NRLF 
 
 B M 3fiO 
 
 STORY 
 
 k ND OTHER STORIES 
 
LIBRA 
 
 UNiVCRDTY OF 
 
 CALIF !-N"A 
 SANTA CRUZ 
 
[Page 1 86 
 
 "DR. CHEEVER AND WHITE TURNED TO SEE THE 
 PLAYER" 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BRANDER MATTHEWS 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 1893 
 
Copyright, 1893, by HARPER. & BROTHERS. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
P 
 
 I take pleasure in inscribing these stories to 
 T. B. ALDRICH 
 
 From whom 1 learnt the trade 
 of story-telling. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 THE STORY OF A STORY. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. THE AUTHOR 3 
 
 II. THE EDITOR 
 III. THE ARTIST 
 
 IV. THE PRINTER 
 
 9 
 
 13 
 15 
 
 V. THE PUBLISHER 1 7 
 
 19 
 
 VI. THE CRITIC 
 
 VII. TWO YOUNG READERS 22 
 
 VIII. ONE OLD READER 28 
 
 IX. ANOTHER READER 32 
 
 X. A READER OF ANOTHER SORT . . 42 
 
 A CAMEO AND A PASTEL. 
 
 I. THE CAMEO : ROME, A. U. C. 722 . . 53 
 
 ii. THE PASTEL: NEW YORK, A.D., 1892 63 
 TWO LETTERS. 
 
 I. FROM AN OCCASIONAL CORRESPOND- 
 ENT OF THE " GOTHAM GAZETTE " 79 
 II. FROM MR. SAMUEL SARGENT TO THE 
 
 " GOTHAM GAZETTE " ... 132 
 
vi CONTENTS 
 
 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. THE FIRST SATURDAY 139 
 
 II. THE SECOND SATURDAY .... 150 
 
 III. THE THIRD SATURDAY 159 
 
 ETELKA TALMEYR : A TALE OF THREE 
 
 CITIES. 
 
 i. LONDON 179 
 
 II. NEW YORK 192 
 
 III. PARIS 207 
 
 IV. NEW YORK 2ig 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 "DR. CHEEVER AND WHITE TURNED 
 
 TO SEE THE PLAYER " . . . . Frontispiece 
 
 "THE MUSIC SWELLED, AND SHE BE- 
 GAN TO DANCE " Facing Page 68 
 
 "THE CABLE PARTED, AND HIS FOES 
 
 FELL INTO THE RIVER BELOW ". " " 128 
 
 "WE WENT INTO THE GRILL-ROOM, 
 
 AND SAT DOWN TO SUPPER". . " "142 
 
 "MR. ROBERT WHITE SAT IN A COR- 
 NER, EATING A LONELY DINNER " " " IQ2 
 
 " THEY CAME DOWN TO THE FOOT- 
 LIGHTS TOGETHER" ' " 204 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 I. THE AUTHOR. 
 
 THE author turned on his couch uneasily 
 as he was dictating the final paragraphs of 
 his story. His wife sat writing at a table 
 by the window. In the little square far 
 down below them there were signs of spring; 
 the first touch of warmer weather had been 
 felt, and the trees were beginning to bud 
 out timidly. The afternoon sun fell aslant 
 the floor in long lines of feeble light. The 
 invalid looked out towards the west and 
 caught a glimpse of the floating clouds red- 
 dening as the day waned. He gazed at them 
 as though anxious to borrow their golden 
 hues to color his words. 
 
 His wife finished setting on paper the last 
 sentence he had dictated. She waited si- 
 
4 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 lently for the next, but in a moment she 
 looked up. 
 
 " What is it, dear ?" she asked, when she 
 saw the look on his face. 
 
 " We shall have another glorious sunset 
 to-day," he answered. " How lucky it is 
 that we live so high up in the air that we 
 can see them." 
 
 " Shall I raise you up ?" she inquired, 
 hastily. 
 
 " Not yet," he responded ; " I must finish 
 the story first. Where was I ?" 
 
 She took up the sheets of manuscript 
 which lay before her and replied, " I had 
 just written this : ' In morals, as in geome- 
 try, the straight line is the shortest distance 
 between two points ; and John Strang never 
 swerved from the swift path. He was alone, 
 but a true hero needs no other witness than 
 his own conscience ' " 
 
 " I know, I know," the author interrupted ; 
 " a couple of hundred words more and the 
 work is done. I'm going to wind it up short 
 and sharp, and give the reader a real sur- 
 prise. ' He strode forward fearlessly. Out 
 of the darkness there came to meet him' " 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 5 
 
 Having begun again to dictate, the sick 
 man with an obvious effort braced himself 
 as he lay, and continued until he reached 
 the end of the tale, pausing but for an in- 
 stant now and again to find the fit word, at 
 once simple and strong, to carry his mean- 
 ing. The last few sentences fell from his 
 lips swiftly, tumbling one over another in 
 the haste of their maker to be at the goal of 
 his desires ; and his amanuensis had to let 
 her pen speed over the paper to keep pace 
 with her husband's rapid speech. At last 
 the story-teller concluded, " ' So it came to 
 pass that John Strang conquered himself, 
 and thus he was spared the knowledge that 
 the saddest of all joys is a satisfied ven- 
 geance.' " The tension of his task relaxed 
 all at once, the author fell back on his pil- 
 low, and the westering sun cast a rosy light 
 on his pale, thin face, with its eager eyes 
 and its determined mouth. He watched his 
 wife while she wrote this final sentence, and 
 then he said, "That is all." 
 
 She numbered the page she had just com- 
 pleted, and laid it on top of the others. 
 
 His eyes followed her movements wist- 
 
6 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 fully, and then he looked anxiously into her 
 face, as though waiting for her judgment on 
 his labor. 
 
 When he found that she was intent on 
 sorting the pages in order and did not speak, 
 he broke the silence himself. 
 
 " I'm afraid it is not very good ?" he said, 
 tentatively. 
 
 She looked up and smiled at him proud- 
 ly. " It is one of the best things you have 
 ever done," she declared. 
 
 The color on his cheeks deepened a little 
 but perhaps the sun was responsible for 
 this and the light came back to his eye. 
 
 " I'm afraid that it is not very new," he 
 returned, doubtfully. 
 
 " It is the old, old story," she rejoined, 
 firmly, " and that is always new and always 
 true ; and it always will be as long as there 
 is an honest man and woman in the 
 world." 
 
 " The whole thing is so fresh to me now," 
 he said, with a hint of rising confidence in 
 his weary voice, "that I don't know any- 
 thing at all about it. By to-morrow I shall 
 be ready to call it poor stuff, I suppose. If 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 7 
 
 it is good for anything, I shall not find it out 
 until I get the proof from the magazine." 
 
 " Where are you going to send it ?" asked 
 his wife. 
 
 "To The Metropolis, I think," he re- 
 sponded. " They read there more promptly 
 than anywhere else, and they pay better, 
 too." 
 
 "They didn't give you much for that last 
 story of yours they took," she rejoined. 
 
 " Well, they didn't like that story very 
 much, and perhaps they were right," he said. 
 " After it had been out a month or so I went 
 in and looked over the scrap-book of news- 
 paper notices, and hardly one of them said 
 a word about my story." 
 
 "What does a newspaper man know 
 about literature ?" asked the author's wife, 
 indignantly. 
 
 " You know that they spoke to me about 
 writing a serial for them ; that shows that 
 they like my work,". said the author, "and 
 perhaps this story will please them better. 
 I think the fight ought to be popular; I 
 tried to make it a good fight " 
 
 "And you did," she interrupted; "I 
 
8 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 got so excited over it I could hardly 
 write." 
 
 " I wished to have it a good fight in it. 
 self," he continued, " and at the same time 
 typical of the eternal strife of good and evil. 
 Yet I don't know whether I really want any- 
 body to suspect the allegory or not. I think 
 I like stories best when the moral is quite 
 concealed." 
 
 " You haven't flaunted your moral in the 
 reader's face, if that's what you mean," she 
 returned. " But it's there all the same ; 
 and I don't doubt it '11 do good too. I 
 like the man ; he's a gentleman and a 
 man at the same time. And I could fall 
 in love with the heroine ; she's lovely, 
 and noble, and womanly, and feminine, 
 too !" 
 
 He looked her full in the face, and there 
 was a touching sweetness in his voice as he 
 said, " How can I ever draw any other kind 
 of woman when I have so fine a model be- 
 fore me ?'' 
 
 She rose from the little table by the win- 
 dow and crossed over to his couch. He 
 held out his hand a long, delicately mod- 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY g 
 
 elled hand and she clasped it. Then she 
 bent over and kissed him. 
 
 The author smiled up at her again, though 
 a sudden twist of pain stiffened the lines of 
 his face, and beads of chill perspiration be- 
 gan to form on his brow. She knew the 
 signs of coming suffering, and her heart 
 sank ; but she still smiled at him with her 
 mouth and her eyes as she moved away to 
 prepare the medicine it was now time for 
 him to take. 
 
 II. THE EDITOR. 
 
 The ample offices of The Metropolis, 
 an illustrated monthly magazine, filled a 
 floor of a broad building in Broadway. The 
 publisher, with his assistants and with half 
 a score of book-keepers and clerks, occu- 
 pied the front of the loft, and the editorial 
 rooms and the art department were crowded 
 together in the rear of the building. The 
 private office of the editor-in-chief was to be 
 reached only by passing through the rooms 
 in which sat his associates, and he was thus 
 
10 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 in a measure protected from the intrusion of 
 the bores and the cranks. 
 
 One Monday morning towards the latter 
 part of May, two or three weeks after the 
 author had made an end of dictating the 
 story to his wife as he lay on his customary 
 couch of pain, the editor sat in this inner 
 office in consultation with his principal as- 
 sistant. 
 
 " Have you got the schedule for the mid- 
 summer number there ?" asked the editor. 
 
 His assistant, whose duty it was to " make 
 up" the magazine, handed the editor a sheet 
 of paper strangely ruled and half covered 
 with penciled notes. 
 
 " I want to see if we can't make room for 
 this story," said the editor, taking a folded 
 manuscript from the little hand-bag he al- 
 ways carried to and from his own house, 
 where he absented himself often that he 
 might read the more important contributions 
 at leisure. 
 
 " How long is it ?" asked the assistant. 
 
 " Between eight and nine thousand 
 words," the editor answered. " It is a 
 breezy, out-door thing, well suited to a sum- 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY n 
 
 mer number, and there's a fight in it that 
 will be a relief to the quietness of the serial. 
 In fact, this story will help to balance the 
 midsummer fiction in a way I like." 
 
 "Well," responded the subordinate, "we 
 can get it in, if you. insist, although it will be 
 a tight squeeze to pack in nine thousand 
 words. Must it be illustrated? That'll 
 make it all the harder." 
 
 " One picture will be enough, at any rate," 
 the editor rejoined. 
 
 " Then I think I see how to work it," said 
 the assistant, after consulting the schedule. 
 "We'll put the picture at the end of the 
 second cut form and run in a plain form 
 next. That ought to do it nicely; and of 
 course we can tuck in a poem to fill up the 
 last page if we have to." 
 
 " All right," assented the editor. 
 
 The assistant added a few suggestions, 
 words, and figures to the schedule ; and 
 then he looked up and remarked : " The 
 artist will have to .hump himself if we are 
 going to get the plate in time for the mid- 
 summer. That comes out the last week in 
 July, and here we are near the end of May. 
 
12 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 All the other cuts are done ; at least they 
 told me yesterday they expected the last one 
 in to-day." 
 
 "There's that new man just back from 
 Paris," said the editor, " that pupil of Ge- 
 rome's they have been talking about in the 
 art department. They might let him do it." 
 
 "I don't believe that the public really 
 likes those impressionist scratches," the as- 
 sistant responded; "but they say this man 
 is a quick worker, and he is anxious for a 
 job. I suppose we can risk it." 
 
 " Then you had better talk to them about 
 it this morning," the editor declared, " and 
 see that he gets the manuscript at once." 
 
 The assistant took the flat package of 
 folded paper and began to discuss another 
 subject : "Don't you think we ought to 
 have a taking title for that yarn about yacht- 
 ing in the Pacific ? How would * From 
 China to Peru' do?" 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 13 
 
 III. THE ARTIST. 
 
 There is a little restaurant in a little 
 house on a little street not far from a clus- 
 ter of studio-buildings, and one of the many 
 young artists who frequent it intermittently 
 once called it " The Fried Cat," and by that 
 picturesque but doubtful name the little res- 
 taurant has ever since been known. 
 
 The specialty of "The Fried Cat" was a 
 fifty-cent dinner, wine and coffee included. 
 This was served in three little rooms, open- 
 ing one into the other and containing per- 
 haps a score of small square tables. 
 
 On a rainy evening in the last week of 
 May a dozen or so of these tables were oc- 
 cupied. At one of them, near the open 
 French windows that looked into the little 
 yard behind the restaurant, sat three young 
 men smoking their cigarettes with their cof- 
 fee. The tallest of them was the artist who 
 had recently returned from Paris, where he 
 had studied at the Beaux Arts under M. 
 Gerome. 
 
14 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 " I hear you are working for The Me- 
 tropolis" said one of his friends, a young 
 poet who supported himself by editing a so- 
 ciety weekly. 
 
 " They've been after me to do something 
 for them ever since I got back," responded 
 the artist, rolling a fresh cigarette and light- 
 ing it with the stump of the old one. " I 
 don't care much to do black-and-white. 
 Color is my stronghold, you know, though 
 I'm not afraid of line. But I wanted to 
 collar the dollars, and, besides, it's good 
 practice." 
 
 "What is the story like?" asked the 
 poet. 
 
 "The story ?" echoed the artist. "Oh, 
 the story isn't much. At least I don't care 
 for that kind of stuff heroism, you know 
 Romeo and Juliet, and all that sort of thing. 
 But there's a fight in it, a fight on a lot of 
 sand-dunes, and "I've done them a regular 
 Cazin. It isn't easy to get real plein-airiste 
 effects into a black-and-white, but I think 
 I've got 'em this time." 
 
 " Is it done already ?" inquired the third 
 man at the table, a sad-looking young fellow 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 15 
 
 who wrote comic sketches for the weekly 
 papers. 
 
 " Oh yes," answered the artist. " I 
 glanced over the story last night, and this 
 morning I got me a model, and I knocked 
 off the sketch in two or three hours." 
 
 " Oils or pen-and-ink ?" the poet queried. 
 
 "Oh, oils, of course," the artist respond- 
 ed ; " and they are going to process it like 
 those ' Tartarin ' things, you know." 
 
 "How will it come out?" the humorist 
 asked. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," said the artist, " and 
 I don't much care. I'm to have my sketch 
 back, and if the cut isn't good I can make 
 a water-color of the subject for one of the 
 fall exhibitions. I believe I could make a 
 lovely water-cooler of it tout pourri de chic, 
 you know." 
 
 IV. THE PRINTER. 
 
 Early in June there came a spell of in- 
 tensely hot weather such as often lends un- 
 expectedness to the New York spring. No- 
 where were the effects of the heat more 
 
16 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 unpleasant than in the long, low rooms 
 where worked the compositors employed by 
 the company that printed The Metropolis. 
 Pending the completion of a spacious build- 
 ing in the course of construction next door, 
 the whole force of the large printing estab- 
 lishment was crowded into three adjoining 
 private houses hastily and incommodiously 
 altered to serve as a makeshift while the 
 new edifice was going up. Even at mid- 
 day in June, when the longest day in the 
 year was close at hand, the light was insuffi- 
 cient ; and the men who stood in their shirt- 
 sleeves at the tall cases near the middle of 
 the narrow room had to rely for illumination 
 on flaring gas-jets that added to the heat of 
 the loft and to the foulness of the air. 
 
 When the shrill whistle announced the 
 end of the noon hour of rest, a huge, blond 
 German printer took his place beneath one 
 of these gas-jets and grumbled as he gazed 
 down at the sheets of manuscript he had 
 taken from the copy -hook. These were 
 pages of the story the author had dictated 
 to his wife. 
 
 " Was fur schreiben sind diese ?" he growl- 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 17 
 
 ed, as he examined the fine and delicate cal- 
 ligraphy of the lady. " Himmel ! vy don'd 
 dese Amerigan women write like Chris- 
 tians ? Vas dere effer such scrieben. als 
 diese ? Ugh ! Und I come in late, dinkin' 
 I might ged a fat take on dat cyglobedia ! 
 Veil, I must vollow gopy, I suppose ; it is 
 bud four or five schdigs I have." 
 
 Still grumbling, he hung the sheets of 
 manuscript on a hook at the head of his 
 case and took up his composing-stick. As 
 he was adjusting his broad spectacles over 
 his solid nose to see what he was to set up, 
 the gas-jet over his head flared up and then 
 went out suddenly. 
 
 " Ach, himmel !" cried the printer in dis- 
 gust, as he tried to set the gas-fixture in or- 
 der. " Das arbeitet nicht. Muss mann es 
 fixiren !" 
 
 V. THE PUBLISHER. 
 
 On the last day of June a full set of 
 sheets of the midsummer number of The 
 Metropolis were laid on the desk of the 
 publisher of that magazine ; and he spent 
 
1 8 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 an hour or more in examining them care- 
 fully and in deciding upon the best means 
 of calling to them the attention of the 
 public. 
 
 Three or four times the publisher came 
 back to the story which the author had dic- 
 tated and which the artist had illustrated. 
 At last he touched a bell and told the boy 
 who came in response to this summons to 
 go to the assistant editor and to request 
 that the assistant editor would please be so 
 kind as to come in to see the publisher on 
 his way out to lunch. 
 
 Towards one o'clock, when the assistant 
 editor came in, the publisher asked, " When 
 do you send out your literary notes about 
 the midsummer number?" 
 
 "Between the i5th and 2oth, I suppose," 
 answered the assistant editor. " There are 
 lots of good things in the midsummer to 
 hang a note on." 
 
 " If it's just the same to you," the pub- 
 lisher continued, " I wish you wouldn't send 
 out a note about the story this picture illus- 
 trates," and he pointed to a full-page draw- 
 ing wherein two men were engaged in dead- 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 19 
 
 ly combat on a strip of sand running out 
 into the sea. 
 
 " We don't often make any preliminary 
 announcement of mere short stories, you 
 know," the assistant editor explained. 
 
 " Then that's all right," said the publish- 
 er. " You see I don't want to seem to bear 
 down too hard on any one thing. Now I like 
 this picture. It will make a first-rate poster." 
 
 " That's so," assented the assistant editor, 
 seeing at once the effectiveness of the scene 
 for the purpose of arresting the vagrant at- 
 tention of the casual magazine-buyer at a 
 news-stand or in a book-store. 
 
 " And if I use the picture on all our post- 
 ers," the publisher explained, " it seems to 
 me better to say nothing about the story in 
 the advance notes." 
 
 VI. THE CRITIC. 
 
 The night before the midsummer number 
 of the magazine was published, copies were 
 sent out to the daily newspapers for review, 
 In the office of the Gotham Gazette the mag- 
 
20 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 azines of the month were regarded not as 
 literature but as news. They were not crit- 
 icised by one of the literary critics of the 
 journal, but by one of the minor editorial 
 writers of the paper, who was wont to run 
 rapidly over the pages of every review and 
 monthly magazine as it arrived, submitting 
 to the managing editor any article which 
 seemed likely to furnish a text for a column 
 of brevier, and penning a hasty paragraph 
 or two in which he recorded the impressions 
 of his cursory perusal. 
 
 Thus it was that on the morning of Au- 
 gust ist the Gotham Gazette printed upon its 
 editorial page in solid minion these words : 
 
 " The midsummer number of The Metrop- 
 olis is neither better nor worse than the 
 conductors of this admirably illustrated mag- 
 azine have accustomed us to. The frontis- 
 piece is a portrait of William Dunlap, who 
 helped to found the National Academy of 
 Design, and who wrote a history of the thea- 
 tre in America ; the face of the picture is in- 
 teresting but rather weak ; and the accom- 
 panying article is weak and not interesting. 
 1 From China to Peru ' is the illustrated rec- 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 21 
 
 ord of a daring voyage in a ten-ton sloop, 
 almost as good as one of Mr. Robert White's 
 delightful marines. An anonymous writer 
 discusses 'The Natural History of Games,' 
 and shows how modern scientific theories 
 account for the survival of the sports best 
 fitted for a given people at a given time ; 
 thus the game of poker, for example, seem- 
 ingly invented by brave fellows of Queen 
 Elizabeth's day (when it was known as pri- 
 mero), was revived in the very nick of time 
 to serve the needs of the Argonauts of For- 
 ty-nine. The ' Hills of the Sky ' is a pleas- 
 antly written and amply illustrated account 
 of the colony of authors and artists at Onte- 
 ora in the Catskills. Under the modest and 
 somewhat misleading title of * The Strange 
 Misadventures of a Blue Pencil ' a member 
 of the staff of the Gotham Gazette contributes 
 a fresh and picturesque description of the 
 making of a great daily newspaper. In ' Pas- 
 ticcio ' the new department for humorous 
 odds and ends there is a rather preten- 
 tious screed, 'On the Wise Choice of a 
 Mother -in -Law,' which some readers will 
 doubtless consider funny. 
 
22 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 " Mr. Rupert de Ruyter continues his se- 
 rial, 'The Poor Islanders,' which is now 
 seen to be a rather bitter attack on British 
 ' society ;' Mr. de Ruyter is best known as a 
 poet, but this novel shows that he is a mas- 
 ter of prose as well. The rest of the fiction 
 in this number of The Metropolis does not 
 call for comment ; perhaps the best of the 
 three short stories is a rather high-flown, 
 semi-realistic tale of young love triumphant, 
 an old enough story, but yet told with a cer- 
 tain freshness." 
 
 VII. TWO YOUNG READERS. 
 
 On the first Saturday evening in August 
 there was a gathering of young people in a 
 house built on a rock and projecting its 
 deep piazzas over the waters of Narragan- 
 sett Bay within sight of Point Judith. The 
 owner of the place had sons and daughters, 
 and these sons and daughters had each a 
 friend ; and so it was that there was a house- 
 ful of company, and that the easy laughter 
 of young men and maidens filled the broad 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 23 
 
 hall and the wide parlors. There had been 
 lawn-tennis all the afternoon on the smooth 
 sward which sloped gently away on one side 
 of the house, with its grass almost as green- 
 ly beautiful as the close-cropped turf of Eng- 
 land ; then there had been a late dinner en- 
 livened by the humor of a young lawyer, a 
 comrade of the eldest son, and able to leave 
 the city only from Friday to Monday ; and 
 now there was a little music in one of the 
 parlors, where a group was gathered about 
 a piano singing the old war-songs and the 
 older college - songs, and changing from 
 " Marching through Georgia " to " Lauriger 
 Horatius." 
 
 The young lawyer from New York had 
 strolled out on the piazza with the eldest 
 daughter of the house, his junior by two or 
 three years. The young people walked to 
 and fro before the open window of the par- 
 lor where the others were making merry. 
 He was a handsome young fellow, with 
 hopeful eyes and a resolute mouth. She 
 was a good-looking girl, thoughtful and yet 
 lively. 
 
 As they walked they talked of trifles of 
 
24 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 the weather, of the tennis that afternoon, of 
 the city election the next fall, of the moon- 
 light which silvered the waves that washed 
 the rocks below them. 
 
 " There is the night boat," he said, point- 
 ing to a dark shape in the distance spar- 
 kling with electric lights and speeding swiftly 
 over the water towards Point Judith. 
 
 " Isn't this like a scene in the theatre ?" 
 she returned. " It is so beautiful that it 
 seems unreal." 
 
 " Suppose we go out to the summer-house 
 and take it all in ?" he suggested. 
 
 One of the piazzas extended beyond the 
 house to the very verge of the rocks, and 
 here there was a summer-house, with a ham- 
 mock swung from a pair of its posts. 
 
 " Hadn't you better get into the ham- 
 mock?" he asked, when they had reached 
 the summer-house. " You have been play- 
 ing tennis all the afternoon." 
 
 " But I'm not a bit tired," she responded, 
 as she settled herself in the net-work and 
 began to swing lazily in the moonlight. 
 "And yet this is restful, I confess." 
 
 Just then the group about the piano in 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 25 
 
 the parlor a few yards behind them changed 
 from " Rally Round the Flag " to " Come 
 where my love lies dreaming." 
 
 The moonbeams fell on the clear, pale 
 skin of the girl in the hammock, and the 
 young man thought he had never seen her 
 look so lovely ; and the desire to tell her 
 how much he loved her, and to tell her that 
 very evening, at once, and without danger- 
 ous delay, arose within him irresistibly. 
 
 " This is really delightful/' she said, when 
 the silence had lasted a minute or two, " to 
 swing here in the moonlight on a Saturday 
 night, when the work of the week is done. 
 Don't you like it ?" 
 
 " I ?" he responded. " Don't I !" 
 
 " Then take a chair and sit down to enjoy 
 it." 
 
 " To hear is to obey," he answered, and 
 he drew forward a camp-stool. As it came 
 out of the shadow something fell from the 
 seat. He stooped and picked it up. 
 
 " It's only a magazine," he explained. 
 
 " Oh yes," she returned, as a faint flush 
 came into her cheeks. "It's The Metrop- 
 olis, isn't it ?" 
 
26 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 "Yes," he answered, glancing down at the 
 magazine in his hand ; " it's the August 
 number." 
 
 " I had it out here this morning," she con- 
 tinued, hastily, " to read that story you were 
 speaking about last night." 
 
 " The one I had read in the train coming 
 here ?" he returned. " I remember now. 
 And how did you like it ?" 
 
 " It was splendid," she responded, with 
 interest. " There was too much fighting, 
 but it was thrilling, and the hero was a real 
 hero." 
 
 " Well, I thought he was more of a real 
 man than most of the heroes we see in 
 books," the young lawyer replied. 
 
 " Of course the girl was a goose," the 
 young lady went on. 
 
 " Oh !" cried the young man, a little taken 
 aback. " Do you know, I rather liked that 
 girl ?" 
 
 " Oh no !" persisted the occupant of the 
 hammock, sitting up suddenly. " I'm sure 
 you didn't ! I don't see how any man 
 could ever love a creature like that. Could 
 you ?" 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 27 
 
 "It is easy to answer that question," 
 said the young man, as his heart gave a 
 bound. " I could love only one woman in 
 the world ; I do love only one woman ; I 
 can never love any other." 
 
 Then he paused for a moment. The color 
 went out of her face, but she said nothing. 
 
 " You know who she is," he went on pas- 
 sionately ; " you are not blind. You know 
 that I love you" 
 
 Here he dropped on his knees beside the 
 hammock and seized her hand. 
 
 " I love you !" he repeated, fervently. 
 " Can you love me a little ?" 
 
 She made no answer in words, but there 
 was a clasping of the hand he held. Then 
 he threw his arms about her as she lay in the 
 hammock and kissed her. 
 
 The music still went on in the parlor; 
 the moonlight still danced across the waves ; 
 the night boat was still visible in the dis- 
 tance ; the external world was still what it 
 had been but a minute ago ; yet to the 
 young people in the summer-house life had 
 never seemed so fair before. 
 
28 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 VIII. ONE OLD READER. 
 
 The next Saturday was a day of intense 
 heat ; it was the last and worst of five days 
 of inexorably rising temperature ; it was a 
 day when every man who could fled from 
 town as from a fiery furnace. In the after- 
 noon, as the great stores closed, tired shop- 
 girls and salesmen came forth limply re- 
 joicing that their half-day's work was done. 
 In the side streets, where the tall tenement- 
 houses towered aloft, weary mothers strove 
 in vain to soothe their fretful children. The 
 horses of the street-cars staggered along 
 hopelessly, as though they knew that for 
 them there was no surcease of labor. Even 
 when the fleeting twilight began to settle 
 down upon the city there was no relief from 
 the heat. 
 
 About seven o'clock that evening a little 
 old maid was riding in a car of a line which 
 twisted about through noisome neighbor- 
 hoods, ill-kept and foul even in winter, and 
 now wellnigh suffocating. She was a trim 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 29 
 
 little old woman, neatly dressed, well shod, 
 properly gloved. She was obviously well- 
 to-do, and if she lingered in town in the 
 thick of the heated term it was at the call 
 of duty. Ever since a rebel bullet had made 
 her a widow before she was a wife the little 
 old maid had given herself to works of 
 charity; and it was in midsummer, when 
 most of the charitable people are away, that 
 she had the heaviest demands upon her. 
 She took but a scant vacation every year, 
 and it was taken always in Lent. 
 
 On that hot and intolerable Saturday 
 evening in August the little old maid was 
 returning from a day of unselfish and un- 
 pleasant toil in a tenement-house where she 
 had been serving as a volunteer nurse. She 
 was worn with the work and glad of the 
 restful motion of the car. She held in her 
 hand a magazine the midsummer number 
 of The Metropolis ; but the jaded horses 
 had drawn her for nearly half a mile before 
 she opened its pages. Even when she finally 
 took it up she turned the leaves with tired 
 inattention until a chance sentence in a short 
 story caught her eye : 
 
30 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 " The future is not rosier to youth than is 
 the past to age." 
 
 Then the little old maid turned back to 
 the beginning of the story which the author 
 had dictated to his wife, and she read it 
 through with unflagging interest. When 
 she had come to the end at last she laid the 
 magazine on the seat beside her and looked 
 out of the window in front of her. But she 
 did not see what was before her eyes the 
 high tenements, the enticing bar-rooms, the 
 scrap of green square. She was not con- 
 scious of those who rode with her. She 
 never noticed when her neighbors left the 
 car, and when the vacant place on her right 
 was taken by a small boy. 
 
 Her thoughts were over the hills and far 
 away over the hills of the years and far 
 away in the past. A tale of youth and love, 
 of bravery and manhood, had carried her 
 back to her own brief love-story to her 
 own hero who had gone to the war a score of 
 years before who had gone and never 
 come back. She lived over again that 
 final parting with her young soldier -lov- 
 er, whose unfound body was lying in a 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 31 
 
 nameless grave in a hollow of Malvern 
 Hill. 
 
 A sudden jolting of the car as a truck 
 crossed the track, and the little old maid 
 awoke from her day-dream. A glance at the 
 street told her that she had come too far, 
 and that she had passed the point where she 
 wished to alight full fifteen minutes before. 
 She signalled to the conductor to stop the 
 car again. 
 
 As she rose she recalled the story which 
 had thus entranced her, and she turned back 
 to the seat where she had left it. But it was 
 no longer there. The small boy had seen 
 his opportunity ; he had seized it ; and he 
 and the little old maid's copy of the mid- 
 summer number of The Metropolis had gone 
 off together. 
 
 She sighed, and then she smiled; and on 
 her way home on foot she stopped at a 
 news-stand and bought another copy for 
 the sake of the story she had read already. 
 
32 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 IX. ANOTHER READER. 
 
 In those days for it was some sixteen 
 years after the war that the story which the 
 author had dictated to his wife was printed 
 in the midsummer number of The Me- 
 tropolis there was a certain Indian res- 
 ervation stretching for a hundred miles 
 and more on each side of a great stream. 
 Through the reservation and down this 
 river one day towards the end of August 
 there came floating a birch -bark canoe 
 paddled by two stalwart Indians, and con- 
 taining also two white men. They were 
 young fellows, both of these, and they had 
 come to spy out the land. They were en- 
 gineers the pioneers of civilization in the 
 new West. 
 
 There had been heavy rains, and the river 
 was high in its banks. A last shower had 
 passed over them only an hour or so before. 
 From the woods on each hand came the de- 
 licious fragrance of the forest after a rain, 
 and a fresh breeze blew down with the cur- 
 rent. 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 33 
 
 " How much farther is this blacksmith's 
 ranch?" asked one of the young men, who 
 had spent two years on the Pacific coast, 
 where everything is a "ranch," from an 
 orange grove to a hennery. 
 
 He was the elder of the two, a tall, hand- 
 some young fellow; his companion was 
 thick-set and red-haired. 
 
 The Indian paddling at the bow turned 
 to his comrade in the stern and spoke a 
 few words in his guttural vernacular, and 
 when he had received a monosyllabic an- 
 swer, more of a grunt than an articulate 
 sound, he replied, 
 
 " Soon be there now. 'Bout a mile more, 
 think." 
 
 " The sooner the better," the young en- 
 gineer returned. " I shaVt be sorry to get 
 my head under a roof for one night, even if 
 it doesn't rain again as it did last evening 
 when we camped. There were times then 
 when I thought the bottom had dropped 
 out of the sky." 
 
 " Are you sure the blacksmith can 
 take us in ?" asked the other white 
 man. 
 
 3 
 
34 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 " Sure," replied the Indian, never pausing 
 in his rhythmic paddling. 
 
 In the heart of the reservation there lived 
 one white man, a blacksmith, paid by the 
 United States Government to do such odd 
 jobs as the Indians might desire. His cabin 
 was high up on a bluff almost hidden by 
 clustering trees from the eyes of the young 
 engineers in the birch-bark even when their 
 Indians ceased paddling and tied the canoe 
 to the bank. 
 
 " Does he care for company ?" one of 
 them asked, as the four men stepped out of 
 the light craft. 
 
 " How ?" inquired the Indian who an- 
 swered most of the many questions the young 
 men were forever putting. 
 
 " Will he want to see us ?" said the white 
 man, shaping his inquiry anew to suit the 
 mind of the red man. 
 
 " Sure," the Indian replied. " Want to see 
 me sure. I am brother of one of his wives." 
 
 " One of his wives ?" cried the Californian 
 engineer. " How many wives has he, then?" 
 
 "Two now. Three once. One dead," 
 was the sententious response. 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 35 
 
 " Oh !" said the engineer, thinking it best 
 to push his inquiry no further. 
 
 Although concealed from sight, the log- 
 cabin of the bigamist blacksmith was scarce 
 a hundred feet from the bank of the river. 
 Half-way up the Indian brother-in-law gave 
 a peculiar cry. 
 
 In less than a minute a young and rather 
 pretty Indian woman came flying down the 
 path in eager delight. A second and older 
 squaw also advanced to meet them, and of- 
 fered to carry the guns the young men had 
 on their shoulders. The two engineers of 
 course refused, but the two Indians allowed 
 the women to relieve them of their burdens. 
 
 Brother and sister exchanged a few brief 
 sentences, and then the Indian turned and 
 said, " He home. He glad to see you." 
 
 And the blacksmith was glad to see them 
 glad as only a white man can be who does 
 not gaze on a face of his own color a dozen 
 times a year. 
 
 " Come right in, boys," he cried, as soon 
 as he caught sight of them. " Come right 
 in an' make yerselves at home. I am, an' 
 I want ye should be. Put down yer traps, 
 
36 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 and the women shall get ye somethin' to eat. 
 Ye won't be goin' on again this evening ?" 
 he added, anxiously. 
 
 " Not if you'll keep us all night," answered 
 one of the young men. 
 
 " That's hearty," he responded, cordially. 
 " Til keep ye a week ef only ye'll stay. It's 
 glad I am to see ye. These women o' mine 
 are sosherble enough they're ez sosherble 
 ez they know how but after all they ain't 
 white." 
 
 He was a large man, tall and generously 
 built ; his voice was deep and full ; his am- 
 ple beard was streaked with gray, and so 
 was his shock of hair. He was perhaps 
 fifty years old. 
 
 " An' what might you two boys be a-doin' 
 here ?" he asked, after he had made them 
 comfortable. 
 
 "We are engineers," one of them an- 
 swered, "and we are " 
 
 " Engineers, eh ?" he interrupted. " Well, 
 I worked in a machine-shop myself once. 
 But what are ye doin' out here there's no 
 engines out here ?" 
 
 The young man who had been in Califor- 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 37 
 
 nia explained that, although they were em- 
 ployed by a railroad, they did not run a lo- 
 comotive. 
 
 He listened intently, but obviously failed 
 to understand. 
 
 "Well," he said at last, "whatever ye're 
 here for, ye're welcome. An' now we'll 
 have supper, and a snifter of old rye and a 
 pipe after it." 
 
 When they had finished supper the black- 
 smith pushed aside the largest log on the 
 hearth, and, taking up a burning stick, he 
 lighted his pipe and settled back for an 
 evening of enjoyment. 
 
 Unfortunately the two young men had 
 been kept up for several preceding nights, 
 and they were overburdened with sleep. 
 The warmth of the fire, the ample meal, 
 and the glass of liquor had weighted their 
 eyelids despite their desire to keep awake 
 for the sake of their host. 
 
 After he had been answered at random 
 once or twice, as one or the other of the en- 
 gineers roused himself with an effort, the 
 blacksmith saw what the matter was. 
 
 "You two boys are sleepy," he cried, 
 
38 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 "an 1 here I am, like a hog, a-keepin' ye 
 up." 
 
 " We are a little drowsy, I confess," ad- 
 mitted one of them ; " but we can sit up 
 with you as long as you like." 
 
 " I allow I'd better get ye off to bed ez 
 soon ez I can, or else I'll have to carry ye," 
 he returned, mastering his disappointment 
 with easy good-nature. " Here's the bunk 
 the women have got fixed for ye ; turn in 
 now, an' turn out early in the mornin', an' 
 we'll have a talk then." 
 
 The young men thanked him, and made 
 ready for sleep. The old man stood over 
 them as though there was something more 
 that he wished to say. At last he remarked, 
 in a deprecating way, "Ye haven't, either 
 of ye, a paper ye could lend me overnight 
 a paper or a book ? I ain't had anythin' to 
 read for a mighty long while now. Ef ye've 
 got anythin', let me have it now, an' I'll give 
 it back to ye in the mornin'. I ain't sleepy 
 to-night, an' I'll take it all in ef ye've got 
 anythin'." 
 
 The engineers felt in their pockets, and 
 the young man who had been in Califor- 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 39 
 
 nia drew from his overcoat a copy of the 
 midsummer number of The Metropolis. 
 
 "We haven't this morning's paper, I'm 
 sorry to say," he answered, smiling, as he 
 proffered the magazine, " but here's the last 
 Metropolis, if you'd like to see it." 
 
 " The Metropolis 1" queried the old man. 
 
 "It's a magazine," explained the engi- 
 neer ; " there are stories in it, and pictures, 
 and all sorts of things." 
 
 " Thank ye," the blacksmith rejoined, as 
 he took the thick pamphlet. " Pictures, eh ? 
 Well, I like pictures too. Sometimes these 
 newspapers and books are chock full of 
 long-tailed words that get away from me." 
 
 With that the young men bade him good- 
 night, and as they turned into their bunk 
 they saw him sitting by the fire with The 
 Metropolis open in his hand. 
 
 And when they arose in the morning, 
 there sat the blacksmith by the fire still 
 grasping The Metropolis, still intent upon 
 its pages. 
 
 When he saw them he got up and came 
 forward. 
 
 " There's a power of good readin' in this 
 
40 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 magaziny o' yours, an' there's one story 
 there done me good to read." 
 
 The young man who had been in Califor- 
 nia pondered for a moment and then said, 
 " The story with a fight in it ? the one about 
 the sea-shore and the hill-side ?" 
 
 " That's it," the blacksmith declared. " I 
 ain't read any other, an 1 I don't want to 
 now. That's a story, that is, a real story, 
 like the stones I used to hear as a boy out 
 of the Bible, mostly. I'd like to have met 
 the man that fought that way." 
 
 "The hero of the story?" asked the in- 
 quirer. 
 
 " Well, he was a hero, for a fact," the old 
 man responded ; " he had sand in his craw, 
 that fellow. He was a man ye could tie to. 
 Of course the girl was true to him ; she 
 couldn't help it. A girl that wouldn't 
 wait for a man like him wouldn't be no 
 good." 
 
 This assertion was emphasized by a re- 
 sounding slap on the thigh of the speaker. 
 
 " The editor of The Metropolis is my cous- 
 in," said the younger of the engineers. " I'll 
 ask him to tell the author that his story has 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 41 
 
 found appreciation out here in the back- 
 woods." 
 
 "The author?" repeated the blacksmith. 
 " That's the fellow who wrote it, eh ? Well, 
 he's a man, too ! And he ain't any city fel- 
 low, either, I'll bet ye. He knows the woods 
 too well for that. He's lived out-doors, he 
 has." 
 
 Then the pretty little squaw appeared, 
 and stood shyly before them. 
 
 " That means breakfast's ready, I reck- 
 on," said their host. 
 
 After they had broken their fast the 
 young men lingered a while, smoking with 
 the blacksmith and enjoying his talk. 
 
 When they were about to push off, the en- 
 gineer who had been in California handed 
 The Metropolis back to their host, saying, 
 " I wish we had something better to leave 
 with you to remember us by. But won't 
 you keep this ?" 
 
 " I'll take it, and thank ye," answered the 
 blacksmith, heartily. " Now I can read that 
 there story again." 
 
42 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 X. A READER OF ANOTHER SORT. 
 
 Early on the morning of the last day in 
 August, in the huge yard outside of the rail- 
 road station at Buffalo, two women were en- 
 gaged in cleaning out a parlor-car which had 
 arrived from New York late the night before, 
 and which was to start on its return journey 
 at ten o'clock that forenoon. 
 
 In a dark corner of the car, where the 
 sleepy porter might easily overlook it, one 
 of the women found a magazine. It was a 
 worn and ragged copy of the midsummer 
 number of The Metropolis. The woman took 
 it to the window and turned its leaves with 
 unintelligent looks. 
 
 *' What's that ye have ?" asked the other 
 woman from the far end of the car, paus- 
 ing a moment in her task of polishing the 
 windows. 
 
 " It's a paper or a book, I don't know," 
 responded the finder of the magazine. " It's 
 pictures into it. I'll be takin' it home to the 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 43 
 
 boy. He do be wild now and then readin' 
 a piece in the paper." 
 
 This was said not without a certain ma- 
 ternal pride. 
 
 " An' can the boy read ?" asked the other 
 cleaner, going back to her work. 
 
 " He can that !" responded the boy's moth- 
 er, folding the magazine and thrusting it into 
 the huge pocket of her dress. " He reads as 
 fast and as easy as the teacher herself, and 
 him only going to school this six months." 
 
 " An' how old is the boy now ?" inquired 
 the other, crossing over to polish the win- 
 dows on the opposite side of the car. 
 
 " It's fourteen he'll be this next week," 
 the mother replied. " He's the only one of 
 six that's left to me now, and it's a good lad 
 he is, too, barring a bit of wildness now and 
 then that he gets from his poor father." 
 
 And with that she went out on the plat- 
 form to polish the nickel-plated iron-work. 
 She was a woman of fifty or thereabouts, 
 good-natured and plain-featured, hard-work- 
 ing and worn by hard work. 
 
 When her long day's labor was over she 
 went home to her boy. They lived together 
 
44 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 in two little rooms in a shanty over a grog- 
 shop not far from the yard of the railroad. 
 As she mounted the rickety stairs, she was 
 surprised at the unwonted silence in the 
 room that served them for kitchen. Gen- 
 erally the boy was home before her, and he 
 had the fire started in the stove and the wa- 
 ter in the kettle to boil j and often he came 
 to the yard to meet her. When she entered 
 the kitchen that last hot evening in August, 
 when even the sunset breeze from the lake 
 was sultry and feeble, there was no boy 
 waiting for her, no fire laid, no water a- 
 boiling. 
 
 But she had scarce taken off her bonnet 
 when there was an eager footstep on the 
 trembling stairs, and the boy broke into the 
 room joyously. 
 
 " I couldn't help being late, mother," he 
 cried ; " I got a job from a gentleman down 
 on Main Street, and he kept me till now. 
 And, just think ! He gave me half a dol- 
 lar a silver half-dollar, all in one piece." 
 
 And with that he took the coin from his 
 pocket and tossed it in his mother's lap. 
 
 " It is a half-dollar, sure enough," said his 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 45 
 
 mother, after biting the edge of the coin with 
 Old World caution. 
 
 " And this is Saturday night, mother," her 
 son went on, hastily, " and you won't have 
 to go to work till Monday, so I want you to 
 spend part of this money for yourself, and 
 get something good for to-morrow's dinner 
 a steak, for instance a steak and onions ! 
 You will, won't you, mother ? just to please 
 me?" 
 
 The mother smiled back at him. " Well," 
 she said, " I'll see what I can get when I do 
 be going out the while." 
 
 "And IVe got good news, too, mother," 
 the boy continued. " I've got a place ! at 
 least I think that I'm going to get one. The 
 gentleman I did the errand for he's a law- 
 yer asked me if I wanted a steady job, and 
 I said yes, and I'm to go to his office on 
 Monday at nine o'clock, and he'll see if I 
 suit." 
 
 "That's good news, for a truth," she re- 
 turned. "An' I've got something you'll be 
 liking to see, too." 
 
 " What is it ?" he cried, slipping his arm 
 around her and kissing her. 
 
46 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 She put her hand into her pocket and 
 took out the magazine and handed it to him. 
 " It's something to read," she said. 
 
 He opened it eagerly and turned the pages 
 with delightful anticipations. "There's a 
 lot of reading here, and I'll have such a 
 good time a-reading it." 
 
 Seeing his ardent pleasure, the mother 
 busied herself about the supper, lighting the 
 fire in the stove and filling the kettle her- 
 self. When the meal was ready she called 
 him ; for a moment he did not hear, so ab- 
 sorbed was he with the magazine. 
 
 " There's all sorts of good things in that 
 book," he said, as he took his place at the 
 table "pictures, and poetry, and how a 
 man sailed across the Pacific don't they 
 have big waves out there ! Ever so much 
 bigger than I've seen on the lake ! There's 
 stories, too. I'd just begun one of them. I 
 picked it out because there was the picture 
 of a fight in it, and I wanted to know which 
 licked." 
 
 As soon as he had eaten his supper the 
 boy lighted the little kerosene-lamp and sat 
 down again at the story, losing himself in 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 47 
 
 it at once, and becoming wholly oblivious 
 of all things else. 
 
 The mother cleared off and washed up, 
 and then went out to buy their Sunday's 
 dinner with the money he had given her. 
 
 When she returned he was still intent on 
 the story, and in a few minutes more he 
 came breathlessly to the end. 
 
 " Oh, mother," he cried, " this is a splen- 
 did story ! It's the best story I ever read !" 
 
 " Is it, lad ?" she answered, wearily, but 
 smiling. 
 
 " Sit down, and let me read it to you," he 
 went on. 
 
 " Not to-night," she answered. " I'm that 
 sleepy I couldn't listen to anything." 
 
 "To-morrow, then," he urged. 
 
 " To-morrow, if you like," she rejoined. 
 
 And when to-morrow came the boy read 
 her the story as best he could, puzzled now 
 and again by a chance polysyllable, but 
 struggling through bravely. 
 
 " He do read beautiful," was the mother's 
 comment, more interested in the reader than 
 in what he was reading. 
 
 When he had made an end, and looked 
 
48 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 up all aglow with enthusiasm, she said, " It's 
 a fine story, no doubt." 
 
 " A fine story, mother ?" he echoed. "It's 
 great. It's true. That's the kind of man 
 I'd like to be. That's the kind of man I 
 mean to be, too." 
 
 " I hope you won't be fighting a duel then 
 with swords, and getting killed." 
 
 "He wasn't killed," the boy retorted ; "he 
 killed the other man. And he didn't want 
 to fight either, only he had to. He was a 
 hero, that man. I can't fight, I suppose ; 
 but I can try to be as noble as he was, and 
 as good." 
 
 " You are a good boy now," said his moth- 
 er, kissing him. 
 
 On that Sunday afternoon the boy read 
 the story again, for the third time, all to him- 
 self, and he made a solemn resolution to 
 model himself on the hero. He felt as 
 though the vision of that ideal would nerve 
 him for the battle of life. 
 
 And so it came to pass. The boy went 
 to the lawyer's office on Monday, and he 
 stayed there till he grew to be a man. That 
 story lingered fresh in his memory, and its 
 
THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 49 
 
 hero was as the young man's guardian 
 angel. 
 
 He developed true manliness, energy, 
 character, and ability. He became a law- 
 yer himself, and on the death of the senior 
 partner of the firm to whose office he had 
 come as a boy he was taken into partner- 
 ship, although he was scarcely of age. Out- 
 side of his profession he broadened also and 
 grew in stature. At a time of trouble he 
 made himself the mouth-piece of the rail- 
 road men, whose claims he knew to be just, 
 though the directors of the company refused 
 to accede to them. To profit by the popu- 
 larity thus obtained his party nominated 
 him for the Assembly. By the advice of his 
 partners he accepted the nomination, and 
 by the help of the independent voters of 
 his district, by whom he was known and re- 
 spected, he was elected. His first thought 
 was for his mother ; he wished that she had 
 lived to see him thus honored by his fellow- 
 men ; he knew how happy and how proud 
 it would have made her. 
 
 The boy had grown to be a man, yet he 
 was the youngest member of the Assembly 
 
50 THE STORY OF A STORY 
 
 that year ; indeed, he was hardly old enough 
 to vote. When he came to clear up his 
 room before going to Albany, he found in 
 the bottom of a drawer in his desk an old, 
 worn, frayed magazine the midsummer 
 number of The Metropolis that his mother 
 had brought home for him from the parlor- 
 car. He sat down and read the story again, 
 perhaps for the twentieth time ; and he rec- 
 ognized again that it had been the inspira- 
 tion of his life. Then there came to him a 
 desire to tell the author all that the story 
 had been to him, how it had moulded his 
 whole life. 
 
 The boy went to New York as soon as 
 time could be spared from the new duties at 
 Albany and inquired for the author, only to 
 find that he had died suddenly a fortnight 
 after his story had been printed in the mid- 
 summer number of The Metropolis. 
 
 Then the boy, a boy no longer, sat down 
 and wrote a long letter to the author's wid- 
 ow; and she thrilled with pleasure when 
 she heard how her husband's last work had 
 been as a lamp to a man's feet. 
 
 (1890.) 
 
A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 
 
A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 
 
 I. THE CAMEO. 
 ROME, A. U. C. 722. 
 
 THE dining-room had been built apart 
 from the house. It stood in the garden 
 amid box-trees cut into threatening shapes 
 of wild beasts, and beside a cypress clipped 
 to suggest a dark green serpent coiling it- 
 self tightly about the brown trunk of the 
 tree. With its white marble walls it crowned 
 the brow of the hill that here sloped away 
 to the bank of the placid brook below. It 
 was open only to the north, but the wester- 
 ing sun shone through its windows, and left 
 the long shadows of the tall poplars athwart 
 the tessellated pavement. The twelfth hour 
 of the day was near, and still the banquet 
 was prolonged. 
 
54 A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 
 
 Upon the three wooden couches which 
 formed three sides of a square in the centre 
 of the room there reclined nine Romans 
 for the giver of the feast had borne in mind 
 the saying of Varro that those invited should 
 never be more in num,ber than the Muses 
 nor less than the Graces. Like his guests, 
 the host had removed his shoes and his toga. 
 He wore a light short-sleeved tunic, with 
 the two broad perpendicular stripes of pur- 
 ple which denoted a knight. His face was 
 dignified and kindly. His manner suggested 
 that he was entertaining men of distinguished 
 ability, but perhaps of inferior rank. He 
 was crowned with a chaplet of dark ivy, not 
 unbecoming to his closely cropped head. 
 
 The guests wore wreaths of roses upon 
 their oiled locks, most of them, although one, 
 whose white tunic bore the single dark stripe 
 of a Senator, had preferred the crown of ivy 
 leaves. The couches whereon they reclined 
 were of wood thickly incrusted with ivory, 
 and made easier by many cushions covered 
 with light silks. The guests leaned on their 
 left elbows, and ate with their right hands 
 only. At the end of the course silent serv- 
 
A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 55 
 
 ants brought water in silver bowls and 
 proffered linen napkins that the fingers 
 might be washed, while another attendant 
 wiped the low wooden table with a thick 
 cloth. 
 
 In the open space before the table and 
 the couches other slaves were casting down 
 saffron-dyed sawdust, that it might absorb 
 the blood which lay in little pools upon the 
 pale pavement. There the gladiators had 
 been fighting but a moment before, to enter- 
 tain the guests at the banquet ; and having 
 given strong proofs of their skill and of their 
 courage, they had been dismissed, and were 
 now behind the house, out of sight, one try- 
 ing to stanch his wounds, the other stiff in 
 death and carried by his comrades. 
 
 " This is a brave feast, Gaius Cilnius," 
 said the guest who lay above the host on 
 the couch at the right. " I have not had 
 such good entertainment since that triumph 
 of Caesar when the Amazons contended with 
 the lionesses." 
 
 "The Numidian did not fight ill," the 
 host admitted. 
 
 " I never saw a more skilful stroke than 
 
56 A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 
 
 that with which he got under the guard of 
 the Gaul," returned the guest on the right, 
 a full-blooded, thick-necked man, with a face 
 hardened by exposure. 
 
 " He had as much strength as skill," 
 added one of those who were reclining on 
 the couch on the left. " I saw his sword 
 come out at the back of the Gaul." 
 
 " A clean thrust, by Jove !" the first speak- 
 er rejoined ; " and he gave it under dis- 
 advantage also, for the Gaul had already 
 cut off two of the fingers of his right 
 hand." 
 
 " Then it was a feat indeed !" said a young 
 man on the couch with the Senator ; " a feat 
 worthy of commemoration in verse. And 
 we have three poets here now. Which of 
 you will immortalize the gladiator ?" 
 
 " Publius Vergilius there," the ivy-crowned 
 Senator remarked, " is ever at work on his 
 epic. He carries it always on his mind, for 
 he has scarce said a word to us to-night, 
 from the egg to the apples." 
 
 The grave-visaged.man whom he addressed 
 smiled tolerantly, and turning to the guest 
 at his side, he said, " Such a subject suits 
 
A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 57 
 
 rather the satire than the epic eh, Quintus 
 Horatius ?" 
 
 "There are those who would write an 
 epic in twenty-four books on the life and 
 adventures and death of a mouse," re- 
 sponded the guest thus invoked. " This 
 afternoon at the bath, while I was anxious 
 for my game of ball, there came a fellow 
 who forced me to hear a long poem he had 
 written yesterday while standing on one 
 foot !" 
 
 " It is not enough to find a good subject," 
 said the third poet, who was a young man 
 with a faded expression ; " we must also 
 make sure of a publisher whose scribes will 
 not betray us by their carelessness. My last 
 elegy was sent forth with a thousand errors 
 that the dullest slave should not have been 
 allowed to make." 
 
 " I know nothing of scribes, Sextus Aure- 
 lius," the thick- necked man declared; "I 
 like the sword and the spear more than the 
 style. But it is indisputable that we have 
 no such slaves as we used to have in the 
 old days. The knaves are careless now 
 and insolent. If I were a poet, and they 
 
58 A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 
 
 mangled my verses, I would have the blun- 
 dering rascals sent to frigid Mcesia ; they 
 would not make the same mistake twice." 
 
 " There are punishments nearer at hand," 
 said the Senator, " and swifter. When the 
 cook of Vedius Pollio three times failed to 
 stew the lampreys to his master's taste, the 
 fellow was thrown into the fish-pond, and I 
 doubt not that the lampreys found him to 
 their taste." 
 
 " There is no need thus to punish your 
 tricliniarch, Gaius Cilnius," declared the 
 poet with the serious face, as he helped 
 himself from the new dish the attendant 
 then presented. " For here is a feast or- 
 dered to perfection. The slave is worthy 
 of his master is he not,Quintus Horatius ?" 
 
 " By Bacchus," replied the poet thus ad- 
 dressed, " he understands his art as well as 
 a Greek rhetorician understands the art of 
 speech. He persuades us although we have 
 no appetite. But the credit for his labors is 
 due to the friend who chose him." 
 
 " And the fellow is not to be praised for 
 this beaker of glass, red as the ruby and 
 as cunningly carved,'' the third poet inter- 
 
A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 59 
 
 posed ; " nor for this silver cup," he added, 
 taking the vessel from the hand of an at- 
 tendant, who filled it to the brim with 
 Falernian. " Is this the very goblet in 
 which Cleopatra dissolved her pearl, when 
 she drank to the health of Antony ?" 
 
 The host smiled, and responded, " You 
 have hit the mark with a chance arrow, 
 Sextus Aurelius. That is indeed the goblet 
 of Cleopatra. It was sent to me from Alex- 
 andria by the friend who bought me also 
 the beakers of red glass." 
 
 The chief course of the dinner was now 
 attained, and the slaves removed the tables 
 from the room. The guests washed their 
 hands again. Then there was silence for a 
 little space, out of respect to the gods, 
 while the salted meal was offered on the 
 family altar, and while the libations of wine 
 were poured solemnly upon the hearth to 
 the sound of stately music. 
 
 When this ceremony had been duly per- 
 formed, the second tables were brought in, 
 with cakes of many kinds and all manner of 
 fruits, while fresh snow was packed about 
 the vessels containing the wine. 
 
60 A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 
 
 While the guests were enjoying the lighter 
 dishes with which the banquet came to an 
 end, a livelier strain of music swelled forth, 
 as though some new entertainment was 
 about to be presented. 
 
 " That is a Gaditanian air, if I mistake 
 not," said the poet who had been addressed 
 as Sextus Aurelius. 
 
 " Have you a dancer to show us ?" asked 
 the thick-necked man, with a certain sug- 
 gestion of eagerness in his voice. 
 
 " Two," the host responded. 
 
 " Trust Gaius Cilnius to give us good 
 measure," interjected one of the other 
 poets. 
 
 " There are two Gaditanian girls, twin 
 sisters, of whom report speaks favorably," 
 the Senator remarked. " It is rumored 
 that they have a perfect mastery of the 
 strange dances of their own country. Even 
 Caesar commended them when they danced 
 before him. Are these they ?" 
 
 " They are the same," answered the host, 
 modestly; "two Gaditanian slave girls. I 
 have never seen them, but I thought it 
 might interest you to compare their art with 
 
A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 6l 
 
 that of the dancers we have beheld so often 
 in Rome." 
 
 " Nothing so helps digestion as to end a 
 dinner with a dance," said Quintus Hora- 
 tius, with a smile of humorous anticipation. 
 
 As the guests settled back on the couches 
 to behold the sport at their ease, the host 
 gave a signal, and the music swelled out 
 again, with strange, broken rhythms. 
 
 Suddenly there sprang into the open 
 space before the men two dark-eyed girls, 
 one from each side of the broad portal. 
 They met in the centre of the space, and 
 grasped each other by the right hand and 
 swung around, and then, as the music ab- 
 ruptly stopped, they stood still before the 
 spectators, poised, each on one foot, in a 
 graceful and captivating attitude. They 
 were beautiful girls, both of them, scarce 
 sixteen, lithe, slender, sinewy, with bronzed 
 skins and thick dark hair. Their flowing 
 garments, almost transparent, clung to their 
 persons, falling in sweeping folds, but never 
 reaching the saffron -dyed sawdust that 
 covered the pale pavement. 
 
 Then, as the music struck up again, they 
 
62 A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 
 
 began to dance, swaying in time, retreating 
 one from the other, advancing with provo- 
 cation, keeping step faultlessly to the tune, 
 and bending their bodies in unison with the 
 enervating rhythm. A heightened color 
 came into the cheek of the thick-necked 
 guest, and the eyes of the Senator took on 
 a deeper glow. 
 
 Decorous at first, the sisters gained free- 
 dom as the dance went on, and with the 
 quickening music they added fervor to their 
 pantomime. So potent was the charm of 
 their motions that not a word was spoken, 
 while the dance rose to its climax with gest- 
 ures as significant as they were graceful. 
 After a while the music slackened, and the 
 dance became more languorous, as though 
 the girls were caught up in a dream. Then, 
 with a sharp return of the former rapidity, 
 the dancers flashed across the slippery floor 
 again and were gone. 
 
 The Senator sank back on the couch, 
 while the poets and the other guests ap- 
 plauded. Then, while the servant whose 
 duty it was threw perfumes over the few 
 embers on the hearth, the diners made 
 
A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 63 
 
 ready for the symposium by casting dice to 
 discover who should be king of the feast. 
 
 When the dancers withdrew, night was 
 about to fall. From the hut of a slave hid- 
 den in the hollow of the hill before the 
 opening at the end of the dining-room a thin 
 spiral of blue smoke curled softly upward in 
 the darkening twilight, made visible by a 
 final shaft of the expiring sunset. 
 
 II. THE PASTEL. 
 NEW YORK, A.D. 1892. 
 
 Against the wall at the farther end of 
 the studio hung a huge sheet, broad enough 
 to have been taken from the great bed of 
 Ware. It was bleached by the hard glare 
 of the limelight directed from the gallery at 
 the back of the painter's workshop over the 
 doorway leading to his smaller studio, where 
 the supper was already set out. Almost 
 touching the pendent drapery, but a little to 
 the left, were four chairs for the musicians 
 who were to accompany the Spanish woman. 
 
64 A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 
 
 For the gyrations of the dancer a hollow 
 semicircle of floor space had been left in 
 front of the sheet, and bent rows of folding- 
 chairs filled the rest of the long room. The 
 carved coffers had been pushed back against 
 the side walls under the worn tapestries and 
 the tarnished embroidery of old altar-cloths. 
 Vessels of brass, of copper, of baked clay, 
 of delft, of twisted glass, stood on the larger 
 cabinets. A panoply of arms, wherein could 
 be seen a creese, a yataghan, an old flint- 
 lock musket, a Springfield rifle, a bowie- 
 knife, and two Arapaho arrows, was set on 
 the wall over against a portrait of the owner 
 of the studio, in Japanese costume, lovingly 
 painted by a former pupil. There were 
 other pictures here and there out of the 
 way ; and thrust in a corner on an easel, 
 carefully hidden by a shabby velvet robe, 
 was the unfinished portrait of one of the 
 ladies who were giving the entertainment. 
 Pendent from the ceiling by a cord was a 
 stuffed sea-gull with outstretched wings, 
 swaying softly to and fro as the floor trem- 
 bled under the footsteps of the arriving 
 guests. 
 
A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 65 
 
 It was nearly midnight, and for half an 
 hour or more the guests had been gathering, 
 greeting one another, and settling down in 
 little groups, until now the studio was be- 
 ginning to be crowded, and the late-comers 
 found it hard to place themselves. Some 
 of those first to arrive had come leisurely 
 from betarded dinners, and some of those 
 last to arrive had come hurriedly from the 
 opera, hastening away before the tenor had 
 sung his death -song. They were all well 
 dressed, and they all seemed gay and eager 
 for amusement, with an air as of people out 
 in expectation of an unconventional enter- 
 tainment. They were fairly representative 
 of the well-to-do dwellers in a great city. 
 Among them were many men and women 
 of fashion, some of them having no other 
 claim to distinction than the accident of 
 their social position, and some of them 
 leaders of society not only, but also in philan- 
 thropy and in citizenship. There were men 
 of letters, two or three essayists, three or 
 four novelists, and a poet or two. There 
 were artists, some of them friends of the 
 painter in whose studio the dance was to 
 s 
 
66 A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 
 
 take place. There was a clever young actor, 
 with his pretty young wife. There were 
 half a dozen statesmen two of them high 
 in the councils of the nation who had 
 come on from Washington specially to be 
 present at the affair. There were pretty 
 women a plenty, with diamonds agleam on 
 their bosoms and in their hair. There was 
 the thin young lady who had aroused pub- 
 lic opinion against the dirty streets of the 
 city ; there was the young married woman 
 who took time from society to do her duty 
 as head of a school for the training of 
 nurses; there was the plump widow who 
 wrote clever articles on music and the 
 drama; and there was the beautiful dark 
 woman who had just been forced to seek 
 a divorce from a brutal nobleman unable to 
 appreciate her. There were young women 
 and old who thought they had done their 
 whole duty by the world. when they looked 
 charming and smiled at the compliments 
 paid to them. 
 
 Above the chatter of many tongues could 
 be heard the clear voice of one of the men 
 from Washington, who had once been an 
 
A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 67 
 
 attache in Madrid. "Why is she so late, 
 this Andalusian caperer?" 
 
 "She doesn't finish at the theatre till 
 nearly eleven," said the handsome woman 
 to whom he had spoken ; " but she promised 
 to dance as little as she could this evening 
 and to take no encores, so as to save herself 
 fresh for us." 
 
 A novelist who had just arrived from Italy 
 leaned over and asked the young lady by 
 his side, " It's a new act, isn't it, this hav- 
 ing a dancer come here at midnight to give 
 a private performance ?" 
 
 " She's done it two or three times for us 
 this winter," the young lady answered. 
 "You know the theatre where she appears 
 is so common that we can't go there ; and 
 so, you see, if she didn't come to a studio 
 now and then, why, nobody would see her." 
 
 Then there was a sudden parting of the 
 little group of men gathered about one of 
 the hostesses near the door. Four musi- 
 cians entered and took the seats reserved for 
 them. They were swarthy and dark-eyed ; 
 one of them was a fine-looking fellow with 
 a shrewd smile hovering about his sensual 
 
68 A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 
 
 mouth. He was the leader, and played the 
 guitar ; his companions had, one a man- 
 dolin, and two of them violins. With the 
 appearance of the musicians there was an 
 instant stir all over the studio, and people 
 settled into their places and made room for 
 one another, and turned their attention to 
 the coming entertainment. The young men 
 who had been standing inside the reserved 
 semicircle, bending over and chatting with 
 the ladies on the front row, now squatted 
 on the floor and sat cross-legged. 
 
 The hush of expectancy was broken as 
 the dancer entered, walking with a free and 
 feline tread. Amid loud applause, clapping 
 of hands, and tapping of fan sticks, she took 
 the seat that had been set for her in the 
 centre of the open space, close to the sheet, 
 against which her black shadow was cut out 
 boldly by the limelight that now bright- 
 ened. She sat still for a few seconds, until 
 the musicians struck up a wailing and riot- 
 ous rhythm. She threw back her scarf and 
 arose from her chair. The music swelled 
 languorously and louder, and then she began 
 to dance, coming forward a little, until by 
 
f *THE MUSIC SWELLED, AND SHE BEGAN TO DANCE 
 
A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 69 
 
 chance her shadow was under the shadow 
 of the bird with outstretched wings. 
 
 She was a daringly handsome woman, of 
 superb health, of intense vitality, of unfail- 
 ing grace, of undeniable charm due not 
 only to the dark deep eyes, made darker 
 and deeper by kohl lines below and above, 
 and not only to the full red lips and the 
 dazzling white teeth they revealed when 
 they parted; not only to the flash of the 
 glance even, nor to the sudden delight of 
 the smile ; but rather to some intangible, 
 invisible, indisputable potency of sex which 
 lent irresistible fascination to irregular feat- 
 ures. In repose the face was heavy and 
 sad ; but a smile transfigured it almost be- 
 yond recognition. It was a Spanish face, 
 no doubt, but with more than a hint of the 
 gypsy or of the Moor. The neck and arms, 
 more decorously covered than those of most 
 of the ladies who were looking on, were 
 browned, and the thick fingers of both 
 hands were encased with a dozen diamond 
 rings. Her dress, which fell a little below 
 the knee, was of yellow satin, decked with 
 an abundance of black lace. She wore a 
 
70 A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 
 
 rose in the heavy braids of her midnight 
 hair. 
 
 Her dance was like her beauty, irregular 
 and irresistible. It was Spanish in essence, 
 perhaps gypsy at times, with haunting mem- 
 ories of the Orient. It began with a Moor- 
 ish swaying of the body and a bold swing 
 of the hips, preceding a few simple steps 
 to the right and to the left, a few bending 
 turns, now one way and now the other, tak- 
 en with easy flexibility, in strict time to the 
 lilt of the tune the musicians kept playing. 
 Often the suppleness of the torso was as 
 important as the swiftness of the feet. It 
 was a strange and startling performance, 
 and its fascination was as strange as the 
 dancer herself. As a dance it was volupt- 
 uous, and yet decent ; full of suggestion to 
 some, and yet devoid of offence to all who 
 were ignorant as to the symbolic possibilities 
 of primitive pantomime. As it went on, the 
 ladies watched it with eager enjoyment, fol- 
 lowing every movement of arm, of body, and 
 of foot. The men leaned forward with a 
 tenser interest, with a gaze that never re- 
 laxed, and sometimes with a tightened 
 
A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 71 
 
 breathing. At any unexpected twist of 
 the dancer's body or unusually artful feat 
 there were incipient cheers and loud cries 
 of " Olle !" 
 
 At last the music died away and the dan- 
 cing ceased. She bowed again and again as 
 the plaudits rang out, accepting them with 
 a hesitancy that seemed almost shy. Then 
 she sat down, breathless and hot. Two or 
 three of the men who had been sitting on 
 the floor on the front line of spectators got 
 on their feet and went forward with compli- 
 ments, which she received with purely pro- 
 fessional gratitude. She accepted congrat- 
 ulations on her skill with a heartiness which 
 was perhaps perfunctory. In repose the ex- 
 pression of her countenance was almost 
 sombre, until it was illuminated by her 
 swift smile. 
 
 The guests who had seen her before 
 compared this performance with those pre- 
 ceding. One young man informed a young 
 girl that she did not dance as freely as she 
 used. " You see, some fellow told her she 
 had heart-disease, so she spares herself now. 
 I always sing out * Olle !' as loud as I can, 
 
72 A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 
 
 and as often too, to try and get her excited 
 a little and to keep her up to her work." 
 
 " I think some of the married women 
 might go up and talk to her," said the 
 young lady ; " she looks so timid I feel al- 
 most as if I ought to get presented to her, 
 so as to encourage her a little." 
 
 Side by side at the rear of the studio, 
 standing clear of the last row of chairs, 
 were a poet and a novelist. 
 
 " Do you suppose she really cares for the 
 applause and the compliments," asked the 
 novelist, "or is that brilliant smile of hers 
 part of the performance ?" 
 
 " I don't know," the poet responded. 
 " She seems to take to it kindly. Do you 
 see how she turns again and again to that 
 mandolin - player at her right, and how he 
 looks at her with a calm air of proprietor- 
 ship ?" 
 
 "Oh yes," the novelist returned; "they 
 say he's her husband but then they will 
 say anything." 
 
 Then the music started again, a low, 
 throbbing, pathetic air this time, and as 
 some of the audience recognized it, there 
 
A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 73 
 
 was an outbreak of applause. The Span- 
 iard arose and put on a black felt hat, which 
 she pulled down over her eyebrows, and she 
 reached down and picked up a long cane or 
 pilgrim's staff. The dancer was now to ap- 
 pear as a singer. The song was simple and 
 dramatic ; and the singing was varied by 
 much pantomime, by an attempt to express 
 its emotion histrionically, by an obvious 
 theatric effort. The end of every stanza 
 brought an odd little chorus, to the notes of 
 which the performer walked in time with an 
 indescribable swagger, irredeemably com- 
 mon, but never vulgar in the lower sense of 
 the word. At the end of the final stanza 
 the music was prolonged, and the walk 
 around became a dance, like the first and 
 yet unlike it, not the same and yet a va- 
 riation of the same theme. It had more 
 freedom than its predecessor and a wilder 
 abandon, as if the gypsy or the Moor was 
 overpowering the Spaniard. As it went on 
 there were frequent clappings of hands and 
 shouts of " Olle," as though the spectators 
 also were waking up. 
 
 The young man who had been talking to 
 
74 A CAMEO AND A PASTEL 
 
 the young lady found himself by the side of 
 the visitor from Washington who had once 
 been an attache at Madrid. 
 
 "I suppose you have seen better than 
 this in Spain ?" he asked, doubtfully. 
 
 " I have seen much the same thing," was 
 the answer. " Nothing more graceful ; noth- 
 ing more fascinating." 
 
 " Ah, but you just wait till after supper," 
 cried the young man, enthusiastically. 
 
 The poet overheard this, and moved away. 
 He delighted in the light and the color of 
 the thing, in its movement and rhythm, in 
 the aroma of luxury, in the unconvention- 
 ality of the entertainment; but his con- 
 science smote him. 
 
 "Do you see the shadow of that bird," 
 asked the novelist, "descending on the 
 dancer like a spirit of purity ? And if you 
 will look over here at the right of the dra- 
 pery, you can catch sight of the death-mask 
 of Shakespeare looking on at these revels* 
 with sightless eyes as if he enjoyed them. 
 
 " I feel like a barbarian of the lower em- 
 pire," the poet responded. "I shall be 
 ready soon for the gladiators, and I don't 
 
A CAiMEO AND A PASTEL 75 
 
 doubt I should hesitate whether to turn my 
 thumb down or not." 
 
 The music ceased suddenly, and the 
 dancer, after bowing once and again, 
 dropped into her chair, visibly panting. 
 Two ladies went forward together to ex- 
 press their pleasure at her performance. 
 The young man who accompanied them 
 borrowed one of their fans, and sinking on 
 his knees by the side of the dancer, he be- 
 gan to fan her. 
 
 (1892.) 
 
TWO LETTERS 
 
TWO LETTERS 
 
 FROM THE " GOTHAM GAZETTE OF APRIL 21. 
 FROM AN OCCASIONAL CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 GEORGETOWN, DEMERARA, April i. 
 
 I ARRIVED here last Sunday, safe and 
 sound, and I expect to be able to proceed 
 shortly to the scene of the boundary dis- 
 pute between England and Venezuela. I 
 have heard of a boat sailing next week for 
 the mouth of the Orinoco, on which I hope 
 to secure a passage. Although there has 
 been a fortnight or so of pleasant weather, 
 the rainy reason is not yet over, and travel- 
 ling is not altogether as easy or as pleasant 
 as it might be. 
 
 I cannot say that I regret the delay, as 
 it has enabled me to make acquaintance 
 
8o TWO LETTERS 
 
 here with a few charming people, from 
 whom I expect to take useful letters when 
 I go on my journey. 
 
 For another reason also I am not dissat- 
 isfied that I have been forced to remain in 
 this hospitable town. The delay has given 
 me an opportunity to make the acquaintance 
 of Mr. Walter Stead, an American citizen of 
 English birth, and a man of singular cour- 
 age and nobility of character. It has en- 
 abled me also to secure from Mr. Stead's 
 own mouth a full and exact account of the 
 extraordinary attack recently made upon 
 him in the interior, up the Essequibo River. 
 Although Mr. Stead, like other men of posi- 
 tive convictions and unhesitating boldness, 
 has not a few enemies here, I find that there 
 is a general agreement of opinion that the 
 outrage on him should be carefully investi- 
 gated, and that condign punishment should 
 be meted out to the survivors of the strange 
 people against whom he has had to defend 
 himself. That any portion of the treasure 
 he risked his life to protect can now be re- 
 covered is extremely doubtful. 
 
 Mr. Stead came to British Guiana as a 
 
TWO LETTERS 8 1 
 
 representative of the Essequibo Gold Com- 
 pany, an American organization, of which 
 Mr. Samuel Sargent is president. Although 
 the mines have never received adequate at- 
 tention, it has been known for centuries 
 that there was gold in abundance in the 
 mountains of Guiana. 
 
 It was in this country that Sir Walter Ra- 
 leigh placed his El Dorado, following in 
 this the belief of the earlier Spaniards ; and 
 when Choiseul sent out his 12,000 colonists 
 here in 1763, it was hoped that they would 
 be able to develop the gold mines ; but so 
 great was the mortality consequent on bad 
 management that within five years after the 
 arrival of this colony barely a thousand sur- 
 vived. The insalubrity of the climate has 
 been partly to blame for this neglect of the 
 golden treasure which lies almost within 
 man's grasp. And at one time the fear of 
 the Indians was also a deterrent. As is 
 well known, the Caribs were cannibals ; now 
 they have mostly died out. The Araucans 
 are natives of high intelligence and unusual 
 courage. Not a few of the bush tribes re- 
 tain flitting traces of their former Christian- 
 
82 TWO LETTERS 
 
 ity, which now commingles with their de- 
 graded superstitions. In the mountains at 
 the head of the Essequibo there has been 
 rumored to be a tribe of White Indians, who 
 were supposed to be the last of the ancient 
 Peruvians, living to-day as their ancestors 
 lived under the Incas when the Spaniards 
 conquered the country. That such a tribe 
 still exists has hitherto been but a doubtful 
 rumor, as no white man had ever succeeded 
 in penetrating into their country. But to- 
 day, although we know little more about 
 them, we know at least that such a tribe 
 does exist. Mr. Walter Stead has good rea- 
 son to remember them, and it is the tale of 
 his misadventures in their country that I 
 shall try to tell in this letter, regretting only 
 that my feeble pen cannot reproduce ade- 
 quately the stirring accents of Mr. Stead's 
 story as I heard it from his own lips. 
 
 I must begin by saying that although it 
 has been well known for centuries that there 
 was abundant gold in the mountains where 
 the many rivers which traverse Guiana have 
 their source, hitherto the attempts to get at 
 it have been spasmodic and more or less 
 
TWO LETTERS 83 
 
 unsatisfactory. In the upper waters of the 
 Caroni, in Venezuela, and at Arataya, in 
 Dutch Guiana, the prospector has been fair- 
 ly successful, and many a bag of golden 
 dust has rewarded his enterprise. But it 
 was not until a strong syndicate of Ameri- 
 cans, headed by Mr. Samuel Sargent, organ- 
 ized the Essequibo Gold Company that any 
 serious endeavor was made to wrest the 
 precious metal from the heart of the Sierra 
 Acarai Mountains. 
 
 The Essequibo Gold Company, supported 
 by abundant capital, was able to make a 
 careful survey of the situation. Its agents 
 skilfully prospected throughout the length 
 and breadth of British Guiana. The re- 
 ports they sent home were compared, and 
 the specimens of ore they forwarded were 
 assayed ; and the consensus of expert opin- 
 ion was to the effect that it would be best 
 to begin operations almost at the head of 
 the Essequibo water-shed, between the Zi- 
 bingatzako Pass and Mount Turako. Two 
 years ago a body of experienced Californian 
 miners was got together and despatched to 
 Demerara, whence the men, with their tools, 
 
84 TWO LETTERS 
 
 were sent up the Essequibo as far as the 
 King William IV. Cataract. Hence they 
 had still to push their way into the tropical 
 wilderness nearly a hundred miles farther, 
 through the territory of the friendly tribe of 
 the Taruma Indians. 
 
 For now eighteen months these resolute 
 Americans have been hard at work digging 
 gold from the flanks of the Sierra Acarai. 
 It has hitherto been impossible to provide 
 these sturdy miners with the improved ma- 
 chinery to which they have been accus- 
 tomed. Hydraulic mining, for example, has 
 not yet been attempted. Although the en- 
 terprise has passed the experimental stage, 
 the works are still of the most primitive 
 character. Yet the results have been very 
 encouraging, and the yield of gold is stead- 
 ily increasing. The facilities of approach 
 have been improved, although they are still 
 wholly inadequate. A monthly messenger 
 descends from the miners to Demerara ; the 
 products of the washings come down every 
 quarter; and supplies and reinforcements 
 are sent up from the coast at least twice a 
 year. In the organization of these means 
 
TWO LETTERS 85 
 
 of communication Mr. Stead has been in- 
 valuable. For a year he has been here, 
 going to and fro, acquainting himself with 
 every detail of the work, and devising im- 
 proved methods for its accomplishment. 
 And it was in pursuance of this duty that 
 he met with misfortune, and was forced to 
 fight for his life. 
 
 Before setting forth the details of his 
 brave struggle one man against many I 
 ought, perhaps, to try to set before you the 
 man himself. At first sight he does not 
 seem to be cast in heroic mould. He is 
 shorter than, the average, and his figure is 
 slim rather than sturdy. But, slight as he 
 is, he is wiry and tough ; and his meagre 
 form sheathes a soul as noble as any in the 
 breast of a Crusader of old. Although Mr. 
 Stead is not yet forty, his hair, a rich bronze, 
 is already beginning to be streaked with 
 gray, and the deep lines on his thin face tell 
 the same tale of hard battling with the vi- 
 cissitudes of life. His eyes are restless and 
 yet piercing. His expression is self-reliant ; 
 one does not hesitate to say at first sight, 
 " Here is a shrewd man, able to take care 
 
86 TWO LETTERS 
 
 of himself." And when occasion serves, Mr. 
 Stead is able to take care of himself, as I 
 shall show. 
 
 Mr. Stead reached the mines some two 
 months ago, bearing letters and instructions. 
 The superintendent of the company's works 
 there was beginning to get a little uneasy 
 about the accumulated gold, which was in- 
 creasing with unexpected rapidity, and yet 
 he was not able to send down a detachment 
 of men to guard the treasure to the coast. 
 There were rumors of uneasiness among the 
 surviving Caribs, perhaps the most danger- 
 ous of the Indian tribes, and a friendly Ta- 
 ruma had come into the camp with a strange 
 story about some marauding expedition of 
 the alleged tribe of White Indians, whose 
 possible identity with the surviving people 
 of the Incas I have already recorded. That 
 such a tribe even existed has hitherto been 
 doubtful, and the superintendent, although 
 he was not a little alarmed by the reports, 
 which came to him from two or three sources, 
 was not at all convinced either that these 
 Inca Indians were on the war-path, or even 
 that there was any such tribe. Neverthe- 
 
TWO LETTERS 87 
 
 less, when the time came for Mr. Stead's de- 
 parture, and he offered to bear down to the 
 coast as much gold-dust as he could carry 
 in a belt around his waist, the superintend- 
 ent accepted his proposal gladly. Although 
 spare, as I have said, Mr. Stead is a man of 
 unusual strength, and he was able to bestow 
 on his person about forty pounds' weight of 
 gold, worth approximately ten thousand dol- 
 lars. The flat ingots of the precious metal 
 were sewed into a broad belt or jacket, girt 
 tightly about the waist, and supported by 
 straps over the shoulders. This jacket-belt 
 was made for him by a native woman. 
 
 For the most part the long and weari- 
 some journey was to be made in a canoe, 
 and the burden of the gold was therefore 
 far less than it would have been had it been 
 necessary for Mr. Stead to cover the dis- 
 tance on foot. 
 
 The bearer of the treasure was amply 
 armed. He carried a repeating rifle, and 
 he wore a revolver at his waist. He was to 
 be accompanied throughout his trip by one 
 white man, and one only. This compan- 
 ion was a fellow-employe of the Essequibo 
 
88 TWO LETTERS 
 
 Gold Company, Mr. Thomas Austin, also an 
 American, but a man of far less readiness of 
 resource and strength of character than Mr. 
 Stead. Austin had occupied a humble posi- 
 tion in the service of the company, and the 
 climate had broken his health, so that he 
 begged the privilege of returning to Deme- 
 rara with Mr. Stead, to whose recommenda- 
 tion, indeed, he owed his engagement. 
 
 The canoe which was to bear the intrepid 
 travellers on their long and lonesome voyage 
 was of the kind called by the natives a 
 "wood-skin" that is to say, it was made 
 from the heavy bark of the purple-heart ; it 
 was about fifteen feet long, and it could 
 carry comfortably the two voyagers, with a 
 supply of provisions sufficient for their jour- 
 ney. 
 
 On the first stage of the journey, down 
 to the King William IV. Falls, the two 
 Americans were accompanied by a band of 
 the friendly Tarumas ; but after assisting 
 Mr. Stead and his companion over the port- 
 age around the falls, these Indians bade 
 them farewell, and returned to their own 
 country, not daring to venture into the wild- 
 
TWO LETTERS 89 
 
 er Carib territory, through which the Esse- 
 quibo River passes. Mr. Stead is now in- 
 clined to believe that the Tarumas were 
 also affrighted by the rumors about the 
 White Indians. 
 
 This passage through the land of the 
 Caribs was always accounted the most dan- 
 gerous part of the voyage down the river 
 from the mines to the coast. Mr. Stead and 
 Austin accomplished it without delay or 
 mishap. For hours they floated down with 
 the swollen current, making no other exer- 
 tion than was needed to keep the canoe in 
 the swiftest channel. For hours they sped 
 along in the midst of the oppressive silence 
 of a South -American forest a vast and 
 deadly stillness, awful beyond belief, and 
 broken only now and again by a startling 
 scream. At noon sometimes a booming 
 crash would echo through the forest, fol- 
 lowed by a clang like that of an iron bar 
 against a hollow tree. Then the silence 
 would settle down again, and it might be an 
 hour or more before a piercing half human 
 and wholly terrible shriek would shrill out. 
 Towards night, again, as the twilight fell 
 
90 TWO LETTERS 
 
 and the long shadows of the twisted trees 
 lay black and contorted on the water, a cry 
 would suddenly rend the air a weird, blood- 
 curdling yell ; and the travellers would tire 
 themselves in vain effort to account for it. 
 And through these horrible sounds, and 
 through this still more horrible silence, the 
 two Americans fared forward to the settle- 
 ments of civilization on the coast. 
 
 Through the territory of the Caribs they 
 passed without adventure or misadventure. 
 It was not until they came under the shad- 
 ow of the Makarapan Mountains that they 
 had the first suggestion of impending evil. 
 They landed for dinner on the left-hand 
 side of the stream, and as they were about 
 to prepare their simple repast there appeared 
 before them suddenly three stalwart war- 
 riors. Fortunately Mr. Stead saw them re- 
 flected on the surface of a pool of water 
 spreading from a bubbling spring beside 
 which the travellers had seated themselves, 
 and he was able to grasp his repeating rifle 
 in time to confront the strange visitors. 
 Apparently the new-comers knew what fire- 
 arms were, although they themselves were 
 
TWO LETTERS 9 1 
 
 equipped only with bows and arrows. They 
 advanced and stood before the two Ameri- 
 cans. Mr. Stead stared at them in surprise, 
 as he saw how they differed from the ordi- 
 nary native of the Essequibo Valley. The 
 Indians of Guiana adorn their bodies in fan- 
 tastic patterns, with a red paint which is 
 highly scented, and they wear necklaces of 
 boars' teeth. The three men who stood be- 
 fore Stead were unpainted, and they wore 
 only ornaments of feathers ; and, most re- 
 markable of all, their skins, although not 
 white, were far lighter in color than any Ind- 
 ian's. 
 
 For a moment the two groups stood si- 
 lently facing one another. Then the White 
 Indians, as Mr. Stead calls them, drew near- 
 er, and the one who seemed to be their 
 leader spoke. Austin, who had been longer 
 in South America than Stead, said that the 
 only word he could recognize was "gold." 
 At first this seemed to have no significance, 
 but when the chief approached Stead, and 
 touched the treasure -belt he wore beneath 
 his shirt, and sought to remove it, then the 
 Americans knew that the White Indians 
 
92 TWO LETTERS 
 
 were aware of the object of their journey, 
 and that thereafter they might have to de- 
 fend the gold with their lives. How the 
 Indians got wind of the precious belt it was 
 impossible to say, but Mr. Stead has reason 
 to suspect that one of the Taruma Indians 
 perhaps the husband of the woman who 
 had made his treasure-belt spied out the 
 secret, and managed to communicate it to 
 the men who now sought to waylay him. 
 When the White Indian reached out for the 
 belt, Mr. Stead sternly thrust off the fellow's 
 hand, and with energetic gestures indicated 
 that the treasure was his, and that it could 
 not be surrendered. Among most savage 
 races sign-language is highly developed, and 
 the three men who stood before Stead ob- 
 viously understood his emphatic negation. 
 They made another vain effort, and then 
 they withdrew into the heavy woods which 
 spread away from the river on both sides. 
 
 At Mr. Stead's suggestion, the two Amer- 
 icans hastily reloaded their canoe, and 
 dropped down the river a dozen miles or 
 more, stopping at last on the other side at a 
 bend of the stream, where there seemed to 
 
TWO LETTERS 93 
 
 be a level space of grass. Here they made 
 a hasty meal, having started a fire at the 
 roots of a withered cotton-wood tree which 
 stood in the centre of the clearing. 
 
 Around this tree the ground seemed to 
 have been carefully cleared, and at a dis- 
 tance of a dozen yards or so there was a- 
 circle of white stones, so regularly placed 
 that it was scarcely possible not to accept 
 them as having been arranged by human 
 hands. Throughout Guiana the huge cot- 
 ton-wood decays into fantastic shapes like 
 the skeleton of a demon. Austin told his 
 companion that the natives are very super- 
 stitious about the cotton - wood, and will 
 never cut one down, or even throw stones 
 at it, believing that misfortune will surely 
 follow if they do. Many are the strange be- 
 liefs among the Indians. "There is even 
 known to be a tribe," said Austin, " which 
 worships a sacred bird." Mr. Stead recalled 
 the custom of the Incas in the old days of 
 Peruvian civilization, when the monarch 
 wore upright in his turban three feathers of 
 a rare and curious bird, the coraquenque. 
 This biped was sacred to the ruler ; it served 
 
94 TWO LETTERS 
 
 only to supply the plume which was the 
 badge of sovereignty ; and if an ordinary 
 citizen killed one the penalty was death. 
 
 The two Americans had built their fire 
 in the prickly spurs of the tree, feeding it 
 with chips from the withered branches, which 
 still extended from the hollow trunk. When 
 they were finishing their repast the fire had 
 burned well into the roots, and the whole 
 tree began to blaze up. As the smoke 
 poured thick through the rotten trunk, as 
 through a chimney, there was a noise of 
 wings and a weird hooting, and an awkward 
 fowl flew up out of the hollow, where it had 
 been reposing. 
 
 Obeying a sudden impulse, Stead seized 
 his gun, and as the fleeting object was out- 
 lined against the fading twilight, he fired, 
 and brought it down with a single shot. 
 
 " Let's hope I haven't killed the sacred 
 bird !" he cried, as the gory mass of feathers 
 fell to the ground. 
 
 But that was exactly what he had unwit- 
 tingly done ; and the evil deed brought dire 
 misfortune. As the echo of the shot died 
 away, the two Americans heard a long loud 
 
TWO LETTERS 95 
 
 whistle almost human, but with a ghoulish 
 shrillness. 
 
 " Now we shall have bad luck," said Aus- 
 tin, shivering despite the fire before which 
 he was standing. 
 
 "Why?" asked Stead. 
 
 "Because that is the call of the Didi, 
 and it always forebodes evil to those who 
 hear it." 
 
 Mr. Stead was aware that the Didi is an 
 unknown and unseen evil spirit, which the 
 natives believe to lurk in the dark depths of 
 the forest. To him is attributed any sudden 
 death or mysterious disappearance. But 
 Mr. Stead is not superstitious ; laughing 
 lightly at Austin's evident dread, he stepped 
 into the brush and brought forth the body 
 of the bird. 
 
 "It is like the coraquenque," he said, as 
 he held it in his hand. " See, here are the 
 three royal feathers." 
 
 " Hush !" whispered Austin, suddenly, 
 gripping his arm. "We have been follow- 
 ed. Don't you hear the paddles ?" 
 
 Stead listened intently, and from the dis- 
 tance there came a succession of faint sounds. 
 
96 TWO LETTERS 
 
 " They are on our trail," said Austin. 
 
 " Who ?" asked Stead. 
 
 "The White Indians," answered Austin. 
 " They know that you have the gold, and 
 they will not cease from following us till 
 they get it. Don't you hear them ?" 
 
 Again the two Americans held their breath 
 as they bent forward listening. From over 
 the water there came a regular rhythmical 
 sound as of paddle strokes. Then sudden- 
 ly there rang out again the shrill, uncanny 
 whistle of the Didi. 
 
 " I'm going to get out of this," cried Aus- 
 tin. 
 
 Mr. Stead threw down the body of the 
 bird. " If there is some one on our track," 
 he said, " we had best not stand in the glare 
 of this fire. Nobody could ask a better mark 
 than we are here." 
 
 They stepped back into the shadow. For- 
 tunately they had not unloaded the wood- 
 skin, and Mr. Stead had not removed the 
 treasure-belt from his waist. Their canoe 
 was hidden in the shrubbery which thickly 
 fringed the river a few yards below the point 
 where they had lighted their fire. When 
 
TWO LETTERS 97 
 
 they came to the wood-skin, night was al- 
 ready settling down on them. Only the 
 blazing tree cast a ruddy glow. 
 
 Austin got into the boat at once ; but 
 Stead, after handing his rifle to his com- 
 panion, stood on the shore, hidden in the 
 darkness, peering forward to see if they 
 were really pursued. 
 
 "Come on," cried Austin; "we are losing 
 time." 
 
 " Why need we go ?" said Stead. " I want 
 first to make sure that there is a reason for 
 flight." 
 
 "Reason enough," Austin answered. "If 
 you had been in this country as long as I, 
 you would know that the Didi never brought 
 anybody good-luck." 
 
 Stead did not answer. At that instant he 
 saw the bow of a canoe come out of the 
 shadow into the light of the flaming cotton- 
 wood. 
 
 There were three men in this canoe ; two 
 of them were paddling, and one was seated 
 in the centre. They were the three White 
 Indians who had visited the two Americans 
 in the afternoon. 
 
9 8 TWO LETTERS 
 
 " What are you waiting for now ?" Austin 
 whispered, in a trembling voice. " You see 
 they are after us. Get into the boat at once, 
 and we can still escape them." 
 
 Stead looked at his companion with some 
 slight surprise. " I don't think," he said, 
 "that two Americans ought to run away 
 from three Indians." 
 
 " But we don't know how many more they 
 have coming with them," answered Austin, 
 pettishly. " Enough of this foolishness, I 
 say. Get in now, or I'll push off without 
 you." 
 
 Stead said nothing, but silently watched 
 the three men make fast their canoe and 
 step out on land. They looked up the river, 
 and one of them gave a doleful cry. It was 
 repeated from far over the water, and then 
 taken up again and again, farther and far- 
 ther off. 
 
 " They have a dozen more wood-skins on 
 the way down here," said the timorous Aus- 
 tin. " I give you fair warning I am not go- 
 ing to stay here to count them. With you 
 or without you, I'm off." 
 
 Before Stead could reply, a second canoe 
 
TWO LETTERS 99 
 
 came in sight. As it touched the bank, five 
 more of the White Indians alighted from it. 
 The three who had first landed drew near 
 to the tree on fire. One of these almost 
 stepped on the carcass of the bird Stead 
 had shot. He stopped and picked it up, and 
 gave a sudden wail of sorrow. The others 
 had no sooner laid eyes on the slain bird, 
 with its sacred feathers bedraggled with 
 blood, than they too made a pitiful cry. 
 Then, as the new-comers approached, the 
 bird was pointed out, and all eight of the 
 White Indians raised a fierce yell. Though 
 the language was unknown, the meaning of 
 their outcry was plain enough they would 
 seek revenge for this sacrilege. And so, by 
 his innocent shot, Mr. Stead had added a 
 religious fervor to their pursuit; and they 
 sought now not only his treasure, but his 
 life as well. 
 
 Brave as he was, he felt that the time had 
 come to withdraw. But when he turned to 
 join Austin in the wood-skin, he found that 
 it was gone. Affrighted by the revengeful 
 shriek, Austin had deserted him. Mr. Stead 
 was alone, without a friend, without a boat, 
 
100 TWO LETTERS 
 
 without food. He had nothing but his treas- 
 ure-belt and his revolver, with the twenty or 
 thirty cartridges he happened to have on his 
 person. 
 
 . At this moment a third canoe appeared, 
 and five more White Indians were added to 
 the group gathered about the fire. Mr. Stead 
 took advantage of the noise and excitement 
 which arose among his foes as they showed 
 the new-comers the body of the bird he had 
 slain, and crept farther back into the bushes 
 as noiselessly as he could. Escape by way 
 of the river was impossible, now that Austin 
 had abandoned him. To get away from the 
 water into the woods which masked the hills 
 was his sole chance of safety. For the mo- 
 ment the one thing needful was to take him- 
 self out of sight of the rapidly increasing 
 band of White Indians, who were determined 
 to kill him, moved now by the double motive 
 of avenging a sacrilege and of plundering his 
 treasure. After he might get clear of them, 
 it would be time enough to make plans for 
 returning to the settlements of civilization. 
 
 With every muscle at its highest tension, 
 Mr. Stead wormed his way along the ground, 
 
TWO LETTERS IOI 
 
 borne down by the weight of his gold, which 
 even then, in the dire extremity of his dan- 
 ger, he did not think of abandoning. Inch 
 by inch, foot by foot, he crawled away from 
 the fatal spot. At every step he expected 
 to betray himself. Every minute he feared 
 to see the White Indians scatter in pursuit 
 of him. To this day he does not know why 
 they made no immediate effort to discover 
 his whereabouts. The shot that killed the 
 coraquenque was fired when they were in 
 hearing, but two minutes before they came 
 in sight, and the bird must yet have been 
 warm with life when they took it in their 
 hands. Why it was that they did not make 
 an instant search for the man, who could 
 not have been far off, is to him inexplica- 
 ble. Mr. Stead is now inclined to accept 
 this dilatoriness and delay of his enemies 
 as the providential means of his escape. As 
 it was, he succeeded in gaining the verge of 
 the denser forest on the hill-side just as the 
 moon came out and flooded with light the 
 vacant spaces across which he had fled but 
 a few minutes before under cover of the 
 friendly darkness. 
 
102 TWO LETTERS 
 
 The hill forest was distant barely half a 
 mile from the river-bank, but Mr. Stead had 
 taken more than an hour to make the jour- 
 ney, on his hands and, knees mostly, except 
 where he arose to dash across a clearing as 
 swiftly as he could. He sat him down in 
 the shadow of the trees, to take breath and 
 to collect his thoughts. He had only a 
 vague idea as to his exact position, but he 
 believed that a little way below the mount- 
 ain rose abruptly on each side of the stream, 
 and the river ran through a narrow gorge. 
 On the other side, it might be some ten or 
 twenty miles away, or it might be more, there 
 was a village of friendly Indians, where he 
 had once spent the night on his journey up- 
 stream to the gold mines. If he could but 
 get to this village he doubted not that he 
 could procure a wood-skin and assistance 
 to continue his journey to the coast, where 
 he had agreed to deliver the treasure which 
 now weighed him down. 
 
 The blazing tree by whose roots he was 
 standing when he had shot the fatal cora- 
 quenque a couple of hours before had burned 
 itself out, but on the open space before it 
 
TWO LETTERS 103 
 
 there was gathered a group of the White 
 Indians which he reckoned to contain at 
 least fifty. They were drawn up in rings 
 about the chief the tall man who had first 
 addressed Stead and this chief seemed 
 to be haranguing them. A cry of approval 
 punctuated his sentences, and when he con- 
 cluded there arose a yell of vengeance, which 
 Mr. Stead, alone in the darkness of the hill 
 forest above them, could hear, and heard 
 without fear. 
 
 Yet it was with a certain beating of the 
 heart that he saw his foes scatter in search 
 of him at la'st. While he was recovering his 
 breath and resting his muscles, a shout from 
 the shore notified him that the point was 
 discovered where the canoe had been made 
 fast The trail of Mr. Stead's tortuous and 
 crawling progress from that spot into the 
 denser brushwood fifty yards away was plain. 
 In fifteen minutes more the W'hite Indians 
 in a compact body were pressing forward on 
 his track through the undergrowth of the 
 foot-hills. 
 
 Then began for Mr. Stead a flight by 
 night which was enough to break the nerves 
 
104 TWO LETTERS 
 
 of the bravest of men. Through the dark- 
 ness, in the forest, uphill and on the level, 
 lighted only by the chance rays of the moon 
 as they broke through the heavy foliage, 
 borne down by the weight of his golden 
 burden, worn out by the labor of the day 
 and by the haste of his escape, on and on 
 he toiled, hearing the call of his pursuers, 
 now fainter and now louder, pushing ahead, 
 but not knowing where he was going, and 
 conscious finally of naught but a struggle 
 between his love of life and an overmaster- 
 ing fatigue, which multiplied with every step 
 he took. 
 
 At last he could do no more. He had 
 been climbing higher and higher, and he 
 had come out on a shelf of rock, from which 
 the mountains seemed to rise sheer be- 
 fore him. He had no strength to advance, 
 even if his benumbed intelligence could 
 see a path upward. He sank down where 
 he stood, exhausted absolutely, conscious 
 only that the signals of his pursuers had 
 been fainter of late. But before he could 
 even formulate a hope that he had dis- 
 tanced them, or that they had lost his trail, 
 
TWO LETTERS 105 
 
 Nature claimed her own, and he was 
 asleep. 
 
 How long he slept he did not know ; but 
 when he awoke the sun was breaking over 
 the mountains. He lay still, slowly collect- 
 ing his thoughts. Even then he could not 
 recall all the incidents of his flight. He 
 had fled, and they had pursued, and he was 
 safe so far this was all he knew, and it was 
 almost all he cared. How he was to ad- 
 vance farther he did not know, or what he 
 was to do next. His bones ached as he lay 
 there on the ground, his mouth was parched, 
 and he began to feel the pangs of hunger. 
 He looked about him to see if he could not 
 find some fruit with which he might stay 
 his stomach, or a brook whereat he might 
 quench his thirst. He was lying on a ledge 
 of rock but thinly covered with earth, al- 
 though richly robed with the luxuriant vege- 
 tation of the tropics. In front of him rose 
 the sheer cliff which in the darkness had 
 barred his farther progress. It was this 
 rock, an unsurmountable obstacle in the 
 darkness, which was now to prove a means 
 of safety by day. 
 
IO6 TWO LETTERS 
 
 As Mr. Stead gazed about him in search 
 of what might serve as meat and drink, the 
 light of dawn strengthened, and the preci- 
 pice which towered before him began to 
 glow with the beams of the rising sun. In 
 this increase of light he seemed to see a 
 strange medley of figures moving across the 
 face of the rock. At first he mistrusted his 
 senses, feeling that his fatigue had perhaps 
 made him subject to hallucinations or vi- 
 sions. But as he looked again he found that 
 his eyes had only half deceived him. The 
 figures were there before him, but they were 
 motionless. Carved on the face of the cliff 
 in rude relief, they were colored into a sem- 
 blance of reality. 
 
 Then Mr. Stead knew where he was. He 
 recognized the fact that he had before him 
 one of the Pictured Rocks of the Essequibo, 
 which many a voyager had sought and very 
 few had ever found. He had been told 
 that they existed in three or four places, 
 and that they were always so situated that 
 they could be seen from afar by the first 
 rays of the rising sun. What their origin 
 might be, nobody can declare with precision. 
 
TWO LETTERS 107 
 
 Sometimes they are apparently commemo- 
 rative of some royal hero or some noble feat 
 at arms ; sometimes they are obviously ex- 
 planatory devices designed to guide the 
 wayfarer. 
 
 That which Mr. Stead was fortunate 
 enough to find before him belonged to this 
 latter class. It served as a sign-post, as it 
 were, to a way of safety. In this case the 
 tinted sculptures indicated a sort of profile 
 map of the mountains, with the river flowing 
 between. An outstretched hand with point- 
 ing finger showed the direction to be taken 
 if the traveller desired to pass over to the 
 other side of the stream by a hanging bridge 
 which swung across the chasm. Rudely cut 
 figures as rudely daubed with color were 
 proceeding along the paths and passing 
 over the frail bridge. Then Mr. Stead re- 
 membered that on the journey up the river 
 they had had to make a long portage around 
 the mountain because the stream here ran 
 between high walls, and was not to be as- 
 cended by boat on account of its succession 
 of rapids and cataracts. He had never 
 heard that there was any such bridge across 
 
108 TWO LETTERS 
 
 the river as was seen in the picture-writing, 
 but there might very well be. And if there 
 were, then he had at least a chance of es- 
 cape. Once across the river, he thought he 
 could find his way to the village of friendly 
 Indians a few miles farther below ; then the 
 rest of the journey would be easy and with- 
 out danger. 
 
 How distant the bridge might be, if in- 
 deed there were any bridge, he could not 
 estimate from the pictorial outlines before 
 him. But whatever was the distance the 
 direction was plain, and the journey must be 
 undertaken. Mr. Stead arose and tightened 
 the belt around him. Following the sug- 
 gestion of the outstretched finger, he started 
 along the ledge of the cliff, and now that full 
 daylight helped him, he soon came to a 
 break in the rock above him a break 
 through which it was easy to attain the 
 brow of the mountain. Here he came out 
 on a table-land less densely covered with 
 vegetation. Although almost level, it sloped 
 gently upward. A quarter of a mile away 
 to his right the ground broke, and here he 
 supposed the high bank of the river to be. 
 
TWO LETTERS log 
 
 A mile beyond him, or it might be two, the 
 cliff of the opposite river-bank rose up, and 
 apparently the channel narrowed. There, if 
 anywhere, would be the bridge which was 
 figured in the picture-writing. 
 
 Hitherto Mr. Stead had proceeded very 
 cautiously, feeling his way lest he should 
 walk into an ambush, looking back often to 
 make sure that he was not followed, and 
 keeping his revolver in his hand, with his 
 finger on the trigger. But in the joy of see- 
 ing the table-land stretch away before him, 
 with the hope that the bridge of safety was 
 but a mile or two ahead, inadvertently he 
 paused for a moment at the edge of the 
 cliff up which he had climbed. For a few 
 seconds only was his figure outlined against 
 the sky. 
 
 Brief as was this space of time it sufficed. 
 A cry arose from the hill-side beneath him 
 to the left of the path by which he had 
 come ; it was the same cry with which the 
 White Indians in the first canoe had called 
 to their comrades in the other boats. In- 
 stantly it was repeated first to the right 
 of him, then again to the left, then four or 
 
HO TWO LETTERS 
 
 five times farther down the hill-side. There 
 was no mistaking the meaning of these 
 calls : he was discovered, and the enemy 
 was on his trail. 
 
 Mr. Stead looked over the cliff again. 
 Not one of the White Indians was in sight 
 So he knew he had a good start To stand 
 still was but to invite death. His one 
 chance of life lay in reaching the bridge 
 first He set off at once at a rapid pace 
 notwithstanding the heavy weight of treas- 
 ure which lined his belt If it were abso- 
 lutely necessary to save his life, he was 
 ready to abandon the gold, but only under 
 the most desperate circumstances did he in- 
 tend to give it up. The pursuers meant to 
 kill him and to get his precious burden ; 
 and Mr. Stead was resolved to prevent, if 
 he could, their doing either. 
 
 Knowing that his enemies were now fol- 
 lowing him closely, he looked back with 
 every few steps he took. In the fear of a 
 fatigue which might prevent his reaching his 
 object, he dared not over-exert himself, but 
 he walked as fast as he thought wise. He 
 rested himself now and again by breaking 
 
TWO LETTERS III 
 
 into a jog-trot whenever the incline of the 
 ground was not too abrupt. He had covered 
 nearly two-thirds of the distance from the 
 brow of the hill to where he might hope to 
 find the bridge when he caught the first 
 glimpse of his pursuers . the outline of a 
 single man stood out against the horizon. 
 He quickened his pace. 
 
 When next he looked back there were 
 four or five men gathered together in a little 
 group about the tall chief. As his eyes 
 were on them the chief waved one hand, and 
 the warriors sprang forward in a brisk run. 
 He had seen them, and he knew that they 
 could see him. It was now a question of 
 speed. If he could get across the bridge 
 safe and sound, it might be that he could 
 hold it until nightfall should give him an- 
 other chance of escape. If they should 
 catch up to him on the open ground, or if 
 there should not be any bridge at the spot 
 where he hoped to find it, then all would be 
 over ; his life would not be worth an hour's 
 purchase, however dearly he might sell it. 
 
 The ground favored him just then, and 
 he dropped into a gentle run. Soon the 
 
H2 TWO LETTERS 
 
 declivity became too steep for so rapid a 
 progress, and he fell back to a walk. Again 
 he looked at his pursuers. The little group 
 about the chief, not so compact now as 
 when he had first seen it, had covered more 
 than a quarter of the distance which had 
 separated them. And behind these were 
 three other groups rushing towards him, 
 stretching across the slope one after the 
 other. 
 
 Mr. Stead set his teeth and strode for- 
 ward. For five minutes he toiled steadily 
 upward, as he neared his goal the ascent 
 was steeper. When he could no longer re- 
 sist the desire to see whether or not his 
 enemies were gaining on him, he turned his 
 head again. The chief and his followers 
 were but a few hundred feet behind him 
 scarcely beyond bow-shot , and tailing out 
 over the inclined plain were half a hundred 
 more White Indians, all racing towards him. 
 As they saw him looking at them they raised 
 fierce yells of hatred. 
 
 In ten yards more Mr. Stead came out on 
 the brink of the river, which rolled along in 
 a deep gulf below, whence it sent out a cloud 
 
TWO LETTERS 113 
 
 of spray from a thundering cataract. Scarce 
 a hundred feet before him the gulf was 
 spanned by a slight swinging bridge. 
 
 Mr. Stead saw it, and he gave a gasp of 
 relief ; knowing there was now no more need 
 to husband his strength, he rushed forward 
 as fast as he could. When he came to the 
 foot-path which led to the bridge he was 
 still a hundred feet in advance of the near- 
 est of his pursuers. He crossed the frail 
 and vibrating structure as swiftly as he 
 dared, though it trembled beneath his tread, 
 and swung from side to side until it almost 
 threw him off into the dark abyss below, 
 where the river raged fiercely along. As he 
 was toiling up the farther half of the bridge 
 the White Indians arrived on the brink of 
 the cliff behind him. They paused, and 
 two of them fitted arrows to their bows. 
 One of these missiles missed Mr. Stead, the 
 other struck him in the back of the waist, 
 and broke off against the plates of gold 
 which protected his person at that place. 
 
 When he set foot on the firm land and 
 faced about, three of his foes were already 
 on the bridge and crossing over. He stood 
 
114 TWO LETTERS 
 
 still in the centre of the path and took de- 
 liberate aim and fired. The foremost Ind- 
 ian threw up his hands and fell sideways 
 from the bridge. A second shot struck the 
 next man in the right thigh, and he dropped 
 back, vainly grasping, as he turned in the 
 air, at the ropes which supported the fragile 
 pathway, and dropped down into the dark 
 water which was roaring along the bottom 
 of the chasm more than a hundred feet be- 
 low. The third man had but just started 
 on his perilous passage : when his two pred- 
 ecessors perished so suddenly, he hesitated 
 for a second, then he sprang forward again. 
 The chief stretched out his arm and stayed 
 the other White Indians as they came up, 
 waiting to see what might be the fate of the 
 third man. Mr. Stead held his fire until 
 this man a tall, handsome fellow was 
 within fifty feet of him, then he pulled the 
 trigger, and the pursuer, shot through the 
 heart, sprang up into the air, and fell down 
 into the gulf below, knotted into a convul- 
 sive ball. Then Mr. Stead, seeing that there 
 was no movement on the part of his enemies 
 to attack again, reloaded his revolver. 
 
TWO LETTERS 115 
 
 By this time nearly all the warriors had 
 assembled on the other side. Several of 
 the late comers were about to run forward 
 on the bridge, but the tall chief called them 
 back. Suddenly a flight of arrows shot 
 across the chasm, and fluttered down be- 
 fore Mr. Stead's feet. He was just out of 
 range. But he thought it best to discourage 
 any desire they might have to use him as a 
 mark: taking careful aim, he fired his re- 
 volver again, and the bullet broke the chief's 
 arm. An awful yell arose at this, and for 
 the third time the chief had to restrain the 
 impetuosity of his followers. Mr. Stead 
 could not but admire the reckless bravery 
 of his foes, eager to sacrifice their lives 
 to avenge their leader. 
 
 For a few minutes there was a respite. 
 While an old man carefully bandaged the 
 chief's wounded arm, the others gathered 
 about them and raised a weird, irregular, 
 pathetic chant, which seemed part of the 
 ceremonial of cure. Mr. Stead took ad- 
 vantage of the lull to consider the situation. 
 So long as he could hold the end of the 
 bridge he was safe ; they could advance 
 
Il6 TWO LETTERS 
 
 across it only one at a time, and their num- 
 bers were therefore of no advantage to them. 
 Yet this security was but temporary ; he 
 dared not abandon his post, for his safety 
 depended on his defending it. He was 
 forced to remain where he was, and to make 
 no attempt to proceed on his journey. His 
 foes outnumbered him fifty to one. They 
 could tire him out, and they could starve 
 him out, if they were willing to settle down 
 to a siege. They might even separate, and 
 while one detachment kept him at bay, the 
 other might retrace its steps to the place 
 where he shot the bird of ill omen, and 
 where their canoes were ; then, crossing the 
 river in these, they might come down and 
 take him in the rear. 
 
 This scheme seemed to have occurred to 
 the chief at the very moment that it sug- 
 gested itself to Mr. Stead. From his com- 
 manding position the American saw the 
 leader of the White Indians call a man for- 
 ward and give him a series of orders, ac- 
 companied by gestures which Mr. Stead 
 found no difficulty in interpreting. When 
 he had received his instructions the chosen 
 
TWO LETTERS 117 
 
 leader of the detachment went among his 
 comrades and picked out a dozen of them. 
 These he drew up in line before the chiej, 
 who spoke a few words of advice, apparent- 
 ly, and of warning. When the chief ceased, 
 his followers raised a shout of anticipatory 
 triumph, shaking their weapons in the air, 
 and casting looks of hatred against the 
 single American. Then the designated 
 group broke away from the main body and 
 ran back on their own trail. In less than 
 five minutes they were lost to sight. 
 
 Mr. Stead had no doubt as to the mean- 
 ing of the departure of this detachment of 
 his foes. He knew that in a definite time 
 probably four or five hours he would 
 be outflanked. With an enemy behind him, 
 against whom he could have no protection, 
 his doom would soon be sealed. He saw 
 that if he wished to save his life, and to 
 bear off the treasure which had been con- 
 fided to him, and which he had bound him- 
 self to convey safely to its destination, 
 he must do something, and he must do it 
 quickly. 
 
 His first thought was to pick off his op- 
 
Il8 TWO LETTERS 
 
 ponents one by one, as he had wounded 
 the chief. But a moment's reflection showed 
 the impossibility of this proceeding. There 
 were still nearly two-score White Indians at 
 the other end of the bridge. By taking 
 them unawares, he might hope to kill ten or 
 a dozen. But what would this profit him ? 
 The rest would hide themselves behind the 
 rocks, and, securely under cover, they could 
 then bide their time, exposing themselves 
 only when their comrades might announce 
 their arrival on his side of the river. And 
 yet another reason deterred him. His stock 
 of ammunition was limited ; he had barely 
 a score more cartridges. 
 
 To remain where he was would be im- 
 possible, and to retreat while his foes might 
 at once cross the bridge after him was to in- 
 vite an immediate death. His only hope of 
 safety was so to bar their passage across 
 the river that he might continue his journey 
 without fear of their following him. 
 
 The bridge was of a kind uncommon in 
 Guiana, but frequent enough in the passes 
 of the Andes, where it was found when the 
 soldiers of Pizarro first trod the soil of Peru. 
 
TWO LETTERS 1 19 
 
 It is probably the most primitive form of 
 the suspension-bridge. It consists of two 
 stout cables stretched across the valley in a 
 pendent arc. These cables are made of 
 the pliant woody stems of climbing plants, 
 twisted into bush-ropes, as they are called ; 
 and they are almost unbreakable by any 
 strain likely to be put on them. These 
 tough and flexible cables are fastened to 
 huge rocks on each side of the gulf, running 
 parallel with each other, less than a yard 
 apart. They are floored with light planks 
 laid across from cable to cable, and securely 
 lashed by bands of mamurie, a finer cord 
 made of osier withes or lianas. On each 
 side of the main cables and a little above 
 them is another slighter bush-rope, intended 
 to serve as a hand-rail for those who trust 
 themselves on the fragile and oscillating 
 bridge. 
 
 To block a delicate suspension - bridge 
 like this so as to debar a passage across it 
 would be impossible. But as Mr. Stead, 
 under the pressure of impending death, took 
 stock of the situation and considered the 
 matter in every light, he saw that it might 
 
120 TWO LETTERS 
 
 not be impossible to destroy the bridge. 
 Tough as were the huge cables of twisted 
 vines, he believed that he could saw through 
 them with the knife which every South- 
 American traveller must' needs carry. Un- 
 fortunately, as he found, he could not do 
 the work of destruction except in full sight 
 of the beleaguering foe. On his side of the 
 river a lip of rock thrusting well out into 
 the valley had been chosen as the landing- 
 place ; the two cables had been stretched 
 tightly across, then they disappeared into the 
 earth, being apparently made fast to subter- 
 ranean stones. 
 
 Mr. Stead made a most careful examina- 
 tion. His one chance of safety was to de- 
 stroy the bridge, and the one place where 
 this could best be done was at the very 
 verge of the precipice from which it pro- 
 jected. In fact, to work to advantage, Mr. 
 Stead saw that he would have to bend for- 
 ward over the yawning chasm. For this 
 reason he removed his treasure - belt or 
 jacket, laying it at his feet. He looked to 
 his revolver, preparing a little pile of car- 
 tridges ready to his hand, wisely thinking 
 
TWO LETTERS 121 
 
 that the White Indians would probably 
 renew their attack as soon as they discov- 
 ered what he was doing. He sharpened his 
 knife. Then he seated himself between the 
 two cables at the edge of the shelf of rock, 
 and began the task of cutting them in 
 two. 
 
 He had labored for several minutes be- 
 fore the White Indians took any notice of 
 his movements. Then one of them began 
 to watch him suspiciously, and called the 
 attention of the chief. In a minute they 
 discovered what his object was. A wild 
 shriek of rage arose, and two men seized 
 their weapons and sprang forward along 
 the bridge. Mr. Stead shifted his knife 
 to his left hand and grasped his revolver. 
 The two White Indians came on as fast as 
 their swinging foothold would allow. When 
 they were within forty feet of him he fired, 
 and the first man fell back. He fired again, 
 and the second man, tripping on his com- 
 rade's body, which lay dead across the foot- 
 path, dropped down, turning spasmodically 
 until he struck the water below, and was 
 hurried out of sight. 
 
122 TWO LETTERS 
 
 Mr. Stead reloaded his revolver and re- 
 sumed work. 
 
 Other White Indians hung back just at 
 the entrance to the bridge, doubting and 
 undecided. The American kept his eye on 
 them while he went on with his labors. 
 The vegetable fibre of the bush-rope was 
 singularly resisting, and to cut it called for 
 strength and skill and time. There was a 
 hesitation among his adversaries which 
 gave him opportunity almost to sever the 
 cable at his right hand ; at least it was more 
 than half cut through, when his knife 
 broke, and the best part of the blade 
 slipped into the abyss. 
 
 At this moment he noticed an unusu- 
 al movement among the White Indians. 
 They had withdrawn a little to a clear 
 space on one side, and there they had 
 formed a ring around the chief. Chanting 
 a wild but simple refrain, they circled about 
 their wounded leader, who stood erect in 
 the centre, beating time by striking the 
 ground with a hollow bamboo staff he held 
 in his unwounded hand. The rude and 
 monotonous song they sang resembled a 
 
TWO LETTERS 123 
 
 dirge, wailing and funereal ; it was broken 
 at regular intervals by discordant shouts. 
 
 With the stump of his knife still service- 
 able, Mr. Stead was at work on the cable 
 at his left ; but he never took his eyes from 
 the enemy. He could not guess their pur- 
 pose, but he felt sure that it portended evil 
 to him, and that he must be more than ever 
 on his guard. 
 
 Suddenly there was a shout louder than 
 the rest, and one of the White Indians 
 broke from the ring and stood on one side. 
 Then the same monotonous wailing began 
 again ; and in due season there was another 
 loud shout, and a second man left the ring, 
 and took his place by the side of the first. 
 A third time the rude chanting began, the 
 chief beating on the ground with his bam- 
 boo staff, and after the same interval there 
 was again a loud shout, and a third man 
 took position with the other two. 
 
 This proceeding puzzled Mr. Stead, and, 
 without slacking his labor on the left-hand 
 cable, he bent his attention to the doings 
 of his foes. Strange as was the rough 
 chant, which soon began again for the 
 
124 TWO LETTERS 
 
 fourth time, there seemed to the American 
 something familiar in its rhythm. He had 
 no memory of having ever heard it before, 
 yet it rang with a pulsation vaguely resem- 
 bling something that had fallen on his ears 
 somewhere. For a while he could not place 
 it. But as it concluded for the fourth time 
 with a shout, and a fourth man stood aside, 
 there came back to Mr. Stead the echo of a 
 foolish rhyme of his childhood, a jingle of 
 gibberish, unmeaning, but useful, for it 
 served to designate that one of his boyish 
 playfellows whose duty it should be to 
 chase and touch the rest of them. 
 
 Then, as the strange strain arose for the 
 fifth time, the American knew what it was, 
 and he saw its significance. It was a count- 
 ing-out rhyme, by which the followers of the 
 tall chief were choosing men for a special pur- 
 pose. Different as was the doggerel he had 
 used in his boyhood from that which he 
 heard now, there was the same marked reg- 
 ularity of beat, the same simple rhythm, 
 and, above all, the same result. 
 
 A fifth man took his position beside the 
 others who had thus been chosen by chance. 
 
TWO LETTERS 12$ 
 
 When the song ceased again, a sixth man 
 stepped out of the ring and joined his five 
 comrades. 
 
 Mr. Stead was working away steadily, and 
 he had made a deep cut in the cable at his 
 left, softer and more rotten than that on 
 his right, so that his labor was not harder, 
 though he now had but the stump of a 
 knife. 
 
 After the six men had been selected the 
 rhythmic chant ceased, and the ring was 
 abandoned. The White Indians gathered 
 about the chief to receive his instructions. 
 
 Then, and then only, did Mr. Stead dis- 
 cover their intent. The chief knew that the 
 revolver could fire only six shots without re- 
 loading. He had picked out six men to sac- 
 rifice themselves by drawing these six shots, 
 after which the American would be defence- 
 less. The rest would rush forward. The 
 plan was simple, and it bid fair to succeed. 
 
 Mr. Stead worked on with desperate en- 
 ergy. Every second was precious to him. 
 If they would delay their attack but five 
 minutes longer, the bridge would be cut, 
 and he would be secure from pursuit. 
 
126 TWO LETTERS 
 
 But they did not delay a single minute. 
 The six men stepped to the head of the 
 bridge, and stood one behind the other, 
 ready to advance. The chief came forward 
 beside them and raised his hand. They fell 
 on their knees, and he waved his staff above 
 their heads, while the rest of the White Ind- 
 ians uttered a shrill cry, half defiant and 
 half sorrowful. Then they arose and girded 
 themselves for the certain death to which 
 they were going. The others fell in line be- 
 hind them, headed by the chief. 
 
 Mr. Stead saw that the moment had come. 
 He rose to his feet to await the attack. 
 
 A moment more and it came. The chief 
 gave the signal. A yell of rage and hate 
 broke from the throats of the White Ind- 
 ians, and the six doomed men set forward 
 to cross the bridge, in single file, followed 
 by the chief and the rest of their fellow- 
 tribesmen. More accustomed to the oscil- 
 lations of so frail a structure, their progress 
 was far more rapid than Mr. Stead's was 
 when he had been forced to run across the 
 bridge with the enemy close behind him. 
 
 When the first of the six had reached the 
 
TWO LETTERS 
 
 I2 7 
 
 body of the man who had been killed when 
 Mr. Stead began to cut the cable, the Amer- 
 ican fired, and the White Indian plunged 
 forward head-first into the chasm. Then 
 Mr. Stead fired again, and the second man, 
 reeling forward, grasped the corpse which 
 lay across the bridge, and together the two 
 the dead and the dying dropped head- 
 long into the gulf below. A third shot, and 
 a fourth shot, and a fifth shot, and three 
 more of the assailants were swept from the 
 bridge. 
 
 At the sixth shot the revolver missed fire, 
 and the last of the chosen six was within 
 twenty feet of Mr. Stead when, on the sec- 
 ond attempt, the trigger did its duty, and 
 the bullet found its billet in the doomed 
 man's heart. 
 
 The six shots had done their work, and 
 the six men had done theirs. The seventh 
 man the chief himself was not more than 
 twenty-five feet distant when the last ball 
 left the American's revolver. There was no 
 time to load again. The best Mr. Stead 
 could do was to fight for his life man to 
 man, at the head of the bridge. He grasped 
 
128 TWO LETTERS 
 
 his revolver by the barrel, and he stooped 
 and with his left hand seized the stump of 
 the knife. He thought that the seconds he 
 had yet to live were counted, but he did not 
 blanch; he looked death in the face and 
 flinched not. 
 
 But it was not to be. Fortune favors the 
 brave. Though he had not had time to cut 
 the cables wholly in two, he had weakened 
 them so that they were unable to bear the 
 strain of the whole band of White Indians. 
 The foremost was barely a yard from the 
 end of the bridge when the left cable part- 
 ed, and Mr. Stead saw his foes fall together 
 into the dark river below. With a mighty 
 effort the chief, who was at the head of the 
 line, reached forward to clutch the solid 
 earth. His hand grasped the treasure-belt, 
 which had lain at Mr. Stead's feet all through 
 the fight, and it clasped this with the grip of 
 desperation. In the sudden emotion of de- 
 liverance from death, Mr. Stead was not 
 prompt enough to see this minor danger, 
 and the chief of the White Indians bore 
 with him to the bottom of the turbulent 
 river the gold which the American had 
 
"THE CABLE PARTED, AND HIS FOES FELL 
 INTO THE RIVER BELOW " 
 
TWO LETTERS 129 
 
 risked his life to save. To expect ever to 
 recover it is hopeless. 
 
 There is no need to delay your readers 
 with a detailed account of Mr. Stead's re- 
 turn to civilization. As soon as he was free 
 from the danger of pursuit, he set out for 
 the village of friendly Indians, which he 
 found, as he had expected, some fifteen 
 miles farther down the river. Here he was 
 well received, and supplied with the means 
 of continuing his journey. 
 
 While at this village he made inquiry for 
 Austin, who had basely deserted him in his 
 hour of peril. To Mr. Stead's great grief 
 although not at all to his surprise he found 
 that nothing had been heard of Austin. 
 And as yet nothing has been heard of the 
 fellow. It was nightfall when Austin thrust 
 loose from the bank and started alone on 
 his voyage down the river. In his fright it 
 is probable that he forgot the rapids before 
 him until -it was too late to turn back, or 
 even to check his canoe. Barely a mile be- 
 low the point where he abandoned Mr. Stead, 
 the river becomes narrow and the banks pre- 
 cipitous, and there is a succession of cata- 
 
 .9 
 
130 TWO LETTERS 
 
 racts. It was above this gulch that Mr. 
 Stead fought for his life, and it was proba- 
 bly in this gulch that Austin met his death 
 by the wrecking of his canoe in the turmoil 
 of waters. If once the wood-skin had got 
 caught in the rush of the rapids, there would 
 be no possible chance of escape for its soli- 
 tary occupant. That this is what happened 
 to Austin seems now beyond doubt, since 
 no other explanation of his disappear- 
 ance is possible. Coward as the fellow 
 was, it is sad to think of his dark and 
 lonely voyage to a certain and horrible 
 death. 
 
 It was only the night before last that Mr. 
 Stead arrived here at Georgetown. Yester- 
 day I had the pleasure of meeting him, and 
 of hearing the full tale of his adventures 
 from his own lips. In transcribing these for 
 your readers I have passed the night. It 
 seems to me to be a duty which a man of 
 letters owes his fellow-man to set forth sim- 
 ply and succinctly so brave a fight against 
 terrible odds as that which Mr. Stead has 
 just fought. It is the study of a strong 
 character like his, and of brave deeds like 
 
TWO LETTERS 131 
 
 this, which restores our faith in our common 
 humanity. 
 
 I have thought it best also that the facts 
 of this outrage on an American citizen should 
 be laid before the people of the United 
 States as soon as possible, that the State 
 Department might be moved to take prompt 
 action. 
 
 This letter goes back to you by favor 
 of Mr. Joshua Hoffman, whose beautiful 
 steam-yacht, the Rhadamanthus, is to sail for 
 New York this afternoon. Mr. Hoffman 
 has been spending a fortnight in these 
 waters ; he expresses himself as delighted 
 with the scenery, and much benefited in 
 health by the rest he has obtained. 
 
 I expect to sail for the Orinoco early next 
 week, and you shall hear from me again at 
 the very first opportunity. A. Z. 
 
132 TWO LETTERS 
 
 II. 
 FROM THE ''GOTHAM GAZETTE" OF APRIL 22. 
 
 OFFICE OF THE ESSEQUIBO GOLD COMPANY, 
 76 BROADWAY, NEW YORK, April 21. 
 
 To THE EDITOR OF THE Gotham Gazette: 
 
 SIR, I have read with interest the enter- 
 taining letter from an Occasional Corre- 
 spondent which you have published this 
 morning, and which purports to give an ac- 
 count of an extraordinary outrage recently 
 committed in British Guiana on an Ameri- 
 can named Stead by a tribe of hitherto un- 
 known White Indians. I hate to have to 
 spoil so sensational a story, but I see that 
 there is a sort of to-be-continued-in-our-next 
 at the end of his letter, and I feel, therefore, 
 that I am only anticipating the correction 
 the Occasional Correspondent will be forced 
 to make as soon as he knows what has hap- 
 pened since he wrote. Perhaps you will 
 excuse me if I suggest that before writ- 
 ing he might have inquired more care- 
 
TWO LETTERS 133 
 
 fully as to the value of the information he 
 received. 
 
 What has happened since then is that the 
 man Stead was arrested yesterday for theft 
 and for attempted murder. The thing he 
 tried to steal was the gold intrusted to him 
 to convey from the mines to the coast. The 
 man he tried to murder was his accomplice 
 in the intended theft Austin. 
 
 When I inform you that Austin is in New 
 York, that he has confessed fully his share 
 in the robbery, and that he has accused 
 Stead of an attempt to put him out of the 
 way, it may occur to some of those who may 
 have read the exciting letter of the Occa- 
 sional Correspondent that he is a gentleman 
 of an unduly confiding nature, and that he 
 has inadvertently allowed himself to be used 
 by a rascal. 
 
 The exact facts of the matter are that 
 Stead and Austin, being intrusted with the 
 gold of the Essequibo Gold Company, con- 
 spired to steal it. When they had arrived 
 near the canon across which Stead claims 
 to have fought so brave a fight against such 
 long odds, they dug a hole and buried the 
 
134 TWO LETTERS 
 
 gold, Stead telling Austin that he would in- 
 vent a tale of an attack by the White Ind- 
 ians, who exist in local superstition, but 
 whom nobody has ever seen. That night the 
 thieves fell out, and Stead set Austin adrift 
 in the canoe without a paddle, knowing that 
 there was a water -fall ahead, and hoping 
 that his accomplice would be drowned. Ap- 
 parently Austin is reserved for another fate ; 
 his canoe sank on a rock in shallow water ; 
 he waded ashore, and was taken up by a 
 band of friendly Indians, with whom he 
 journeyed slowly to the coast. He arrived 
 at Georgetown about midnight, a few hours 
 before the Rhadamanthus sailed. Going to 
 a friend's house, he heard the story Stead 
 had been telling, and in fear of his life he 
 determined to fly the country. This friend 
 had done some trifling service for Mr. 
 Joshua Hoffman, and thus Austin succeeded 
 in being taken aboard the Rhadamanthus 
 without the knowledge of the people of 
 Georgetown. There is a pleasant irony in 
 the fact that the very yacht which bore 
 away the Occasional Correspondent's ac- 
 count of Stead's single-handed combat with 
 
TWO LETTERS 135 
 
 impossible White Indians over a non-exist- 
 ent bridge should convey also the one man 
 who knew the whole truth. 
 
 On his arrival here yesterday Austin came 
 down to the office of the Essequibo Gold 
 Company and surrendered himself. He made 
 a clean breast of his share in the attempt to 
 rob the company. We cabled at once to the 
 Georgetown police. We learned that Stead 
 had been away in the interior for a week, 
 and that he had just returned. He was 
 about to take ship for England when he was 
 arrested. The stolen gold was found in his 
 possession. 
 
 I have to apologize for this trespass on 
 your space, but enemies of the Essequibo 
 Gold Company try to use ghost stories like 
 that of the Occasional Correspondent to de- 
 press the securities of the company, and as 
 its president it is my duty to prevent this. 
 Besides, just now I am a bull on the market. 
 Your obedient servant, 
 
 SAMUEL SARGENT. 
 (1888.) 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 THE FIRST SATURDAY. 
 
 SOMETHING must have detained me that 
 evening, since it was nearly midnight when 
 I arrived at the club, and I hate to be so 
 tardy as that, for some of our best members 
 are married men now, who never stay out 
 after one o'clock, or two at the very furthest. 
 Besides, the supper is served at eleven, and 
 the first comers take all the pleasant little 
 tables which line the walls of the grill-room, 
 leaving for the belated arrivals only the 
 large table which runs down the middle of 
 the room. 
 
 As every one knows, ours is a club whose 
 members mainly belong to the allied arts. 
 Of course, now and then a millionaire man- 
 
140 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 ages to get elected by passing himself off as 
 an art-patron ; but for the most part, the 
 men one meets there are authors, actors, 
 architects, and artists on canvas or in mar- 
 ble. So it is that the supper served at 
 eleven every Saturday night, from October 
 to May, is the occasion of many a pleasant 
 meeting with friends who happen in quite 
 informally. When the week's work is done, 
 it is good to have a place to forgather with 
 one's fellows a place where one can eat, 
 and drink, and smoke, a place where one 
 can sit in a cosey corner, and talk shop, and 
 swap stories. 
 
 I cannot now recall the reason why I was 
 late on the evening in question, nor just 
 what evening it was, although I am sure 
 that it was after Founder's Night (which is 
 New-year's Eve), and before Ladies' Day 
 (which is Shakespeare's birthday). I remem- 
 ber only that it was nearly midnight, and 
 that as I entered the reading-room I was 
 hailed by Astroyd, the actor. 
 
 "I say, Arthur," he cried, "you are the 
 very man we want to take the third seat at 
 our table. You must have a bird and a 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 141 
 
 bottle with me to-night, for this is the last 
 evening I shall have at the club for many a 
 long day." 
 
 " Are you going on the road again ?" I 
 asked, with interest; for I liked Astroyd, 
 and I knew we should all regret his de- 
 parture. 
 
 " I'm off for Australia, that's where I'm go- 
 ing," he answered ; "thirty per cent, of the 
 gross, with five hundred a week guaranteed. 
 I take the vestibule limited at ten in the 
 morning, and I'm not half packed yet. So 
 we must get over supper at once. Besides, 
 I want you to meet a friend of mine." 
 
 Then, for the first time, I noticed the 
 gentleman who was standing by the side of 
 Astroyd, a little behind him. The actor 
 stepped back and introduced us : 
 
 " Mr. Harrington Cockshaw, Mr. Arthur 
 Penn." 
 
 As we shook hands, Astroyd added, 
 " Cockshaw is a new member of the club." 
 
 At that moment one of the waiters came 
 up to tell the actor that the table he had 
 asked for was vacant at last, whereupon we 
 all three went into the grill-room, and sat 
 
142 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 down to our supper at once. I had just 
 time to note that Mr. Cockshaw was an in- 
 significant little man with a bristling, sandy 
 mustache. When he took his place opposite 
 to me I saw that he had light-brown eyes, 
 and that his expression suggested a strange 
 admixture of shyness and self-assertion. 
 
 While the waiter was drawing the cork, 
 Mr. Cockshaw bent forward, and said, with 
 the merest hint of condescension in his 
 manner, " I'm delighted to meet you this 
 evening, Mr. Penn, partly because just this 
 very afternoon I have been reading your 
 admirable essay 'On the Sonnet and its 
 History.' " 
 
 I was about to murmur my appreciation 
 of this complimentary coincidence when As- 
 troyd broke in. 
 
 "Arthur knows a sonnet when he sees 
 it," he said, "and he can turn off as 
 good a topical song as any man in New 
 York." 
 
 "I can't write, myself," Mr. Cockshaw 
 went on ; "I wish I could though I don't 
 suppose anybody would read it if I did. 
 But my brother-in-law is connected with 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 143 
 
 literature, in a way; he's a publisher; he's 
 the Co. of Carpenter & Co." 
 
 Just then Astroyd caught sight of Harry 
 Brackett standing in the broad doorway. 
 
 "Here you are, Harry," he cried; "join 
 us. Have a stirrup-cup with me. I haven't 
 seen you for moons not for 'steen moons 
 and I'm off for Australia to-morrow by the 
 bright light." 
 
 "Isn't America good enough for you?" ask- 
 ed Harry Brackett, as he lounged over to us. 
 
 "Not at the beginning of next season, 
 it isn't," the actor declared. " Electing a 
 President of these United States is more 
 fun than a farce-comedy, and for two weeks 
 before the Tuesday following the first Mon- 
 day in November you can't club people into 
 the theatre." 
 
 "That's so, sometimes," responded Harry, 
 as Astroyd and I made room for him at our 
 little table ; " and I don't see how we are 
 going to keep up public interest in Gettys- 
 burg next fall, unless there's an old-time 
 bloody-shirt campaign. If there is, I'll get a 
 phonograph, and agree to let every visitor to 
 the panorama sample a genuine Rebel yell." 
 
144 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 Astroyd caught the expression of per- 
 plexity that flitted across the face of the 
 new member of the club, so he made haste 
 to introduce the new-comer. 
 
 " Mr. Brackett, Mr. Cockshaw," he said ; 
 adding as they bowed, " Mr. Brackett is 
 now the manager of the panorama of the 
 Battle of Gettysburg." 
 
 " And I'm going to be buried on the field 
 of battle," Harry Brackett interjected, " if I 
 can't scare up some new way to boom the 
 thing soon." 
 
 " I should not think that so fine a work 
 of art would need any booming," Mr. Cock- 
 shaw smilingly remarked. " I had the pleas- 
 ure of going in to see it again only yester- 
 day. It is a great painting, extraordinarily 
 vivid, exactly like the real thing at least so 
 I am told. I was not at the battle myself, 
 but my brother-in-law commanded a North 
 Carolina brigade in Pickett's charge; he 
 lost a leg there." 
 
 "I don't know but what a one-legged 
 Confederate might draw," Harry Brackett 
 soliloquized. " The lecturer we have now 
 is no good: he gives his celebrated imita- 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 145 
 
 tion of a wounded soldier drinking out of a 
 canteen so often and so realistically that 
 he is always on the diminuendo of a jag 
 when he isn't on the crescendo." 
 
 " If he gets loaded," said Astroyd, prompt- 
 ly, "why don't you fire him ?" 
 
 " It's all very well for you to make jokes," 
 Harry Brackett returned, " but it isn't easy 
 to get a lecturer who really looks like an 
 old soldier. Besides, his name is worth 
 something ; it is so short that we can print 
 it in big letters on a single line Colonel 
 Mark Day. I shouldn't wonder if he had 
 the two shortest names in all the United 
 States." 
 
 "It is a short name," said the little man, 
 as though pleased to get into conversation 
 again. "It is a very short name, indeed. 
 But I know a shorter. My brother-in-law 
 has one letter less in his, and one syllable 
 more. His name is Eli Low." 
 
 Harry Brackett looked at the new mem- 
 ber of the club for a moment as though he 
 were going to make a pertinent reply. Then 
 apparently he thought better of it, and said 
 nothing. 
 
146 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 As the conversation flagged I asked As- 
 troyd if he was going to act in San Fran- 
 cisco on his way to Australia. 
 
 " No," he answered ; " I go straight through 
 without stopping, but I've got two weeks at 
 'Frisco coming home, and I shall play my 
 way back over the Northern Pacific. You 
 know Duluth and Superior are both three- 
 night stands now." 
 
 " San Francisco is falling off every year," 
 Harry Brackett commented. "The flush 
 times are all over on the coast. I remem- 
 ber the days when a big attraction could 
 play to ten thousand dollars three weeks 
 running." 
 
 " Yes," Astroyd assented ; " 'Frisco is not 
 the show-town it used to be, though we took 
 nineteen thousand three hundred and forty 
 in two weeks, last time I was there." 
 
 " Perhaps somebody will strike another 
 bonanza before you get back," I suggested ; 
 " and if there is another boom you can do a 
 big business." 
 
 "I came near going out to the Pacific 
 coast last sunyner," said Mr. Cockshaw, " to 
 look after a chicken -ranch I'm interested in 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 147 
 
 near Monotony Dam. Somehow I couldn't 
 find time to get away, so I had to give it up. 
 But my brother-in-law was an old Forty- 
 niner, and he told me he once found a 
 seven-pound nugget in a pocket. He had 
 a claim at a camp called Hell-to-pay." 
 
 " I've played there in the old days," As- 
 troyd remarked, promptly. "We did ' Ham- 
 let ' on a stage made of two billiard-tables 
 shoved back to the end of the biggest saloon 
 in the camp. But the place experienced 
 a change of heart long ago ; it has three 
 churches now, and calls itself Eltopia to- 
 day." 
 
 " It was a pretty tough town in my broth- 
 er-in-law's time," the little man declared. 
 "He told me he had often seen two and 
 three men shot in a morning." 
 
 I had noticed that when Mr. Cockshaw 
 mentioned the strange luck of his brother- 
 in-law's finding an extraordinary nugget in a 
 pocket, Harry Brackett had looked up and 
 fixed his eyes on the face of the little man 
 as though to spy out a contradiction be- 
 tween Mr. Cockshaw's expression and his 
 conversation. So when our little party 
 
148 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 broke up, and Astroyd had said farewell 
 and departed, taking Cockshaw with him, 
 I was not at all surprised to have the mana- 
 ger of the panorama stop me as I was mak- 
 ing ready to go home. 
 
 " I say, Arthur," he began, " who is that 
 little fellow, anyhow the one with the al- 
 leged brother-in-law ?" 
 
 I answered that I had never met Mr. 
 Cockshaw until that evening, and that As- 
 troyd had declared him to be a new member 
 of the club. 
 
 " Then that's why I haven't seen him be- 
 fore," Harry Brackett responded. "Queer 
 little cuss, isn't he ? Somehow he looked 
 as though he might be a dealer in misfit 
 coffins, or something of that sort. And the 
 way he kept blowing about that brother-in- 
 law of his would make a stuffed bird laugh. 
 I wonder what his business really is. What's 
 more, I wonder who he is." 
 
 To satisfy this curiosity of Harry's we 
 asked a dozen different men if they knew 
 anything about a new member of the club 
 named Cockshaw, and we found that no- 
 body had ever heard of him. Apparently 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 149 
 
 Astroyd had been the only man there he 
 had ever seen before that evening. 
 
 Harry Brackett finally sent for the pro- 
 posal book, to see who had been his spon- 
 sors. He found that J. Harrington Cock- 
 shaw, Retired, had been proposed by Mr. 
 Joshua Hoffman, the millionaire philanthro- 
 pist, and that he had been seconded by John 
 Abram Carkendale, the second vice-presi- 
 dent of the Methuselah Life Insurance 
 Company. But we could not ask them 
 about him, because old Mr. Hoffman was 
 on his steam -yacht Rhadamanthus in the 
 Mediterranean, somewhere between Gibral- 
 tar and Cairo ; and Mr. Carkendale was out 
 west, somewhere between Denver and Salt 
 Lake City, on his semi-annual tour of in- 
 spection of the agencies x>f the Methuselah 
 Life. And Astroyd, who had introduced 
 him to us, and who might fairly be pre- 
 sumed to be able to give us some informa- 
 tion concerning the new member, was about 
 to start for Australia. 
 
 " So all we know about him," said Harry 
 Brackett, summing up the result of our re- 
 searches, " is that his name is J. Harrington 
 
150 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 Cockshaw, that he is Retired whatever 
 that may mean that he knows Joshua 
 Hoffman and John Abram Carkendale well 
 enough to have them propose him here, and 
 that he has a brother-in-law, whose name is 
 Eli Low, who was in California in '49, who 
 lost a leg at Gettysburg in Pickett's charge, 
 and who is now a partner in the publishing 
 house of Carpenter & Co." 
 
 And with that information Harry Brackett 
 had then perforce to be content. 
 
 II. 
 THE SECOND SATURDAY. 
 
 The next Saturday evening I arrived at 
 the club a little earlier. I had been dining 
 with Delancey Jones, the architect, and we 
 played piquet at his house for a couple of 
 hours after dinner. When we entered the 
 club together it was scarcely half-past ten ; 
 and yet we found half a dozen regular Sat- 
 urday night attendants already gathered to- 
 gether in the main hall just beside the huge 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 151 
 
 fireplace emblazoned with the motto of the 
 club. Starrington, the tragedian, was one 
 of the group, and Judge Gillespie was an- 
 other; Rupert de Ruyter, the novelist, was 
 a third, and John Sharp, the young African 
 explorer, was a fourth ; while Harry Brackett 
 sat back on a broad sofa by the side of Mr. 
 Harrington Cockshaw, the new member of 
 the club. 
 
 When we joined the party the judge was 
 describing the methods and the machinery 
 of a gang of safe-breakers whom he had re- 
 cently sent to Sing Sing for a bank burg- 
 lary. 
 
 " The bank almost deserved to be robbed," 
 the judge concluded, " because it had not 
 availed itself of the latest improvements in 
 safe-building." 
 
 " When a bank gets a chilled-iron safe, it's 
 a cold day for the burglar, I suppose," said 
 Rupert de Ruyter, who occasionally conde- 
 scended to a trifling jest of this sort. 
 
 " A chilled - iron safe is better than a 
 wooden desk, of course," Harry Brackett 
 remarked ; " but the safe-breakers keep al- 
 most even with the safe-makers. With a 
 
152 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 kit of the latest tools a burglar can get into 
 pretty nearly anything except the kingdom 
 of Heaven." 
 
 " And it is almost as hard to get a really 
 fire-proof safe as it is to get one burglar- 
 proof," said Jones. " The building I put 
 up for a fire-insurance company out in New- 
 ark two years ago burned down before the 
 carpenters were out of it, although the com- 
 pany had moved into its own office on the 
 first floor, and about half of the books in 
 the safe were charred into uselessness, like 
 the manuscripts of Herculaneum." 
 
 " I was never burned out, myself," Mr. 
 Cockshaw declared, taking advantage of a 
 lull in the conversation, "but my brother- 
 in-law was president of a lumber company 
 in Chicago at the time of the great fire ; and 
 he told me that most of the books of the 
 firm were destroyed, but that wherever there 
 had been any writing in pencil this was legi- 
 ble, even though the paper itself was burned 
 to a crisp, while the writing in ink had been 
 usually obliterated by the heat." 
 
 The hint of self-assertion which might 
 have been detected in Mr. Cockshaw's 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 153 
 
 manner a week before had now totally dis- 
 appeared, as though he felt himself quite 
 at home in the club already, and had no 
 need to defend his position. His manner 
 was wholly unobtrusive and almost depre- 
 catory. There was even a certain vague 
 hesitancy of speech which I had not no- 
 ticed when we had met before. His voice 
 was smooth, as though to match his smooth 
 face, clean-shaven except for the faint little 
 mustache which bristled above the full lips. 
 So soft-spoken had he been that only 
 Harry Brackett and I had heard this con- 
 tribution of his to the conversation ; and 
 under the lead of Judge Gillespie the talk 
 turned off from the ways of burglars to the 
 treatment of criminals, and thus to the 
 rights and wrongs of prisoners. Something 
 that Rupert de Ruyter said started off John 
 Sharp usually taciturn and disinclined to 
 talk and he began by denouncing the evils 
 of the slave-hunting raids the Arabs make 
 in Africa. To show us just how hideous, 
 how vile, how inhuman a thing slavery is, 
 he was led to describe to us one of his own 
 experiences in the heart of the dark conti- 
 
154 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 nent, and to tell us how he had followed for 
 days on the heels of a slave-caravan, finding 
 it easy to keep the trail because of the half- 
 dozen or more corpses he passed every day 
 corpses of slaves, women and men, who 
 fell out of the ranks from weakness, and 
 who either had been killed outright or else 
 allowed to die of starvation. 
 
 We all listened with hitense interest as 
 John Sharp told us what he had seen, for it 
 was a rare thing for him to speak about his 
 African experiences ; sometimes I had won- 
 dered whether they were not too painful for 
 him willingly to recall them. 
 
 " I wish I could go to Africa," said Ru- 
 pert de Ruyter. " I know that it is a land of 
 battle, murder, and sudden death, but I be- 
 lieve that a picture of the life there under 
 the equator, a faithful presentment of exist- 
 ence as it is, as direct and as simple as one 
 could make it I believe a story of that sort 
 might easily make as big a hit as Unck 
 Tom's Cabin. 
 
 " And it might do as much good," said 
 the judge. "There is no hope for Africa 
 till the slave-trade is rooted put absolutely. 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 155 
 
 Until that is done once for all, this send- 
 ing out of missionaries is a mere waste of 
 money." 
 
 " Yet the missionaries at least set an ex- 
 ample of courage and self-sacrifice," sug- 
 gested Mr. Cockshaw, timidly. " Of course 
 I don't know anything about the matter per- 
 sonally, but my brother-in-law was with Stan- 
 ley on that search for Livingstone, and I am 
 merely repeating what I have heard him say 
 often." 
 
 After the new member of the club had 
 said this, I became conscious immediately 
 that Harry Brackett was gazing at me in- 
 tently. At last I looked up, and when he 
 caught my eye he winked. I glanced away 
 at once, but I was at no loss to interpret 
 the meaning of this signal. 
 
 For a while the talk rambled along un- 
 eventfully, and then some one suddenly 
 suggested supper. Ten minutes thereafter 
 our little gathering was dissolved. Judge 
 Gillespie and John Sharp had gone up into 
 the library to consult a new map of Africa. 
 Starrington and de Ruyter had secured a 
 little table in the grill-room, and pending 
 
156 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 the arrival of the ingredients for the Welsh 
 rabbits (for the making of which the novel- 
 ist was famous), they were deep in a discus- 
 sion of the play which the actor wished to 
 have written for him. Mr. Cockshaw, Har- 
 ry Brackett, Delancey Jones, and I had 
 made ourselves comfortable at a round 
 table in the bow -window of the grill- 
 room. 
 
 Perhaps it was the pewter mugs depend- 
 ing from the hooks below the shelf which 
 ran all around the room at the top of the 
 wainscot which suggested to Harry Brackett 
 mugs of another kind, for he suddenly 
 turned on Jones abruptly. 
 
 " And how are the twins ?" he asked. 
 
 " The twins are all right," Jones answer- 
 ed, "and so am I, thank you." 
 
 " And how old are they now ?" Harry 
 Brackett inquired further. 
 
 " Two months," the happy parent re- 
 sponded. 
 
 " To think of you with a pair of twins," 
 mused the manager of the panorama. " I 
 believe you said there was a pair of them ?" 
 
 " I suppose I did suggest that number 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 157 
 
 when I revealed the fact that my family 
 had been increased by twins." 
 
 " Well, I never thought it of you, I con- 
 fess," Harry Brackett continued. "You 
 are an architect by profession, a lover of 
 the picturesque, an admirer of all that is 
 beautiful in an odd and unexpected way ; 
 and so I never dreamed that you would do 
 anything so commonplace as to have two 
 babies just alike, and of just the same size, 
 and the same age." 
 
 " It is queer, I admit," Jones retorted ; 
 "but then this is leap-year, you know, and 
 there are always more twins born in leap- 
 year than in any other year." 
 
 "I never heard that before," Harry 
 Brackett declared. " I wonder why it is ?" 
 
 "Perhaps," said the architect, as he took 
 down his own pewter mug, "it is simply be- 
 cause leap-year is one day longer than any 
 other year." 
 
 "Oh!" ejaculated the man who had let 
 himself into this trap ; then he rang a bell 
 on the table, and told the waiter who came 
 in. response to take Mr. Jones's order. 
 
 " I wonder whether the prevalence of 
 
158 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 twins has anything to do with the periodic- 
 ity of the spots on the sun," I suggested. 
 " Almost every other phenomenon has been 
 ascribed to this cause." 
 
 " I believe that the statistics of twins 
 have never been properly investigated," re- 
 marked Mr. Cockshaw, gently. " I have 
 not studied the subject myself, but my 
 brother-in-law was a pupil of Spitzer's in 
 Vienna, and he was much interested in the 
 matter. He was preparing a paper in 
 which he set forth a theory of his own, and 
 he was going to read it at the Medical Con- 
 ference in Vienna during the Exhibition of 
 1873, but unfortunately he died ten days 
 before the conference met." 
 
 " Who died ?" Harry Brackett asked with 
 startling directness " Spitzer or your broth- 
 er-in-law ?" 
 
 " Dr. Spitzer is alive still," the new mem- 
 ber answered ; " it was my brother-in-law 
 who died." 
 
 " I'm glad of that," said Harry Brackett 
 to me, scarcely lowering his voice, although 
 apparently Mr. Cockshaw did not hear 
 him. " If he's dead and buried, per- 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 159 
 
 haps we sha'n't hear anything more about 
 him." 
 
 And it was a fact that although we four, 
 Jones and I, Cockshaw and Harry Brack- 
 ett, sat at that little table in the grill-room 
 for perhaps two hours longer, and then 
 went back into the hall for another smoke, 
 we did not hear the new member of the 
 club refer again that night to his brother- 
 in-law. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE THIRD SATURDAY. 
 
 A week later I was sitting in my study, 
 trying to polish into lilting smoothness a 
 tale in verse which I had written for the 
 Christmas number of The Metropolis ; and 
 in my labors on this lyric legend I had 
 quite forgotten that it was Saturday night. 
 I had just laid down my pen with the con- 
 viction that whether the poem was good or 
 bad, it was, at least, the best I could do, 
 when Harry Brackett broke in on me, and 
 insisted on bearing me off to the club. 
 
160 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 " I want you to be there to-night," he as- 
 serted, " for a particular reason." 
 
 But what this particular reason might be 
 he refused to declare. I ventured on a 
 guess at it, when we were on our way to the 
 club wrapped in our rain-coats, and trusting 
 to a single umbrella to shield us both from 
 the first spring-squall. 
 
 " I lunched at the club to-day," he said 
 casually, just after a sudden gust of wind 
 had turned our umbrella inside out, " and I 
 heard that man Cockshaw telling Laurence 
 Laughton that he had never seen a great 
 race himself, but that his brother-in-law had 
 been in Louisville when Tenbroeck beat 
 Molly Macarthy." 
 
 "That's why you are haling me to the 
 club through this storm," I cried. "You 
 want a companion to help you listen to Mr. 
 Cockshaw's statements." 
 
 " I want you to be there to-night," he an- 
 swered. " 4nd you will soon see why last 
 Saturday, when I heard that that brother- 
 in-law of Cockshaw's was dead, I gave a 
 sigh of relief. I thought we were quit of 
 him for good and all. But we are not. 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 161 
 
 It was not Wednesday before Cockshaw 
 had resurrected the corpse, and galvanized 
 it into spasmodic existence. Every night 
 this week he has been dining at the club." 
 
 " The brother-in-law ?" I asked. 
 
 " No," he replied, " only Cockshaw. If I 
 could see the brother-in-law there in the 
 flesh, I'd pay for his dinner with pleasure. 
 But that's a sight I can never hope to be- 
 hold. The man has had too many strange 
 experiences to survive. Why, do you know 
 but there, I can't tell you half the things 
 Cockshaw has told us now and again during 
 the past week. All I can say is that he has 
 literally exuded miscellaneous misinforma- 
 tion about that alleged brother-in-law of his. 
 No more remarkable man ever lived since 
 the Admirable Crichton and I never heard 
 that he had nine lives like a cat." 
 
 I deprecated Harry Brackett's heat in 
 speaking of Cockshaw, and I tol him that 
 I thought the new member of the club was 
 a most modest and unassuming little man. 
 
 " That's just what is so annoying," re- 
 turned my companion. " If he put on 
 frills, and lied about himself and his own 
 
162 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 surprising adventures, I could forgive him ; 
 but there it is the little semicolon of a 
 cuss never boasts about his own deeds ; he 
 just caps all our stories with some wild, 
 weird tale of his brother-in-law's doings. It 
 is the meanest trick out. Do you believe 
 he ever had a brother-in-law ?" 
 
 This query was propounded as we stood 
 before the door of the club. 
 
 " Why shouldn't I ?" was my answer. 
 
 "Oh, you carry credulity to an extreme," 
 Harry Brackett responded as he shut his 
 umbrella. " Now I don't. I don't believe 
 this man Cockshaw ever had a brother-in- 
 law, alive or dead, white or black. What's 
 more, I don't believe that he ever had either a 
 wife or a sister ; and unless he was aided or 
 abetted by a wife or a sister he couldn't 
 have had a brother-in-law, could he ?" 
 
 " If he chooses to invent a brother-in-law 
 to brag about, why shouldn't he ?" I asked. 
 " There's many a man who has written a 
 book to glorify the great deeds of some re- 
 mote ancestor from whom his own descent 
 was more than doubtful." 
 
 " I know that," Harry Brackett respond- 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 163 
 
 ed, as we entered the club and gave our 
 storm-coats to the attendants ; " and I know 
 also that there are men so lost to all sense 
 of the proprieties of life that they insist on 
 telling you the latest ignorant and im- 
 pertinent remarks of their sons of six 
 and their daughters of five. But I hold 
 these to be among the most pestilent of 
 our species less pestilent only than a 
 man who tells tales about his brother-in- 
 law." 
 
 I said nothing in reply to this ; but my 
 reserve did not check the flow of Harry 
 Brackett's discourse. 
 
 "All the same/' he went on, "people 
 have ancestors and they have children, and 
 to boast about these is natural enough, I'm 
 afraid. But a brother-in-law ! Why blow 
 about a brother-in-law ? Of course it is a 
 novelty at least I never heard of any- 
 body's working this brother-in-law racket 
 except Cockshaw. And I'll admit that it 
 is a good act, too : with an adroit use of the 
 brother-in-law Cockshaw can magnify him- 
 self till he is as great a man as the Emperor 
 of China, who is nephew of the moon, great- 
 
164 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 grandson of the sun, and second cousin to 
 all the stars of the sky !" 
 
 I protested against the vehemence of 
 Harry Brackett's manner, without avail. 
 
 "But he's got to be more careful," he 
 continued, "or he'll wear him out; the 
 brother-in law will get used up before the 
 little man gets out half there is in him. No 
 brother-in-law will stand the wear and tear 
 Cockshaw is putting on him. Why, within 
 a fortnight he has told us that his brother- 
 in-law climbed the Jungfrau in 1853, lost a 
 leg in Pickett's charge in 1863, and went 
 down in the Tecumseh in 1864. Now I say 
 that a brother-in-law who can do all those 
 things is beyond nature; he is a freak: he 
 ought not to be talked about at this club ; 
 he ought to be exhibited at a dime muse- 
 um." 
 
 I tried to explain that it was perhaps 
 possible for a man to have climbed a Swiss 
 mountain, and to have been wounded at 
 Gettysburg, and to have gone down in the 
 Tecumseh. 
 
 " But if he was colonel of a North Caroli- 
 na regiment, how came he on board of a 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 165 
 
 United States iron-clad ?" asked my com- 
 panion. 
 
 " Perhaps he had been taken prisoner," 
 I suggested, "and perhaps " 
 
 " Shucks !" interrupted Harry Brackett. 
 "That's altogether too thin. Don't you 
 try to reconcile the little man's conflicting 
 statements. He doesn't. He just lets 
 them conflict." 
 
 We had paused in the main hall to have 
 the talk out. When at length we walked 
 on into the grill-room, we found Judge Gil- 
 lespie, and Rupert de Ruyter, and Cock- 
 shaw already getting supper at the round 
 table in the bow - window. De Ruyter 
 called us over, and he and the judge made 
 room for us. 
 
 As soon as we were seated, the judge 
 turned to Cockshaw with his customary 
 courtesy, and said, " I fear we interrupted 
 you, Mr. Cockshaw." 
 
 " Not at all," the new member answered, 
 with an inoffensive smile. " But as we were 
 speaking of philopenas I was only going to 
 tell of an experience of my brother-in-law. 
 Twenty years ago or so, when he was war- 
 
!66 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 den of the Church of St. Boniface in Phila- 
 delphia, he met a very bright New York 
 girl at dinner one Saturday night, and they 
 ate a philopena together give and take, 
 you know. The next morning, when he left 
 his pew to pass the plate after the sermon, 
 he felt a sudden conviction that that New 
 York girl was sitting somewhere behind him 
 on his aisle to say * Philopena ' as she put 
 a contribution into his plate. He managed 
 to look back, and sure enough he spied her 
 in an aisle-seat near the door. So he had 
 to whisper to a fellow-vestryman and get 
 him to exchange aisles." 
 
 In some tortured manner the talk turned 
 to churches and to convents. And this led 
 Judge Gillespie to give us a most interest- 
 ing account of his visit to the monastery on 
 Mount Athos, where the life of man is re- 
 duced to its barrenest elements. When we 
 had made an end of plying him with ques- 
 tions, which he answered with the courtesy, 
 the clearness, and the precision which mark- 
 ed his speech as well in private life as on 
 the bench, the talk again rambled on, rip- 
 pling into anecdotes of monks and monas- 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 167 
 
 teries in all parts of the world. Harry Brack- 
 ett had spent a night with the monks of 
 St. Bernard in the hospice at the top of 
 the Simplon Pass ; Rupert de Ruyter had 
 made a visit to the Trappist monastery in 
 Kentucky ; I had been to the old Spanish 
 mission-stations in Southern California and 
 New Mexico ; only the new member of the 
 club had no personal experience to proffer. 
 He listened with unfailing interest as each 
 of us in turn set forth his views and his ad- 
 ventures, serious or comic. Then when we 
 had all exhausted the subject, Cockshaw 
 smiled affably and almost timidly. 
 
 " I have lived so quiet a life myself," he 
 ventured, " that I do not know that I have 
 ever met a monk face to face, and I know I 
 have never been inside of a convent ; but 
 when my brother-in-law was a boy, he was 
 travelling in Brittany with his father, and 
 one night they were taken in at a convent. 
 My brother-in-law was given a cell to sleep 
 in, and over his head there was a tiny cup 
 containing holy-water; but the boy had 
 never seen such a thing before, and he 
 didn't know what it was for, so he emptied 
 
168 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 out the water, and put his matches in the 
 little cup, that he might have them handy in 
 the night." 
 
 " When was this ?" asked Harry Brackett, 
 feeling in his pocket for a pencil. 
 
 " In '67 or '68," Cockshaw answered. 
 
 Harry Brackett pulled down his left cuff 
 and pencilled a hasty line on it, an opera- 
 tion which the new member of the club failed 
 to notice. 
 
 "Oddly enough," he continued, "my 
 brother-in-law saw a good deal of the Bre- 
 ton priests who sheltered him that night, 
 for he was studying medicine in Paris when 
 the war broke out in 1870, and he joined 
 the American ambulance, which happened 
 more than once to succor the brave Bretons 
 who had come up to the defence of the cap- 
 ital. Indeed, he was out in the field, attend- 
 ing to a wounded Breton, at Champigny, 
 when he was killed by a spent shell." 
 
 Remembering that Cockshaw had told us 
 before that his brother-in-law was drowned 
 in the Tecumseh, I looked up in surprise. As 
 it chanced, I caught the eye of the new mem- 
 ber of the club. He returned my gaze in a 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 169 
 
 straightforward fashion, and yet with a cer- 
 tain suggestion of timidity. I confess that 
 I was puzzled. I looked over to Harry 
 Brackett, but he was gazing up at the ceil- 
 ing, with his pencil still in his fingers. 
 
 Then we both turned our attention to the 
 " Gramercy Stew " which the waiter brought 
 us, and which was the specialty of the club. 
 Judge Gillespie and De Ruyter had almost 
 finished their supper when we arrived, and 
 they now made ready to leave us. 
 
 " I wish I were as young as you, boys," 
 said the judge, as he rose ; " but I'm not, 
 and I can't sit up as late as I used. Be- 
 sides, I must go to the Brevoort House 
 early to-morrow morning, for I've prom- 
 ised to take Lord Stanyhurst to Grace 
 Church." 
 
 " Is Lord Stanyhurst over here ?" asked 
 Cockshaw, with interest. 
 
 " He arrived this afternoon on the Silu- 
 ria" the judge answered. " Do you know 
 him ?" 
 
 " I know his son," replied the new mem- 
 ber of the club. After a momentary pause 
 he added : " In fact, we are remotely con- 
 
1 70 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 nected by marriage. He is my brother-in- 
 law's brother-in-law." 
 
 Judge Gillespie and Rupert de Ruyter did 
 not hear this, for they had walked away to- 
 gether. 
 
 But Harry Brackett heard it, and he sat 
 upright in his chair and cried : " What was 
 that you said ? Would you mind saying it 
 all over again, and saying it slow ?" 
 
 "Certainly not," responded Cockshaw, 
 with no suggestion of aggressiveness with 
 all his wonted placidity. "I said that Lord 
 S tan y hurst's son was my brother-in-law's 
 brother-in-law; that is to say, he married 
 the sister of the man my sister married. 
 
 " Do you know," Harry Brackett remark- 
 ed, solemnly " do you know that you have 
 the most remarkable brother-in-law on rec- 
 ord ? A brother-in-law 
 
 so various, that he seem'd to be 
 Not one, but all mankind's epitome." 
 
 " How so ?" asked the new member of the 
 club, with a stiffening of his voice, as though 
 he were beginning to resent the manner of 
 the man with whom he was talking. 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 171 
 
 I sat still and said nothing. It was not 
 my place to intervene. Besides, I confess 
 that my curiosity made me quite willing to 
 be present at the discussion, even though 
 my hope of any possible explanation was re- 
 mote enough. 
 
 "I don't want to say anything against 
 any man's brother-in-law," Harry Brackett 
 went on, " but don't you think that the con- 
 duct of yours is a little queer ?" 
 
 "In what way?" asked Cockshaw, with 
 greater reserve. 
 
 u Well, in the way of dying, for example," 
 Harry Brackett responded. " Most of us 
 can die only once, but your brother-in-law 
 managed to die twice. First, he was drowned 
 in the Tecumseh, and then he was killed at 
 Champigny." 
 
 " But that was not " began the new mem- 
 ber of the club, and then he checked him- 
 self sharply and said, " Well ?" 
 
 "Well," repeated Harry Brackett, with 
 possibly a shade less of confidence in his 
 manner, " Well, he was a very remarkable 
 character, that brother-in-law of yours, be- 
 fore he departed this life twice, just as though 
 
172 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 
 
 he had been twins. In fact he died three 
 times, for I'd forgotten his demise in Vienna 
 in 1873, just before the Exhibition opened. 
 His habit of dying on the instalment plan 
 didn't prevent him from putting in his fine 
 work all along the line. I don't suppose 
 that you married the sister of the Wander- 
 ing Jew or that your sister married the Fly- 
 ing Dutchman, but I confess I can't think of 
 any other explanation. You see I've been 
 keeping tab on my cuff. Your brother-in- 
 law's name is Eli Low, and he is now a part- 
 ner in Carpenter & Co., the publishers. But 
 he went to California in 1849, and he climbed 
 the Jungfrau in 1853, and he lost a leg at 
 Gettysburg in 1863, and he lost his life by 
 the sinking of the Tecumseh in 1864, which 
 did not prevent his being a boy in Brittany 
 a few years later, or his getting killed all 
 over again at Champigny in 1870 although 
 I should think the Prussians would have 
 been ashamed to hit a drowned man, even 
 with a spent shell. And this second demise 
 never interfered with his being president of 
 a lumber company in Chicago at the time 
 of the fire, 1871, or with his going in the 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 173 
 
 same year to Africa with Stanley to find 
 Livingstone. But he must have scurried 
 home pretty promptly, because in 1872 he 
 was a warden of St. Boniface's in Philadel- 
 phia ; and then he must have flitted back 
 across the Atlantic in double-quick time, be- 
 cause in 1873 he was studying with Dr. Spit- 
 zer in Vienna, where he died a third time. 
 So even if he were a cat he would have only 
 six lives left now. In 1876 he seems to have 
 gone to Louisville to see the Fourth of July 
 race between Tenbroeck and Molly Macar- 
 thy ; and now to-day in 1892 he is a partner 
 in a publishing house here in New York." 
 
 To this long statement of Harry Brack- 
 ett's Mr. Harrington Cockshaw listened in 
 absolute silence, making no attempt to inter- 
 rupt and seeming wholly unabashed. Once 
 a smile hovered around the corners of his 
 mouth for a moment only, vanishing as 
 quickly as it came. 
 
 Now he lifted his eyes, and looked Harry 
 Brackett squarely in the face. 
 
 " So you think I have been lying ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "I wouldn't say that," was the answer. 
 
174 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUE 
 
 " I'm not setting up codes of veracity for 
 other people. But taking things by and 
 large, I can't help thinking that your broth- 
 er-in-law has had more than his share of ex- 
 perience. I wonder he doesn't go on the 
 road as a lecturer or else I wonder that 
 you yourself don't write a novel." 
 
 The new member of the club repeated his 
 question : " You think I'm a liar ?" 
 
 Harry Brackett made no reply. 
 
 Cockshaw continued in a perfectly even 
 voice with no tremor in it. " You think that 
 when I told you all these things that you 
 have amused yourself in setting down on 
 your cuff in chronological order, I was tell- 
 ing you what was not so ? Then what will 
 you say, when I assure you that every state- 
 ment of mine is strictly accurate ?" 
 
 " If you assure me," Harry Brackett an- 
 swered, " that your brother-in-law died once 
 in 1864, and again in 1870, and a third time 
 in 1873, all I can say is that he wanted to 
 be in at the death, that's all. He was fond- 
 er of dying than any man I ever heard of." 
 
 " Mr. Brackett," said the little man, " when 
 I told you all these things, one at a time, 
 
THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB 175 
 
 about my brother-in-law, I never meant to 
 suggest, and I never supposed you would 
 believe, that they all referred to one and the 
 same brother-in-law. They don't. My wife 
 has six brothers, and I have five sisters, all 
 married now so I have still eight brothers- 
 in-law surviving." 
 
 Harry Brackett rang the little bell on the 
 table, and when the waiter came he said, 
 "Take Mr. Cockshaw's order." 
 
 (1892.) 
 
ETELKA TALMEYR 
 
ETELKA TALMEYR: 
 
 A TALE OF THREE CITIES 
 
 I. LONDON. 
 
 THERE had been a full week of fair weather 
 at the beginning of June, and Piccadilly was 
 swept its whole length by the afternoon 
 tide of cabs and carts and carriages, which 
 swirled about the stolid statue of the Iron 
 Duke and eddied away to Belgravia, to Ken- 
 sington, and to Mayfair. The sandwich 
 men who wearily followed each other in 
 single file along the gutter, bearing on their 
 breasts and backs boards announcing " The 
 Messiah" at the Albert Hall, were often 
 splashed by the brisk hansoms emblazoned 
 with the arms of their noble owners. It 
 was nearly four o'clock, and the flood was 
 still rising. 
 
180 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 Among those who were borne along by 
 its current were two New Yorkers. 
 
 " I used to think," said one of them, Mr. 
 Robert White, "that the chief difference 
 between New York and London could be 
 summed up in a sentence : in America we 
 have clear skies and dirty streets, while in 
 England they have dirty skies and clean 
 streets. But such a week as we have had 
 now spoils my epigram, and gives the British 
 both clean streets and clear skies." 
 
 " In dry weather all signs fail," gravely 
 quoted his companion, Dr. Cheever. 
 
 " Then I had always been told that the 
 English climate had none of the staggering 
 uncertainty Old Probabilities gives to Amer- 
 ican climate, and that the British Clerk of 
 the Weather could be counted on absolute- 
 ly, so that you might be sure as to what 
 was going to happen if it rained, you 
 might declare it was going to clear up in an 
 hour or so, and when it was fair, you knew 
 that it would pour sooner or later. But after 
 the past ten days, I begin to believe that 
 the British abuse their own climate just as 
 they do our spelling." 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 181 
 
 " If you will examine the attire of some 
 of the young ladies who are passing us," 
 said Dr. Cheever, " I think you will see that 
 the natives have not maligned their weather. 
 They have been taught by experience to go 
 prepared for any fate." 
 
 White laughed gently. " I have noticed," 
 he rejoined, " that the regular June costume 
 of a London girl is a white muslin dress 
 with a pink sash and a fur cape, and then, 
 when she puts on her galoches and takes 
 her umbrella, rain or shine makes no differ- 
 ence to her." 
 
 The doctor smiled, but did not respond 
 further. 
 
 " I suppose we shall see lots of girls at 
 this concert," White went on. " Is it going 
 to be a very swagger function, as they say 
 over here ?" 
 
 "Probably," Dr. Cheever answered. 
 " Lady Stanyhurst is very popular with 
 young people, I'm told. But this is really 
 a children's concert we are going to now. 
 Her son is a violinist ; he's only fifteen, 
 but he takes lessons of Sarasate. And I 
 heard the Dowager Duchess of Dover say 
 
1 82 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 that * really, you know, his playing isn't 
 half-bad,' and that is their highest formula 
 of praise." 
 
 By this time the two friends had arrived 
 before a spacious house facing the pleasant 
 freshness of the Green Park. From the 
 door of this mansion- a carpet had been 
 rolled across the sidewalk ; and every min- 
 ute or two carriages drew up, and their oc- 
 cupants mostly ladies, and many of them 
 elderly and elaborately upholstered passed 
 along the carpet into the house. 
 
 " Here we are," said Dr. Cheever. 
 
 " She has a sizable house, this Lady 
 Stanyhurst of yours," White responded, as 
 they made ready to enter. 
 
 They were late, since the concert had 
 been announced for three o'clock ; and as 
 they passed up the crowded stairs they 
 heard the metallic notes of two pianos, 
 vigorously pounded by a pair of tall, thin 
 girls, twin daughters of Sir Kensington 
 Gower, K.C.B. 
 
 The duet ceased as the two Americans 
 managed to reach the hostess, standing just 
 within the doorway of the drawing-room. 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 183 
 
 " So glad you were able to come," said 
 Lady Stanyhurst to Dr. Cheever. She was 
 a pleasant-faced plump little body. "And 
 this is your friend ? So sorry you did not 
 hear that charming duet ! Those girls of 
 Sir Kensington's are astonishing really 
 astonishing." 
 
 White was about to murmur inarticulate 
 regrets for his tardiness when the hostess 
 turned from him to greet a later arrival. 
 He heard Lady Stanyhurst say, " So glad 
 you were able to come," to a portly clergy- 
 man ; and then the pressure of the crowd 
 carried him and Dr. Cheever towards the 
 end of the room, and they found freedom 
 only when they were in the embrasure of 
 an open window, whence they could look 
 across the park and see the clock-tower of 
 Westminster through the summer haze. 
 From this coign of vantage they could 
 survey if they turned their backs on the 
 view out -doors the large rectangular 
 drawing-room, with the other rooms opening 
 beyond. 
 
 They had scarcely taken up their posi- 
 tion when a violin-stand was placed in the 
 
1 84 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 centre of a little open space near the two 
 pianos in the adjoining room, and a smug- 
 faced boy of fifteen came forward with a 
 violin in his hand. He wore an Eton 
 jacket, and he seemed very uncomfortable 
 and awkward. There was a lull in the 
 chatter which filled the house, for this was 
 the son of the hostess ; and the lad began 
 the " Sarabande " of Corelli. He did not 
 play badly for a boy, but the musicians 
 present must have wondered at the mater- 
 nal pride which could force the lad to such 
 a discovery of his inexperience. 
 
 When the perfunctory applause had died 
 away, after the encore which the poor boy 
 had prepared for, White said to Dr. Cheever, 
 " And who is here ?" 
 
 " All sorts of people," responded his 
 friend. " There's the Prime-minister in 
 that corner talking to the Dowager Duch- 
 ess of Dover. There's the editor of the 
 Epoch, with his wife and five daughters, just 
 coming in. There is Dr. Pennington, the 
 rector of St. Boniface's, of Philadelphia 
 
 " Are there Americans here besides us ?" 
 asked White. 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 185 
 
 " Lots of them," the doctor replied ; " and 
 all sorts too. The rector of St. Boniface's 
 there is alongside Dexter, the Chicago wheat 
 operator." 
 
 " How did he get here ?" White wanted 
 to know. 
 
 " Oh, there are worse here than Cable J. 
 Dexter," Cheever returned. "When an Amer- 
 ican adventurer conies to London with lots 
 of money, it's always a question whether he 
 will be taken up by the police or by Society." 
 
 While the two Americans were thus gen- 
 eralizing hastily about London society, the 
 violin-stand had been removed by a foot- 
 man in white livery, who now returned and 
 raised the top of one of the grand-pianos. 
 Among the little group of intimates of the 
 house who were gathered close to the in- 
 strument there was to be noticed a move- 
 ment as of expectancy. In a minute a 
 young girl came forward and took her seat 
 at the piano. 
 
 For a moment she sat silent and motion- 
 less, and then, without any suggestion of 
 hesitancy or timidity, she raised her hands 
 and began to play. 
 
1 86 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 As the first bars of Chopin's B. Minor 
 Scherzo fell upon his ears, Dr. Cheever 
 checked his friend's gossip with a gesture, 
 and said, " Why, they've got a musician !" 
 
 He and White turned to see the player. 
 They saw a slip of a girl of perhaps fifteen 
 or sixteen, her thin face crowned by a thick 
 mass of black hair, and lighted by a pair of 
 flaming eyes. As she played on, a spot of 
 color began to glow on her tawny cheeks. 
 
 " That bag of bones has the sacred fire, 
 hasn't she ?" cried White. " See how her 
 long face is almost transfigured by the 
 music." 
 
 " I wonder who she is," Dr. Cheever 
 said. 
 
 " She's not English, for one thing," re- 
 turned White. " Neither that swarthy skin 
 of hers nor that musical temperament is 
 native to the British Isles." 
 
 " Not English, of a certainty," the doctor 
 declared ; " gypsy, possibly, or Jewish 
 they are both musical peoples. But she 
 may be a Slav or a Czech ; you can't tell. 
 The face is expressive, but it keeps its se- 
 crets, for all that." 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 187 
 
 " It's the face of a born musician that's 
 obvious enough," said White, as the power 
 of the performance seized them both. " I 
 wish she hadn't that trick of twitching her 
 eyebrows." 
 
 " She has very obvious gifts," the doctor 
 added, " and she has trained herself rigor- 
 ously. There is will in that jaw of hers, the 
 determination to succeed." 
 
 " What will she be in the future ?" White 
 queried. " A great artist ? A great lady ? 
 A great beauty even ? Or will she degen- 
 erate, and not develop at all ?" 
 
 " She may be a beauty if she chooses," 
 his friend answered. " She has the raw 
 material of beauty in those strange features 
 of hers. And she is clever enough to be a 
 beauty if she thinks it worth while. It's 
 the exceeding cleverness in the face that im- 
 presses one most. Yes, she is devilishly 
 clever that girl ; quite clever enough to be 
 a great artist, a great lady, a great beauty 
 all three if the chance come. And 
 in the mean while she is interesting to listen 
 to and interesting to look at." 
 
 " I wonder," said White, gazing at the 
 
1 88 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 girl intently, " where she came from almost 
 as much as I wonder where she will go. 
 What is the heredity that breeds faces and 
 figures like hers ? And what environment 
 will best develop an ardent soul like that ? 
 Will the future take her up or carry her 
 down ?" 
 
 " Who can tell now ?" the doctor re- 
 sponded. "Look at her mouth that is 
 sensual ; and there is cunning in those thin 
 lips. With that mouth I should say a girl 
 might go to the devil or might hold a 
 candle to him, if she thought the game 
 worth it." 
 
 " That is to say," White returned, " with 
 a face such as hers anything is possible in 
 the future. In the mean time, I'd like to 
 know to whom the face belongs now. It 
 will have to be an outlandish name to fit 
 that exotic personality." 
 
 When the music ceased and the girl rose 
 from the piano, Dr. Cheever saw standing 
 near to him a spare and angular old lady 
 with a queer little cap askew on her head 
 under a queer little bonnet. 
 
 " Here is the Dowager Duchess of 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 189 
 
 Dover," he whispered to White. " I'll ask 
 her. She knows everything and every- 
 body, and everything about everybody." 
 
 Stepping forward, he said, " Good-after- 
 noon, Duchess." 
 
 The elderly lady looked up and recog- 
 nized the American, and acknowledged his 
 presence by protruding two bony fingers of 
 her right hand, saying, "It's Dr. Cheever, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 " At your service," he replied, " and he 
 wants to ask a favor of you or at least 
 some information. Who is that girl who 
 has been playing ?" 
 
 " Plays very well, doesn't she ?" returned 
 the Duchess. " You could tell at once 
 that she wasn't a lady by her touch quite 
 professional. And they say she has a voice 
 too something quite wonderful." 
 
 " Who is she ?" the doctor repeated. 
 
 " She's a foreigner, of couse a Pole or 
 a Hungarian, or something of that kind, 
 you know," the Duchess answered. " Her 
 name's Etelka Talmeyr odd name, isn't 
 it ? But then foreigners are so peculiar. 
 She's the daughter of a music-teacher at 
 
IQO ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 Madame Mohr's, a doubtful sort of char- 
 acter, who ran away and abandoned the 
 child. I believe that she's dead now, and 
 Madame Mohr has kept the girl out of 
 charity. So kind of her, wasn't it? But 
 then she is charity itself. Of course Tal- 
 meyr teaches the little girls and makes her- 
 self useful about the school. She could do 
 no less, could she ?" 
 
 Having thus satisfied Dr. Cheever's cu- 
 riosity, the Dowager Duchess of Dover 
 dropped him an acidulated smile and 
 passed on. 
 
 " Kindly old aristocrat, that Duchess of 
 yours," said White, as Dr. Cheever returned 
 to his side. " Every woman her own freez- 
 er. Duchess of Wenham Lake, I'd call 
 her." 
 
 " I wouldn't call her if I were you," the 
 doctor rejoined, "for she wouldn't come. 
 And you need not abuse her, either, for she 
 told us what we want to know about the 
 thin girl with the fiery eyes." 
 
 " Etelka Talmeyr is just the name for 
 her, isn't it?" asked White. "Etelka is 
 Hungarian, isn't it ?" 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 191 
 
 "And Talmeyr is German, I suppose," 
 said Dr. Cheever. 
 
 "Well," White added, after a moment's 
 pause, " we know who she is and what her 
 name is. But we don't know what she will 
 be in five years." 
 
 " What she .will be in five years," the 
 doctor responded, " nobody knows, least of 
 all the girl herself. And yet a face like 
 that has force behind it, and I should not 
 wonder if the woman of five years from 
 now made some of the dreams of the girl 
 of to-day come true." 
 
 By this time a duet had begun between a 
 plump girl of thirteen playing the 'cello and 
 her brother, a lad of fourteen, seated at the 
 piano. The rooms were getting more and 
 more crowded as betarded guests continued 
 to arrive. 
 
 Dr. Cheever found an acquaintance who 
 had in his hand one of the satin pro- 
 grammes which set forth the order of ex- 
 ercises, and borrowing this for a second, he 
 saw that Miss Etelka Talmeyr was not to 
 perform again. He told his friend. 
 
 " Shall we go, then ?" asked White. " I 
 
I 9 2 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 believe that a little turn in Bond Street be- 
 fore dinner might drive my wife's headache 
 away." 
 
 So the two New Yorkers shook hands 
 with the hostess, and passed down the 
 thronged stairs and out into the sunshine 
 of Piccadilly. 
 
 II. NEW YORK. 
 
 One evening in February, more than six 
 years later, Mr. Robert White sat in a corner 
 of the huge dining-room of the College Club 
 in New York, eating a lonely dinner. His 
 wife had gone down to Florida with her 
 father to avoid the thawing and the freezing 
 which are commonly characteristic of a New 
 York February ; she had been away two 
 weeks, and White was beginning to feel 
 abandoned. It was Washington's Birthday, 
 and a holiday often operates to make a 
 solitary man desperately lonely. The deso- 
 lation of the occasion was further intensified 
 by the weather. For two days there had 
 been a steady drizzle of fine rain, enough to 
 
MR. ROBERT WHITE SAT IN A CORNER, EATING A 
 
 LONELY DINNER" 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 193 
 
 moisten and embrown the heaps of snow in 
 the streets, but not vigorous enough to wash 
 these away. Now a damp mist was rising 
 from the sidewalks, and a flicker of rain 
 trickled through it at intervals. The damp- 
 ness made it unwise to open the windows of 
 the dining-room, and the atmosphere was 
 close and discomforting. 
 
 Holiday as it was, White had gone duly 
 to the office of the Gotham Gazette, and he 
 had written his usual editorial article, put- 
 ting into it perhaps an undue causticity, due 
 only to his dissatisfied loneliness ; it was an 
 essay on the gratitude of our republic, as 
 proved by its keeping the birthday of its 
 founder, now nearly a hundred years after 
 his death. An essay on this theme does 
 not lend itself necessarily to sarcasm and 
 irony. 
 
 His day's work done, on a day when other 
 men were doing nothing, White had come to 
 the College Club in the hope of a stimulat- 
 ing game of piquet and a dinner with some 
 congenial friend. But the club had been 
 almost deserted, and among the few men 
 there he had seen none of his intimates. 
 13 
 
I 9 4 
 
 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 He was too kindly to abuse the waiter for 
 the fault he found with the dinner, but he 
 called for the complaint book and wrote a 
 sharp protest against the acridity of his 
 coffee. Having thus relieved his feelings 
 somewhat, he walked down to the billiard- 
 room. 
 
 As he entered the room he was met by a 
 cry of welcome. 
 
 " Hello, White ! I say, boys, let's make 
 White go with us too ! * When the wife is 
 away, the husband can play;' there's a 
 motto for you." 
 
 The speaker was a clean-shaven, clean- 
 looking young fellow, Kissam Ketteltas by 
 name ; and he was just back from three 
 years of hard labor at a German university. 
 As he spoke he was coming towards the 
 door with half a dozen other young fellows. 
 
 " Mr. \Vhite has the best of it," said one 
 of them ; " this is the kind of day when I 
 wish I was married. If I had a wife now, I 
 could pass the time quarrelling with her." 
 
 "To be bored is the proper punishment 
 of idleness," returned Ketteltas ; " and you 
 haven't done any work since you graduated. 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 195 
 
 Besides, matrimony is a poor remedy for 
 monotony. * Anything for a quiet wife ;' 
 that's another motto for y>u !" 
 
 " White is a grass-widower now, anyway," 
 said one of the group, an undersized little 
 man with a thin wisp of sandy mustache, 
 " and he had best make hay while the sun 
 shines. So he hasn't any excuse for not 
 coming with us." 
 
 This last speaker was little Mat Hitch- 
 cock, whom White disliked. He lighted his 
 cigar before responding. 
 
 " If you will kindly intermit this corusca- 
 tion of epigram," he said, "and tell me 
 where it is you want me to go with you, I 
 shall be in a condition to give you an earlier 
 answer." 
 
 "We are going to the Alcazar," Ketteltas 
 replied. 
 
 "The Alcazar?" White repeated, doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 " If you had read your own paper last 
 Tuesday," returned the other, "you would 
 have seen that the Alcazar is a new music- 
 hall something like the London Alhambra, 
 you know; and the Great Albertus is to 
 
196 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 make his first appearance to-night in honor 
 of Washington's Birthday, I suppose, and 
 to commemorate the ancient alliance of 
 France and America." 
 
 " Are you all going ?" asked White, look- 
 ing over the group, and remarking in it none 
 of his own intimates, and even one man he 
 disliked. 
 
 "We've got a big box, and we are all 
 going," Ketteltas responded ; and we want 
 you to come with us to matronize us. We 
 will blow you off. So 'don't look a gift 
 cigar in the mouth ;' there's another motto 
 for you." 
 
 "I don't know about going," White began, 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 " I do," the other interrupted. " And I 
 know you are going. We need you to ex- 
 pound the ulterior significance of some of 
 the more abstruse of the Frenchman's songs. 
 Besides, little Mat Hitchcock here is so 
 near-sighted that he can't see a joke unless 
 he has his eye-glasses on, and he has broken 
 them, and we shall rely on you to explain all 
 the doubtful allusions to him." 
 
 So saying, Kissam Ketteltas seized Robert 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 197 
 
 White's arm and led him away, only half re- 
 sisting. 
 
 " I suppose this thing we are to see is what 
 is called a variety show ?" White asked, as 
 the party plunged into the muggy murkiness 
 of the night. 
 
 " It is called a variety show, I admit," 
 Ketteltas answered, "just as a lawyer's 
 document is called a brief and with about 
 as much reason. But then, if it is always 
 the same, it is always amusing, for it makes 
 absolutely no demand on the intelligence." 
 
 A sudden flurry of rain forced them all to 
 button their collars tightly and made con- 
 versation difficult. A dank steam rose from 
 the roadway, and the electric lights gleamed 
 dully through the mist and the drizzle. 
 
 " This is a soggy night, if you like one," 
 said Ketteltas, as they came to the vulgarly 
 decorated entrance of the Alcazar. 
 
 " But I don't like one," White responded, 
 following his guide down a long dark cor- 
 ridor. " And I don't like to think myself a 
 fool, either although I feel like one for 
 coming to this hole." 
 
 " Here's our box," the other said, as the 
 
198 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 attendant opened a door. " You won't re- 
 gret coming; this place has a color of its 
 own quite worth while seeing. I've been 
 to variety shows in all parts of the world, 
 and they are all alike and all unlike too. 
 They are great places for studying human 
 nature. There's a lot of character about a 
 music-hall although some of the frequenters 
 have lost theirs." 
 
 The box they emerged into was one of a 
 series into which the narrow galleries run- 
 ning along the walls were divided by low 
 board partitions. It was the one nearest to 
 the stage, and it was perhaps the largest, for 
 it contained eight chairs, in two rows, with 
 a long table between them. The hall was 
 also long and narrow. The floor was cov- 
 ered with more little tables, surrounded by 
 chairs. There was a small stage at the end, 
 with a violently painted set of scenery, sup- 
 posed to represent an Oriental garden. The 
 decoration of the hall was equally mean and 
 vulgar. The strongest impression the place 
 produced was one of tawdry squalor. Men 
 with their hats on sat at the little tables, 
 drinking and smoking, countrymen and boys 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 199 
 
 mostly. Women with obviously artificial 
 complexions were drinking with the men, or 
 moving restlessly up and down the side aisles. 
 The atmosphere was heavy with stale smoke. 
 Robert White wondered why he had come. 
 
 When White, Ketteltas, Hitchcock, and 
 the others entered, half a dozen musicians 
 were blaring forth the refrain of a comic 
 song, and the scant stage was filled by the 
 exuberant presence of Miss Queenie Dough- 
 erty, the Irish Empress such the pro- 
 gramme declared her to be. It was nearly 
 nine o'clock, and the performance had be- 
 gun an hour before. Miss Queenie Dough- 
 erty was even then singing for the fourth time, 
 in response to three successive recalls. The 
 song she was then engaged on White recog- 
 nized from having heard it whistled in the 
 streets. It described the prowess of a Hi- 
 bernian gentleman of pugnacious proclivi- 
 ties, who was besought in the chorus to 
 demolish his antagonist : 
 
 "Hit him one or two ! 
 Hould him till you do ! 
 Bate him black an' blue ! 
 
 For the honor of ould Ireland!" 
 
200 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 When the Irish Empress had sung this 
 song to the bitter end, and had at last been 
 allowed to withdraw, a screen, painted crude- 
 ly to imitate a glaring Japanese fan, closed 
 in and hid the stage. 
 
 "What's next?" asked little Mat Hitch- 
 cock 
 
 " I've a programme," Ketteltas answered. 
 " Next we are to behold The Staggs, the 
 Royal Star Acrobats. That will give me 
 time for my celebrated imitation of a man 
 taking a drink. What will you have, boys ?" 
 
 Before the attendant had taken their or- 
 ders the screen on the stage was withdrawn, 
 and The Staggs came forward in single file. 
 There were five of them, the foremost a 
 thick-set, middle-aged man, and the last a 
 slight lad. They were all in evening dress, 
 with black knee-breeches and black silk 
 stockings and white ties and crush hats. 
 They bowed to the audience, removed their 
 hats, and built themselves suddenly in^~> a 
 human pyramid, with the oldest man as the 
 base. Then they removed their dress-coats, 
 and in their shirt sleeves they proceeded to 
 perform the customary feats of ground and 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 2OI 
 
 lofty tumbling, with a certainty and a neat- 
 ness which delighted White's heart. At 
 length they withdrew, and the screen again 
 shut off the stage. 
 
 " What's next ?" asked little Mat Hitch- 
 cock again, with the impatience which 
 was one of his most irritating character- 
 istics. 
 
 Ketteltas referred to his programme. 
 " La Bella FZtelka and Signer Navarino in 
 their great musical and terpsichorean fan- 
 tasy," he read. " I remember La Bella 
 Etelka," he said. " I saw her in Budapest 
 two years ago but she hadn't any Signer 
 Navarino with her then. She was a good 
 looker, rather, but when she danced she 
 tousled herself all up till she was as fearful 
 as a Comanche banshee." 
 
 When the screen parted again, it was 
 seen that a piano had been placed on the 
 stage. Then an ignoble little man, in a 
 caricature ,of a dress suit, led on a tall, dark 
 woman of striking appearance. He escorted 
 her to the piano, at which she took her seat ; 
 he prepared her music for her with exagger- 
 ated courtesy, and when she began to play, 
 
202 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 he danced a few eccentric steps behind her 
 back. 
 
 As La Bella Etelka took her seat at the 
 piano she faced Robert White, and was 
 scarcely fifteen feet from him. He looked 
 at her without interest, and then suddenly 
 he began to ask himself where he had seen 
 that face before. By the time she had played 
 a dozen bars of Chopin's Waltz in A Minor 
 he had recognrzed her by the peculiar 
 twitch of the eyebrows. The movement of 
 the wrist was the same also, the carriage of 
 the head, the eyes, even the face every- 
 thing but the expression. He did not hesi- 
 tate more than a minute, and after that he 
 had no longer a doubt that he had seen La 
 Bella Etelka once before six years before, 
 in London, at Lady Stanyhurst's children's 
 concert, one afternoon in June. La Bella 
 Etelka was Etelka Talmeyr ; of that there 
 could be no question, although she had 
 altered strangely for the worse. The for- 
 eign look, Slav or Czech, Jewish or gypsy, 
 was unmistakable still ; and there was no 
 difficulty in recognizing the high cheek- 
 bones, the fiery eyes, the thick black hair. 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 203 
 
 But what a pitiful metamorphosis it was 
 that the bright, youthful girl of six years 
 ago should be changed already into this 
 full-blown, vulgar-looking woman. The ex- 
 pression had been energetic and self-reliant ; 
 it was now crafty, common ; and the hint 
 of sensuality in the girl's face was obvious 
 animality in the woman's. All the features 
 had hardened ; all the promise had gone 
 out of them, all the gentleness, and all the 
 hope. 
 
 While Robert White was thus moralizing, 
 La Bella Etelka and Signer Navarino were 
 earning their salary. She had played the 
 dreamy and poetic measures of Chopin 
 with a mastery of the instrument and an 
 appreciation of the music almost out of 
 place in that tobacco-smoked hall. Then, 
 without warning, she changed the time to 
 that of the ordinary waltz, instantly vulgar- 
 izing the music and accentuating the rhythm 
 as her associate danced more and more gro- 
 tesquely. After a while he skipped over to 
 her, and still keeping time with his feet, he 
 began playing also. Almost as soon as he 
 took his position at the piano she left the 
 
204 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 instrument, dancing away with easy grace, 
 and managing her long black train with 
 consummate skill. She waltzed about the 
 small stage decorously enough at first, and 
 then, without warning, still keeping perfect 
 time, she flashed out her foot and kicked 
 her partner's hat off his head. Playing with 
 one hand only, he turned sideways and pro- 
 tested in vigorous pantomime. She danced 
 away from him, sweeping her long skirts ; 
 and then she danced back, kicking high 
 over his head as he sat at the piano. The 
 band then took up the tune softly, and 
 Signer Navarino left the piano and skipped 
 towards La Bella Etelka, who tripped lightly 
 up the stage and took his hand, whereupon 
 they came down to the footlights together, 
 each in turn swinging a foot over the other's 
 head, to the roaring applause of the specta- 
 tors. 
 
 It was with growing repugnance that 
 Robert White watched this vulgar exhibi- 
 tion, but he could not take his eyes from 
 the woman's face. As he looked at the 
 low couple pirouetting about the tawdry 
 stage, he recalled every word of his conver- 
 
"THEY CAME DOWN TO THE FOOTLIGHTS TOGETHER 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 205 
 
 sation with Dr. Cheever at Lady Stany- 
 hurst's that afternoon in June, six years be- 
 fore. He remembered their speculation as 
 to the future of Etelka Talmeyr whether 
 she would degenerate or develop. She had 
 degenerated there was no doubt of that. 
 Despite the diabolical cleverness Dr. Chee- 
 ver saw in her face, and the abundant 
 strength of will he declared her to have, the 
 girl had not become a great artist, a great 
 beauty, a great lady. She had become what 
 White saw before him a sorry spectacle. 
 If six years had wrought all this change, 
 what adventures, what experiences, what 
 harsh disappointments, and what bitter 
 griefs must have been crowded into them 
 to have made possible this obvious moral 
 disintegration. The woman looked twice 
 six years older than the girl he had seen six 
 years before but then the face was rouged 
 and plastered and blackened out of likeness 
 to itself. Besides, as the French say, years 
 of campaign count double ; and he almost 
 shuddered to think what hideous campaigns 
 hers must have been to account for so sad- 
 dening a transformation. 
 
206 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 Another roar of applause awakened White 
 to the fact that La Bella Etelka and Signor 
 Navarino had made their final bow, and 
 were retiring hand in hand. 
 
 "They'll get their encore," said Kissam 
 Ketteltas ; " she needn't beg for it with 
 those electric-light eyes of hers. She's got 
 more spice in her now than she had in Buda- 
 pest two years ago." 
 
 As La Bella Etelka and Signor Nava- 
 rino reappeared, Robert White was so sad- 
 dened by the painful comparison he could 
 not help making between the Etelka Tal- 
 meyr of London and La Bella Etelka of 
 New York that he felt a sense of shame in 
 being any longer a witness of the woman's 
 degradation. 
 
 He rose, and after a few hasty words of 
 apology to Ketteltas he left the music-hall 
 and went home. 
 
 " W'hite's not going to be here to explain 
 the Gallic jests of the Great Albertus to you, 
 Mat," said Ketteltas ; " but I'll do my best 
 to replace him." 
 
 " Bob White's getting very high - toned 
 lately," little Mat Hitchcock responded ; 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 207 
 
 " he thinks a good deal too much of him- 
 self." 
 
 "There are lots of us who do that," 
 Ketteltas returned ; " ' it's a poor mule that 
 won't work both ways ' if you want another 
 motto." 
 
 III. PARIS. 
 
 About that time Robert White's father- 
 in-law, Sam Sargent, the chief owner of the 
 Transcontinental Telegraph Company afld a 
 striking figure in Wall Street, was planning 
 a sale of certain of his stocks to an English 
 syndicate ; and when, some three months 
 later, Sir William \Varing, the head of the 
 great London banking-house of Waring, 
 Waring & Company, arrived in New York 
 on a brief tour of inspection and in- 
 quiry, Mr. Sargent seized the opportunity 
 and gave the visiting financier a dinner at 
 Claremont It was a most elaborate enter- 
 tainment, and the British guest was equally 
 impressed by the beauty of the Riverside 
 Drive, then in the first freshness of its 
 
208 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 spring greenery high above the noble Hud- 
 son, which swelled along grandly below, 
 and by the accumulated wealth of the as- 
 sembled company. One of the newspapers, 
 in its paragraph on the banquet, the Sunday 
 after, declared that the twenty guests rep- 
 resented more than One Hundred Millions 
 of Dollars. 
 
 If tjais surmise were accurate, then the 
 wealth was not distributed equally among 
 the guests, for there were at least two poor 
 men at the table. Robert White was gen- 
 erally invited to his father-in-law's formal 
 dinners, and on the present occasion he 
 found himself by the side of his old friend, 
 Dr. Cheever. 
 
 " Is there any germ theory of wealth ?" he 
 asked the doctor, as they took their seats. 
 "Can you isolate the bacteria, and breed 
 riches at will ?" 
 
 Dr. Cheever laughed lightly, and returned, 
 " If wealth were contagious, would you ex- 
 pose yourself to the danger of catching it, 
 or would you come to me to be inoculated 
 against the infection ?" 
 
 "I wonder," the journalist answered 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 
 
 20 9 
 
 " I wonder whether I should really like to 
 be enormously rich. I doubt if I should 
 care to give up my mind, such as it is, wholly 
 to the guarding of wealth. That must be 
 the most monstrous and enervating of pur- 
 suits. Of course it has its compensations. 
 If I were as rich as the rest of our fellow- 
 diners, I'd have my private physician at 
 least I'd offer the appointment to my friend 
 Dr. Cheever." 
 
 " I'm afraid one master would be more 
 exacting than many," the doctor responded. 
 " There is safety in numbers. I took a rich 
 patient over to the south of France last 
 February, and the experience was not so 
 pleasant that I care to repeat it. By-the- 
 way, while I was in Paris I wished you were 
 with me once " 
 
 " Only once ?" White interrupted. "Then 
 I'm sure I shall not confer on you my ap- 
 pointment of physician in attendance." 
 
 " Once in particular I wished for you," Dr. 
 Cheever replied. " It was because I could 
 have shown you the answer to a question 
 that we had puzzled over together. Do you 
 remember my taking you to a children's con- 
 
2IO ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 cert at the Stanyhursts' one afternoon in 
 June six or seven years ago ?" 
 
 "Of course I recall that concert," White 
 answered, " and I've got something to tell 
 you about that queer little girl we saw that 
 afternoon Etelka Talmeyr." 
 
 The doctor finished his soup, and said : 
 "It was about that same queer little girl 
 that I was going to tell you something. I 
 have seen her again." 
 
 " So have I," interposed White. 
 
 " Have you ?" Dr. Cheever asked, in sur- 
 prise. " I didn't know you had been to Eu- 
 rope since that summer." 
 
 " I haven't," White returned. " I saw the 
 Etelka here." 
 
 "Here?" echoed the doctor. "I didn't 
 know she had ever been to this country." 
 
 " She is here now," White said. 
 
 " Impossible," cried Dr. Cheever. " If the 
 prince were in America, I should have heard 
 of his arrival." 
 
 " The prince ?" repeated White, amazed. 
 
 " Yes," the doctor explained, " She is 
 now a princess, the little Etelka Talmeyr we 
 saw in London years ago." 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 211 
 
 " A princess, is she ?" White returned. 
 " Then the prince must be a queer speci- 
 men." 
 
 " Prince Castellamare is one of the most 
 charming men in Italy," the doctor explain- 
 ed, " and one of the most dignified." 
 
 " Then I should think his dignity would 
 be shocked at the way his wife exhibits her- 
 self here," White replied. 
 
 " But she can't be in this country," Dr. 
 Cheever declared. u She was in Paris when 
 I left there, the last week in February." 
 
 " But I saw her here in New York the last 
 week in February," asserted the journalist. 
 
 " You saw the Princess Castellamare here 
 last February ?" the physician asked. 
 
 " I don't know any Princess Castella- 
 mare," White responded. " I know only 
 that I saw Etelka Talmeyr here in New 
 York in February last. Oh, I can recall the 
 very date ; it was on Washington's Birth- 
 day." 
 
 Dr. Cheever laid down his fork, and looked 
 at his friend in astonishment. " Why, it was 
 on Washington's Birthday that I saw her in 
 Paris," he said. " I can fix the date easily, 
 
212 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 because it was at a reception at the Ameri- 
 can minister's that I saw her a reception 
 given in honor of the national holiday. How 
 could the Princess Castellamare be in two 
 places at once ?" 
 
 "Barring she was a bird," quoted the 
 journalist, "and she is almost light enough 
 on her feet to be one. But, joking apart, 
 you begin to puzzle me. I don't know any- 
 thing about any Princess Castellamare, but 
 I do know that I saw La Bella Etelka here 
 in New York on the evening of February 
 22d, and I am sure that La Bella Etelka and 
 the Etelka Talmeyr we saw in London that 
 June afternoon are one and the same per- 
 son." 
 
 "This is really very extraordinary," said 
 the physician. " For my part, I know noth- 
 ing of any Bella Etelka, whoever she may 
 be, but I know for a fact that on the even- 
 ing of February 22d I went to a reception 
 at the American minister's in Paris, and 
 there I saw the Princess Castellamare, and 
 I heard her sing ; and, beyond all question, 
 she is the Etelka Talmeyr we heard play 
 that afternoon in London." 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 213 
 
 " See here, doctor," White remarked, ear- 
 nestly, " the Etelka Talmeyr we saw in Lon- 
 don can't have been twins, can she ? She 
 can't have doubled up and developed into 
 a princess in Paris and into a variety-show 
 performer here in New York. It is too early 
 along in the dinner for us to see double in 
 that fashion ; so we had best tell each his 
 own story in his own fashion, and then we 
 can compare them, and so discover which 
 of us has been befooled. You can begin." 
 
 "My story is simplicity itself," the doc- 
 tor said. "On the evening of Washington's 
 Birthday I went to a reception at the Amer- 
 ican minister's in Paris. There was music, 
 of course ; we had a contralto from the Op- 
 dra, a tenor from the Opera Comique, and 
 two or three of the best amateurs of the 
 American colony. Just before the supper 
 was served I was at the door of the music- 
 room, when I heard the first notes of Schu- 
 mann's ' Warum ' sung by a mezzo-soprano, 
 a voice of wonderful richness and softness 
 and flexibility, trained to perfection. Be- 
 sides her method, the vocalist had a full un- 
 derstanding of the dramatic character of the 
 
214 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 music. I pressed forward, and I saw be- 
 fore me, standing beside the piano, a very 
 handsome young woman, tall, stately, with 
 raven hair, with a splendid throat, with flam- 
 ing black eyes, and with the same curious 
 trick of twitching her eyebrows we had re- 
 marked when we heard that little bag of 
 bones play in London. The likeness was 
 obvious indeed, it was unmistakable. The 
 face had softened ; the lines had filled out ; 
 the contour was flowing now, and not sharp ; 
 the complexion was more delicate, but there 
 was the same spot of color in the cheeks, 
 and there was the same resolute glance from 
 the eyes. Where there had been determi- 
 nation to succeed, I could now see the de- 
 termination which had succeeded. I asked 
 who she was, and I was told that she was 
 the Princess Castellamare. The prince's 
 first wife was an American ; she died four 
 or five years ago, and he was inconsolable 
 till he met his present wife. They were mar- 
 ried last summer. She had been a Made- 
 moiselle Talmeyr, and she had made her 
 first appearance at La Scala in Milan the 
 year before. I remembered that the Duch- 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 215 
 
 ess of Dover had told us that Etelka Tal- 
 meyr had a voice. What more natural than 
 that she should tire of teaching and go on 
 the stage ? As I looked at her across the 
 room, I recalled our talk about her, and I 
 saw that she had developed into a great 
 beauty, a great artist, and a great lady. I 
 gazed across the room, and although her 
 face was rounded now, I could still detect 
 the firmness of the jaw which had made 
 such a development possible." 
 
 " Is that all ?" asked White, as his friend 
 paused. 
 
 " That is all," the doctor answered. " I 
 have told you how I came to identify the 
 Princess Castellamare with the little Etelka 
 Talmeyr of years ago. I confess I am curi- 
 ous to hear your story, and to discover how 
 you can possibly think that you have seen 
 her in this country when I left her in Eu- 
 rope." 
 
 " My story is quite as short as yours, and 
 quite as plain and quite as convincing," 
 White declared ; and then he told the doc- 
 tor how he had been alone on the evening 
 of Washington's Birthday, how he had dined 
 
2i6 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 at the College Club, how Kissam Ketteltas 
 had taken him to the Alcazar, how he had 
 seen La Bella Etelka and Signer Navarino 
 in their great musical and terpsichorean 
 fantasy, how he had recognized La Bella 
 Etelka as the Etelka Talmeyr he and the 
 doctor had seen in London years before, 
 how he also had noticed the characteristic 
 twitch of the eyebrows, how he had been 
 saddened that the girl had not developed, 
 but had degraded and vulgarized. " But," 
 he concluded, " that La Bella Etelka, whom 
 I saw at the Alcazar on the evening of Feb- 
 ruary 22d, is Etelka Talmeyr I am absolute- 
 ly certain." 
 
 " And I am equaliy certain," the doctor 
 declared, " that the Princess Castellamare, 
 whom I saw at the American minister's in 
 Paris on the evening of February 22d, is 
 Etelka Talmeyr." 
 
 "Well," said Robert White, as he began 
 on his Roman punch, " we cannot both of 
 us be right." 
 
 "Either you are wrong," the doctor as- 
 serted, " or" 
 
 " Or you are," White interrupted. " On 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 217 
 
 the 22d of February Etelka Talmeyr was 
 either in New York or in Paris ; she could 
 not have been in both places. I say she 
 was in New York, and you say she was in 
 Paris. There is no possibility of reconciling 
 our respective statements, is there ?" 
 
 " None whatever," Dr. Cheever answered. 
 " But I will allow you to withdraw yours if 
 you like." 
 
 " I'll do better," returned the journalist. 
 " I will prove it ; at least I will prove that 
 I am right in thinking that Etelka Talmeyr 
 and La Bella Etelka are one and the same 
 person." 
 
 " I'd like to see you do that !" said the 
 physician, sarcastically. 
 
 "You mean that you wouldn't like to see 
 me do it," White retorted. " But see it you 
 shall, and with your own eyes. According 
 to your own story, your Princess Castella- 
 mare is now in Europe somewhere." 
 
 " She was in Paris when I left there," 
 said the doctor, "but she has very likely 
 gone back to Rome now with her hus- 
 band." 
 
 "Exactly so," White went on. "Your 
 
2i8 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 Princess Castellamare is at least three thou- 
 sand miles off, and you can't show her to 
 me. But La Bella Etelka is still here in 
 New York at the Alcazar, and I can show 
 her to you. And I propose to do it, too. 
 You shall be convinced by your own eyes. 
 Dine with me to-morrow, and we will go to 
 the Alcazar together, and you shall see for 
 yourself." 
 
 "I will dine with you with pleasure," 
 the doctor replied. "And I will see for 
 myself." 
 
 "For the present," White declared, "let 
 us have peace. Let us possess our souls in 
 patience. Let us do justice to my father-in- 
 law's hospitality. It is now the middle of 
 May, and the game-laws are in force, so I 
 draw your attention to the Alaskan ptarmi- 
 gan which is now about to be served." 
 
 " I didn't know there were any ptarmigan 
 in Alaska," said the doctor, innocently. 
 
 " There isn't," White responded, as he 
 helped himself to the prairie-chicken. 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 219 
 
 IV. NEW YORK. 
 
 The next evening Dr. Cheever and Mr. 
 White sat side by side in the Alcazar, the 
 tawdry gilding of which was already begin- 
 ning to be tarnished by tobacco smoke. 
 They arrived in time to see Miss Queenie 
 Dougherty, the Irish Empress, respond to 
 her third encore, and to hear her sing about 
 " The Belle of the old Eighth Ward," the 
 chorus of which declared that 
 
 "When Thady O'Gracly 
 Came courtin' Nell Brady 
 There wasn't a lady 
 As pretty, as witty, in the whole of the city." 
 
 They had the pleasure of seeing the 
 Human Sea-serpent give his marvellous ex- 
 hibition of contortionism in a Crystal Casket 
 of real water. Then Prince Sionara, the 
 Royal and Unrivalled Japanese Juggler, 
 made butterflies out of bits of paper, and 
 forced them to flutter hither and thither 
 about the stage, after which he spun a top 
 
220 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 in the air and caught it on the edge of a 
 sword, and did other strange feats, as is the 
 custom of Japanese princes in variety shows, 
 concluding with his Celebrated Cyclone 
 Slide on the Silver Wire from the upper 
 gallery backward to the stage. 
 
 " Now," said White, as the Japanese 
 bowed himself off the stage " now we are 
 to have Etelka Talmeyr," and he handed 
 his programme to Dr. Cheever, pointing to 
 the lines announcing La Bella Etelka and 
 Signer Navarino in their great musical and 
 terpsichorean fantasy. 
 
 The screen which served as a drop-curtain 
 parted in the middle, and disclosed the piano 
 on one side of the stage; and then the 
 wretched little parody of a man led on his 
 tall, dark, striking partner, and escorted her 
 to the instrument. 
 
 " Don't you see the likeness?" cried White. 
 " It is unmistakable." 
 
 " Of course I see it," the doctor answered. 
 " But it is a likeness only, a likeness such as 
 one may see any day." 
 
 As La Bella Etelka seated herself at the 
 piano and struck the opening notes of 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 221 
 
 Chopin's Waltz in A Minor she looked out 
 across the footlights at the audience, and 
 her eyebrows twitched automatically, as 
 they had done when White had watched 
 her before. 
 
 " Did you see that twitch of the eye- 
 brows ?" he asked, triumphantly. " Did 
 you ever see any one who had that trick 
 and who looked like that except the Etelka 
 Talmeyr we saw in London years ago ?" 
 
 "Yes," the doctor answered, "I have 
 seen the Princess Castellamare ; she looks 
 like this poor creature here, and she has 
 that same twitch. And, as I told you last 
 night, I am sure that she is the Etelka Tal- 
 meyr we saw in London." 
 
 " You are unconvinced still ?" White 
 asked. 
 
 " Quite unconvinced," Dr. Cheever re- 
 sponded. The Princess Castellamare was 
 a Mademoiselle Talmeyr, and she is now 
 about the age the Etelka Talmeyr we saw 
 ought to be by this time. This Bella Etelka 
 of yours is five or ten years too old." 
 
 "She looks older than Etelka Talmeyr 
 might look, I'll admit," the journalist re- 
 
222 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 turned ; " but she has had a hard life, ob- 
 viously, and she shows it. A woman doesn't 
 keep her youth in an atmosphere like this. 7 ' 
 
 "That is true enough," the doctor ac- 
 knowledged. 
 
 "Let's put two and two together," White 
 went on. " It is seven years since we were 
 in London, and Etelka Talmeyr was then 
 fifteen or sixteen, so she may be twenty- 
 three now. La Bella Etelka here looks 
 twenty-six, or thereabouts ; but will you 
 declare that she is really more than twenty- 
 three ?" 
 
 The doctor gazed intently at La Bella 
 Etelka as she and the little Italian gyrated 
 about the stage. 
 
 " No," he said, at last. " This woman 
 may be any age you please, and she is 
 astoundingly like the girl we saw in London. 
 I see the resemblance more and more the 
 longer I look at her. She has the sensual 
 mouth I noticed then, and the cunning lips 
 too. . In fact, I see in this woman here the 
 development of all the less pleasing char- 
 acteristics of the Etelka Talmeyr we specu- 
 lated about seven years ago, just as I saw 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 223 
 
 in the Princess Castellamare the develop- 
 ment of all her pleasanter qualities. In the 
 little girl in London there were the possibil- 
 ities of a beauty, an artist, a lady, and the 
 Princess Castellamare is all three. But 
 there was in her also the possibility of a 
 degradation such as we see on the stage 
 now." 
 
 "In other words," commented White, 
 " you think that the little Etelka Talmeyr is 
 a female Jekyll and Hyde, with the added 
 faculty of sending the bad Hyde on this 
 side of the Atlantic, while the good Jekyll 
 on the other marries a fairy prince ? That's 
 a picturesque explanation of our dilemma, 
 of course, but isn't it a little lacking in 
 scientific probability ?" 
 
 Dr. Cheever did not answer for a minute. 
 His eyes were following the tall figure in 
 the long silk dress as it floated languidly 
 across the stage in time to the music of the 
 waltz. He extracted a coin from his pocket, 
 dropped it in a slot on the back of the chair 
 next to him, and released an opera -glass ; 
 with this he took another long look at the 
 dancer. 
 
224 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 Then handing the glass to White, he said, 
 " This woman is much older than she looks. 
 There are signs which are unmistakable. 
 Look at the wrinkles around her eyes and 
 below her chin. She is at least ten years 
 older than the Etelka Talmeyr we saw in 
 London." 
 
 White took the glass and gazed in his 
 turn. " You are right," he admitted, frank- 
 ly, " she does look older ; but, for all that, 
 I think " Here he broke off suddenly and 
 called to a man who was about to take a 
 seat near them. " Brackett !" 
 
 " Hello, White," responded the gentleman 
 thus hailed, turning suddenly and dropping 
 into the nearest chair. " I didn't know you 
 took in this sort of thing often." 
 
 " I don't," White answered. " I come as 
 little as possible ; and to-night we are here 
 for a purpose, Dr. Cheever and I. Dr. 
 Cheever, Mr. Harry Brackett." 
 
 The two men bowed. Harry Brackett of- 
 fered the doctor his box of cigarettes. 
 
 " I am here regularly. They'll let you 
 smoke here, and then you see all sorts of 
 things.' 1 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 225 
 
 " I called Brackett over," said White to 
 the doctor, but so that the new-comer could 
 hear him, "because I believe he can help 
 us out. He has been a reporter, and he has 
 managed a panorama, and last winter he 
 wrote an alleged farce -comedy for Daisy 
 Fostelle, and he probably knows more people 
 and more different kinds of people than any 
 other man in New York." 
 
 " That's true," assented Harry Brackett. 
 " You never can tell when knowing a man 
 will come in handy." 
 
 " Do you happen to know the manager of 
 this place, or the stage - manager ?" asked 
 White. 
 
 " I know them both," was the response. 
 " I know the manager best, but Zeke Kil- 
 burn has a swelled head since he got this 
 show. He owns the earth, and has a first 
 mortgage on the rest of the solar system. 
 But I guess I can work him. What do you 
 want ?" 
 
 "We want to find out about La Bella 
 
 Etelka here, and whether she used to be 
 
 called Etelka Talmeyr, and whether she is 
 
 any relation to the Princess Castellamare." 
 
 15 
 
226 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 " I guess she's no relation to any princess, 
 or we should have seen it in the paragraphs 
 before this," said the ex -manager of the 
 panorama. " I don't know anything about 
 her, but I believe that she is married to that 
 little chap who does a dancing act with her. 
 She is very jealous of him, too ; flared up 
 like a volcano the other night because he 
 complimented Queenie Dougherty on her 
 new song. There came near being a hair- 
 pulling scrap ; but Zeke Kilburn happened 
 along just then, and he separated them. 
 Tell me just what it is that you want to 
 know, and I'll see what I can do for 
 you." 
 
 Thereupon White set forth with perfect 
 fairness the point at issue between the doc- 
 tor and himself, and explained why it was 
 they were interested in knowing whether 
 the Etelka Talmeyr of London was the 
 Mademoiselle Talmeyr of Milan, now the 
 Princess Castellamare of Rome, or whether 
 she was La Bella Etelka of New York. 
 
 " I think I see what you want," Harry 
 Brackett declared, as he rose to his feet. 
 " And I guess I can get it for you. Keep 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 227 
 
 my seat for me, and I'll come back as soon 
 as I can." 
 
 Lighting another cigarette, and throwing 
 the empty box under the chair, Mr. Harry 
 Brackett left them, and walked away to the 
 manager's office. 
 
 On the stage La Bella Etelka and Signor 
 Navarino were concluding their musical and 
 terpsichorean fantasy ; side by side they ad- 
 vanced from the scenery at the back to the 
 trembling footlights, each in turn lifting a 
 foot over the other's head as they danced 
 down, to the wild applause of the spectators. 
 
 White and Cheever waited patiently as 
 the successive numbers of the variety enter- 
 tainment followed one another. The Sen- 
 yah Sisters, two pretty girls, with lithe and 
 graceful figures, climbed to a double trapeze 
 in the arch of the proscenium, and went 
 through the usual intricate performance 
 commingled of skill and danger. Then Mr. 
 Mike McCarthy gave his World - renowned 
 Impersonation of the Old-time Darky, in 
 the course of which he sang an interminable 
 topical song, accompanying himself on the 
 banjo. Finally came the last number on 
 
228 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 the programme, a so-called burlesque ex- 
 travaganza, compounded of noisy songs and 
 halting verses. Bored as they were and 
 weary, White and Cheever felt sorry for the 
 poor actors, straining themselves vainly to 
 give a double meaning to words devoid of 
 any. 
 
 At last, when the tether of their patience 
 was stretched almost to the breaking-point, 
 Harry Brackett reappeared, and dropped 
 into the seat they had kept for him. 
 
 " Did you discover anything ?" asked Dr. 
 Cheever. 
 
 " Is La Bella Etelka the Etelka Talmeyr 
 we saw together in London," White inquired, 
 " or isn't she ?" 
 
 "One at a time, please," Brackett re- 
 sponded. "And give me a cigarette, if 
 you've got one. Then I'll tell you what 
 I've found out." 
 
 Robert White proffered his cigarette-case. 
 
 Harry Brackett helped himself. "Thanks," 
 he said. "Egyptian, ain't they? Too rich 
 for my blood nowadays; I stick to the na- 
 tive article." 
 
 Dr. Cheever handed him a lighted match. 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 229 
 
 "Thank you," he went on, puffing at his 
 cigarette. "Well, I found out several things. 
 I've got the key to your mystery. And 
 the answer isn't at all what either of you 
 thinks." 
 
 " How so ?" began White ; " isn't" 
 
 " Best let him tell his story in his own 
 way," the doctor interrupted. 
 
 "That's what I think," assented Harry 
 Brackett. " And I'll be as brief as I can, 
 too. I happened on Zeke Kilburn at the 
 door here, and I got him to take me behind. 
 First thing we stumbled on the little Dago 
 Signer Navarino. Zeke knocked him 
 down to me, and I froze to him at once, and 
 took him into the cork-room and blew him 
 off to a bottle, and got him to talk about 
 himself. In less than five minutes I turned 
 him inside out as easy as an old kid glove. 
 There isn't anything he wouldn't tell me if 
 I asked him. So I dropped a question or 
 two about La Bella Etelka. And she wasn't 
 in London seven years ago." 
 
 Dr. Cheever looked at White with an air 
 of triumph. 
 
 "For the good and sufficient reason," 
 
230 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 Harry Brackett continued, " that she was 
 then in South America, singing in comic 
 opera ' La Perichole,' you know, and the 
 'Timbale d'Argent.' She had been in Lon- 
 don once upon a time, about ten years ago, 
 when she was a music-teacher, or something 
 of that sort" 
 
 " So she was once a music-teacher in Lon- 
 don?" White interrupted. "Then I don't 
 see why " Then he checked himself. 
 
 Harry Brackett continued : " She was a 
 widow, and she got stuck on a Dutchman, 
 who came over with a French comic opera 
 company, and she just dropped everything 
 and went off with him. Four or five years 
 ago he died that's the Dutchman and 
 she drifted into the variety business. She 
 met the little Dago in Budapest a year or 
 two ago ; he's a mean little cuss, but she 
 has married him all the same. She's worth 
 a dozen of him easy. From things he let 
 on, I sized her up, and I made a guess as to 
 her relation to the Princess Castellamare." 
 
 " I see," said White. " The princess is her 
 younger sister." 
 
 "Then you can't see straight," Harry 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 231 
 
 Brackett retorted, "because the princess 
 isn't her sister. I made a guess, as I say, 
 and I wanted to find out if I'd struck it. So 
 I shook the little Dago, and I went back on 
 the stage and found Kilburn again, and I 
 got him to introduce me to La Bella Etelka, 
 who was just ready to go on in the bur- 
 lesque. She is a good-looking woman, for 
 all she's forty." 
 
 " Forty ?" cried White. " Come, now, 
 that's impossible." 
 
 " It's true," Brackett returned. " She 
 confessed to it indirectly, but it's straight 
 enough. I complimented her, and I made 
 myself as solid as I could. You see I had 
 my idea, and I wanted to find out about it. 
 So at last I made a brace. I said, suddenly, 
 4 There's a friend of mine in front, just back 
 from Paris, and he tells me he saw the Prin- 
 cess Castellamare just before he left.' She 
 flushed up, and asked, * How was she ? Is 
 she well ? I wish I could see her.' Then I 
 told her what the doctor here had said 
 how the princess was looking beautiful, 
 and how she sang like an angel. Then 
 she turned on me all of a sudden, and 
 
232 ETELKA TALMEYR : 
 
 said, ; How did you know about my daugh- 
 ter ?' " 
 
 "Her daughter?" White interrupted. 
 
 " Yes," Brackett answered ; " that was 
 my guess. And it rang the bell the very 
 first shot too. She grabbed me by the arm 
 and said, ' She doesn't know about me, 
 does she? The prince doesn't suspect?' 
 And then I knew I'd sized the thing up 
 about right." 
 
 " I confess I do not quite see " began 
 the doctor. 
 
 " It's simple enough," explained Harry 
 Brackett. " She'd run away from London 
 and abandoned her daughter, leaving her in 
 good hands, though. She had kept track of 
 her always, and she was delighted when she 
 heard of the success of Mademoiselle Tal- 
 meyr at Milan. Then she was just going to 
 write to her daughter, a little doubtful of 
 the reception she would get, or how the 
 daughter would take the news that the 
 mother was alive she had so long thought 
 dead, when all at once she heard that Mad- 
 emoiselle Talmeyr was going to marry 
 Prince Castellamare. Then she knew she 
 
A TALE OF THREE CITIES 233 
 
 had better not say a word. She had heard 
 enough about Italian princes to suppose that 
 they wouldn't like a mother -in law on the 
 variety stage doing a song-and-dance act. 
 So long as the daughter thought the mother 
 was dead, the old woman reckoned that she 
 had better stay dead. And I left her just 
 paralyzed with wonder that I had dropped 
 on a secret she didn't suppose anybody else 
 in the world knew. And it is funny, isn't it ?" 
 
 " The maternal instinct seems to have 
 awakened very tardily," the doctor remarked. 
 
 " It was pretty slow, for a fact," Brackett 
 admitted. " But I guess it was there all the 
 same slow but sure." 
 
 " Well," said White, " if she keeps away 
 from her daughter she will enjoy the very 
 highest feminine felicity the luxury of self- 
 sacrifice." 
 
 " Yes," Brackett smilingly agreed. " I 
 think that she was about as glad that I 
 knew about it as she was sorry." 
 
 At that moment the music of the brazen 
 orchestra swelled out, and part of the scen- 
 ery at the back of the stage fell apart, dis- 
 closing the Fairy Queen glittering in the 
 
234 ETELKA TALMEYR: A TALE OF THREE CITIES 
 
 glare of the calcium-light, and with her opu- 
 lent figure daringly revealed by her splen- 
 did costume. 
 
 " I wonder," remarked Robert White, fore- 
 seeing the end of the play, and rising with 
 his two friends " I wonder what your Prin- 
 cess Castellamare is doing in Rome now, 
 while La Bella Etelka is on exhibition here 
 in New York?' 1 ' 
 
 "That's easy enough," Harry Brackett 
 answered, as they turned their backs to the 
 stage and walked towards the door. " There 
 is five or six hours' difference in time, isn't 
 there ? Well, it's nearly twelve o'clock here, 
 so I guess your princess over there is get- 
 ting her beauty-sleep that is, unless she 
 sits up five hours later than her mother, 
 which isn't likely." 
 
 (1892.) 
 
 THE END. 
 
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