. Yet he had
kissed her ! His heart cried " Ah, Annie, Annie "
Grave Guy ! Sober, thoughtful Guy ! His sober
thoughts took no note of time, nor did his mature
consideration show him where he was, and the short
night went by, and a ray of dawn came through the
wood and fell upon his face, lying fast asleep be-
neath an oak.
Book (fctytrtr.
CHAPTER XXI.
" So, since the world has thus far whirled
Without change of direction,
Like Buddha I'll sit in the sky
And think on my perfection."
A YEAR passed by. Norton Randolph was
abroad, whence he wrote frequently to urge
Guy to join him. Vansittart was prominent in New
York and Newport. Bixby was believed to be lying
perdu in Paris. Others said he was travelling about
the Continent in chase of some female feu-follet.
Strang was studying civil engineering in Boston,
and, to Guy's surprise, asked the latter to take rooms
with him, which he did, and they got along surpris-
ingly well together. Brattle, after a brief tour
abroad, had returned with a large consignment of
London clothing and Vienna meerschaum, and was
leading that group of callow youth which in most
American cities constitutes society. Philip Symonds
was in Paris, and Guy felt very lonely without his
old friend. Phil's great hearty laugh, his healthy
view of things in general, had grown to hold a large
place in Guy's life ; indeed he had been used to sup-
GUERNDALE. 193
plying any deficiency in his own animal spirits from
Phil's superabundance.
However, if Philip wrote but seldom, great reports
of his doings in Paris were brought home by other
men ; and it was generally understood that this
young descendant of the Puritans was making it un-
commonly lively on the Boulevards.
Guy had worked through that year with an inten-
sity of purpose that was too real for him to be very
conscious of it. "He had occasionally seen Annie
Bonnymort, but he had not allowed himself to utter
a word of love to her, scarcely even to think of her
as the woman he loved, though he thought of her
always. It would not be fair to take advantage of
her youth and inexperience of men and the world ;
besides, he must wait until he had at least shown that
he might prove worthy of her. So, if many flowers
were sent to her, it was not from Guy ; if any one
man danced many cotillions with her, it was not he ;
if any one talked sentiment with her (though it was
not an easy thing to do, she seeming above and be-
yond "flirtation"), Guy did not. His manner to-
ward her was indeed marked and different from his
manner with others ; for it was frank and simple al-
most to bluntness. He told her his deepest thoughts
with those which were half in earnest, and showed
her his weakest with his strongest side ; nor ever
sought to flatter her or to impress her with his own
merit. But, had she demanded it, he would have
shown his soul to her as calmly as his photograph.
For, he felt, if there were things in his heart or mind to
render him unworthy of her, it would be false to hide
9
194 GUERNDALE.
them. She should love him as he truly was, or not at
all. So he only veiled his love from her. Perhaps
in doing this, he veiled the larger part of himself.
With Philip, however, he could freely talk, sure
of his hearty sympathy and strong encouragement.
The year before, when Philip went away, they sat
through many a long evening. And so, speaking of
their old school days, and quiet Dale, and Annie,
what more easy than to pour his fears and hopes in
Philip's friendly ears ? Indeed, he told him every-
thing as he had told him all from childhood up
and Phil had laughed good-humoredly at his ear-
nestness, and advised him to "go in and win, old
boy." And Guy looked at his lusty hero, and thought
how often Phil had stood by him and what a fine fel-
low he was, and wished he could be like him, to win
Annie's love. Then Phil had gone to England, and
Guy had not liked to put his thoughts on paper,
even to Philip ; so nothing had been said between
them since.
Annie also went away this summer, and Guy did
not see her for many months ; but now and then a
white letter came, in firm, fine hand-writing, that
Guy read oftener, I fear, than even the books on ge-
ology he used that summer with his scientific explor-
ing party in Western Virginia.
Randolph returned from Europe in September ; so
it happened that Guy made him a visit in Newport
when he came back from the South. And one au-
tumn afternoon Randolph, with the clear fair face,
drooping moustache, and slight habitual smile, and
Guy, with bronzed cheeks and a big brown beard,
GUERNDALE. 195
were seated in a two-wheeled cart, taking the four
o'clock drive on Bellevue Avenue. Guy had just
arrived, and Randolph was very glad to see him,
though he greeted him with his suave, matter-of-
course manner, as if they had parted yesterday.
Naturally, they had much to talk about, and where,
better than bowling along amid green lanes and
flowers with a prospect of the sea (and a cigar) in
the distance ?
" So, Guy, you never came abroad ? "
"Oh ! no. I had no time. I I should have liked
to. Perhaps I shall go to Freiberg, next year."
" I saw a great many of the fellows over there
Brattle, Bixby, Phil Symonds. I believe he sailed
for home the other day."
" Did he, really ! How jolly ! Phil hasn't written
for months, and I began to worry about him."
" They say he has been shying the paternal ducats
pretty freely about Paris. But, Guy, how you've
changed -waked up, braced up ! I hope you are not
going to become quorum pars magna as to these things
about you ? "
"Ah, Norton ! Haven't you got over your dawd-
ling with life yet ? I think all we fellows were great
fools with our callow cynicism. It was merely an
excuse for laziness."
"Ah?"
" I tell you what, old fellow, active life is the thing
after all. Even ambition isn't half a bad motive."
"Oh !"
"Where should we have been if our fathers had
thought and acted as we pretended to do ? "
196 GUERNDALE.
" Why, in that case our fathers wouldn't have left
any children, that's certain," said Randolph. " Our
noble selves would still have been in the divine nebula
of the possible. But what has happened ? Have
you experienced religion ? Grown avaricious ? pa-
triotic ? Want to go to Congress ? "
" No, none of these. But I have grown older "
" Reconciled yourself to conventional humbug."
Here Mr. Randolph stretched himself lazily out, and
went on. "The achievement of immortality, my
son, is nothing more than 'Arry's idea of the true
way to spend a 'appy life. The man of reason does
not desire to project his petty individuality into eter-
nity. He who cries loudest for the perpetuation of
his valuable self is not the statesman who fills the
books of history, but the Philistine. 'Any, the Phi-
listine, upon whose tomb one reads ' He was born on
such a day ; married on such another day So-and-so,
daughter of some other duffer, esquire ; had children
certain other bipeds and died.' Such a man natu-
rally wishes a posthumous identity, because he hasn't
sufficient confidence that his soul will wash. But
men who have really been something and have rea-
son to look back upon their lives with satisfaction
such men yearn for rest after their labors, for eternal
sleep. Naked selfishness nothing else is the basis
of this desire for immortality. The Philistine can-
not bear to think that his dear little ego the one
thing in the world about which he is most interested,
on which he has expended so much pains should be
annihilated. What does the hero in his strong growth
eare for immortality ? It is only to old women, sip-
GUEKNDALE. 19JT
ping their tea, that it is the air in which they breathe.
What has become of Miss Bonny mort ? You tell me
nothing of her."
" She has been away some months and I haven't
seen her," said Guy quietly. " Where are you going
to be this year ? "
" Oh, I shall do the domestic a while with my nu-
merous sisters play the pattern son and heir to my
pa and ma and devote what remains of my strength
to resisting their combined efforts to make me com-
mit matrimony."
" Are you never going to marry ? "
" Certainly, dear boy. But you see, I am very
difficile. I expect too much. And a girl of the kind
that I want would not be likely to want me."
"Why? You have money enough, position
enough "
" Ah, if that were all. But, you see, my require-
ments are extravagant. I expect the lady to be both
gentle and true, and not a fool."
" I have never yet succeeded in understanding
you, Norton," Guy complained, with a laugh.
" Perhaps not, my young violet in the parterres of
society. My character has all the obscurity of sim-
plicity."
" As simple as an orchid in a flower-pot, my aged
and exotic European."
" I say, young 'un, don't steal my thunder. Don't
you know that a cynic is the only person who hates
to be imitated ? Being by the sad sea waves (which
I always thought ought to be mad, insane, idiotic
sea waves, for their infernal perseverance in turrb-
198 GUERNDALE.
ling about and accomplishing nothing), I suppose
I may take a cigar. Ah, my boy," and resigning
the reins to Guy, he took the lower seat. " I wish
to live, not as a savage or a misanthrope, but as a
solitary man on the frontiers of society, on the out-
skirts of the world. Consider the birds ; they come
and go and make nests around our habitations; they
are fellow-citizens of our farms and hamlets with us ;
but they take their flight in a heaven which is bound-
less. The hand of God alone gives and measures to
them their daily food ; they build their nests in the
heart of the thick bushes, or bury them in the height
of trees. So would I, too, live hovering around
society, and having always at my back a field of
liberty boundless as the sky ! "
" I see," said Guy, " that your acquaintance with
the literature of laziness is as varied as ever."
"Call it not laziness call it still-life. That is the
artistic thing. Yes, Guy still-life is the thing. The
Dutch school of life. Occupied most with interiors ;
so look out only for dyspepsia. Dutch courage,
Dutch repose. I am growing Dutch in everything
Dutch in restfulness ; Dutch in my taste for damming
the sea which first unsettled men's minds ; Dutch in
my taste in women and tobacco ; Dutch also in build
an architecture of the human frame so beautifully
adapted for sitting down, that the divine intention is
obvious. . . . For what after all is action ? Ac-
tion implies will, will implies desire, desire implies
imperfection and want and misery. Quietude is the
thing "
And Randolph took a long pull at his cigar, for
GUERNDALE. 199
he used to say that no speech was so important as
to justify imperilling the light of one's weed.
" Quietude go through life like a nun, barring
the morals. Keep a good digestion and a hard
heart."
Guy smiled compassionately.
" I say, speaking of hearts, Newport seems to be
very much the sort of place that it was in my youth
admirably calculated for working up the raw ma-
terial of society into the finished product, giving the
most natural girl and the most sensible man the cults
of ostentation and fashion. Here we learn to take
the world at its true value ; our emotional weaknesses
are safely crushed. Seriously, I think of establish-
ing a sort of moral sanitarium here for the weak in
heart. A grand idea by Israfel the fiddler ! And
here, if I mistake not, comes that blameless lordship,
John Canaster! "
" Who's that ? "
" Seventh son of the Duke of Maccaboy. I saw him
last as a young calf fresh from Sandhurst now I find
him a beef-a-la-rnode at Newport ! to adapt an inge-
nious metaphor from Heine." And Norton pointed
to a burly young Briton with a single eye-glass, robed
in a lounging-suit of which it took two to complete
the pattern.
" Oh ! the little Englishman. But who's that with
him ? Phil ! by Jove ! " And Guy slung himself
out of the dog-cart before Philip Symonds, resplen-
dent of collar and cravat, somewhat hairier, a little
airier, but otherwise much the same as ever.
Randolph joined them more quietly, and the re-
ZOO GUERNDALE.
union was celebrated by a grand dinner at Elart-
mann's Lord John lending lustre to the party,
and affording a beautiful subject for the mystifica-
tions of Norton Randolph, greatly to Phil's amuse-
ment and a little to his horror. For Guy's friend
was the least bit overcome by the glamour of the
peerage, as became a descendant of John Simmons,
of Dale. He might have had no anxiety, however ;
for his lordship's fear of being taken in was only-
equalled by the ease with which he fell a victim, and
the calm with which he remained one.
Philip was in great spirits that evening, and full
of talk of the wine, women, and horses he had met
on his travels. Little was said about America, ex-
cept when he asked Randolph about the budding
Boston girls, and promised Canaster to " trot them
out," when he went there, for his lordship's gratifi-
cation. How was Annie Bonnymort coming on ? he
said to Guy. She had promised to be a devilish
pretty girl, he told Canaster ; very good points ;
rather thin, though. Yaas, said Canaster, he had
seen Miss B. in London. Nice girl, very ; neat lit-
tle filly. Most women in the States were weak on
figure, he was told. " Not so with us, egad ! Re-
member when Lady Constance and Lady Alice Eve-
lyn first used to show ! We called 'em Big Beef !
Haw, haw ! And Boiled Beef ! " And Canaster be-
came convulsed with laughter over these amusing
epithets. " Now in London, Miss Bonnymort was
considered "
"English ladies have good legs," Randolph broke
In bluntly, with a curious expression. Guy looked
GUERNDALE. 2O1
at him with surprise. " I say they have good legs,
but big feet."
" Haw, haw really now, I don't deny it. But how
do you know?" And Lord John rolled in his chair
with laughter at his own wit. Randolph suddenly
changed his manner to his usual lazy calm. At all
events, if his lordship had not seen an offence, the
conversation was turned from Miss Bonny mort
much to Guy's relief, Randolph made bold to im-
agine. He poured out another glass of wine, and
hummed carelessly :
" ' Madame alleguera qu'elle monte en berline
Que, lorsqu'on voit le pied, la jambe se devine '.
"Come, Guy I see Phil is about to induct Lord
John into the mysteries of poker. You don't care
for that ? "
So Guy and Randolph talked cynicism for half an
hour as they walked home to his cottage, and then
Guy secretly stole down to the cliffs and smoked
his bedtime cigar over the salt breath of the break-
ers. Afar to the south stretched the ashen ocean, and
he looked dreamily out to the line of the sea and sky,
and wondered where beyond the rim a certain ship
might be that was bringing the Bonnymorts home
from England.
CHAPTER XXII.
We thaet Maethhilde That of Maethilde w*
Monge gefrugnon ; May have heard
Wurdon grundlease Were unreasonable
Geates frige, Geat's courtships,
The hi seo sorg-lufu So thai from him, hapies* love,
Slaep ealle binom. All sleep took ;
Thaes ofereode. That he surmounted,
Thisses swa maeg. So may I this.
OLD SAXON POKK.
THE ensuing week was passed by Philip in in-
ducting his British lordship into the mysteries
of poker and American society. History does not
record the amount of British gold which found its
way into the pockets of our genial Yankee during
this period ; but it must have been large, for Phil
was unusually flush for several months afterward.
Lord John was possessed with the idea that every
American woman desired to marry him ; a pleasant
delusion of which Randolph was considerately slow
in disabusing him. The latter ineffable personage
derived vast amusement from this and other pecu-
liarities, and was fond of mystifying the stranger in
elaborate and ingenious ways. " The great thing,"
he would say, "with American girls, is to understand
that they observe absolutely no conventions, and will
stand any amount of knock-down flattery. Their
GUERNDALE. 2OJ
minds being rude and uncultivated, they can enjoy-
but the simplest and crudest forms of attention.
European finesse and English delicacy of persiflage
is quite lost upon them. Their characters being
wild and unformed, they have no notion of the ordi-
nary social trammels and polite observances. My
dear Lord John, you must say anything that comes
into your head, and do anything you like. That will
please them."
Whereupon Randolph would retire into a corner
and chuckle in solitude over the social mishaps
which attended the following his advice.
Fortunately his lordship was quite impervious to
snubs ; and his heart was also safe, being well
wadded with conceit. And if John Canaster returned
safe and unmarried to the maternal bosom of her anx-
ious Grace, it was because he was so convinced that
every one wished to wed him that he feared to ask any
one. The Oolongs of New York have to this day
never forgiven Randolph for persuading him to go to
their dinner in a velveteen shooting-jacket, and it is
currently believed that it was as much owing to the
corrupting counsel of Randolph as to the embold-
ening influence of the wine, that the noble English-
man got into that awkward row for kissing Miss
Pussie Van Dam upon the terrace.
A few days after the evening at the club, Guy grew
nervous at Newport. He felt, as he told Randolph,
a strong desire to be at work again ; so his host com-
passionately suffered him one Monday to take the
afternoon train for Boston, where Phil promised to
meet him in a few days. Guy had a restless fear of
204 GUERNDALE.
ennui, even for that short journey, and bestowed
himself in his seat well provisioned with novels and
newspapers. But I doubt if they got much more
attention from him than the scrub-oak woods and
rocky meadows through which the train rushed
northward. Coming at last to the city, he sent his
luggage in a cab, feeling that he would rather walk.
The evening was crisp and cool, and it was only a
detour of a block or so to go through the street
where the Bonnymorts lived. The house was lighted;
evidently they were come home. He could not, of
course, go in, but he lingered around the doorstep a
moment or two, and then walked behind the house
and home by the brink of the river. There was a
light in the second story room which he knew was
hers.
As he entered his own study he was almost over-
come by a cloud of dense tobacco smoke, through
which, when his eyes became accustomed to the
smart, he discerned the figure of John Strang, puf-
fing an enormous meerschaum, from which the cloud
proceeded. This worthy was sitting in the depths
of an arm-chair, at his elbow a huge jug of beer, and
a table which supported the elbow also ; his fist un-
der his chin, a slipper and an open book on the car-
pet before him. He did not see Guy for a minute ;
when he did, it was with a start of surprise.
" Guerndy, my boy, were you ever in love?"
"N-o; why?"
"I am."
"You ?"
GUEKNDALE. 20$
Guy fell upon a chair, and looked at Strang in
amazement.
"Ay in all the plenitude of youth and strength,
in the flush of promise man that I am I am in
love. I thought I would tell you. You would have
found it out anyway. Loss of appetite, general de-
bility, emaciation," and John took a pull at the jug
and relapsed into silence.
" You in love ? My dear fellow, if there is anything
I can do for you, you are sure of my sympathy "
" Hang your sympathy. Guy, this thing must be
studied scientifically, and firmly treated. I have
been deriving solace from literature, as you see."
And Strang indicated with his foot a volume of
Spencer on the ground before him. " Burton, in his
Anatomy, says the seat of this disease is in the liver.
Randolph's friend, Schopenhauer, says it is the affir-
mation of the will to live. The great Herbert grounds
it on the end of all nature processes the preserva-
tion of life. Anyhow, I have got it."
"What is more," continued Strang meditatively,
" I take it most unphilosophically, too. For, granted
that the reason of this idiocy on my part be well
grounded, why should the phenomena appear only
in connection with this particular girl ? The ends
of nature, obviously, would be as well subserved
with one woman as another. But to me the opera-
tion of the law is narrowed to this one particular ob-
ject. All the other women in the world are com-
pletely indifferent." And John sighed heavily, and
shook a bell at his side. " Mary ! Mary ! "
M Yes, sir ! " And the rapidity of her run up-stairs
2O6 GUERNDALE.
was evidence that John's nervous condition had been
of some duration.
" Another bottle of beer."
The door closed behind the not particularly neat-
handed Phillis, and John relapsed into silence. Guy
stared at him helplessly.
"Moreover," broke in John, "there is no satisfac-
tory method of explaining the infernal earnestness
of this thing. Spencer would not rank the perpetu-
ation of life as a more important end than the main-
tenance of it. But with me the maintenance of life
is of comparatively slight importance. I do not set
about getting my bread and butter with the blind, un-
governable passion that prompts me to send flowers
to her. I have been told that I am somewhat lazy in
earning my daily bread even with the added in-
ducement of beer and tobacco. Hang it, Guy, I
have the feeling of having lost control of myself. I
do not like it. I will not be made an ass of. I will
not get away from myself. She asked me to go and
see her this evening, and I am not going for that
very reason. Volition is liberty." And John re-
curred to his beer.
"May I ask who "
"What's the use? you'll find out soon enough."
"When did you meet her?"
"Last Tuesday."
"Is she clever?"
"Don't know."
"Pretty?"
" Don't know."
"Rich? "
GUERNDALE. 2O/
" Don't care."
" When do you mean to see her ? "
''When I've trained myself so that I don't care
whether I see her or not."
Guy smiled, and John continued to puff savagely.
" I saw Phil at Newport, John. He looks hand-
somer than ever, and is coming back to Boston this
winter. And you ought to see Randolph again \
He is the same gentle old cynic that he always was,
only mellowed a little, and I think -"
" What time is it, Guy?"
" Eight, or a little after, I believe," said Guy.
" Why ? "
" I think I'll go round there after all. It's not too
late, is it?"
" Round where ? "
"To see that -that girl I spoke of. I think it
might be rude if I didn't go."
Guy gave one of his fresh laughs, brought from
the mountains of Virginia. " And how about inde-
pendence and that sort of thing ?"
" I have been thinking of that, and it seems to me
that if she can control me, there is only one way for
me to regain my authority over myself : and that is,
to control her."
"And how do you mean to do that?"
44 1'li marry her." said John.
CHAPTER XXIII.
" God wot, sche slepeth softs,
For love of thee, when thou turnest ful ofte." CHAVCRR.
GUY did not sleep very well that night H
was nervous and excited ; and, in some war,
the light that streamed from the t\vo windows be-
neath which he had been, came stealing over the river
to fall into his own dark room. To-morrow even-
ing he should see her ; would to-morrow ever come ?
He tried to think of other things of Newport, of
Randolph, of Phil. Dear old Philip ! He would
wish him success, Guy knew. And lazy, jolly, placid
Randolph how little he knew the reason of hit
change, and what lay at the base of all Guy's energy.
Ah, well. Perhaps Randolph would not think evem
this reason enough.
However, work must not suffer ; so Guy rose a
usual and went to his school. The lectures were rather
prosy that morning ; and when he finally found him-
self alone, he set to work on some geological report.
But his thoughts did not flow so freely as usual ;
not even when he wrote the name Annie Bonnymort at
the top of the blank page. This had been his habit,
for some months, when the movements of the heart
GUERNDALE. 2O9
deranged the working of his intellect ; but to-day
he could not so drive her from his mind. How
would she seem that night ? How would she greet
him ? When he met her, would she be at all embar-
rassed ? Her letters had been natural enough, but
it is easy to avoid embarrassment on paper. Could
he still call her by her first name ? He doubted ;
certainly, it would not be easy for him. "Always
the same ; " yes, he would never forget. Always the
same, at the very least. . . . When did he first be-
gin to love her? He could not remember. He had
thought it was that last day of the walk in the
woods in Dale, but he saw now that this was only
the time when he first became conscious of it. Was
it when he first met her, after so many years, the
summer he left college ? No ; it must have been
before that, long before that ; before he went to col-
lege, perhaps even before he went to school. Was
it not for some such reason that he first persuaded
his mother to let him go to school ? Yet could he
really have been in love at the tender age of thirteen ?
He smiled to himself at the thought, but smiled se-
riously.
He did not mean, that evening, to ask her to marry
him. No, he must try a long time to win her, and yet
a longer time to be worthy of her. But at least he
might now begin trying to make her love him. There
was no longer any need for guarding the secret from
her so sacredly. She might begin to be conscious
of his love, even if years passed before he told her
it was the one thought of his life. How sacred,
sweet, serious, it all seemed so different from ths
210 GUEKNDALE.
triviality and silliness of courtship as it is drawn in
novels ; still more so from such love-making as was
talked of by Philip and his English friend.
At eight, after an hour of anxious preparation,
and not much dinner, he presented himself at the
Bonnymorts. Yes ; Miss Bonnymort was in, anu
would see him. As he entered, she rose with her
happy smile, and pressed his hand unaffectedly as he
sat down beside her. Her father, too, greeted him
most cordially, and had a providential engagement
for the evening ; leaving, as he kindly said, the two
young people to themselves. "And be sure you
don't go till I come back, sir ! " he said. Guy took
his seat again with a ilutter of expectation. But did
two hours ever pass more quickly ? And with so
little said of what he wished to say. He felt ner-
vously that the moments were flying by, and that,
perhaps, he had best tell her that evening; but it
seemed to him when he rose to go that they had
been like children together : he might have been a
boy in Dale, and she a little girl with heart bent on
ferns and flowers, instead of a man and woman in
evening dress, meeting in a city drawing-room. They
talked, as usual, much of Philip, and Annie said,
with a little playful petulance, that he had not been
to see her. As Guy walked home, he thought with
much satisfaction that Mr. Bonnymort was a man of
the world, and must have meant the encouragement
he had given him. How gracious she had been, and
yet how sweet and natural ! "Was there ever any one
who walked so like a grande dame, and bore her small
tead so regally, who had yet such soft eyes as Annie ?
GUERNDALE. 211
All that was bad and weak in him seemed to sink
before them, to fade in their light. How right he
was in loving her !
So Guy was thinking as he opened the door of his
parlor; but, as he turned the knob, he shrank back,
abashed to find himself in such a blaze of light.
There were Philip and Lord John Canaster and half
a dozen other men having high supper. John Strang
had relinquished his accustomed easy-chair to his dis-
tinguished guest ; but he sat in a corner puffing the
usual pipe, and was evidently "taking in" his lord-
ship with a lively interest and admiration. Lord John
was quite the centre of the circle, and, being in a
genial and unbending mood, was telling stories ad-
mirably calculated to bring a blush to the cheek of
the least fastidious. Phil was in more than usually
good voice and laugh, fresh from cricket in the
country and still flushed, having ridden in to dinner.
Randolph, he said, was coming up to-morrow, and
would probably be at Miss Bonnymort's "coming-
out " ball the next evening. " You know, Canaster,"
he said ; " the little girl we were talking about at
Newport the other day." Yes, Canaster remem-
bered. "What a devilish cranky fellow that Ran-
dolph is, though ! By Jove, you can't make out
whether he is chaffing a fellow or not."
"Randolph is an ass," said Phil, jovially. "But I
tell you what, John, old man, now you must see some
of our Boston girls. Lord knows, I'm tired enough
of 'em myself, but they may amuse a stranger."
" Speaking of girls," said Tom Brattle, " have you
heard the story they tell about Mrs. Bill Willing ? "
2 1 2 GUERNDALE.
"Mrs. Bill Willing," said Phil, ''is my cousin.
Still, no matter ; go ahead. Fair game."
" Don't let a little matter of family trees stand in
the way of a good story ! " laughed Lord John.
" Certainly not," said Tom. " Well, you see, Bill
returned from Colorado one evening, and found his
wife had gone to a party ; so what does he do but
pop on his dress clothes and follow her. It was in
Washington, at a ball given by the Mexican Minis-
ter. And there he finds Mrs. Bill alone in the con-
servatory, her partner gone for an ice or something,
and she was waiting for him ; so he thinks it would
be no end of a joke to steal up behind her, and kiss
her and make her scream. So he up and did it."
"Well, is that all?"
"Don't see the point, if he did make her scream."
"Low kind of humor, practical joking."
"But," said Brattle, relapsing into a laugh, "the
point is just that he didn't make her scream ! Bill
kissed her, and Mrs. W. looked around, and saw her
husband. Then she screamed ! "
" Speaking of the Willings," said Phil, after a
roar of laughter, " Bill's sister reminds me of that
little Bec-de-gaz, as the men used to call her in Paris.
Do you remember what eyes she had ? And, gad,
John, that night when you and Bixby and I had that
supper at the Cafe Americain ? By Jove, how "
" Oh, hang it, Phil, give us a song, and don't
let's have post-mortems of past dinners. It makes
me melancholy dyspeptic, in fact. Besides, I hate
to talk about girls ; it's bad enough to have to
tcik to them. Why, Mr. Strang, that man's success
GUERNDALE. 213
among the er-coryphe'es and things, in Paris, you
know, was amazing. As to society, I can't judge
over here. But I've no doubt he's equally irresistible."
"Well, the fact is," said Phil modestly, " I've usu.
ally found that what goes down with one kind goei
down with the other properly veiled, you know,
and all that sort of thing. There ain't so much dif-
ference after all. Women are very much alike."
Phil's voice was very rich and fine ; and he sang
his songs with a masculine voice that was irresistible.
Then he drifted off into a lot of French couplets,
with a Tzz'ttjf-la-la ! Tzi/ig-la.-la I catch and snap ;
while the other men drank and told stories, and told
stories and drank, and smoked between times.
Strang, I think, did not admire Phil as much as the
rest of us did, and he grew visibly impatient under
the long evening. Finally, when Phil insisted on his
bringing out the card-table, he left Guy to play the
host and went to bed. Guy had been silent and
distrait all the evening ; and now he felt a sudden
anger, a want of sympathy with their moods and
minds. He wondered if Phil thought ever of the
room and presence he had just left. He had warmly
defended his friend to her, that night ; but now he
could not help wishing he would be a little different
About midnight there was a gentle knock at the
door, and Randolph stood on the threshold, well
dressed, in a loose travelling suit, with a thin um-
brella. Randolph had plenty of luggage, but he
never troubled himself with a hand-bag, or carried
anything more than a light stick or umbrella in his
hand.
214 GUERNDALE.
"You fellows seem to be burning considerable of
the candle off at the other end," he said, quietly.
" You look like the latter end of a misspent life,
already. Guy, my boy, I want a bed. I do not wish
to burst too suddenly upon the domestic hearth.
Meantime, shall I take a hand ? Whist is the best
game, though. Philip, do you know why they had
just eight people in the Ark ? It was to make two
tables for whist. Guy, go to bed. You look tired."
After some excuses, Guy was persuaded. Phil
and the bluff Englishman showed no signs of fatigue ;
and while Tom Brattle dozed peacefully on a lounge,
the others sat and played. Although Randolph had
been in the cars all day, he played a beautiful game ;
and when they stopped, his pale face shone serene
and victorious over the tobacco-mists of the battle-
field and a smell of brandy. Guy, in the next room,
Was asleep and dreaming.
CHAPTER XXIV.
* And I've a Lady
I would put
My cheek beneath that Lady's foot,
Rather than trample under mine
The laurels of the Florentine.
So is my spirit, as flesh with sin,
Filled full, eaten out and in.
With the face of her, the eyes of her,
The lips and little chin, the stir
Of shadow round her mouth ; and she
I'll tell you cshnly would decree
That I should roast at a slow fire,
If that would compnss her desire
And make her one whom they invite
To the famous ball to-morrow night." R. BROWNING.
" T T ELLO, John, good morning ! Haven't seen
JL JL you since you got sober ! "
"Now look here," said John, as he came striding
into the study, rosy with ten hours' sleep and keen
for breakfast, " I am not straight-laced, nor unduly
prejudiced. But if this retired and modest bach-
elor's apartment is to be turned into a nocturnal
gambling-hell, and blinded and shuttered in the day-
time to preserve the noonday slumbers of exhausted
debauchees, I "
" Rise above your predilections, John, and do not
get excited before breakfast or after, either. Take
a little seltzer, mitigated with brandy.
\
2l6 GUERNDALE.
\
Oft have we seen him, at the break of day,
Wash with cold seltzer the cobwebs away,
That cloyed his throat from yester-e'en's carouse.*
Guy, sweet youth, thy eyes do but mislead the morn
Send for some more coffee and a cigarette, if you
have got one. I made a lot of money for you last
night, and all I crave in return is board and lodg-
ing. My family don't know I'm in town. To-day
is Sunday ; when I feel able to bear the splendor of
their company, I may venture out. Possibly by
Tuesday or thereabouts. Meantime, I have been to
early service at a little ritualistic chapel I discovered
near by, where they haven't half a bad idea of in-
toning "
"From cards to church, from church to cynic
sneers," sighed Guy. " You really ought not to mix
things up so, old man. It is so hard to think you
are in earnest in anything," he added, pathetically.
" Is it, really ! By Jove ! " laughed Randolph.
" Well, there are your ill-gotten gains ! " pointing
to a heap of notes on the table.
"Which of course I shall not take," said Guy.
" Well, give them to the poor of the ward, for all
I care or to Harvard College. Ha ! where's John
Strang ! "
* John is off his feed," laughed Guy.
"In love?"
" He won't mind my telling you, if he is."
"What, that man of success that hero for a Sun-
day-school biography that walking epitome of the
development of the natural resources of the country ?
Well, I shall be delighted to see the comedy. He
GUERNDALE. 2I/
must be more fun than Falstaff. How is she fas-
cinating and false, or true and common-place ? Those
are the only two varieties I know. Has he any chance
of success ? Strang is not a rich man."
" Come, Norton, you don't think girls nowadays
marry for money ? "
"No; I don't think they do. Oh, no. They
marry for love. But they are uncommonly apt to
fall in love with a rich man. Hallo, Strang ! " he
cried, as that worthy entered. " Is this true I hear
about you and Miss ? "
John looked up with a feeble pretence of laughing
it off ; but his eyes fell, and he tumbled crestfallen
into a chair.
" Oh that men should put things in their hearts to
filch their brains away !." sighed Randolph. " Why,
John, I have known you a right merry fellow, and
as ready with a kiss or a blow as any in all Nevr
England ! "
" Norton you will not talk of it, I know ; and I
want your advice. From Guy, here, I have no se-
crets."
"Well, fire away, John. Alas!" groaned Ran-
dolph, comically, " how true it is, that in the stream
of life, when the iron pot meets the earthenware
feminine jar, it is not the delicate vase, but the
hardy pot, that bursts a hole in its side and sinks to
the bottom ! Who is she ? "
" It is quite unnecessary," said John, "for you to
know that. Suffice it to say that I am, if you will
for once excuse profanity, in a hell of a fix."
"My poor Strephon," replied Randolph syrnpa-
10
2l3 GUERNDALE.
thetically, "this world is hell only we do notknovi
it And the hell of it is that we do not know it.
Well, first, and most important : of course, you must
never let the lady know you care for her."
" The devil ! " cried John, " I almost told her that
the first day I knew it myself ! "
" If you had, it would -have been all up with you.
At least, it is infinitely more difficult The hardest
way to win a woman's love is by loving her. That,
when she mentally casts you up, will be the least oi
your attractions "
"I don't see why," broke in John and Guy.
" Of course you don't, my children. But it is true.
For, on the one hand, it is hard for a woman to re-
spect a man fool enough to love her ; and, on the
other hand, she thinks it no merit in him, as it is a
thing which every man ought to do. Le chemin le
plus difficile a tin ccrur de femmt, Sesf celui de f amour
crede experto. See also Sir John Denham :
He that will win his dame most do
As Lore does when he bends his bow :
With one hand thrust the lady from.
And with the other poll her home ! ' "
" I believe," said John, " you don't know half so
much as you pretend to, and are nothing but a walk-
ing, chattering farrago of quotations"
" II y a dans ce monde si feu de wi.r, et tant oTichoSj
said Goethe. I am one of the echoes."
" But what am I to do ?"
" I admit it is very difficult," said Randolph.
" Usually a woman knows that a man is in love with
her before he knows it himself. Still, do not let he/
GUERNDALE.
think your attentions are what the little dears call
' serious.' The longer you keep from proposing, the
more she will respect your self-control and admire
you as something difficult to obtain. As the best
way of flirting with a woman is to make her think
you want to marry her, so the best way to marry a
woman is to make her think you only want to flirt
with her."
" Oh, don't, Norton ; I hate to hear you talk that
way," broke in Guy..
Randolph cast a side glance, and went on.
" Another thing, Strang do not treat her with too
much respect. It is very true what Phil Symonds
said the other night Much the same sort of thing
pleases women of the whole world and the half.
Deference is out of date. Reverence makes them
laugh at you. Have free-and-easy manners. Give
. them plenty of chaff and bonhomie. Don't be afraid
of squeezing a hand or so when you happen to be
given it Don't try to touch their hearts, but tickle
their vanity. Make yourself the thing ; they prize
the lover's ton, not the lover's tone ; and treat your
special Dulcinea more after Sancho's fashion than
the Don's. As Phil says, a firm hand is the thing,
both for women and horses."
'* Phil never talked that way ! " said Guy, defend-
ing his friend.
'* Oh, yes," said Randolph, " Phil is a man of
sense. There is no better training for the game
of women of society than the earnest of the women
Phil met abroad. Another thing, Strang ; if you
have any earnestness, solid worth, and that sort oi
220 GUERNDALE.
thing, be sure you keep it out of sight, for it will
frighten the modern maiden as much as a dull ser-
mon. The venerable Lao-Tse, who, as I once before
remarked, wrote twelve hundred years before St
Paul and three thousand years before La Rochefou-
cauld, said that men should seek for light, not glitter.
And Goethe made a modern application of the an-
cient Chinese philosophy, by saying that women
liked Glanz, nicht Licht. They will love you, or at
least pretend to, not for what you are, but for what
you seem to be."
Guy got up, and walked nervously up and down
the room.
"Yes," Randolph went on, "Women like men of
distinction ; but it is for the distinction alone. Thus,
a title is always irresistible, if only decently backed
up. It is His Excellency, not his excellences, that
they adore. And be sure of this : she may fall in
love with you, but it will not be because you are
worth marrying ; but for some whim of fancy, some
caprice, because she thinks another girl wants you ;
some vanity, if you are generally considered desir-
able."
" A fellow who has sisters has no business to talk
so ! " growled Guy.
"Simmer, my fair idealist, simmer. I don't say
these girls don't make very fine wives, like Rip Van
Winkle's Dutchwomen, when you do get them. The
breed is immensely improved on being domesticated.
Then they cease. to be girls, and become women;
and before they are caught and securely penned up,
it is, perhaps, fair that they should have their fling
GUERNDALE. 22 1
ind do all the harm they can. When they know
good from evil they usually have sense enough to
choose the good. To conclude, John, never trust
them. Pretend, of course, to put all the confidence
in them you like ; but never forget that women have
no sense of honor. They may be sweet, fascinating,
gentle ; but magnanimity is the man's prerogative.
And as to sisters, Guy, it is perhaps because I have
them that I know so much more of the female girl
than you do. Strong, masculine creatures, like John
here, idealize women terribly. It is the man that
supplies the romance ; women are intensely prac-
tical. They are not half the ethereal creatures you
think them ; nor so refined, so pure-minded "
Bang ! went the door, as Guy left the room. Ran-
dolph laughed softly, and going to the mantel lit a
pipe.
"Not half of this I meant for you, John," said he.
But Guy was quite angry with Randolph and,
gaining the street, walked rapidly away. It was a
crisp October afternoon ; the parks and avenues
passed by unheeded, and his stride of four miles an
hour soon took him out of the town. As he glanced
carelessly down the street, he saw a lady's figure far
ahead ; suddenly his eyes fell, and he felt sure it was
Annie. He wished to avoid her, and, walking by,
found embarrassment in the act of raising his hat,
usually a simple thing enough.
Gradually the houses fell away ; then he left the
main road for a green lane ; that again for the
woods ; and soon he was wandering in the hills. His
, step grew slower as he picked his way among the
222 GUERNDALE.
trees. They were already half bare ; so that the
sun's rays slanted far within the wood, and fell
warm upon the heaped brown leaves.
Randolph's words faded from his memory, and he
thought only of Annie. Ah, if poor Norton had
only known a woman like her! Coming out of the
woods, he threw himself upon the brow of a hill.
It was a wonderful afternoon ; the dark sweep of
forest lay in a glow of the Indian summer ; the sky
was a golden blue. Long silken skeins were float-
ing in the air, those threads of gossamer that come
no whence and go no whither.
Yes, Annie must love him ; he had so long and so
truly loved her. Such love as his must meet with some
return, he thought, unconsciously quoting Brown-
ing ; else there was no right nor reason in the world.
He did think of Dante's line "Love, which suf-
fers no one loved to love not in return." When he
came back he propounded this to Randolph.
"Ah," said he, " Dante wrote before modern social
refinements. Still, he had been through hell, and
ought to know." This remark was made by Ran-
dolph, leaning against a door-post at the party that
evening.
The party, he said, was much as usual. There was
the usual number of simple youths, though con-
ceited, and girls, commonplace and undeveloped.
He pointed out to Guy the young man of society, at
the feet of such young ladies as were most the thing,
hastily recognizing or cannily avoiding such as were
less favored. Happy fellow ! He has risen at ten,
dawdled at the club, called on his particular female
GUERNDALE. 223
friends of the day ; now he has come from a dinner,
and, retiring to rest, will consider the day well spent
according to the number of invitations he has re-
ceived or the favors accorded him in the cotillon.
Mild and humanized is this modern Don Juan ; little
hurtful to women, more to men, most of all to him-
self. Here you might sec the maiden of the same
order ; too frivolous for friendship, scornful of the
follies of love, nurtured solely on admiration, she
gauges men by the ease with which they talk small-
talk and the demand made upon them for dinners
and coaching parties. She regards marriage, except
under particularly brilliant circumstances, as an
eclipse a sort of drear necessity. But at the same
time she likes to have men in love with her, though
it is a passion she cannot understand. By a wise
provision of nature, she is not of a calibre to break
many hearts ; and when she is married she will try to
make her married life as much like her single life as
she can in all respects.
Here, again, you might see the gay young man of
business, greeting the ladies he knows with jolly
familiarity and good fellowship. He is bright ; but
his time is too much occupied for more than parties,
chaff, and club gossip ; he has plenty of " go " and
snap in society, and is known down town as a
" pushing young fellow." He reads newspapers, not
books; knows everybody "in society ;" and is liked
by " the girls " far more than this other young man,
who is critical with culture, and serious with thought,
and quite snubbed in a ball-room.
There you might see the young married belle,
224 GUERNDALE.
more successful than the debutante, happy with six
bouquets and the prospect of a late supper, affecting,
with rude half-imitation, the immorality of older and
more corrupt societies. Not that there is any real
crime oh, no, we are too weak for that. See, she
is angry now ; she sees her bosom friend with a new
set of diamonds, and will revenge herself by flirting
with the husband and giver thereof.
And here, Randolph might have added, is a young
lady, with beauty and intelligence and education
and purity and gentle breeding as never elsewhere
in the world before America gave her birth. And
there a young salesman, or physician, mayhap, as
wise as Galen, as pure as a woman, as chivalrous as a
Bayard ; and withal, this modest young citizen of a
Republic, all apothecary that he is, or tradesman, is
as true a gentleman as you shall find elsewhere in
the world. And here is Guyon Guerndale ; and, if
you follow his eye, you will see Annie Bonnymort.
A number of men are about her, all adoring her,
Guy fears. He is an imaginative fellow ; but it is
quite beyond the power of his imagination to picture
a man who knows Annie and is not in love with her.
After all, how can he, among so many, be the one to
win her? It gives him no claim that he would and
will live and die for her. Any one would do that, he
thinks. So he goes up to her timidly, and is re-
warded by a pressure of the hand when she leaves
with her partner for the cotillon. " See, are not
these roses lovely ? " she says, showing him a great
scarlet mass ; and then she takes one of them and
puts it in his coat one of his own roses ; for Gup
GUERNDALB. 22$
had sent to Virginia for^hem the day before. " She
must know who sent them," Guy thinks, "for there
Was no card with them, and she would not have
worn them if she had not guessed." She had helped
to make this intimacy between them ; and now all
he had to do was to turn her old friendship into love.
So Guy goes up to Randolph, who is still leaning
against the wall, pulling his slender, fair moustache ;
so radiant that Randolph smiles to see him.
"Well, Don Quixote, have you conquered an en-
chanted island, or what ? "
Guy can afford to laugh, to-night, at his old friend's
cynicism. "You are the Don Quixote, old fellow,
leaning on a shivered lance, and looking uselessly on.
Can no one here tempt you to break a lance your-
self?"
" Oh dear, oh dear ! " muttered Randolph. " My
young Don, remember the words of the old Don,
grown old and dying 'You'll find no new bird in
any last year's nest.' "
Guy looked at Randolph rather vaguely. " Try
and fall in love, Norton," said he.
" Odzooks, youngster ! Quien se casa per amores
ha de vivir con dolores he who houses himself with
love will have trouble for a housemate. But you
are young yet you'll get over it. Aha ! that merry
fellow, Strang. Prithee, sweet wag, an it like thee,
a cup of sack were no bad thing ! Go to ! Let us
to the supper room." And he dragged Guy with
him into the anteroom, among a group of men, wherg.
Phil Symonds was prominent, drinking champagne
and condemning its quality, while Phil himself told
10*
226 GUERNDALE.
stories. Randolph turned around for Strang, but he
had vanished ; and they stood at the door of the ball-
room, looking on. The floor was crowded with dan-
cers, some solemn of countenance, others laughing ;
some flushed with excitement, others pale. The less
splendid members of society stood at the doors and
looked on enviously. There was a harsh chatter
of many voices, broken by the blare of a cornet.
The air was hot and intensely close, heavy with a
smell of supper and wax and lights. Little scraps
of lace and tulle littered the floor, and were whirled
about in the vortex of the dancers, like autumn
leaves.
" Tattersall's ! " growled Randolph. " Guy, don't
forget the moribund Don's discovery, and seek for
the birds of this year in the nests of the last. Ah,
who is that bucolic young creature leaning on the
arm of Lord John, and looking for all the world as
if he interested her ? "
" Don't you know her ? Miss Kitty Cotton. She's
a bud. Isn't she pretty, with her bright rosy face ?
She always reminds me of Maud Miiller."
" Yes," grinned Randolph, looking at Lord John,
"Maud Miiller, with a rake. I hate to think ofj
that gross fellow rumbling through the maiden med-
itations of our fancy free. He judges Miss Cotton,
now, as he would a horse. Still, she looks pleased.
Perhaps she is willing to have him take her at his
own valuation. Tattersall's, again. Ah, there goes
your friend Symonds ; dancing with Miss Bonny-
mort I see."
"Yes," said Guy. "Just like Phil; he hates so-
GUERNDALE. 22/
ciety ; but this is her first party, and he wants it to
be pleasant for her. He is her cousin, you know. So
he is introducing all the best men to her, and dan-
cing the cotillon with her himself."
" She ought to enjoy herself, I'm sure," Randolph
replied, gravely. " You know her very well, don't
you ? "
" Yes," said Guy, and felt himself blushing, and
was angry with himself for it.
" Miss Bonnymort is a very charming young lady."
Guy said nothing.
" Hallo," Randolph went on, in a moment, "look
at John Strang ! Dancing the german too ! "
Sure enough, John was sitting with pretty Miss
Kitty Cotton. His elbows were squared upon his
hat, and he stared straight forward with an air a's if
studying a chain of mountains opposite for a practi-
cable opening for a railway. Lord John sat in the
row behind, leaning over Miss Cotton's white shoul-
der, and pouring candied nothings in her ear. On
Strang's red face was an expression of blended rage
and martyrdom.
" Maud Mliller, by Jove ! " said Randolph,
Maud Miiller it certainly was.
CHAPTER XXV.
" She should never have looked at me
If she meant I should not love her !
There are plenty men, you call such,
I suppose she may discover
All her soul to. if she pleases,
And yet leave much as she found them :
But I'm not so, and she knew it.
When she fixed me, glancing round them." R. RROWNIMO.
to Europe with me, Guy," said Ran-
dolph.
" Oh, no ! " said Guy, surprised, " Oh, no. I>
got too much to do."
" Bosh ! " answered the other, wearily.
This interesting conversation took place one snowy
afternoon of that winter. Randolph, ensconced in
the sofa in Guy's room, was taking life with the
good-natured resignation that was usual with him.
He was a most beautiful and artistic loafer, a green
oasis in the desert of American social life, as some
travelled American, resident in Rome, once said of
him. Merely to smoke a cigar with him was almost
as good as a day in Naples. He bore about him a
mellow atmosphere of intellectual languor that was
quite Italian.
" You ought to do something," Guy added, gravely.
"I do. I am a microcosm of the day. I reflect
GUERNDALE.
the manners, customs, and ideas of the time. 1 can
say, like Dobson's sun-dial :
I am a Shade : a Shadow too arte thon ;
I mark the time ; saye, Gossip, dost thou so ?'
Bah ! my dear boy, don't blame me. It is the age
we live in, as Dante Savage said when blamed with
being Agnostic, Ritualist, Comtist, and Pagan, all
in one day. Besides, I have a work before me. I
think of marching to the relief of Candahar."
Guy looked at Randolph dubiously, uncertain
whether he were in earnest or not. For he was quite
capable of turning up at Candahar the day after
to-morrow, or at any other place.
"America," murmured Randolph, "has had two
great missions. Her first, was to liberate the world.
Her present one is to vulgarize it. She is now a co-
lossal market. I am not in the market. So, occasion-
ally, I have to fly from America and from other com-
mercial countries, to brush off the dust of business in
foreign fields. Now and then, like the raven, I re-
turn to look for the first glimpses of civilization above
the traffic sea. But I have not yet detected so much
as a darned sand-bank. No, it is not all affected
prejudice. There is something narrowing and dark
about trade. Anciently, civilization was based on
the superiority of one man over another in nobler
qualities ; now it is all, who can get the best of the
bargain. Now, it is to sell ; formerly it was to ex-
cel. Everything nowadays is made to be sold ; just
as political economy teaches that all values depend
on exchange, not possession. A man has ability,
230 GUERNDALE.
brains what will it bring ? A girl has beauty, pu-
rity, refinement what can she get with them ? A
man has acquired reputation, honor what shall be
given for them ? There was a deeply philosophical
youngster down in Maine, to whom his father gave
a long lecture on the great value of a good name, ac-
quired by long years of probity and honorable con-
duct But when ought I to sell it, pa ? said he.
You know the latest decalogue ?
Swear not at all ; for of thy curse
Thine enemy is none the worse:
Thou shall not steal ; an empty feat.
When it's so lucrative to cheat :
Thou shall not covet ; but tradition
Approves all forms of competition! '
Great heavens, my mother wants me to go into busi-
ness. I don't want to make a fortune any more than
I want to go to Congress ; and I couldn't do either.
Modern trade is simply low competition ; vying with
Chinese in petty shifts, and Jews in meanness, and
Yankees in ' financial irregularities.' If you are
sharp and unscrupulous, and popular with vulgar
acquaintances, and don't mind lying a good deal, you
will get along perhaps. But you must practise
taking advantage of your neighbor ; soliciting fa-
vors from men you despise ; accompanying your Jew
correspondents and country customers on low touri
of city dissipation. And you must make yourself
used to crooked ways of attaining your ends ; if you
wish your customer to buy one piece of goods, you
must make him think you wish to sell him another.
Even then, the squarely dishonest man, your compel-
GUERNDALE. 231
itor, buying on credit, making pretence without
capital, who can content himself with a shaving of
profit, and does not mean to pay if things go wrong,
has an immense advantage over you. Worst of all,
you must suit yourself, just as you suit your goods,
to the taste of commercial travellers and drummers ;
you must tell their stories, and sing their songs
songs like that one Hackett used to sing in college ;
and if you wish to retain any part of your gentle self,
you must change your manners, tastes, views of life,
character, every time you change your coat for din-
ner, and keep your social life in the evening totally
distinct from your business life in the day. That this
is impossible, American society is beginning to show."
"You do not mean half of that."
" True, on the other hand, our country (I will not
say our civilization) is an immense success. Hog
and hominy we can produce in quantities hitherto
unknown. And for any one whose wants are lim-
ited, metaphorically speaking, by hog and hominy,
America is a paradise."
" But the professions are different from the dry
goods business "
" Not a bit. Sharp practice and vulgarity in
smaller lumps, that is all. But why, in the name of
Lucretius, do you do anything ? The highest aim of
life is self-expansion ; assertion of one's essence, as
Arnold says. America may be the place for Strang
and Symonds, but not for you."
" Because I entirely disagree with you. I believe
in America, her civilization, and her future. And J
mean to take an active part in it myself."
GUERNDALE.
" Ah, well," said Randolph, relapsing into lan-
guor, "pardon my suggestion. When you find your-
self ready to adopt it, I will meet you in Florence.
Where is John ? "
" Calling on Miss Kitty Cotton, I fancy. I wonder
if there is any chance of her loving him ? "
"Loving? Miss Cotton loving? God bless my
soul, Guy, don't use such improper expressions."
Guy laughed. " What new crank have you got
now, old fellow ? "
" It is very evident, Guy, that you hare not felt
the refining influence of sisters. Both your mind
and your language need chastening. Had you been
one of a numerous family, you would have learned
that the young ladies of our sort of people may like
a man, but never love him. They would shrink
from it as improper."
" Correct me as you please ! " laughed Guy.
" To put your thought in refined language, such
as I hear used by my sisters and their friends, the
question is : Will she take him ? That will depend
upon another question : Can she do better ? Now, if
you pass John's merits into the personal equation of
her mind, you have the exact mathematical proba-
bility of her marrying him. The common sense of
our fair friends may be trusted implicitly. At least
in one respect, we have arrived at the golden age.
We might leave our young ladies of society with
silken ladders from every window, and not so mnch
as a serenade, far less an elopement, would ensue.
Chaperons are now a sort of survival from past
conditions. Like the buttons on the tail of a dress-
GUERNDALE. 233
coat, they are merely conventional ornaments 01
appendages."
" Good Gad ! " Randolph went on, sleepily.
"Fancy a girl's allowing her heart to fall in love
without a warrant duly signed and countersigned
from the head ! Time enough for her to love after
she is married, when she hasn't anything better
to do ! "
At this juncture a heavy step was heard upon the
stairs, stamping louder as it approached ; the door
was flung open, and John Strang walked in, hurled
himself savagely upon a reclining-chair, which
crushed under him, and left him prostrate amid
the debris, whence he called feebly for beer.
' ' Why so pale and wan, fond lover ?
Prithee, why so pale ? ' "
quoted Randolph. " Ah, John this comes of seek-
ing to perpetuate the universal evil of birth and
death. The best gift is a hard heart and a good
digestion.
For man may love of possibility
A woman so, his herte may to-breste
And she nought love ageyn, but if hire leste. ' "
John gave a grunt of approval.
" How idiotic it is ! A man develops his character
slowly, acquires his education bit by bit, builds up
his strength, and then paf ! it is all beside the point ;
and the sole question is whether the result happens
to be pleasing to some chit of a girl. If all that he
has made himself does not suit her, let him go hang
234 GUERNDALE.
Well, if the assault is to be fatal and final, don't let
it come too early."
" Bosh ! " said John. " Women are like stinging-
nettles. Handle 'em boldly, and they don't hurt."
" Now, with some men I know," Randolph went
on, " to be deeply in love is like the state of having
committed some disgraceful act. A person who
loves sincerely is usually laughed at by the world ;
and the more earnest he is, the more ridiculous he
becomes. He must keep it secret, like shame. His
best friends must not know of it ; and the stronger
and purer it is, the harder it is for him to disguise
it, and the more necessary for him to adopt the
commonplace and degrading pleasures of those about
him. Purity in a man is bad policy ; it gives him a
reverence for women fatal in love affairs ; they like
to be treated as a polite man treats a woman of the
demi-monde. But tell me, John, since you are bent
on continuing the evils of birth, death, sickness, and
old age has your dulcinea the marks of perfection
which the divine Buddh tells us they should possess ?
Are her gait, limbs, and figure perfect ? Is she fond
of pleasant recreations ? Heart virtuously submis-
sive ? Handy in female pursuits ? No levity ? Hating
sensuality, anger, and doubt ? Ah, me ; I fear few of
our modern belles would pass the old Hindoo tests."
But John was silent. Either he was provoked at
Randolph's raillery, or he regretted his early confi-
dence, and did not wish to talk about his troubles. In-
stead of replying, he filled his pipe; and his visage grew
once more serene under a softening halo of smoke.
"Ah," said Randolph, "that theory that this world
GUERNDALE. 235
is hell, and we are all the bad people of another world,
being punished here for the crimes we committed
there, would be a very consoling one if it were true.
But conscious existence vibrates like a pendulum
between pain and ennui. Why do you lovers seek
to perpetuate it ? We look in the tumult of this
world ; we see all men occupied with its torments,
uniting all their efforts to satisfy endlessly recurring
needs, to preserve themselves from a thousand forms
of misery ; and we know that they can dare to hope
for nothing more than the preservation, for a short
time, of the consciousness which makes this suffering
possible. And behold ! In the middle of the mess
we see two lovers making sheeps-eyes at each other.
Why do they clothe it in such mystery ? Why so
shy and shamefaced ? Because lovers are traitors v
They work in secret to perpetuate a state of affairs
which, without their meddling, might come to an
end. Now a girl, at least, marries for sensible, solid
reasons money, and position, and so forth."
John feebly kicked his heels against his chair, but
Randolph had found a new text, and went on.
" Why, after all, should we blame a girl for being
ambitious ? Are men, then, totally free from that
fault ? Most men give their lives to it."
"Men," broke in Guy, "are usually ambitious
because they love their wives and children, or wish
to win a woman, or have a desire for fame. But they
rarely mix ambition with love, and scarce one but
would sacrifice ambition for love."
" Doubted. Besides, consider a woman has only
one way of exercising ambition ; that is, to make a
236 GUERNDALE.
brilliant marriage. But men have a thousand ways
They have money, power, fame to seek for always ;
they can be all their lives bettering themselves. A
woman can only do so once. After marriage she has
no field except a limited social possibility ; and even
that depends upon the husband she has chosen. It is
certainly very unfortunate that this one opportunity
of worldly aggrandizement should be found in love,
which we like to keep somewhat poetical. It is sad
that what to a man is the highest period of his life,
when he shows the noblest emotions, should be to a
woman the lowest, when she displays the most sordid
motives. Undoubtedly in a love affair the man usually
appears better than the woman. He is particularly
ideal, she uncommonly real. That is why he is the
one that is ridiculed. Who ever laughed at the beg-
gar maid for marrying King Cophetua ? But how
can we blame the dear creatures for using the one
chance they have ? Besides, it may be the affair of
instinct, not of calculation. We learn from St. Her-
bert Spencer that those creatures survive which have
tastes best fitted to their environment, so perhaps we
have evolved a breed of girls with hearts only capa-
ble of loving eligible men."
Guy was impatiently tapping the window-pane.
John smoked grimly. Randolph, though usually a
tactful man, went on.
"A philosopher like you, Strang, should learn to
take women as they are. I am willing to admit that
every girl starts in life with an ideal romantic
enough to suit Guy himself. But she soon learns
that she cannot realize the ideal ; and the next best
GUERNDALE. 237
thing is to idealize the real. And it is easier to get
money and position, and idealize upon that founda-
tion, than it is to realize true love and attempt by
idealizing to supply money and position. Ah, if it
were not for the plain, practical good sense of our
American girls what would become of us ! Bless
the dear creatures bless them ! "
"Oh, stop him, somebody," groaned John, feebly.
" Please pass the tobacco-jar, Guy, and ask that
sour-minded Cassandra if he will please be so kind as
to go to the devil where he belongs."
" My boy, if I only had a devil to go to, I should
be perfectly happy. A devil, or a wife, or some-
thing of the sort something to believe in, at all
events, whether to cherish or eschew. A dear old
Bible verb, that last ? "
" Randolph," said Guy earnestly, "do you seri-
ously, at your age of twenty-seven, pretend to disbe-
lieve in all women ? "
" How grave we are, all of a sudden ! But please
don't accuse me of saying things for effect. I may
say things half in earnest but that is quite differ-
ent. Really, if I could say anything wholly in ear-
nest, I would. But I am more in earnest in my half-
earnestness, than that amiable old blatherskite I
heard preach last Sunday was in his whole earnest-
ness. As for women, they
Ever prefer the audacious, the wilful, the vehement hero ,
She has no heart for the timid, the sensitive soul ; and for knowl
edge,
Knowledge, O ye Gods 1 when did they appreciate knowledge ?
Wherefore should they, either ? I am sure I do mot desire it.' "
238 GUERNDALE.
"Well, but answer my question and stop that
drivel of quotation," added Strang.
"Well, O Yankee, well if I disbelieved in all
women, I should be wholly in earnest in saying so ;
which, from the nature of my character, is impossi.
ble. Q. E. D. Seriously, then Did you ever read,
in the Demi-Monde, Dumas's allegory of the peches d
quinze sous? He says, you go to the market, you
find a basket of peaches : they are large, ripe, fresh,
fragrant, perfect one franc apiece. Next to this
basket you find another. It contains peaches of the
same size, the same appearance, apparently the same
freshness and perfection. But you examine each
one closely, and you find in each one just something
lacking. Here it is a speck ; this is a bit hard ;
another a trifle over-ripe. They are peaches d quinze
sous. "
"Well?"
"Well. I don't deny that genuine girls still exist
I suppose they still grow, like sound claret and pure
Havana tobacco. But they are not found at every
dinner party ; they are not to be got at each market
in Tattersall's. And this is how : the most fatal of
gifts for a woman is fascination. If she once gets
that, she loses the natural desire for the love of one ;
she must have the admiration of ail ; and becomes
not a peche d quinze sous, but a peche a quinze francs.
Did you ever go to the exhibition of a horticultu-
ral society ? There you will find baskets of peaches
d quinze /rants. They are far superior to ordinary
peaches ; larger, rounder, richer ; not a fault in
their fragrance, not a blemish in their bloom. There
GUERNDALE. 239
they lie, admired by all that come to the fair, with
the steady, lasting blush of beauty, not of modesty.
All praise them ; most of us desire them ; few dare
touch them; none can afford to buy them. You may
look on all sides of them; in their perfection you will
find neither speck nor stain. But what is the end
of them ? Who knows ? They are peaches a quinze
francs ; they are show peaches, not grown to be eaten.
Perhaps some poor fellow has been wretched because
he could not get them ; they care little for that, they
are there to be admired. So they stay till the end
of the fair ; every one has seen and praised them :
they are the beauties of the show. But then what
becomes of them ? Perhaps some nabob buys them ;
perhaps they are musty and have to be thrown
away ; perhaps some poor fellow gets them when the
fair is ended, esteeming himself very fortunate, and
finds them rather flavorless, after all. They have
exhaled their fragrance ; their inner sweetness has
gone to preserve that velvet bloom you admired in
the market last week ; they have been too long in
the crowded, perfumed hall. Now the show is over,
and perhaps the happy possessor would rather have
the ordinary fruit of to-day, fresh from the orchard.
See, there they come ; cool and sweet in the basket,
and only thirty sous apiece ! For God's sake," Ran-
dolph ended, almost fiercely, " beware of peaches 4
quinze francs ! "
" Humph ! " said John. " That all ? "
" That is all."
" Well ! "
"Well," said Randolph, languidly, as if ashamed
24O GUEKNDALE.
of his previous heat, " Dumas has warned you against
the peaches a quinze sous du demi monde. I warn you
against those a quinze francs du grand monde, Selah !
It is spoken."
Guy, all in thinking how different Annie was from
the girls Randolph had been describing, saw his
motive, and approved it.
" I wonder whether any of the girls we know are
peches d quinze francs " said he.
" Damn it," cried John, "what are you two fellow*
driving at ? What's the moral of it all ?"
" The moral is, you shouldn't pay over twenty s*
for a peach," laughed Guy.
CHAPTER XXVI.
" Je suis pSscheur ; je le s^ais bien ;
Pourtant Dieu ue veult pas ma mort,
Mais convertisse et vive en bien." ViLljOir.
GUY often regretted that he saw so little of Philip
Symonds in these days. Norton Randolph was
all very well, but he missed the genuine, healthy gayety
and animal spirits of his dear old friend. And Philip
was not living in a way he altogether approved of,
Guy would sometimes fear. In some ways he even
seemed a little weak. His business of stockbroking
was rather a mystery to Guy. He believed it was all
right ; many gentlemen he knew were in it, but even
the terminology the puts, calls, margins, bulls,
bears, pools, corners was repulsive to him. It
seemed an unhealthy, hazardous sort of thing for a
business, and, such as it was, he feared Phil did not
stick to it very closely. Guy tried very hard not to
have priggish prejudices ; perhaps he recognized
wine and cards and fast horses and women as sources
of pleasure necessary to some men, and not all of
them permanently degrading. Yet he never could
joke about them quite so lightly as some of the men
he met in New York and Newport used to do. Ran-
dolph himself, despite his cynicism, was singularly
averse to dissipation.
242 Ul'EKNDALE.
Be not shocked, dear matrons who read these
pages ; we are beginning to reach the complexities
of civilization in America ; we are no longer in that
curious little Arcadia formerly New England, which
perhaps still exists in the imagination of New Eng-
land women. We are in the world and of it ; and
if you send your son to Cambridge, New England,
it will be like Cambridge, old England, and he will
meet all kinds of men, no longer scholars in an
academy, to think of vice as something that exists
only "across the water." And if Phil Symonds fell
easily into the easier path at twenty-five, with fifteen
thousand a year, and little or nothing to do, and
sought to realize a little Paris of his own in sober
Boston, it was not for his companions of his own age
to play the parent to him.
Still Guy did not like it. And as much as he
could for, after all, Phil was his old friend and
hero, and Guy was a gentleman he hinted to Phil
his disapproval, and Symonds did not like it, and
used to snub him, swear at him, or laugh at him,
according as they were in a crowd, alone, or with
one or two friends. Meantime Guy, being given,
heart, soul and imagination, to the love of Annie
Bonnymort, and working all he could, and only
resting to think about her ; and Philip so given to
dissipation that, instead of dissipating his energies
in various pursuits, he most conscientiously concen-
trated them all on his pleasures ; the moods of the two
friends did not harmonize, and they saw little of one
another. While Guy was going like a school-boy to
his lessons every day, and studying his profession that
GUERNDALE. 243
he might make a fortune for the lady he wished
to marry, Philip was the hero and giver of suppers
and dinners innumerable, and was spending his for-
tune, but not on the woman he wished to marry. And
withal everybody liked Phil and spoke a good word
for him, and half the town called him by his first
name. He was a handsome, manly fellow then, with
deep blue eyes, and a yellow, military mustache, and
a fascinating dash of wild oats about him. Withal,
he was the very top of the fashion ; young ladies
secretly admired him, and told romantic stories
about him ; mammas thought he had a fine fortune,
and it was a pity he did not settle down ; and all the
masculine world swore he was a damned good fellow ;
an easy-going, good-hearted fellow, as Randolph
would admit. Lord John Canaster had long since
left town, with a deep respect for Philip's powers
as a poker player ; but the genial William Bixby had
arrived in a Cunarder in a state of collapse, and,
upon being revived at the club, was slowly getting
over the effect of ozone, sea-air, and too much sleep,
and building up his exhausted constitution on
brandy and soda, early morning card parties, and
tobacco smoke ; and between Bixby and Symonds
was a noble emulation. The following summer
all Newport was astounded at the pace they made.
Polo, anise-bag hunts, were not as yet ; but the speed
of yachts, and the bouquet of wines, and the points
of horses were understood and appreciated even at
that early date. And of all these things of mammon,
it was a question whether Symonds or Bixby had
had the most added unto him ; though each would
GUERNDALE.
courteously have yielded the pas to the othr 5
seeking the kingdom of God.
It is possible to spend a fortupe, even in America,
though a country properly designed only for making
one. And Tom Brattle, who was impecunious, used
to complain piteously of the way Phil wasted his.
Perhaps it is true that Tom did his little share in
the devouring thereof. But Tom's modest needs
were so cheaply satisfied, that his frugal stewardship
in other directions made his entertainment rather a
saving to Phil than otherwise. Give him a berth on
Phil's yacht, a handful of Upmann exquisites a day,
and a reasonable quantum of fizz (though he hon-
estly preferred gin and ginger-ale), and he was quite
content. But it grieved him to the soul to see Philip
sling around liquors, and money, and cigars, among
the general herd, or lose a thousand dollars a night
to Pat Flush, of nobody knew where, when cruising
with the New York yacht squadron. For Thomas
Brattle was a prudent youth, with old Bay State con-
servatism, and never " raised" the " limit " under a
"full house," aces up.
Thus it happened that Phil's foresail began to
shake in the wind a little. For whereas his father
had left him a cool three hundred thousand, his trus-
tees wrote him that in future he could not safely spend
over seven thousand a year. His mother had been
left her bare legal share, under his father's will ; had
promptly married again, and was now devoting her-
self to a second family of children and a High
Church chapel. Moreover, Philip Symonds was
ot a man to take petticoat aid in money matters, as
GUERNDALE. 245
be thought to himself. Yes, he reflected, as he wan*
dered up Mill Street one evening from his yacht,
Bixby had proved too many for him. Bixby could
stand it.
For Bixby was the offspring of an Americo- Paris-
ian banker, of no particular extraction, who had
meant his sons to dazzle their way into home society.
With that end in view, he had given a long course
of extravagant and somewhat vulgar entertainments
to all Americans of position, who came to Paris, with
the usual result that the invited fellow-citizens
laughed at him, the uninvited yearned for his notice,
and his home compatriots gaped from afar. Norton
Randolph, who had, among other bits of curious
know ledge, some acquaintance with the ancient
Saxon law, applied the name of snub-witcs to thes
rich offerings upon the shrine of society. And Bixby,
fere, was snubbed all the same. Now, however,
what the father's wealth failed to achieve, the son's
good fellowship was rapidly accomplishing ; Billy
was decidedly a lion in Newport. And poor Philip
could no longer emulate him in the splendor that
gilded his career.
Philip was certainly one of the most popular men
in society, except among his intimate friends ; and
as he walked into the little club that day, scene of
the defeat of John Canaster, cum proeliis multis aliis,
the cloud upon his brow drew many a sympathizing
inquiry from his friends gathered about him. Shak-
ing them off with a shower of repartee and chaff,
much as a Newfoundland dog does water, he went
into an anteroom and called for brandy. Philip had
24<5 GUERNDALE.
superb physical health, and was proud of it, and had
usually too much good sense to play with it, as foolish
little Bixby did. So that when he called for brandy
at five in the afternoon, I thought something was up ;
and Norton Randolph and I being there, though he
did not like us, he was led to talk, and more or less
to confide in us and condemn his lot.
" Yes, by Jove ! " he concluded. " I don't see any-
thing left but marriage. I always knew I should
come to it some time in fact it was quite cut and
dried for me long ago, by my family. But I did not
think it would be so soon."
" Not before you were cut and dry yourself, eh ? "
said Randolph, smiling.
" Well, we must all come to it some time. Eh, old
fellow ? " slapping Randolph's shoulder, " with some
nice, rich girl, it might not be so bad. Decidemment,
mon cher^je me range."
" That is," said Randolph dryly, " having spent
your own fortune, you want to spend some nico
girl's?"
" Damn it, Norton," replied Phil angrily. " I
wouldn't take that from any fellow but you ! No
but you see it's the proper thing, I suppose, for a
fellow to marry. For instance, I now have ten thou-
sand a year a married man can live very well on
that But a bachelor can't possibly manage with
less than twice as much. Why, hang it all ! I
couldn't on thirty ! "
" Really ? " laughed Randolph. " I thought it
was the other way."
44 Why, no. You see, if a fellow is by himself, ho
GUERNDALE. 247
wants a yacht, and a T cart and pair, and a few sad-
dlers ; and then his travelling and dinners, and so
forth flowers he gives girls poker, and so forth
and and other things. But of course, if a man is
married he does not want a yacht, or flowers, or
many horses, or other things."
" True," said Randolph. " I did not think of
that."
And then Phil went off elated ; and I heard him
sowing his new ideas broadcast among the other
members of the club. This entire absence of reserve
on his part was one of the things that made him so
universally popular. Every one believed himself to
be his bosom friend.
We sat there in silence, Randolph puffing his
cigar. Among the carriages passing through the
avenue came Mr. Bonnymort's staid old victoria,
with Miss Bonnymort and her maid. She was pass-
ing the summer in Newport ; but they lived more
quietly than most of the people there. I thought
she did not look quite happy as she drove by. She
cast a hasty, unquiet glance into the club in passing,
which was a strange thing for Miss Bonnymort to
'do. "There goes a very lovely young lady," said
Randolph. "Would there were more like her!"
The remark was so unlike him, that I looked to see
if he were quite serious ; but he smoked on, appar-
ently unconscious of my observation. Shortly after
this he seemed to become rather blue, and gave short
answers to my remarks. Just then Philip Symonds
came back, in his usual high spirits again. " By the
vay, Phil, what do you hear of Guy ? " said Randolph
248 GUERNDALE.
" Guy ? Oh, I haven't heard for yes, I have, too,
though ; I had a letter this morning. Gad, I forgot
to read it. Grundy's out in Arizona, mulling over
mining or something or other." And Phil pulled
out a letter, addressed in Guerndale's familiar caco-
graphy, and tossed it to Randolph. " Read it aloud,
old man, "said he, "while I light a pipe." Randolph
hesitated for a moment. " Oh, go ahead. We haven't
got any secrets."
" ' My dear Phil,' " began Randolph. " ' I am go-
ing to bore you with a line or two ; though I fancy
you have many things better to do than reading my
letters, and probably won't, for a week. However, I
am safe in Arizona, which, iust now. is a fine country
to make you value a whole skin. I have investigated
several mines or claims already, but have not found
much of anything except fine scenery and sunsets.
Perhaps it is lucky I haven't, as a gang of Mexicans
and half-breeds dodge about the hills in my vicinity,
apparently with the intention of annihilating me
when I do. Still, the air is wonderful, and the coun-
try lovely ; and I enjoy the fresh, out-door life.
Lane, who is out here with me, you know, has gone
to the fort for reinforcements ; meantime, camp is
rather lonely, but I maintain a man ought to be able
to get along with himself for company.
<% ' I hear great stories of your success in Newport,
as well with men and women as with horses and
yachts. Still, I can't say that I envy you. But one
thing I do want to say, old fellow ; and I want to
write this time about you, not myself. I hear you
are very free, not to say wildly extravagant, at New
GUERNDALE. 149
port. Now, Phil, old boy, do brace up* If yoa
"Oh, damn it all, cut the sermon!" cried Phil.
" I know what he's driving at."
Randolph turned the leaf, and went on impas-
sively :
" ' By the way, you remember very well what I
told you long ago about a certain old friend of ours.
Well, I have now a great favor to ask you. They
are, as you know, In Newport this summer ; and I
wish you would write once in a while and tell me
something about - ' The rest seems to be pri-
vate," said Randolph, and he handed the letter back
to Phil.
Just then we were interrupted by Tom Brattle,
who burst into the room, gasping inarticulately :
" Bixby for God's sake ! For God's sake Billy
Bixby I "
"What the" various expletives "is the row?"
we cried as one man, rising from our seats. But
Brattle was choking with excitement and quite
speechless. All that we could make out was that
we were to get into his carriage and come with him.
So we crowded into a lumbering barouche and there
gathered from Brattle the whole story. It was serious
enough; but I cannot still think of it without laughing.
It seems that William Bixby, though a careless,
happy-go-lucky youth, at all times prone to such
enjoyment as the good things of this life afford, and
only too ready to put his trust in whatever substi-
tute he had for Providence, was yet subject, as wa
only known to his best friends, to dire attacks of th*
u*
25O GUERNDALE.
blues. No one knew the why or wherefore of this
strange caprice of a system far from atrabilious, but
his sudden reappearance in America, following on a
somewhat erratic European itinerary, had aroused
suspicions ; and a habit he had of referring in Man-
fredian tones to "Woman," when in his cups, had
led his friends to believe that his blues were engen-
dered of human causes, and that said causes were of
the gender feminine. And yesterday, I mean the
day before that evening, while on his yacht, and
bearing sixty nautical miles or thereabouts south-
east-by-east from Block Island (though how the
devil did he ever get there, suggested the mariner
Brattle, unless he was steering for No-man's-land in
the hope of finding no Woman there), in a blue flan-
nel shirt, with the blue sky above him, and the blue
sea beneath him, drinking blue ruin with a crew clad
in blue, an attack of the blues came on him so far
exceeding all other attacks of the blues that not only
did he not recover from this attack of the blues on the
following day, but, having drunk all the afternoon,
and gone on drinking all the evening, over poker
with Pat Flush, and continued drinking through the
night when at the wheel with the skipper, and started
fresh the next morning with his other guests, he sat
down again that afternoon to poker with Pat Flush
(whose winnings amounted, by that time, to consid-
erably above two thousand dollars) and, growing
gloomier, offered said Flush to bet him double or
quits that he, William Bixby, would drink a laud-
anum cocktail then and there, said beverage con-
sisting, as he kindly explained, of equal parts, one
GUERNDALE. 2$ I
ounce each, of brandy, absinthe, and tincture of
opium, making in all precisely three ounces of po-
table fluid which, however, even Pat Flush's limited
knowledge of materia medica declared to be not
wholesome. And said Flush, being unusually close-
hauled himself, and inclined instinctively to follow
the impulse which led him to see a good bet and
take it, having promptly closed the wager, Bixby,
to his horror, had produced a small tumbler contain-
ing the cocktail in question, and, having swallowed
it, became, shortly thereafter, unsociable and inclined
to sleep. And having at that moment Brenton's reef
lightship on the lee bow, with a stiff breeze from the
southeast, Pat Flush, sobered by his scare, went
about and crowded on all sail for Newport harbor,
first detailing two of the crew to walk the deck with
Billy, who, for their pains, regaled them with a
monologue of original profanity which, for ingenu-
ity and variety, has seldom been surpassed, even on
blue water. And finding a head wind up the harbor,
Flush had landed below the steamboat-wharf and
taken Bixby in all haste to the city hospital, regard-
less of the fate of his bet (though he afterward de-
clared that he believed the bet would have been off,
in any event). Here he left Billy in charge of the
resident physician and three guileless young internes
from a neighboring medical school ; and going off
to seek Bixby's friends, found us at the club.
When we fairly got at the truth that Bixby had
probably poisoned himself, I do not know what
the other men felt, but I was never more cut up
in my life. Philip nervously asked a great manj
252 GUERNDALE.
questions whi -h Flush, of course, could not answer,
Randolph stroked silently all the way, tapping the
window-pane. Flush was ghastly pale, and I verily
believe would have paid double the bet to see Bixby
himself again. It was late in the evening by this
time ; Thames Street was almost deserted ; and, as we
drove by the docks, we looked out and saw the tracery
of Bixby's beautiful yacht against the sky. The master
had brought her into the harbor since Flush landed
" Whom are we to write to ? " said I, " if Billy "
"I only know of his father in Paris," answered
Phil. "We can telegraph to him."
" Don't say that Bixby committed suicide, if you
do," said Randolph.
I shuddered at hearing the name given to it. Af-
ter this we were silent until the carriage pulled up
at a low brick building, with a wide door, which,
for some reason, suggested stretchers to my mind,
and the carrying them out through it. Flush told
us Bixby had been left in charge of the three stu-
dents and a male attendant, who would do all for
him that could be done. It was a long, narrow
room, with a row of empty beds down either side ;
quite dark, except for a single gas-burner which
flared over a group of men in the further corner.
Implements of surgery, hot water, and black bot-
tles were on a table at their side ; and the three
medical students and the attendant were all grouped
about poor Billy, who was wide awake, smoking a
black cigar, and instructing the attendant and the
three medical students in the mysteries of unlimited
loo.
CHAPTER XXVII.
** Aft ships, becalmed at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side,
Two towers of sail at dawn of day
Are scarce long leagues apart descried,* CLOUGM.
WHEN the sun rose, one September morning,
and peered over a ridge of the Cordillera
de Rio Gila, in Pima County, Arizona, he was doubt-
less much surprised at finding Mr. Guyon Guern-
dale, of Dale, Massachusetts, awake and awaiting
him in the valley beyond. Not, perhaps, so much at
the early hour for the sun, having summered and
wintered the earth on all sides, must have observed
that white men rise earlier in Arizona than they do
in Belgravia, where, indeed, it is frequently impos-
sible for him to see them through the smoke, but at
the unexpected presence of any white man at all.
And Guy himself welcomed the sun with a sigh of
relief ; and, rolling over upon his side, filled and
lighted a short, clay pipe. After this, he gave
himself up to the beauties of nature, the pleasures
of memory as personified in Miss Bonnymort, and
the pleasures of hope as embodied in his expecta
tion of seeing her cm his return to Boston.
254 GUERNDALE.
As a mise . takes his treasures from his chest, Guy
took up in his memory the several hours or minutes
he had passed in her company that last year, and
turned them over in his mind. It was now two years
since he left college ; and for oe year he had defi-
nitely sought to win her love. She seemed very fond
of him only a month before he had had a letter,
saying how much she missed him that summer, and
he doubted whether he ought to wait any longer.
Why not now tell her of a love which he had long
sought to let her see ? True, he was not rich ; but
he had lately had some flattering successes, and with
a year or two at Freiberg he felt that he should soon
stand high in his profession. ... It was a curious
thing, by the way, that he should have been led to
adopt this profession. Mining had once proved the
ruin of his family, as in the case of greedy old Guy ;
and he, this present Guy, hoped to work their res-
toration to what they had left and the recovery of
vhat they had lost. . . . He took the old jewel, still
uncut, out of his locket and looked at it curiously. It
seemed dull and pale in the broad daylight So, for
this stone, old Guyon, his ancestor, had lost his life
and their fair name. He wondered who it was that
first gave credence to that strange old superstition
about the ill-luck which would attend the family
as long as they retained the diamond. And Guy
looked at the locket, with its proud motto, Seule la
mort pent nous vaincre, and put the stone back in its
case, and fell to dreaming.
Dreaming : for his summer's work was done, and
well done ; and the sun grew warmer, and the morn
GUERNDALE. 2$$
ing was sleepy and hot, and the turbid little rill at hia
side had a tinkle like the clear brook he remembered
in years gone by, falling from the woods behind the
old brown house at Dale. . . . What a queer,
.gloomy child he must have been before he had
known Annie ! How she had changed him ! But
since he saw her he had never changed, except, he
hoped, to grow more worthy of her. Yes ; he had
done well so far ; the past was past and gone ; he
would live the old story down, and go out into the
world. The fair, broad world was sweet, after all,
and a worthy thing it was to succeed in it, though
not in the way his poor father had wished. He could
never have the faith of a priest ; though, with Annie,
he could find that faith in mankind and the world
which his father had lacked. . . . And he would
keep the diamond, and wear it in a ring if he chose.
The old tale of ill-luck must have begun in the time
of the witches who were hanged at Salem. Or, better
still, he would put the stone in a ring and give it to
Annie Bonnymort ; and so he would lose the dia-
mond when they two were happy together, that the
old prophecy might be fulfilled. . . . Yes, he
would go back and ask Annie to be his wife. She
had now been two years in the world ; she had seen
enough of other men not to have him fear entrap-
ping her with a childish attachment. But she had
known him so long, and he had loved her so dearly ;
even if she had liked him in a different way, it was
for him to say the magic word that might translate
her affection into love like his, the love of man for
woman. She had seemed to care for him mo'-e than
GUERNDALE.
ever this past year. Her sweet manner had almost
embarrassed him at times ; and it had been hard, so
hard, for him to keep from throwing himself at her
feet and telling her all. His constraint had even
been evident, so that she had upbraided him with
being cold and forgetting their old promise. Now,
thank Heaven, it was all come to an end, and all
might at least be frank and open between them at
last, and forever.
Two things yet gave him trouble the lives of his
mother and of his dearest friend. For poor, lonely,
widowed Mrs. Guerndale was growing old before her
time, and more and more retiring from the world
and within herself. Only the past was alive to her ;
the present was dead, the future did not exist She
barely wrote to Guy now ; and he sighed as ne
thought of her dreary life. Then there was Philip,
The dear old fellow ! How much, too, he owed t
him ; how near he was to being perfect ! Yet Guy
confessed to himself in his reverie what he never
would have allowed any one else to say Philip was
weak in certain ways. His very weakness sprang
from his virtues, his kindliness, his good-fellowship,
his careless generosity. Still, he ought to be different
But then, after all, how could he help it ? He was
so popular with every one, and his friends were not
all of the best sort Guy wished he would write
oftener. Still, Phil was never much of a correspond-
ent, from the time he wrote home to Guy, ill at Dale
with a fever, that he had " likked Archer Salsberry
because he sed you was ded."
Here Guy's morning meditations were interrupted
GUERNDALE. 257
by Mr. Lefauconeur Lyndhurst Lane, of Boston,
who came out of camp in scanty attire for his morn-
ing tub, for which necessary ceremony it was his
wont to construct an elaborate dam in the nearest
little stream to camp.
Faucy Lane, of Guy's class in college, who was
aow, on account of his supreme amiability, known
among the members of the expedition as Fawkes,
had been chartered, as he expressed it, by a number
of Eastern capitalists to go out and explore a num-
ber of mining claims they had purchased. He went
in company with a Californian mining expert, and
some of the capitalists who knew young Guerndale
had engaged him to follow and serve by way of
check on the notoriously brilliant imagination of the
mining expert in question. Lane knew nothing of
mines, but as it was the intention of his uncles to
make him treasurer of this one, it was thought ad-
visable that he should see it. This was the last claim
they had to examine, and on the morrow they were
off for El Paso and civilization.
Guy went on smoking, and did not notice the pro-
ceedings of Lane, who, after endeavoring to tub suc-
cessfully in what he asserted was an extremely muddy
stream, began to scrub himself with a highly civil-
ized flesh-brush, much as he might have done in
the paternal bath-room. The mining expert, too,
whose ablutions were less elaborate, was mysteri-
ously busied in his tent, so that Lane had shouted
once or twice before either became aware that his
presence was desired. Then Guy hurried to the
brook, and found Lane on his hands and knees
358 GUERNDALE.
quite unclothed, and gazing into a particularly
bid pool which, it was evident, his body had just left.
"Look here! "said he. "I think I've found a
gold mine."
Sure enough, floating in the clayey cloud in the
water were a number of little yellow specks, rapidly
settling ; and among the more earthy motes, where
the sunlight shone through it, was the unmistakable
metallic glint of gold.
"You have done it, this time!" laughed Guy.
" Send a gentleman, after all ! For no one but a
gentleman of precise habits would have found it ne-
cessary to take a tub in the nearest little pool to
camp ! "
"All the same," Lane answered, beginning to
wriggle into a shirt, "the water was beastly dirty."
The next day they packed up traps and turned
their faces to the East. The first of October they
were in San Antonio ; thence to Galveston, and by
steamer to New Orleans ; with a dozen good claims
behind them, and packages of reports and surveys in
their pockets. And as the hills of Arizona and the
sand and cactus of New Mexico gave place to the
parching alkali plains of Texas, and that to the Llano
Estacado, and then pasture-land and prairie, Guy
turned his face to the northeast each morning and
counted how many miles nearer her the past day had
brought him.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
* And on his guide suddenly Love's face turned
And in his blind eyes burned
Hard light and heat of laughter; and like flame
That opens in a mountain's ravening mouth
To blear and sear the sunlight from the south
His mute mouth opened and his first word came :
' Knowest thou me now by name ? ' " SWINBURMK.
NEW ORLEANS, with its low, broad streets,
running up to the river ; its boulevards, with
the little green strips of park in the centre ; its for-
eign-looking stone houses ; its quaint French mar-
kets; its "shell road," glory of jockeys and languid
Creole women ; New Orleans and its delights, after
the arid asperities of Arizona, proved too seductive
for Lane. And this was the how of it.
Lane, wherever he went, carried the air of Boston
about him like a nimbus of east wind. The only
concession he was ever known to make to Trans-
Carolian habits (it may here be necessary to remind
less classical readers that the holy town of Boston a
sacred river pours around, yclept the Charles), the
only modification this pure Anglo Saxon ever per-
mitted in his ancient British habits, was the carrying
a revolver. For Lane fancied that the average ex-
tra-Bostonian American usually began conversation
2<50 GUERNDALE.
with a pistol-bullet. Now he never would have used
his own weapon ; moreover, he never loaded it, and
had no cartridges. Upon severe provocation he
would have dropped it, and struck from the shoulder
in the good old Saxon way. Still, he carried a pis-
tol for the moral effect ; and this, he used to say,
was prodigious, especially upon himself.
It so happened, that among the men who most did
frequent the rotunda of the St. Charles Hotel, Lane
passed for an Englishman. And it was upon a tacit
understanding to this effect that he was one day
invited to join the company of Southern chivalry
who pressed about the bar in the consummation of
a standing drink. Lane did not drink ; but he wa?
so considerate a fellow that he would not have made
the sign of the cross in hell for fear of injuring the
susceptibilities of the devil. So he complied, or was
upon the point of complying, when a somewhat
drunken fellow, pushing between him and his host,
knocked the glass from his hand, with the remark
that he, Lane, was a damned Boston Yank. At this
point, Lane so far forgot the calm of good-breeding
as to " punch " the interlocutor's head.
The other drew a long, curved knife.
Lane promptly covered him with his (moral) re-
volver, and at once became himself the focus of the
revolvers of the rest of the company. Tableau.
It was from this scene that Lane was extricated
by Colonel Huger Gayarre, late of the Confederate
army, with whom he dined upon the same evening,
and with both of whose two daughters, as far as his
sense of propriety permitted, he incontinently and
GUERNDALE. 6l
impartially fell in love. Thus it happened that Mr.
Lefauconeur Lane remained behind in New Orleans,
where, as rumor hath it, the course of true love ran
pretty smooth.
Wherefore, our hero found himself alone, one
evening, smoking his cigar on the stern of a steam-
boat, in the broad expanse of Lake Ponchartrain.
Far behind him was the faint line of the reedy, fever-
haunted shore ; and the wake of the steamer, yellow
and blue with phosphorescent flashes, sparkled into
more creamy foam in the wave-way of the moon-
light.
He was strangely happy that night ; so happy that
he could not bear to sleep and forget his happiness.
And it was lovely, out in the moonlight, above the
sound of the water. He had not seen her since June
of course he was thinking of Annie ; whom else
should he think of ? and should he sleep, he could
not be sure that he should dream of her. And some-
thing in this night reminded him of that night he
remembered in Dale, long ago. No, he would not
go in. So the silent shores went by ; and the wilder
waters of Borgne ; and the moon rose and set, and
the dawn came ; and when they came into Mobile,
the sun rose, and found him still sitting on the deck,
his eyes closed, and a pipe fallen from his lips. The
foolish fellow should have taken a fever, but that
there is a special providence for lovers.
Then he risked his life upon a decayed ferry-boat,
with red-hot, rusty boilers, resting on bricks upoa,
the flat deck, and open to the winds of heaven, sav*
where piled up and walled in with bales of cotton-
262 GUERNDALE.
Such of the steam from these boilers as did not es
cape, worked a reluctant stern-wheel, which urged
the craft up the long bay to Tensas. Here Guy
landed, and found a village consisting of a wood-
shed and a stump at the end of a railway track.
The stump formed the butt-end, being put there to
prevent trains from sliding into the river, and, from
its appearance, had frequently been " bunted " into.
Alabama. Endless dark forests of tangled growth,
with low glades and swamps and underbrush and
gloomy recesses, intertwined with long festoons of
Spanish moss, now old and brown, clinging to the
living trees, feeding on the fallen and dead ones ;
then uplands, with an occasional farm-house a lazy,
weary country, with the blight of poverty upon it.
Mile after mile of peach-orchard, now barren of
foliage, with trees stunted and small, though in
spring they must have filled the land with fragrance
and pink blossoms. At night, supper in a shed by
the railway, served by a tall, dark, serious South-
erner, who wore a broad hat of white felt, and went
gloomily around with trays of fried bacon and corn-
cakes. The only light came from a blazing fire of
pitch-pine knots, kindled upon the side of a car-j
wheel, set high upon three posts. Then again, the
weary rumble of the cars, while Guy slept restlessly
and grew more impatient as they neared the East.
Georgia. Still the peach-orchards ; then an oc-
casional town, left desolate by the war ; and huge
sandy forests of pine. South Carolina dank woods,
swamps, with rice plantations, cotton fields ; occa-
sional openings, with old high mansions of palmetto-
GUERNDALE. 263
wood, falling in decay. Charleston, the city of a
lost cause, half burned and not rebuilt, silent and
still, with the grass growing in the cobble-stones by
the wharves. And so to sea ; and he grew more
eager, as they crossed the blue ocean of the Gulf
Stream ; then the fury of an autumn gale off Hat-
teras ; at last New York, and Guy found a letter
from Randolph :
"My DEAR GUY: I am off again. I wish once more to study my
native land from the proper distance, that I may get the perspective
right. Moreover, I want to buy a silk hat in London ; when I have
got one, I may return. But I do not think I shall. My mother is too
damned fashionable. Siie is now engaged in marrying off my sis-
ters ; and I cannot breathe in her elevated social atmosphere. Be-
sides, I should be in the way, and should very likely punch the heads
of the pretenders. At present, only two of the latter have been found
who will pass muster. One is a wealthy New York lion, descended
on the one side from King Solomon or David, and on the other from
a banking-house in Flanders. The other is Sewell Norton, the little
fool who roomed under me at Cambridge. He has not so much
money, but his great-aunt married my paternal grandfather, and my
mother's second cousin was his grandmother. So, you see, it would
simplify the future ramifications of our family tree. He is not treed
yet, however ; and my mother is riled that I did not snail Canaster for
one of the girls. A devil of a way of showing gratitude to him for his
kindness to me in England ! Worse than all, Mamma wants to marry
me, and has got hold of some underbred creature in Newport, with a
mine in Nevada. So I escape.
" Guy, I shall expect to see you in Europe, and want you to let
me know when you come will you ? And one thing more pardon
my ungracious hint ; I know he is a friend of yours ; but unless yott
can improve Symonds, I would not be too thick with him. Good-by.
The usual address, Boulevard St. Germain.
"N. R
" Club, December 2, 187-."
Guy read this letter somewhat impatiently ; and
then, crumpling it angrily, he threw it aside. It was
264 GUERNDALE.
not like Randolph to seek to come between him and
his oldest friend ; what could he mean by it ? For a
moment he was almost offended with him. How-
ever, he had no time to think of Randolph now, or
Philip cither, for the earth burned beneath his foot
until he got home. So Randolph was going wander-
ing about the world again ? Poor, idle, unhappy fel-
low ; he was greatly to be pitied. Guy hurried to
take the first train, and left the letter unanswered.
He must see Annie ; he could not bear another day's
delay. He must see her, before all else ; before even
he made his report to his employers. If he got
home by six, he might call the same evening. Then
perhaps old Mr. Bonnymort might leave them alone,
as he had done once or twice before ; and then and
then Guy's heart beat so fast that he could not think
of what would follow.
So Annie, dear Annie, he thought, while the train
rolled rapidly through the clear winter's day, and
the bare, brown New England hills, with their rug-
ged shoulders, came about him after all, it was a
dear, rough old country, and he envied not Randolph
his life abroad. Now Dale was off in that direction ;
well, he would go there in a day or two. He won-
dered how she would greet him. How slow the
train was. Then the sun set, and the night gath-
ered around, and he thought only of Annie ah, if
the train should be too late and of her only, when
at last they got there, and he drove rapidly through
the streets. He found his rooms empty. Strang was
away ; but he was rather glad of this, so he donned
his evening dress, the first time for nearly a year,
GUERNDALE. 26$
and dined hastily and alone. Seven o'clock how
early could he call ? He decided that a quarter to
eight was the earliest possible hour, and at half after
seven was in the street. He could not have told why
he allowed fifteen minutes, when the walk to her
house took only five. But there he was, and he
could not go in yet. The evening was terribly cold,
with little icy needles in the air, so he walked up and
down the street to keep warm. At last, the third or
fourth time he looked at his watch, it was time to go
in. He felt that his voice was husky, and his pulses
throbbed so that it made him almost giddy to go up
the steps ; but, with a trembling hand, he pulled the
bell.
"Not at home, to-night," said the man, indiffer-
ently.
It was like a plunge into ice-water. He thanked
the servant mechanically, and told him he would
leave no card. Then a rush of disappointment came
over him. He tried to laugh it off. How absurd !
What difference did it make whether it was that
night or the next ?
Still he did not quite know what to do. Phil was
away ; Strang was away ; Lane in Louisiana, Ran-
dolph in Europe. Where could he go ? There was
no one he thought of but Brattle. Well, he could
not bear to be alone that evening, and Brattle was
better than nobody. So he went to Brattle's house;
there was the same endless smoking and drinking
and gossip, Bixby and a few other men playing
whist Bixby told a long story, to which Guy did
not pay much attention. However, they seemed glad
12
GUERNDALE.
to see him, and he told them about his life in Ark
zona, and Lane's gold mine. Brattle seemed very
much taken with all this, especially with the story of
the discovery of gold. He wished he could strike
something of the same sort. Gad, you couldn't do
much in that line here, unless you get hold of a rich
girl, like Symonds. Who was Symonds going to
marry ? asked another man.
"What Symonds not Phil ?" cried Guy.
"Why, yes, of course. He is engaged to Miss
Bonnymort. Haven't you heard ? "
" No," said Guy, calmly. " You see, I have been
away almost a year." And, after staying a few
moments more, he went out into the night.
CHAPTER XXIX.
" I am he that was thy lord before thy birth ;
I aai he that is thy lord till thou turn earth ;
I make the night more dark, and all the morrow
Dark as the night whose darkness was my breath ;
O fool, my name is sorrow ;
Thou fool, my name is death."
OH, Phil, Phil ! That Philip Symonds could
have betrayed him ; of all other men in the
world but Philip !
For betrayal it seemed ; Guy did not stop to think
whether Phil had remembered or attached much
weight to his old confidence.
His oldest friend, the other member of the old trio
in their childhood Philip, who had been, as he
thought, courage, and manliness, and frankness and
kindness itself ; to whom he had been so loyal, and
whom he had thought so true.
Years before he had told his own hopes to his old
chum in college, his schoolmate and companion
Philip had come between him and Annie, as he had
felt, with a child's instinct, that first day when he saw
them from the old churchyard in Dale ; and then he
had thought only to be a good friend ; to lead him
with his careless laugh from that moody loneliness
in which he had been sinking as a child; to urgo
268 GUERNDALE.
aid cheer him through the rough companionship of
school and college, to win his trust and love. And
then this.
It was not that he had lost Annie. He could bear
that. Of course he had been wild and presumptuous
and mad and conceited and a fool to hope to gaia
her love. He might have known that her kindness
was only the warmth of friendship, flowing to him,
unworthy, from her kind and gentle heart ; he might
have known she was not for him ; the very fact of
her always having known him so well made her see
his weakness and unworthiness, and the distance
there was between them. How could he ever have
hoped, still less ventured to ask her to link her
bright life with his poor career ?
But to have lost her so ; to have lost his dearest
friend, all that remained to him ; with the loss of
her, to have lost faith and friendship. Ah, poor,
absurd, cynical Norton Randolph, with his whimsi-
cal grim moods. Had there been some method in
his madness ? Some sense in his sermons ?
He was not angry with Philip ; no, he could not
be angry with him. It was not the wrong to him-
self that rankled ; it was that Philip, his last ideal,
his first hero, should have been like this ; that Phil
could hare been like this. He felt that he would
gladly forgive the wrong if he could have his faith
in him restored.
Ah, why had he done it this way ? Why had he not
told him this or anything ? Anything, so that Guy
might have saved his one friend and his faith in him.
NC^T, all was gone ; all, all. There was nothing left
GUERNDALE. 269
kim in the world. Nothing, nothing, nothing. There
was nothing worthy in the world save Annie, and
she was lost to him forever.
" Annie ! " he sobbed. " O God ! " And the young
strong man, with his bronzed face and heavy beard,
walked reeling in the road, repeating the woman's
name over'and over again.
He had been chiding for years the folly of invest-
ing our Deity with human attributes, and ascribing
to him pity and sorrow and revenge. He had indig-
nantly denied that the Existence, in and for itself,
could go out from itself, and stoop to change the
course of its own being, at the weak wailing prayer
of some suffering mortal. He had maintained that
birth and death and sorrow and old age were the
steps by which the soul purged itself of itself, and
rose up into the eternal ; and now what comfort in
this fine-spun philosophy ? This calm philosopher
cried to God for aid and sympathy like a child. As a
child he had never so done ; now first as a man his
cold theories gave way, and he cried out in his sor-
row, nor once remembered that he had never so
cried before.
Where was he ? he came to himself with a start.
Unwittingly he had wandered over the long bridge.
Above him was a winter sky, blue black, sown
thick with stars twinkling with coming wind. The
city lay behind him, across the pale still river, pointed
with many lights ; in front of him a row of stone
kouses, straight and high, cast black bars of shadow
far over the water. Here and there a brighter light
arked some scene of gayety ; in one house the
27O GUERNDALE.
windows were ablaze, and the light came streaming
through the white and red curtains, and a faint
sound of music floated over the water. In the back
of another house near by, that he well remembered,
shone one lighted window. It was her room, he
knew. His eyes were still dry, but he leaned his hot
head upon his hands, and sobbed once upon the rail-
ing of the bridge.
CHAPTER XXX.
** This must be He who, legend saith,
Comes sometimes with a kindlier mien
And tolls a knell. This shape is Death
. , . . . . So let it be.
How strangely now I draw my breath !
What is this haze oflight I see ? . . .
In maims tuas, Domine ! "AUSTIN DOBSON.
GUY was roused by a dash of cold wind upon his
face. He looked up and saw the stars on the
northern horizon fading in blackness ; a gust came
sweeping over the river, with pricking darts of snow,
He rose and faced it for a moment ; then looked at
his watch. It was after midnight, and, with a firm
step, he strode back to his rooms. They were dark,
cold, and lonely ; the fire on the hearth was in ashes,
and the clock had stopped. He drew out his trunks
and began to pack a gloomy occupation at best.
At four in the morning all was done. Where was he
going ? He did not know he cared less. It did not
seem to matter much how he used a broken life.
What should he do ? What did he wish ? He did
not know. Throwing himself on a sofa, he buried
his face in his hands. They seemed icy cold as he
pressed them to his head.
Yes, he would go to Dale. And so lying, he fell
2/2 GUERNDALE.
into a dreamless sleep ; and it was morning A
dull morning, with a steel-gray, working-day sky,
shrouded in falling snow, which lay in muddy drifts
about the street Outside, muffled men tramped
laboriously along, nerving themselves to work with
thoughts of home and children. Their duties called
them down-town. Guy had no duties, he reflected ;
and the town was weary. Loneliness he did not
mind ; for a moment he felt thankful that all his
friends were away, and he could go off alone.
The servant entering, brought in his coffee and a
telegram. It was from a doctor in Dale, saying that
his mother was very ill. He sent fora carriage, and
loading it with all his trunks, drove to the sta-
tion. Stopping at a florist's, he got a basket of red
roses and sent them to Annie without a card. She
was probably sitting in her warm morning-room
then he wondered whom she was thinking of.
Probably of Philip. Ah, how could Phil have de-
ceived him ? Had he really meant to do so ? And
Guy tried hard to imagine himself in his place, and
to make excuses for him. Strangely enough, he
thought more of him than of Annie, as the train
trundled on over the muffled rails. It was storming
heavily, and the jangle of the wheels was dulled in a
cushion of snow.
The train was nearly empty. It had come in to the
city with its morning freight of men and school-chil-
dren, and the cars were hot and close, and the air
was sour. The smoking-car was worse : foul with
tobacco smoke, like an echo of profanity. He went
back and took a seat. In front of him were
GUERNDALE. 2/3
thin, sallow-necked women ; a tawdrily dressed girl
and a commercial traveller were the only other occu-
pants. It was less cheerless to look outside, where
the snow fell thick through the dark green forests
and the empty wooden villages. Evidently the taw-
drily dressed girl was seeking to win the attention
of the commercial traveller, and after the first stop
they came back and sat together, eating cream-
cakes.
His feet and hands were cold ; he had forgotten
his gloves, and his fingers were grimed with dust
and cinders. The atmosphere of the car became in-
tolerable. He went out, and, unmolested by the
brakeman, sat upon the rear platform and watched
the storm. The feathery snow-flakes danced after
him in the wake of the train, and their cool touch on
his face gave him a faint sensation of relief. He
drew the old diamond out of his locket and looked
at it long and earnestly. Should he throw it away !
and see if better days would come ? It seemed paler
than ever in the dull light. Should he fling it in the
fast-gathering drifts? He could not attach much
weight to the old story now. Life was dull and pur-
poseless enough. It was time for him to give up
romance even the romance of sadness.
He went back into the car. The girl was talking
in a high, flat key, telling her companion that he was
"horrid." From this and other remarks, Guy in-
ferred that the man had kissed her.
Hours went by ; and the same great stretch of
barren country loomed through the windows ; and
Guy looked at the diamond which now couli nevei
2/4 GUERNDALE.
be hers. Then he smiled a little contemptuously, and
put the diamond back in its case.
No, he would not give it up. After all, there was
some virtue in courage. Perhaps it was worth while
being brave. Such as it was, he would live his life
out, as he had laid it out for himself, fifteen years
before. If there was no happiness, there should be
no sorrow. Only a dull emptiness of both. There
should be no more dreaming.
What was real ? These people about him. He
looked around and felt a positive hate for them all.
What was real to the man ? To sell such goods as
he had, for such prices as he could get. He was
better off, after all, than Guy himself ; for Guy did
not value the price, and had no goods to sell if he
did. The reward he sought was not exchangeable
for goods. Did high and pure and lovable things
really exist ? He supposed they did. Some people
must have found them, they were written about so
much. But La Rochefoucauld said people wrote
much about ghosts, and for that very reason that
no one had ever seen them. He would take Ran-
dolph's advice, and not look for the birds of this
year in the nests of the last. Bah ! what a fool he
was to think so much. There was that girl opposite
a ribbon and a cream-cake and the coarse admiration*
of a man satisfied her. And she would marry and
propagate others of her kind.
Well, since gold was all, he could get gold. Doing
good was a conventional phrase, and meant nothing.
Or, at most, it meant giving to others the gold that
one despised one's self, because others could be con-
GUERNDALE. 2/5
tent with it and the sensual comfort it brought.
True, one might relieve positive pain, vulgar want ;
but what a half-measure was this ! At the best only
a palliative. To be a clergyman, for instance that
was romanticism of a sort ; but how could he do
that ? Romanticism was done with him. All men
were either unhappy or contemptible. All he could
do as a father-confessor would be to advise the un-
happy people to kill themselves, and for people who
pretended to be happy he had no sympathy rather
contempt. True, he himself meant to go through with
it all, but it was not a course he could honestly rec-
ommend to others, especially such others as suf-
fered from the positive wretchedness of want and
squalor.
Yes, he meant to go through with it all. Dissipa-
tion was simply repulsive to him ; vice was foul and
unendurable. Besides it was wrong and cowardly to
seek distraction from a noble sorrow, that he might
not feel it quite so much. He would ride straight,
whatever happened. And so, with still, empty eyes
and compressed lips, he alighted at Dale.
He found his mother delirious, and the one old
servant moping, drinking tea in a corner. For five
weeks he was with her, watching her by night and
sleeping in the morning. Only in the long after-
noons did he get out and wander through the wet,
brown woods. Most of the old nooks he had known
were hidden in snow, or bare and unlovely with
rotting leaves. The Bonnymort house was closed
and boarded up, and he passed long hours wander
ing through the shrubbery about it. He never
2/6 GUERNDALE.
went to church, and rarely to the village, and heard
through the servant of ill-natured comments of the
neighbors, which mattered little to him.
One afternoon he heard the tinkle of the brook
behind the house, like a faint voice of spring, and
followed it up as he used to do years before, to the
little basin where he had first met her. In the shade
was a gray shelf of ice, but near the rock was a few
feet of open water, and through its black surface he
saw the soft, green mosses waving, as if beneath
the brook it were still summer ; and, as any country
school-boy might do, he took his penknife and cut
with labor her initials and his. It seemed as if he
must leave some record of his love before it was
buried forever. " She will never see it," he muttered,
as he went home.
That evening he found a letter from Annie a
sweet, kind letter, sympathizing with him in his
mother's illness, and telling him how much she felt
for him, even in her present happiness. Each kind
word was a stab to him ; but he read it through, and
putting it down, thanked Heaven that she at least
was left to him, and prayed that Philip, false to
him, might be true to her. In the night his mother
opened her eyes and spoke " Guy."
"Yes, mother."
"Guy, dear are you here?"
"Yes, mother."
'Forgive me, dear."
Guy bent and kissed her.
" Have you got the stone I gare you ? "
"Yes, mother."
GUERNDALE. 2//
" Are you happy ? "
"No, mother."
" Neither was your father. '
There was a long silence, and when Guy looked
at her again her face was no longer so ashy pale as
it had been. It even seemed that a faint flush was
upon her cheek ; and looking at her face more close-
ly, he saw that she was dead.
The funeral was quiet, but in deference to custom
the house was thrown open, and the neighbors came
in rusty black dresses, and talked in half whispers,
sitting upright upon horse-hair chairs until the min-
ister, in a halting, constrained way, made a long
prayer. At the grave Guy wished a part of the ser-
vice of the English church, but the minister objected
to set prayers. Still, Guy took an old prayer-book
with him ; and, turning the leaves noticed the book-
plate and coat-of-arms, '' Godfrey Guerndale 174.3,"
with the motto, " Seule la mort pent nous vaincre."
He left the old servant to live in the house, and
went away from Dale.
Jourtl).
CHAPTER XXXI.
Ckifpina.\\. seems you never loved me, then T
Eulalin. Chiappiao t
Ck. Never t
Eu. Never.
Ck. That's sad say what I migfct
There was no helping being sure this while
You loved me love like mine must have return,
I thought no river starts but to some sea ;
If I knew any heart, as mine loved you,
Loved me, tho" in the vilest breast 'twere lodged,
I should, I think, be forced to love again
Else there's no right nor reason in the world !
R. BROWNING.
GUY thought often of Norton Randolph these
dark times. He had trusted Philip ; he had
half distrusted Norton. But now he felt himself
more akin to him than ever. Something about his
calm reserve of belief, his flippancy, or what was
superficially flippant, seemed natural to him. . . .
After all, nothing too much was the motto. Serious
things were always half ridiculous; there was nothing
more foolish than to take the world au grand serieux.
Everything was half good, half bad ; half true, half
false ; half worthy. Life was a compromise ; the
times of reality were olden and gone ; it was a world
GUERNDALE. 279
of if, but, and perfiaps. . . . Bah ! What was the use
of thinking about it ? He had lived too much in
wild country, among animals and plants. Nature
was frank, but mankind was not. . . . There was
only Annie in the world, and of her he might never
think ; yet even then her memory seemed to make
things plainer for him. . . . He would live it
through; he would go on as he had planned. Cour-
age gayety and courage was the manly part.
Norton was right in taking life with a smile.
And so Philip was lost to him, and Annie, too. If
she were only happy he could bear it. But if it
might have happened in any other way than this !
If only people were frank, it seemed that one
could pardon them everything else. He could not
bear to lose Philip. Philip had been all in all to
him ; he had embodied the broad, real life, the
strong stir of blood and animal spirits, for which he
had left his shrinking childhood. Was his old idol
really shattered ? Perhaps he had never really
known ; perhaps he had forgotten.
These thoughts came to Guy while at breakfast in
a New York hotel. Then the door opened behind
him, and he heard a strong, well-remembered voice.
" Why, Guy, old man, I have found you at last.
Where the deuce have you been keeping yourself ?
I heard of your mother's death " And Philip
was in front of him, holding out his broad, brown
hand.
Guy started up for a moment ; and then sank back
in his chair. Phil's face was redder than usual, and
there was a forced bonhommie, almost a swagger, in
280 GUERNDALE.
his manner. His eyes met Guy's only once, and thei
but for an instant. Guy drew back his hand.
" Philip, have you forgotten what I told you two
years ago ? "
Phil hesitated a moment. "Why, what " he
began. Then again his glance met Guy's, and he
changed his mind. " Come, come, Guy, don't be a
fool. I thought that old moonshine of yours was
over, years ago."
" You knew it was not," said Guy, in a low voice.
"You might, at least, have told me."
Again Phil hesitated; then, as if in a burst of irri-
tation, " Good God, man, what are you mad about ?
I cannot imagine. "
"It is just because you cannot imagine," said Guy
gloomily.
Phil walked to the window, and -there was a mo-
ment's silence. He came back and took a chair
next Guy's. " Come, old fellow, give me your hand,
and let bygones be bygones. Don't be so damned
cranky. Even if I did know, all's fair in love and
war, you know. Hang it, man, don't be a fool
There are plenty other girls in the world as good
as Annie Bonnymort "
" Please don't mention her name here," said Guy
gloomily.
"Why, your cheek," cried Philip, with
an oath. " I'll mention her name when and where
I like. Who has a right to do so, if I have not ? "
Philip forced his voice to a cry of indignation as he
ended ; then rose, and strode angrily across the
room. Guy was silent.
GUERNDALE. 28 1
"Come, come, old fellow, don't let us go off in
this way," Philip said, as he came back. " Where
are you going to ? "
" Freiberg."
" Well, brace up, and take something to drink with
me. There's a good fellow, and don't be angry
thank God you aren't hooked."
"You really must pardon me," Guy broke in. "I
must go down-town I have an engagement." And
Guy rose and left the room, not once looking back.
It is pleasant for none of us to lose the approval
of one who has always loved and admired us. Phil
was careless in most things, but it sobered even him
for a moment. He called for a glass of brandy and
soda, and drank it savagely. " Good Lord, who-
would have thought the poor devil would have been
so cut up ? "
Philip was furious. Any one who could have seen
his expression then, would have wondered at his-
popularity. His heavy features were not so pleasant
to look at when his good-nature was gone. Grad-
ually, however, the stimulant restored his self-esteem ^
and he rose, content with himself and his actions.
"Anyhow, I tried to be friendly with him," he mut-
tered, with a shrug. "It is not my fault."
Good-natured Phil never thought it was his fault,
whatever happened ; and the world was only too apt
to encourage him in this opinion. He was such &
good-hearted fellow.
So they parted Philip pettishly, Guy sadly. He
could not piece and patch his old friend together to-
make him whole again. That day he busied himself
GUERNDALE.
about his departure, and in twelve hours the hills of
Neversink were fading in the western light.
The steamer rolling heavily, all the other passen-
gers had gone below, and Guy was leaning on the
bulwark, over the gray waves. He had always meant
to write once to Annie, but had given it up. " So,"
he whispered, " she will never know. It is better
so. She will never know never know "
He bent over the stern and looked at the yeasty
wake and listened to the murmur of the troubled
sea. His head sank, wearily, for a minute ; then he
rose and paced the deck. In all his life he would
never, voluntarily, think of her again. In that mo-
ment he had buried his love for her ; and perhaps,
in all his life, he had never loved her so much.
And so, she would never know.
CHAPTER XXXII.
"Through many a night toward many a wearier day
* His spirit bore his body down its way.
Through many a day to many a wearier night
His soul sustained his sorrows in her sight.
And earth was bitter, and heaven, and even the sea
Sorrowful even as he." SWINBURNE.
TWO weeks at sea, and a stormy voyage. Scarce
one day of sunshine ; at most a passing gleam
between the billows of white cloud blurred upon a
watery sky. The ocean was angry ; now slate-color,
now olive-green. At night the clouds were blown
away, and left cold spaces in the zenith, where the
stars would come out and blink and tremble in the
storm. The wind kept always in the northwest, and
moved long, steady waves, with gray jowls, which
opened and showed white teeth of foam.
I There were many passengers, mostly Jews and
Manchester salesmen ; one inexplicable lady ; some
rich Americans with their families, making the grand
tour ; a couple of young students. Guy walked rather
dreamily among them all. By day he usually lay in a
rug on the deck and read or dozed, while the young
feminine portion of the ship's company paced up and
down, arm-in-arm with the more presentable of the
male travellers, and scanned curiously his brown,
284 GUERNDALE.
quiet face, as he lay asleep. The mass of the mal
persuasion stayed in the smoking-room, betting, tell-
ing stories, drinking, and making the place foul.
The younger men vied with each other in talking of
their exploits and displaying their knowledge of life.
Most prominent among them was a man of forty or
thereabouts, with a fat neck and three days' growth
of black beard ; they all hung upon his words, and
were happy to pay for his drinks. On the second
day out he brought up a poker table, and was busy
with organizing pools on the ship's run. Guy fan-
cied he was a professional gambler. Guy rather
avoided the smoking-room or "fiddler;" but at
night he left the cabins, and the red eye of his cigar
would gleam in the darkness, as he walked the decks
from stern to forecastle.
At last, one evening, they sighted the rocky bones
of Cornwall. Guy kept out-of-doors, and at four in
the morning he saw the sunlight come over the green
Devonshire uplands. Then the coast receded, and was
nothing but a hazy, blue wall ; until evening, when
they passed the chalk points of the Needles, and cast
anchor in Southampton water. He remembered that
he was probably the first of his family to return to
England since old Guyon. But he did not go ashore,
contenting himself with looking at it. It had been a
favorite idea of his to return, when he should be mar-
ried, and look for the old manor in Durham, or what
might be left of it. He might at least hope to find
some old brasses of the Guerndales in the chapel or
church. He wondered who guarded it now. Per-
haps no one ; the Devil was probably not so keen
GUERNDALE. 28$
after good old St. Cuthbert's bones as in days of
yore. The Devil now knew that the Church had
attached a false value to such antiquities.
That afternoon they went down the Solent ; by
Cowes and Ryde, with their pleasure fleets of yachts ;
into the Channel at night, and on the next day the
petty ground-swell of the. German Ocean, with a few
spars or spires stuck endwise on the horizon line, to
stand for Flanders. . . . He wished he had asked
Annie to write to him. She would not have thought
It strange. . . . Yet why ?
Bremerhafen, and land, the next morning. A
quaint little brick town, with brick houses and pave-
ments, and tarpaulin-hatted children, red and rosy
with frequent scrubbing. The children disposed of
and safely off for school, the entire female population
turned to and scrubbed the pavements. Domestic
interiors, with the hausfrau in the court-yard scrub-
bing, and the herr in the doorway smoking. Visions
of a life of comfort, going to the market, eider-down
burgerlich, to a degree, Randolph would say. Did
Randolph himself never yearn for a domestic inte
rior ?
A shrill whistle from the station round the corner.
Only one first-class carriage in the train, which all
the American tourists squabbled for. Himself in the
second-class coup, with the lady of the voyage,
dressed in black and a veil. American-like, he re-
frained from speaking to her ; Americans, contrary
to the prevailing impression, being the most reserved
people in the world. Out the window a comfortable,
farm-yard sort of country ; evidences of plenty of
286 GUERNDALE.
rain, and lack of water-courses. Easy, squatting
farm-houses, with low, white-washed walls, and huge
projecting straw roofs, looking like mushrooms. A
clatter of ducks and geese, birds and bees, in the
garden. As the train went by the little brick sta-
tion, with its name grown in flowers beside it, a uni-
formed station-master popped out and presented
arms apparently with a broomstick while his has-
tily dropped pipe lay, still smoking, on the pave-
ment. A shriek, longer than usual ; a tunnel ;
Bremen.
More country, still flat, and very green and yellow,
like a colored lithograph. He took a book and tried
to read, but, despite himself, his eye wandered to the
window and the perspective of hedge-rows, widening
and closing, as the train rushed by. Hanover ; then,
late in the afternoon, an old city, fortified within
high walls, Magdeburg ; a great Protestant strong-
hold in the days when men fought for their faiths.
The railway-carriages and freight-cars, painted green,
were all numbered "3 horses 36 men," " 12 horses
60 men," and so on. He wondered why ; then he
saw that they were all requisitioned and apportioned
for case of war. The thought struck him oddly, and
caused him a vague wonder that there was anything
left to fight about. But, he reflected, the rank and
file did not care what they fought about.
Blobs of water came on the window, through which
the landscape looked distorted and plum -puddingy.
They still had the coupe to themselves himself and
the lady in black. He noticed once that she had
large, dark eyes ; and late in the twilight, when
GUERNDALE. 2Sf
she thought he was asleep, he saw her put her hand-
kerchief to them. Suddenly he felt the tears in hii
own eyes ; and, with a start of surprise and impa*
tience, sat upright. At the next station he got out
and walked up and down in the rain, stamping his
feet and swinging his arms as if to restore the cir-
culation. At last they got to Leipsic, and he fell
asleep.
He was roused at two or thereabouts, when they
came to the Elbe ; and he found that the bridge over
the river had been carried away, and it was neces-
sary to be ferried over. The little steamer had to
make two trips ; half the passengers shivered and
swore on one side of the river, while the first load
went over ; then the first load swore and shivered
on that side of the river, while the second load went
over. The weather was a gloomy drizzle ; and the
great stone piers of the broken bridge looked gaunt
and high in the mist. Then another long ride, half
unconscious, and a bright flare of gas. Dresden.
Would der Herr have a bed ? It was then sunrise ;
and the first train for Freiberg left at seven. No ;
he would take coffee and a cigar in the terrace over
the river. The waiter was horrified ; it was impos-
sible ; but Guy had his way. So he sat there, liking
to see the sunlight break into the city and up the
narrow streets, and to watch the market-place take
life, and the long bridge, and the swift, brown river.
Then back to the station and Freiberg ; and there,
in the high morning, Guy took a room at the hotel,
and fell asleep.
In the afternoon he got up and took a walk about
288 GUERNDALE.
the town. It did not seem to be much of a place.
He had come here because he had heard of the
School of Mines ; and supposed, lazily, he ought to
go and have a look at it. He remembered, with a
smile, Norton Randolph's story of how he had gone
to Heidelberg. He had arrived at Mayence with a
general impression that there were universities in
Germany ; and, ringing the bell, had asked the waiter
the way to the nearest one. He wondered where
Norton was now.
Freiberg. Well, he was here, and settled for two
or three years. What should he do ? He had walked
all over the town in a couple of hours. Should he
go up and have his name entered on the books, if
that was the proper thing to do? He supposed
there was a dean, or somebody who kept books.
Meanwhile, he threw himself upon a bench in the
promenade above the town, and smoked cigarettes.
The town looked hot and stupid ; the streets were
deserted ; below him was a sentry, walking to and
fro monotonously. A sudden weariness came over
him. He was tired tired of seeing so many cities
and towns, and resting in none of them ; but he
could not rest. Now he had been here six hours,
three and a half of which he had slept ; and he was
tired of this place. He did not like it. The coun-
try was flatter than he had supposed. Ah well, ho
would go to Zurich and try that. The school might
do as well, at first, as a more special school And
he could learn German, which was, of course, nec-
essary, as well there as at Freiberg.
Bock to Dresden, late in the evening, again to the
GUERNDALE. 289
astonishment of the sleepy waiter, who regarded him
as an uncanny guest, with ghoulish and unnatural
habits, who slept not at night, but smoked and drank
strong coffee. This time, however, he went to bed ;
and, in the consciousness of being off for Zurich the
next day, slept long and peacefully. Toward the
morning, he had a dream of the woman in black in
the train.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
U A Grbe der Liebe wachst BlUmlein dcr Ruh'." Hum.
EARLY in the next day, Guy started for Zurich.
No sooner was he fairly off in the train tha
he distinctly regretted that he had not stopped at
Freiberg. After all, what difference did it make to
him where he studied ? That day he went through
Bavaria, presumably ; but Guy never remembered
anything of his travels in that country. He was
quite certain that he came to a place on the Lake of
Constance ; subsequent biographers have identified
it with Friedrichshafen ; whether rightly or not, I do
not know. At all events, the lake was there, a very
faint and clear blue, with a bluer rim around the
shore, and high, dreamy forms of cream-color and
white on the southern horizon. This Guy noticed
and remembered ; but he cared little in those days
for beauty of landscaoe. The greatest beauty brought
only the more sadness into his moods, as it seemed
to him.
At Zurich he found the semester was over, and the
next was not to begin until August. There was
nothing for him to do then, at all events. What was
he to do ? He supposed that he might as well travel
for a fevr weeks more. So he went on to Lucerne.
GUERNDALE. 29 1
As Guy's reminiscences of that charming little
city began and ended with Thorwaldsen's lion, he is
supposed to have spent most of his visit there in
contemplation of this work of art He did remem-
ber, however, that one evening found him lying on
his oars in a boat upon the lake, and a great impa-
tience of all things was upon him.
He had been trying never to allow himself to
think ; and he had driven himself on, over the earth,
urging his mind away from all thoughts that to most
men are dear. For, he had reasoned, what was there
better for him ? Why should he, now, be any more
alone in a strange land than in his own ? What was
there left to him in his own land, that he had not
here ? He had but himself ; he was seeking to make,
for himself, what he could, of himself. That must
content him.
Yet, he had left nothing behind him, and he
had left everything ; he had brought nothing with
him, and he had brought everything. He was im-
patient of it all, and impatient with himself for being
impatient. He seized the oars, and drove them
vigorously through the water for a score of strokes ;
then they fell once more from his hands, and the
boat drifted. The purple shadows crept out from
the land and folded it from him ; the white, gleam-
ing waters deepened to color of lead. A trivial
tinkle of music came from a pavilion on the shore,
and from a boat near by the chorus of some song
from an opera-bouffe.
Again, he grasped the oars and pulled back to the
town. He 'anded, and wandered about the streets,
292 GUERNDALE.
which were crowded with summer excursionists^
vulgar Englishmen and unpleasant Americans ; tho
latter walking, with their wives and daughters, in
the gardens by the Kursaal, or sitting at tables and
taking ices or other refreshments. Two or three
young American girls were there, overdressed ; near
them two French cocottes^ also overdressed ; one or
two men following, and ogling both groups equally.
Two fat men, with broad, cloth hats, low vests, and
diamond shirt-pins, sitting and discussing the Chi-
cago pork-market ; probably the fathers of the girls,
Guy thought. One gentleman, sitting alone and
smoking cynically. Guy started, as his eye fell
upon him ; then he went behind some trees, and
walked rapidly away. It was Norton Randolph.
Why Guy avoided him, he could not have told ; but
he felt an odd repugnance to meeting him, which he
afterward regretted.
After walking along the quay a moment, he turned
and went back for Norton ; but he was gone. Well,
it did not matter. He knew his address and could
write to him, even if he did not find him in Lucerne.
His impatience came upon him once more. Oh, he
could not bear this. He must get away again
alone, by himself, away from this common, comfort-
able crowd. Taken en masse, he seemed to hate his
fellow-creatures. He must leave cities, for a time ;
it did not matter much where he went. So he
packed up hastily that night; and leaving his trunks,
started the next morning with a knapsack and a
stick to "have it out with himself."
He went up the lake in a small steamer, and
GUERNDALE. 293
ashore at Altdorf. The higher snow mountains had
a strange charm for him as he studied them from
the deck of the steamer. They seemed to float so
calmly in the upper sky ; they were so cold, and
pure, and far off, looking down upon this world as
from a world of dreams. So he set out on foot,
strongly, up into the opening of the valley; and when
Norton Randolph was dawdling over his coffee, in
Lucerne, Guy was far up in the gorge by the Devil's
Bridge.
Though walking rapidly, and with a grim vigor
of exercise, he looked about him little, and did not
see much of what was around. His way was dusty
and hot ; private carriages and lumbering diligences
kept passing him, presumably on their way from
Italy ; and the rock-walled road seemed little less
banale than the quay at Lucerne. He found a quiet
nook in the Reuss, below the Devil's Bridge, and took
a plunge in the river, and then lay for an hour in the
sun, smoking his briarwood pipe, with his hat pulled
over his eyes. He had brought a few sandwiches
with him, upon which he made his luncheon, intend-
ing to avoid hotels as far as possible. Late in the
afternoon he came out in the wider valley around
Andermatt, where, or at Hospenthal, he had expected
to stop for the night. The inn was crowded ; upon
the piazza he saw a pile of alpenstocks, encircled
with inscriptions burned in the wood, commemorat-
ing visits to the Rigi, Staubbach, Pilatus, and other
equally memorable exploits. They all bore the
chamois-hook at the end, which marks the tyro in
mountaineering ; and from the dining-room windows
294 GUERNDALE.
came the loud, shrill monotone of his natiye accent
In front of the inn lounged a few Englishmen,
goggle-eyed, knickerbockered, white-veiled.
Impatiently, Guy turned away and walked on
through the valley. He had had a vague idea of
going on, over the St. Gothard, into Italy; but was
weary of the heat and dust of the highroad, and now
wished to go still farther into the mountains. He
had brought with him a map of the country; and, on
consulting it, decided to leave the main road at
Hospenthal. So he turned aside into the smaller
road, and, leaving its upward windings, began to
climb up the steep incline of the Furka. But he
was fairly tired out ; every moment he felt tempted
to throw himself upon the alpine roses growing at
his feet, and watch the sunset light flung far over
the green lowlands below him by the huge ice
mirror of the Galenstock. At last he reached a
little inn at the summit of the pass, where he found
quiet and a room for the night. He smoked a pipe
on the balcony overlooking the Rhone glacier, went
to bed at nine, and slept twelve hours.
Still he wanted to get away ; the severe physical
labor was like rest to him, and he wished to plunge
farther yet into the heart of the highlands. He tried
Meyringen, and wandered a day or two in that val-
ley, and upon the Grimsel. The quiet of the Alps
was grateful ; he worked hard by day, and at night
slept peacefully ; while the five giants of the Oberland
the Eagle, the Monk, and the Maiden, the Horn
of Terror, and the Dark Horn of the Aar kept watch
above.
GUERNDALE. 29$
Still, he was restless; the roads were thronged with
travellers ; the snows were yet far off. He was under
the spell of the mountains, and wished still further
to explore their solitudes. He left the Oberland for
the deeper shades of the Pennine range ; taking the
Rhone at its source, where it bubbles from a cavern
in the broken glacier, he followed the little stream
through the upper Valais ; a thinly peopled gorge,
where the sun does not shine an hour a day, and he
saw the most repulsive forms of goitre. Then a dil-
igence brought him to Visp, where he spent the night,
and early next morning bent his steps southward, up
the valley. Here he found no carriage road, but a
rough path that wound tortuously through a growth
of firs, clinging to the side of the cliff, and chilly
with the spray of the glacier-streams roaring at its
base. High above him was a hamlet, hanging on
the very brow of a precipice. It was cool, almost
too cool in the early morning ; no ray of sunlight
was yet to be seen above the mountains on his left.
Now and then he heard the tinkle of a cow-bell,
but he met no one until, after three or four hours'
rapid walk, he saw the quaint little village of St.
Niklaus ahead, with its shining tin belfry. The path
became the main street of the village ; but there was
scarcely room to walk between the huge manure-
heaps which adorned the front of every house.
The valley of Zermatt has now become a common-
place of tourists ; but they can never change the
savage grandeur which gives it its charm. As Guy
walked on beyond St. Niklaus, the valley widened ;
the scarred cliffs on his right seemed even higher
396 GUERNDALE.
than before ; their bleak faces were cleft and riven
by the frost, and by the earthquakes which have
more than once depopulated the place. But between
the mountain walls was a wide level of soft green,
and upon the other side the huge knees of the
Mischabel. No human being was in sight. High
up on the right, in a hollow scathed by falling rocks
and land-slides, lingered the lowest skirt of a glacier,
old and gray, shrinking now far up in its lair to es-
cape the summer heat, and leaving the worn stones
smooth behind it. As Guy walked on, the valley
seemed to close before and behind him ; no tree or
green thing was visible, nothing but the cliffs and the
torrent between them. Then Guy turned an angle
in the cliff, and looked up and saw the Matterhorn
before him.
A long time he must have lain and looked at
that view that many of us now know so well. In
front, the wide, waim valley, dotted with chalets at
Its upper end, and just above them the great green
wedge of forest that seems to force itself through
the two living streams of ice that wind on either
side. Then again the long sweep of the woods, and
the barren slopes ; and far above these, resting on
huge rock shoulders, a snowy sea ; and out of this,
with one strong leap the eye scarce dares to meas-
ure, rises a single shaft of rock and ice, piercing
the very zenith as it glitters in the sunlight with its
coronal of snow. For the Matterhorn is a cathedral
that no man has wrought ; nor can man lie down be-
neath its shadow and think of man alone. The very
villagers at its base do not grow sated and indiffer-
GUERNDALE. 297
ent, as is the wont of natives living in such scenes ;
they speak of it with awe and fear ; long they would
believe the mountain supernatural, and said no man
should ever stand upon its crown. And Guy gazed
at it from the earth, and felt that in all the world
there was no form of things inanimate like this.
Great billows of gray cloud swept its snowy shoul-
ders ; but the sun shone full upon the highest peak,
clear in the upper blue. Guy lay still, in the long,
sweet grass of the valley, and forgot to think of
himself and even of her ; the peace of the moun-
tains was upon him, and the passion in his heart lay
stunned into silence.
13*
CHAPTER XXXIV.
** Or chirrups madrigals, with old, sweet word*,
Such as men loved when people wooed like birds,
And spoke the true note first." AUSTIN DOBSON.
STILL many minutes Guy lay drowsily, at peace
with the world. The summer day wore on, and
the full sunlight came down into the valley ; the
birds flew low over his head. A dense perfume came
from the crushed grass thick with wild flowers ; the
numberless Alpine insects filled the air with the
beating of their wings. A strange, sweet sound came
to his ears, a low and liquid melody. He listened
dreamily a long time before his curiosity was aroused ;
he was curious a long time before he got up to see
what it was. The melody was well known to him ;
it was an old German song that came to him cool
and sweet, from some wooden instrument, like water
from a wooden pipe.
Guy sat up and looked about him. The sound
seemed to come from a little chalet near by. On
coming nearer, the chalet proved but an empty cow-
house. It stood hard by a coppice overrun by thick
vines, and in the depth of this thicket there jwas a
rush of water, pouring in a cloud of mist from some
unknown height, and trickling in little slower
GUERNDALB. 299
streamlets to rest in a pool in the green meadow be-
low. The door of the hut was open, and Guy peered
in curiously. The place inside was empty and now
disused, but still sweet with an odor of old summers,
and there in the shade lay a yellow-haired youth.
He was lying on his back, playing on some wooden
instrument, and his blue eyes were half closed. The
boy did not see Guy for a minute, and went on
breathing his melody through the wood. Behind
him lay a knapsack, which served for a pillow ; and
beside him was an old German student cap and his
alpenstock. This was of oak, not turned in a lathe,
but hewn, and rounded smooth at the upper end.
Near it, wound in a coil of rope, was an ice-axe.
Guy, with his grave face, stood at the doorway look-
ing in. His shadow fell upon the boy, and he looked
up and spoke before Guy could disappear.
"Herein! " said he pleasantly. " I see ; you heard
mein Schatz, and were by her called hither. Fine
morning ! Pardon, Herr, that I do not rise to re-
ceive you. It is not mine, the castle you behold ! "
and he smiled, opening wide his blue eyes. Guy felt
an inclination to laugh, observing which, the boy
laughed merrily. Then as Guy, with true Anglo-
Saxon diffidence, hesitated upon the doorstep, "Ach,
pardon, sir, that I do not receive you, but will you
not come in from out of the sun ? She is so warm,
efen for de beerts, out in de vallee." This in Eng-
lish.
" Please go on with your playing ; " said Guy, " I
like to hear you." The boy needed no invitation, and
had already begun some new melody. Guj clasped
30O GUERNDALE.
his hands over his knees and leaned backward. They
were sitting on the hay with which the earth floor
of the hut was strewn, and little sunbeams came in
through the chinks between the logs in the wall
" Do you like it ? " said the boy, suddenly stopping.
"Most often you English do not know, music."
" How did you know I was English ? " said Guy,
amused, and rather abruptly.
" Ach ! I know you are English ; for you are traf-
Illing for pleasure, and you are here in the Switzer-
land, and it is summer, and the world does not make
you glad. But I do not think you are English. You
come from America ? Not so ? You are American."
Guy laughed. " Ach, I knew you did come from
America ! " and he broke into a laugh of sympathy
"America! I, too, haf been in America, and I
shall go there again ! " And the boy laughed loud-
er ; and seizing his instrument began to pipe the
shepherd's song in Tannhauser. Guy was much de-
lighted, and, turning over comfortably, proceeded to
fill and light his pipe. The manners of his young
friend were so frank and simple that one could not
help being easy in his company, and Guy already
felt as if he had known him for years.
"You haf a fine country," the boy went on. "Yes,
it iss wonderful, your country. And you haf great
railways, and machines, and fabrics. You are very
ingenious in your country ; and your climate, it is
wunderschon. Ach, you are grand fellows in your
country. But you do not know, none of you, to be
happy." And he garnished his conversation with
another oboe obligate.
GUERNDALE. 3O1
" Do you think so ? "
"Oh, yes, I am sure. You are all free in your
country, and what you say? equal; and you try,
each one of you, to be bigger than the other ; and
you work too hard, and you are unhappy if you are
not* so greater ; and you grow tired. Oh, yes. That
iss not the way to be happy. Now, in the Vaterland
we are all so different, one from the other ; but we
do not think that makes nothing ; and we do not
envy one the other. One is happy if one sees what
iss fine in the world, and what is beautiful in the
country, and if one feels what iss great, and loves and
iss loved. But no, you, most of you, do not care for
that in America."
" Do you always take your your flute with you ?"
said Guy, for the sake of something to say.
" It iss no flute, it iss oboe. Yes, I do take her
always with me. She iss mein Schatz. Ach, you
know what that iss ? Yess ? You know, I haf also-
another Schatz my true Schatz. But she iss not
here. No.- She is far away.
Schone, helle. goldne sterne,
Grusst die Liebste in der Feme,
Sagt, dass ich noch immer sei,
Herzekrank und bleich und treu.'
Yes," he went on, suddenly stopping his song, " she
iss in America."
Guy lay by, little disposed to laugh, and more
touched than amused by this childish confidence.
He had been fifteen minutes with this fellow, and he
Was already giving him his heart history ! If Shake-
302 GUERNDALE.
speare had been a German he never would hare writ-
ten that line about daws and wearing one's heart upon
one's sleeve. The boy began a prelude upon his oboe.
" You do not climb ? You do not know the moun-
tains ? "
" How do you know ? " said Guy.
" You haf no ice-nails on your shoes. But it is a fine
thing, climbing; to be so high over the world. Ach,
you, too, should climb. Then you would smile."
Guy smiled very decidedly at this.
" I should like to try, but I have no experience.
I once thought of trying Mont Blanc," he laughed.
" Ach, de Mont-Blanc he iss noding, nodings at
all. He iss but one big what you call him !
blateau. You should come vid me. Will you come
with me ?" cried the boy, excitedly. "Ach, permit
that I do give you my card ! " and, with a sudden
effort for formality, he produced a pasteboard, on
which was printed :
ERNST GUTEKIND.
POSEH.
Guy took the card gravely, and handed him his
own.
" Ach ! " said Gutekind, " your last name is strange.
I do not know it. But your first is a goot name.
You haf one Ritter Guyon in de ' Faery Queen.' "
" Have you read Spenser ? " said Guy, surprised.
" Oh, yes, I haf read Spenser ; he is one great
poet ; he is fery sweet ; he is not like one English-
man. We all do study English in our schools. You
haf also one other great poet, whose whose Vorfahf
GUERNDALE. 303
wass one Guyon. He was Shelley. He wass better
than all your others. But you you study not Ger-
man ? "
" I have read some German," said Guy. " Goethe,
Kant, Fichte, Schopenhauer "
" Der war auch ein Narr!" cried Gutekind,
savagely. " Ach, no ! You should read Jean Paul,
Schelling Heine, he was too sad ; and Schopenhauer,
only what he wrote of aesthetik was goot ; his head
was turned round the wrong way. But you haf not
told me will you not come with me ? Ach, say that
you come, and I will show you what are the Alps."
Something about the boy pleased Guy ; and, in a
humor, he consented. Gutekind jumped up and
seized his hand enthusiastically ; and, sitting down
by his new friend, proceeded to expand in new con-
fidences.
" I haf left home that I might be among the moun-
tains once more," said he. "We men who are always
in the affairs, you know, the false things seem real
to us ; and we forget what is true ; and our minds,
they do not keep clean. So I wished once more for
the Alps, that I might make high and pure my soul
with them. Ach, your friend was sometimes right ;
it is only when we are one, united, with the pure
idea, that we lose what is wrong and and irdisch. I
did wish again that I might go up into the Luft;
that I might leave there what I did not wish to re-
member. And then I shall go home, and then to
America ! " laughed this imaginative young mystic.
" And what do you do when you are at home ? "
" I am a fabrikant of cannon," said Gutekind.
CHAPTER XXXV.
* In Heaven a spirit doth dwell,
Whose heartstrings are a lute. . .
Yes, Heaven is thine ; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours ;
Our flowers are morely flowers
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours." POE.
ALL about the little pine-wood village of Zermatt
are huge knees and buttresses of mountains
whose peaks, far distant in the sky, are unseen from
the valley. Only the Matterhorn, full in front, soars
into the blue, like a huge splinter of ice, cleaving
the heavens. But the morning sunlight comes dan-
cing down over miles of falling glaciers ; vast ter-
minal moraines fill the valley and, to the east, the
wooded flanks of the Mischabel roll away, and the
great snow shoulders of Monte Rosa. And Guy felt
the mighty consolation of the hills ; he was happier
that night than he had been for many a long day, and
slept well and quietly, for the Matterhorn and the
Mischabel and the great Weisshorn range held him ia
their arms, and shielded him from the world. True,
he had walked nearly thirty miles that day ; it was
late in the evening before they reached honest Mr.
Seller's little inn, and the last few miles had been
GUERNDALE.
enlivened by the cheery company of little Gutekind.
For Guy had taken a fancy to him ; he liked the
freshness and simplicity and the honest blue eyes of
this young artificer of engines of destruction.
And Gutekind had conceived a vast admiration
for Guy, and grew ten times more enthusiastic, him-
self, when he saw Guy's evident enjoyment of the
scenery and the walk. He was up, bright and early,
burning with delight, and wild to get up into the
highness, as he expressed it. Even Guy caught a bit
of his fever, and found himself earnestly endeavoring
to persuade a guide that the Cervin might be at-
tempted through the flecks of cloud which were
clinging to its sides. But Gutekind grew shy at
this ; it was too much. " Perhaps to-morrow," he
said ; "one might always try.
Je refiendrai d la montagne foili tout !
Je refiendrai 3. la montagne foild tout !
Bour ebouser ma pien-aimee.
Celle que mon goeur a tant aim6ee-e-e
FoiU tout 1 Foili tout I *
We might well, however, go to walk ? " he added.
"We haf all the day to rest."
So they followed the gorge up to the base of the
glacier, and there in a little green recess under the
rocks, hollowed into a roof by the torrent, Guy lay,
through the afternoon, and smoked his pipe; and lit-
tle Gutekind sat beside him, and played on his oboe,
and sang snatches of song, and talked a curious mix-
ture of common-sense and sentiment. Above th^m
was piled the ugly moraine of the Boden glacier
great rocks, and d6bris, and blocks of old ice, crusted
306 GUERNDALE.
at the surface with dirt and gravel, for the old age
of a glacier is not beautiful, when the snow cov-
erlet is gone, and the purity is lost, and the clear
violet ice becomes gray and honeycombed, and it
sinks to die in the hot valley, giving birth to the tor-
rent that bears its name.
But anything, apparently, made Gutekind happy ;
and he sat laughing and singing, piping on his oboe,
and running off occasionally to gather some Alpine
rose or gentian, intensely blue. He had hopes, he
said, of an Edelweiss ; he wanted one to send to her ;
but they were too low for them yet. And Guy looked
at him with amusement and perhaps a tinge of con-
tempt, and wondered what Norton Randolph would
have to say to him : for all Americans are intolerant
of expressed sentiment, and Gutekind was after all a
bourgeois and took the world quite au serif ux ; while
Randolph was familiar only with that world which
society is pleased to call the world, It monde oil I" on rit^
le monde oit fon s'ennuie. But they were screened far
from this world, that day ; and the torrent falling
beside them came too fresh from the skies to be
quite earthy just a touch of rock-grit to give it
strength. So Guy lay watching it, dreamily, and
thought to-morrow he would be up in the snows
whence it came, and quite forgot to smile at little
Gutekind. He remembered how in his childhood
he had so lain and looked into a browner brook with
softer motion, and he threw a scarlet leaf in the
water and watched it eddy around, and wondered if
the little rock-rimmed pool up by the edge of the
wood were just as it used to be. Then he bent his
GUERNDALE. 307
brow over the stream, and the water reflected his
face and ran on with a new shadow; while Gutekind
played idly on his pipe, then laid it down and sang in
French with his queer German accent :
" Si fous croyez que che vais dire
Quij'ose ai-ai-mer
Je ne saurais hour une embire
Fous la nommer. 1 '
Guy flung himself back, somewhat impatiently, on
the grass. " Herr Gutekind, do you remember the
war ? "
" Ach, Gott, yes ! " said Gutekind with a start.
" Why do you so suddenly ask me, do I remember
the war ? I believe well I was a soldier myself."
" You you a soldier in the war ? Why, you were
too young ! "
"Ach, no. A man is nefer too young to be shot.
I haf been all through the war. It wass schreklich
it was terrible. No, no. I do not like the wars.
I seek always to forget all that I haf seen of war.
Ach, do not let us think of him here ! " And seizing
his oboe, he began the brook melody of the pastoral
symphony ; then his face grew serious, and he laid
the instrument down again.
"Ach, yes. I haf killed many, many men. You
should see our cannon. They were fery fine, our
cannon, and they did fery well ; and my father, he
did get the Iron Cross. I was what you call him ?
artillerist. But noh. The war was not a true war.
Then, I was a boy, and I thought it fery fine aU
fery fine indeed."
3O8 GUERNDALE.
" I should like to go to a war," mused Guy.
" No, no you would not. You think you would
like him, because you are sad and triibselig, oh !
I can see. But n6h. To see men killed as if they
wass cattle, it is not nice. Poor fellows ! and to
many of them the world so sweet."
" I thought you Germans were all pessimists ? "
" Himmel, nein ! das sind die Narren. No, you
come up with me to-morrow in die Luft, and I will
show you how the world is wunderschon, and then
you will nefer forget it. Ach, yes, this world is bad
enough if you think the thoughts of him, and you
look at him with the eyes of him, and you do not
see the soul."
"Truly," quoted Guy, "he is a fool who abuses
this world ; for he has none other."
" Yes, yess ; you haf one other, that is outside of,
that is beyond this. And it is the licht that comes
from the outside that makes bright this world. No ;
the men they are all Selbstsucht, egoist; and they seek
the happiness of this world ; and then they are not
happy. But haf they right to complain ? Haf they
then ein Recht nach Gliick ? Nein, nein, not here ;
and this world is not the true. But yet there are
lights in the world ; there is musik, and beauty, and
memory and the poetry, and the erhaben, the sub-
lime, and lofe ; and they are not of this, but of the
true world ; and they are true. Ach, do not gom-
blain to me of this world ; it is only der Grobian, der
Grobian who iss not happy."
And little Gutekind rose quite angrily ; and Guy
walked back with him as he stowed his oboe in a
GUERNDALE. 309
case, and strode along with his hat stuffed with wild
flowers. Soon his face cleared up, and he began
again with his snatches of song :
" Ich bin die Prinzessin Use und wohne im Ilsenstein;
Komm mil nach meinem Schlosse, wir wollen selig sein."
"Do not you think that I am Christian," he said,
suddenly turning to Guy, as if it were suggested by
the song. " Oh, no ; the Bibel, it iss a goot and a
beautiful book. But it iss not all of the truth."
And the same evening he got into a quite furious
discussion with an English divine who conducted
the service in the inn on Sundays and risked his
neck over ice slopes on week days. Furious, that is,
on one side ; for Gutekind uttered his most appalling
pantheistical doctrines in the callow and childlike
manner that was peculiarly his own. The curate,,
who had not read a dozen theological works in as
many years, much less philosophy, and was chiefly
conversant with works on whist, was shocked, and
retreated terrified behind the thirty-nine articles
and St. Paul. But, as Gutekind evidently considered
the latter a far less trustworthy and unprejudiced au-
thority than Strauss, he calmly masked these posi-
tions and proceeded to rout the Englishman with
Spinoza and Schelling. " Either," he would say,
" something whether mind, man, or matter, we do
not know exists outside of God, or it does not. In
the former case, der Herr is an atheist ; for his God
is not infinite, that is, not God at all. In the lattet
case, der Herr, like myself, is a pantheist ; for every
thing, even der Herr himself, is a mode of God."
GUERNDALE.
Pinned behind this dilemma, the clergyman stare4
helplessly at Guy ; but he was engaged in conversa-
tion with a charming Russian countess, who clapped
her hands at Gutekind's worst speeches, pouted
when he admitted the existence of any deity at all,
and confessed, in soft, broken English and a musical
voice, to being something of a nihilist ; she tried her
best to fascinate Guy, retired to her bedroom some-
what disgusted that he did not make love to her,
and was, as Gutekind expressed it, "so charmed to
be so charming."
Gutekind had a horror of the femmes du monde ;
but Guy heard him softly humming, as he came up-
stairs
" Ich glaub' nicht an den Herrgott,
Wovon das Pfafflein spricht
Ich glaub' nur an dein Auge
Das ist mein Himmelslicht.**
Guy went to sleep in a moment ; but at two o'clock
Ernst Gutekind came and knocked at his door.
"The morning iss fine; it is time to depart," said he.
So Guy got up, feeling wretchedly uncomfortable.
His room was very cold and dark, and it seemed al-
most impossible to dress by the light of the one tallow
dip the inn allowed ; however, he struggled wearily
into his clothes. His mountain boots had been wet
the day before, and the huge nailed soles and leather
sides were damp and stiff, and greasy with fresh tal-
low. Footsore as he was, it seemed an endless task
to stamp them on, but at last he did so, and limped
down-stairs. There, in the gloom of the general
room, he found Gutekind and a trio of guides. It
GUERNDALE. 311
was a dismal start ; even Gutekind seemed quiet
and subdued, and the guides whispered together,
morosely, in one corner, as if they were plotting a
conspiracy. One of them had made some hot cof-
fee, a bowl of which Guy drank, and felt a bit bet-
ter. Finally, they sallied forth into the little village,
Guy stumping along like a cripple.
Still, as they plodded up the steep path, silently
and in single file, Guy gradually forgot his stiffness
in the picturesqueness of the scene. The night was
cold and damp ; the nearest mountains, where they
could be seen, gleamed a ghastly white in the moon-
light. They were walking through a wet pasture :
first a guide, then Gutekind, then another guide,
then Guy, and after him the last guide. The men
kept silence ; they wore peaked hats, and cloaks
slung gracefully upon one shoulder ; the effect was
of some midnight party of banditti. The long valley
behind them was all in a shimmer of moonlight ;
but, as they wound up the alp, the moon sank be-
hind the Weisshorn and left them to the faint light
of the stars, and the valleys all in the darkness, with
only the vague sky-line to mark the mountain.
There was something strangely beautiful in it all.
In the exhilaration of the morning air, Guy's fa-
tigue disappeared ; he forgot all but the climb before
them ; slowly, imperceptibly, other thoughts and
memories faded away. The darkness itself gave a
solemn grandeur to the scene ; the guides marched
silently, with steady steps and bowed heads ; Gute-
kind, looking up, was whispering a song. They had
left the grass, and were on a long slope of shale :
312 GUERNDALE.
beside them was a mound of worn and rounded rock,
along the edge of which they took their way. From
below came the hoarse roar of a torrent, as omni-
present in the Alps as the murmur of the waves
by the sea. A wall of white became dimly visible
above and ahead ; they were come to the edge of the
snow. Here the guides halted a moment, and Guy
looked behind.
It was darker than ever. Hill and valley were
alike undistinguishable ; the very stars were paler ;
all was pitchy black. It seemed to Guy he could
scarcely see the sheen of the snow around him. No
ray of dawn appeared.
Suddenly the jagged ice-peak of the Weisshorn,
twenty miles to the west, flamed blood-red. He
started, as at a blow. Nothing to be seen but this
scarlet patch, hung mid-high in the darkness, against
a black sky.
Then a minute, and a rosy flush fell upon the
Matterhorn, and a tender glow like ashes-of- roses
spread slowly down over the vast snow-fields in front,
in infinite gradations of soft pink and white. And
now, peak answering peak, each in turn flashed, like
warm marble, into light ; only the lower glaciers
kept their chill, ashy white ; and all above them was
the day. But still the valleys were vast gulfs of dark-
ness, like Dante's Malebolge, unpierceable by any
power of star.
And so, group after group of snowy pinnacles
turned scarlet, and red, and rosy, and glitter-white j
and yet the huge chasms yawned below, and the night
brooded in the valleys. At last a sunbeam, glancing
GUERNDALE. 3 13
full upon the icy surface of the Matterhorn, fell
down and backward into the long valley like an
arrow from the sun ; and they saw the birth of dawn
below. At first, the deep valleys were shrouded in
a sea of mist ; then, as the sunbeam cleft the cloud,
the gray veil wavered and rose slowly upward. They
felt its chill breath as it rolled by them ; the mists of
the night ascended, like incense, at the rising of the
sun ; and there came the sweet morning smell of the
woods and meadows, and the tinkle of bells and little
rills, far down below.
And Guy turned thankfully to the bread and meat
before him, and forgot that he had forgotten the
beings of the lower world.
14
CHAPTER XXXVI
" Die Mutter (kltet die Hlndc ;
Ihr war, sie wusste nicht wie ;
Andachtig sang sie leise
4 Gelobt seist du, Marie.' " HEINE.
HOW little tourists know of the true charm of
the Alps ! Ladies, who walk on the prome-
nades and terraces of the large towns, drive sleepily
in their comfortable private carriages over the mili-
tary roads, buy wood-carvings and crystals at the
chalet-shops, or even, perhaps, venture in boats on
the lakes; parties of "personally conducted," de-
lighting in casinos and bands, in railway ascents of
the Rigi, charmed at evening illuminations of the
Giessbach, eloquent over the adventures of the Mau-
vais Pas. And now even Zermatt is invaded by these
latter tourists, and the warm recesses of the Val Tour-
nanche and next they will be for bedecking the Mat-
terhorn himself with electric lights. But there is still
a world these do not know. They frequent only the
carriage passes ; the dusty roads, and the hot, broad
valleys, where only a glimpse of the distant snows is
vouchsafed them, like a dream never to be realized,
and the fag-ends of the glaciers hang down, dirty
and uninviting ; and then they go back to Birming-
ham and talk of Switzerland.
GUERNDALE. $1$
But no one knows the secret of the mountains
unless he meets the high Alps face to face ; unless
he sees all their moods, and grapples with all their
dangers ; wnless he spends days above the snow-line
and only descends to sleep. Then he finds another
world than ours, a world, like Nirwana, above the
evils of birth, and death, and change; swept by keen,
clear winds, or lulled in the stillness of the stars. It
is a world eternal, and its colors are white and blue ;
the red and green of the earth are far removed ; no
plant lives, no green thing moves, no moss grows ;
the valleys are lost and forgotten ; nothing is seen
but the billowy sea of ice, shining white, save where
the crags of rock break through the foam of the
snow ; and the icy waves lie motionless, as if stilled
at a word of God. Far below may be heard the fall-
ing of water, the rending of rock, the rush of the
avalanche ; but the masses of the mountains are at
rest, and the high peaks seem to say, in Dante's
words :
" Dinanzi a me non fur cose create
Se non eterne. ed io eterno duro."
\
For at such times we forget that Helmholtz places
the duration of the sun itself at seventeen millions
of years.
Over the mountains is the calm of eternity, and
the peace of the high places enters into the soul.
All that week Guy and Gutekind were above the
line of change, and it was a week which Guy never
forgot. He learned to know of the mountains : he
won a love which he would never lose. Rarely, at
310 GUERNDALE,
night, would they even descend so far as to seek
shelter in some chalet or hay-filled hut ; oftener they
lay, wrapped in blankets, on the snow itself and fell
asleep watching the stars. For none of the pains
that come from the earth and the damps of night are
known in these upper airs ; only the radiance of the
light there blinds the eyes of those who live in lower
places. So Guy would lie at night, vaguely remem-
bering that below in the world there were many men
who went up and down, to and fro, troubling them-
selves ; and then he thought how well the mountains
fitted Dante's description of the higher angels, for
they lifted their great white faces
" All radiant, with the glory and the calm
Of having looked upon the front of God."
Then Gutekind, who rarely sacrificed his oboe ex-
cept in actual climbing, would bring it out and pipe
sweet melodies to the echoes of the Mischabel. And
Guy would watch the shifting curtain of the clouds
below them, while Gutekind twined edelweiss for
his " Schatz " in America ; and only rarely, when
they caught a glimpse of some far valley through a
rift in the fleecy floor, would they wonder what
might be going on in the under world.
One day Guy has often described to me. It was a
day when all things seemed too lovely to leave ;
each charming picture, as they wound up the ascent,
seemed to woo them to rest there and go no further.
They had spent the night in a little chalet in the
Saas valley, and purposed to ascend the Dom. So
they toiled vigorously over the pastures, and up the
GUERNDALE. 317
precipitous Fee glacier, and by seven in the morning
had reached the snow above the ice. Most of the
higher peaks were in front; but, as they turned, they
saw far to the east and south, where the mountains
dwindled away, and fell, in brown, purple, green foot-
hills, to the distant plains of Lombardy ; and far pn
the horizon, below the sun, a blue mist floated above
the Lago Maggiore.
Guy had a moment of weakness ; let the rest of
the day care for itself, he thought, and he threw him-
self down upon the last soft bed of alpine roses.
There he lit a pipe, pulled his cap over his eyes, and
flatly refused to move. Gutekind, nothing loath,
though making one or two feeble remonstrances
about the length of the day's work, and the proba-
bility of soft snow in the afternoon, threw himself
down beside Guy ; and both became lost in the pure
delight of the view.
<l Ah," said Gutekind, " I wish that I had here my
oboe." Then, after a long pause, "Oh, I do wish
that I could bring her here. She is like you Ameri-
cans ; they are not strong.
Sie hat mir Treue versprochen
Und gab ein Ring dabei I '
But, ah, you do not know of whom I speak ? I do
not speak of my oboe now ; I speak of my feins
Liebchen."
"Oh, yes," said Guy with a smile, "I have heard
you mention her."
Gutekind hummed a song or two ; then suddenly,
he spoke impulsively:
3l8 GUERNDALE.
" Yes, I haf told you a little ; but I did not tell
you all. I said that I was come here to the Alps be-
cause I did wish to rest from my business. But it iss
not true no, it iss not true. Let me tell you why I
haf come here ; it is because I shall see her ; I shall
now go to Amerika myself and I shall see her."
" And are you going to marry her ?"
" Oh, yess. I shall marry her. I haf been be-
trothed to her now ach, it is nearly five years. But
now it iss all over, and I can go, and so I am so happy,
weisst du. I haf been working for her, that I might
get a home ; and now I haf won it, and I can bring
her to my own house, and she can haf all that she
shall want. Yess ; I can give her all."
" But why do you come to Switzerland ? " queried
Guy.
" I could not go to her from my work and my
business and all that I haf seen. No, I did wish to
come here first, that I make high my mind with
the mountains and haf my rest before I do see her.
Oh, I haf had a hard time a fery hart time, do you
know. And then I did wish to write to her that I
come. It is since five years now that I do lofe her.
And she said then that she did lofe me ; but I I
was young, and I could not keep my wife as she did
need. So, I came back to Germany, and I worked
that I might get things of my own. For my father,
he iss rich, but he has many sons and daughters ;
and he did not like me to marry her, for he thought
that her health it was not good, and she would not
make a good wife. And so, I did go to work ; but
then the war came, and I wass of the Landwehr, and
GUERNDALE. 319
ach ! the war was terrible. And I did not hear from
ker only once in the war ; and then I was wounded,
and I could not return to my work for two years
more, and the waiting, it did make me more ill."
" Where does she live ? "
" She iss in New York, and her name is Fannie
Fannie Bltts."
"And now you can marry ?"
" Yess, I haf done very well oh, fery well indeed,
in my business. And I haf a house for her, and there
is a garten, and a droschke that she may ride, for she
is not always well "
" And so you are going to New York to marry her
there ? "
" Yes, I am going. She has always written to me,
not so often as I but then, you know, she was
mot strong, and it was hard to wait so long, and then
it is not easy for a maiden to write, it is not not
sittlich. And her father he did object to our mar-
riach, because I was a German and poor. But now
he will let it be. Ach, Herr Guerndale, my dear
friend, you must see her. She is so lofely ! "
Guy lay silent.
" But ach, you too haf lofed ?" broke in Gutekind.
" How do you know ? " said Guy, forcing a laugh.
" Oh ! I know. You forget to talk ; and you dc*
ot care whether you stop on the ntv'e. And you d<>
aot laugh at me."
Guy's laugh came naturally, this time.
"Ach, my friend, do not fear it. I tell you this
world it iss vain and little worthy ; and love and
beauty, they are gifen us to keep us mindful that it
32O GUERNDALE.
iss not all." Then the boy went on with his song
snatches, and Guy's mood grew quiet ; and so they
forgot the time, until Gutekind suddenly came to
himself, and gave the word to advance. Then the
ill-matched pair, roped together, went up the arete.
But this long delay made them late. It was three
o'clock before they stood on the highest peak of the
Mischabel. Guy was reluctant to leave the view ;
for the Dom is the highest of all the Swiss mountains
and overlooks the northern Oberland. But Gutekind
was more prudent ; he spoke of long and tedious ice-
cutting, and the young German was an admirable
mountaineer. The slopes were far too steep for a.
glissade ; still, fortunately, there was no new snow, and
the crust was icy and firm. But cutting steps is a
tedious process. They got into a long couloir ; and
at dusk, had only reached a little snow plateau at its
base, somewhere above the glaciers over Randa. So,
little loath, they postponed the final glacier-climb
to the morning light, and had their supper, side by
side, at the base of the cliff.
It was quite dark, that night, and they talked long
and kindly together ; Ernst Gutekind speaking of
his love, Guy listening silently to the simple, sweet-
minded fellow, and contrasting his friend's happi-
ness with his own future life. Again and again the
boy ran over his old story, until his earnest voice
was hushed to silence and his fair head lay back
upon the snow, and his tender blue eyes closed in
sleep.
Guy lay awake for some time. The night was still
and starless ; now and then broken by a distant flash
GUERNDALE. 321
of cloud-lightning, or a fall of snow. He must have
fallen asleep, an hour or two, for then he awoke,
about midnight, and heard a thunder of falling rock.
The sound came from above, louder and louder ;
finally, with a crash, the main crag rattled along the
centre of the couloir, striking flashes of fire as it
bounded from the jutting rocks back to the ice again,
A shower of smaller stones fell about them ; then
the long after-thunder came up from below, a pro-
longed reverberation of echoes ; and again the night
was black and still.
Guy was nervous and frightened. He got up to
ask Gutekind to change their resting-place. But a
small stone had struck him, and the boy was dead,
and his yellow hair dabbled with blood, and his brain
beaten into the snow, and Guy could just see his pale
face looking up into the darkness.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
They said that lore would die, whem hpe
And love mourned long, and sorrow* d after hope ;
At last she sought out memory, and they trod
The same old paths where love had walked wi
And memory fed the soul of love with tears." TBNN
ALL that night Guy lay, with open, weary
and watched for dawn. The little plateau
was of small extent ; he dared not move in the dark*
ness. At first he was utterly unnerved ; he wished that
he could weep, or faint like a woman ; then he waited
and watched for another fall of stones. But none
came after the one that had been fatal to his poor
young friend. His eyes were dry and tearless ;
and he stood up and swung his arms in an agony of
self-reproach. Was his life so dark, then, that it
cast a shadow on the paths of those he met? Was
there really a curse upon him ? If there was mercy
in heaven, why had poor Gutekind been the one to be
killed ? Bah there was no heaven ! and he laughed
aloud, with a voice that sounded strange to him ;
then he put his head back upon the snow, and
strained his open eyes to see the dawn.
It grew colder, as the night wore on, and more
silent ; the looser stones, now frozen fast, ceased t
thunder down the mountain ; the distant lightniag
GUERNDALE. J2J
stopped, the sky was clear, and the cool air restored
his strength and calm. With the first twilight of the
morning he got up again, and laid a handkerchief
across the boy's face, and folded his arms upon his
breast. In doing this, he found around his neck a
ribbon, and with it a small gold locket. He opened
it, and found inside a portrait of a pretty girl and a
little wisp of yellow hair, and Guy thought of the poor
girl, far away in America, who had loved this boy,
and he left the locket with its owner, sleeping there
in the eternal snow.
It was a dangerous climb, down over the glaciers
to the little village ; almost impossible for him alone,
with no rope, no one to hold him while he chopped
the steps. But the concentration of mind and muscle
did him good ; and he worked his way manfully ;
Seule la ?nort peut nous vaincre, he thought, and bah !
there was no God ; his life was charmed. So think-
ing, when he had leisure to think at all ; risking his
life a hundred times, sliding boldly down the steeper
slopes, careless of crevasses, it took him all day to
reach the plain, and it was already evening before he
could bring the news to the inn.
A party of search was at once made up for the
next morning, with a number of guides, and Guy as
leader, for he was determined to go back with them,
despite his exhaustion. Getting five hours' profound
sleep, they were off at two in the morning. A party
of six or seven men, with rope and axes, they accom-
plished easily in a few hours what had taken Guy all
day ; but they found no trace of poor Gutekind.
Guy was certain of the spot, but the fresh snow was
324 GUERNDALE.
now gone, and it was evident that the heat of th
day before had caused an avalanche which had car*
ried with it the body of the young German.
He wrote to Gutekind's parents, and told them
that he would stay at Zermatt awaiting their instruc-
tions. He could not bear to write to the poor girl
in America, telling her of the death of the young
lover she was even then expecting. So he wrote to
a friend in New York, asking him to make inquiries
about her and to break to her the news, for Guy
knew that Gutekind's father had had no acquaint-
ance with her. And every day, for that and several
weeks, he searched the Mischabel glaciers for a trace
of the boy's body, but without success. It was prob-
ably buried far beneath the ice of the lower glacier.
At last, a letter came from the father "thanking
him for his trouble " and begging him to abandon a
useless search. Guy thought, somewhat bitterly,
that the boy's death did not seem to affect them over-
much. Then, for the first time, the sense of blank-
ness in his own life came over him again. But not
for long. Guy felt that the mountains had taught
him a lesson, after all ; his strong bodily health gave
him a less morbid mind ; he would go on to the end.
So he turned and set his steps for Freiberg ; but not
before he had himself walked around into the Saas
valley and got the old oboe that Gutekind had been
so fond of, which Guy chose to keep without ask-
ing his father's permission. Then he left the terri-
ble Oberland, and never again returned to Zermatt,
but never lost the memory of a single day of the six
weeks he had passed there that summer. Spite of
GUERNDALE. 325
all that had happened, he kept his love for the high
mountains ; and most of his vacations, in following
years, were spent in other valleys of the Alps.
He went back to Lucerne, arriving there late in
September, and found a letter from his friend in
New York. " After getting your last," he wrote, "I
tried to find a Fannie Betts. I have only succeeded
in discovering a Fannie Bates ; but she is engaged,
and about to be married, to a young man from the
West. She is a pretty girl, with yellow hair and blue
eyes, but rather ordinary, I fancy. . . . She had
allowed some attention from a young Prussian engi-
neer, who came over here five years ago and was re-
ported to be engaged to him ; but her friends say
that was only a flirtation. At all events, she is
shortly to become Mrs. Thompson. I send you her
address ; under the circumstances, I did not think
best to tell her of Gutekind's death " Guy
threw the letter aside. He thought of the young
German, buried in the snow, and wearing her pic-
ture at his heart, and decided to leave her in igno-
rance of her lover's fate. Perhaps it was better so, for
both ; and he remembered his mad outcry that night,
and thought the course of nature was not always
blind.
Then Guy went to Freiberg, and studied there
and at other universities, four years. At first, he
often used to sigh for courage. He had resolved to
go on to the end, but it is hard to go through life
for no better reason than the fancy of noblesse oblige.
It is hard to have courage, lacking faith and hope ;
it is hard to have faith and hope without love. What
GUERNDALE.
hero would be brave, fighting for no cause ? Still,
he thought of poor Gutekind, and tried his best;
once or twice, too, in the beginning, he thought of
Annie ; she had passed from his life, and yet he felt
that he would not lose his memory of her for all the
world. Her memory was yet his own, and he did
not count the sadness that it brought him. The first
day that he went to a lecture, he found himself, as
of old, writing her name across the blank page ;
then he cet himself again to forget her, after that.
The month after he got to Freiberg, he had a let-
ter from Lane, telling him of Annie's marriage to
Philip. Occasionally, too, he heard from Randolph
and from Strang ; but the former was away on some
characteristic trip in Central Asia, and the latter
hard at work, bridge-building in Dakota, for a Bos-
ton railway corporation.
It is hard, writing a brief history of a life, to con-
vey to the reader's mind the idea of the lapse of so
long a time as four years four years passed in strong
effort, but with few outside occurrences of impor-
tance. For, after the first few weeks, Guy worked
very steadily. He was not all the time at Freiberg ;
a semester or two was passed in other schools. Thei ej
was, of course, no necessity for so long a stay abroad;
but Guy could not bear the idea of going home ; he
felt no impulse, as yet, urging him to active employ-
ment in his profession. Strang often wrote, asking
him to come ; and Guy as often answered with ex-
cuses.
In the summer of 1874 (I happen to remember this
date, although not quite sure of many before this).
GUERNDALE. 327
Guy had a characteristic letter from Lane. Lane
was a very good letter-writer ; for the world, to him,
consisted in the havings and doings of people and
society ; and though his horizon was rather limited,
his letters were full of personalities and amusing ob-
servations upon the men and things of which he
commanded an extensive view from his social emi-
nence in Boston. He rarely observed such parts of
the United States as lay beyond a somewhat limited
circle in the Eastern cities ; when he did, it was with
a mild surprise that the national character was so
little influenced by his Boston Faubourg Saint-Ger-
main. Lane's opinions were so assured, and his
prejudices so very positive, that his character was
completely negative. " My dear Guerndale," he
wrote, "though you have owed me a letter, for a
long time, I keep, as you see, my promise of writing
to you. There is not much to write about, to you
who have been away so long from Boston. I hope
you are coming back soon ; really, if you do not, you
will be quite forgotten; except, of course, among your
friends. Boston is very much changed, of course ;
the fire has even improved the city. There are sev-
eral new churches; one quite the finest in America,"
etc. "You will be surprised to learn of Miss Kitty
Cotton's engagement ; still more so, when you hear
that it is to John Strang. People here are very
much surprised that she took him. He is not a Bos-
ton man ; and she must have had plenty of chances.
However, you know him quite well ; so he has doubt-
less written you." .... " The new president of
Harvard is becoming quite radical, and there is much
328 GUERNDALE.
talk about it. I suppose the papers over there have
told you how Grant is misconducting himself. Mrs.
Bill Willing has been left a lot of money, and has a
brand new carriage and footmen in livery, with a
coat-of-arms on the panel. Of course, people laugh
a good deal when they think who her grandfather
was." . . . . "I suppose you heard of old Mr.
Bonnymort's death. He had grown quite feeble of
late, and they say there had been disputes between
him and Symonds. Symonds has been living rather
extravagantly ; they say he has been speculating
largely, and has given up his business." ....
"Tom Brattle is off in a yacht with Symonds this
summer. He has been quite devoted to Miss Ruth-
ven of New York ; people say he would marry her,
if he had money enough," etc. So John was going
to marry Kitty Cotton after all, thought Guy, and
Randolph had been wrong. He wondered that John
had not written to him, and went to Dresden and
bought a set of china to send to his old chum.
Shortly after, he got a warm letter from Strang ; it
had been sent to Freiburg in the Black Forest by
mistake.
Guy worked very hard the following winter. He
wrote a scientific thesis which gained him much
praise. He had one letter from Mrs. Symonds,
written very cheerfully, but saying little about her-
self. Guy read it many times, very carefully ; for
he liked to think that her life was a happy one.
One summer, two years after he went to Freiberg,
Guy met the Symonds, at Baden-Baden. Annie was
sitting alone, in the garden by the Kursaal, when he
GUERNDALE. 329
saw her ; she looked rather pale, he fancied, and
started when she first saw him, and then became
quite flushed with the pleasure of the meeting. She
talked to him confidentially and kindly, like an old
friend, but very quickly ; Guy was very grave, and
as he thought natural. Annie kept glancing behind
her nervously, as if to see whether Philip were com-
ing ; he had gone into the play-room for a moment,
she said. Curiously enough, little was said of him
or of the last three years ; they both talked mostly of
earlier times, although Guy studiously avoided re-
ferring to the scenes and sayings which were brightest
in his memory. He spoke much of his studies and
of the interest he took in his profession ; he said
once how fond he had been of her father, and saw
the tears come into her eyes, and. grew wild at the
thought of having given her pain. She was very
sweet, and her manner even more charming than
ever ; and she talked brightly of the future, and of
her life at home, and of seeing Guy back in America.
But her face was pale and worn, and it touched Guy
to the heart to see that she seemed used to being
alone.
It was an hour or more before her husband re-
turned. He greeted Guy warmly, and wanted him
to join him over supper and a bottle of wine with a
lot of jolly men he knew ; but Guy made a pretext
of an early departure the next morning, in excuse.
Philip's face was red, and he was stouter than of old ;
his old jollity had not left him, but he was louder
than usual in his manner. He told Guy of Bixby's
marriage " to a silly, countrified, insipid little thing
330 GUERNDALB.
the last girl in the world you would have thought
Billy would care for." Philip seemed to have quite
forgotten their old difference ; and Guy, too, treated
him very naturally ; and congratulated himself, when
he went back to the hotel, that he had so well kept
bis secret from Annie, and had so little betrayed,
that night. But as he did so, he angrily brushed
away a tear that came upon his face ; and he lay
awake long hours, haunted by the tired look in her
sweet eyes, the look that had crept into them again
when Philip came back. "Oh, God," he murmured,
"is she unhappy, then ?"
But the same night, when Annie went alone to her
room, she fell upon her knees, and wept. For all the
long years he had tried to win her love she had
never known ; and now he had tried to keep it from
her, and the light of sorrow came to her, and she
saw far down into his heart.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
** O why, why did you love me all these years f
Why not grow cruel to me, as I to you ?
Had both been false, neither had had tome
One thing, nor shed, as I do, hard vain tears."
W. H. MALLOOC.
I WONDER, after all, is there a higher courage
than that we term dogged the courage of de-
spair ? The word would seem to indicate a reproach j
as we call a man a dog of a Mussulman, or Christian,
as the case may be, allowing for all prejudices. But
if a man can have higher virtues than courage and
truth, I do not know them ; and if any man has more
of these two than many a dog, I do not know him.
No ; dogs were given to men as models of character ;
the common metaphor is unjust, and the superfluity
cf kicks over halfpence most deplorable.
So Guy lived and worked four years, doggedly ;
for his courage had outlived his hope. And if in
that time he never once thought of Annie, he thought,
most of the time, that he had resolved not to think
of her. But he kept to the old motto and his own
resolve.
We can control our actions, but not our moods.
And despite himself, there would come days when ill-
ess or enforced idleness gave Guy leisure to think f
332 GUERXDALE.
then his reveries were not as light as in old days,
and the thought would recur that he had been called
out of himself into life by Annie, and he could not
help thinking that, although he had tried so hard,
he had not yet learned how life could be without
her. He could not reach back with his mind to a time
when he had not loved her ; he could remember noth-
ing before ; and it seemed to him that his present
life was more like a dream than were those childish
days, and would be less clearly remembered by him
in days to come. Four years of his life no, six,
ten were clear ; all the rest was vague. His love
had been to his life like a river, and given him all
that was in it of brightness and of good ; all that
was in him worthy had come from her. And now
that she was gone, his life was dry and barren, and
the bloom was dying, and the weeds sprang up.
But no Seule la mart pent nous vaincre, and Guy
would choke these thoughts aside, and bend his will
back to work, and seek to comfort his heart with the
thought that she, at least, was happy. Alas, it was
harder to do this after the meeting at Baden, and so
it was the more urgent that he should never think of
her at all. No, he never would again. Besides, she
had forgotten him ; and thank Heaven, she would
never know what his life was. And thinking these
things overmuch, he thought that he was not think-
ing of her, and found it hard.
I dare not say how many times, when Guy was
thinking thus, Annie was alone in her great house
and softly crying. Perhaps it was as well that Guy
nerer saw the tears in the tender eyes he loved ; Guy
GUERNDALE. 333
was far in exile, but there is compensation in all
things and perhaps it was as well.
Poor Annie. I cannot bear to tell this part of the
lives of Guy and Annie I must hasten over it, say-
ing briefly what I learned long afterward. For if
there was one thing right in Guyon Guerndale's
strange life, it was the love that made that life so
sad ; and Annie Bonnymort had a heart as warm as
the divine love, and a soul that came from high
Heaven, as any one might see who looked in her
eyes. It was her nature to love with a love that
might have saved many a worse man than Philip
Symonds ; yet could she never love again what once
she knew ignoble. Had there been one spark of
greatness in him, magnanimity of any kind, whether
for good or evil, he would have understood her,
possibly adored her. But Phil was a good fellow, a
jolly companion, tolerant of others and expecting
tolerance for himself ; contemptuous of things he
could not understand, he had that most worthless,
most hopeless form of conceit, which is self-content
without self-respect. An average man, he saw that
other men were like him, weak, easy-going, sensual
in his life Annie was out of place.
Yet they might, as people say, have " got along "
together, while the sunshine lasted. But Annie was
now a woman, and hers was not a nature to be satis-
fied with " getting along together," which Phil could
not be expected to know. For what had she to com-
plain of ? He was kind to her. Probably most of his
men friends would have sided with Phil ; for he was
a good-natured fellow enough ; the world had always
334 GUERNDALE.
treated him well, and he was willing to treat tbe
world well, his wife included. Everybody always
liked him ; while he was living a fast life in Paris,
everybody liked him ; when he married Annie Bonny -
mort for the fortune he knew was hers, everybody
liked him ; even when he lost bets and could not
pay them, everybody liked him. While he lived
royally, and kept his horses and his yacht, and en-
tertained his friends, and showed a gentlemanly
taste for breeding setters, and had the carelessness
in money matters of a good fellow who squanders
his own money as freely as his friend's, all spoke well
of him. Not many men stopped to notice that his
pleasures were such as his wife could rarely share, -
or remembered that Phil had long since spent what
remained to him of his own fortune.
So Phil lived these few years, and kept his flow of
spirits and his fine physique and his jolly goodfellow-
ship, and grew more popular than ever as it seemed ;
and none of the ladies in his fashionable set but
envied Mrs. Symonds her carriage and her jewels
and her style of living, and perhaps the husband who
so freely gave them all to her out of her money.
And when Mr. Bonnymort died, Phil built himself a
fine new house ; and not to know Phil Symonds
argued yourself unknown if you were a man, be it
said ; for Phil was a man's man, exclusively, and
hated the society of ladies ladies whom he could
not entertain in his own way with a few chose*
spirits among his friends. I fear some ladies were
willing to take him on his own terms ; for Phil was
an easy-going fellow, and took life easy, and liked
GUERXDALE. 33$
company and easy manners. And for one thing,
I am glad that Phil kept no accounts, and his vrif
never saw or knew all the ways in which her money
went ; Annie did not think much of the money. The
best horses Phil bought did not drag his wife's car-
riage. Phil, indeed, was very well content to leave
his wife alone, and had far too modest an opinion of
himself to see why that proceeding should leave her
unhappy. He had an uneasy feeling in her com-
pany : doubts, incipient questionings, a nervousness
as unwonted as it was unwelcome.
No one ever heard Annie complain of her husband,
no one ever even saw her look unhappy, except per-
haps her maid ; but she tried her noble best to keep
her love for him, and to give him love for her, which
Philip never had. People whom she met in society
thought her rather proud. As for Phil, he liked her
well enough ; but what could she do with him ? His
world was not hers ; he did not understand her, he
did not even care to try. Phil was contented enough
with life. He did not want anything more ; why
should she ? Though she tried her best not to show
her sadder thoughts to him, Phil was conscious of a
mute disapproval on her part, and it angered him
when he thought of it. Did not all the world say he
was a damned good fellow ?
I suppose Annie had loved Symonds ever since
the two were children. But I do not believe she
really loved him after they were married ; and it was
the struggle she made to love him still which almost
broke her heart. Hers was a nature which found it
to lore than to make compromises ; her insight
33<5 GUERNDALE.
was too clear to make a shrine where there was n
divinity. Like Guy, she could deceive herself once,
but only once ; and she could have forgiven her
husband any crime or fault, save those that made
her despise him.
After that summer when she met him at Baden,
she often thought of Guy ; and she knew too well
why he stayed in Europe, and did not come back,
though he must have learned his profession long ere
this ; for Guy, by this time, was nearer thirty than
twenty. But Guy was still a boy at heart now
young, just as, when he was young in years, he had
seemed old. The picture of what the world ought
to be was yet as fresh in his mind as when he was
eighteen ; in this best way of all ways, Guy never
lost his youth. Alas for him, perhaps; and yet I
think that was what made some of us so fond of him.
As for Annie, I used to hear from my wife of her ;
she had known her very well as a girl ; and she told
me how lovely she was, and what a noble woman.
I think even then my wife thought Annie and her
husband were unhappy together ; of course, I did
not know all these things until long afterward.
Well, here were Annie and Philip and Guy ; and
it was perhaps hard to see how that somewhat insou-
ciant divinity who holds the web of fate was to un-
ravel their fortunes. As I said before, I suppose in
smooth waters Philip would have steered well
enough ; he and Annie would have got along together,
and I should not have been at the pains of writing
this story. But a time came when Philip suddenly
Woke up to the fact that his second fortune was
GUERJSiDALE. 337
going, too. So, lie gave up his yacht, and a horse 01
two, and in a flush of grateful self-approbation, went
to work ; that is, he began again his old business of
stock-broking.
Still, when the first flush of self-esteem was over,
he felt that it was infernally hard that he should be
cut down in his income ; the domestic expenses en-
tailed by marriage were heavy, after all. Well, it
was all the more necessary to make money quickly.
So, with some money of his wife's and a nominal hun-
dred thousand advanced by old Waterstock, he went
into partnership with Jim Waterstock, son of Water-
stock aforesaid, of the old (that is, twenty years estab-
lished) firm of Waterstock, Proxy and Company. Old
Waterstock was out of business, but was given out
on change to be their sleeping-partner; and Proxy
put them into one or two good syndicates, and
they did well. For all the world said Phil was a
jolly fellow, and deserved to get along ; and get
along he did, though I doubt if he knew much of
business.
Guy knew very little of all this. He heard, from
other men, of Phil, his popularity and success, but
not much of Annie. She had written to him once or
twice when he first came abroad ; but she never wrote
after the meeting at Baden. This made Guy un-
happy, not divining the reason ; but he strove to
comfort himself with the thought that she was happy
and had forgotten him.
So Guy worked hard in Germany, and his courage
gaye him strength ; and he said to himself that it
was all over, and everything was right, and the j were
333 GUERNDALE.
all very happy, and it was time for him to go hom
Strang had been writing many letters to him, urging
him to come. Strang was married and settled. It
would be very pleasant to see all his friends again,
Guy said to himself. And he would try to succeed,
and realize his old dreams and ambitions. He did
not quite see, in these days, why he had chosen
mining engineering ; it was a selfish profession, good
only for making money ; he would have wished for
something more public, more generally useful, scien-
tific or political. However he must do what he could
with himself and it. He would see Annie again
when he returned ; he was thankful that the world
spoke so well of Phil. He hoped at least that to her
he had never shown what might be in him unworthy.
And he tried hard to remember his old fondness for
Philip, and to like him as much as ever, and to
persuade himself that he had been wrong in con-
demning him. Guy was a fine fellow in those
days, broad-shouldered and deep-voiced ; for he had
lived a straight, sober life, and his eyes were deep
and tender, and his face firm-lipped and heavy-
bearded.
And Guy himself was feeling the glow of success,
that spring. He had done what he had proposed to
himself ; he held a high reputation in the scientific
department of his universities, for he had been to
more than one. And again he would say to himself
that Annie was happy ; and, as for him, why, he was
uccessful, and no doubt he too would be happy
some day ; as the old Saxon bard said, the founda-
tions of happiness were a suffering with contentment.
GUERNDALB. 339
a hope that it might come, and a belief that it would
be. And after all, as Norton used to say, we have
no right to happiness, and it is childish to cry because
we have it not. He often thought of little Gutekind;
poor little Gutekind who had taught him so much.
He kept the old instrument upon which the boy
used to play ; and sometimes he would take it from
its case, and think, while looking at it, of that hot
afternoon in the deep valley when he had heard poor
Gutekind playing to the cows, and his shadow had
fallen on the threshold, and the boy had looked up
with those simple blue eyes of his.
Ah, well. He had done what he had proposed ;
now he would go back to America. Spite of all, the
prospect did not excite Guy overmuch ; and he made
his preparations for the journey quietly and quickly.
A few days before he meant to leave Freiberg,
he had a letter from Lane. It was like most of
Lane's letters ; containing much the same sort of
talk that one uses to make conversation at a "party-
call."
"I have been meaning to write for a long time ;
but one's social duties take up so much of one's
leisure, although really I cannot say what I have
been doing." . . . "There has not been much
to write about ; the weather has been beastly, this
spring." ..." One or two engagements, none
of them particularly interesting, as they have been re-
ported any time these fifteen years." . . . "Tom
Brattle is doing very well, and I see him often ; he
is treasurer of one of his uncle's mills, not far from
ours, and we often go down together. Have you
34O GUERNDALE.
seen anything of little Bixby ? They say he has
married somebody abroad ; at all events, he has not
been seen over here for a year or two. I believe
Strang has taken his wife off to Arizona or Alaska or
some such place, but I do not know." . . .
" Some people have turned up here, calling them-
selves Darcy, with letters to my people. They say
they lived a long time at Dresden ; did you ever
hear of them there, and do you know anything about
them ? I suppose you were sorry to hear oi
Symonds' failure. It seems he has been speculating
with his wife's money and a little of other people's,
and has lost all her fortune besides his own. I am
afraid he has behaved in a rather shady way ; there
is a good deal of very dirty scandal about it. They
talk about false pretences and that sort of thing.
They say Mrs. Symonds is very ill. Symonds him-
self cannot be found. Meantime, another woman
has turned up and is making a good deal of trouble.
I do not believe he treated his wife very well. It has
quite ruined his reputation in Boston, though I be-
lieve they are more used to that sort of thing in New
York. It has made a great deal of talk, as Symonds
was a well-known man, popular at the clubs. I never
liked him. Waterstock, his partner, has been ar-
rested. It is fortunate that Mrs. Symonds has no
children, as she is left quite destitute. We are all
very sorry for her, but of course there is nothing to
be done." . . .
Nothing to be done ? An hour after getting this
letter, Guy was in the train and going westward.
All his energy of action had come back to him ; and
GUEKNDALE. 341
trhen he took his seat in the railway carriage, it was
with bright eyes, and a flushed, firm face. The im-
pulse of a new life was in him ; he had not done
anything with such a will for years. For four years
his life had been repression ; now it was action, and
he sat upright in his seat, and watched the country
fly by, almost with a smile upon his lips.
He took out Lane's letter again ; it was the first
time he had found to read the end of it. It con-
tained nothing but gossip and commonplaces. He
crumpled it in his pocket, lit a cigar, and looked
out of the window again.
Then first he found time to think. Hitherto, his
action had been rather impulse than resolve. He
sat, watching the hedge-rows dash by in rapidly
changing perspective. He watched the trees on the
horizon, and remembered how he used to think,
as a child, that there were more trees beyond
them, and beyond these more trees again, and so
on till the mind grew weary. They were in the
plains of Bavaria, and the day changed into night
with the long, faint twilight of a country without
hills.
Suddenly, in all its plain hopelessness, the thought
stood out in his mind : What could he do ? Lane
was right, speaking for himself ; much more for
Guyon Guerndale. What was he to do ? What
right had he to help her ? Could he go back to her,
and thereby reveal to the evil world a love he had
so long kept secret ? And if he went to her, what
would the world say ?
His clenched hands relaxed, his head sank help-
342 GUERNDALE.
lessly upon his breast. Then he had a moment <A
rage. God ! who cared what the world would say?
But then he knew that Annie would not think as he
did ; nor would he wish her so to think.
His mood left him, and he broke down. He had
the compartment to himself, and thought aloud. So
Annie Annie whom he loved was in grief, and he
could do nothing. She might be crying, broken-
hearted, at that very moment, and he could do noth-
ing to help her. He might as well be dead. And
there was no hope none, none, none. It was an
agony of impotence. " Oh, my darling ! " he whis-
pered ; and then, over and over again, " oh, my dar-
ling ; oh, my darling ! " Then he rose to his full
height, and, stretching out his arms, looked upward,
and the place grew dark before his eyes, and he fell
backward on the floor.
When he came to himself, it was Frankfort. His
face was wet with tears, and he saw that he had been
crying. It seemed to him that the night had been
one long dream. But now it was over, and he had
learned what he had to do. It was decided ; and he
saw his life lie wearily before him. He had learned
that he could not go back. No ; he could do noth-
ing. God help her ; he could not.
He stopped at Frankfort, and, taking a droschke,
drove to a hotel in the rain. Then the thought of
stopping seemed intolerable ; he drove back again
to the station ; in a last revolt against his powerless-
ness, he wrote a hasty telegram proffering aid,
which he sent to her in America ; resolved, aftel
that, to resign himself to all things. When he got
GUERNDALE. 343
to Mayence, the rain was breaking away in great
bronzed clouds ; suddenly he bethought himself of
his walk of four years before. He could do nothing
better while waiting for an answer, if answer there
should be. So he bought a knapsack ; and hastily
putting a few things into it, he started on foot dowa
the Rhine.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
" L'esperance est la plus grande de nos folies. Cela bien compris, tout ce q^
rriv d'heureux surprend. Dans cette prison nommee la vie, d'ou nous partons,
les uns apres les autres, pour aller 4 la mort, il ne faut compter sur aucune fleur.
Des lors la plus petite feuille rejouit la vue, et le coeur en sait gre i la puissance
qui a permis qu'elle se rencontrat sous nos pas." A. DE VIGNV.
AT about eleven the next morning Guy came to
a little inn, standing in a vineyard, near the
hill of Rheinstein ; and, entering the garden, un-
slinging his knapsack and putting it on a table, he
sat down, called for a schoppen of wine, and looked
vacantly across the river. A man was sitting at the
next table, smoking a cigar ; and Guy watched the
smoke-rings curl from his lips, as he also looked
vacantly across the river. His face was thus turned
away, so that Guy watched him for some minutes
before he rose with a start of surprise.
" Norton Randolph ! "
"Hallo, Guy!" said the other quietly. "So
you hare come ? I told you that you would, you
know."
Guy, overcome with amazement, was silent for a
minute. Randolph went on, calmly smoking.
" What a wonderful chance ! How did you com*
kere?"
"If it comes to that, how did you come here?*
f
GUERNDALE. 345
laughed Randolph. " Do you suppose that I, too,
was not surprised, when I saw you come in ? But I
knew you would come "
" You saw me come in ? Why did you not
speak ? "
" Why should I speak ? I did not know that you
wished to see me. You did not, four years ago, at
Lucerne."
" You saw me there ? "
" Certainly, my boy."
" And did not speak ? "
" For the same reason. You evidently wished to
avoid me."
Guy was silent again.
" But I am glad to see you, dear old fellow, all
the same," cried Norton ; and he gave his hand a
strong grip. " Now you have come, as I told you,
and we can travel together "
Guy changed color a little, and began to speak,
rather hastily. " What's the news, old fellow ?
Where have you been in America? tell me."
Guy's voice was a little uncertain ; he was tired with
a long walk ; he did not quite know what to say and
turned his eyes away, nervously.
" Where's the waiter ? Damn that waiter ! " broke
in Randolph, with unnecessary vehemence. " Ex-
cuse me a moment, till I go and get that waiter, and
a bottle of wine " And Randolph walked hur-
riedly off to the inn.
Guy looked across the river to the sunny bank
opposite, and saw the rich, brown light, falling on
the vineyards. The view grew blurred, and wayered
IS*
346 GUERNDALE.
a little in his eyes. Then he got up, and, forgettihg
Randolph, walked nervously about the garden. It
must be time for her to have received his telegram ;
he hoped she would answer. After all, what could
she say ? His offer was but an empty condolence.
He wondered where Symonds was. If he only
knew, he might persuade him he might perhaps
help in some way
"Hallo, Guy!" shouted Randolph after him.
41 I found them, at last. The servants are pages to
King Barbarossa, I fancy ; but here is a bottle of
wine, and I think it is good. It is Assmannshau-
ser."
" Oh, I can't drink in the middle of the after-
noon," said Guy with a laugh.
" Nonsense, my dear boy. All times are alike for
good wine. Pull up, and sit down, and look at the
world through a wine glass. Claude Lorraine's is
nothing to it, for putting on a gloss. Sit down, sit
down, let us have rest from our labora"
" Lazy as ever ?"
" Better to sit than to stand ; better to lie down
than to sit ; better to be dead than either ; says the
wise Hindoo."
" Gloomy as ever ? "
" Well, I try not to cry at the world because I
can't get what I want ; still, I am pretty sure that
every man who shoots himself has good enough rea-
sons for it The only doubt is whether he does it
for the right ones."
" Cynical as ever ? "
M Hereditary trait, my boy. It is recorded of my
GUERNDALE, 347
orthodox Calvinist grandfather, that the harder his
schoolmaster whipped him the louder he laughed
thereby, perhaps, redoubling the anger of the peda-
gogue. The less I see that is agreeable, the broader
I grin. Perhaps the world treats a man all the
worse for it ; but I can't help that."
" I sometimes wonder why you don't make a
book, utterer of bad aphorisms."
" Because the aphorisms are bad. But tell me,
what have you been doing with yourself, these last
years ? "
" Oh, I've been at Freiberg, studying. And
you ? "
" Well ; I have been doing very little with myself.
I never do make very much of that article. As a
gentleman, I cannot but feel a little the falsity of
my position in this world. Still, I have escaped the
toils of matrimony, thereby doing my little best
toward diminishing the evils of this life. Just
now, I am walking down the Rhine on a tasting-
trip. Yes," he added, seeing Guy's puzzled look,
" a tasting-trip. I concluded that my taste in Rhine
wines was defective. So, I am walking down the
river ; and at every vineyard I stop and have a bot-
tle."
Guy looked at Randolph to see if he was quizzing
him ; the old twinkle was in his eyes. " And where
do you go then ? "
" I don't know where the deuce we shall go," said
Randolph, meditatively. " I want variety ; and had
thought of going to Tiflis. Then a fellow I know is
getting up a North Pole expedition at his own ex-
348 GUERNDALE.
pense ; and he gave me a bid to join him. But 1
object to cold and darkness and bad grub. I lika
excitement ; but I want to take it comfortably.
Now, there is Timbuctoo the last European who
saw that city escaped with what remained to him of
his life in '47. Timbuctoo, certainly, has its charms.
Where shall we go ? You decide, most inge-
nious Don, and I will be your trusty Sancho."
" Where shall we go ? Why, I must go back to
America "
" Oh no, my dear fellow, not so fast ; don't do
that. The last thing I heard, there, was a salvo of
artillery announcing the election of our old friend
Hackett to Congress, and he had won the ballot by
proving that his chief opponent had maintained im-
proper relations with his parlor-maid. Hackett is
quite the man ; he has come out as a blooming
infidel, is president of a society for erecting a
monument to Pontius Pilate, and goes to and fro
telling his constituents that there is no such place
as hell. By way of proving it, they send him to
Congress."
" Why don't you go to Switzerland ? " said Guy.
" I might almost like to do that with you ; I should
like to see the Matterhorn again."
" My dear fellow, don't speak of that infernal
mountain. Often as I have seen it, it always re-
minds me unpleasantly of the Lord, Hackett to the
contrary, notwithstanding. No, no ; I want some
place where life is easy, and the air is hot and lazy
and unsuitable for the propounding of ultramun-
dane conundrums, and people live and breed and
GUERNDALE. 349
die with equal indifference, and there is nothing in
the world or, at all events, out of it, to think of.
Now Bulgaria is a fine country. I met a fellow the
other day Canaster, you knew him who was go-
ing down to take a look at the seat of war. He had
lots of letters and all that sort of thing, and was
going to be a great swell in the Russian headquar-
ters as the son of a Whig duke. He'd put us up to
things, and we might take a look at the fighting.
Do you know, I have sometimes thought I should
like to see some fighting." And Randolph stopped
for a moment to cut his cigar.
" I once saw a dog-fight in a barn," he added, med-
itatively. " I didn't like it very much. But the
dogs only fought for a bone ; and down there they
are fighting for the Christian religion. At least, so
the Czar says. I tell you what, Guy, that's not half
a bad idea ! Let's turn crusaders ! The modern
paladin, if that's the proper name and all that sort
of- thing. We'll be the heroes of a new Chanson de
Roland. Who says romance is out of date ? "
" What a whimsical old idiot you are ! " said Guy,
with a smile ; and he stretched out his hand, cor-
dially. " No, no. I can't go. It is awfully kind of
you to want me with you ; but really, I must go
back to America."
"Ah well, my preux chevalier; perhaps it is as
well you should go back to the lists of fashion and
the listlessness of society. You haven't been quite
enough of a carpet-knight ; I have been too much
of one, and I am tired of the tapis, and what is
ea it as well. Apropos of gossip, I hear your old
J5O GUERNDALE.
friend Symonds has got into a devilish disagreeable
row. "
Guy was silent.
" Frankly, I used to wonder at your fondness for
that man. If there was ever a man with the breed-
ing of a gentleman and the nature of a cad, it was
he."
Randolph spoke rather strongly ; but Guy went
on smoking. For once he did not answer to defend
his friend.
" How Miss Bonnymort ever could have married
him, I could never see. She seemed a very nice
girl. Poor woman, I suppose she is wretched enough
now "
" She thought he was all that was fine and noble
and brave as we all did," began Guy, almost
angrily ; but his voice grew a little husky and he
finished with a glass of wine.
Then there was a long silence between them.
Evidently, Guy would say nothing more ; and Ran-
dolph watched him gravely, as they sat smoking in
the dusk. Then he got up, resting his hand lightly
on Guy's shoulders, " Come, old fellow, it is getting
dark ; we must find an inn." And they walked
back in the evening to Bingen.
The next day, Randolph and Guy took a long
walk among the hills above the river ; and it seemed
to Guy that his friend had never been so charming
a companion. Every weed of a whim, conceit, or
quaint opinion that had sprung up in his idle mind
for the last year, he brought forth and served in a
tort of salad for Guy's amusement. And with all
GUERNDALE. 35 1
his raillery and cynicism, there was a delicate tact
of manner which made his hearer laugh unwound-
ed. It even seemed to him that there was a kinder
undertone in Randolph's mood than he had known
of yore. He spoke little of present or personal mat-
ters, far less did he mention Symonds again ; and
many a time Guy found himself laughing more
cheerily than he knew. After all, it is so easy to
laugh ; so pleasant a thing, even if it be with a
catching of breath now and then.
It was late in the afternoon when the two came
out on the brow of a hill, above the valley of the
Nahe. There is a little village, and a church, upon
the sunny bit of land between the rivers ; and
coming to a grassy bank, they sat down to rest ; or
rather, Randolph did ; and Guy joined him, laugh-
ing at his laziness. Yes, said Norton, he supposed
that he was lazy. American fashion, he intended to
assume a new coat of arms, to be borne by his de-
scendants. He had adopted argent, a Randolph (to be
represented by an Indian brave ; " for you know,''
said he, "we claim descent from Pocahontas") azur t
regardant, smoking a pipe of peace. Supporters : dexter,
a Randolph recumbent ; sinister, a Randolph couchant ;
all of the second. Crest : a Randolph dormant, bearing
a mark of interrogation. Motto : Born tired. " I
think," said Randolph, "with the expressions of the
various Randolphs properly ennuye, that will about
suit." Then Guy smiled a little, and Randolph
went on, poking the moss off an old tombstone with
his cane. He was gradually bringing out an epi-
taph which seemed to be in Italian. Randolph
352 GUERNDALE.
uttered an exclamation of surprise ; and, after scrap-
ing away a little more of the moss, bent down ami
read the line :
" -f- Poco amato -f- molto amai -\-pace ho. -f. "
" How strange ! " muttered Randolph. "What an
odd little line to be mouldering away up here behind
the moss ! " And pulling his hat over his eyes, he
lay back and looked at the sky. His mood had
changed, and he said nothing for a long time, but
murmured the line over to himself. " I want to
learn it by heart," said he. " It is a queer, soft bit
of Italian to find up here under the gray German
sky. I wonder who the old boy was (for he was a
boy) who wrote it and wanted it put on his tomb.
Poor fellow ! he probably was in exile up here, and,
for some reason could not go home to die. How he
must have walked along by the river of an after-
noon, and watched the sunlight over on the brown
vineyards, and the shadows come creeping up from
below ; and then he would look to the south and
long for Italy or for some one in Italy, more likely.
The poet (for he was a poet) must have gone pretty
deeply into the heart of the world to write like that.
There are more things one can love than a woman,
and vainly."
" Set not your heart on the things of this world ".
" And you -will be a pessimist ; for then you set
your heart on things you cannot find in this world
And they say that you and I have no other. Bah !
no I am not a pessimist. The world is jolly
enough as long as you like it Pessimist?
GUERNDALE. 353
my boy. Life is too sweet, the world is too charm-
ing a jumble for that. It is like the dream of a
drunken god, who has slunk away from some stupid
conversazione of the divine society, and has fallen
asleep upon a single star ; and he does not even
know himself that he is creating all that he dreams.
And the vision is so sweetly fantastic, so wildly gay,,
and often even, by some chance, so reasonable, so
consistent for instance, the Iliad, Moses, Napoleon,
gunpowder, Potiphar's wife, the United States Con-
gress, Cora Pearl, the battle of Marathon, Henry
Ward Beecher, the game of whist, Shakespeare, lib-
erty, are all separate happy thoughts in the dream
of creation of this drunken god. But it will soon
be over, and the god awakes, and rubs his heavy
eyes, and grins. And all our world has gone into*
nothing. It has never existed at all."
" John Strang would say that you were a fool, and
that your folly was not even original," delicately
suggested Guy.
"What is so rare as true folly ? Humbugs, asses,
and idiots are common enough, but true folly is as
rare as true wisdom ; in fact, it is a kind of madness
resembling wisdom wisdom that has gone mad for
knowing all things wisdom that has found out too
much, and gone mad as the best refuge possible
under the circumstances. The ancients were wise ;
they honored madmen as prophets ; we hold all
prophets madmen. Do you remember that delight-
ful fellow up in your old village at home Solomon
Bung ? By Jove, I wish we had him with us ! What
a dear old chap he was 1 And how he would enjoy
354 GUERNDALE.
rambling idly with us over Europe, and looking at
the carcasses of dead and gone pomps and vanities !
He would be as picturesque a figure over here, in
his mental attitude at least, as is Fortuny's shepherd,
sitting and piping lazily upon the fallen column of
an old Greek temple. Well, I remember talking
with him, one summer's day, as he sat fishing by the
old pond near your house. He was telling me the
history of S'.me old crony of his, and talking of the
lot in life he had, and making criticisms of life and
society by the way.
"'Wa'al, you see/ said he, 'old Sam Orcutt, he
never had no kind o % luck. An' he was a nice man,
too. Fust he travelled all roun' the world on a ship,
an' meantime he went an' married Sue as was Sue
Slater, daughter of old Slater as used to drive the
stage. But his employers, they made all the money ;
for old Sam, he never had no luck at all ; and finally,
he settled down an' kep' the store at South Chat-
ham. An' he lived nigh onto thirty years at South
Chatham, an' then he struck a streak of luck an'
died.' "
" ' You seem to take a dark view of life, Mr.
Bung,' said I.
" 'Wa'al,' said he, ' I dunno. P'raps life wouldn't
be so bad, ef there warn't so many darned fools
roun'. An' as for this world, I suppose the Lord
might 'a' made a wuss one ; but, thank God, He
never tried.' "
CHAPTER XL.
M Elle aurait pl-ure, si sa main,
Sur son coeur froidement posde^
Eut jamais. de 1'argile humaia,
Senti la celeste rose'e.
Elle aurait aimd, si 1'orgueil,
Pareil a la lampe inutile
Qu'on allume pres d'un cercueH,
N'eut veill sur son cceur sterile,
Elle est morte ; et n'a point ve*c
Elle faisait semblant de vivre ;
De sa main est tombe le livre
Dans lequel clle n'a rien Ju." A. Da Wussrr.
THERE is a little castle on the river below Bin-
gen. It lies on the bosky brow of a hill,
high up above the Rhine ; and below you may see,
from its weed-grown terrace, the dusky forms of the
Seven Mountains ; and above, the straight blue
river. For it is blue, from that height. And year
by year, the vines twine closer about the old, worn
stones ; and the moss gains strength and greennes*
as the rust grows redder on the gates. The people
who lived there are forgotten ; their own descend-
ants do not know of the old Stammschloss ; they are
obsolete and gone. Perhaps their grandchildren
drive droschkes, or travel for German woollen mills,
or shoulder needle-guns in the ranks of the Prussia*
35<5 GUERNDALE.
army Only one daughter, being a poor girl, made
a mtsalliatue, and was duly cursed for it, in the last
century, with a Frankfort Jew ; and her descendants
are well known in places where the pulse of the
modern world beats thickest. But even they have
lost sight of the old tower ; they no longer spin their
cables across the river to net the ships that go by, or
descend the precipitous slopes of the Rhine valley
to plunder the passing traveller. No ; they are
scattered far away from the ruined castle ; but they
are great on loans and discounts ; count their noses,
and you would find a syndicate to fund a national
debt ; generous noses, generous only as to their
noses, they ply their traffic at board and bourse, and
would turn up their noses, if it were possible, in
scorn, at the franker modes of plunder of the fore-
fathers of that maiden, their ancestress, who de-
meaned herself, and now lies dead and buried in a
silver casket God rest her soul, if there be a God,
and she have one.
Well ! Here, at the base of this old ruin, for it was
a ruin, sat Norton Randolph. This ingenious citi-
zen of a great republic looked well by a ruin ; his
blue cigarette-smoke did not shake the old stones,
and he lay idly by them, looking appreciatively at
the world, or such part of it as was spread at his
feet Guy was with him ; but Randolph was dis-
tinctly thoughtful, almost abstracted a rare thing
for him whose mind was always open for the
thoughts and doings of his friends, little as he
seemed to care for his own. "'Afolto amaifoco
amatofate koj" he muttered, after a long silence.
GUERNDALE. 357
"That epitaph seems to run in your mind," said
Guy.
" I sometimes wonder, Guy, how our modern
ethics are really going to wear. I am curious to see
a fellow, born and bred on Spencer and science, aux
prises with them, under a strong emotion. Every
strong will must have some check or motive, just as
a steam-engine has a governor, or fly-wheel. Now
our neat utilitarian, society canons, our tangible,
every-day aims may work beautifully for ninety-
nine ; but what is to become of number one hun-
dred ? Take a fellow of strong will and imagina-
tion, ardently in love, for instance. He is quite out
of place, you know, in our play at life."
"It seems to me," said Guy, "that you talk a
good deal about the things you jeer at."
" I don't jeer at things ; the world does, Cer-
vantes wrote the Don Quixote of chivalry ; who is
to write the Don Quixote of love ? Zola, perhaps.
Heigho ; love was the last good motive left us.
Guy, my boy," Randolph went on, changing the
crossing of his legs, " don't go back to America."
" I must."
" Nonsense. You won't find what you want, if
you do. Immortality is the dream of an egoist
fool ; love is a fancy, now growing obsolete ; power
is impossible in a free country, except the power of
corruption ; money is contemptible. None of them
will satisfy you just now. Be sensible. The past is
gone ; the future does not exist ; the present
well, the best thing you can do about the present is
to sit over here and think about it Come along
358 GUERNDALE.
with me, old fellow, down the Danube, and we'll
talk it over. We'll go and fight the paynims, my
boy ! Think of that ! We'll serve under the banner
of the cross, and polish off the infidels ! "
" I ought to go America."
" Ought ! "
" Norton, if I did not know you never said what
you meant if you were not ah ! " said Guy, im-
patiently. " I am tired of hearing this groaning,
this complaining, this weakness made a mode by
Musset and Heine. Suppose their worst ; and that we
do believe in nothing, and there is no God to tell
us ' Be a good boy and you shall have so and so,'
have we not all that half the great men of the world's
history have had ? Did those poor, so-called benight-
ed atheists of Rome or Greece sit down and whine
about the world ? Is there no merit in bravery ?
And are we worse off than they ? Suppose we do
not know what is coming ? If a clock knew that it
was to be destroyed the next moment, would it not
go on striking the hours until that instant arrived ?
Whatever happens, cannot we go on striking our
hour ? I am weary of this complaining that the
gods have not thrown light enough on our path. Is
there one moment in life when a noble soul does
not clearly know which action lies before it to be
done ? And even if the impulses of a noble soul
can err, even if they are not inspired, then all of it
will come to an end at death ; and thank God that it
will. You men who cry because you cannot believe
what a priest tells you of Christ: was poor Greek
Sophocles a Christian when he prayed that his lot
GUERNDALE. 359
might lead him 'in the path of holy innocence of
word and deed, the path which august laws ordain,
laws that in the highest empyrean have their birth,
of which Heaven is the father alone ; neither did
the race of men beget them, nor shall oblivion ever
put them to sleep ; for the power of GOD is mighty
in them, and groweth not old.' Grant that we
know not that those laws are true what merit in
our courage if we did ? Let us act as if they were
true. And if we do think falsely, we shall die nobly
and die forever."
'Randolph was silent.
"Heaven knows," added Guy, with a sigh, "the
doubts of all these men are too much like our own
for us to blame them. I do not mean that I am
always free from them."
For once, Randolph made no answer ; but an hour
afterward, as they were walking home, he spoke.
" Guy," he said gravely, " we have talked, in our
time, badinage and nonsense enough. I am not
sure that you will remember, among other thing^
my once giving you my views on peaches a quinsk
francs 1 Well, I was thinking of that when I spok<\
this afternoon, and of a fellow that I met once, i&
the far East, and knew quite well. In fact, it was
he that made the text for my sermon. Poor little
fool, he fell in love, madly, passionately, wildly ia
love, at nineteen, with a girl, beautiful, gay, fash
ionable, and a year older. He was just the roman-
tic, enthusiastic youth, and withal wilful and clear-
headed, whose head could once be led away by his
heart How she laughed at him ' By Jove how she
360 GUERNDALE.
did laugh at him ! Well, the poor boy was sensitive
and proud, but older than he seemed, and a strong
enough character in some respects ; and he caught
her unlucky trick of laughing ; and the damned
habit stuck to him. As Heine says, a man can go
laughing away, stuck deep in the heart, and go on
laughing and trallera trallera-la-la and not even
know that he is stuck deep in the heart and tral-
lera-la, la-la, la-la Well, this one was a man of
the world, not a passionate shepherd, nor a heavy
villain ; so he never did anything very remarkable,
but went on laughing. And the worst of it is, he
got over caring for her. I suppose she would take
him now, if he came back. I doubt not, she has
grown tired of her throne of fashion, at one-or-two-
and-thirty. But she was a peche a quinze francs.
Everybody in general was so taken up with admiring
her, that nobody in particular thought of loving her.
She was too perfect a peach for eating ; and now
the show is nearly over, and the doors of the fair are
closed to her, and fresher, more fragrant peaches
have taken her place in the stalls ; and perhaps the
beautiful girl is not a happy woman.
" ' Elle est morte ; et n'a point vecu.
De sa main est tombe le livre
Dans lequel clle n'a rien lu. 1
" Perhaps the little boy who hankered after her
might carry her off now, if he chose to try. But he
does not care for her now ; and yet he cannot forget
her, and he remembers her as she was once, and the
picture will not leave his mind ; and he could not
GUERNDALE. 361
seriously make love to her, for he has caught her
old trick of laughing ; and yet he does not particu-
larly see the use of caring for anything else. So he
roams about the world ; for he has money enough,
poor devil, to go to the devil with, only he still
keeps an old Puritan prejudice against the gentle-
man in question. And she is pointed out as Miss
So-and-So, who used to be the great belle ; and her
temper is a little dubious, and she uses rouge."
Randolph delivered all this rapidly, like a lesson
learned by heart ; then he went on, more naturally
" Oh, well, it's no use, as old Sol Bung used to say.
Let's go down and have a smoke eras ingtns and
and damn the rest of it."
Guy shook his head, and Randolph went on, talk*
ing carelessly, urging him to spend the summer with
him in Europe. Randolph, having touched Guy
once, had seen that he did not wish to talk with him
of certain things ; so he never again referred to Sy-
monds. But he told me, long after, that his meet-
ing Guy was not such a curious coincidence as it
seemed, as he had tracked him all the way from
Freiberg, where he had arrived a day too late.
"Old fellow," Randolph went on, "you aren't fit
to go back to work now. You haven't had fun
enough this four years. Take pity on a lonely
friend, and wait till the autumn. We'll have a jolly
old roving summer together." So he talked hastily,
all the way back, while Guy was silent. Coming
down through the wood path, Randolph spoke again
of the verse he had found, which he said was worth a
bushel of Swinburne: Molto amaipoco amatf -face far.
16
GUIRNDALE.
A steamer was passing below them on the river ;
few people were on the deck, but Randolph swore
he could smell the Bass's ale as the bottles were un-
corked in the cabin. Below them, down the river,
they saw the smoke of some new foundries.
Guy, too, thought much of the little Italian verse
as he walked along to his banker's. He remembered
with wonder his long speech to Norton in the after-
noon ; the spirit which prompted it seemed to have
left him, and his doubts were crowding back. What
a kind, pleasant fellow Randolph was ! Still, he was
glad he had kept his secret. It was better that he
should always do so. He began to wonder a little
atbout Randolph himself ; but this thought was driven
from his mind by a telegram he found at the banker's.
" Thank you rwy much for your message ; bat please do not cotnt
back. A- B. SYIIOND&"
Book
CHAPTER XLI.
** Le monde, une eottise ! Ah ! la belle vttise pourtant ! CVst, ie!on
habitants de Malabar, une des soixante-quatorze comedies dont PKicmd t'amute."
DIDKKOT.
IT is less than a month after their walk on the
Rhine, and Guy and Norton are sitting at a
little round table on the Chaussee in Bucharest.
The year is the eighteen hundred and seventy-sev-
enth of our Lord ; and, although only the last week
in May, the fierce Roumanian summer has already
begun. The day has been intensely hot, and the
world only awakes with the approach of night.
Randolph's fair face is already of a bright bronze,
against which his long moustaches gleam golden ;
attired in a light lounging suit, he sits drinking the
lime-juice and water, cooled with snow, while Guy,
whose face is a darker brown, is beside him. Around
them, under the rather ineffectual shade of the lime-
trees, is a gay procession of Roumanian beauty and
Russian valor ; these gallant officers doubtless de-
served the fair, for they were confidently discounting
future bravery, and getting their deserts in advance.
The avenue of the Chaussee is filled with car-
364 GUERNDALE.
riages, bearing ladies on their evening drive, their
white muslin dresses and bare necks and shoulders
shining pleasantly in the twilight. The broad brows,
full lips, and handsome faces of this old Roman
race contrast curiously and favorably with the
long, white moustaches, the small eyes, and high
cheek-bones of the Cossacks, or the heavier, darker
features of the Russian moujik. The gay little city
is gayer than ever to-night ; illuminations gleam in
the gardens, strains of dance-music ring out into the
narrow streets ; the empty day is over, and the pleas-
ures of the night have begun. Old and young, poor
and rich, moral and immoral, all seem equally to
be enjoying life a general and delightful indiffer-
ence to everything between pitch-and-toss and man-
slaughter pervades the populace. Guy is amused,
and Randolph, who is always mildly entertained bj
the world in general, finds the world more than ever
entertaining to-night.
Very few people now remember that over across
the river, to the south, are Turks. The pink blos-
soms in the garden are very sweet, the winds are
stilled, the dust lies quiet in the roads. Overhead
the stars, large and serious, look down upon the red
and green lights of the garden. But people do not
look at them ; for every woman in Bucharest is visi-
ble to-night, and their dark, round eyes are rounder
than ever with admiration of the splendor of the
foreign soldiery. If any woman can resist a uni-
form, it is not the Roumanian. Here it is a Cir-
cassian officer, lounging by, gorgeous in light blue
with silrer lacings and accoutrements ; now a group
GUERNDALE. 365
of Montenegrins, ablaze with scarlet silk and gold ;
then a party of sober-clad Russians, looking more
serious than the brisk young Roumanians : for are
they not fighting for their father Czar and the Holy
Church ? A Russian officer comes up to address
Randolph, leaving his carriage at the curb, with his
pretty, somewhat faded, young countess. Randolph
goes up to speak to her, and Guy hears her soft
musical voice, and pretty broken English, but makes
no move to join them. So the count, all complai-
sance, takes Randolph's seat, and tells Guy of the
great review of the Russian army at Kischeneff,
when the declaration of war was read to the army
by the bishop of the church ; and how the soldiers
cheered, in a long hoarse roar of delight ; while
Alexander II., the Peace Emperor, sitting upon the
earth, his elbows on his knees, burst into tears. It
will not be a promenade, this war, he says ; for the
Turks believe in what they fight for, as the French
did not when the Germans marched on Paris crying
Fatherland, and the peasant soldiers threw their
arms down before the enemy, and cried that they
had left their wives and children, that the harvest
was still ungathered, that they did not wish to fight,
and the Comte de Paris, fighting also for an Emperor
he did not own, had to beat them into battle with
his sword.
Guy and Randolph have come up the Rhine, and
walked through the Black Forest, and traced the
Danube, from the little stream at Donauworth to
Ratisbon. There they found a boat ; and so came
down, below the white Valhalla, with its marble
366 GUERNDALE.
foolery of a foolish king, below the endless greea
hills of the Bohemian Forest, where Schiller's Rob-
bers lived and Consuelo, to Passau ; and on through
river scenery which dwarfs the petty Rhine, by the
great marble convents and monasteries, and the old
city of Linz, perched above the Danube, with the
Austrian Alps gleaming in the background ; down
through the whirlpool and the rapids, by quaint
little churches and villages and old, forgotten cas-
tles ; by St. Michael, where the six little clay hares
upon the roof of the church still remain, to remind
the simple villagers of some old winter, when the
hares ran over the ridgepole on the snow ; by Dur-
renstein, where the castle yet is seen below w r hose
windows Blondel sang to his caged master, Cceur-
de-Lion ; by the huge walls of Klosterneuburg ; by
Vienna ; down through the broad Hungarian plains,
where the peasant and his six great oxen still scratch
the earth with the forked stick of antiquity ; into the
Iron Gate, which breasts the brown Danube waters
with its walls of browner rock ; out of European
civilization into Belgrade and Asia, even on to
Bucharest. And Randolph has been a very charm-
ing companion to his friend, and Guy would say that
he enjoyed the journey very much.
So it happened that the two sat here, under the
dusty lime-trees in the park of Bucharest ; in this
careless little city which laughed and drank and
made love between two warring empires. On the
morrow, they were to leave Bucharest for the front,
if Lord John Canaster had gained permission. The
campaign had now fairly begun ; the Russians wer
GUERNDALE. 367
about to sow torpedoes in the Danube, and there
were rumors that they intended to throw a pontoon-
bridge across the river at some point below. The two
armies were about to close ; and a Yankee skipper,
pacing the deck of his ship at anchor in the stream,
was even then profanely cursing because he had been
compelled to leave his moorings before he got his
cargo on board.
In front of them, in a canvas theatre, a third-rate
French company were performing opera-bouffe ;
and the under-officers eagerly spent their hard-
earned rubles in hearing a last laugh before they
left for the war. Randolph was quite at home in
all this scene ; as he said laughingly, he was the vic-
tim of democracy, and was out of place at home,
where the country was getting along very well,
under the administration of Mr. Hayes, and he had
been as good as told that his services were not
wanted, in the meanest capacity. But for Guy it
was otherwise ; Guy was rather off his beat, Ran-
dolph said ; which Guy, also laughing, denied, and
said he was as well there as anywhere else.
Guy had been to the banker's that day, to see if
there were no letter for him from Lane ; for he had
written to Lane, and asked him to write what he
heard of Annie. But there was none, and so he sat,
playing idly with his locket, and listening vaguely to
Randolph, who was using all his powers to entertain
him and win him over to his own gayety. So sitting,
Lord John, returning from Ploiesti, met them, as he
had promised to do when he left them the day before.
With him was a handsome young fellow, in the
368 GUERNDALE.
xiniform of a cavalry private. Canaster had obtained
the required permission for Guy and Randolph, and
now desired to present to them his friend, through
whose influence it had been granted the Prince
T . He was serving as a private from preference,
as he said, and because, being himself a diplomat, it
was not thought best for him to be put over men
who had spent their lives in the army. He made
this explanation, seeing Randolph look curiously
at his coarse blue uniform, gray overcoat, and black
leather helmet. It seemed to Guy that Canaster, too,
was a very different fellow from the heavy, coarse
man of pleasure he had known years before in Amer-
ica ; his eye was brighter and more clear, some of
his flesh was gone, and there was an air of frankness
and determination about him which became him
well.
The four sat a long time, smoking and talking, un-
der the lime-trees ; the prince burning with enthu-
siasm for the war, Canaster alert at the prospect of a
fight, Randolph suave and companionable as usual.
Here there was no talk of horses, wine, and women ;
few stories were told and no scandal. Randolph
talked of the social condition of Turkey, of the polit-
ical reasons for the war ; Canaster of what he had
seen of the front and of the state of the soldiers ;
Prince T of the purpose of the Czar and the
hopes and loyalty of the army. The country was
united, he said, for the people all loved the Czar ;
even the nihilists, he said, were silent in the com-
mon danger ; there were many of them in the ranks.
When they got up, Randolph hoped that he might
GUERNDALE. 369
see his Highness often, now that they also were go-
ing to the front.
" Oh, no," laughed the prince, " you are swells and
go with the councillors and the household, to look at
the war. I, you see, am nothing but a private under
orders, and go to fight." They walked back with
the prince to his quarters, outside the city, and saw
his sheepskin blanket, and his horse, hung all over
with tin cups and kettles for the rough bivouac, and
tasted the sour brandy and dry, hard bread. Guy and
Randolph had two rooms in the best hotel of the
town, where they had a table d'hote of seven courses
and a French cuisine. This was to be the last night
of it, said Randolph, as they entered the quaint
Eastern inn, with its central court-yard and brick-
floored, windowless bedrooms opening on glass gal-
leries ; the last night they were to pass in a bedroom,
with a bed in it and sheets.
So they both slept long and soundly ; and in the
morning were up betimes to search for horses.
Canaster's jockey knowledge helped them in this.
Then Guy found a little time yet to go to the
banker's again, in search of a letter from Lane. But
there was none ; and early in the afternoon they
started for Ploiesti.
16*
CHAPTER XLII.
"There was, in the temple of Memphis, a high pyramid of globes, piled one upon
the other; a preacher, questioned about these globes by a tourist, told him that
they represented all the possible worlds, and that the Lest world of all was upon
the top ; the tourist, curious to see this best of all possible worlds, clambered up
the pyramid ; and when his eyes were fixed upon the top globe, the first thing he
aw was Tarquin violating Lucrcce." LEIBNITZ.
THE slow weeks of preparation passed by ; the
Russians kept up an incessant but quite inef-
fectual cannonade across the river ; and finally the
vanguard of their army crossed the Danube. All
this time, the Turks lay idly behind their earth-
works, and watched the hostile pageant as if it were
a militia parade. They were evidently hoping that
something would turn up to prevent it ; but, for the
nonce, their confidence in Allah was misplaced, and
nothing of the kind occurred. However, this atti-
tude of the enemy had the effect of exciting the
boundless admiration of Norton Randolph, who
praised their consistent and philosophic fatalism, and
regretted deeply that the stern etiquette of war for-
bade his crossing the river to make them a friendly
call. But Sistova was occupied ; and this place in
Bulgaria had so lately been Turkish that he thought
it worth while to obtain from the authorities per-
mission for himself and Guy to visit it. So, one June
GUERNDALE. 371
morning, buried in a cloud of dust, they were riding
along the military road Randolph in high spirits,
Guy rather quiet, as was his wont in those days.
Already the blight of war had scarred the country,
on both sides of the river. Many of the villages
were in ruins ; the broad stream, filled with torpedoes
and patrolled by gunboats, deserted of all shipping,
ran beside them. The road was a foot deep in dust,
and crowded, not with soldiers, but with stragglers,
pedlers, peasants ; the throngs of camp-followers who
seek to fish in waters troubled by war. Many of the
peasants, seeing their civilian's dress, would stop and
beg of them ; they knew it was of no use begging
from soldiers. A huge cloud of dust rose ahead of
them, dense, like yellow steam ; when close upon it,
they saw that it was caused by a regiment of mounted
Cossacks, squatting high on the shoulders of their
horses, with their long lances, and chanting a bar-
baric war-song, to the marching music of whistles.
Guy and Randolph caught up with them, and rode
slowly past them to one side, noticing their tangled
hair, motley dresses, and small, fierce eyes. Before
each sotnia was borne the banner of the holy war ;
and long alter they were left behind and lost in the
dust, came the shrill scream of the whistles. Ran-
dolph asked Guy, somewhat grimly, if he felt like a
crusader.
Somewhat grimly, for they had seen much of the
dirt and misery and horror of war, these past few
weeks, and had grown more sceptical about the ac-
cepted reasons, diplomatic, social, or religious. It
was difficult to believe that the Turks were worse
3/2 GUERNDALE.
than the Kalmucks, and all the optimism of Caiv
dide would be needed to prove that either race would
do much good by killing the other. One thing was
certain ; they had seen a great many men very mis-
erable. They had seen the hundreds and thousands
of the Russian army, marching in misery to probable
death, with dogged, brute valor, for which they were
rewarded with the sum of one ruble a month per
man. They had seen these men, starving on one
pound of bread a day, -and only hoping for the ration
of coarse beef twice a week that had been promised
them by the government, and stolen by some con-
tractor. They had seen a great review of the army
of invasion, held before the Grand Duke in person,
where the wretched rank and file, ill-fed and ill-clad,
walked by him in silence, and only the flat swords
of the officers and their own fear of Siberia could
call out a cheer. They had seen the wretched in-
valids, seeking admittance to the army hospitals,
scourged like hounds upon their naked flesh lest they
should be shamming ill. What wonder, thought
Randolph, that these men do not fear Turkish bul-
lets ? They had talked with the officers, too ; many,
of the lower grades, were nihilists ; and these would
boldly condemn the war and the government and
all things that make Russia Russia less fearful of
Siberia, now that the Czar needed their lives to fling
away upon Turkish trenches, and talking more freely
in consequence. And they had seen the miserable,
degraded people, for whom this army came, looking
stolidly on while their own deliverance was wrought,
fearing their Russian captors little less than their
GUERNDALE. 373
old Turkish masters, and quite as willing to work
them evil where they safely could ; lying always,
stealing when they found a chance, and robbing and
murdering in their own turn such Turks as had not
fled.
Now and then they passed a wretched Bulgarian
village, with filthy houses, half buried in the earth,
windowless, with low doors, and openings in the
reed-thatched roofs, through which, while the smoke
struggled to get out, the light might struggle to get
in. These hovels were so deep sunken in the ground
that the eaves were level with the soil, and pigs might
be seen rooting upon the roof ; when they caught a
glimpse of the interior, they saw that the floors were
of damp earth, mouldy with fungus and alive with
vermin ; upon them rolled and wallowed indiscrimi-
nately the domestic animals of the household, dogs,
pigs, and poultry, and the naked children.
All around the villages lay broad, rich lowlands,
scarcely cultivated, gay with yellow colza and pink
dog-roses, and dotted with ponds, their margins
fringed with broad bands of purple iris. They had
never seen a country with such a wealth of wild
Bowers. The sky was blue without a cloud, and in
the clear air they saw incessantly white puffs of
smoke, across the plain, at the base of the Turkish
position, and heard the dull thudding of the cannon-
ade. So riding, they crossed the long bridge of
boats, between two caisson wagons, and came into
Sistova.
In this little city, the first important place that
had been occupied by the Russians, it was a day of
3/4 GUERNDALE.
rejoicing. True, the Turkish quarter, the best part
of the town, was deserted. The walls were riddled
with shot and shell, the windows broken and tho
sashes gone, the houses pillaged and bare. But
about the market-place the houses were gay with
bunting, the windows full of faces ; and in tho
square, rimmed by a double cordon of Russian in-
fantry, stood the Christian bishop, holding the pale
blue banner of the Church to welcome the Grand
Duke and the army of liberation. Two little girls,
one on either side of him, chosen from among the
cleanest of the Bulgarian village maidens, stood with
trays of bread and salt. And all around, in the back-
ground, crowded the Bulgarian populace, peering
with their vicious faces and small, eager eyes to see
the Grand Duke. There seemed to be no women
between fifty and fifteen ; the Bulgarian maidens,
on being married, become hags without any inter-
vening state of matronhood.
Close guarded in a hollow square of lancers, the
Grand Duke rode slowly up and dismounted. As
he did so, the bishop bowed, bending forward his
banner; the children kneeled, holding up their
trays. The Grand Duke, clumsily crossing himself,
broke off a bit of the bread and ate it, and pretended
'to partake of the salt, while he was sprinkled with
holy water at the hands of the bishop. A salvo of
artillery completed the ceremony. The Bulgariani
looked on in silence, lacking either the will or the
intelligence to cheer.
Guy and Randolph sought through the wretched
town for such accommodations as the place afforded.
GUERNDALE. 37$
Already the streets were thronged with drunken sol-
diery, robbing and rioting where they could, bear-
ing their plunder through the streets or hurling it
into large fires at the street-corners for sheer wan-
tonness when they could turn it to no use. The
Bulgarian population shrank silently into the nar-
rower lanes, waiting, like vultures, their turn for
plunder when the soldiers were sated. Not a Turk
was to be seen ; all seemed to have fled the place.
The Americans would have fared hardly for quar-
ters, had they not met Canaster and young Prince
T , who offered them a share in their own. The
prince, in a moment when few subalterns were
sober and trustworthy, was acting as aid ; but Can-
aster rode a little out of his way to show them the
house. In outward appearance it was the best they
had yet seen, and belonged to the Cadi, the only
Turkish resident who had dared to remain in the
town after its capture. He had relied for his safety
on a long life of benevolence to the Christian popu-
lation ; and something in his pluck or manners had
impressed the soldiery, so that his house had es-
caped pillage. All the servants had run away, Can-
aster told them, but his daughters remained with
him, closely confined.
Canaster knocked at the door, and receiving an
answer in very good French, they entered. The
house, as usual, was of stone and plaster ; but the
entry-way was large and scrupulously clean. Ran-
dolph stopped to wipe his shoes carefully upon a
mat, and the others followed his example ; then they
passed under a superb curtain and entered a spa-
376 GUERNDALE.
cious room with a beautiful mosaic floor, the walls
ornamented like those in the Alhambra, with texts
from the Koran intertwined. In the centre of the
floor, on a rug, was sitting the Cadi, a venerable
gentleman with a long white beard, to whom Canaster
presented them both in turn. The Turk rose gravely,
bowed in courteous fashion, told them that his house
and all it contained was at their service, and that
he regretted sincerely that the terror inspired by
the army and companions of his honored guests had
caused his servants to flee the household, so that it
was quite impossible for him to offer them suitable
entertainment ; he invited them, however, to a seat.
So saying, he resumed his own with dignity and con-
tinued to smoke. Canaster took his leave, the Cadi
rising and bowing to him as he went out Norton
Randolph, who was greatly pleased with the man-
ners and address of his host, sat down and sought to
draw him into conversation.
Guy walked back to look after the horses ; and
when he returned, the two seemed to be getting on
so well together that he did not wish to disturb
them. The windows of the room opened upon a
true oriental patio, walled so high that there was
but a small square of blue sky visible above. The
sides of the house were thick with vines and broad-
leaved plants that threw a green shimmer into the
water of the fountain, plashing in the court-yard.
Here was a basin of clear, cool water, grateful to
one who came from the heat of the open and the
parched roads. In the grass-plots at the corners
grew all manner of fragrant flowers, roses in rich
GUERNDALE. 377
abundance ; and here Guy threw himself down, lis-
tening to the distant cries of pillage and the tread of
troops, that came scarcely to him through the mas-
sive stone walls which barred him from the street.
Louder sounded the tinkle of the fountain near
him ; and so, thinking of moss-grown pools, and of
cool waters ebbing from lips of stone, or from forest
margins as the little brook used to do in Dale, he
fell asleep.
Randolph awoke him.
" The old fellow has promised to have his daugh-
ters get us some dinner," he said. "I am anxious
to see what they will be like."
Surely enough, Randolph had so insinuated him-
self into the likings of the Cadi, that this was the
substantial result of his amenities ; and going into
an adjoining room, they found a dinner that Ran-
dolph declared to be the best he had eaten since they
crossed the Rhine. Everything was clean and well
served ; and the curtains, portieres, and marbles would
have caused envy on Fifth Avenue. But in one thing
Randolph was disappointed ; the daughters did not
make their appearance. " Ah, well," sighed Ran-
dolph, " the old fellow is quite right ; we certainly
have not had a fitting introduction." And after din-
ner they smoked their host's pipes in the greenery
of the cool patio, and had some excellent coffee, pre-
pared by the fair invisible hands.
" Guy, my boy, I feel ashamed of myself. I'm a
Goth a Vandal a Hun anything else that is vul-
gar and barbarous and intrusive ! " growled Norton.
" Don't you ? Why, compare this side of the river
3/8 GUERNDALE.
the cleanness of this house, the beauty of this place,
with the dirt and squalor and degradation of thos
wretched Servians ! And our dignified, patient host,
with his cultivation and his courtly manners I
don't know when I have seen a Christian to com-
pare with him ! And we claim to be for liberty and
enlightenment, and come bursting in here with a
horde of ignorant, thieving Kalmucks, and a Czar
who wants to make these people like unto them !
As if one creed was not as good as another, as long
as it turns out a gentleman ! And a better gentle-
man than that respectable old Double Bezique, or
whatever his title is, I never saw."
Guy smiled, as he usually did when he saw that
his friend's freaks were meant for his own amuse-
ment, and the latter went on :
"Just think of that old boy's hospitality con-
joined with a delicate social instinct for his daugh-
ters' acquaintance, because we are Christians. I feel
tempted to renounce. As if there were such a thun-
dering amount of difference between a cultivated
Turk, who believes in God, and that Mahomet was
His prophet, and a nineteenth-century Unitarian,
who believes in the same God, and Christ, or
William Shakespeare, as I heard that intelligent
minister of yours say one day, up in Dale ! Bah,
Guy! I'm disgusted. Let's change sides."
" Norton, old fellow, don't you think we are rather
too fond of changing sides you and I ? "
"Yes, Guy. . . . But, after all, it doesn't
make much difference. . . . And that's the
trouble."
GUERNDALE. 379
After this, the two men went on smoking, idle
and silent, until they were startled by hearing a
heavy crash at the front door, and a turmoil of sol-
diers in the house, and a clatter of Cossack dialects.
Guy started up to go in ; but they were met by the
Turk, who came calmly out of the room, carrying
with him his heavy pipe, as the crowd of soldiers
rushed by.
"Qu'est-ce "began Randolph; but the Cadi
waved him to a seat.
"Ce n'est rien, messieurs. Ne vous gSnez pas, je
vous en prie." And after he sat down, and Ran-
dolph had resumed his seat, he told him that the
soldiers had discovered that there was a loft in his
house filled with tobacco ; and the noise was caused
by their efforts in plundering it and fighting over
the spoils. "But the ladies " cried Randolph,
starting up. "Are in a place of safety," said he.
Norton offered the Cadi his sympathy ; but the lat-
ter assured him there was no need, and thanked him
gravely.
"Qa ne fait rien," said he. " D'ailleurs, que
faire ? "
Surely enough, a procession of half drunken Cos-
sacks came back through the room opposite, bearing
in their arms huge bundles of tobacco, like over-dry
hay. And at the same time a pungent snuffiness
came out through the window, and set them all to
sneezing.
When Guy and Canaster went to bed they found
in their^ rooms a bath, towels, beds neatly made
up, and all the appliances of a comfortable night
380 GUERNDALE.
Whether the dread of the advancing army had
caused the fleas also to leave, is uncertain ; possi-
bly they feared the vast and voracious host of fleas
which the invaders brought with them ; certainly
there were none in the chamber. The best couch
had evidently been reserved for Randolph, who was
not ready to join them, but still sat below, smoking
with the Cadi the two, as Lord John remarked,
thicker than thieves.
Guy was awaked once in the night, by Randolph,
about midnight. "Come down and help, old fel-
low ; there is a gang of drunken Russians at the
door, and the Cadi is down, trying to pacify them ;
and they want his daughters."
The two waked Canaster, who swore viciously on
being roused, and swore yet more viciously on hear-
ing the purpose of their waking him. They crept
softly down, in their stockings, and found a dozen
drunken soldiers rioting in the room where they
had lately dined ; and two of the drunkest ones
had seized a silken curtain-cord, and passed it with
a single knot around the Cadi's neck, and so were
pulling the cord in opposite directions, one at either
end, and asking the old man where his daughters
were. His long white beard was knotted in the
cord, and his face was purple ; but he showed no
other evidence of emotion, still less any intention of
yielding ; and it gave Randolph acute pleasure to
see Canaster knock these two down, while he and
Guy, with their revolvers, induced the others to
move into the street.
There, however, they clamored* about the door.
GUERNDALE.
and, others coming, the dispute became serious.
Guy was meditating emptying his revolver among
them ; Lord John stood against the door-post, and
growled like a bull-dog ; while Randolph exhausted
the French, German, and a portion of the Russian
languages in endeavoring to persuade a lieutenant to
keep his men in order. This the latter professed
his utter inability to do. Usually, he said, they were
very good fellows ; but he was quite without control
over them when not in the ranks. Luckily, at this
juncture, the Prince T appeared. He told the
men his real rank, and ordered them away. Only
one of them made any resistance ; cursing the Czar,
and all the whatever term in Russian corresponds
to damned aristocrats he sprang at the Prince,
who shot him twice, in rapid succession, and he
fell, seriously wounded, upon the cobble-stones.
The rest, leaving their comrade, slunk away like
whipped hounds ; and the Prince and his three
companions went back to their beds, first examining
the man, whom they found to be dead. The Cadi
went to attend them, thanking them gravely, but
| with tears in his eyes.
i "Well, Guy," said Randolph, after blowing out
the candle, " what do you think of war, now I "
CHAPTER XLIII.
** So go forth to the world, to the good report and the evfl t
Go, little book ! thy tale, is it not evil and good?
Go. and if strangers revile, pass quietly by without answer.
Go, and if curious friends ask of thy rearing and age,
Say, ' I am flitting about many years from brain unto brain of
Feeble and restless youths, born to inglonous days :
But,' so finish the word, ' I was writ in a Roman chamber,
When from Janiculan heights thundered the cannon of France.' "
CLOUGH.
GUY and Randolph stopped some weeks at Sis-
tova ; but Guy remembered very little of this
part of the summer, when he and Randolph after-
wards talked it over. Despite all the change and
noise and fatigue and fighting, it seemed dull to him,
and his time hung heavily on his hands. He rarely
thought much ; he had given up thinking ; but the
war seemed to act upon his mind like an anaesthetic,
and his sensibilities were deadened. Then, he was
never alone. For some reason of his own, Randolph
kept always with him, seeking to amuse him by at.
infinite variety of moods and fancies, to excite him
by stories he heard of the fighting that was going on
about them ; now trying to provoke him to argu-
ment by his old half-earnest indifference, now rais-
ing a laugh by some grotesque absurdity, now sooth-
ing him to smoke with him in idle companionship.
GUERNDALE. 383
Norton was distinctly out of conceit with the Rus-
sians ; this much was evident. " I say, old boy, we
can't desert our colors when under fire, can we,
now ? " he would say. " Come, young Godefroi de
Bouillon, how much personal interest do you sup-
pose these besotted Bulgarians take in the true
Cross?" Or, again, he would lament his fate in
being always mixed up in things he could not believe
in. "Why," he complained, "even under fire, I be-
lieve I should be only half in earnest. Heigho ! I
wish the old Cadi were here ; then there would be
somebody to talk to." For this aged gentleman
had been shipped, with his daughters, to a place of
more safety, leaving, when he went, his house and all
it contained at the disposal of his " Amercan pre-
server ; " and its most secret apartments were now in
their undisputed possession ; but alas ! the charming
inmates had tiv^vn.
Up to this time, *he invasion had been war only in
form an armed excursion. The Turks had been
steadily repulsed through the whole line of the
Danube. General Gourko had flung an advanced
guard through the Shipka Pass, beyond the Balkans ;
and the complete success of the campaign seemed
assured. Perhaps, for this reason, Randolph had
begun to sympathize with the weaker side.
But now there came a change. Gourko had got
too far from the main army, and had much ado to
maintain his position. While he was still staggering
in his foothold at Fort St. Nicholas, Osman Pacha
had been winding himself up, like a spider, in Plevna.
The Russians around him were throwing up earth
384 GUERNDALE.
works, In rather a desultory way ; and one morning
they found that Osman had suddenly occupied the
heights of Loftcha, near by, and commanding Plev-
na ; and that their own trenches were quite too lo\r
for comfort. So the news reached Sistova that a
general attack had been ordered ; and this attack, it
was whispered, had resulted in a serious repulse.
Thus it came to pass that division after division was
called before Plevna ; and the two armies lay there,
facing one another ; and around a camp-fire in the
northern one were our friends, the non-combat-
ants.
Already the rough, warlike life had left its mark
upon them, though they had not actually been in
battle. It is hard, in the field, to retain a vestige of
the refinements of civilized life. Canaster was there,
in a garb unknown to St. James Street ; Norton Ran-
dolph was there, quite as indifferent as ever, now
that he was under the guns of the enemy, but un-
deniably dirty (dirt, he said, after all, was only mat-
ter in the wrong place, and war was the right place
for it) ; and young Prince T was there, disgusted
with his cavalry regiment, which lay useless in the
background, and fighting on his own hook, like a
Tartar as he was a very cream of Tartars, as Ran-
dolph affectionately called him ; and Guy was there,
too, feeling a certain grim enjoyment in the excite-
ment of the thing, forgetful of most things, though
wondering now and then why he heard no further
news from Lane.
All that night there had been a scream of shells
and a roar of rifled cannon ; and the mist and the
GUERNDALE. 385
cold, and the barrenness of the place of bivouac, had
made it a nuit blanthe for most of them. It was a
dull day ; there was little doing, though the cannon,
out of courtesy, kept up a harmless interchange of
compliments , Canaster rode to headquarters for the
mail, while the others of the party gave themselves
to sleep, to make amend* for the discomfort of the
past night. In the Afternoon, after Lord John's re-
turn, Guy disappeared for a long time, and Randolph
lay lazily watching the men at work strengthening
the entrenchments. In the evening an orderly was
sent to warn Canaster and his friends that their po-
sition was one of some danger, and to advise them to
go further to the rear; but their tent was just put
up and comfortably arranged, and they decided to
stay and see it out. That night was quieter ; the in-
effectual cannonade still continued, but by that time
they had got used to it, and all slept welL
Guy slept unusually late ; for when he went out,
the sun had risen and the mists were clearing away.
The cannonade was less active, for the Turks were all
at morning prayers ; and our four Christians, includ-
ing a newspaper correspondent, were seated by the
fire, smoking clay pipes, and playing whist at a ru-
ble the point. It was really almost still ; the long,
wailing cry of the Muezzin could be heard from
Plevna, and Randolph was just telling Guy that he
felt all the old delight of cutting chapel at college,
when the Prince threw down his cards ancT pointed
to a long, dark line, winding among the wheat-fields
in the valley. It was of a dun color, the uniforms- of
Islam being none of the brightest, and uugiu weU
GUERNDALE.
have been taken for a religious procession, but fo5
the flash of the steel points against the corn.
" You are right ! " said Randolph. " They cer-
tainly intend to pitch into something. The hypo-
Critical beggars I just when we thought them sale at
prayers ! ''
That it was an attack, was evident. All along the
Russian lines began the clatter of preparation ;
and the place where our friends were might not be
safe many minutes more. The correspondent of the
London paper, only stopping to remind Randolph
that their score v as a treble and three, hurried back
to his companions. Guy and Randolph looked at
one another ; and each saw what the other wished to
do. Canaster and Prince T had already trans-
formed themselves into irregular infantry. For alas !
by this time there was no lack of spare pieces and
equipments. The two Americans followed their ex-
ample, " We don't want to run away," laughed Ran-
dolph, apologetically. "And if we stay here, we
might as well do some rifle practice, in self-defence.
Besides, they have given us a fair casus belli they
interrupted our quiet game of whist"
So the four stood there, in the fresh summer
morning, grasping their rifles. Guy's piece was an
old weapon that had belonged to some Roumanian,
and the cartridges would not fit ; he did not care,
for he had the bayonet, and only wished it for pur-
poses of defence. Besides, it was not likely that the
Turks would come so near, for bayonets were rarely
crossed in this war : and if they did, he reflected that
be should probably run away.
GUERNDAUL
Near them was the grouo of newspaoer corre-
spondents, bnve fellows, to whom the danger*; 9.nd
hardships of war came as incidents in a profession
of peace and civilization. Most of these were hastily
jotting minutes in their note-books, their horses
tethered close behind . but as the enemy came nearer,
many of them grasped pieces and thrust their note-
books in their pockets. Even after this, and in
every lull of the engagement, they would lay down
their smoking muskets to pull out a note-book and
make a hasty memorandum of some point of ar-
rangement in the attack, or of some sight or scene
to bs recorded. The bivouac of our friends was be-
tween a regiment of the Eighth Army Corps and a
company of Roumanian infantry. For the Prince
T , though nominally a private in a company of
cavalry, was very much of a free lance, and usually
got leave, when it was certain that his own detach-
ment would not be wanted in the front, to fight where
he listed, and as often as he liked ; which latter was
most of the time.
Three long, sinuous streams of soldiery were now
seen to be winding down from the entrenchments of
Plevna. The cannonading had totally ceased. The
two great armies lay silent, face to face : but between
them was the broad valley, filled with yellow Co.a-
fields, and adown its centre shone the sun. As Guy
watched, he saw a Turkish officer come out of the
entrenchment. He was mounted on a red horse,
and Guy could see him point with his sword, al-
though more than a mile in distance lay between
them. He pointed with his sword directly toward
GUERNDALE.
the Prince's little group, turning his horse a little as
he did so. Suddenly there came in Guy's mind a
memory of that morning, years ago in Dale, when he
rode with Annie to call on the widow Sprowl, and
looked across the valley and saw the old horse with
the stumpy red tail, standing beside the cider-mill
Strange things are these sudden rushes of the mem-
ory to slight occurrences, long forgotten and as Guy
looked across the valley to the Turkish officer on his
red horse, he seemed again to see the New England
ralley in the smoky autumn air ; and the quiet mead- 1
ows, and to hear Annie's sweet voice coming outs
through the blinds of the house where the widow
Sprowl lay ill.
Then there came a roar of cannon, rending the si-
lence, making the clear air tremulous. The fore-
most column of the attack was now half-way through
the wheat ; and the wind of the burning powder
swept down through the yellow corntields, bend-
ing the grain, and a great flash of scarlet ^ame
over the valley, where the red of the poppies
Came up through the yellow. Then the smoke of
% be cannon lowered down in front of them, and the
Sun turned red, and all was hid from viev/.
An hour or more they stood there, not firing, but
Watching for the enemy ; while all around them the
crackle of the musketry drowned the dull thudding
of the cannon. But all this time nothing waj to be
seen of the attack. The soldiers about them, par-
ticularly the young Roumanians, were wild with ex-
citement, firing in the air, firing it mattered not
where, so long as they got their bullets off in the di
GUERNDALE. 389
rection of the Turkish approach. The balls which
had been dropping about them spent, now flew
straighter over their heads ; and even, once in a
while, a man would be wounded, to show that the
attack was in earnest None of our friends would
fire, but stood there waiting ; though the suspense
was well-nigh intolerable.
Finally, Randolph touched Guy's elbow softly,
and pointed below. Far down the slope of the line
of defence, perhaps a quarter of a mile, they saw a
figure through the smoke. It was that of a man,
tall and splendidly built, running upward. He bor*
a red battle-flag on his shoulder ; and some few paces
behind him swept a long line of soldiers, dim in the
smoky dust, coming up with their bayonets fixed.
A great shout rose from the Russian lines, and all
their fire converged upon this point. The smoke,
doubled in density, fell between them again like a
curtain. "Are they still coming?" cried Canaster.
His voice was hoarse with excitement ; and dashing
his cap to the ground, he began firing repeatedly
into the mist But no ; that attack was repulsed.
The Turkish column had faMen rapidly down the
hill, and was re-forming behind the bodies of tho
slain.
A moment's breathing-spell was given them. Tht
Prince, hearing a rumor that a charge of cavalry was
to be attempted, rushed hastily back to his quarters.
Canaster stood, panting with excitement, opening
and shutting the lock of his gun. Randolph bor-
rowed the old oiled-rag, with which he began to clean
bis own piece ; his clothes were full of dust and his
3<X> GUERNDALE.
hands and face smeared with oil and burnt powder.
He looked at Guy ; there was an unwonted gleam in
his eyes, and neither thought of going back. Just
below, on the glacis, was a wounded horse, ^winding
around like a kitten, in his death-agony. " By hea-
ven ! There he is again ! " cried Randolph ; and sure
enough, from another direction, they saw the same
tall figure rushing up, stopping now and then to
cheer forward the dark line that pressed upon his
heels. In one hand he now had a musket, and in
the other he still bore his banner ; thus armed, he
came along upon the run, stopping every few min-
utes to reload, and sticking his flag in the earth,
when the main body would catch up, then picking
up the banner and rushing on far ahead of them, he
would calmly discharge his piece, and with the ut-
most sang froid stop to reload as before. " That is a
splendid fellow, Guy." cried Randolph. They could
see his long black hair, so long that it whipped his
face in the wind, and even his white teeth and his
strained eyeballs and his dark features working with
excitement. A red silk scarf was bound about the
top of his head, and his dress and arms shone, yel-
low with gold.
44 Fair ptoy, at all events," muttered Randolph ;
and before Guy could stop him he had sprung out
upon the narrow edge of the earthwork. Calmly he
levelled his gun, like a fowling-piece ; the man with
the red silk scarf seemed to see him, and a littlo
spun, of flame leapt from his gun almost before Ran-
dolph s. Both reports were lost in the noise of tho
battle, quite unheard. Randolph sprang back uuo
GUERNDALE. 391
the trench ; the Turk turned slowly round, poised
himself a moment, threw his banner, spear-fashion,
far down the hill into the ranks of his friends ; then
fell to the earth like a tree. At the same moment,
the Russians gave a great shout, as four long lanes
were opened through the Turkish ranks ; a second
after came the thunder of a new battery, just placed
behind them. There was a moment's check ; then
the entire body of the enemy fell back in wild con-
fusion into the valley.
The order for a charge of cavalry was soon given ;
and Canaster threw down his gun and ran for hU
horse, determined, as he swore, to ride with them a
bit Many of the Englishmen joined him, Guy
too ; only Randolph refused, saying he had had
enough of fighting, that the attack was repulsed and
that was enough. As he spoke, the way was cleared
for the cavalry ; Prince T rode among them,
waving his hat, as he passed, at Canaster and Guy,
who threw themselves on their horses and followed
close behind.
Randolph, left alone, stayed gloomily by their
quarters, out of humor with everything, himself most
pf all. He felt as if he had committed a murder.
Poor fellow ! how brave he had been, and how de-
voted to his cause I How he had striven that his
country might win ! How pluckily he had led the
charge, returning to it again and again, cheering on
his followers, never losing the flag he bore, saving it
even with his last heart-throb ! And who was he, Nor-
ton Randolph, a careless cosmopolitan, an idle rover,
a weak, good-for-nothing dreamer, that he should
GUERNDALE.
take this man's life ; that he should still the strong
pulses of a man who used his life ; that he should
meet him, whoever he might be, and shoot him like a
widgeon ? Because he was on the wrong side ?
Bah ! Who could tell what was the wrong side in this
world ! He had not even the excuse of believing in
the cause he fought for, like those poor devils of
soldiers down in the valley. What enemy had this
man been, or all Islam, for matter of that, to Norton
Randolph ? This was a fair exploit, truly, for his
philosophy. And where was Guy ? A pretty fel-
low was he, Norton, to butcher a Turk in cold blood
and let his friend go off alone on a charge of cavalry.
Such was the tenor of Norton's thoughts, as ho
looked impatiently round the scene of their bivouac.
The little plat of grass was burnt and trodden, and
cut with heavy wheels and the hoofs of horses. In
the centre were the ashes of the camp fire, still
smouldering, and among them the pack of cards
which had been hastily thrown down when the g-ame
was broken up. The overcoats and blankets iay
carelessly around the fire-place ; Guy's was there,
among the others. As Randolph looked at it, he
uttered an exclamation of surprise. A letter, in a
lady's handwriting, had apparently fallen from one
of the pockets of Guy's overcoat ; there it lay in the
ashes ; and as Randolph picked it up, he thought
he had seen the handwriting. The letter must have
been contained in a bundle thr.t Canaster had
brought them the day before. Randolph thought of
Guy's long absence that afternoon ; although Guy
had never told him anything, he knew much oi which
GUERNDALE. 393
his friend thought him ignorant For a moment he
hesitated ; he wished very much to know who had
sent that letter. For Guy's sake he wished it. But
no ; he could not open it. And as he turned it
over to put it back, he read the letters on the seal.
Randolph hurriedly crumpled the letter, and thrust
it in his own pocket ; then he grasped his revolver
and ran back to the place where their horses were
picketed. Mounting his own he rode rapidly down
the hill in the direction of the cavalry pursuit. I*
was still an hour before sunset, but the smoke wa&
Imaging low over the battle-field and he could see
nothing ahead. One or two soldiers cried to him to
come back ; but most of them were lying down to
rest, or busied with carrying away the wounded, and
none the less did Norton ride straight in the track
of the cavalry.
7*
CHAPTER XLIV:
At last . . . forever.
T^ORGIVE me, denr Guy. that I write to you. I am now quitt
* alone in the world ; and. though I have seen you so little of hue
years. ( feel that there is no one else to whom 1 can say what I have
to say now. You were Philip's dear old friend, were you not ? Ha
b now in Europe where, I do not know. But you will se nim. and
tell him to come back to me. for I am very ill. You know his natur*,
nd can do this good, both tor him and for your other old friend.
ANNIE 13. SYMONUS."
This letter was left behind in Guy's overcoat as
he rode down into the valley that day, with the
words of the letter burning in his brain. For
twenty hours he had thought upon them ; first
Stricken with all the anguish of his love, then by his
Id dull despair. What did she wish him to do ?
Whither was he to go ? He could not tell. Hef
letter was so strange ; he could not understand it
He had not even known that Philip was in Europe ;
then how could he hope to find him ? And what was
he to say to him, if he did ? Why should she have
written to him ? How could things be so bad that
ihe should have turned to him for aid ? A month
befoie, she had begged him not to return.
And yet, through all this, there ran a strange thrill
of happiness ; almost a flush of some new
GUERNDALE. 395
for he saw that he had never been so near to her as
now- now, when she turned to him, though it were
but to reach the lover through the friend. At last,
she had gauged his friendship aright. And he
thought of this again as he rode, and spurred his
horse as he did so, and went on with the foremost.
What was he to do ? Whither was he to go ? Now,
at least, for these few moments, there was no choice.
For this half hour, whatever lay beyond, his life was
clear; some strange impulse had led him to this
charge, and now he could not falter back, for all
around him rode his friends. His friends ; new friends
indeed, made the day before yesterday, but already
welded to him in the heat of war. In front was rid-
ing a young officer who had shared his dinner with
him, one day of fainting and fatigue ; here beside
him rode another, who had told him of his home
and hopes, in the strange, close confidence of the
day before the fight. And there, before him, lay
Plevna and the enemy; rightly or wrongly, the
enemy , and the bullets that whistled by his ears
angered him, and the booming of the cannon, and
the flutter of the crescent flag.
Again he spurred his horse, as he came down the
hill into the open, with the rush of many riders on
either side ; and he felt the savage joy that all the
horsemen shared, as he leaned forward, and heard
the hasty message that the army was behind them.
Faster still, they cried ; and he leaned well forward
on the horse's neck, and pressed his shoulders, and
felt the quick breath of the gallop and the straio
and play of the mighty muscles beneath. Now
39$ GUERNDALE.
they were riding through the bending grain : and
the scarlet flash of the poppies came up through the
wheat, and other red gleams where the corn wai
trampled and the roots were steeped in blood. Hero
and there, in the full speed of the charge, his horse
would suddenly swerve aside, and he saw these
places, where the grain was beaten down, and a care-
less heap of man and horse lay still amid the straw.
No time was there to stop and look ; as yet, no
one of them had fallen, and they rode straight ahead
and with no sign to guide them but the roaring of
the Turkish cannonade. No enemy was to be seen \
they were riding into a brown cloud of smoke, cleft
here and there by the pink glint of the cannon ; but
the sound of the guns was fused in one vast murmur
like the sea, and louder came to Guy the quick beat
of his horse's hoofs and the humming of the wind
about his face.
Then, as he rode, there came a new surge of life
in his heart. Three great pulses ; and the stirred
blood tingled in his temples and his loins : his brain
grew clear and high, his heart was full, and once,
once at least, he knew that he was living, and he
felt the human passion and the strong delight that
make swift motion and the life and air so sweet. O
the brave, gay world ! he was glad to be alive, glad
to be on the right side of the broad, rich earth, be-
neath the high and open sky ! He lived anew,
and he loved his new life, and the hoarse cry of the
men behind him sang in his ears like the sound of
a trumpet ; the sweep of the charge and the noise
of battle were like sweet music ; he was drunk
GUERNDALE. 397
with awakened life, and he thanked God for it, and
prayed for victory, and drove the rowels in his
horse's loins. " Huzza ! " the men cried, and he
cheered in answer, and standing in his stirrups
waved his hat high before him, and as he did so, the
brown cloud that was ahead quivered and opened,
and his very soul leapt from him far from the earth
then he seemed to be falling, falling in a rush of
air, with the thuuder of the cannon in his ears.
CHAPTER XLV,
* Les antmaux Uches vont en troupe* :
Le tiou marche scul dani te A&tert." A, DC VtCMV.
b / ^* O the second assault of Plevna was tried, and
failed ; and the long evening shadows drew
across the field where twenty thousand men were
lain and Guyon Guerndale lay dead or dying. A
large, still star came out over the hill, as the sun
sank down behind it ; the smoke of the battle rolled
away, and the mists of the night rose up ; the cica-
das were chirping, and the evening noises of the
fields began, as if the blood were drops of dew
and no darker red than poppies stained the corn.
Though men may war as much as ever, the fields of
battle are no longer haunted, even in the first dark
night ; we have disenchanted them as well ; we have
driven away their spirits, good as well as evil. No
need now of Valkyries to bear the souls of men in
battle slain. No grimmer figures than the ravens
circled in the air this night ; and the low murmur-
ing that there was came only from such poor hu-
mans as had not had the good fortune to die, or
from those who moaned that they were long in dy-
ing. These little spots of conscious matter went
GUERNDALE. 399
out like taper-flames ; and left (we know) as much
behind them.
Guy, however, was not dead ; though, for a long
time, he lay unconscious. Now, in the twilight, hia
eyes were open ; and it seemed to him that he never
in his life had had a calmer mood. But for the
numbness in his side, he might have been lying there
to watch the sunset light upon the hills. His horse
had fallen dead beside him ; but Guy was not
bruised, for the brute had been fond of him ; and
when a fragment of the same shell had wounded
both,, he had stepped (as horses will do) between his
master's limbs and fallen just beyond.
Here, for an hour or more, Guy lay ; happy either
In his restoration to life, or in the relief of many
things that death would bring. The day before
seemed now to be removed from him by many
years ; now, when perhaps there was to be no day
after. He thought of Annie's letter as of something
that had happened in his childhood. " I would have
tried," he murmured ; and then lay dreamily looking
at the faint light. All the cannonade had ceased ;
the camps were lost in the dark slope of the hills ;
around him waved the wheat, pale-amber in the
gloaming. It was as still as an old summer evening
in Dale, by the meadows or by Weedy Pond. He
wondered, would some strange chance ever show to
Annie the letters he had carved there, by the little
brook ? He did not care very much. The brooks
ran blood, here, to-night. So thinking, he fell
asleep.
Suddenly, almost immediately, he became wide
40O GUERNDALK.
awake again. A furlong from him he saw a group
of dark figures bending down amid the corn,
" My God ! " he muttered. He grew faint and
sick, and a wave of ice came about his heart.
"Oh, my God," he thought, "not this!" And
his tongue grew dry, and he trembled in his limbs
like a coward.
He was thinking of the week before, when they
had seen the Russian killed and wounded, who
were left on the field after the attack. They had
gone there in the morning, and in the night the
Turks had done their work. Even the bulls in the
arena will show some mercy, and do not gore a dead
horse ; but these mad fighting fanatics knew no
emotion but rage. He had seen limb torn from
limb, great red crescents gashed upon the breast-*
O God, not this !
But all around the field of battle, as the night
grew dark, swarmed the Turkish irregulars Circas-
sians, Bashi-Bazouks, mad Asian savages prowling
among the slain like ghouls ; robbing and rifling
the pockets of the dead, stripping them naked ;
tearing out the entrails of the wounded before their
faces ; hacking and mutilating the bodies of both.
in a lust of horror and of gain.
The place where Guy lay was so near the Turkish
batteries that they dared to come on foot ; and he
could hear their low chatter as they passed behind
him. Sooner or later, they were sure to find him.
Beads of cold sweat stood out upon his forehead ;
ah, had he but a knife, that he might kill himself
hat he might at least kill himself first
GUERNDALE, 4OI
Perhaps he might yet die before they found him.
Annie, dear Annie he thought of her again at this
moment, and wished that something might bring
him to her mind. He even stopped to imagine her
sorrow when she heard ; and the thought of her
sweet pity made it easier to bear. He was thankful
that he had not her portrait with him for those fiends
to find.
He heard a low shout, not far off ; and his heart
stood still, and the wave of ice poured down his
spine, as he saw a figure, pointing in his direction.
Every conceivable pang of fear was crowded into
that one moment. There was no one to save him
no one. He so prayed that he might die. Now he
saw another figure, coming swiftly toward him on
horseback. Apparently, the first Turk had not seen
him ; but there was no hope now. Courage, cour-
age that was all. The horse would discover him,
if the man did not As the horseman dashed up,
the horse was checked back, thrown nearly on his
haunches ; and Guy uttered a cry, half-suppressed,
and then bit his tongue and set his teeth for doing
it.
i "Guy?"
" Norton ! "
" Thank God ! " echoed Randolph ; and, dis-
mounting hurriedly, he lifted Guy tenderly upon
the horse's shoulders. Then he mounted again, and
so sat in the saddle, with his left arm tight on the
reins, and his right supporting Guy, waiting for a
favorable opportunity ; just as the nearest group
were bent upon their plunder he turned the brave
4O2 GUERNDALE.
horse with his spur and gave him his head across
the fields.
So far, Norton had ridden out unobserved ; bul
this change of direction revealed him to the enemy.
They had hardly ridden a hundred yards before they
beard the shout of discovery ; a moment afterwards
a dozen bullets hurtled over their heads. After the
first shock of surprise, Guy had recovered his pres-
ence of mind, and with it a sense of the peril his
friend was braving for his sake.
"Norton, Norton," he whispered faintly, "please
leave me dear old fellow please leave me ! You
cannot save both ! And I am wounded mor-
tally ' The words came in syllables, uttered with
difficulty, broken by the gallop of the horse.
"What, Guy? Don't talk so much, my boy.
You're wounded, you know," Randolph's calm,
pleasant voice came back to Guy. "Steady, old
fellow we'll do it yet !"
The cheery tones revived Guy like a cordial ; and
there was a soothing, satisfying ring in the well-
known voice. Guy could not see Randolph's face,
and he was too weak to make reply ; so he shut his
eyes again, and gave himself over to his friend.
But was this Norton Randolph ? idle, luxurious
Randolph, of the old lazy indifference and cynical
carelessness? could he be this man with the face
pale, but lips firm set, and a hard glitter as of steel
in the dark gray eyes ? Where had he got the close
seat in the saddle, the nervous strength that wound
his arm around Guy's shoulders, the quick eye that
guided hiro among the groups of the enemy,
GUERNDALE. 403
hastily mounting and dashing in pursuit ? Only the
old calm was still upon his face, and his set lips and
flashing eyes belied it ; and the veins stood out upon
his small hand with its steady grip upon the bridle.
Guy had a delicious sense of security as he let his
head sink back upon the strong arm about his neck,
and felt the long, swinging gallop of the noble
horse ; and here he must have lost consciousness.
The last he remembered was the cool rush of the
wind by his temples ; and he saw Norton's yellow
moustache just above his eyes, and heard the distant
rattle of the musketry.
It was the very boldness of Norton's sally that
saved him. A defeated army are none too apt to
linger about the scene of the repulse ; and here,
under the batteries of Plevna, with the Russian
pickets a mile away, who was to recognize an enemy
in the horseman that rode out so calmly toward the
Turks ? The plunderers thought him one of their
own number, no doubt, and bent upon a similar er-
rand. It was only when he turned and spurred his
horse away again, with Guy across the saddle, that
the Turkish skirmishers discovered him. Then the
bullets fell around him, and with shrill cries of rage
they mounted and gave chase. But the bullets scat-
tered harmlessly ; in that late dusk a horseman was
not visible above a hundred yards. They spurred
on their horses, screaming for very anger that their
booty should be taken from them. Randolph's
horse had double weight, and he was already partly
winded with the ride out. Could he hope to escape ?
After all, they were wretchedly mounted; and his
404 GUERNDALE.
own was a noble animal, and knew what was wanted
of him. They would not dare to follow him very
far.
And in a few moments many of them stopped, and
began firing again ; but their aim was even more
uncertain than before. Now Randolph heard only
the gallop of a single horseman behind him. He
thought of the man he had killed that afternoon ;
but no, loaded as he was with Guy, he could not
stop to draw his own revolver though he heard the
man firing at him as he rode. " Ah, hit a man in
the back, will you?" he growled between his set
teeth. But he could not drop the bridle to return
his fire ; and he only drove the rowels deeper in his
horse's flam:, and lifted Guy farther up upon the
pommel in front of him.
And riding so, Norton Randolph brought his
friend into camp.
CHAPTER XLV1.
** MShnt mich nicht dass ich allein
Bin vom Kruhlirrg eingespem."
AFTER this there were many dreamy days, and
Guy lay in his bed, half conscious, half-re-
membering, much like an infant, whom we may
fancy, sleeping or awake, mingling the memory of
the last world with the first vague consciousness of
this. But if Guy was dreaming, Norton Randolph
was always in his dream. The past and present were
mingled in his mind ; but Norton was ever with him,
about him, controlling his movements, determining
his surroundings. Guy knew in his first fever that
he was being moved ; then, later, that he was moving
again ; that he was no longer in camp, nor near the
scenes of war, but in some far-off place which was
high and quiet and cool. Here the days went by
more softly, and the noon light was like twilight ;
but most he dreaded to awake in the night ; only
even then Norton seemed always to be there, in the
black loneliness. At last a time came when he
awoke ; but the effort of being awake was exhaust-
ing to him, and he could do little more than lie still,
as if he were sleeping. So lying, he heard a low
bum of voices by his side ; they seemed to take him
|06 GUERNDALE.
back to college, and to old college days, as if aft
that had happened since were a dream, and he had
but fallen asleep in the deep window-seat, some
June day, under the swaying elm-branches, and
awaked to hear the men around him talking. He was
still too weak to feel surprise ; he could only lie and
ponder vaguely ; then he opened his eyes wider, and
saw first an open window with white curtains, and a
stir of summer air, and through this a line of hills,
with white walls and squares of sloping vineyards.
This was not college ; so he lay still and wondet^d.
For Randolph, unwilling to trust Guy to the army
hospitals, had managed to get an ambulance, and
moved Guy to Bucharest, with some army nurse or
wearer of the Geneva Cross as attendant And
then, under her advice, he had taken his friend still
farther north, to Pesth. Here, in a cool, high room,
with the brown Danube beneath him, and the cliffs
and villages of Ofen beyond, Guy had been placed ;
and the nurse, a member of a Catholic sisterhood,
had stayed with him.
So it happened that when Guy awoke this day he
found beside him his old friend ; and with him was
another figure, short, familiar, dressed in a light
check suit ; and both were conversing in low tones
lest they should disturb him. Then, after another
moment, Guy looked down, and saw a white press
of bandages ; and suddenly the memory of the cav-
alry charge rushed back upon him, and he knew
that he had been wounded, and remembered those
terrible minutes when he had lain bleeding in the
long grain, and how Randolph had come and lilted
GUERNDALE. 407
him upon his horse, and they had started on the ride
for hfe ; and then he must have fainted, for the rest
he had forgotten. Here he grew weak again, for so
much reasoning had tired him ; then, after a quartei
of an hour's rest, he spoke, but very faintly, and in
a queer voice :
" Norton, old fellow have I been very ill ?"
The two voices stopped suddenly, and Randolph
came quickly to him,
14 Guy ! " Guy made a weak effort to stretch out
his hand. " Hush ! don't move, old boy it's all
right ? " And he stood by the bedside, and looked
tenderly down upon him. " Don't move, my deal
old boy ; you're all bandaged up, you know. Quiet's
the word ; take it easy for a day or two ; and you'll
be on the right side of the soil next week."
" All right ? Well, I should say so. He's good for
a dozen dead men yet ; and if any man says he won't
be up next week, I'll knock him into the middle of
it." And no less a person than Mr. William Bixby
came smiling up. " Thanks to Randolph here, you
know."
" Billy ! " whispered Guy, " you here, too ? *
" Aye, I should think so," answered Randolph,
"and Billy's been here many a day and night when
you were farther off than the doctors cared to follow
you. Now quiet, old fellow you never would keep
quiet, you know and in a day or two we'll tell you
all about it ? "
44 1 /iave been ill ? "
"Well," grinned Billy, "even old Dr. Wayland
would have given you a certificate for prayers. Now
4O8 GUERNDALE.
brace up, old man, and go to sleep, or elso you'll
wake the baby. Keep your pecker up, and you'll b
on deck in no time ! " And Guy tried to respond to
Bixby's smile of delight, and these two amiable
nurses walked on tip-toes out of the room. Guy was
tired with so much conversation, and his head fell
back upon the pillow and he must have fallen asleep
again ; for when he next woke it seemed to be some
other day, and he was conscious only of some silent,
watchful presence, a woman with a white bonnet, and
still, dark eyes; eyes that reminded him so strangely
of some one whom he had seen before, but he could
not remember where.
Then there came long days when it seemed that all
he could do was to lie and drink in the light, and feel
the cool air upon his forehead ; days when he barely
knew that he was alive, before he thought much of
life, or of the world, or what he should do >/hen he
came back to it. Perhaps these were the happiest
It was the dreamy, half-life of convalescence ; he
was just conscious of the color of the hills, of the
fragrance in the air, but was still too weak to think,
too weak even for memory. The white-hooded
woman was always there ; but when she spoke it was
in French, though with some foreign accent, it
seemed ; besides, he never saw her face, but only her
eyes. And Norton and Bixby, too, were with him by
turns, nearly all the time ; though he rarely cared to
talk much, even with them, and only felt grateful for
their kindness. He would speak when he was stronger.
Then came the next stage, when all his thoughts
made one long reverie, and only his imagination was
GUERNDALE. 409
ftt work, weaving scattered memories into day-
dreams, before self-consciousness and care. In these
days he would lie propped up on pillows (for his
wounds were bandaged still, and made it dangerous
for him to move) and look out through the open win-
dow, and see the white walls change from gray to
white, and then to yellow, and then again to blue, as
the sunlight and the shadows went by, and the noon
was past and the evening came. It was a pleasure
to him to watch even so small a thing as this ; and
the deep blue vault of heaven and the crowded
grapes, fast ripening on the hot, white walls. He
used to look at them and follow with his fancy the
process of the vintage ; the merry labor of the gath-
ering, and then the red days of the press, and the
laying away in deep, cool cellars, perhaps to be un-
corked again in some distant year, and drunk by
some gay student-party, such as he remembered
years ago at college. How vivid in his mind were
those old days ! And now he was lying here, mid-
dle-aged and wounded, watching the grapes ripen
that would be wine for other men, now boys ; wine
which they, perhaps, would drink as quickly and as
carelessly as he had used to do, years before. He
could hear their drinking-song, now.
Opposite was a huge monastery, white-walled,
with windows few and narrow ; how gloomy it must
be inside, this great, stone prison, with narrow aper-
tures for light, shutting out the summer with the
cold, dead rock. It reminded him of the great for-
tress of the monks at Klosternenburg, which he re->
membered to have seen that summer.
iS
4IO GUERNDALE.
It seemed years ago, now, that week when they
came down the Danube ; and they had gone into the
cobwebbed cellar with an old monk, and there, from
the midst of the fungus and the dampness, in a vault
like a grave, he had lifted up a jar of wine, and un-
sealed the stone lips, and the wine came pouring out,
cool and bright, like yellow sunlight. Then he had
not thought so much of it, but now he remembered
how the monk had seemed to taste it ! And he
could fancy himself a monk, immured, forgotten,
with all the little that there was of his life behind
him : and how the wine would bring sweet memories
of long-gone summers, and the fragrance of the vin-
tage time, and the sparkle and the merriment ol
life and light, as it gurgled from the cold stone.
Then Randolph, coming in, would talk with him
long and pleasantly ; but his manner would be dif-
ferent from the Randolph we have known, and I
shall not try to set down here what he said. Perhaps
he would speak of little Bixby, and say how patient
and devoted he had been through all the weary days
of Guy's delirium, though now and then he had
asked Randolph to take his place. Or he would
seek to tempt Guy with many schemes of what they
would do together when he was well ; and in all his
talk would be no taint of bitterness, but only earnest
purpose and resolve. Guy would listen, smiling
faintly ; but though he was gaining strength, there
was a weariness upon him and he did not care to
talk much of his future life. Sometimes Randolph
would blame himself for having led Guy into this
danger ; but then his friend would check him with
CUERNDALE. 41 1
a sin He which said enough. From now hencefor-
ward there was no shadow in the trust between these
two.
Now that Guy was well enough to be left alone^
Norton felt that he ought to return for a day to their
quarters with the army ; as well to get the things that
they had left behind as to thank Canaster and others
for their kindness. Bixby was expected back the
next day, so that Guy would not be alone ; and the
night before Randolph's departure he sat late into
the evening, talking quietly with Guy. Guy made
him tell the story of the ride back into camp ; and
sought to thank hi-rn in words, for the first time,
which Randolph nervously avoided. It was the
least he could do, he said, after bringing a better
man out on one of his own fool's errands. Then
he began talking about home and life and work.
Hitherto they had never spoken to each other of
the past ; nor had either told the other of himself ;
although, perhaps, for lack of confidences, their
confidence in one another was no less. But that
night they talked a little more of their own lives ;
and then made many plans for the future, and for
going home, and even for co-operation in some work.
Then Randolph told Guy that it was no mere chance,
his having met him on the Rhine, but that he had
followed him thither from Freiberg.
Then began another conversation on such themes
as men will use, who, speaking of the world to come,
are thinking chiefly of the world that is. So, gradu-
ally, they came to deeper things ; and Randolph re-
quoted back to Guy his favorite lines from Soph-
412 GUERNDALE.
ocles of "laws that in the highest empyrean har
their birth, of which Heaven is the father alone ;
neither did the race of men beget them, nor shall ob-
livion ever put them to sleep ; for the power of GOD
is mighty in them and groweth not old."
Here in the darkness, in the seriousness of Guy's
illness, the veil of shyness could be drawn aside,
and one could speak the thoughts that usually
remain thoughts only. But strangely, the accus-
tomed manner of each was changed ; perhaps Guy
was too tired to take his usual side. However, Gi f
listened approvingly for a long time ; he sighed v
little, with fatigue, when Norton came to an end, anu
asked him to change his position on the pillows.
Then Guy insisted on Randolph's lighting his cigar,
which hitherto he had foregone in the sick room ;
and Norton did so, and Guy looked through the
darkness for his friend's face.
" Guy," said Randolph finally, " I want to tell you
something you remember the long story that I told
you near Bingen, that afternoon, about the man
that I met in the East ? "
"Yes," said Guy.
Randolph stopped a moment to trim his ciga.
"Well," he said, slowly, " it was not all quite true.*
I never met such a man. The man I was thinking
of was myself."
Then Randolph sat silent for a long time, the red
spark of his cigar fading and glowing through the
darkness. Guy must have fallen asleep ; for when
he woke up, his friend was gone.
CHAPTER XLVII.
*B B*jr a pas un homme qui ait le droit de mlpriser les hommes,"
A.
NOW that Guy's fever was conquered, he was
considered out of danger. It was simply a
question of healing the wound, which was a slow
process, though it was well encased in a complica-
tion of bandages. It was a serious wound ; and un-
doubtedly, had not Norton turned up when he did
on the night of the assault, Guy would have slowly
bled to death. As it was, it seemed to Guy like
being born into life again ; and even now he was too
feeble to have that life seem quite real to him. At
first, his perceptions were hardly more vivid than an
infant's ; but as he grew stronger, he began to think,
and the thinking only brought weariness and trou-
ble. It is so happy, sometimes, to be too ill to think I
It is so much easier to bear troubles than to grow
weary with foreseeing them ! So Guy would lazily
abandon himself to his sensations, or listen distantly
to little Bixby's kind chatter, who every day came
to his bedside with a new lot of gossip or the latest
paper or the last Parisian comedy, telling him of
what the world was doing that world which had
been such a vague conception to Guy. But little
414 GUERNDALE.
Bixby's talk was less dubious than of ok), and his
stories of a more reputable character ; and he rarerf
took anything to drink, and if tie did, it was afte?
dinner. Guy once spoke to E >xby of this reform,
and Bixby blushed up to his eats, as if being rallied
for an effeminate weakness.
"The fact is," said he, apologetically, " that before
I was married, I said that is, Emily likes in short, **
he concluded desperately, " I conducted my court-
ship on such a high moral plane, that I'm damned if
I've been quite able to get down off it ever since ! "
44 My dear Billy, do you know that I never once
thought of your being manned? Excuse me; I'm
not more than half awake yet, you know. But
where is Mrs. Bixby ? "
" Emily? Oh, she's up at Vienna. I get a letter
from her every day "
"At Vienna? And you've been staying down
here on my account "
"Sh ! Shut up, my dear boy she approves of it
It's all right. Which is more than she does of tho
B, and S., I can tell you ! " added Billy, with a com-
ical moue. " Besides, I went up to see her nearly
every day while Norton was here, you know."
Guy stretched out the hand that was on the sound
side of his body, which Billy received, and laid
back, like a bird's egg, under the coverlet "Where
is Norton ?"
"Now that you are beginning to look like some-
thing," answered Bixby, " he has gone back to the
army for the traps, I believe. He hasn't been able
to get there before, you know ; but he has had lots
GUERNDALE. 415
of fetters from Canaster and a fellow that he calls
the Cream of Tartars. He said he'd be back again
by to-morrow or day after ; so I told him I would
stick by you till then, and keep you out of mischief.
So go to sleep, old man, and don't make an ass of
yourself ; and when you're better, I want you to
come to Vienna and see Emily."
Guy smiled ; and then he turned aside and pre-
tended to doze, not wishing to keep Billy from his
morning walk ; and he, after watching Guy for a
few moments, pulled a large cigar out of his waist-
coat pocket, and looked at it admiringly, and then
back at Guy, and then at the cigar again ; after
several minutes of these alternate glances, he pulled
out a penknife and carefully cut the mouth end.
At this point Guy judged it proper to simulate the
gentle breathing of a person who is asleep ; and
Bixby, after looking at him again, went out softly,
speaking a word to the nurse in the anteroom as he
closed the door. Guy lay there, thinking of the
kindness of this man, who had been a mere acquaint-
ance of his in college, whom he had not thought of
four times in as many years. With Norton, of
course, it was different. He cared more for Norton
than for any man in the world. But little Bixby I
Two men more unlike than Bixby and himself could
not be imagined. Ah, if, years ago, any one had
prophesied to him tha*. these men would be first in
his mind at this moment ! And irresistibly his
thoughts reverted to Philip ; and, for the first time,
he remembered Annie's letter.
Annie's letter ! Where was it ? He put hb
4l6 GUERNDALE.
to his pocket as if to feel for it ; then he remem-
bered that he was lying in bed, and that, of course,
it must be in his overcoat, where he had left it tho
morning of the fight His overcoat was hanging up
at the end of the room ; and he knew he could not
move, much less walk, without loosening his band-
ages. Could the letter have been lost ? He could
not bear to have it lost. He had taken a long walk
when he read it, and he did not remember very well
The nurse heard his sigh of impatience, and, seeing
his motion, brought the coat to him.
" Monsieur desires to find something ? The coat
is as he left it"
Truly enough, so it was ; and in the pocket Guy
found the letter, which he had almost hoped to be
part of his fever dream. The coat was blood-stained
in places, having been used as a wrapper when he
was taken from the camp ; but Norton had carefully
restored the letter to its place, and there it was,
slightly crumpled. Guy took it out, and managed
to open it with one hand, the nurse tactfully turning
away as he read it.
Philip. That was it ; he was to find Philip. But
where was he ? Ah, he could not think now ; he
was too tired. It was all weary and far off ; he had
even hoped it was all a dream. For so many days
he had forgotten it ; from the moment of the charge
of cavalry all seemed so different to him. Now, and
in the future, all should be changed ; a new life
had begun for him ; all the old failure should be
forgotten and gone. Again he put it from his mind,
and tried to spin a day-dream of the future as he
GUERNDALE.
had used to do in the old days. But despite all the
efforts of his imagination, all that Norton had said
to him the evening before, it seemed cold and indif-
ferent ; more like the project of an old man than
the vision of a youth. Thinking this, his weariness
overcame him, and he fell into a doze ; and the
hours slipped over his closed eyelids into eternity, and
the day went by as many another had gone before it
Late in the afternoon he woke again. He was
more feverish than before, and did not feel so strong.
Bixby had come in, and was telling him that he had
brought a friend to see him. Guy turned ner-
vously ; it seemed to him that all this had happened
once before, and he knew, before the door was
opened, who was coming in : Philip Symonds.
Bixby had met him at the Victoria Hotel, seeking
their whereabouts ; and had brought him hither,
thinking of course that Guy could see his old chum
at any time. Besides, Philip had said that he wanted
to see him ; hearing at Vienna of his wound, he had
come down expressly for that purpose. He only
made a visit of half an hour, talking loudly in a sort
of rude imitation of his old manner. He was glad
to have found Guy, he said ; but Pesth was a damned
dull hole, and now that he had seen him, he thought
he should have to go back to Vienna on the morrow.
Guy could say very little ; throughout the inter-
view his face was very pale, and he kept his eyes
fixed on Philip's. The latter seemed rather to avoid
his glance. Perhaps both felt that there was so
much that might be said, and so little of which either
cared to speak, that the conversation suffered from
18*
4l8 GUERNDALE.
constraint Bixby, usually unobservant, noticed
this ; but he ascribed Guy's silence to his weakness,
wid kept up most of the talk with Philip himself.
Philip spoke critically of the relative attractions of
Paris and Vienna, and dwelt much upon his damned
bard luck at Monaco ; he was no longer as fine-
looking as he used to be ; he had grown stout and
coarse-featured ; his neck was very thick, and the
small blood-vessels in his face were swollen. There
was a curious nervous twitching under his eyes. He
was disgusted with Buda-Pesth, he said ; the cook-
Ing at his hotel was very bad, and the wines vile. Be-
sides, he was deuced lonely; there wasn't a white man
in the place to keep him company. He had tried to
get Bixby to go with him to a dance of Hungarian
women that his guide was to get up for that night ;
but Bixby wouldn't go. Well ! he said awkwardly,
he supposed he must be going. He was glad to have
seen Guy; he would be right as a trivet in a day or two.
Despite the nurse's caution, Philip spoke in a loud
tone ; Bixby went out a moment and left Philip with
Guy. There was a flush in Guy's face ; but he said
nothing. This embarrassed Philip ; he had hoped,
when he came, that Guy would behave like a good
feliow, with no more damned nonsense ; so be had
assured himself, for Phil's was an easy nature, for-
getting injuries as well as favors, and he always
judged others by himself ; but despite his mental
assurance, he felt a little embarrassed at this mo-
ment. Bosh ! he said to himself, the fool couldn't
have kept cranky about nothing for five years. Bo
sides, he had ulterior motives for wishing to be om
GUERNDALE. 419
good terms with Guy ; so he confidently held out his
hand to say good-by. Guy could not, in truth, give
him that hand on account of his wound ; but Philip
did not know this. The color deepened in his face ;
he thought the act was intentional, and remembering
his old patronizing, half-contemptuous friendship for
his friend, found it the harder to bear. However, it
would not do to break with Guy just then, when he
alone could be of service to him ; so he crushed the
oath between his teeth. It was hard to have to con-
trol his temper with Guy, above all men.
"1 wish you would come again to see me," said
Guy, in a low, constrained voice. " I want to se
you once alone."
Philip growled an ungracious consent ; he was an-
gry enough, but then he, too, wished this interview.
" You are very kind to come at all," added Guy, see-
ing that Philip wasoffended. " How is Mrs. Sy monds? "
This was too much. Philip turned angrily upon
his heel, and came back to the bed. " I don't know,"
he said, rudely. " I haven't heard for some weeks.
Why do you ask me that ? "
' Because I wished to know," said Guy, feebly.
" I heard she was ill. Have you not heard from her
lately ? "
" I heard last in Paris. She was well enough then.
I have had to travel too rapidly to get many letters.
If she had known I was going to see you, very likely
she would have sent a message, but she didn't," h*
added, with a sneer.
"She isn't with you in Europe ? How long ago
did you hear in Paris ? "
42O GUERNDALE.
Philip could stand it no longer, but broke all self-
restraint in a furious oath. " I am too poor now to
drag a family around Europe with me. I had to
fail in business. Didn't you hear that ? I have lost
all my money." Philip walked rapidly up and down
the room. Guy closed his eyes wearily.
" God knows, I have worked hard enough," said
Philip, after some minutes, changing his tone. " I
tell you what, Guy, poverty is all very easy to bear
when you are alone ; but when a man has a family to
support I have been all over Europe, trying
to get some chance. And all I can say is, I havo
had damned hard luck."
Phil looked at Guy ; his eyes were still shut, an<3
his face was now very pale. He drew his chair up
to the bed, and sat down.
" That reminds me, Guy, that I wanted to see you
about something. I know you've been in a sort of a
huff of late years ; but you aren't the sort of fellow
that bears malice, and I know you will lend a fellow
a hand. Now your friend Norton Randolph "
Just then Bixby came back, and Philip stopped di-
rectly. The nurse was with him ; and seeing Guy's
face, she said he must have rest immediately. Philip
got up to go, taking his leave rather clumsily. Even
his good-nature seemed to be gone ; and Guy heard
him angrily disputing with Bixby about some refusal
of the latter, as they left the room.
Guy had a relapse that evening, and all the night
was in a high fever. Poor Bixby, who had hoped to
be in Vienna, stayed faithfully by his side ; and the
ext evening Randolph returned from
CHAPTER XLVIII.
* . . . How he that lovet life overmuch shall die
The dog's death, utterly. . . . v SWINBURNE.
FATE had certainly treated Phil Symonds rather
unkindly. Blest with health, wealth, and man/
friends ; handsome, good-natured, well-born, popu-
lar ; he had lost his own fortune, that of his wife., all
his friends, and most of his popularity ; and now, at
barely thirty, he was drifting around Europe like a
vagrant, and would probably be forced to borrow
money of the last man in the world to whom he
wished to be under an obligation. So he thought ;
and, as he expressed it to himself, it was hard
luck. So firmly conscious was he of his own
deserts, that the approach of any evil seemed an
injustice ; it was not his fault, and he had not de-
served it. He had never done a wrong to any one,
he reflected. All his friends had always liked him,
and now they all went back upon him. Besides, he
had never been used to adversity, and it was harder
for him than it would be for another man. He had
done his best. Now, to-day, he had been to see Guy,
and had all his trouble for nothing ; and, in return,
Guy had had the impudence to meddle in his owa
affairs.
422 GUERNDALE.
As he thought of Guy that night, he came as neat
bating him as he was capable of hating any man.
Phil was not a good hater. He was always indul-
gent enough to his friends' faults ; what did he care,
so long as they did not affect him personally ? They
usually gave him rather a sensation of pleasure, than
otherwise. Had he been Guy, Phil reflected, he never
would have cared a damn what his friend did, or how
he fulfilled his domestic relations ; and that day he
had more than ever been conscious of a critical atti-
tude on Guy's part, and something made him feel
what it was that had most excited Guy's disapproval.
And it seemed as if, in some way, all his misfortunes
could be traced to Guy's disapproval. Now he
thought of it, when he looked back to any step in
his life which had proved unfortunate, he remem-
bered Guy's sour face, or some cursed sermon of his.
And how much he had done for the man ! How he
had helped him, and pushed him, and stood up for
him, and would have lent him money if he had asked
it ! What a friend he had always been to him ; at
least, until he turned cranky about nothing and
made a damned fool of himself. All these reflec-
tions came to Philip as he was sitting in a sort of
dance-house in Buda, much frequented by male
tourists, where, for a florin or two, may be seen
dancing of a piece with the famous flea-dance in
Egypt-
Then there was his wife. Somehow or other,
there seemed to be a sort of connection between
Guy's disapproval and hers. In their disagreeablo
side, there was a certain resemblance between them.
GUERNDALE. 42J
He now remembered to have seen the same expres
sion in her face which he had seen in Guy's, that
afternoon. She too was turning from him, and was
false just when he most needed her. She did not
even take the trouble to write to him, now ; it wa
two months since he had last heard from her. To
be sure, he had left England unexpectedly, and had
been travelling too rapidly to get many letters.
When he left her, in a fit of passion, he had swora
he did not care whether she wrote to him or not ; but
now that Guy cared to hear from her, he cared too.
Why had Guy spoken of her that afternoon ? Had
he had news from her ? Of course, he, Philip, had
not lately got her letters. He had made up his mind
very suddenly to run up to Vienna, before returning
home. As long as he was abroad, he might do some-
thing for his own pleasure. Besides, it was import-
ant for him to see Randolph. As for the letters, he
would telegraph to have them forwarded from Nice
or London. It was like Guerndale's infernal med-
dlesome cheek, blaming him, though. Did he really
remember that old flame he had had for her, as a
fboy ? The little ass ! As if any girl was worth re-
membering five years. Phil's language, when com-
muning with himself, was rather intemperate ; and
he sat with his hat over his eyes, and did not see
much of the dancing. But indeed this was not very
good that is, bad. He had seen better that is,
worse in Paris.
If he had not been a devilish good-natured fellow,
he would not have stood this from Guy. Now ha
thought of it, and any man but himself would hare
424 GUERNDALE.
thought of it long before, Guy had never behaved
like a friend to him. He was always throwing a
damper on everything, when they roomed together
in college ; and he had only stood it out of kindness.
Besides, he had not forgotten that time at Worces-
ter, in the race, when Guy had been mean enough
to refuse him the commonest favor and prevent his
making a cool thousand or two for his trouble. Then
he believed he had set Norton Randolph against
him ; and Randolph's influence would be very valua-
ble to him now, in certain quarters ; for his brother-
in-law was one of his chief creditors.
Damn it, what did Guy mean by saying that his
wife was ill ? When he left home, she had been well
enough to be infernally disagreeable. The thought
recurred again could she have written to Guy ?
She had acted like a fool when he came abroad ; and
perhaps, woman-like, she was just fool enough to do
this. And Phil, who perhaps cared little enough for
his wife himself, suddenly felt a rage of jealousy
against poor Guy.
Phil thought he was more sinned against than
sinning ; he did not know much about business.
Certain it is, that when they had to suspend, he
was as much horrified as any one. He had always
been used to the indulgence of his friends ; he
had supposed most of them to be good fellows ; and
when they came swarming down upon him for their
money, just at the most inconvenient moment, like a
pack of tradesmen, it seemed to poor Phil as if the
world were all changed, and he stood aghast. His
partner was much less surprised ; he was busy about
GUERNDALE. 42$
town that day, and left Phil in the office to bear the
brunt of it alone.
Then, he remembered, there was some infernal
nasty talk about false pretences ; and, Lord knew, he
was guiltless of that. He had, of course, had some
of his wife's money in the business, just as his partner
had had a hundred thousand of his father's ; but as for
talk about ostensible capital, or guaranty, that was all
nonsense. Waterstock had taken out the money and
paid it back some weeks before ; and, of course, he
had done the same with his wife's, that is, he had not
formally given it back to her, because she could not
understand about business. In fact, he complained
very bitterly of Waterstock's conduct. He did not
understand it ; if there had been anything shady it
was in Waterstock's part of the business ; Water-
stock had all the experience ; he did not believe
Waterstock had lost a cent by their failure. There
was no doubt of it, Jim had treated him very shab-
bily. He, Phil, had had nothing left of his own
money ; only a beggarly twenty thousand dollars,
and that belonged to his wife. The creditors, many
of whom pretended to be his personal friends, had
behaved like a parcel of vultures, prowling round
and grabbing anything they could get. They had
even got scent of the twenty thousand of his wife's ;
which, however, he did manage to keep, and went
to Europe with it, for it was fairly hers, to see
the English bondholders of a railway that he and
Waterstock had controlled. And even there his ene-
mies had followed him, and made such an infernal
stink that all his own offers were refused, and that
426 GUERNDALE.
chance was lost When the election took place, haH
the English proxies were sent against him. God
knew, he had done all he could ; the fact is, the
world treated him unkindly ; and so Phil concluded
his bitter reflections with the usual comment that it
was hard luck, damned hard luck, particularly for
a fellow like himself.
Then there was Annie, too. By God, she had
treated him like a pick-pocket. She had made a reg-
ular scene when he left home, opposing his coming
abroad, throwing obstacles in the way of the last
chance he had to restore their fortunes. As if he was
not doing it all for her sake ! The Lord deliver him*
from a woman, when she mixed herself up in business.
However, reflected Phil, the real reason probably was
that she was angry about his mistress. It was nat-
ural enough, he supposed ; and it was unfortunate
the woman made sucii a row, and at just the worst
time, too ; his usual luck.
And here Philip mentally paid his wife the com-
pliment of supposing that she had grudged him the
twenty thousand dollars of her money that he
brought with him. Perhaps in this inference our
old friend was a little hasty. It was excusable, no
doubt ; Phil was in an unusually bad temper that
night, and he certainly had been very unfortunate.
Besides, the true reason never occurred to him ;
which I fancy the reader will have little difficulty
in divining namely, that Annie had read what the
papers said about her husband's failure, and was
only too willing to spend the last of her own money
in getting a little kinder judgment for the man she
GUERNDALE. 42?
had loved Even if their right was doubtful, she
preferred the creditors should have it ; Annie was
so old-fashioned as to be proud in such matters.
Phil did not have such weak sensibilities, and would
not hear of it.
All Phil's thinking did not seem to lead to much
good. His cud of fancy was bitter, rather than
Bweet, that evening. After a time he grew tired of
it, and gave himself up to the dancing ; but the
sight rather bored him than otherwise. He had had
still worse luck since he left London ; most of the
twenty thousand had been left at Monaco. Phil
was not the metal for a desperate gambler ; when
he saw only three or four thousand remaining, he
grew frightened. He had never known what it was
to be absolutely without money, and he trembled at
the prospect. Then, one night, an acquaintance of
his was found with a bullet in his head, and Philip
had no mind to follow his example. Three or four
thousand were not much ; but they were enough to
finish his European trip, and take him home ; and,
once there, his creditors would begin to show some
decency ; or, hang it all, his mother would do some-
thing for him, even if she did have a beggarly brood
of children. So thinking, Philip had come to Vienna
before all his money was quite gone at Monaco.
However, certain other expenses had intervened ,
and not many thousand francs were left by the time
he get to Pesth. The one definite result of his re-
flections, that evening, was a determination to see
Guy again in the morning, and Randolph, too, if
possible. Meantime, his troubles were too great to
428 GUERNDALE.
bear sober ; Phil was utterly unused to anything like
serious care, and he could not stand it. He was a
sociable fellow, moreover, and could not bear to
drink alone ; so, for want of a better man (and
Phil never had any false pride or snobbishness
about him), he invited the commissionaire to a
bottle of wine ; and the two made a night of it
together. It happened that this night prolonged
itself into two nights and a day ; the acquaint-
ance in Pesth possessed by Phil's new compan-
ion was extensive and curious, though unhappily
rather expensive to his friends ; and it was late in
the morning of the third day when Phil returned to
his hotel. If his francs were counted in thousand;
before, hundreds could manage it now ; and Phii
swore, as he stumped wearily up the grand staircase,
that he would see Guy as soon as possible in the
afternoon, have it over, and get away from the in-
fernal hole by night.
Guy had had a serious relapse on the even-
ing of Philip's visit ; so much so, that Bixby was
frightened, and telegraphed at once for Randolph.
All that night the fever never left him ; and the
next day he seemed to be worse. His delirium was
a bad symptom ; he talked rapidly ; most of the
time he fancied himself back in the war ; now he
was riding in the cavalry attack ; now he was ly'ng
wounded, and the murderers were coming ; then he
would cry that it was Norton, and thank God for it
Then he thought himself back in Arizona, and was
possessed with the idea that he was making a long
journey, and must travel very rapidly, that there was
GUERNDALE. 429
one in Boston whom he wished to see ; he fre-
quently tried to get out of bed, crying that he could
not wait for the next train ; and it required all Bixby's
force to hold him down. In the afternoon he grew
a little quieter, and Randolph got back. He heard
from Bixby of Philip Symonds* visit ; and as Guy
was now better, he persuaded Billy to go to Vienna,
W he had intended, now that he was there to take
his place.
For several hours, Randolph sat there, with the
nurse ; the woman touched Guy as tenderly as if he
had been her son ; and as Randolph watched her
careful movements, he thanked her with a look,
silently. Through all his delirium, Guy kept his
secret ; he had never once spoken of Annie, but
mentioned Philip's name repeatedly. Norton asked
the nurse if he ever spoke of any one else ; but she
said not, except that the day before his mind had
run much upon woods and brooks- and walks in the
country with children. Randolph showed some sur-
prise that she understood so much English, so the
nurse told him, still speaking in French, that she
kn^w that language ; then it occurred to Norton that
her French had an English accent, but he forebore
to question her further.
Late in the afternoon, Guy was silent for some
hours ; then he turned, and, opening his eyes, mut-
tered something in a low tone, not like the tone of
one who is delirious. It seemed to be some sentence
which he repeated again and again. The nurse bent
down and listened.
11 What does he say ? " whispered Randolph ; and
430 GUERNDALE.
bending forward himself, he took Guy's wrist In hU
hand. As he did so, he looked up, and noticed the
nurse's eyes, which were very soft and deep.
" Seule r amour f cut nous vaincrc?" said she.
Remembering that it was probably Guy's old fam-
ily motto, he corrected her :
" &?/<? la wort peut nous vainer e"
"Cest la memc chose" she answered, abstractedly.
Randolph, at any other time, would have felt an in-
clination to smile, the speech sounded so incongru-
ous from the lips of a nun. But he kept silence,
and, listening himself, heard Guy once or twice re-
peat the phrase. Then he sighed, and fell into a
natural sleep. Randolph dropped his pulse. The
access of the fever was past.
"Thank heaven," said Randolph, "he's all right
again." And he got up with a long breath of relief,
and walked up and down the room. The nurse had
resumed her knitting, and sat demurely in the Cor-
ner.
CHAPTER XLIX.
M Once he had loved, but failed to wed
A red-cheeked las*, who long was dead {
His ways were far too slow, he said.
To quite forget her." AUSTIN DO&SOM.
NOW that I am so near the end, I wish to aj
why I, John Strang, of Dale, write this book.
It is because I loved Guy.
For I knew Guy very well, much better than he
ever supposed. I knew him as a boy in Dale, at
school, at college, and for two years we lived to-
gether. Many of these things I learned from Nor-
ton Randolph, long afterward, and from others ;
and some things, which I could not know, I have
put in out of my own head, using a biographer's
privilege. And even besides the facts and inci-
dents, there are many places where Norton's hint*
have helped me ; but still, so far as I could, I have
written this from what I know ; and put down Guy's
own thoughts as I knew them to be, not my owa.
For, as I said before, I knew Guy much better thaa
he thought ; and, though I fear he did not know it,
I loved him. He is the only man I have ever met
to whom I should think of applying this word. And
so I have tried to write the history of his life. It
was a strange life ; and it was a strange story that
432 GUERNDALE.
of the old diamond, which Guy's ancestor found,
and Phil's ancestor quarrelled with him for. Strango
things happen occasionally, even now. It was only
a coincidence, of course ; at all events, it is now off
my mind, and I leave it with the reader.
I sometimes feel that I should like to have my old
friend know of this ; and that I, at least, did not
misunderstand him. And yet it was so difficult to
understand him, that I fear I have failed to bring
him out before the reader as he stands in my mem-
ory. Yes, yes ; I know very well that his life was
morbid wasted, if you like ; very likely, he acted
rolishly ; perhaps even his character was weak ;
you and I would not have done so, I know. I doubt
not, Guy himself would have been the first to ac-
knowledge this ; for he had a poorer opinion of him-
self than any one else could possibly have. All the
same, 1 loved him.
Yes, Guy was a curious fellow ; and we all know
what that phrase means when applied to a man by
his acquaintances in a club-room. Both his distrust
of himself and his admiration for his friends put him
at a disadvantage. I doubt if they always gave him
credit for either; just as I think that Don Quixote
must, in his day, have been thought rather arrogant
and egotistical by the good people about him ; yet
heaven knows there was never a more unselfish
creature than the dear old Don. And, as Norton
says, Guy was a little like him. He was forever
looking for this year's birds in the nests of the last.
And it was the very old-time simplicity of his cha-
racter that made it hard to understand. He took
GUERNDALE. 433
life to 3 seriously ; and never could accept a com-
promise. By the .way, speaking of that most merry,
most sad conceit of Cervantes, Norton Randolph
called my attention once to a point in the book
which I had never noticed that among all the Don's
adventures, the only one where he succeeded, where
his knight-errantry was of use, where he did not
make a fool of himself, was when he dissuaded Mar-
cella's followers from the extravagances of love.
Even in Don Quixote's day, says Norton, that was
the only one of the real old follies left and that was
why he succeeded. Pity the Don had not met Guy.
And even of Norton himself, I sometimes shrewdly
suspect however, so, no doubt, does the reader.
To return to Guy. He was a dreamer, of course ;
the world he had in his mind was not this third
planet from the sun ; the men he had in his mind
were not those we see about us ; and yet something
made him always act as if they were ; and I feel con-
vinced he always would have acted so. Guy was no
fool ; he could easily have seen human weaknesses,
meanness, evil motives ; but he would not stoop to
recognize them. He was an impracticable fellow.
Even if he found his ideal false, he preferred to act
r as if it were true. When his friends changed, he re-
fused to let himself be altered. He would rather be
deceived than mistrust. He never would have got
on in the world. Perhaps he is well out of it. I do
not know that he ever believed very much ; but he
started by believing in three things truth, love, and
friendship and, to my knowledge, he never recant-
ed. I do not believe he was wrong ; but, even if he
434 GUERNDALE.
was mistaken, I know that he would hare preferred
to have been so. And he never would have ac-
knowledged the mistake : he was too proud.
Somehow or other, despite his being a curious feJ-
low, it is astonishing how many men remember to
speak kindly of him now. Take Bixby, for instance
never were two men more different and yet when
he told me what he knew about that unfortunate
Bummer of Guy's on the Danube, the whiskey and
water was not strong enough by half to account for
the moisture in the eyes of so old a toper, even
though he has reformed. Well, well ! Let me say
what I know about the other men, before I tell how
Guy and Annie were made happy.
William Bixby, as the reader knows, is married,
and now the father of several children, and has al-
ready shown signs of becoming a very strict parent,
who will look carefully behind the items "books"
and "charity," in his sons' college accounts. Billy
lives in New York, has his favorite seat in the Union
Club, in one of the windows on Fifth Avenue, plays
more whist than poker, rarely drinks before dinner,
and never goes to Paris without his wife. He must
have inherited a good half million from his father ;
and although the old man was the first possessor of
this fortune, the descent cast has tolled the entry, as
a lawyer would say, and Billy's social position is now
safe beyond attack. Bixby has begun to dabble a
little in politics, and he was a delegate to the Demo-
cratic National Convention which nominated Han-
cock.
Seth Hackett, on the other hand, is an ardent
GUERNDALE. 435
Republican, and a prominent member of the party
"machine" in Pennsylvania. He is adroit in man-
agement and very popular with the masses ; and, il
he does not go too far, will go very far indeed.
Vansittart, I believe, has gone to the dogs ; and I
am very sorry for them.
Tom Brattle is quite rich, and is coming out as a
prominent man in society. Although four or five
and thirty, he is a great amateur of girls ; he has his
happy hunting grounds at Mount Desert and New-
port, and is doubtless a brave who deserves the fair,
though hitherto he has led no one to his wigwam.
His heart resembles nothing so much as a tennis-
ball, flying from one racket to the other ; but thus
far he has kept it safely over the net.
Lane is cutting his waistcoats to become one of
the solid men of Boston, and will very likely die a
member of the corporation of Harvard College; he
chose one of his cousins to become his wife, and is
fond of entertaining titled Englishmen. He must be
worth considerably over a million ; but he rarely
leaves Boston now, as it is so difficult to get to Lon-
don without passing through New York. Although
he does not wholly approve of me, he treats me with
much consideration when we meet, and we talk about
Guy.
Where Philip Symonds is, I do not know ; all I
can say is, that he hns not been seen in America, by
his creditors, at least. He had some dispute with
his mother, and will have nothing to do with her;
and, of course, his half-brothers and sisters rarely
speak of bin. I know that he stayed some time
GUERNDALE.
with Lord John Canaster, in England ; and then ho
left there, with some awkward debts, as I have heard,
at a club where his host had introduced him. I be-
lieve that Canaster paid the debts, and since then
there has been a breach between him and Symonds.
Since his failure, Phil has never been engaged in
any steady business ; they say that he complains bit-
terly of the enmity of his creditors. He is continu-
ally making new friends, and as frequently discard-
ing them. There were rumors that he won large!/
on Foxhall's victory at the Grand Prix, and after-
ward that he was ill of the delirium tremens at Paris.
That is the last I have heard of him ; but I suppose
he will come in for something when his mother dies,
and is lying low until that event shall occur.
As for me, I suppose the reader guessed who I
was, long before he came to this chapter. I have
done very well in business, and am now one of the
richest men in Denver, where I have been settled for
a couple of years with my wife and family, on ac-
count of some large engineering interests in Lead-
ville. But Mrs. Strang wishes to return to Boston,
so I am trying to arrange matters to live in the East.
The people were so kind as to elect me member of
Congress from Colorado ; and this will enable us to
live in Washington.
I have not been in Dale these five years. I be-
lieve the place is much changed ; but the old brown
house still stands. There bids fair to be an interest-
ing lawsuit about it It was left, with all Guy's prop-
erty, to Mrs. Symonds, in a will made shortly after
Phil's failure ; and now, as Guy left no heirs, near 01
GUERNDALE. 437
remote, he being the last of his family, there is a
question whether the property escheats to the na-
tional Government or whether the State can claim it
by right of sovereignty. There never has been a deed
of the property since the original grant of the Crown
" to be held as of the manor of East Greenwich in
Kent"
Ned Dench never married MandyShed; she became
a hospital nurse and did very good work in the East ;
finally, embracing the Romish faith, she joined some
foreign sisterhood. Perhaps it is as well ; for Dene'}
himself pledged some of his employer's funds to pro-
cure money with which to invest in copper stocks.
Although his books were ingeniously kept, a certain
fondness for fast horses and 4< style " made his em-
ployers suspicious ; the panic of 1873 made it im-
possible for him to square his accounts, and the dis-
crepancy was discovered. Dench was terribly fright-
ened and made a clean breast of it, at the same time
restoring what he could of the money. Even then, I
think Miss Shed would have married him, had he
been true to her ; but in the high tide of his pros-
perity he had formally broken the engagement, and
she had gone to Europe the summer before the
same year in which Guy went abroad meaning to
study her profession of nurse in foreign hospitals.
Dench himself got off with five years in the State
prison.
As for old Sol Bung, he grew very blue one
autumn, being kept indoors by the rheumatism. He
used to sit and sun himself in the garden ; but
steadily refused to be visited by the Rev. Banna,
438 GUERNDALE.
professing little anxiety about his souL " He aevef
believed in no devil, anyhow," he said, one after-
noon, "and as for his eternal welfare, he guessed
he'd chance it on the Lord ; " and the next day he
was found dead, with his chair still tilted back
against the sunny wall, and his pipe broken in his
lap. He was a kind old fellow, and a philosopher;
and Guy always liked him.
Norton Randolph comes to see me, now and then.
He is travelling about the world, much as ever.
CHAPTER L.
RddCKBHR AUP DEM C.RtJNDTOX.
** III fa sua voluntade d nostra pace." PAMTB,
GUY woke up the next morning with the words
of the old motto still in his mind, as they had
been there when the fever left him. He had come to
himself again ; it seemed to him that he remembered
all that he had so far done in his life ; yet his head
was clear, and in his thinking was a grateful sense
of calm. Only the days of fever were lost ; he took
up the thread of his life where it had broken, that
day of the charge and his wound. His first thought
was of Philip's visit, and of Annie's letter, which he
had read again, as he fancied, the day before. Scule
la tnort news wincquera, he was saying to himself ;
then he turned and asked the nurse if any letters had
come for him. It happened that a mail had arrived
the day before ; and as he was now safe from further
fever, she gave him the packet. Something made
him wish to read his letters alone ; so, after smooth-
ing his pillow and propping him up in the bed, she
left him to himself and went about some out-door
errands of her own.
It was now high noon ; the room was darkened,
but through the window Guy could see the blinding
440 GUERNDALE.
whiteness of the walls, the ripening vineyards, and,
in the air, the trembling waves of heat His face
looked wasted and pale in the strong light. On the
coverlet lay two or three letters, only one of which
was opened ; that was from Lane, and told him of
Annie's death.
Guy sat, propped up among the pillows, as the
nurse had left him. Randolph had not yet been
there that day ; and the nurse had not como back,
thoup-h she had now been gone an hour or more.
But Guy was out of danger ; and both were tired
with two nights' watching.
As Guy thought to himself, it was fortunate that
he was alone. And yet he was strangely calm. No
neeu now to trouble with his speech to Philip, when
he came that day. Nothing further lay between
th:m ; it was all over between him and Philip and
Annie, at last As he had said, years ago, in another
way, at last ; at last, forever.
So Annie was dead. It was kind of Norton not to
come back. He could not talk with him now. To-
morrow he would ; yes, to-morrow. But to-day he
must be all alone with himself. He hoped Philip
had not heard of it. Could he have heard of it the
day before ? Ah well ; it did not matter ; nothing
mattered now.
He had loved Annie he had loved Annie even
yesterday but now it was all lost He had loved
Annie ; and she was dead. That was all he could
think of now. And yet, he could bear it so calmly !
So calmly now ; it was all so simple and clear ; no
more confusion or doubt. And she had written to
GUEKNDAIE. 44 J
him ; it was only the month before that she had
written to him. Yes, he would see Norton to-mor-
row, and they would make arrangements for the fu-
ture then ; to-day it did not seem as if there was to
be any future. Life seemed so old a story, and so
long, so very long, ago.
Seule la mort had he not tried ? There had been
those five years, and then and then this letter. He
had loved Annie, and she had died of a broken heart
Perhaps the old story was right, about the locket.
He had meant to give it to Annie, bu' he had no;
dene so. And now she was dead and he kept i
still. There it was on the table, and the diamond
still inside it.
Curious, he found himself almost believing in the
foolish old tale. It seemed like yesterday, that boy-
ish trouble, that evening in the marsh, when Sol sat
fishing, and told him the old story in the twilight
Poor little Guy ! how he had cried. It did not seem
so hard to bear now. And then he had gone home
in despair, and told it all to Annie ; and she had
cried for sympathy, and he remembered her soft
hands upon his face.
His eyes were dry, but there began to be a faint
flush upon his cheeks, and his forehead burned. Ah,
there were many strange things in this world, after
all; perhaps it was well not to laugh too much at
old superstitions, at old crimes that left a stain
behind them. He remembered his old boast of boy-
ish pride, his resolve to keep the stone and regain
all that they had lost ; after all, had he done better
than his father ? It is easy to laugh in the daylight
19*
442 GUERNDALE.
He thought of his old dreams, dreams of youth
were they realized now in riper age ? What had he
done with his life ? He had loved Annie and she
was dead.
Yes, he might still go on. So he would try ; but
first fling the cursed stone away. Even if he did not
care so much now. Where was it ?
His thoughts began to wander again. The fever
had come back ; but he did not know it, and to his
sick imagination it seemed as if all the evil came
from the stone. The old story was the one idea in
his mind. Anything to hurl the diamond from him.
There it was, still near him, in the locket. Well !
he would try the fates. So they never should be
happy while they kept it. He would hurl it away,
anywhere, so that it were lost to him. Annie !
Guy lifted himself upon one elbow, and looked
about the room. He was very weak ! truly, he had
not known that he was so weak. There were strange
blazing lights upon the wall. The bandages trou-
bled him ; he could only move one arm, and the
nurse was not there. Perhaps she was in the next
room ? No matter ; he would get it himself ; ho
alone must throw it away.
With difficulty he got upon his feet ; then his head
throbbed terribly, and in a moment of weakness he
sank back. Courage ! It was only a few steps.
Ills thoughts were all confused now. Annie stood
before him beckoning ; the floor seemed to shako
and quiver before his eyes ; but there was the table,
and upon it the fatal locket. In three steps ho
reached it ; grasping the locket, he wrenched it
GUERNDALE. 443
open, using both hands, and took out the stone ;
then his strength gave way, ;md reeling back, he fell
heavily upon the bed. The effort loosened his ban-
dages, and probably opened the wound, for the blood
came through, staining the sheets ; but in his deliri-
um Guy saw nothing. Soon the loss of blood re-
lieved the fever, and his consciousness revived ; bul
he lay looking at the stone. Should he then nban
don it all ? Should he lose it forever ? For a long
time his eyes were fixed upon it ; then he looked
down and saw that he was bleeding. He looked at
the blood indifferently, upon the white linen, as if it
belonged to another person. Perhaps ho ought to
ring. He might bleed to death if left aione.
He tried to think, but again his thoughts became
confused. How pale the stone looked ! Where was
\he bell ?
Suddenly his arm grew weak. His hand fell back
upon the coverlet, and the diamond rolled upon the
floor, away from him.
When Philip got back to his room that morning,
he found a telegram. It had been sent to London,
and from there to Nice, and then to Vienna ; the
date was nearly a month before. It was a great
shock to Philip. He had never fancied that his wife
was seriously ill. It was an hour or more before ha
could collect his thoughts. What was he to do?
Could Guy have heard of it ?
After all, it was more than ever important for him
to see Guy. He must get back to America immedi-
ately. If Guy had heard of it he would not refuse
444 GUERNDALE.
him a loan under the circumstances. Good God J
how suddenly it must have happened. And just at
the worst time, too, when he was so far away.
With a trembling hand, Philip made his toilet.
His head was not quite clear, rnd he dashed his face
in a bowl of cold water. Early in the afternoon, he
was at Guy's door ; the nurse was not in the ante-
room, so he went in softly. It was best for him to
see Guy alone.
The room was darkened, but he saw that no one
was there. Ke w r ent up to the bed to speak to Guy.
An open letter was lying on the coverlet, which waj
stained with blood ; and Guy was dead.
Philip stood for a moment, horror-struck ; then
turned to give the alarm. As he stepped back, he
saw something glitter on the floor. He suddenly re-
membered Guy's diamond ; stooping, he picked it
up and thrust it in his pocket, then walked hurriedly
out of the room. When he got into the light, he
took it out and examined it carefully.
The diamond was only a crystal, after all
THE END,
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