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I
THE
WO MAN'S STORY
AS TOLD BY
TWENTY AMERICAN WOMEN
PORTRAITS, AND SKETCHES OF THE AUTHORS
BY
LAURA C. HOLLOWAY
Author of " The Ladies of the IVTiite House," "An Hour with
Charlotte Bronte ," " Adelaide Nvilson" "The Hiailh-
stone," "Mothers of Great Men and Women,"
"Howard, the Christian Hero," "The
Home in Poetry," etc.
NEW YORK
JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER
1889
Copyright, 1888,
BT
LAURA C. HOLLOW AY,,
607
CONTENTS.
Preface v
Harriet Beecher Stowe Portrait and Biographical Sketcli ix
Uncle Lot. By Harriet Beecher Stowe 1
^Harriet Prescott Spofford. Portrait and Biographical
Sketch 33
Old Madame. By Harriet Prescott Spofford 37
Rebecca Harding Davis. Biographical Sketch 69
Tirar y Soult. By Rebecca Harding Davis 73
Edna Dean Proctor. Portrait and Biographical Sketcli. 97
Tom Foster's Wife. By Edna Dean Proctor 99
Marietta Holley. Portrait and Biographical Sketcli. . .113
Fourth of July in Jonesville. By Marietta Holley. . . . 115
Nora Perry. Portrait and Biographical Sketch 133
Dorothy. By Nora Perry 135
Augusta Evans Wilson. Portrait and Biographical Sketch 151
The Trial of Beryl. By Augusta Evans Wilson 157
Louise Chandler Moulton. Portrait and Biographical
Sketch 243
* " Nan." By Louise Chandler Moulton 247
Celia Thaxter. Portrait and Biographical Sketch 263
A Memorable Murder. By Celia Thaxter 267
Mrs. Sara J.Lippincott. Portrait and Biographical Sketch 299
A Cup of Cold Water. By Sara J. Lippincott 301
A.bba Gould Woolson. Portrait and Biographical Sketch 311
A.n Evening's Adventure. By Abba Gould Woolson. . . .315
tfary J. Holmes. Portrait and Biographical Sketch 333
A-dam Floyd. By Mary J. Holmes 335
CONTENTS.
Margaret E. Sangster. Portrait and Biographical Sketch 371
My Borrowing Neighbor. By Margaret E. Sangster. . . .373
Olive Thome Miller. Portrait and Biographical Sketch.. 389
The Girls' Sketching Camp. By Olive Thorne Miller 391
Elizabeth W. Chatnpney. Portrait and Biographical
Sketch 417
A Crisis. By Elizabeth W. Champney 419
Julia C. R. Dorr. Portrait and Biographical Sketch 435
Meg. By Julia C. R. Dorr 437
Marion Harland. Portrait and Biographical Sketch 457
A Confederate Idyl. By Marion Harland 459
Louisa May Alcott. Portrait and Biographical Sketch ..483
Transcendental Wild Oats. By Louisa May Alcott 485
Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Portrait and Biographical Sketch 509
Daves Wife. 3y Ella Wheeler Wilcox 511
Roso Terry Cooke. Portrait and Biographical Sketch.. .531
The Deacon's Week. By Rose Terry Cooke 533
PREFACE.
THE woman's story as told by twenty American
women is a composite picture of the representative
fiction work of the female writers of the republic. It
is one which depicts the types and characteristics of
people who unitedly compose our young nation. The
composite woman's picture is full of patriotic fire ; of
the fervor and faith of free institutions, and is distin-
guished by a zealous allegiance to the domestic quali-
ties of the people, which have found widest expression
under our form of government. The differences in
population ; the varieties of classes, and the broad
distinctions in local coloring are vividly exhibited in the
annals of American fiction, the largest contributors to
which are women. The compilation represents the
field of fiction, from the appearance of the first great
American novel to the present day. Mrs. Stowe's
sketch of New England life, which opens the volume,
was the forerunner of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," and is as
graphic a pen-picture of the phase of life it represents
as was her famous novel of slavery. Miss Alcott's
" Transcendental Wild Oats " is the truest delineation of
the salient features of the Transcendental movement
yet made, and is as striking in its faithfulness as is
Mrs. Stowe's "Uncle Lot."
Both these sketches were selected by their authors
for this volume, as were each and every one in it, and
in every case the writers pronounced them to be their
best sketch work. They are as a whole a represen-
tative collection, and portray the ideality, graceful
diction, and marked individuality of our national liter-
ature. For their use in this form, I am gratefully
indebted to Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, Harper
Bros., Roberts Bros., Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Charles
Dillingham, The American Publishing Company, and
The Century Company.
UNCLE LOT,
BY
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE, the daughter of the Rev.
Lyman Beecher, was born at Litchfield, Conn., in 1812,
and was one of the most gifted of the brilliant children
of that remarkable New England divine. She was a
precocious child, and was at the age of five a fluent
reader. Her mother died when she was four years of
age, and her brother Henry was the baby of the house-
hold. When she was seven she was sent as a pupil to
the seminary at Litchfield, then under the management
of one of the leading educators of his time, Mr. Brace.
At twelve years she was writing compositions on such
topics as, " Can the immortality of the soul be proved
by light of nature ? " This was the theme of her essay
for the annual exhibition and she says of it : "I re-
member the scene to me so eventful. The hall was
crowded with all the literati of Litchfield. Before
them all our compositions were read aloud. When
mine was read, I noticed that father, who was sitting
on the right of Mr. Brace, brightened, and looked in-
terested, and at the close I heard him say, " Who wrote
that composition ? " " Your daughter, sir," was the
answer. It was the proudest moment of my life.
There was no mistaking father's face when he was
pleased, and to have interested him was past all juve-
nile triumphs."
In 1836 she became the wife of the Rev. Dr. E. C.
Stowe, and for a number of years resided in Cincin-
nati, where he was a professor in the Lane Theological
Seminary. She wrote sketches for periodicals and
Sunday-school books, thus trying to add to her slender
resources, for, with a growing family her husband's
limited income did not suffice to allow of any luxuries.
I asked her recently to tell me which of the short
stories she had written she considered her best, and
^he answered : " The New England story, ' Uncle Lot, 1
ur
X HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
was the first story I ever wrote, and I still think it the
best of the collected stories published in the ' May-
flower.' It was written primarily for a literary circle
called the ' Semicolon,' which had its weekly sessions
at the home of my uncle, S. E. Foote ; then it was pub-
lished by Judge Hall in his monthly magazine." Mrs.
Stowe is the typical New England representative of fic-
tion among women, and is the foremost American
writer of her day, hence her story has the place of
honor in this collection. Her "Uncle Tom's Cabin "
was the most successful book published in the world
in this century. It has been translated into nineteen
different languages, and has had an enormous sale
throughout the civilized world.
While she was residing in Cincinnati, Mrs. Stowe
visited Kentucky and there came in direct contact
with the institution she abhorred. The result of her
acquaintance was that she was more than ever con-
firmed in her hostility, and as the subject of slavery
was uppermost in the public mind she naturally
thought and talked much of it among her New Eng-
land friends. Her husband was one of the professors
of Bowdoin College, and she came in contact with the
educators of that and other institutions where the
question of abolition was often the topic of conversa-
tion.
The anti-slavery paper in Washington at that time
was the National Era, and the editors of it invited
Mrs. Stowe to write them a serial story. She con-
sulted her brother Henry and he advised her to accept
the offer made. That was the beginning of "Uncle
Tom's Cabin." When it was finished the author was
completely used up, and was sick in bed for several
days. The chapters were written from week to week
and -ead to the family every night. Mrs. Stowe always
spertks of this book as having been revealed to her, and
very recently she declared that she did not write it,
that God gave it to her.
The authorship of " Uncle Tom's Cabin " was for a
time attributed to Mr. Beecher. He very wittily said
that he could never stop the scandalous story until he
wrote his novel, " Norwood " ; that ended the matter.
Mrs. Stowe's "Minister's Wooing" is considered
the best of her works after "Uncle Tom's Cabin,"'
xi HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
From a literary point of view it is superior to her
famous story. Mr. Gladstone wrote her that he " con-
sidered it one of the most charming pictures of Puritan
life possible." It graphically portrays the Calvinistic
side of New England life, and will occupy a perma-
nent place in American fiction.
In 1853 Mrs. Stowe travelled in Europe and wrote
an account of her tour in a volume entitled " Sunny
Memories of Foreign Lands." Other works of hers
are " Dred, a Tale of the Great Dismal Swamp " ;
" Oldtown Folks " ; " My Wife and I " ; " The Pearl
of Orr's Island " ; and " Palmetto Sketches."
For several years Mrs. Stowe's pen has been idle ;
she is growing old and her work is done. The death
of her husband, Professor Stowe, and then of her
brother, Henry Ward Beecher, cast shadows over her
life, from which she will not emerge. For some years
she had a winter residence in Florida, spending her
summers at her home in Hartford, but she parted with
it and resides permanently in Hartford with her twin
daughters, who are unmarried. Mrs. Stowe's eldest
son, Rev. Charles Stowe, is a Congregationalist min-
ister in Hartford, and has been selected by his distin-
guished mother as her biographer.
UNCLE LOT.
AND so I am to write a story, but of what and
where ? Shall it be radiant with the sky of Italy ? or
eloquent with the beau ideal of Greece ? Shall it breathe
odor and languor from the orient, or chivalry from the
Occident ? or gayety from France ? or vigor from Eng-
land? No, no, these are all too old, too romance like,
too obviously picturesque for me. No, let me turn to
my own land, my own New England ; the land of
bright fires and strong hearts ; the land of deeds, and
not of words : the land of fruits and not of flowers, the
land often spoken against, yet always respected, "the
latchet of whose shoes the nations of the earth are not
worthy to unloose." Now from this very heroic apos-
trophe, you may suppose that I have something very
heroic to tell. By no means. It is merely a little in-
troductory breeze of patriotism, such as occasionally
brushes over every mind, bearing on its wings the re-
membrance of all we ever loved or cherished in the
land of our early years, and if it should seem to be
rodomontade to any people in other parts of the earth,
let them only imagine it to be said about " Old Ken-
tuck," Old England, or any other corner of the world
in which they happened to be born, and they will find
it quite rational.
But, as touching our story, it is time to begin. Did
you ever see the little village of Newbury, in New
England ? I dare say you never did, for it was just one
of those out-of-the-way places where nobody ever
came unless they came on purpose : a green little hol-
low, wedged like a bird's nest between half a dozen
high hills, that kept off the wind and kept out foreign-
ers, so that the little place was as strictly sui generis
s if there were not another in the world. The in-
habitants were all of that respectable old standfast
hubily who make it a point to be born, bred, married,
2 UNCLE LOT.
die, and be buried all in the self same spot. There
were just so many houses, and just so many people
lived in them ; and nobody ever seemed to be sick
or to die either, at least, while I was there. The
natives grew old till they could not grow any older,
and then they stood still, and lasted from generation to
generation.
There was, too, an unchangeability about all the
externals of Newbury. Here was a red house, and
there was a brown house, and across the way was a
yellow house ; and there was a straggling rail fence or
a tribe of mullein stalks between. The minister lived
there, and 'Squire Moses lived there, and Deacon Hart
lived under the hill, and Messrs. Nadab and Abihu
Peters lived by the cross road, and the old " Widder "
Smith lived by the meeting house, and Ebenezer Camp
kept a shoemaker's shop on one side, and Patience
Mosely kept a milliner's shop in front ; and there was
old Comfort Scran who kept store for the whole town,
and sold axe heads, brass thimbles, licorice ball, fancy
handkerchiefs, and everything else you can think of.
Here, too, was the general post-office, where you might
see letters marvellously folded, directed wrong side
upward, stamped with a thimble, and superscribed to
some of the Dollys or Pollys or Peters or Moseses
aforenamed or not named. For the rest, as to man-
ners, morals, arts and sciences, the people in New-
bury always went to their parties at three o'clock in
the afternoon, and came home before dark, always
stopped all work the minute the sun was down on
Saturday night ; always went to meeting on Sunday :
had a school-house with all the ordinary inconven-
iences ; were in neighborly charity with each other ;
read their Bibles, feared their God, and were content
with such things as they had, the best philosophy after
all. Such was the place into which Master James
Benton made an irruption in the year eighteen hundred
and no matter what. Now this James is to be out
hero, and he is just the hero for a sensation, at least,
so you would have thought if you had been in New-
bury the week after his arrival. Master James was
one of those whole-hearted energetic Yankees, who
rise in the world as naturally as cork does in water.
He possessed a great share of that characteristic
B Y HARRIE T B EEC HER STO WE. 3
national trait so happily denominated " cuteness," which
signifies an ability to do everything without trying, and
to know everything without learning, and to make
more use of one's ignorance than other people do of
their knowledge. This quality in James was mingled
with an elasticity of animal spirits, a buoyant cheerful-
ness of mind, which, though found in the New Eng-
land character, perhaps as often as anywhere else, is
not ordinarily regarded as one of its distinguishing
traits.
As to the personal appearance of our hero, we have
not much to say of it not half so much as the girls in
Newbury found it necessary to remark, the first Sab-
bath that he shone out in the meeting house. There
was a saucy frankness of countenance, a knowing
roguery of eye, a jovialty and prankishness of de-
meanor that was wonderfully captivating, especially
to the ladies.
It is true that Master James had an uncommonly
comfortable opinion of himself, a full faith that
there was nothing in creation that he could not
learn and could not do, and this faith was main-
tained with an abounding and triumphant joyful-
ness that fairly carried your sympathies along with
him, and made you feel quite as much delighted
with his qualifications and prospects as he felt him-
self. There are two kinds of self-sufficiency : one
is amusing and the other is provoking. He was the
amusing kind. It seemed, in truth, to be only the
buoyancy and overflow of a vivacious mind, delighted
with everything delightful, in himself or others. He
was always ready to magnify his own praise, but quite
as ready to exalt his neighbor if the channel of dis-
course ran that way ; his own perfections being more
completely within his knowledge, he rejoiced in them
more constantly; but if those of any one else came
within the same range, he was quite as much astonished
and edified as if they had been his own. Master
James, at the time of his transit to the town of New-
bury, was only eighteen years of age, so that it was
difficult to say which predominated in him most, the
boy or the man. The belief that he could, and the de-
termination that he would be something in the world had
caused him to abandon his home, and with all his worldly
4 UNCLE LOT.
effects tied in a blue cotton handkerchief to proceed to
seek his fortune in Newbury. And never did stranger
in Yankee village rise to promotion with more unparal-
leled rapidity, or boast a greater plurality of employ-
ment. He figured as schoolmaster all the week, and
as chorister on Sundays, and taught singing and read-
ing in the evenings, besides studying Latin and Greek
with the minister, nobody knew when, thus fitting for
college, while he seemed to be doing everything else
in the world besides.
James understood every art and craft of popularity,
and made himself mightily at home in all the chimney
corners of the region round about ; knew the geogra-
phy of everybody's cider barrel and apple bin, helping
himself and every one else therefrom, with all bountiful-
ness; rejoicing in the good things of this life, devour-
ing the old ladies' doughnuts and pumpkin pies with
most flattering appetite, and appearing equally to relish
everybody and thing that carne in his way.
The degree and versatility of his acquirements were
truly wonderful. He knew all about arithmetic and
history, and all about catching squirrels and planting
corn ; made poetry and hoe handles with equal celer-
ity; wound yarn and took out grease spots for old
ladies, and made nosegays and knick-knacks for young
ones; caught trout Saturday afternoons, and discussed
doctrines on Sundays, with equal adroitness and effect.
In short, Mr. James moved on through the place
" Victorious,
Happy and glorious,"
welcomed and privileged by everybody in every place.
And when he had told his last ghost story, and
fairly flourished himself out of doors at the close of a
long winter's evening, you might see the hard face of
the good man of the house still phosphorescent with
his departing radiance, and hear him exclaim, in a
paroxysm of admiration, that " Jemese's talk re'ely did
beat all; that he was sartainly most a miraculus
cretur ! "
It was wonderfully contrary to the buoyant activity
of Master James' mind to keep a school. He had,
moreover, so much of the boy and the rogue in his
B Y HARRIE T BEECHER STO WE. 5
composition, that he could not be strict with the iniqui-
ties of the curly pates under his charge ; and when he
saw how determinately every little heart was boiling
over with mischief and motion, he felt in his soul more
disposed to join in and help them to a frolic than to
lay justice to the line, as was meet. This would have
made a sad case, had it not been that the activity of
the master's mind communicated itself to his charge,
just as the reaction of one brisk little spring will fill
a manufactory with motion; so that there was more of
an impulse towards study in the golden, good natured
day of James Benton than in the time of all that went
before or came after him. But when " school was
out," James' spirits foamed over as naturally as a tum-
bler of soda water, and he could jump over benches
and burst out of doors with as much rapture as the
veriest little elf in his company. Then you might have
seen him stepping homeward with a most felicitous
expression of countenance, occasionally reaching his
hand through the fence for a bunch of currants, or
over it after a flower, or bursting into some back yard
to help an old lady empty her wash-tub, or stopping to
pay his devoirs to Aunt This or Mistress That, for
James well knew the importance of the " powers that
be," and always kept the sunny side of the old ladies.
We shall not answer for James' general flirtations,
which were sundry and manifold; for he had just the
kindly heart that fell in love with everything in femi-
nine shape that came in his way, and if he had not
been blessed with an equal facility in falling out again,
we do not know whatever would have become of him.
But at length he came into an abiding captivity and it
is quite time that he should, for, having devoted this
much space to the illustration of our hero, it is fit we
should do something in behalf of our heroine ; and,
therefore, we must beg the reader's attention while we
draw a diagram or two that will assist him in gaining
a right idea of her.
Do you see yonder brown house, with its broad roof
slooping almost to the ground on one side, and a great,
unsupported, sun bonnet of a piazza shooting out over
the front door ? You must often have noticed it ; you
have seen its tall well sweep, relieved against the clear
evening sky, or observed the feather beds and bolsters
6 UNCLE LOT.
lounging out of its chamber windows on a still sum-
mer morning ; you recollect its gate, that swung with
a chain and a great stone ; its pantry window, latticed
with little brown slabs, and looking out upon a forest
of bean poles. You remember the zephyrs that used
to play among its pea brush, and shake the long tas-
sels of its corn-patch, and how vainly any zephyr
might essay to perform similar flirtations with the con-
siderate cabbages that were solemnly vegetating near
by. Then there was the whole neighborhood of pur-
ple-leaved beets, and feathery parsnips ; there were
the billows of gooseberry bushes rolled up by the
fence> interspersed with rows of quince trees, and far
off in one corner was one little patch, penuriously
devoted to ornament, which flamed with marigolds,
poppies, snappers, and four-o'clocks. Then there was
a little box by itself with one rose geranium in it,
which seemed to look around the garden as much like
a stranger as a French dancing master in a Yankee
meeting house.
That is the dwelling of Uncle Lot Griswold. Uncle
Lot, as he was commonly called, had a character that
a painter would sketch for its lights and contrasts
rather than its symmetry. He was a chestnut burr,
abounding with briers without and with substantial
goodness within. He had the strong-grained practical
sense, the calculating worldly wisdom of his class of
people in New England ; he had, too, a kindly heart,
but all the strata of his character were crossed by a
vein of surly petulance, that, half way between joke
and earnest, colored everything that he said and did.
If you asked a favor of Uncle Lot, he generally kept
you arguing half an hour, to prove that you really
needed it, and to tell you that he could not all the
while be troubled with helping one body or another,
all which time you might observe him regularly making
his preparations to grant your request, and see, by an
odd glimmer of his eye, that he was preparing to let
you hear the "conclusion of the whole matter," which
was, " well, well I guess I'll go on the hull I 'spose
I must at least ; " so off he would go and work while
the day lasted, and then wind up with a farewell
exhortation " not to be a cailin' on your neighbors
when you could get along without." If any of Uncle
B Y HARRIE T BEECHER STO WE. /
Lot's neighbors were in any trouble, he was always at
hand to tell them that " they shouldn't a' done so; "
that " it was strange they couldn't had more sense ; "
and then to close his exhortations by laboring more
diligently than any to bring them out of their difficul-
ties, groaning in spirit, meanwhile, that folks would
make people so much trouble.
" Uncle Lot, father wants to know if you will lend
him your hoe to-day," says a little boy, making his way
across a cornfield.
"Why don't your father use his own hoe ? "
" Ours is broke."
" Broke ! How came it broke ? "
" I broke it yesterday, trying to hit a squirrel."
" What business had you to be hittin' squirrels with
a hoe ? Say ! "
"But father wants to borrow yours."
" Why don't you have that mended ? It's a great
pest to have everybody usin' a body's things."
" Well, I can borrow one some where else, I sup-
pose," says the suppliant. After the boy lias stumbled
across the ploughed ground and is fairly over the
fence, Uncle Lot calls, " Halloo, there, you little
rascal ! What are you goin' off without the hoe for?"
" I didn't know as you meant to lend it."
" I didn't say I wouldn't, did I ? Here, come and
take it stay, I'll bring it ; and do tell your father not
to be a let'tin' you hunt squirrels with his hoes next
time."
Uncle Lot's household consisted of Aunt Sally, his
wife and an only son and daughter ; the former at the
time our story begins, was at a neighboring literary
institution. Aunt Sally was precisely as clever, as
easy to be entreated, and kindly in externals, as her
helpmate was the reverse. She was one of those
respectable, pleasant old ladies whom you might often
have met on the way to church on a Sunday, equipped
with a great fan and a psalm book, and carrying some
dried orange peel or a stalk of fennel, to give to the
children if they were sleepy in meeting. She was as
cheerful and domestic as the tea kettle that sung by
her kitchen fire, and slipped along among Uncle Lot's
angles and peculiarities as if there never was anything
the matter in the world ; and the same mantle of sun-
8 UNCLE LOT.
shine seemed to have fallen on Miss Grace, her only
daughter.
Pretty in person and pleasant in her ways, endowed
with native self-possession and address, lively and
chatty, having a mind and a will of her own, yet good-
humored withal, Miss Grace was a universal favorite.
It would have puzzled a city lady to understand how
Grace, who never was out of Newbury in her life, knew
the way to speak, and act, and behave, on all occas-
ions, exactly as if she had been taught how.
She was just one of those wild flowers which you
may sometimes see waving its little head in the woods,
and looking so civilized and arden-like, that you
wonder it it really did come up and grow there by
nature. She was an adept in all household concerns,
and there was something amazingly pretty in her ener-
getic way of bustling about, and " putting things to
rights." Like most Yankee damsels, she had a long-
ing after the tree of knowledge, and, having exhausted
the literary fountains of a district school, she fell to
reading whatsoever came in her way. True, she had
but little to read ; but what she perused she had her
own thoughts upon, so that a person of information, in
talking with her, would feel a constant wondering
pleasure to find that she had so much to say of this,
that, and the other thing than he expected.
Uncle Lot, like every one else, felt the magical
brightness of his daughter, and was delighted with her
praises, as might be discerned by his often finding
occasion to remark that " he didn't see why the boys
need to be all the time a' comin' to see Grace, for she
was nothing so extr'or'nary after all."
About all matters and things at home she gen-
erally had her own way, while Uncle Lot would scold
and give up with a regular good grace that was quite
creditable.
" Father," says Grace, " I want to have a party next
week."
" You sha'n't go to havin' your parties, Grace. I
always have to eat bits and ends a fortnight after you
have one, and I won't have it so." And so Uncle Lot
walked out, and Aunt Sally and Miss Grace proceeded
to make the cake and pies for the party.
B Y HARRIE T BEECHER STO WE. 9
When Uncle Lot came home, he saw a long array
of pies and rows of cakes on the kitchen table.
" Grace Grace Grace, I say ! What is all this
here flummery for ? "
" Why, it is to eat, father," said Grace, with a good-
natured look of consciousness. Uncle Lot tried his
best to look sour ; but his visage began to wax comical
as he looked at his merry daughter ; so he said nothing,
but quietly sat down to his dinner.
"Father," said Grace, after dinner, "we shall want
two more candlesticks next week."
" Why can't you have your party with what you've
got ? "
"No, father, we want two more."
" I can't afford it, Grace there's no sort of use on't
and you sha'n't have any."
" Oh, father, now do," said Grace.
" I won't, neither," said Uncle Lot, as he sallied out
of the house, and took the road to Comfort Scran's
store.
In half an hour he returned again ; and fumbling
in his pocket, and drawing forth a candlestick, levelled
it at Grace.
" There's your candlestick."
" But, father, I said I wanted two"
" Why can't you make one do ? "
" No, I can't ; I must have two."
" Well, then, there's t'other ; and here's a fol-de-rol
for you to tie around your neck." So saying, he bolted
for the door, and took himself off with all speed. It
was much after this fashion that matters commonly
went on in the brown house. But having tarried
long on the way, we must proceed with the main
story.
James thought Miss Grace was a glorious girl ; and
as to what Miss Grace thought of Master James, per-
haps it would not have been developed had she not
been called to stand on the defensive for him with
Uncle Lot. For, from the time that the whole village
of Newbury began to be wholly given unto the praise
of Master James, Uncle Lot set his face as a flint
against him from the laudable fear of following the
multitude. He therefore made conscience of stoutly
gainsaying everything that was said in his behalf,
10 UNCLE LOT.
which, as James was in high favor with Aunt Sally, he
had frequent opportunities to do.
So when Miss Grace perceived that Uncle Lot did
not like our hero as much as he ought to do, she, of
course, was bound to like him well enough to make up
for it. Certain it is that they were remarkably happy
in finding opportunities of being acquainted, that
James wailed on her, as a matter of course, from sing-
ing school, that he volunteered making a new box
for her geranium on an improved plan, and above all,
that he was remarkably particular in his attentions to
Aunt Sally a stroke of policy which showed James
had a natural genius for this sort of matters. Even
when emerging from the meeting house in full glory,
with flute and psalm book under his arm, he would
stop to ask her how she did ; and if it was cold
weather, he would carry her foot stove all the way
home from meeting, discoursing upon the sermon, and
other serious matters, as Aunt Sally observed " in the
pleasantest, prettiest way that ever ye see." This
flute was one of the crying sins of James in the eyes
of Uncle Lot. James was particularly fond of it,
because he had learned to play on it by intuition, and
on the decease of the old pitchpipe, which was slain
by a fall from the gallery, he took the liberty to intro-
duce the flute in its place. For this, and other sins, and
for the good reason above named, Uncle Lot's counte-
nance was not towards James, neither could he be
moved to him-ward by any manner of means.
To all Aunt Sally's good words and kind speeches,
he had only to say that "he didn't like him, that he
hated to see him a' manifesting and glorifying there in
the front gallery Sundays, and a' acting everywhere as
if he was master of all; he didn't like it, and he
wouldn't." But our hero was no whit cast down or
discomfited by the malcontent aspect of Uncle Lot.
On the contrary, when report was made to him of
divers of his hard speeches, he only shrugged his
shoulders with a very satisfied air, and remarked that
"he knew a thing or two for all that."
" Why, James," said his companion and chief coun-
sellor, " do you think Grace likes you ? "
" I don't know," said our hero, with a comfortable
appearance of certainty.
B V HARRIE T SEE CtiER S TO WE. 1 1
"But you can't get her, James, if Uncle Lot is cross
about it."
" Fudge ! I can make Uncle Lot like me if I have a
mind to try."
" Well then, Jim, you'll have to give up that flute of
yours, I tell you now."
" Fa sol la I can make him like me and my flute
too."
" Why, how will you do it ? "
" Oh, I'll work it," said our hero.
"Well, Jim, I tell you now, you don't know Uncle
Lot if you say so ; for he is just the settest critter in his
own way that ever you saw."
" I do know Uncle Lot though, better than most
folks ; he is no more cross than I am ; and as to his
being set, you have nothing to do but to make him
think he is in his own way, when he is in yours that
is all."
" Well," said the other, " but you see I don't believe
it."
" And I'll bet you a gray squirrel that I'll go there
this very evening, and get him to like me and my flute
both," said James.
Accordingly the late sunshine of that afternoon
shone full on the yellew buttons of James as he pro-
ceeded to the place of conflict. It was a bright, beauti-
ful evening. A thunder storm had just cleared away,
and the silver clouds lay rolled up in masses around
the setting sun ; the rain drops were sparkling and
winking to each other over the ends of the leaves,
and all the blue-birds and robins, breaking forth into
song, made the little green valley as merry as a musi-
cal box.
James' soul was always overflowing with the kind
of poetry which consists in feeling unspeakably happy ;
and it is not to be wondered at, considering where he
was going, that he should feel in a double ecstasy on
the present occasion. He stepped gayly along, occa-
sionally springing over a fence to the right to see
whether the rain had swollen the trout brook, or to the
left to notice the ripening of Mr. Somebody's water-
melons for James always had an eye on all his neigh-
bors' matters as well as his own.
In this way he proceeded till he arrived at the picket
12 UNCLE LOT.
fence that marked the commencement of Uncle Lot's
ground. Here he stopped to consider. Just then four
or five sheep walked up, and began also to consider a
loose picket, which was hanging just ready to drop off ;
and James began to look at the sheep.
" Well, mister," said he, as he observed the leader
judiciously drawing himself through the gap, " in with
you just what I wanted," and having waited a moment
to ascertain that all the company were likely to follow,
he ran with all haste towards the house, and swing-
ing open the gate, pressed all breathless to the door.
" Uncle Lot, there are four or five sheep in your
garden ! "
Uncle Lot dropped his whetstone and scythe.
" I'll drive them out," said our hero ; and with that,
he ran down the garden alley, and made a furious de-
scent on the enemy ; bestirring himself, as Bunyan says,
" lustily and with good courage," till every sheep had
skipped out much quicker than it skipped in ; and
then, springing over the fence, he seized a great stone,
and nailed on the picket so effectually that no sheep
could possibly encourage the hope of getting in again.
This was all the work of a minute, and he was back
again ; but so exceedingly out of breath that it was
necessary for him to stop a moment and rest himself.
Uncle Lot looked ungraciously satisfied.
" What under the canopy set you to scampering
so ? " said he. " I could a' driv out them critturs
myself."
" If you are at all particular about driving them out
yourself, I can let them in again," said James.
Uncle Lot looked at him with an odd sort of twinkle
in the corner of his eye.
" 'Spose I must ask you to walk in," said he.
" Much obliged," said James, " but I am in a great
hurry." So saying, he started in a very business-like
fashion towards the gate.
" You'd better jest stop a minute."
" Can't stay a minute."
" I don't see what possesses you to be all the while
in sich a hurry ; a body would think you had all
creation on your shoulders."
"Just my situation, Uncle Lot," said James, swing-
ing open the gate.
BY HA RRIE T BE EC HEX STO WE. 1 3
" Well, at any rate, have a drink of cider, can't yc ? "
said Uncle Lot, who was now quite engaged to have
his own way in the case.
James found it convenient to accept this invitation,
and Uncle Lot was twice as good natured as if he had
staid in the first of the matter.
Once fairly forced into the premises, James thought
fit to forget his long walk and excess of business,
especially as about that moment Aunt Sally and Miss
Grace returned from an afternoon call. You may be
sure that the last thing these respectable ladies looked
for was to find Uncle Lot and Master James tete-a-tete,
over a pitcher of cider ; and when, as they entered, our
hero looked up with something of a mischievous air,
Miss Grace, in particular, was so puzzled that it took
at least a quarter of an hour to untie her bonnet
strings. But James staid, and acted the agreeable to
perfection. First he must needs go down into the
garden to look at Uncle Lot's wonderful cabbages, and
then he promenaded all around the corn patch, stop-
ping every few moments and looking up with an ap-
pearance of great gratification, as if he had never seen
such corn in his life ; and then he examined Uncle
Lot's favorite apple tree with an expression of wonder-
ful interest.
" I never! " he broke forth, having stationed himself
against the fence opposite to it ; " what kind of an
apple tree is that ? "
" It's a bellflower, or somethin' another," said Uncle
Lot.
" Why, where did you get it ? I never saw such
apples ! " said our hero, with his eyes still fixed on
the tree.
Uncle Lot pulled up a stalk or two of weeds, and
threw them over the fence, just to show that he did not
care anything about the matter; and then-he came up
and stood by James.
" Nothin' so remarkable, as I know on," said
he.
Just then Grace came to say that supper was ready.
Once seated at table, it was astonishing to see the per-
fect and smiling assurance with which our hero con-
tinued his addresses to Uncle Lot. It sometimes goes
a great way towards making people like us to take it
14 UNCLE LOT.
for granted that they do already ; and upon this prin-
ciple James proceeded. He talked, laughed, told
stories, and joked with the most fearless assurance,
occasionally seconding his words by looking Uncle
Lot in the face, with a countenance so full of good will
as would have melted any snow-drift of prejudices in
the world. James had also one natural accomplish-
ment, more courtier-like than all the diplomacy in
Europe, and that was the gift of feeling a real interest
for anybody in five minutes ; so that if he began to
please in jest, he generally ended in earnest. With
great simplicity of mind, he had a natural tact for see-
ing into others and watched their motions with the
same delight with which a child gazes at the wheels
and springs of a watch, to " see what it will do."
The rough exterior and latent kindness of Uncle
Lot were quite a spirit-stirring study ; and when tea
was over, as he and Grace happened to be standing
together in the front door, he broke forth,
" I do really like your father, Grace ! "
" Do you ? " said Grace.
"Yes, I do. He has something in him and I like
him all the better for having to fish it out."
" Well, I hope you will make him like you," said
Grace, unconsciously ; and then she stopped, and
looked a little ashamed.
James was too well bred to see this, or look as if
Grace meant any more than she said a kind of breed-
ing not always attendant on more fashionable polish
so he only answered,
" I think I shall, Grace, though I doubt whether I
can get him to own it."
" He is the kindest man that ever was," said Grace ;
" and he always acts as if he was ashamed of it."
James turned a little away, and looked at the bright
evening sky, which was glowing like a calm golden
sea ; and over it was the silver new moon, with one
little star to hold the candle for her. He shook some
bright drops off from a rosebush near by, and watched
to see them shine as they fell, while Grace stood very
quietly waiting for him to speak again.
" Grace," said he, at last, " I am going to college this
fall."
"So you told me yesterday," said Grace. James
B Y HARR1E T BEECH ER STO WE. \ 5
stooped down over Grace's geranium, and began to
busy himself with pulling off all the dead leaves, re-
marking in the meanwhile.
' And if I do get him to like me, Grace, will you like
me too ?"
" I like you now very well," said Grace.
" Come, Grace, you know what I mean," said James,
looking steadfastly at the top of the apple tree.
" Well, I wish then, you would understand what I
mean, without my saying any more about it," said
Grace.
" O, to be sure I will !" said our hero, looking up
with a very intelligent air, and so as Aunt Sally would
say, the matter was settled with " no words about it."
Now shall we narrate how our hero, as he saw Uncle
Lot approaching the door, had the impudence to take
out his flute, and put the parts together, arranging and
adjusting the stops with great composure ?
" Uncle Lot," said he, looking up, "this is the best
flute that ever I saw."
" I hate them tooting critturs," said Uncle Lot snap-
pishly.
" I declare, I wonder how you can," said James, " for
I do think they exceed " So saying he put the flute
to his mouth, and ran up and down a long flourish.
"There! what do you think of that?" said he, looking
in Uncle Lot's face with much delight.
Uncle Lot turned and marched into the house, but
soon paced to the right-about, and came out again, for
James was fingering " Yankee Doodle," that appro-
priate national air for the descendants of the Puritans.
Uncle Lot's patriotism began to bestir itself ; and now,
if it had been anything, as he said, but " that ere flute"
as it was, he looked more than once at James' fingers.
" How under the sun could you learn to do that ?"
said he.
" Oh, its easy enough," said James, proceeding with
another tune ; and, having played it through, he
stopped a moment to examine the joints of his flute,
and in the mean time addressed Uncle Lot. "You
can't think how grand this is for pitching tunes. I
always pitch the tunes on Sunday with it."
" Yes ; but I don't think it's a right and fit instru-
ment for the Lord's house," said Uncle Lot.
16 UNCLE LOT.
" Why not ? It is only a kind of a long pitchpipe,
you see," said James; "and, seeing the old one is
broken, and this will answer, 1 don't see why it is not
better than nothing,"
" Why, yes, it may be better than nothing," said
Uncle Lot ; "but as 1 always tell Grace and my wife, it
ain't the right kind of instrument after all ; it ain't
solemn."
"Solemn!" said James, " that is according as you
work it. See here, now." So saying, he struck up Old
Hundred, and proceeded through it with great per-
severance.
" There, now ! " said he.
" Well, well, I don't know but it is," said Uncle Lot ;
"but, as I said at first, I don't like the looks of it in
meetin'."
" But yet you really think it is better than nothing,"
said James, "for you see I can't pitch my tunes with-
out it."
" Maybe 'tis," said Uncle Lot ; "but that isn't sayin'
much."
This, however, was enough for Master James, who
soon after departed with his flute in his pocket, and
Grace's last words in his heart, soliloquizing as he shut
the gate, " There, now, I hope Aunt Sally wont go to
praising me ; for, just so sure as she does, I shall have
it all to do over again."
James was right in his apprehension. Uncle Lot
could be privately converted, but not brought to open
confession ; and when, the next morning, Aunt Sally
remarked, in the kindness of her heart,
" Well, I always knew you would come to like
James," Uncle Lot only responded.
" Who said I did like him ?"
" But I am sure you seemed to like him last night."
"Why, I couldn't turn him out o' doors, could I ? I
don't think nothin' of him but what I always did."
But it was to be remarked that Uncle Lot contented
himself at this time with the mere general avowal,
without running it into particulars, as was formerly his
wont. It was evident that the ice had begun to melt,
but it might have been a long time in dissolving, had
not collateral incidents assisted.
It so happened that about this time George Gris-
B Y HARRIE T BE EC HER S TO WE. 1 7
wold, the only son before referred to, returned to his
native village, after having completed his theological
studies at a neighboring institution. It is interesting
to mark the gradual development of mind and heart,
from the time that the white-headed, bashful boy quiis
the country village for college, to the period when he
returns, a formed and matured man, to notice how
gradually the rust of early prejudices begins to cleave
from him how his opinions, like his handwriting, pass
from the cramped and limited forms of a country
school into that confirmed and characteristic style
which is to mark the man for life. In George this
change was remarkably striking. He was endowed
by nature with uncommon acuteness of feeling and
fondness for reflection qualities as likely as any to
render a child backward and uninteresting in early
life.
When he lef; Newbury for college, he was a taciturn
and apparently phlegmatic boy, only evincing sensi-
bility by blushing and looking particularly stupified
whenever anybody spoke to him. Vacation after vaca-
tion passed, and he returned more and more an altered
being ; and he who once shrunk from the eye of the
deacon, and was ready to sink if he met the minister,
now moved about among the dignitaries of the place
with all the composure of a superior being. It is only
to be regretted that, while the mind improved, the
physical energies declined, and that every visit to his
home found him paler, thinner, and less prepared in
body for the sacred profession to which he had devoted
himself. But now he was returned a minister a real
minister, with a right to stand in the pulpit and preach ;
and what a joy and glory to Aunt Sally and to Uncle
Lot, if he were not ashamed to own it !
The first Sunday after he came, it was known far and
near that George Griswold was to preach; and never
was a more ready and expectant audience.
As the time for reading the first psalm approached,
you might see the white-headed men turning their faces
attentively towards the pulpet ; the anxious and expect-
ant old women, with their little black bonnets bent
forward to see him rise. There were the children
looking because every body else looked ; there was
Uncle Lot in the front pew, his face considerably
2
1 8 UNCLE LOT.
adjusted ; there was Aunt Sally, seeming as pleased
as a mother could seem ; and Miss Grace lifting her
sweet face to her brother, like a flower to the sun ;
there was our friend James in the front gallery, his
joyous countenance a little touched with sobriety and
expectation ; in short, a more embarrassingly attentive
audience never greeted the first efforts of a young min-
ister. Under these circumstances there was something
touching in the fervent self-forgttfulness which charac-
terized the first exercises of the morning, something
which moved every one in the house.
The devout poetry of his prayer, rich with the Orien-
talism of Scripture, and eloquent with the expression
of strong yet chastened emotion, breathed over his
audience like music hushing every one to silence, and
beguiling every one to feeling. In the sermon, there
was the strong intellectual nerve, the constant occur-
rence of argument and statement, which distinguishes
a New England discourse ; but it was touched with
life by the intense, yet half subdued feeling with which
he seemed to utter it. Like the rays of the sun, it
enlightened and melted at the same moment.
The strong peculiarities of New England doctrine,
involving as they do, all the hidden machinery of mind,
all the mystery of its divine relations and future
progression, and all the tremendous uncertainties of its
eternal good or ill, seemed to have dwelt in his mind,
to have burned in his thoughts, to have wrestled with
his powers, and they gave to his manner the fervency
almost of another world ; while the exceeding paleness
of his countenance, and a tremulousness of voice that
seemed to spring from bodily weakness, touched the
strong workings of his mind with a pathetic interest, as
if the being so early absorbed in another world could
not be long for this.
When the services were over the congregation
dispersed with the air of people who had/^// 1 rather
than heard, and all the criticism that followed was
similar to that of old Deacon Hart an upright, shrewd
man who, as he lingered a moment at the church door s
turned and gazed with unwonted feeling at the youn^
preacher.
" He's a blessed cretur ! " said he, the tears actually
making their way to his eyes ; " I haint been so near
B Y HARRIS T BEECHER STO WE. 1 9
heaven this many a day. He's a blessed cretur of the
Lord ; that's my mind about him ! "
As for our friend James, he was at first sobered, then
deeply moved, and at last wholly absorbed by the
discourse, and it was only when meeting was over that
he began to think where he really was.
With all his versatile activity, James had a greater
depth of mental capacity than he was himself aware of,
and he began to feel a sort of electric affinity for the
mind that had touched him in a way so new; and
when he saw the mild minister standing at the foot of
the pulpit stairs, he made directly towards him.
" I do want to hear more from you," said he, with a
face full of earnestness ; " may I walk home with you ? "
" It is a long and warm walk," said George, smiling.
" Oh, I don't care for that, if it does not trouble you"
said James ; and leave being gained, you might have
seen them slowly passing along under the trees, James
pouring forth all the floods of inquiry which the sudden
impulse of his mind had brought out, and supplying
his guide with more questions and problems for solution
than he could have gone through with in a month.
" I cannot answer all your questions now," said he,
as they stopped at Uncle Lot's gate.
" Well, then, when will you ? " said James eagerly.
" Let me come home with you to-night ? "
The minister smiled assent, and James departed so
full of new thoughts, that he passed Grace without even
seeing her. From that time a friendship commenced
between the two, which was a beautiful illustration of
the affinities of opposites. It was like a friendship
between morning and evening, all freshness and sun-
shine on one side, and all gentleness and peace on the
other.
The young minister, worn by long-continued ill
health, by the fervency of his own feelings, and the
gravity of his own reasonings, found pleasure in the
healthful buoyancy of a youthful, unexhausted mind,
while James felt himself sobered and made better by
the moonlight tranquillity of his friend. It is one
mark of a superior mind to understand and be influenced
by the superiority of others, and this was the case with
James. The ascendancy which his new friend acquired
over him was unlimited, and did more in a month
20 UNCLE LOT.
towards consolidating and developing his character than
all the four years course of a college. Our religious
habits are likely always to retain the impression of the
first seal which stamped them, and in this case it was a
peculiarly happy one. The calmness, the settled pur-
pose, the mild devotion of his friend, formed a just alloy
to the energetic and reckless buoyancy of James'
character, and awakened in him a set of feelings with-
out which the most vigorous mind must be incomplete.
The effect of the ministrations of the young pastor,
in awakening attention to the subjects of his calling in
the village was marked, and of a kind which brought
pleasure to his own heart. But, like all other excite-
ment, it tends to exhaustion, and it was not long before
he sensibly felt the decline of the powers of life.
To the best regulated mind there is something bitter
in the relinquishment of projects for which we have
been long and laboriously preparing, and there is
something far more bitter in crossing the long-cherished
expectations of friends. All this George felt. He
could not bear to look on his mother, hanging on his
words and following his steps with eyes of almost
childish delight on his singular father, whose whole
earthly ambition was bound up in his success, and think
how soon the " candle of their old age " must be put out.
When he returned from a successful effort, it was
painful to see the old man, so evidently delighted, and
so anxious to conceal his triumph, as he would seat
himself in his chair, and begin with " George, that 'are
doctrine is rather of a puzzler ; but you seem to think
you've got the run on't. I should re'ly like to know
what business you have to think you know better than
other folks about it," and, though he would cavil most
courageously at all George's explanations, yet you
might perceive, through all, that he was inly uplifted to
hear how his boy could talk.
If George was engaged in argument with any one
else, he would sit by with his head bowed down, look-
ing out from under his shaggy eyebrows with a shame-
faced satisfaction very unusual with him. Expressions
of affection from the naturally gentle are not half so
touching as those which are forced out from the hard-
favored, and severe ; and George was affected, even
B Y HAKRIE T BE EC HER STO WE. 2 1
to pain, by the evident pride and regard of his
father.
"He never said so much to anybody before," thought
he, " and what will he do if I die ? "
In such thoughts as these Grace found her brother
engaged one still autumn morning, as he stood leaning
against the garden fence.
" What are you solemnizing here for, this bright day,
brother George ? " said she, as she bounded down the
alley.
The young man turned and looked on her happy face
with a sort of twilight smile.
" How happy you are, Grace ! " said he.
" To be sure I am ; and you ought to be, too, because
you are better."
" I am happy, Grace that is, I hope I shall be."
" You are sick, I know you are," said Grace ; " you
look worn out. Oh, I wish your heart would spring
once as mine does."
" I am not well, dear Grace, and I fear I never shall
be," said he, turning away and fixing his eyes on the
fading trees opposite.
"Oh, George! dear George, don't, don't say that,
you'll break all our hearts," said Grace, with tears in
her own eyes.
" Yes, but it is true, sister : I do not feel it on my
own account so much as However," he added, " it
will all be the same in heaven."
It was but a week after this that a violent cold
hastened the progress of debility into a confirmed mal-
ady. He sunk very fast. Aunt Sally, with the self-
deceit of a fond and cheerful heart, thought every day
that " he would be better," and Uncle Lot resisted
conviction with all the obstinate pertinacity of his char-
acter, while the sick man felt that he had not the heart
to undeceive them.
James was now at the house every day, exhausting
all his energy and invention in the case of his friend ;
and any one who had seen him in his hours of reckless-
ness and glee could scarcely recognize him, as the
being whose step was so careful, whose eye so watch-
ful, whose voice and touch were so gentle, as he moved
around the sick bed. But the same quickness which
22 UNCLE LOT.
makes a mind buoyant in gladness, often makes it
gentlest and most sympathetic in sorrow.
It was now nearly morning in the sick room. George
had been restless and feverish all night ; but towards
day he fell into a slight slumber, and James sat by his
side, almost holding his breath lest he should waken
him. It was yet dusk, but the sky was brightening
with a solemn glow, and the stars were beginning to
disappear, all, save the bright and morning one, which,
standing alone in the east, looked tenderly through the
casement, like the eye of our heavenly Father, watch-
ing over us when all earthly friendships are fad-
ing.
George awoke with a placid expression of counte-
nance, and fixing his eyes on the brightening sky, mur-
mured faintly,
" The sweet, immortal morning sheds
Its blushes round the spheres."
A moment after, a shade passed over his face ; he
pressed his fingers over his eyes, and the tears dropped
silently on his pillow.
"George ! dear George ! " said James, bending over
him.
" It's my friends it's my father my mother," said
he faintly.
" Jesus Christ will watch over them," said James,
soothingly.
" Oh, yes, I know he will ; for he loved his own which
were in the world ; he loved them unto the end. But
I am dying and before I have done any good."
"Oh, do not say so," said James; "think, think
what you have done, if only for me. God bless you for
it ! God will bless you for it ; it will follow you to
heaven; it will bring me there. Yes, I will do as you
have taught me. I will give my life, rny soul, my whole
strength to it ; and then you will not have lived in
vain."
George smiled, and looked upward ; " his face was
as that of an angel ; " and James, in his warmth, con-
tinued,
" It is not I alone who can say this ; we all bless
you ; every one in this place blesses you ; you will be
B Y HARRIE T BEECHER STO WE. 2 3
had in everlasting remembrance by some hearts here, I
know."
" Bless God ! " said George.
"We do," said James. 4i I bless him that I ever
knew you ; we all bless him, and we love you, and shall
forever."
The glow that had kindled over the pale face of the
invalid again faded as he said,
" But, James, I must, I ought to tell my father and
mother ; I ought to, and how can I ? "
At that moment the door opened, and Uncle Lot
made his appearance. He seemed struck with the
paleness of George's face ; and coming to the side of the
bed, he felt his pulse, and laid his hand anxiously on
his forehead, and clearing his voice several times, in-
quired " if he didn't feel a little better."
" No, father, said George ; then taking his hand, he
looked anxiously in his face, and seemed to hesitate a
moment. "Father," 'he began, "you know that we
ought to submit to God."
There was something in his expression at this moment
which flashed the truth into the old man's mind. He
dropped his son's hand with an exclamation of agony,
and turning quickly, left the room.
" Father ! father ! " said Grace, trying to rouse him,
as he stood with his arms folded by the kitchen win-
dow.
" Get away, child ! " said he, roughly.
" Father, mother says breakfast is ready."
" I don't want any breakfast," said he, turning short
about. " Sally, what are you fixing in that 'ere por-
ringer ? "
' Oh, it's only a little tea for George ; 't will comfort
him up, and make him feel better, poor fellow."
" You won't make him feel better he's gone," said
Uncle Lot, hoarsely.
" Oh, dear heart, no," said Aunt Sally.
" Be still a' contradicting me ; I won't be contra-
dicted all the time by nobody. The short of the case
is, that George is goin' to die just as we've got him ready
to be a minister and all ; and I wish to pity I was in
my grave myself, and so " said Uncle Lot, as he
plunged out of the door, and shut it after him.
It is well for man that there is one Being who sees
24 UNCLrf &OT.
the suffering heart as it is, and not as it manifests itself
through the repellances of outward infirmity, and who,
perhaps, feels more for the stern and wayward than
for those whose gentler feelings win for them human
sympathy. With all his singularities, there was in the
heart of Uncle Lot a depth of religious sincerity ; but
there are few characters where religion does anything
more than struggle with natural defect, and modify
what would else be far worse. In this hour of trial, all
the native obstinacy and pertinacity of the old man's
character rose, and while he felt the necessity of sub-
mission, it seemed impossible to submit; and thus,
reproaching himself, struggling in vain to repress the
murmurs of nature, repulsing from him all external
sympathy, his mind was " tempest-tossed, and not com-
forted."
It was on the still afternoon of the following Sab-
bath that he was sent for, in haste, to the chamber of
his son. He entered, and saw that the hour was come.
The family were all there. Grace and James, side by
side, bent over the dying one, and his mother sat afar
off, with her face hid in her apron, "that she might not
see the death of the child." The aged minister was
there, and the Bible lay open before him. The father
walked to the side of the bed. He stood still, and
gazed on the face now brightening with " life and im-
mortality. " The son lifted up his eyes ; he saw his
father, smiled, and put out his hand. "I am glad you
are come," said he. " O George, to the pity, don't !
don't smile on me so ! I know what is coming ; I have
tried, and tried, and I can't, I can't have it so " and his
frame shook, and he sobbed audibly. The room was
still as death ; there was none that seemed able to
comfort him. At last the son repeated, in a sweet, but
interrupted voice, those words of man's best Friend :
" Let not your heart be troubled ; in my Father's house
are many mansions. "
" Yes ; but I can't help being troubled ; I suppose
the Lord's will must be done, but it'll ;7/me. "
" O Father, don't, don't break my heart," said the
son, much agitated. "I shall see you again in heaven,
and you shall see me again ; and then ' your heart shall
rejoice, and your joy no man take th from you."
B Y HARRIE T BEECHER STO WE. 2 5
" I never shall get to heaven if I feel as I do now,"
said the old man. " I cannot have it so."
The mild face of the sufferer was downcast. " I
wish he saw all that / do," said he, in a low voice.
Then looking towards the minister, he articulated,
" Pray for us."
They knelt in prayer. It was soothing, as real
prayer always must be ; and when they rose, every one
seemed more calm. But the sufferer was exhausted ;
his countenance was changed ; he looked on his
friends ; there was a faint whisper, " Peace I leave with
you," and he was in heaven.
We need not dwell on what followed. The seed
sown by the righteous often blossoms over their
grave ; and so it was with this good man. The words
of peace which he spoke unto his friends while he was
yet with them came into remembrance after he was
gone ; and though he was laid in the grave with many
tears, yet it was with softened and submissive hearts.
" The Lord bless him, " said Uncle Lot, as he and
James were standing, last of all, over the grave. " I
believe my heart is gone to heaven with him ; and I
think the Lord really did know what was best, after all."
Our friend James seemed now to become the sup-
port of the family ; and the bereaved old man uncon-
sciously began to transfer to him the affections that had
been left vacant. " James," said he to him one day,
" I suppose you know that you are about the same to
me as a son."
" I hope so," said James, kindly.
"Well, well, you'll go to college next week, and
none o' y'r keeping school to get along. I've got
enough to bring you safe out that is, if you'll be
careful and stiddy"
James knew the heart too well to refuse a favor in
which the poor old man's mind was comforting itself.
He had the self-command to abstain from any extraor-
dinary expressions of gratitude, but took it kindly, as
a matter of course.
" Dear Grace," said he to her, the last evening be-
fore he left home, " I am changed ; we both are altered
since we first knew each other ; and now I am going
to be gone a long time, but I am sure " He stopped
to arrange his thoughts. " Yes, you may be sure of
26 UNCLE LOT.
all those things you wish to say, and cannot," said
Grace.
" Thank you," said James ; then looking thought-
fully, he added, "God help me. I believe I have mind
enough to be what I mean to ; but whatever I am or
have shall be given to God and my fellow men ; and
then, Grace, your brother in heaven will rejoice over
me."
" I believe he does now," said Grace. " God bless
you, James ; I don't know what would have become of
us if you had not been here. Yes, you will live to be
like him, and to do even more good," she added, her
face brightening as she spoke, till James thought she
really must be right.
*******
It was five years after this that James was spoken of
as an eloquent and successful minister in the state of
C., and was settled in one of its most thriving villages.
Late one Autumn evening, a tall, bony, hard-favored
man was observed making his way into the outskirts
of the place.
" Halloa, there ; " he called to a man over the other
side of the fence ; " what town is this 'ere ? "
" It's Farmington, sir."
" Well, I want to know if you know anything of a boy
of mine that lives here ? "
" A boy of yours ? Who ? "
"Why, I've got a boy here, that's livin' on the town,
and I thought I'd jest look him up."
" I don't know any boy that is living on the town.
What's his name ? "
" Why," said the old man, pushing his hat off from
his forehead, " I believe they call him James Benton."
" James Benton ! Why, that is our minister's name."
" O wal, I believe he is the minister, come to think
on't. He's a boy o' mine, though. Where does he
live ? "
" In that white house that you see set back from the
road there, with all those trees round it."
At this instant a tall, manly-looking person ap-
proached from behind. Have we not seen that face
before ? It is a touch graver than of old, and its lines
have a more thoughtful significance j but all the vivac-
B Y HARRIE T BEECHER STO WE. 2J
ity of James Benton sparkles in that quick smile as
his eye falls on the old man.
I thought you could not keep away from us long,"
said he, with the prompt cheerfulness of his boyhood,
and laying hold of both of Uncle Lot's hands.
They approached the gate ; a bright face glances
past the window, and in a moment Grace is at the
door.
" Father ! dear father ! "
"You'd better make believe be so glad," said
Uncle Lot, his eyes glistening as he spoke.
"Come, come, father, I have authority in these
days," said Grace, drawing him towards the house; "so
no disrespectful speeches ; away with your hat and coat,
and sit down in this great chair."
"So ho! Miss Grace," said Uncle Lot, "you are at
your old tricks, ordering round as usual. Well, if I
must, I must ; " so down he sat.
" Father," said Grace, as he was leaving them after a
few days' stay, " it's Thanksgiving day next month,
and you and mother must come and stay with us."
Accordingly, the following month found Aunt Sally
and Uncle Lot by the minister's fireside, delighted
witnesses of the Thanksgiving presents which a willing
people were pouring in ; and the next day they had
once more the pleasure of seeing a son of theirs in the
sacred desk, and hearing a sermon that everybody said
was " the best that he ever preached ; " and it is to be
remarked, that this was the standing commentary on
all James' discourses, so that it was evident he was
going on unto perfection.
" There's a great deal that's worth having in this
'ere life after all," said Uncle Lot, as he sat by the
coals of the bright evening fire of that day; "that is,
if we'd only take it when the Lord lays it in our
way."
" Yes," said James ; " and let us only take it as we
should, and this life will be cheerfulness, and the next
fulness of joy."
OLD MADAME,
BY
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
MRS. SPOFFORD, whose early fame came to her
while Miss Prescott, was born in Calais, Me., in 1835.
She was the eldest daughter of Joseph N. Prescott.
When Harriet was still very young, the family removed
to Newburyport, Mass. In this little city at the
mouth of the Merrimac, she received an excellent edu-
cation at the Putnam Free School an institution with
a modest name but of academic standing, and which
had the reputation of turning out many accomplished
scholars, among whom Harriet Prescott ranked as one
of the very brightest ; later she attended for two years
the Pinkerton Academy in Derry, N. H. At this time
the city of her home, Newburyport, contained an un-
usual number of both men and women of fine intel-
lectual endowment, and into this circle of stimula-
tion, Harriet came as a welcome member. Just at
this period, Thomas Wentworth Higginson was a resi-
dent of the place and pastor of the Unitarian Church ;
he took great interest in Miss Prescott, and by many a
friendly counsel and suggestion helped her on the way
she has since so brilliantly trod. Here she achieved
her first local success, as the competitor for a literary
prize. Having graduated at the early age of seven
teen, she found herself at once in the presence of a
family misfortune, which, as the eldest of the family,
cast almost the entire responsibility of its support upon
her young shoulders. The father had been stricken
with paralysis, and her mother became a confirmed
invalid. Nothing daunted by this serious outlook she
set bravely to work to make her literary talent of prac-
tical use. She courageously besieged the story paper
offices of Boston with sketches and novelettes. The
competition was not so great then as it has since be-
come, and it was not so difficult to get a hearing ; but
much labor was exacted for diminutive pay, and it
33
34 HA KK1E T P RES CO TT SPOFFORD.
required almost incessant work to procure sufficient
funds to meet the most necessary expenses of herself
and family. She sometimes wrote for fifteen hours a
day, and continued at approximately hard work for
many years.
Her wide reputation was acquired almost at a stroke.
In 1859 she sent to the Atlantic Monthly a story en-
titled, "In a Cellar." James Russell Lowell was at
that time editor of the Atlantic, and at first declined
to believe that any young lady could have written
such a brilliant and characteristic description of
Bohemian Parisian life ; he insisted that it must be
a translation from the French. Convinced at last of
its true authorship, it was published, and thencefor-
ward Miss Prescott was always a welcome contributor
to its pages ; and at that time the endorsement of the
Atlantic opened all other magazine offices to its
writers. Her first novel, " Sir Rohan's Ghost," pub-
lished in 1859 in Boston, was a very striking work and
for skilful plot and effective dramatic denouement has
never been exceeded in any of her later works, though
a certain crudeness of thought and expression appar-
ent in that, has been entirely eliminated by increased
age and experience. This book was reviewed at some
length in the Crayon, an art journal then pub-
lished in New York City, and an admitted authority in
literary criticism.
One of the most rare gifts of Miss Prescott's genius
was her extraordinary affluence of language, which
never appeared to be strained or affected any more
than the gorgeous tints of a tropical plant. In 1865
Miss Prescott was married to Mr. Richard S. Spofford
of Newburyport, a lawyer, and son of Dr. R. S. Spof-
ford, the most eminent physician of Essex County ;
he was also cousin to the popular and esteemed libra-
rian of the Congressional library in Washington, D. C.
This union proved a particularly happy one, though
childless, until the decease of Mr. Spofford during the
present (1888) year.
Mrs. Spofford's later works were, "The Amber Gods
and Other Stories," published in Boston, 1863 ;
" Azarim," in 1864; "New England Legends," in 1871 ;
"The Thief in the Night," in 1872 ; "Art Decoration
Applied to Furniture," published in New York in
HARRIE T FRESCO TT SPOFFORD. 3 $
1881 ; "Marquis of Carabas," Boston, 1872 ; "Hester
Stanley at St. Mark's," 1883 ; "The Servant Girl Ques-
tion," 1884; and " Ballads about Authors," 1888.
Mrs. Spofford's prolific prose pen does not cause
us to forget the many beautiful poems and ballads
which she has produced, and best of all they seem to
be written because they had first been sung in her
heart, and had to burst forth into words. There is no
outward sign of artificiality about them.
For many years Mrs. Spofford has resided at Deer
Island a small island in the river Merrimac, in the
northerly suburb of Newburyport; the situation is very
romantic, and just the place to develop the poetical
and imaginative nature. The entire island was pur-
chased for a permanent home, though Mrs. Spofford
has spent many of her winters, or a portion of them,
in Boston and Washington.
OLD MADAME.
" Miss BARBARA ! Barbara, honey ! Where's this
you're hiding at ? " cried old Phillis, tying her bandanna
head-gear in a more flamboyant knot over her gray
hair and brown face. " Where's this you're hiding at ?
The Old Madame's after you."
And in answer to the summons, a girl clad in home-
spun, but with every line of her lithe figure the lines,
one might fancy, of a wood-and water nymph's, came
slowly up from the shore and the fishing smacks, with
a young fisherman beside her.
Down on the margin, the men were hauling a seine
and singing as they hauled ; a droger was dropping its
dark sails ; barefooted urchins were wading in the
breaking roller where the boat that the men were
launching dipped up and down ; women walked with
baskets poised lightly on their heads, calling gaily to
one another; sands were sparkling, sails were glanc-
ing, winds were blowing, waves were curling, voices
were singing and laughing, it was all the scene of a
happy, sunshiny, summer morning in the little fishing-
hamlet of an island off the coast.
The girl and her companion wound up the stony
path, passing Phillis, and paused before a low stone
house that seemed o.nly a big bowlder itself, in whose
narrow, open hallway, stretching from door to door,
leaned a stately old woman* on her staff, a back-
ground of the sea rising behind her.
" Did you wish for Barbara, Old Madame ? " asked
the fisherman, as superb a piece of rude youth and
strength as any young Viking.
She fixed him with her glance an instant.
" And you are his grandson ? " said the old woman.
" You are called by his name the fourth of the name
Ben Benvoisie ? I am not dreaming ? You are,
sure of it ? "
37
38 OLD MADAME.
As sure as that you are called Old Madame," he
replied, with a grave pride of self-respect, and an air
of something solemn in his joy, as if he had but just
turned from looking on death to embrace life.
" As sure 5s that I am called Old Madame," she
repeated. " Barbara, come here. As sure as that I
am called Old Madame."
But she had not always been Old Madame. A
woman not far from ninety now, tall and unbent, with
her great black eyes glowing like stars in sunken welli
from her face, scarred with the script of sorrow a
proud beggar, preserving in her little coffer only the
money that one day should bury her with her haughty
kindred once she was the beautiful Elizabeth Cham-
pernoune, the child of noble ancestry, the heiress of
unbounded wealth, the last of a great house of
honor.
From birth till age, nothing that surrounded her
but had its relation to the family grandeur. Her
estate -her grandfather's, nay, her great-grandfather's
lay on a goodly island at the mouth of a broad
river; an island whose paltry fishing-village of to-day
was, before her time, a community where also a hand-
ful of other dignitaries dwelt only in less splendor.
There were one or two of the ancient fishermen and
pilots yet living when she died, who, babbling of their
memories, could recall out of their childhood the
stately form of her father, the Judge Champernoune,
as he walked abroad in his black robes, who came
from over seas to marry her mother, the heiress of the
hero for whom the King of France had sent when, in
the French and Indian wars, the echoes of his daring
deeds rang across the water to make him Baron
Chaslesmarie, with famous grants and largesse.
And in state befitting one whom the King of France
had with his own hand exalted, had the prodigal
Baron Chaslesmarie spent his days never, however,
discontinuing the vast fisheries of his father, in which
he had himself made fortunes before (he King had
found him out. And although the title died with him,
and the pension died before him, for the King of
France had, with treacherous complaisance, ceded the
island to the enemy one day when war was over, yet
B Y HARRIE T FRESCO TT SPOFFORD. 39
store of land and money were left for the sole child,
who became the wife of Judge Champernoune and the
mother of Elizabeth.
What a sweet old spot it was in which Elizabeth's
girlhood of ideal happiness went by ! The house,
a many-gabled dwelling, here of wood and there of
brick, with a noble hall where the original cornices
and casements had been replaced by others of carveti
mahogany, the panels of the doors rich with their
thick gilding, and the cellars three-deep for the cor-
dials and dainties with which the old Baron Chasles-
raarie had stored them, was a part of it, once brought
from foreign shores as the great Government-house.
Set in its brilliant gardens, it was a pleasant sight to
see here a broad upper gallery giving airy shelter,
there a flight of stairs running from some flower-bed
to some casement, with roses and honeysuckles
clambering about the balustrade, avenues of ash and
sycamore leading away from it, an outer velvet turf
surrounding it and ending in a boundary of mossy
granite bowlders. The old baron slept in his proud
tomb across the bay by the fort he had defended,
the chapel he had built, in the graveyard of his
people, proud as he ; and Ben Benvoisie, the lad
whom gossips said he had snatched from the shores
of some Channel Island in one of the wild voyages of
his youth, slept at his feet, but another Ben
Benvoisie lived after him. In a dimple between these
bowlders of the garden's boundary, Judge Champer-
noune and his wife and his other child were laid
away ; there was always something sadly romantic to
Elizabeth in the thought of her father walking over
the island from time to time, and selecting this spot
for his eternal rest, where the rocky walls enclosed
him, the snows of winter and the bramble-roses of
summer covered him, and the waves, not far remote,
sang his long lullaby.
By the time that Elizabeth inherited the place, the
importance of the island town had gone up the river to
a spot on the mainland, and one by one the great
families had followed, the old ji'd^e buying the land of
them as they went, and their houses, dismembered,
with fire and with decay, of a u ing here and a gable
there, and keeping but little trace of them. The
40
OLD MADAME.
judge had no thought of leaving ; and the people
would have felt as if the hand of Providence had been
withdrawn had he done so. Nor had Elizabeth any
thought of it, when she came to reign in her father's
stead and infuse new life into the business of her
ancestors, that had continued, as it were, by its own
momentum, since, although Judge Champernoune had
not thought it beneath his judicial dignity to carry it
on as he found it, yet, owing to his other duties, he
had not given it that personal attention it had in the
vigor and impetus of the Chaslesmaries. She had not
a memory that did not belong to the place ; certain
sunbeams that she recalled slanting down the ware-
houses rich with the odors of spices and sugar,
through which she had wandered as a child, were
living things to her; a foggy morning, when an unseen
fruiter in the sea-mist made all the air of the island
port delicious as some tropical grove, with its cargo
of lemons, seemed like a journey to the ends of
ends of the earth. And the place itself was her
demesne, she its acknowledged chatelaine ; there was
not a woman in the town who had not served in her
mother's kitchen or hall ; it was in her fishing-smacks
the men went out to sea, in her brigs they ran down to
the West Indian waters and over to the Mediterranean
ports perhaps, alas, the African ; it was her ware-
houses they filled with goods from far countries,
which her agents scattered over the land for a com-
merce that, beginning with the supplying of the fish-
ing-fleets, had swelled into a great foreign trade.
And their homes were all that she could make them
in their degree ; their children she herself attended in
sudden illness, having been reared as her mother was
before her, in the homely surgery and herb craft proper
to those that had others in their charge ; and many a
stormy night, in later years, did the good Dame
Elizabeth leave her own children in their downy nests,
and hasten to ease some child going out of the world
on the horrible hoarse breath of croup, or to bring
other children into the world in scorn of doctors three
miles off.
She was twenty five when the step-son of her
father's sister, her cousin by marriage but not by
blood, appeared to fulfil the agreement of their parents,
B Y HARK IE T FRESCO TT SPOFFORD. 4 1
to take effect when he should finish his travels which
indeed, he had been in no haste to end. She had not
been without suitors, of high and low degree. Had
not the heir of the Canadian governor spoken of a
treaty for the hand of this fair princess? Was it not
Ben Benvoisie, the bold young master of a fishing-
smack, with whom she had played when a child, who
once would have carried her off to sea like any Norse
pirate, and who had dared to leave his kiss red on her
lips ? Had Elizabeth been guilty of thinking that, had
she been a river-pilot's daughter, such kisses would
not come amiss ?
Yet long ago had she understood that she \\as
pledged to her cousin Louis, and she waited for his
coming. His eyes were as blue as hers were browi.,
his hair as black as hers was red, his features as Greek
as hers were Norrnan, his stature as commanding as
her own.
" Oh he was a beauty, my cousin Louis was! " she
used to say.
She never called him her lover, nor her husband he
was always her cousin Louis.
" So you have come, sir," she said, when he stepped
ashore, and crossed the street and met her at the gate,
and would have kissed her brow. " More slowly, sir,"
she said, drawing back. " You have come to win, not
to wear. Elizabeth Chaslesmarie Champernoune is
not a ribbon or a rose, to be tossed aside and picked
up at will."
" By the Lord ! " cried Cousin Louis. " If I had
dreamed she were the rose she is, the salt seas would
not have been running all these years between me and
her sweetness and her thorns."
" This is no court, and these no court-ladies, Cousin
Louis," she replied. " We are plain people, used only
to plain speeches."
" Plain, indeed," said Cousin Louis. " Only Helen
of Troy Was plainer ! "
"Nor do flattering words," she said, "well befit
those whose slow coming flatters ill."
But the smile with which she uttered her somewhat
bitter speech was of enchanting good-humor, and
Cousin Louis thought his lines had fallen in pleasant
places.
42 OLtS MADAME.
He was not so sure of it when a month had passed,
and the same smile sweetened an icy manner still, and
he had not yet been able, in the rush of guests that
surrounded her, to have a word alone with Elizabeth.
He saw that jackanapes of a young West Indian
planter bring the color to her cheek with his whispered
word. He saw her stroll down between the sycamores,
unattended by any save Captain Wentworth. But let
him strive to gain her ear and one of the young officers
from Fort Chaslesmarie was sure to intercept him,
strive to speak with her, and Dorothy and Jean and
Margaret and Belle seemed to spring from the ground
to her side. From smiling he changed to sullen, and
from sullen to savage to abuse his folly, to abuse her
coquetry, to wonder if he cared enough for the winning
of her to endure these indignities, and all at once to
discover that this month had taught him there was but
one woman in the world for him, and all the rest were
shadows. One woman in the world, and without her,
life was so incomplete, himself so halved, that death
would be the better portion.
How then ? What to do ? Patience gave up the
,siege. He was thinking of desperate measures on the
day when, moping around the shores alone in a boat,
he espied them riding from the Beacon Hill down upon
the broad ferry-boat that crossed the shallow inlet.
How his heart knocked his sides as he saw that pale,
dark West Indian, with his purple velvet corduroys,
and his nankeen jacket and jockey-cap, riding down
beside her, as he saw Wentworth spring from the
stirrup to offer a palm for her foot when they reached
the door! But Cousin Louis had not waited for that;
he had put some strength to his strokes and was at the
door before him, was at her side before him, compelling
his withdrawal, offering no palm to tread on, but reach-
ing up and grasping her waist with his two hands.
" By heaven ! " he murmured then, as Wentworth
was beyond hearing, his eyes blazing on hers. " What
man do you think' will endure this? What man will
suffer this suspense in which you keep me ? "
" It is you, Cousin Louis, who are keeping me in
suspense," she answered, as she hung above him there.
And was there anything in her arch tone that gave
him hope ? He released her then, but when an hout
BY HA RKIE T FRESCO TT SPOFFORD. 4 3
later he met her again, " Very well," he said, in the
suppressed key of his passion. " I will keep you in
the suspense you spoke of no more. You will marry
me this day, or not at all. By my soul, I will wait no
longer for my answer ! "
" You have never asked me, sir, before," she said.
" How could you have an answer ? I hardly know if you
have asked me now.
But that sunset, with Belle and Margaret and Jean
and Dorothy, she strolled down to the little church,
that by some hidden password was half-filled with the
fishing-people and her servants. And when she came
back, she was leaning on Cousin Louis's arm very
differently from her usual habit, and the girls were
going on before.
" If I had known this Cossack fashion was the way
to win," Cousin Louis was saying when a scream
from Margaret and Belle and Dorothy and Jean rang
back to them, and hurrying forward, they found the
girls with their outcry between two drawn swords, for
Wentworth and the West Indian had come down into
the moonlit glade to finish a sudden quarrel that had
arisen over their wine, as to the preferences of the fair
chatelaine.
" Put up your swords, gentlemen," said Cousin
Louis, with his proud, happy smile, "unless you wish
to measure them with mine. It would be folly to fight
about nothing. And there is no such person as Eliz-
abeth Champernoune."
The men turned white in the moonlight to see the
lovely creature standing there, and before they had
time for anger or amazement, Elizabeth said after
him ;
" There is no such person as Elizabeth Champer-
noune. She married, an hour ago, her cousin Louis."
Ah me, that all these passions now should be but
idle air ! Perhaps the hearts of the gallants swelled
and sank and swelled again, as they looked at her,
beautiful, rosy and glowing, in the broad white beam
that bathed her. They put up their swords, and went
to the house and drank her health and were rowed
away.
Elizabeth and Cousin Louis settled down to their
long life of promised happiness, in the hospitality of
44
OLD MADAME.
an open hearth around which friends and children
clustered, blest, it seemed, by fortune and by fate.
Gay parties came and went from ihe town above, from
larger and more distant towns, from the village and
port across the bay. Life was all one long, sweet
holiday. What pride and joy was theirs when the son
Chaslesmarie was born; what tender bliss Elizabeth's
when the velvet face of the little Louise first lay
beneath her cwn and she sank away with her into a
land of downy dreams, conscious only of the wings of
love hovering over her ! How, at once, as child after
child came, they seemed to turn into waternixies,
taking to the sea as naturally as the gulls flying around
the cliffs ! How each loiterer in the village would
make the children his own, teaching them every prank
of the waves, taking them in boats far beyond the outer
light, bringing them through the breakers after dark,
wrapped in great pilot-coats and drenched with foam !
She never knew what was fear for her five boys, the
foster-brothers of all the other children in ihe village ;
only the little maiden Louise, pale as the rose that
grew beneath the oriel, she kept under her eye as she
might, bringing her up in fine household arts and
delicate accomplishments, ignorant of the shadow of
Ben Benvoisie stalking so close behind as to darken
all her work.
Her husband had taken the great business that
Elizabeth's people had so long carried on through
their glories and titles, their soldiery and war, their
other pursuits if they had them ; his warehouse lined
the shores, the offing was full of his ships, he owned
almost the last rod of land on the island and much
along the main. He did not pretend to maintain the
state of the old baron ; but to be a guest at Chasles-
marie was to live a charmed life awhile. He was a
man of singular uprightness; as he grew older apt to
bursts of anger, yet to Elizabeth and to his household
he was gentleness itself; some men trembled at the
sound of his voice, but children never did. If he was
not so beloved as his wife by the fishing-people, it was
because he was not recognized master as of right, and
because he exacted his due, although tossing it in the
lap of the next needy one. But he was a person with
whom no other took a liberty.
B Y HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 45
" A king among men, was rny cousin Louis," Old
Madame used 10 say, and sigh and >igh and sigh again
as she said it.
But the hospitality of the island was not all that of
pleasure and sumptuous ease. It was a place easily
reached by sail from one or more of the great towns,
by boat from the town above ; and in the stirring and
muttering of political discontent, the gentlemen who
appeared and disappeared at all hours of the day, and
as often by night, folded in cloaks wet with the salt sea
spray, wore spurs at their heels and swords at their
sides to some purpose. And when at last war came
Horror of horrors, what was this ! Cousin Louis and
his island had renounced allegiance to the crown, and
had taken the side of the colonial rebels and the Conti-
nental Congress.
"We!" cried Elizabeth, who knew little of such
things, and had a vague idea that they owed fealty still
to that throne at whose foot her grandfather had knelt.
" We, whom the King of France ennobled and en-
riched ! "
" And for that price were we sold ere we were born,
and do we stay slaves handed about from one ruler to
another ? " her husband answered her. " We have
ennobled and enriched ourselves. We have twice and
thrice repaid the kings of France in tribute money.
Soon shall the kings of France go the way of all the
world may the kings of Britain follow them ! Hence-
forth, the people put on the crown. I believe in the
rights of man. I live under no tyranny but yours,"
he said gayly.
"A Chaslesmarie ! A Champernoune ! " Elizabeth
was saying to herself, heedless of his smile.
" We are an insignificant islet," her husband urged.
" The kings of France have betrayed us. The kings
of Britain have oppressed us. We renounce the one.
We defy the other! " And he ran the flag under which
the rebels fought up the staff at Chaslesmarie, and it
was to be seen at the peak of all his brigantines and
sloops that, leaving their legitimate affairs, armed them-
selves and scoured the seas, and brought their prizes
into port. But freely as this wealth came in, as freely
it went out ; for Cousin Louis did nothing by the
halves. And heart and soul being in the matter, it is
46 OLD MADAME.
safe to say that not one guinea of the gold his sailors
brought him in, during that long struggle, remained to
him at its close.
It was during this struggle that, when one day the
sloop Adder 1 s -tongue sailed, the elder son of Ben Ben-
voisie who had along since married a fisherman's
daughter was found on board, a stowaway. Great
was Ben Benvoisie's wrath when he missed his son ;
but there was nothing to be done. He rejected
Cousin Louis's regrets with scorn. But when the
sloop brought in her prizes, and the first man ashore
told him his son had died of some ailment before
he sighted an enemy, then his rage rose in a flame, he
towered like an angry god, and standing on the head of
the wharf, in the presence of all the people, he cursed
Cousin Louis, root and branch, at home and abroad,
a black cloud full of bursting lightnings rising behind
him, as he spoke, as if he had a confederate in evil
powers. cursed him in wild and stinging words that
made the blood run cold, that cut Cousin Louis to the
heart, that, when they were repeated to her, made even
Elizabeth turn faint and sick. "There is a strange
second-sight with those Benvoisies," she said. " God
grant his curses come to naught." But she hardly
ever saw him at a distance without an instant's prayer,
and she knew that the fishing-people always after
that sight of him standing there at the head of the
wharf, with his blazing eyes and streaming hair, and the
rain and the lightning and the thunder volleying
around him, held some superstitions of their own
regarding the evil eye of the Banvoisies, and kept some
silent watch to see what would come of it all.
But the war at last was ended, the world was trying
to regain its equilibrium, and continental money was at
hand on every side, and little other. Cousin Louis,
who had faith in the new republic, believed with an
equally hot head in its good faith, and sent word far
and near that he would redeem the current paper,
dollar for dollar in gold. And he did so. There were
barrels of it in his warehouse garrets, and his grand-
children had it to play with. " It is Ben Benvoisie's
word, said Elizabeth, when they saw the mistake.
But Cousin Louis laughed and kissed her, and said it
had sunk a good deal of treasure, to be sure, but
B Y HARRIS T FRESCO TT SPOFFORD. 47
asked if Ben Benvoisie's word was to outweigh his
fisheries and Meets and warehouses and hay-lands his
splendid boys, his girl Louise ! And he caught the
shrinking, slender creature to his heart as he spoke
this lovely young Louise, as fair and fragile as a lily on
its stem, whom he loved as he loved his life, his flower-
girl, as he called her, just blossoming into girlhood,
with the pale rose-tint on her cheek, and her eyes like
the azure larkspur. How was he, absorbed in his
counting-room, forgetful at his dinner table, taking his
pleasures with guests, with gayeties, to know that his
slip of a girl, not yet sixteen, met a handsome hazel-
eyed lad at the foot of the long garden every night,
B'en Benvoisie the third, and had promised to go with
him, his wife, in boy's clothes, whenever the fruiter was
ready for sea again ! But old Ben Benvoisie knew it ;
and he could not forbear his savage jeer, and the end
ivns that Cousin Louis, at the foot of the long garden
one night, put a bullet through young Ben Benvoisie's
arm, and carried off his fainting girl to her room that
she showed no wish to leave again. " She will die,"
said Cousin Louis, one day toward the year's close, " if
we do not give way."
" She had better," said Elizabeth, who knew what
the misery of her child's marriage with old Ben Ben-
voisie's son must needs be when the first glamor of
young passion should be over.
And she did. And Cousin Louis's heart went down
into the grave with her.
" It is not only old Ben Benvoisie's word," said Eliza-
beth. " It is his hand."
Her secret tears were bitter for the child, but not so
bitter as they would have been had she first passed
into old Ben Benvoisie's power, and been made the
instrument for humbling the pride and breaking the
heart daily of her brothers Chaslesmarie and Champer-
nonne, and of the hated owner of the Adder* s-tongiu\
had she lived to smart and suffer under the difference
between the rude race, reared in a fishing-hut, and that
reared in the mansion )f her ancestors. Perhaps Old
Madame never saw the thing fairly; it always seemed
to her that Louise died of some disease incident to
childhood. " I have my boys left," said Elizabeth.
" And no one can disturb my little grave."
48 OLD MADAME.
It was two graves the second year after. For
Chaslesmarie, her first-born and her darling, whose
baby kisses had been sweeter than her lover's, the
life in whose little limbs and whose delicious flesh had
been dearer than her own, his bright head now
brighter for the fresh laurels of Harvard. Chasles-
marie, riding down from the Beacon Hill, where he
had gone to see the fishing-fleet make sail, was thrown
from his horse, and did not live long enough to tell
who was the man starting from the covert of bayberry-
bushes. But Elizabeth carried a stout heart and a
high head. She could not, if she would, have bent as
Cousin Louis did, nor did the proud serenity leave her
eye, although his darkened with a sadness never
lightened. None knew her pangs, nor saw the tears
that stained her pillow in the night ; she would if she
could, have hid her suffering from herself. She began
to feel a terrible assurance that she was fighting fail-,
but she would make a hard fight of it. Conscious
of her integrity of purpose, of the justice of her
claims, of her right to the children she had borne,
there was something in her of the spirit of the ancients
who dared, if not to defy the gods, yet to accept the
combat offered by them. Champernoune was the heir
instead, that was all. Then there were the twin boys,
Max and Rex, two lawless young souls , and the
youngest of all, St. Jean, whose head always wore a halo
in Elizabeth's eyes. With these, why should she
grieve ? Now she was also the mother of angels !
Again, after a while, the frequent festivities filled
the house, and the great gold and silver plate glittered
in the dark dining-room and filled it, at every touch,
with melodious and tremulous vibrations. Now the
Legislature of the State, one and all, attended a grand
banqueting there, now the Governor and his Council ;
now navy-yard and fort and town, and far-off towns,
came to the balls that did not end even with the
bright outdoor breakfast, but ran into the next night's
dancing, and a whole week's gayety ; now it was boat-
ing and bathing in the creeks ; now it was sailing out
beyond the last lights with music and flowers and
cheer ; and all the time it was splendor and sumptuous-
ness and life at the breaking crest. And Elizabeth
led the dance, the stateliest of the stately, the most
B Y HA RRIR T PR E SCO TT SPOFFORD. 49
beautiful still of the beautiful. And if sometimes she
saw old Ben Benvoisie's eyes, as he leaned over the
gate and looked at her a moment within the gardens
and among her roses, it was not to shudder at them.
What possessed Elizabeth in those days ? She only
felt that the currents of her blood must sweep along in
this mad way, or the heart would stop.
Then came Champernoune's wedding, he and that
friend whom the chief magistrate of the land delighted
to honor, marrying sisters in one night. How lovely,
how gracious, how young the bride ! Was it at Gon-
aives that year that she died dancing ? Was it at
Gonaives that the yellow-fever buried Champernoune
in the common trench ?
Elizabeth was coming up the landing from the boat,
her little negro dwarf carrying her baskets, when the
news reached her quick senses, as the one that spoke
it meant it should ; she staggered and fell. The doctors
came to bind up the broken bones, and only when they
said, " At last it is quite right ; but, dear lady, your
dancing days are over," did any see her tears. She
had buried her only girl, her first-born boy, her married
heir, without great signs of sorrow. She had plunged
into a burning house in the village once, gathering her
gauzy skirts about her, to bring out the little Louise
whom an unfaithful nurse had taken there and forsaken
in her fright ; she had waded, torch in hand, into the
wildly rolling surf of a starless night to clutch the bow
of Chaselesmarie's boat that was sweeping helplessly
to the breaker with the unskilled child at the helm ;
she had shut herself up with Champernoune, when Ben
Benvoisie brought back the small-pox to the village,
and had suffered no one to minister to him but herself ;
and when the clog all thought mad tore Cousin
Louis's arm, she herself had sucked the poison from
the wound.
Yet with that sentence, that absurd little sentence,
that her dancing days were over, it seemed all at once
to Elizabeth that everything else was over, too. With
Champernoune now everything else had gone state
and splendor, peace and pleasure, hospitality and home
and hearth, and all the rest. All things had been
possible to her, the mastery of her inner joy itself in
one form or another, while she held her forces under
4
50 OLD MADAME.
her. But now she herself was stricken, and who was
to fight for them ? Who, when the stars in their courses
fought against Sisera !
But as wild as the grief of Cousin Louis was, hers
was as still, though there were ashes on her heart. She
went about with a cane when she got up, unable to
step a minuet or bend a knee in prayer. " But see,"
cried old Ben Benvoisie to himself, " her head is just
as high ! "
Not so with Cousin Louis. He sat in his counting-
room, his face bent on his hands half the time. Cargoes
came in unheeded, reports were made him unregarded,
ships lay at the wharf unloaded, the state of the market
did not concern him nothing seemed of any matter but
those three graves. Then he roused himself to a
spasmodic activity, gave orders here and orders there,
but his mind was otherwhere. With the striking of the
year's balance he had made bad bargains, taken bad
debts, sent out bad men with his fleets, brought in his
fares and his fruits and foreign goods at a bad season,
lost the labor of years. A fire had reduced a great
property elsewhere to ashes, a storm had scattered and
destroyed his southern ships. " Something must be
done," said Cousin Louis. And he looked back from
his counting-room, on the fair mansion from whose
windows he had so long heard song and laughter float-
ing, with its gardens round about it, where the
sweet-briar and the tall white rose climbed and
looked back at the red rose blushing at their feet,
where the honeysuckles shed their fragrance, where
the great butterflies waved their wings over all the
sweet old-fashioned flowers that had been brought
from the gardens of France and summer after summer
had bloomed and spiced the air, where the golden
robins flashed from bough to bough of the lane oi
plum-trees, and the sunshine lay vivid on the encir-
cling velvet verdure. " Her home, and the home of her
people for a century behind her the people whose
blood in her veins went to make her what she is
noblest woman, sweetest wife that ever made a man's
delight. The purest, proudest, loftiest soul that looks
heaven in the face. O God, bless her, my dear wife
dearer than when I wooed you or when I wedded
you, by all the long increase of years ! Something
B Y HARRIE T FRESCO TT SPOFFORD. 5 1
must be done," said Cousin Louis, "or that will go
with the rest."
Perhaps Cousin Louis began to forefeel the future
then. Certainly, as a little time passed on, an unused
timidity overwhelmed him. Against Elizabeth's advice
lie began to call in various moneys from here and
there where they were gathering more to themselves.
"There is to be another war with the British," he said.
" We must look to our fortunes." But he would not
have any interference with their way of life, the way
Elizabeth had always lived. There must still be the
dinner to the judges, the supper to the clergy, the fre-
quent teas to the ladies of the fort, the midsummer
throng of young people, the house full for the Christ-
mas holidays ; Max and Rex were to be thought of,
St. Jean was not to grow up remembering a house of
mourning. Why had no one told them that, in all the
festive season before Champernoune's death, the
younger boys not being held then to strict account, old
Ben Benvoisie, sitting with them on the sea-beaten
rocks, had fired their fancy with stories of the wild sea-
life that had blanched his hair and furrowed his face
before the time ? One day St. Jean came in to break
the news : Max and Rex had run away to sea. " I
should have liked to go," said St. Jean, "but I could
not leave my mother so."
"By the gods!" said his father. "You shall go
master of the best ship I have ! " And in due time he
sent him supercargo to the East, that he might learn, all
that a lad who had tumbled about among ropes and
blocks and waves and rocks, ever since his birth, did
not already know. But he forbade his wife to repeat to
him the names of Rex and Max ; nor would they ever
again have been mentioned in his presence but for the
report of a ship that had spoken the craft they took,
and learned that it had been overhauled, and Max, of
whom nothing more was ever heard, pressed into the
British service, and Rex, ordered aloft on a stormy
night, had fallen from the yard into the sea, and his
grave was rolled between two waves.
As Elizabeth came home from the little church the
first time she went out after this thinking, as she
went, of the twilight when she found Champernoune,
who had stolen from the lightsome scenes that greeted
52 OLD MADAME.
him and his young bride, to stand a little while beside
the grave where his brother Chaslesmarie slept she
met old Ben Benvoisie.
"Well, "he said, "you know how good it is your-
self."
" Is not the curse fulfilled, Ben Benvoisie ? " she de-
manded. " Are you going to spare me none ? "
" None," said Ben Benvoisie.
The servants were running toward her when she
readied the house. The master had a stroke. A
stroke indeed. He satin his chair a year, head and
face white, speaking of nothing but his children's
graves, they thought. "Too cold too damp. Why
did I bury 'there ?" he murmured, "I will go have
them up," he said. " Oh, why did I bury so deep
cold cold Elizabeth ! " But when Elizabeth an-
swered him, the thing he would say had gone, and when
he died at last, for all his struggle for speech, it was
still unspoken.
Ah, what a year was that when the long strain was
over, and she had placed him where she was to lie her-
self, at her father's feet ! Things went on as they
would that year. Wrapped in an ashen apathy, Eliza-
beth hardly knew she breathed, and living less at that
time in this world than the other, the things of this
world had small concern for her. Born, too, and
reared in wealth, she could as easily have understood
that there was any other atmosphere about her as any
other condition ; and the rogues, then, had it all their
own way. Suits for western lands that were the terri-
torial possessions of princes were compromised for
sums she never saw ; blocks of city houses were sold
for taxes ; heaven knows .what else was done, what
rights were signed away on papers brought for her
name as administratrix. And when St. Jean came
home from sea, where were the various moneys that
his father had been calling in for so long a time ?
There was not a penny of them to be accounted for.
St. Jean was a man before his time. He looked
about him. The great business had gone to the dogs,
and some of the clerks and factors had gone with it ;
at least, they too had disappeared. Other men, in
other places, had taken advantage of the lapse, estab-
lished other houses, opened other fisheries, stolen their
B Y HARK IE T FRESCO TT SPOFFORD. 5 3
markets. There was not enough of either fleet left in
condition to weather a gale. "It has all been at the
top of the wave," said St. Jean, " and now we are in
the trough of the sea.'' But he had his ship, the
Great-heart, and with that he set about redeeming his
fortunes. And his first step was to bring home to his
mother a daughtei-in-law as proud as she Hope, the
orphan of a West Indian prelate, with no fortune but
her face, and with manners that Elizabeth thought un-
becoming so penniless a woman.
When St. Jean went away to sea again, he estab-
lished his wife Little Madame, the people had styled
her in a home of her own ; for large as the Mansion
was, it was not large enough to hold those two women :
a home in a long low stone house that belonged to the
estate and had once been two or three houses together,
at which one looked twice, you might say, to see if it
were dwelling or bowlder, and which he renovated
and then filled with some of the spare pictures and fur-
nishings of the Mansion-house. And there Hope
lived, cheered Elizabeth what she could, and cared for
the children that came to her and how many came !
And Elizabeth, who could never feel that Hope had
quite the right to a place as her rival in St. Jean's affec-
tions, took these little children to her heart, if she
could not yet altogether take their mother ; and they
filled for her many a weary hour of St. Jean's absences
on his long voyages, St. Jean who, in some miracu-
ous way, now represented to her father and husband
and son.
Elizabeth had time enough for the little people ;
for friends did not disturb her much after the first
visits of condolence. Trouble had come to many of
them, as well. Dorothy and Margaret and Belle and
Jean, and their compeers, were scattered and dead
and absorbed and forgetful, and she summoned none
of them about her any more with music and feasting.
Of all her wealth now nothing remained but a part of
the land on the island and the adjoining main, with its
slight and fickle revenue. Of all her concourse of
servants there were only Phillis and Scip, who would
have thought themselves transferred to some other
world had they left Old Madame.
But the Mansion of Chaslesmarie was a place of
54
OLD MADAME.
pleasure to the children still, at any rate, and the little
swarm spent many an hour in the old box-bordered
garden, where the stately lady walked on Phillis's arm,
and in the great hall where she told them the history
of each of the personages of the tall portraits, from
that of the fierce old Chaslesmarie of all down to the
angel-faced child St. Jean : told them, not as firing
pride with memories of ancient pride, but as storied
incidents of family life ; and as she told them she
seemed to live over her share in them, and place and
race and memories seemed only a part of herself.
" Madame," said St. Jean once, when at home, no
child of hers had often called her mother, " I think if
we sold the place and moved away we would do well.
The soil is used up, the race is run out if we trans-
planted and made new stock ? Here is no chance to
educate the children or to rebuild our fortunes now.
Somewhere else, it may be, I could put myself in better
business connection "
The gaze of his mother's burning black eyes bade
him to silence. She felt as if in that moment he had
forsworn his ancestors.
" Leave this place of whose dust we are made! " she
cried. " Or is it made of the dust of the Chasles-
maries ? And how short-sighted here, where, at least,
we reign ! Never shall we leave it ! See, St. Jean, it
is all yours," and from command her voice took on
entreaty, and how could St. Jean resist the pleading
mother ! He went away to sea again, and left all as
before.
But the earth had moved to Elizabeth with just one
thrill and tremor. The idea, the possibility, of leaving
the place into which every fibre of her being was
wrought had shaken her. It was a sort of conscious
death into whose blackness she looked for one moment
so one might feel about to lose identity. She walked
through the rooms with their quaint and rich old fur-
nishing, sombre and heavy, their gilded panels, their
carved wainscot, the old French portraits of her peo-
ple that looked down on her and seemed to claim her;
she paused in the oriel of the yellow drawing-room,
where it always seemed like a sunshiny afternoon in
an October beech-woodpaused, and looked across
the bay.
B Y HARRIE T FRESCO TT SPOFFORD. 5 5
There gleamed the battlements of the fort that her
grandfather, the baron, had built ; there was the church
below, there was the tomb, among the graves of those
whose powers had come to their flower in him ; the
grassy knoll, beyond, gleamed in the gold of the slant
sun and reminded her of the days when, a child, she
used to watch the last glint on the low swells of the
graves, across the blue waters of the bay whose rocky
islets rose red with the rust of the tides. Far out, the
seas were breaking in a white line over the low red
ledge, and, farther still, the lighthouse on the dim old
Wrecker's Reef was kindling its spark to answer the
light on the head of Chaslesmarie that her grandfather
had first hung in the air. Close at hand, a boat made
in, piled high at either end with the brown sea-weed,
the fishing-sails were flitting here and there, as there
had never been a day when they were not, and the
whole, bathed with the deepening sunset glow, glittered
in peace and beauty. There had not been ten days
in all her life when she had not looked upon the scene.
No, no, no ! As well give up life itself, for this was all
there was of life to her. There was the shore where,
when a child, she found the bed of garnets that the
next tide washed away ; here could she just remember
having seen the glorious old Baron Chaslesmarie, with
his men-at-arms about him ; here had her dear father
proudly walked, with his air of inflexible justice, and
the wind had seized his black robes and swept them
about her, running at his side ; here had her mother
died ; here had she first seen the superb patrician
beauty of her husband's face when he came from
France, with his head full of Jean Jacques and the
rights of man ; here was the little chapel where they
married, the linden avenue up which they strolled, with
the branches shaking out fragrance and star-beams to-
gether above them the first hour, the first delightful
hour, they ever were alone together, she and her
Cousin Louis. Oh, here had been her life with him
a husband tenderer than a lover, a man whose loftiness
lifted his race and taught her how upright other men
might be, a soul so pure that the light of God seemed
to shine through it upon her ! Here had been her joys,
here had been her sorrows ; here had she put her love
away and heard the molds ring down on that dear
56 OLD MADAME.
head ; here had the world darkened to her, here
should it darken to her forever when all the shadows
of the grave lengthened around her. Father and
mother, husband and child, race and land, they were
all in this spot. These people, all of whom she knew
by name, were they not like her own ; could the
warmth of the blood bring much nearer to her these
faces that had surrounded her since time begun these
men and women whose lives she had ordered, whose
children had been fostered with her children, who half-
worshiped her in her girlhood, who half-worshiped her
still as Old Madame ? Could she leave them ? Not
though St. Jean's Great-heart went down, St. Jean's
ship for which Hope on her houetop sas so long
watching. " I refuse to think of it," she said. "It is
infinitely tiresome." And then the children trooped
in and stopped further soliloquy, and she let them
dress themselves out in her stiff old brocades that
had been sent for just after she married and had never
needed to be renewed, the cloth of-silver and peach-
. bloom, the flowered Venetian, the gold-shot white
paduasoy ; she liked to see the pretty Barbara and
Helena and Bess prancing about the shining floors,
holding up the long draperies, and she would have
decked them out in her old silver-set jewels, too, had
they not been parted with long since when Cousin
Louis was calling in their moneys. It all renewed her
youth so sweetly, if so sadly, and the mimic play in
some obscure way making her feel they only played at
life, relieved her of a sense of responsibility regarding
their real life. When they tired of their finery, she led
them down, as usual, before the portrait of this one
and of that, and told over the old stories they liked to
hear.
"Madame," said little Barbara, lifting her stiff
peach-blossom draperies, "why is it always 'then,'
why is it never ' now ' ? "
But the old dame's heart did not once cry Ichabod.
To her the glory never had departed. It was as im-
perishable as sky and air.
It was the threatened war-time again at last; and
Hope, with her sweet, soft eyes watching from the
housetop, saw her husband's ship come in, and with it
its consort just a day too late. The embargo had
BY HA RRIE T FRESCO TT SPOFFORD. 5 7
been declared, and, unknowingly; he hailed from a for-
bidden port. Other sailors touched other ports and
took out false papers for protection. St. Jean scorned
the act. He relied on public justice : he relied on a
reed. His cargoes were confiscated, and his ships
were left at the wharf to rot before he could get hear-
ing. In those two vessels was the result of his years
of storm and calm, nights when the ship was heavy by
the head with ice, days when her seamy sides were
scorched and blistered by the sun, the best part of his
life. And gone because he preferred poverty to per-
jury.
" Better so," said Old Madame. " I am prouder of
my penniless son than of any merchant prince with a
false oath on his soul." And her own contentment
seemed to her all that could be asked. She never
thought of regretting the matter; but she despised the
General Government more than ever, and would have
shown blue-lights to the enemy, had he been near and
wanted a channel, were it not that he was Cousin
Louis's enemy as well.
Alas ! a bitterer enemy was near. One tempestuous
winter's night the minute-guns were heard off Wreck-
er's Reef, and who but St. Jean must lead the rescue?
Hope, cloaked and on her housetop, with the glass
saw it all ; saw St. Jean climb the reef as the moon ran
out on the end of a flying scud of cloud to glance on
the foam-edged roll of the black wild seas , saw the
others following along the sides of the ice-sheathed
rock to carry succor to the freezing castaways, and
saw, too, a plunging portion of the wreck strike one
form, and hurl it headlong. It was her husband.
And although he was brought back alive, yet the blow
upon his breast, and the night's exposure in the icy
waters, in his disheartened state, did deathly work
upon St. Jean, and he was laid low and helpless long
before his release.
Then Elizabeth sold the hay-fields along the main-
land to pay the doctor's bills and the druggist's, to try
softer air for the prostrated man, to bring him home
again. She had loved to see the sun ripening the long
stretch of their rich grasses with reds and purples, with
russets and fresh-bursting green again, as far as eye
could see. But she forgot she had ever owned them,
58 OLD MADAME.
or owning them had lost them. They were there still
when she gazed that way. Then the Thierry place fol-
lowed, and the little Hasard houses, they had not yet
learned how to be poor.
" There is the quarry," said St. Jean, his heart sore
as his hand was feeble. " We cannot work it now."
" The grocer took it long ago," said Elizabeth.
" And the Podarzhon orchard ? "
" Oh, the Podarzhon orchard ! Yes, your great-
grandsire used to call it his pot of money. Well, the
trees were old and ran to wood, your father renewed
so many ! But the apples had lost their flavor, what
apples they used to be ! Oh, yes, we ate up the Pod-
arzhon orchard some time since. And the lamb-
pasture brought the children their great-coats and
shoes last year. And the barley-field How lucky
that we happened to have them, my dear ! "
" And I dying," groaned St. Jean. " What, what is
to become of them ! "
" To become of them ! " said the unfaltering spirit.
" Is there question what will become of any of the
blood of Chaslesmarie ? "
A night came, at length, when Hope fainted in her
arms Elizabeth's last child was dead. " A white
name and a white soul," said Elizabeth. " I -thank
God I knew him ! " And the Geoffrey field went to
bury him. " I shall be with him soon," she said, smil-
ing, not weeping. " Heaven can hardly be more holy
than he made earth seem, he was so like a saint ! "
After that, she felt as if he had no more than gone on
one of his long voyages. She sold the few acres of the
Millet farm in a month or two; they had nothing else
to live on now but such small sales ; and from a por-
tion of the proceeds she put aside, in a little* hair-
covered coffer, her grave-clothes, with the money, in
crisp bank-notes, that should one day suffice to lay her
away decently between her graves. And then she and
Hope sat down and spent their days telling over the
virtues of their dead.
It was a summer day, when the late wild-roses were
just drooping on their stems and the wanton black-
berry vines were everywhere putting out their arms,
and all things hung a little heavily in the still air
before the thunder-storm, that Elizabeth climbed alone,
B Y HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 59
with her staff, to the dimple among the rocks where
her dear ones lay. She paused at the -top to look
around her. Here swept the encircling river, with the
red rocks rising from its azure ; beyond it the main-
land lifted softly swelling fields that had once belonged
to her ancestors of glorious memory ; far away to the
south and east, over its ledges and reefs mounting
purple to the bending sky, stretched the sea, its foam-
ing fields also once theirs and yielding them its rev-
enues. Now, nothing but these graves, she said ; the
graves of renown, of honor, of lofty purity. " No, no,"
said Elizabeth, aloud. "Renown, honor, purity are
not buried here. St. Jean's children cannot be robbed
of that inheritance. Fire that still burns must burst
through the ashes. It is fallen indeed ; but with these
children it shall begin its upward way again ! "
" Its upward way again," said a deep voice. And,
half-starting, she turned to see old Ben Benvoisie sit-
ting on one of the graves below her.
" So you are satisfied at last, Ben Benvoisie," said
Elizabeth, after a moment's gazing.
" Satisfied with what ? "
" Satisfied that not one child is left to my arms, and
that, when the mortgage on the Mansion falls due, not
one acre of my birthright is left to my name."
" Do you think I did it, then, Old Madame ? " asked
the man, pulling his cloak about him. " Am I one of
the forces of nature ? You flatter me ! Am I the
pride, the waste, the love of pleasure, the heedlessness
of the morrow, the self-confidence of your race, that
forgot there was a world outside the sound of the name
of Chaslesmarie ? Did I take one life away from
you ? " he cried, as he tottered to his stick. " Nay,
once I would have given you my own ! Did I take
a penny of your wealth ? I am as poor to-day as
I was seventy years ago when I laid my life at your
feet, and you laughed and scorned and spurned it, and
thought so lightly of it you forgot it ! "
Elizabeth was' silent a little. Her hood fell back,
and there streamed out a long lock of her silver hair
in which still burned a gleam of gold ; her black eyes,
softer than once they were, met quietly the gaze that
was reading the writing of the lines cut in her face,
60 OLD MADAME.
like the lines whipped into stone by the sharp sands
of the desert.
" It was not these leveling days," she said. " I was
the child of nobles
" And I was a worm at your feet. A worm with a
sting, you found. But it was not you I cursed," he'
cried in a horse passion, " not you, Elizabeth Cham-
pernoune ! It was the master ~"
"Loujs and I were one," she answered him. " We
are one still. A part of him is here above the sod ; a
part of me is there below it. We shall rest beside
each other soon, as we did every night of forty years.
Soon you, too, Ben Benvoisie, will go to your long
sleep, and neither your bannering nor your blessing will
help or hurt the generation that is to come."
" Will it not ? " he said. And he laughed a low
laugh half under his breath. " Yet the generations
repeat themselves. Look there ! " And he wheeled
about suddenly and pointed with his stick, as if it had
been an old wizard's wand. "Look yonder at the
beach," he said. " On the flat bowlder by which we
found the bed of garnets when you and I were too young
eighty years ago, is it ? to know that you were the
child of nobles, and I a worm ! "
And there, on the low, flat rock, distinct against the
turbid darkness of the sky, sat the pretty Barbara, a
brown-eyed lass of sixteen, and the arm about her
shoulder was the arm of young Ben Benvoisie. the old
man's grandson, and his face, a handsome tawny face
with the blue fire of its eyes, was bent toward hers
and hers were lifted.
"Leave them to their dream a little while, Old
Madame, before you wake them," said the old man, in
a strangely altered voice.
" I shall not wake them," said Elizabeth.
And they were silent a moment again, looking down
at the figures on the rocks. And the two faces that
had bent together there, had clung together in their
first long sweet kiss of love, parted, with the redness
of innocent blushes on them, and were raised toward
the distant sea, now dimly streaked with foam and
wind.
" I have seen ninety years," said old Ben Benvoisie.
" And you, Old Madame ? "
BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 6 1
" I have lived eighty-five," she answered, absently.
"Long years, long years," he said. " But, at last,"
he said, " at last, Dame Elizabeth, my flesh and blood
and yours are one ! "
Elizabeth turned to move away, but his voice again
arrested her. " Look ye ! " he said. " When those
two are one, once and forever, when Chaslesmarie is
sunk in Benvoisie, when you are conquered at last, I
shall tell them where Master Louis buried his moneys,
Old Madame ! "
She had been going on without a word; but she
stopped and looked back over her shoulder. " Only
they are conquered, Ben Benvoisie, who contend," she
said. " And I have never contended. Perhaps I had
rather see her dead. I do not know. But Barbara
has her own life to live in these changed times. She
is too young, I am too old, to make her live mine.
And were I conquered," she cried in a great voice, " it
is not by you, but by age and the slow years and
death ! I defy you, as I have defied Fate ! For, take
the bread from my mouth, the mantle from my back,
yet while I live the current in my veins remains," cried
the old Titaness, " and while I live that current will
always run with the courage and the honor of the
Chaslesmaries and Champernounes ! "
" Not so," said the other. " Conquered you are.
Conquered because your race ceases. Because Chasles-
marie is swallowed up in Benvoisie, as death is swal-
lowed up in victory ! "
But she had gone on into the gathering darkness of
the storm, from which the young people fled up the
shore, and heard no more. And the storm burst
about the island, and the old Chaslesmarie Mansion
answered it in roof and rafter, trembling as if to the
buffets of striving elemental foes. And all at once
the flames wrapped it ; and gilded wainscot, Dutch
carving, ancestral portraits, were only a pile of hissing
cinders when the morning sun glittered on rain-drops,
rocks, and river. And Elizabeth, with her little hair-
coffer of cere-clothes and money, had gone to Hope's
cottage, and old Ben Benvoisie was found stretched
upon the grave where she had seen him sitting. And
they never knew where Cousin Louis had buried his
money.
6 2 OLD MADAME.
"Miss Barbara! Barbara, honey!" called old
Phillis, again, a little before noon. " Where's this
you's hiding at ? Old Madame wants ye. Don't ye
hear me tell ? "
And pretty Barbara came hesitatingly up the rocks
that made each dwelling in the place look as if it were
a part of the island itself, tearful and rosy and spark-
lino-. And by her side, grave as became him that day,
and erect and proud as his grandparent, was old Ben
Benvoisie's grandson.
" Barbara," said the Old Madame presently, break-
ing through the reverie caused by their first few words,
" did my eyes deceive me yesterday ? Have you cut
adrift ? Have you made up your mind that you can
do without fine dresses and silver dishes and "
"Why, I always have," said Barbara, looking up
simply.
" That is true," said Elizabeth. " And so they do
not count for much. And you think you know what
love is you baby? You really think you love this
' sailor-lad ? Tell me, how much you do love him,
child ? "
"As much, Madame dear," said Barbara, shyly,
dimpling, glancing half askance, " perhaps as much,
grandmamma, as you loved Cousin Louis."
"Say you so? Then it were enough to carry its
light through life and throw it far across the dark
shadows of death, my child ! And you," she said, turn
ing suddenly and severely to young Ben. " Is it for life,
or for a holiday, a pleasuring, a pastime ? "
He looked at her as if, in spite of the claims ot
parentage and her all but century of reign, he ex-
amined her right to ask. " Since Barbara promised
me," said he at last, " I have felt, Old Madame, like
one inside a church."
" Something in him," said Elizabeth. " Not
altogether the sweetness of the senses, but the sacred-
ness of the sacrament."
And although they were not married for twice a
twelvemonth, Elizabeth considered that she had
married them that morning. And the reddest bonnet-
rouge among the fishermen had a thrill as if all thrones
were leveled when, at old Ben Benvoisie's funeral, in
the simple procession where none rode, after young
B Y HARRIE T FRESCO TT SPOFFORD. 63
Ben and Barbara, they saw Hope and Old Madame
walk, as became the next of kin.
And so one year and another crept into the past.
And at length Old Madame fell ill.
" I am going now, Hope," she said. " I should like
to see Barbara's baby before I go. But remember that
there is money for my burial in the little coffer. And
there is still the Dernier's wood-land to sell "
" Do not think of such things now," said Hope.
" God will take care of us in some way. He always
has. We are as much a part of the universe as the
rest of it."
" We are put in this world to think of such things,"
said Elizabeth. " We are put in this world to live in
it, not to live in another. Now I am going to another.
We shall see what that will be. From this I have had
all it had to give. I came into it with the reverence
and revenue of princes. I go out of it a beggar," she
cried in a tone that tore Hope's heart. " I came into
it in purple I go out of it in rags "
Rags. Before they laid her away with those who
had made part of her career of splendor and of sorrow,
they opened the little hair-coffer, moths had eaten the
grave-clothes and a mouse had made its nest in the
bank-notes. And to-day nothing is left of Chasles-
marie or Champernoune not even a name and hardly
a memory; and the blood ennobled by the King of
France is the common blood of the fishers of the island
given once with all its serfs and vassals the island-
fishers who sell you a string of herring for a shilling.
HEAR Y SOULT.
BY
REBECCA HARDING DAYIS.
REBECCA HARDING DAVIS.
IT is not very easy for the uninitiated to estimate
the amount of brain work accomplished by those who
have spent any considerable time in the practical pro-
fession of journalism. In this class we must place
Mrs. Davis, and therefore we can only approximate a
judgment as to the net result of a lifetime devoted to
letters, much of it impersonal, and its weight and
importance therefore unknown to the hungry public,
whose capacity for digesting printed matter appears to
be unbounded.
Rebecca Harding was born in Wheeling, West Vir-
ginia, June 24, 1831. Probably some of her youthful
writings have escaped our research, but in 1861 ap-
peared in the Atlantic Monthly that interesting serial
story, entitled " Life in the Iron Mills," which was
subsequently published in book form ; this work
showed an intimate acquaintance with the class it pro-
fessed to delineate, and gave fine scope to her especial
talent of character analysis. This was followed in the
same periodical by " A Story of To-day " ; this was
afterwards republished as a book under the title of
" Margaret Howth," in 1862. Two years later Re-
becca Harding married Mr. L. Clark Davis. He was a
journalist, connected with the Inquirer, published in
Philadelphia; he was also a contributor to several
magazines. Until about 1869, Mr. and Mrs. Davis
continued to make Philadelphia their home, but after
this period Mrs. Davis was attached to the editorial
staff of the New York Daily Tribune, and came to the
metropolis to reside. In 1867 she had given to the
world that thrilling story " Waiting for the Verdict,"
which was published in Philadelphia, in 1867 ; then
followed "Dallas Galbraith," in 1868; "John An-
dross," in 1874. " The Captain's Story," which was
published in the Galaxy, was founded on fact ; as was
69
7O REBECCA HARDING DAVIS.
also a story entitled "The Faded Leaf of History,"
which was truly what it professed to be, a narrative
found in an old pamphlet in the Philadelphia
library.
Mrs. Davis is wonderfully gifted in the matter of dis-
criminating mental idiosyncrasies. One of her strong
characters is the smooth hypocrite, who, posing as the
friend of the suffering classes, is in fact only intent on
fleecing the public, through enlisting their sympathies,
and collecting moneys for his ever abortive schemes of
benevolence ; this sort of character is not new in fic-
tion but it has never been more finely diagnosed than
by Mrs. Davis. Another skilful mind portraiture is
that of the female adventuress, who appears at one
time as a materializing spiritualist, and then again,
creeping into society in the guise of a Russian Prin-
cess. There are moral hints and suggestions all
through, without being offensively prominent ; but there
are two characters which are of practical interest to the
lovers of psychological studies one, the doting old
father who illustrates to perfection the inane dogma-
tism of unreasoning affection, who, in a moribund con-
dition, insists on seeing his daughter " comfortably set-
tled before he goes," by compelling her, through her
affection for himself, to marry a man for whom she
felt nothing if not a chronic repulsion. The other
psychic study is less common ; an intelligent educated
man who believes himself to have inherited insanity
through his mother's family : " All the Davidges had
brain disease as they approached middle age." Con-
sequently as he approached middle age he felt the
symptoms coming on him : he had conscientiously
declined to marry, foreseeing his evil fate. As the
symptoms grew upon him, he takes leave of all his
friends and starts upon an extended tour of travel.
But one was on board the steamer who had known him
from infancy, and who at the last moment informs him
that she whom he had always believed to be his
mother, was only his step-mother, "he had no Davidge
blood in his veins." His cure was instantaneous ; all
the dreaded symptoms disappeared. His imagination
being corrected, his brain was also.
Mrs. Davis has resided of late years in Philadelphia,
REBECCA HARDING DAVIS. J\
The absence of a portrait of her from this book is
due to the fact that she has never yet consented to
have it taken. Her words in refusing it, are : " I am
sorry to disappoint you, but as I do not give my
photograph to my children, you cannot be offended
with me."
TIRAR Y SOULT.
ROBERT KNIGHT, who was born, bred, and
trained in New England, suckled on her creeds and
weaned on her doubts, went directly from college to a
Louisiana plantation. The change, as he felt, was ex-
treme.
He happened to go in this way. He was a civil
engineer. A company was formed among the planters
in the Gulf parishes to drain their marshes in order to
establish large rice-farms. James B. Eads, who knew
Knight, gave his name to them as that of a promising
young fellow who was quite competent to do the sim-
ple work that they required, and one, too, who would
probably give more zeal and time to it than would a
man whose reputation was assured.
After Mr. Knight had thoroughly examined the
scene of operations, he was invited by the president
of the company, M. de Fourgon, to go with him to his
plantation, the Lit de Fleurs, where he would meet the
directors of the company.
" The change is great and sudden," he wrote to his
confidential friend Miss Cramer. " From Boston to
the Bed of Flowers, from the Concord School of Phi-
losophy to the companionship of ex-slaveholders, from
Emerson to Gayarre ! I expected to lose my breath
mentally. I expected to find the plantation a vast
exhibit of fertility, disorder, and dirt; the men, illiter-
ate fire-eaters ; the women, houris such as our fathers
used to read of in Tom Moore. Instead, I find the
farm, huge, it is true, but orderly ; the corn-fields are
laid out with the exact neatness of a Dutch garden.
The works are run by skilled German workmen. The
directors are shrewd and wide-awake. Madame de
Fourgon is a fat, commonplace little woman. There
are other women the house swarms with guests but
not an houri among them. Till to morrow. R. K."
73
74 TIKAR Y SOULT.
The conclusion was abrupt, but Knight had reached
the bottom of the page of his writing-pad. He tore it
off, p.ut it in a business-envelope, and mailed it. He
and Miss Cramer observed a certain manly disregard
to petty conventionalities. He wrote to her on the
backs of old envelopes, scraps of wrapping-paper, any-
thing that came first to hand. She liked it. He was
poor and she was poor, and they were two good fel-
lows roughing it together. They delighted in express-
ing their contempt for elegant knick-knackery of any
sort, in dress, literature, or religion.
" Give me the honest the solid!" was Emma Cra-
mer's motto, and Knight thought the sentiment very high
and fine. Emma herself was a little person, with an
insignificant nose, and a skin, hair, and eyes all of one
yellowish tint. A certain fluffiness and piquancy of
dress would have made her positively pretty. But she
went about in a tightly fitting gray gown, with a white
pocket-handkerchief pinned about her neck, and her
hair in a small knob on top.
But, blunt as she was, she did not like the blunt end-
ing of this letter.
What were the women like who were not houris ?
He might have known that she would have some curi-
osity about them. Had they any intellectual training
whatever? She supposed they could dance and sing
and embroider like those poor things in harems
Miss Cramer lived on a farm near the village of
Throop. That evening, after she had finished her
work, she took the letter over to read to Mrs. Knight.
There were no secrets in any letter to her from Robert
which his mother could not share. They were all inti-
mate friends together, Mrs. Knight being, perhaps, the
youngest and giddiest of the three. The Knights
knew how her uncle overworked the girl, for Emma
was an orphan, and dependent on him. They knew
all the kinds of medicine she took for her dyspepsia,
and exactly how much she earned by writing book-
reviews for a Boston paper. Emma, too, could tell to
a dollar what Robert's yearly expenses had been at
college. They had all shared in the terrible anxiety
lest no position should offer for him, and rejoiced to-
ge-ther in this opening in Louisiana.
B Y REBECCA HARDING DA VIS. 75
Mrs. Knight ran to meet her. " Oh, you have had a
letter, too ? Here is mine ! "
She read the letter with nervous nods and laughs of
exultation, the butterfly-bow of yellow ribbon in her
cap fluttering as if in triumph. Emma sat down on the
steps of the porch with an odd, chilled feeling that she
was somehow shut out from the victory.
" The ' Bed of Flowers?" What a peculiar name
for a farm ! And how odd it was in this Mr. de Four-
gon to ask Robert to stay at his house ! Do you sup-
pose he will charge him boarding, Emma ? "
"No, I think not."
" Well, Robert will save nothing by that. He must
make it up somehow. I wouldn't have him under obli-
gation to the man for his keep. I've written to him to
put his salary into the Throop Savings Bank till he wants
to invest it. He will have splendid chances for invest-
ment, travelling over the country East, West, South
everywhere ! House full of women ? I hope he will
not be falling in love in a hurry. Robert ought to
marry well now,"
Miss Cramer said nothing. The sun had set, and a
cold twilight had settled down over the rocky fields,
with their thin crops of hay. To the right was Mrs.
Knight's patch, divided into tiny beds of potatoes,
corn, and cabbage. As Emma's eyes fell on it she
remembered how many years she had helped the widow
rake and weed that field, and how they had triumphed
in every shilling which they made by the garden-stuff.
For Robert all for Robert !
Now he had laid his hand on the world's neck and
conquered it ! North and West, and that great tropical
South, with its flowers and houris all were open to
him ! She looked around the circle of barren fields.
He had gone out of doors, and she was shut in !
She bade his mother good-night, and went down the
darkening road homeward. What a fool she was !
The fact that Robert had a good salary could not
change the whole order of the world in a day. Her
comradeship with Knight, their plans, their sympathy
this was the order of the world which seemed eternal
and solid to poor Emma.
" I am his friend," she told herself now. " If he had
twenty wives, none of them could take my place."
76 TIRAR Y SOULT.
Now Knight had not hinted at the possibility of
wiving in his letter. There had never been a word or
glance of love making between him and Emma; yet
she saw him, quite distinctly now, at the altar, and
beside him a black-eyed houri.
She entered the farm-house by the kitchen. There
was the bacon, cut ready to cook for breakfast, and the
clothes dampened for ironing. Up in her own bare
chamber were paper and ink and two books for review
"Abstract of Greek Philosophy" and " Subdrain-
age."
These reviews were one way in which she had tried
to interest him. Interest him ! Greek philosophy !
Drainage !
She threw the books on the floor, and, running to
the glass, unloosened her hair and ran her fingers
through it, tore the handkerchief from her neck,
scanned with a breathless eagerness her pale eyes, her
freckled skin, and shapeless nose, and then, burying
her face in her hands, turned away into the dark.
The night air that was so thin and chilly in Throop,
blew over the Lit de Fleurs wet and heavy with the
scents, good and bad, of the Gulf marshes. Madame
de Fourgon's guests had left the supper-table, and
were seated on the low gallery which ran around the
house, or lounged in the hammocks that swung under
the huge magnolias on the lawn. There were one or
two women of undoubted beauty among them ; but
Robert Knight was not concerned, that night, with the
good or ill-looks of any woman, either in Throop or
Louisiana. He was amused by a new companion, a
Monsieur Tirar, who had ridden over from a neighbor-
ing plantation. Knight at first took him for an over
grown boy ; but on coming close to him, he perceived
streaks of gray in the close-cut hair and beard.
Tirar had sung and acted a comic song, after dinner,
at which the older men laughed as at the capers of L
monkey. While they were at cards he played croquet
with the children. The women sent him on errands.
" Jose, my thimble is in the library ! " " Jose', do see
where the nurse has taken baby ! "etc.
A chair had been brought out now for M. de Four-
gon's aunt, an old woman with snowy hair and delicate,
BY REBECCA HARDING DAVIS. 77
high features. Jose flew to bring her a shawl and
wrapped it about her. She patted him on his fat
cheek, telling Knight, as he capered away, how invalu-
able was the cher enfant,
" He made that Creole sauce to-day. Ah, the petit
gourmand has many secrets of crabs and soups. He
says the chefs in Paris confide in him, but they are
original, monsieur ; they are born in Jose's leetle
brain " tapping her own forehead.
" Ah, hear him now ! 'T is the voice of a seraph ! "
She threw up her hands, to command silence in earth
and sky ; leaning back and closing her eyes, while the
little man, seated with his guitar 'at the feet of a pretty
girl, sang. Even Knight's sluggish nerves were
thrilled. He had never heard such a voice as this.
It wrung his heart with its dateless pain and pathos.
Ashamed of his emotion, he turned to go away. But
there was a breathless silence about him. The Cre-
oles all love music, and Jose's voice was famous
throughout the Gulf parishes. Even the negro nurses
stood staring and open-mouthed.
The song ended and Tirar lounged into the house.
" Queer dog ! " said M. de Fourgon. " He will not
touch a guitar again perhaps for months."
" He would sing if I ask it," said the old lady. " He
has reverence for the age."
M. de Fourgon, behind her, lifted his eyebrows.
"Jose'," he said, aside to Knight, "is a good fellow
enough up here among the women and babies ; but
with his own crew, at the St. Charles, there is no more
rakehelly scamp in New Orleans."
" Is he a planter ? " asked the curious New Eng-
lancler. Madame Dessaix's keen ears caught the
question.
" Ah, the poor lad ! he has no land, not an acre !
His father was a Spaniard, Ruy Tirar, who married
Bonaventura Soult. The Soult and Tirar plantations
were immense on the Bayou Sara. Jose's father had
his share. But crevasse cards the war all gone ! "
opening wide her hands. " When your government
declared peace, it left our poor Jose at twenty with
the income of a beggar."
" But that was fifteen years ago," said Knight.
78 TIRAR Y SOULT.
" Could he not retrieve his fortune by his profession
business ? What does he do ? "
" Do? do ? " she turned an amazed, perplexed face
from one to the other. "Does he think that Jose shall
work ? Jose ! Mon Dieu ! "
" Tirar," said M. de Fourgon, laughing, " is not pre-
cisely a business man, Mr. Knight. He has countless
friends and kinsfolk. We are all cousins of the Tirars
or Soults. He is welcome everywhere."
'Oh! "said Knight, with a 'significant nod. Even
in his brief stay in this neighborhood, he had found
other men than Jose living in absolute idleness in a
community which was no longer wealthy. They were
neither old, ill, nor incapable. It was simply not their
humor to work. They were supported, and as carefully
guarded as pieces of priceless porcelain. It is a lax,
extravagant feature of life, as natural to Louisiana as
it is impossible to Connecticut.
It irritated Knight, yet it attracted him, as any nov-
elty does a young man. He turned away from his
companions, and sauntered up and down in the twi-
light. To live without work on those rich, prodigal
prairies, never to think of to-morrow, to give without
stint, even to lazy parasites there was something
royal about that. It touched his fancy. He had.
known, remembered, nothing but Throop and hard
work for twenty-two years.
The air had grown chilly. Inside, M. Tirar had
kindled a huge fire on the hearth. He was kneeling,
fanning it with the bellows, while a young girl leaned
indolently against the mantel, watching the flames, and
now and then motioning to Jose to throw on another
log. The trifling action startled Knight oddly. How
they wasted that wood ! All through his boyhood he
used to gather every twig and chip. How often he
had longed to make one big, wasteful fire, as they were
doing now.
The young lady was a Miss Venn, who had been
civil to him. It occurted to him that she was the very
embodiment of the lavish life of this place. He did
not, then or afterward, consider whether she was beau-
tiful or not. But the soft, loose masses of reddish
hair, and the large, calm, blue eyes, must, he thought,
BY REBECCA HARDING DAVIS. 79
belong to a woman who was a generous spendthrift of
life.
Perhaps Knight was at heart a spendthrift. At all
events, he suddenly felt a strange eagerness to become
better acquainted with Miss Venn. He sought her out,
the next morning, among the groups under the magno-
lias. There could be no question that she was stupid.
She had read nothing but her Bible and the stories in
the newspapers, and had no opinions about either.
But she confessed to ignorance of nothing, lying with
the most placid, innocent smile.
" ' Hamlet ? ' Oh, yes ; I read that when it first came
out. But those things slip through my mind like water
through a sieve."
To Robert, whose brain had long been rasped by
Emma's prickly ideas, this dulness was as a downy bed
of ease. Emma was perpetually struggling after prog-
ress with every power of her brain. It never occurred
to Lucretia Venn to plan what she should do to-mor-
row, or at any future time. In Throop, too, there was
much hard prejudice between the neighbors. To be
clever was to have a sharp acerbity of wit: Emma's
sarcasms cut like a thong. But these people were born
kind ; they were friendly to all the world, while in
Lucretia there was a warm affluence of nature which
made her the centre of all this warm, pleasant life.
The old people called her by some pet name, the dogs
followed her, the children climbed into her lap.
Knight with her felt like a traveller who has been long
lost on a bare, cold marsh and has come into a fire-
lighted room.
One afternoon he received the card of M. Jose
Tirar y Soult, who came to call upon him formally.
The little fop was dazzling in white linen, diamond
solitaires blazing on his breast and wrists.
" You go to ride ? " he said, as the horses were
brought round. " Lucrezia, my child, you go to ride ?
It portends rain " hopping to the edge of the gallery.
" You will take cold ! "
" There is not a cloud in the sky," said M. de Four-
gon. " Come, Lucretia, mount ! Jose always fancies
you on the edge of some calamity."
" It goes to storm," persisted Tirar. " You must
wear a heavier habit, my little girl."
80 TIRAR Y SOULT.
Miss Venn laughed, ran to her own room, and
changed her habit.
" What way shall you ride ? " Jose' anxiously in
quired of Knight.
" To the marshes."
" It is very dangerous there, sir. There are herds
of wild cattle, and slippery ground " fuming up and
down the gallery. " Well, well ! Tirar himself will go
I will not see the child's life in risk."
Knight was annoyed. " What relation does Mon-
sieur Tirar hold to Miss Venn ? " he asked his host
apart. " He assumes the control of a father over
her."
" He is her cousin. He used to nurse the child on
his knee, and he does not realize that she has grown to
be a woman. Oh, yes, the poor little man loves her as
if she were his own child ! When their grandfather,
Louis Soult, died, two years ago, he left all his estate
to Lucretia, and not a dollar to Jose. It was brutal I
But Jose' was delighted. 'A woman must have money,
or she is cold in the world,' he said. ' But to shorn
lambs, like me, every wind is tempered. ' "
Mr. Knight was thoughtful during the first part of
the ride. " I did not know," he said, presently, to
young McCann, from St. Louis, a stranger like himself,
" that Miss Venn was a wealthy woman."
" Oh, yes, the largest landholder in this parish, and
ten thousand a year, clear, besides."
Ten thousand a year ! And Emma drudging till
midnight for two or three dollars a column ! Poor
Emma! A gush of unwonted tenderness filled his
heart. The homely, faithful soul !
Ten thousand a year! Knight would have been
humiliated to think that this money could change his
feeling to the young woman who owned it. But it did
change it. She was no longer only a dull, fascinating
appeal to his imagination. She was a power ; some-
thing to be regarded with respect, like a Building
Association or Pacific Railway stocks. But for some
unexplained reason he carefully avoided her during the
ride. Miss Venn was annoyed at this desertion, and
showed it as a child would do. She beckoned him
again and again to look at a heron's nest, or at the
water-snakes darting through the ridges of the bayou,
B Y REBECCA HA RDING DA VIS. 8 1
or at a family of chameleons who were keeping house
on a prickly-pear. Finding that he did not stay at her
side, she gave up her innocent wiles, at last, and rode
on in silence. M. Tirar then flung himself headlong
into the breach. He poured forth information about
Louisiana for Knight's benefit, with his own flighty
opinions tagged thereto. He told stories and laughed
at them louder than anybody else, his brown eyes
dancing with fun ; but through all he kept a furtive
watch upon Lucretia to see the effect upon her.
They had now reached the marshes which lie along
the Gulf. They were covered with a thin grass, which
shone bright-emerald in the hot noon. The tide
soaked the earth beneath, and drove back the narrow
lagoons that were creeping seaward. A herd of raw-
boned cattle wandered aimlessly over the spongy sur-
face, doubtful whether the land was water, or the
water, land. They staggered as they walked, from
sheer weakness; one steer fell exhausted, and as
Lucretia's horse passed, it lifted its head feebly, looked
at her with beseeching eyes, and dropped it again. A
Hock of buzzards in the distance scented their prey
and began to swoop down out of the clear sky, flashes
of black across the vivid green of the prairie, with low
and lower dips until they alighted, quivering, on the
dying beast and began to tear the flesh from its
side.
Josd rode them down, yelling with rage. He came
back jabbbering in Spanish and looking gloomily over
the vast empty marsh. " I hate death anywhere, but
this is wholesale murder! These wretched Cajans
of the marsh raise larger herds than they can feed ;
they starve by the hundreds. That poor beast is dead
thanks be to God ! " After a pause. " Well,
well ! " he cried, with a shrug, " your syndicate will
soon convert this delta into solid ground, Mr. Knight ;
it is a noble work ! Vast fortunes " with a magnilo-
quent sweep of his arm " lie hidden under this
mud."
" Why don't you take a share in the noble work
then ? " asked McCann. " That is, if it would not
interfere with your other occupations ? "
" Me ? I have no occupations ! What work should
I do ? " asked Jose', with a fillip of his pudgy fingers.
6
82 TIRAR Y SOULT.
Presently he galloped up to Miss Venn's side with an
anxious face.
" Lucrezia, my child, has it occurred to you that you
would like me better if 1 were doctor, or lawyer, or
something? "
She looked at him, bewildered, but said nothing.
" It has not occurred to me" he went on seriously.
" I have three, four hundred dollars every year to buy
my clothes. I have the Tirar jewelry. What more do
I want ? Every thing I need comes to me."
" Certainly, why not ? " she answered absently, her
eyes wandering in search of something across the
marsh.
" Then you do not mind ? " he persisted anxiously.
" I wish my little girl to be pleased with old Jose. As
for the rest of the world " he cracked his thumb con-
temptuously.
Miss Venn smiled faintly. She had not even heard
him. She was watching Knight, who had left the
party and was riding homeward alone. Jose fancied
there were tears in her eyes.
" Lucrezia ! "
No answer.
" Lucrezia, do not worry ! 7am here."
" You ! Oh, Man Dicu ! You are always here ! "
She broke forth, pettishly.
Jose gasped as if he had been struck, then he
reined in his horse, falling back, while Mr. McCann
gladly took his place.
M. Tirar, after that day, did not return to the planta-
tion. Once he met M. de Fourgon somewhere in the
parish, and with a sickly smile asked if Lucretia were
in good health. " Remember Jean," he added,
earnestly, riding with him a little way. " I am that
little girl's guardian. If she ever marry, it is Jose who
must give her away. So ridiculous in her father to
make a foolish young fellow like me her guardian ! "
" Not at all ! No, indeed ! Very proper, Tirar,"
said M. de Fourgon, politely, at which Jose's face grew
still paler and more grave.
One day he appeared about noon on the gallery.
His shoes were muddy, his clothes the color of a be-
draggled moth.
" Ah, man enfant /" cried Madame Dessaix, kindly,
B Y REBECCA HA RDING DA VIS. 8 3
from her chair in a shady corner. " What is wrong ?
No white costume this day, no diamonds, no laugh ?
What is it, Jose' ?"
" Nothing, madame," said the little man, drearily.
" I grow old. I dress no more as a young man. I
accommodate myself to the age the wrinkles."
" Wrinkles ? Bah ! Come and sit by me. For
whom is that you look ? "
" But I thought I heard Lucrezia laugh as I rode
up the levee ? "
Madame Dessaix nodded significantly and, putting
her fingers on her lips, with all the delight that a
Frenchwoman takes in lovers, led him, on tip-toe, to
the end of the gallery and, drawing aside the vines,
showed him Lucretia in a hammock under a gigantic
pecan-tree. A mist of hanging green moss closed
about her. She lay in it as a soft, white bird in a
huge nest. Knight stood leaning against the trunk of
the tree, looking down at her, his thin face intent and
heated. He had spoken to her, but she did not
answer. She smiled lazily, as she did when the chil-
dren patted her on the cheek.
" Voila la petite!" whispered Madame Dessaix, tri-
umphantly. Then she glanced at M. Tirar, finding
that he looked on in silence. He roused himself, with
a queer noise in his throat.
" Yes, yes ! Now what does she answer him ? "
" Mere de Dieu ! What can she answer ? He is
young. He is a man who has his own way. He will
have no answer but the one ! We consider the affair
finished ! "
Tirar made no comment. He turned and walked
quickly down to the barnyard, where the children
were, and stood among them and the cows for awhile.
The stable boys, used to jokes and picayunes from
him, turned hand-springs and skylarked under his
feet. Finding that he neither laughed nor swore at
them, they began to watch him more narrowly, and
noticed his shabby clothes with amazed contempt.
" Don Jose saek, ta-ta ! " they whispered. " Don
Jose, yo' no see mud on yo' clo'es ? "
" But he stood leaning over the fence, deaf and
blind to them.
His tormentors tried another point of attack.
84 TIRAR Y SOULT.
" Don Jose no seek, but his mare seek. Poor Chi-
quita ! She old horse now."
" It's a damned lie ! " Tirar turned on the boy with
such fury that he jumped back. " She's not old !
luring her out ! "
The negroes tumbled over each other in their fright.
The little white mare was led out. Jose' patted her
with trembling hands. Whatever great trouble had
shaken him turned for the moment into this petty out-
let.
" There is not such a horse in Attakapas ! " he mut-
tered to himself. "I am old, but she is young!"
The mare whinnied with pleasure as he stroked her
and mounted.
As he rode from the enclosure, a clumsy bay horse
was led out of the stable. Knight came down the
levee to meet it. Jose scanned it with fierce con-
tempt. "Ah, the low-born beast! And its master is
no otherwise ! But who can tell what shall please the
little girl ? "
But Tirar could not shut his eyes to the fact that
the figure on the heavy horse was manly and fine.
The courage in his heart was at its lowest ebb.
" Jose* is old and fat fat. That is a young fellow
he is like a man !" His chin quivered like a hysteric
woman's. The next minute he threw himself on the
mare's neck.
" I have only you now, Chiquita ! Nobody but you ! "
She threw back her ears and skimmed across the
prairie with the hoof of a deer. When he passed
Knight, M. Tirar saluted him with profound courtesy.
'* Funny little man," said Robert to McCann, who
had joined him. " You might call him a note of exag-
geration in the world. But that is a fine horse that he
rides."
" Yes ; a famous racer in her day, they tell me.
Tirar talks of her as if she were a blood-relation. I
wish we had horses of her build just now. That brute
of yours sinks in the mud with every step."
"It is deeper than usual to-day. I don't understand
it. We have had no rain."
They separated in a few minutes, Knight taking his
way to the sea marshes.
The marshes were always silent, but there was a sin-
BY REBECCA HARDING DA VIS. 85
gular, deep stillness upon them to-day. The sun was
hidden by low-hanging mists, but it turned them into
tent-like veils of soft, silvery brilliance. The colors
and even the scents of the marshes were oddly intensi-
fied beneath them ; the air held the strong smells of
the grass and roses motionless ; the lagoons, usually
chocolate-colored, were inky black between their
fringes of yellow and purple flags ; the countless circu-
lar pools of clear water seemed to have increased in
number, and leaped and bubbled as if alive.
If poor Emma could but turn her eyes from the
barren fields of Throop to this strange, enchanted
plain !
He checked himself. What right had he to wish for
Emma ? Lucretia
But Lucretia would see nothing in it but mud and
weeds !
Lucretia was a dear soul ; but after all, he thought
with a laugh, her best qualities were those of an amia-
ble cow. That very day he had brought himself to
make love to her with as much force as his brain could
put into the words, and she had listened with the
amused, pleased, ox-like stare of one of these cattle
when its sides were tickled by the long grass. She
had given him no definite answer.
Knight ploughed his way through the spongy prairie,
therefore, in a surly ill-humor, which the unusual depth
of mud did not make more amiable. He was forced
to ride into the bayou every few minutes to wash the
clammy lumps from the legs of his horse.
Where M. Tirar went that day, he himself, when
afternoon came, could not have told distinctly. He
had a vague remembrance that he had stopped at one
or two Acadian farm-houses for no purpose whatever.
He was not a drinking man, and had tasted nothing
but water all day, yet his brain was stunned and
bruised, as if he was rousing from a long debauch.
When he came to himself he was on the lower
marshes. Chiquita had suddenly stopped, planted her
legs apart like a mule, and refused to budge an inch
farther. What ailed this bayou ? It, too, had come' to
a halt, and had swollen into a stagnant black pond.
Jose was altogether awake now. He understood
what had happened. A heavy spring tide in the gulf
86 TIRAR Y SOULT.
had barred all outlet for the bayous, wnich cut through
the marshes. The great river, for which they were
but mouths, was always forcing its way over their
banks and oozing through all the spongy soil. There
was no immediate danger of his drowning ; but unless
he made instant escape, there was a certainty that he
would be held and sucked into the vast and rapidly
spreading quicksands of mud until he did drown.
If Chiquita ?
He wheeled her head to the land and called to her.
She began to move with extreme caution, testing each
step, now and then leaping to a hummock of solid
earth. Twice she stopped and changed her course.
Jose dismounted several, times and tried to lead her.
But he soon was bogged knee deep. He saw that the
instinct of the horse was safer than his judgment, and
at last sat quietly in the saddle. At ordinary times he
would have sworn and scolded, and, perhaps, being
alone, have shed tears, for Jose was at heart a coward
and dearly loved his life.
But to-day it was low tide in the little man's heart.
The bulk of life had gone from him with Lucretia.
His love for her had given him dignity in his own
eyes ; without her he was a poor buffoon, who carried
his jokes from house to house in payment for alms.
He did what he could, however, to save his life,
rationally enough threw off his heavy boots, and the
Spanish saddle, to lighten the load on the mare, patted
her, sang and laughed to cheer her. Once, when the
outlook was desperate, he jumped off. " She shall not
die ! " he said, fiercely. He tried to drive her away,
but she stood still, gazing at him wistfully.
" Aha ! " shouted Jose, delighted, nodding to some
invisible looker-on. " Do you see that ? She will not
forsake me ! So, my darling ! You and Tirar will
keep together to the last." He mounted again.
Chiquita, after that, made slow but steady progress.
She reached a higher plateau. Even there the pools
were rapidly widening ; the oozing water began to
shine between the blades of grass. In less than an
hour this level also would be in the sea.
But in less than an hour Chiquita would have
brought him to dry grouad.
BY REBECCA HARDING DA VIS. S/
Jose talked to her incessantly now, in Spanish, argu-
ing as to this course or that.
" Ha ! What is that ? " he cried, pulling her up.
" That black lump by the bayou ? A man no ! A
horse and man ! They are sinking held fast ! "
He was silent a moment, panting with excitement.
Then " It is Knight ! " he cried. " Caught like a rat
in a trap ! He will die thanks be to God ! "
If Knight were dead, Lucretia would be his own
little girl again.
The thought was the flash of a moment. Knight's
back was toward him. Jose, unseen, waited irresolute.
After the first murderous triumph he hoped Robert
could be saved. Tirar was a qoward, but at bottom he
was a man how much of a man remained to be
proved. The longer he looked at the engineer, the
more he hated him, with a blind, childish fury.
"But lam not murdered I!" he said to himself,
mechanically, again and again.
Chiquita pawed, impatient to be off. The water was
rising about her hoofs. It sparkled now everywhere
below the reeds. Death was waiting for both the men
a still, silent, certain death the more horrible be-
cause there was no fury or darkness in it. The silvery
mist still shut the world in, like the walls of a tent ; the
purple and yellow flags shone in the quiet light.
Chiquita could save one, and but one.
The Tirars and Soults had been men of courage and
honor for generations. Their blood was quickening in
his fat little body.
A thought struck him like a stab from a knife. " If
Knight dies, it will break her heart. But me !" Then
he cracked his thumb contemptuously. " What does
she care for poor old Jose ? "
We will not ask what passed in his heart during the
next ten minutes.
He and his God were alone together.
He came up to Knight and tapped him on the shoul-
der. "Hello! What's wrong?"
" I'm bogged. This brute of a horse is sinking in
the infernal mud."
"Don't jerk at him ! I'll change the horses with you,
If you are in a hurry to reach the plantation. Chiquita
can take you more quickly than he."
88 TIRAR Y SOULT.
" But you ? I don't understand you. What will you
do?
" I am in no hurry."
" This horse will not carry you. It seems to me that
the mud is growing deeper."
" I understand the horses and mud of our marshes
better than you. Come, take Chiquita. Go ! "
Knight alighted and mounted the mare, with a per-
plexed face. He had begun to think himself in actual
danger, and was mortified to find that Jose made so
light of the affair.
" Well, good-day, Monsieur Tirar ! " he said. "It is
very kind in you to take that confounded beast off my
hands. I'll sell him to-morrow if I can." He nodded
to Jose, and jerked the bridle sharply. " Come, get
up ! " he said, touching Chiquita with the whip.
Jose leaped at him like a cat. " Damnation ! Don't
dare touch her ! wrenching the whip from his hand,
and raising it to strike him. " Pardon, sir," stiffening
himself, " my horse will not bear a stroke. Do not
speak to her and she will carry you safely. His hand
rested a moment on the mare's neck. He muttered
something to her in Spanish, and then turned his back
that he might not see her go away.
Mr. Knight reached the upper marshes in about two
hours. He caught sight of a boat going down the
bayon, and recognizing M. de Fourgon and some other
men from the plantation in it, rode down to meet
them.
" Thank God you are safe, Knight ! exclaimed M.
de Fourgon. " How's that ? Surely that is Chiquita
you are riding ! Where did you find her?"
" That queer little Mexican insisted that I should
swap horses with him. My nag was bogged, and "
The men looked at each other.
"Where did you leave htm ?"
"In the sea-marsh, near the mouth of this bayou.
Why, what do you mean ? Is he in danger ? Stop 1" he
shouted, as they pulled away without a word. "For
God's sake, let me go with you ! " He left Chiquita on
the bank and leaped into the boat, taking an oar.
" You do not mean that Tirar has risked his life for
mine ?" he said.
B Y REBECCA HARDING DA VIS. 89
" It looks like it," McCann replied. "And yet I
could have sworn that he disliked you, especially."
"The old Tirar blood has not perished from off
the earth," said M. de Fourgon, in a low voice. "Give
way ! Together now ! I fear we are too late."
The whole marsh was under water before they
reached it. They found Jose's body submerged, but
wedged in the crotch of a pecan-tree, into which he had
climbed. It fell like a stone into the boat.
M. de Fourgon laid his ear to his heart, pressed his
chest, and rose, replying by a shake of the head to
their looks. He took up his oar and rowed in silence
for a few minutes.
" Pull, gentlemen ! " he said horsely. " The night is
almost upon us. We will take him to my house."
But Knight did not believe that Jose was dead.
He stripped him, and rubbed and chafed the sodden
body in the bottom of the boat. When they reached
the house and, after hours of vain effort, even the
physician gave up, Knight would not listen to him.
" He shall not die, I tell you ! Why should his life be
given for mine ? I did not even thank him, brute that
I am ! "
It was but a few minutes after that, that he looked
up from his rubbing, his face growing suddenly white.
The doctor put his hand on Tirar's breast. " It
beats !" he cried excitedly. " Stand back ! Air
brandy ! "
At last Jose" opened his eyes, and his lips moved.
" What is it, my dear fellow ?" they all cried, crowding
around him. But only Knight caught the whisper.
He stood up, an amazed comprehension in his eyes.
Drawing M. de Fourgon aside, he said: "I under-
stand now ! I see why he did it ! " and hurried away
abruptly, in search of Miss Venn.
The next morning M. Tirar was carried out in a
steamer-chair to the gallery.
He was the hero of the day. The whole household,
from Madame Dessaix to the black pickaninnies, buzzed
about him. Miss Venn came down the gallery, beam-
ing, flushed, her eyes soft with tears. She motioned
them all aside and sat down by him, stroking his cold
hand in her warm ones.
90 TIRAR Y SOULT.
" It is me that you want, Jose* ? Not these others ?
Only me ? "
"If you can spare for me a little time, Lucrezia?"
he said, humbly.
She did not reply for so long that he turned and
looked into her face.
" A little time ? All of the time," she whispered.
Jose started forward. His chilled heart had scarce-
ly seemed to heat since he was taken from the water.
Now it sent the blood hot through his body.
"What do you mean, child?" he said, sternly.
" Think what you say. It is old Josd. Do you mean
" Yes ; and I always meant it," she said quietly.
"Why, there are only us left you and me. And
Chiquita," she added, laughing.
A week later Mrs. Knight received a letter from
Robert, with the story of his rescue. She cried over it
a good deal.
" Though I don't see why he thinks it such an extra-
ordinary thing in that little man to do ! " she reflected.
" Anybody would wish to save Robert, even a wild
Mexican. And, why upon earth, because his life was
in danger, he should have written to offer it to Emma
Cramer, passes me ! She hasn't a dollar."
Through the window she saw the girl crossing the
fields, with quick, light steps.
" She's heard from him ! She's coming to tell me.
Well, I did think Robert would have married well,
having his pick and choice "
But the widow's heart had been deeply moved.
" Poor Emma ! She's been as faithful as a dog to
Robert. If she has no money, she will save his as an
heiress would not have done. Providence -orders all
things right," she thought, relenting. " If that girl has
not put on her best white dress on a week-day ! How
glad she must be ! I'll go and meet her, I guess. She
has no mother now, to kiss her, or say God bless her,
poor child ! " and she hurried to the gate.
TOM FOSTER'S WIFE,
BY
EDNA DEAN PROTOCR
EDNA DEAN PROCTOR
WAS born in Henniker, New Hampshire, her father's
family having gone there from Essex County,
Massachusetts. She was thoroughly educated
and trained, and started out in life, equipped not
only with a great love of learning, but with all the
accessories which made it possible for her to follow
the inclinations of her mind. She was early in life
a writer of poetry, but not until the civil war
which aroused the patriotic element within her were
her verses known to her countrymen. Then her thrill-
ing national poems sounded like a bugle from the hill
of Mars. The name of Edna Dean Proctor became
dear to the loyal soldiery, and her appeals were read
beside the camp fires as they were repeated in the New
England homes and schools. No battle songs did
more to sustain the sentiment of patriotism in the
soldiery than those of Miss Proctor, which are found
in her volume of collected poems. "The Stripes and
Stars," written in April, 1861 ; " Compromise," in-
scribed to Congress, July 4, 1861 ; "Who's Ready?"
written in July, 1862, are really national anthems. A
volume of her poems was published by Hurd &
Houghton in 1867. A later collection has been made
and is now in course of publication. Miss Proctor
never hastens the publication of anything she writes,
and being so fortunately situated in life as to be in-
dependent of circumstances, she writes only when
impelled by her genius; hence the world receives her
best work.
Miss Proctor's mission in life is that of a poet, and
she lives in the thoughts and affections of thousands
who have never seen her. She is mistress of pathos,
and when her poem, " Heaven, Oh Lord, I Cannot
Lose " appeared, it brought a wealth of responses from
all over the land. John Greenleaf Whittier pronounced
95
96 EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.
the poem, " New Hampshire," one of the grandest
produced in this country, and his verdict of her poems
generally was that they had greater strength and a
loftier and higher order of merit than those of any
American female writer. Of her poem, " Oh, Loved
and Lost," he says, " How sweet, tender and lovely the
poem is ! All our hearts were touched by it. It is a
poem full of power and pathos, yet its shadows are
radiant with a holy hope. I have read it over and
over with deep interest and sympathy, and have found
comfort and strength in it." The gentle Quaker poet
also said of her poem on "Burns,"' that it was so good,
so true, so tender, yet so strong of thought that he
hoped the bard himself, in his new life, might read it.
Mr. Longfellow used many of Miss Proctor's poems in
his " Poems of Places," and expressed regret that her
poem " Holy Russia " had not been written in time for
his book, saying, "It would have been a splendid
prelude to the volume."
Mr. Longfellow greatly admired Miss Proctor's
" Russian Journey," as a book of surpassing interest.
The original poem which precedes each chapter stirs
the heart like the sound of a trumpet. This was her
second volume of prose, and it was written after a
prolonged tour in Europe and a stay of many months
in that country. She has occasionally written short
sketches and stories, but of her prose work she is not
willing to speak unreservedly because poetry is her
field. Few women have enjoyed larger opportunities
for self-improvement by study and travel. She has an
exquisite sympathy with sorrow and suffering, and one
feels a relief in turning from intensely saddening
poems, as "At Home," in which the death of Charley,
a wounded soldier boy, within sight of his old home in
New Hampshire, is told with thrilling presentability, to
use a good old word, to those happier songs in which
with gentle hand she wipes away the tears from all
faces. While a writer of exquisite verse, Miss Proctor
is, happily, a woman of rare personality. Not tall nor
quite small, she is of medium stature, deliberate and
graceful in movement, and possessed of much dignity
Her manners are those of a high-bred lady, and her
voice, which is sweet and low, is her great charm. She
is a fluent talker, but never a gay o ne , Her ways are
EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. 97
gentle and earnest, rather than merry and vivacious.
A distinguished writer, describing her, spoke of her as
"the lady with eyes from out the East." Their ex-
pression is always soft, and sometimes sad, and her
soul is photographed in the light that shines out
from her black, lustrous and full eyes.
As in her poems, so in her life ; the sunshine and
the clouds will sometimes pass each other, but there is
such an undercurrent of love and hope in her nature
that the sunshine predominates. Miss Proctor is a
true poet a woman of genius and sterling worth.
TOM FOSTER'S WIFE.
I HAD just returned from a two years stay in Europe,
and was sauntering down Tremont street, in the golden
September morning, when I saw my old friend, Tom
Foster, get out of a horse-car a few steps in advance of
me. I knew him in a moment, though we had hardly
met since we were at Exeter Academy together, ten
years before room-mates and blithe companions until
we parted I to go to Harvard and he to enter his
father's store, the well known house of Foster & Co.,
Pearl street. He was a merry, hearty, practical fellow,
clear skinned and robust as an Englishman, self-reliant
and enterprising as New Hampshire birth and Boston
training could make him. I always liked him ; but he
plunged into business and I into study, and so, with-
out meaning it, we had almost lost sight of each other.
He was an only child and his parents spent their
summers at their homestead in Greenland, near
Portsmouth, and their winters in Boston.
As I said, I knew him in a moment. He had grown
tall and stout, but the boy was still in his face, and
with a flush of early feeling I sprang forward and,
caught him by the arm.
" Tom ! How are you ? "
He looked puzzled for a moment, and then, bursting
into a laugh, he seized my hand in his strong grasp,
and exclaimed : " Why, John Ralston ! Is this you ?
Where did you come from ? I'm glad to see you, my
boy. Why, I haven't set my eyes on you since we
made that trip to Nahant, in your Freshman year.
The truth is, father was so poorly for a long time then
that I had everything to see to, and felt as if the world
was on my shoulders. I did hear, though, about your
college honors and your going to Germany ; and
I've often thought of you lately and wished to see
you. Why, Jack, in spite of my weight and your beard
99 .
IOO TOM FOSTER'S WIFE.
and broad shoulders, I can't realize that ten years have
gone since we were at Exeter together. We must talk
over old times and new. When did you get back and
what are your plans ? "
" I came yesterday, and shall stay in the city, on
account of a business matter, until next Tuesday.
Then I am going home."
" Well, now, this is Saturday, and you can do nothing
after three o'clock. Come and spend Sunday with me
in the country. I want to show you my wife."
" Your wife ! Are you married, Tom ? "
" Married nearly a year," said he, with a smile.
"You don't look very solemn over it."
" Solemn ? It's the jolliest thing I ever did in my
life. Meet me at the Eastern Depot at four o'clock,
and I'll tell you all about it on the way down.
We parted at the Winter street corner he to go to
his store, and I to the Parker -House.
" How handsome Boston has grown," said I, glancing
at the fine buildings and the Common, beautiful in the
September sun.
" We think it a nice town," he replied, speaking
with the moderate words and the perfect assurance of
the Bostonian, to whom his city is the sum of all
excellence and delight. " Remember, four o'clock."
And he disappeared in the crowd.
" Tom married ! " I said to myself, as I walked along.
I dare say it is to his father's pretty ward, Clara
Maitland, whom I saw when I spent the day there,
eleven years ago. I remembered what long curls she
had and how fond she seemed of him. " Yes, I dare
say it's to Clara. I hope, though, she hasn't grown up
into one of those delicate young ladies, good for noth-
ing but to display the latest fashions and waltz a little
and torture the piano. Better some rosy, sturdy
German Gretchen than a poor doll like them. It would
be a shame for Tom, with his splendid physique and
vigorous brain, to be tied for life to such a woman ! "
And then, turning down School street, my thoughts
wandered off to a blue-eyed girl I had loved for many
a year a girl who was not satisfied with the small
triumphs of the croquet-ground, but who could send an
arrow straight home to the mark ; and climb the hills
with me, her step light and free as, {he deer's in th.
BY EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. \Ql
glade below ; and hold a steady oar in our boat on the
river ; and swim ashore, if need should be ; and then,
when walk or row was over, who could sit down to a
lunch of cold meat and bread and butter with an appe-
tite as keen as a young Indian's after a day's hunt ;
yes, and who knew how to be efficient in the kitchen
and the rarest ornament of the parlor. How impatient
I was to see her, the bewitching maiden whom a prince
might be proud to marry. And again I said to myself,
as I went up the Parker House steps : " I do hope
Tom hasn't made a fool of himself ! "
Four o'clock found me at the station ; and a moment
later in walked Tom, carrying a basket filled with
Jersey peaches. " They don't grow in Greenland,"
said he, tucking the paper down over the fruit. " Come
this way." I followed him, and we had just seated
ourselves comfortably in the cars when the train moved
off.
" Now for the story, Tom, 1 ' said I, as we crossed the
bridge and caught the breeze cool from the sea. " But
I can guess beforehand the girl you married ; it was
Clara Maitland."
A shadow passed over Tom's face. " Clara has been
dead four years," said he. " She inherited consumption
from her mother. We did everything for her took
her to Minnesota and Florida ; but it was no use. She
didn't live to see her eighteenth birthday."
" Poor Clara ! She loved you dearly. Then I sup-
pose you chose some Boston girl of your acquaint-
ance ? " ,
" Jack, you couldn't tell who Mrs. Tom Foster was
if you should try from now till morning. I shall have
to enlighten you." And, moving the basket to one side
and settling himself in his seat, he went on: "You
know I have the misfortune to bean only child. After
I was twenty-one, father and mother began to talk
about my marrying. I have plenty of cousins, you
know, and we always had young ladies going in and
out of the house ; but while Clara lived she was com-
pany for me, and after she died I was full of business,
and didn't trouble myself about matrimony. To tell
the truth, Jack, I didn't fancy the girls. Perhaps I
was unfortunate in my acquaintances ; but they seemed
102 TOM FOSTER'S WIFE.
to me to be all curls and flounces and furbelows, and
I would as soon have thought of marrying a fashion-
plate as one of these elaborate creatures. I don't
object to style ; I like it. But you can see fine gowns
and bonnets any day in the Washington street windows,
and my ideal of a woman was one whose dress is her
least attraction."
" Do you recollect father's former partner, Adam
Lane ? He's a clever old gentleman and a millionaire,
and father has the greatest liking and respect for him.
He has two daughters one married years ago : and
the other, much younger, father fixed upon as a desira-
ble wife for me. I rather think the two families had
talked it over together ; at any rate, Miss Matilda
came to Greenland for a long summer visit. She is
an amiable girl, but so petted and spoiled that she is
food for nothing undeveloped in mind and body,
he looked very gay in the evening, attired in Jordan,
Marsh & Co. 's latest importations. But she was always
late at breakfast ; she didn't dare to ride horseback ;
she couldn't take a walk without stopping to rest on
every stone ; and once, when I asked her if she had
read the account of the battle of Sedan, she looked up,
in her childish way, and said, 'No, Mr. Foster. News-
papers are so tiresome.' Bless me ! what should 1
have done with such a baby ? "
" A year ago this summer I was very much confined
at the store ; and, when August came, instead of spend-
ing the whole month at home, I thought I would have
a little change, and so I went down for a fortnight to
the Cliff house, on Beach. It's a quiet, pleasant
resort, and you'll always find from fifty to one hundred
people there during the season. The landlord is a
good fellow, and a distant relative of mine. I thought
he looked flurried when I went in, and after a few
minutes he took me one side and said :
" 'Tom, you've come at an unlucky time. I had a
very good cook, that I got from Boston, at twenty dol-
lars a week ; but she's a high-tempered woman. Last
evening she quarrelled with her assistants, this morn-
ing the breakfast was all in confusion, and now she's
packing her trunk to leave by the next train. In two
or three days I can probably get another one down in
BY EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. 103
her place ; but what we're to do meanwhile I don't
know.'
" ' But, Norton,' said I, ' isn't there some one near
by or in the house who can take it ? '
" ' I doubt it,' he replied. ' I've half a dozen girls
from the vicinity doing upstairs work one of them
from your town, the best waiter in the dining-room.
But I suppose all of them would either be afraid of the
responsibility or think it beneath them to turn cook ;
though they would have plenty of help, and, earn
twenty dollars where they now get three.'
" ' Who's here from Greenland ? ' I asked, for I
knew something of almost every one in the place.
" ' Mary Lyford.'
" ' Mary Lyford ? A black-eyed, light-footed girl,
about twenty years old, with two brothers in Colorado
and her father a farmer on toward Stratham ? '
" ' Yes, the very same.'
" ' Why, she's the prettiest girl in Greenland, at least,
I thought so two years ago, when I danced with her at
the Thanksgiving party in the village ; and I heard
last fall that she took the prize at the Manchester Fair
for the best loaf of bread. But why is she here ? '
" ' Oh, you know farmers haven't much ready money,
and I suppose she wanted to earn something for her-
self, and to come to the Beach, like the rest of us.
You say she took the premium for her bread. I
believe I'll go into the dining-room and propose to give
the cook's place to any one of the gins who would like
it and who feels competent to take it. I must do
something,' and, looking at his watch, he went out.
" ' Ten minutes later he came back, clapping his
hands, and exclaimed :
" 'Mary Lyford says she'll try it.'
" ' Hurrah for Greenland,' cried I. Isn't that
plucky ? By Jove ! I hope she'll succeed, and I believe
she will.'
" ' You mustn't expect much to-day,' said Norton.
' Things are all topsy-turvy in the kitchen, and it'll
take some time tc get them straightened out.'
" Just then a new arrival claimed his attention, and
with a serener face he turned away,
" Dinner was poor that day, supper was little better,
and, in spite of Norton's caution, I began to be afraid
104 TOM FOSTERS WIFE.
that Greenland was going down. But the next morn-
ing, what a breakfast we had juicy steaks, hot pota-
toes, delicious rolls and corn-bread, griddle cakes that
melted in your mouth, and coffee that had lost none
of its aroma in the making. Thenceforth every meal
was a triumph. The guests praised the table,' and
hastened to their seats at the first sound of the bell.
Norton was radiant with satisfaction, and I was pleased
as if I had been landlord or cook myself. Several
times I sent my compliments and congratulations to
Mary ; but she was so constantly occupied that I
never had a glimpse of her till the night before I was
to leave. I was dancing in the parlor, and had just
led a young lady of the Matilda Lane stamp to her
mamma, when I saw Mary standing with the dining-
room girls on the piazza. I went out, and, shaking
her cordially by the hand, told her how interested I
had been in her success, and how proud I was to find
a Greenland girl so accomplished. She blushed, and
thanked me, and said, in a modest way, that she was
very glad if we were all suited ; and then Norton came
up and expressed his entire gratification with what she
had done. As she stood there in a white pique dress,
with a scarlet bow at her throat, and her dark hair
neatly arranged, she looked every inch a lady.
" ' Do me the favor, Miss Lyford, said I, to dance
the next cotillion with me.'
" ' Ah ! Mr. Foster,' she replied, looking archly at
Norton, ' that is'nt -expected of the help.'
" ' The "help " ! I said, indignantly. You are queen
of the establishment, and I invite you to dance, and so
does Mr. Norton.'
" ' Certainly, I do,' he answered. ' Go and show the
company that you are at home in the parlor as well as
the kitchen. 1 So, smiling and blushing, she took my
arm.
" ' Didn't we make a sensation when we went in !
Perhaps there was no fellow there with a better ' social
position ' (you know the phrase) than I ; and I had
been quite a favorite with the ladies. You should
have seen them when we took our places on the floor!
Some laughed, some frowned, some whispered to their
neighbors ; but I paid not the slightest attention to it
all, and Mary looked so pretty, and went through the
B Y EDNA DEAN PROC TOR. 1 05
dance with such grace and dignity, that before it was
over I believe all regarded her with admiration. I
didn't wait for comments, but escorted her out as if she
had been the belle of Boston.'
" ' Good-night, Miss Lyford,' I said, when we
reached the hall. ' I am going in the morning ; but I
shall see you again when you get back to Greenland.'
" ' Good-night, Mr. Foster,' she replied, ' I thank
you for your kindness.' Then she added, laughing ;
' Have you any orders for breakfast ? '
" ' Why, yes, I should like to remember you by a
plate of such muffins as we had yesterday.'
" ' You shall have them, sir,' she said, as she dis-
appeared in the doorway. And have them I did.
" Three weeks later Mary came home to Greenland,
with more than a hundred dollars in her purse and a
fame that was worth thousands. I went to see her at
her father's house. I found her in every way excel-
lent and lovely ; and the end was that at Christmas we
were married."
" Glorious ! " I exclaimed. " Give me your hand,
Tom ! I was afraid you had been taken in by some
Matilda Lane."
" Do you think I : m a fool ? " said he.
Then I told him of my own choice, and I was still
talking when the train stopped at the Greenland sta-
tion.
We soon arrived at his hospitable home. His wife
was all he had pictured her; a refined, intelligent,
handsome woman, who would develop and grow in
attractiveness every year of her life. After a merry
evening in their pleasant parlor, I went to bed, and
dreamed that the millennium had come, and that all
women were like my blue-eyed girl and Mrs. Tom Fos-
ter.
Fourth of July in Jonesville.
BY
MARIETTA HOLLEY.
<~ "3*l_
^^^
If
MARIETTA HOLLEY.
Miss HOLLEY commenced her career as a writer when
in her teens, though she published nothing until 1876.
When she was a young girl she was given to poetry,
and wrote a great deal. She thought she should like
to become a great painter; then she decided to be a
poet, but finally abandoned both intentions to become
" Josiah Allen's wife," and by so doing made herself
famous. In the year 1876 appeared her first book,
" Samantha at the Centennial," which at once pleased
the popular taste and led her to follow it speedily with
a second book, " My Opinions and Betsey Bobbet's,"
which proved equally successful. Quaint, grotesque
humor and pathetic homeliness of speech are the
weapons she used to make known the wrongs of her
sex and the evils of the times in which we are living.
In her prose works she mostly employs the speech of
half-taught people, pinning to paper their ludicrous
blunders, and turns ridicule against ancient wrongs,
venerated because they are ancient. Every one laughs
at the absurdities of " Josiah Allen's Wife," and no
one forgets the crushing exposures of fraud and oppres-
sion which she makes.
Says a writer in the Woman 's Journal: "Miss
Holley has improved on the methods of Solomon's day,
by robing wisdom in the garb of folly, and standing
her in the market place thus disguised, so that when
the multitudes flock about her and feast themselves
with laughter, to those who would not otherwise
hatken, suddenly
'Amid the market's din
Comes the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within,
They enslave their children's children who so make compromise
with sin.'
And those who come to smile remain to pray, while
8 "3
114 MARIETTA HOLLEY,
those who expected a Bacchante, awe-struck, behold
Minerva."
Like Dickens, she brings to her aid the very people
whose sufferings she aims to relieve, and whose evil
deeds she hopes to check. She is not only quaint in
expression but magnetic, and her sentiments are often
touchingly and pathetically strong. " Samantha never
went to school much, didn't know riothin' about gram-
mar and never could spell," but she has in her pen
the power of Ithuriel's spear, whose touch revealed
the beauty which existed in everything.
Miss Holley's latest prose work, " Sweet Cicely,"
was wrought out through her horror of intemperance
and her desire to see the young of her country saved
from the evils of strong drink. Her latest contribu-
tion to literature is a book of poems, which reveal
strength and tenderness, but have failed to suit the
popular taste because they are wanting in the grotesque
humor and pathetic homeliness of style, which charac-
terizes her prose works. But they will stand the test of
time, and be read when Samantha's trials at the Cen-
tennial will have been forgotten. Miss Holley is a
personality of whom all gracious and generous things
may be said. She is a strong, loveable woman of high
ideals and innocent, beautiful life, and is destined to
be a blessing to her kind as long as she lives and long
beyond her day.
FOURTH OF JULY IN JONES-
VILLE.
A FEW days before the Fourth, Betsey Bobbet came
into our house in the morning and says she,
" Have you heard the news ? "
" No," says I, pretty brief, " for I was jest puttin' in
the ingrediences to a six quart pan loaf of fruit cake,
and on them occasions I want my mind cool and un-
ruffled."
" Aspire Todd is goin' to deliver the oration," says
she.
" Aspire Todd ! Who's he ? " says I, cooly.
"Josiah Allen's wife," says she, "Have you for-
gotten the sweet poem that thrilled us so in the Jones-
ville Gimlet a few weeks since ? "
" I hain't been thrilled by no poem," says I, with an
almost icy face pourin' in my melted butter.
" Then it must be that you have never seen it. I
have it in my port money and I will read it to you,"
say.s she, not heedin' the dark froun gatherin' on my
eyebrow, and she began to read :
A QUESTIONING SAIL SENT OVER THE MYSTIC
SEA.
BY PROF. ASPIRE TODD.
So the majestic thunderbolt of feeling,
Out of our inner lives our unseen beings flow
Vague dreams revealing,
Oh, is it so ? Alas! or no,
How be it. Ah ! how so ?
Is matter going to rule the deathless mind?
What is the matter ? Is it indeed so ?
Oh, truths combined ;
Do the Magaloi theori still tower to and fro ?
How do they move ? How flow?
MS
1 1 6 FOUR TH OFJUL Y IN JONESVILLE.
Monstrous, aeriform, phantoms sublime,
Come leer at n e, and Cadmian teeth my soul gnaw,
Through chiliasms of time;
Transcendentally and remorslessly gnaw ;
By what agency ? Is it a law ?
Perish the vacueus in huge immensities ;
Hurl the broad thunderbolt of lecling free,
The vision dies ;
So lulls the bellowing surf, upon the mystic sea,
Is it indeed so ? Alas ! Oh me.
" How this sweet poem appeals to tender hearts,"
says Betsey, as she concluded it.
" How it appeals to tender heads," says I, almost
coldly, measurin' out my cinnamon in a big spoon.
"Josiah Allen's wife, has not your soul never sailed
on that mystical sea he so sweetly depictures? "
"Not an inch," says I, firmly, " not an inch."
" Have you not never been haunted by sorrowful
phantoms you would fain bury in oblivion's sea ? "
" Not once," says I, " not a phantom," and says I,
as I measured out my raisons and English currants,
"if folks would work as I do, from mornin' till night
and earn their honest bread by the sweat of their eye-
brows, they wouldn't be tore so much by phantoms as
they be ; it is your shiftless creeters that are always
bein' gored by phantoms, and havin' 'em leer at 'em,"
says I with my spectacles bent keenly on her. " Why
don't they leer at me,. Betsey Bobbet ? "
" Because you are intellectually blind, you cannot
see."
" I see enough," says I, " I see more'n I want to a
good deal of the time." In a dignified silence, I then
chopped my raisons impressively, and 1 Betsey started
for home.
The celebration was held in Josiah's sugar bush, and
I meant to be on the ground in good season, for when
I have jobs I dread, I am for takin' 'em by the fore-
lock and grapplin' with 'em at once. But as I was
bakin' my last plum puddin' and chicken pie, the folks
begun to stream by; I hadn't no idee there could be so
many folks scairt up in Jonesville. I thought to my-
self, I wonder if they'd flock out so to a prayer-meetin'.
But they kep' a comin', all kind of folks, in all kinds of
vehicles, from a six horse team, down to peacible
B Y MISS MARIE TTA NOLLE Y. UJ
lookin' men and wimmen drawin' baby wagons, with
two babies in most of 'em.
There was a stagin' built in most the middle of the
grove for the leadin' men of Jonesville, and some
board seats all round it for %e folks to set on. As
Josiah owned the ground, he was invited to set upon
the stagin'.
And as I glanced up at that man every little while
through the day, I thought proudly to myself, there
may be nobler lookin' men there, and men that would
weigh more by the steelyards, but their haint a whiter
shirt bosom there than Josiah Allen's.
When I got there the seats were full. Betsey Bob-
bet was jest ahead of me, and says she :
" Come on, Josiah Allen's wife, let us have a seat ;
we can obtain one, if we push and scramble enough."
As I looked upon her carryin' out her doctrine, pushin'
and scrambling I thought to myself, if I didn't know
to the contrary, I never should take you for a modest
dignifier and retirer. And as I beheld her breathin'
hard, and her elboes wildly wavin' in the air, pushin'
in between native men of Jonesville and foreigners, I
again methought, I don't believe you would be so
sweaty and out of breath a votin' as you be now.
And as I watched her labors and efforts I continued
to methink sadly, how strange ! how strange ! that
retirin' modesty and delicacy can stand so firm in
some situations, and then be so quickly overthrowed
in others seemin'ly not near so hard.
Betsey finally got a seat, wedged in between a large
healthy Irishman and a native constable, and she mo-
tioned for me to come on, at the same time pokin' a
respectable old gentleman in front of her, with her
parasol, to make him move along. Says I :
" I may as well die one way as another, as well
expier a standin' up, as to tryin' to get a seat," and I
quietly leaned up against a hemlock tree and composed
myself for events. A man heard my words which I
spoke about one-half to myself, and says he :
" Take my seat, mum."
Says I : " No, keep it."
Says he : "I am jest comin' down with a fit, I have
got to leave the ground instantly."
Says I : "In them cases I will." So I sot. His
1 1 8 POUR TH OFJUL Y IN JONESVILLE.
tongue seemed thick, and his breath smelt of brandy,
but I make no insinuations.
About noon, Prof. Aspire Todd walked slowly on to
the ground, arm in arm with the editor of the Gimlet,
old Mr. Bobbet follerin' him closely behind. Countin'
two eyes to a person, and the exceptions are triflin',
there was seven hundred and fifty or sixty eyes aimed at
him as he walked through the crowd. He was dressed in
a new shinin' suit of black, his complexion was deathly,
his hair was jest turned from white, and was combed
straight back from his forward and hung down long,
over his coat collar. He had a big moustache, about
the color of his hair, only bearin' a little more on the
sandy, and a couple of pale blue eyes with a pair of
spectacles over 'em.
As he walked upon the stagin' behind the Editer of
the Gimlet, the band struck up, " Hail to the chief,
that in triumph advances. ' As soon as it stopped
playin' the Editer of the Gimlet come forward and
said :
" Fellow citizens of Jonesville and the adjacent and
surroundin' world, I have the honor and privilege of
presenting to you the orator of the day, the noble and
eloquent Prof. Aspire Todd, Esq."
Professor Todd came forward and made a low bow.
" Bretheren and sisters of Jonesville," says he ;
"Friends and patrons of Liberty, in risin' upon this
aeroter, I have signified by that act, a desire and a
willingness to address you. I am not here, fellow and
sister citizens, to outrage your feelings by triflin'
remarks. I am not here, male patrons of liberty, to
lead your noble, and you female patrons, your tender
footsteps into the flowery fields of useless rhetorical
eloquence ; I am here noble brothers and sisters of
Jonesville not in a mephitical manner, and I trust not
in a mentorial, but to present a few plain truths in a
plain manner, for your consideration. My friends, we
are in one sense but tennifolious blossoms of life ; or,
if you will pardon the tergiversation, we are all but
mineratin' tennirosters, hovering upon an illinition of
mythoplasm."
"Jes' so," cried old Bobbet, who was settin' on a
bench right under the speaker's stand, with his fat
red face lookin' up shinin' with pride and enthusiasm
B Y A//SS MA KIE TTA HOL LEY. 119
(and the brandy he had took to honor the old Revolu-
tionary heroes), "jes' so! so we be!"
Professor Todd looked down on him in a troubled
kind of a way for a minute, and then went on :
" Noble inhabitants of Jonesville and the rural dis-
tricts, we are actinolitic bein's ; each of our souls, like
the acalphia, radiates a circle of prismatic tentacles,
showing the divine irridescent essence of which com-
posed are they."
"Jes' so," shouted old Bobbet, louder than before.
" Jes' so, so they did, I've always said so."
"And if we are content to moulder out our existence,
like fibrous, veticulated, polypus, clingin' to the crus-
taceous courts of custom, if we cling not like soarin'
prytanes to the phantoms that lower their sceptres
down through the murky waves of retrogression, en-
deavorin' to lure us upward in the scale of progressive
bein', in what degree do we differ from the accol-
phia? "
"Jes' so," says old Bobbet, lookin' defiantly round
on the audience. " There he has got you, how can
they?"
Professor Todd stopped again, looked doun on Bob-
bet, and put his hand to his brow in a wild kind of a
way, for a minute, and then went on.
" Let us, noble brethren in the broad field of hu-
manity, let us rise, let us prove that mind is superior
10 the acalphia."
" Yes, less," says old Bobbet, " less prove our-
selves."
" Let us shame the actinia," said the Professor.
"Yes, jes' so! " shouted old Bobbet, "less shame
him ! " and in his enthusiasm he got up and hollered
agin, " Less shame him."
Professor Todd stopped stone still, his face red as
blood, he drinked several swallows of water, and then
he whispered a few words to the Editer of the Gimlet,
who immediately came forward and said :
" Although it is a scene of touchin' beauty, to see an
old gentleman, and a bald-headed one, so in love with
eloquence, and to give such remarkable proofs of it at
his age, still as it is the request of my young friend,
and I am proud to say, 'My young friend,' in regard
to one gifted in so remarkable a degree, at his request
1 2O FOUR TH OFJUL Y IN JONES VILLE.
I beg to be permitted to hint, that if the bald-headed
old gentleman in the linen coat can conceal his admi-
ration, and suppress his applause, he will confer a favor
on my gifted young friend, and through him indirectly
to Jonesville, to America, and the great cause of
humanity, throughout the length and breadth of the
country."
Here he made a low bow and sot down. Professor
Todd continued his piece without any more interrup-
tion, till most the last, he wanted the public of Jones-
ville to "droun black care in the deep waters of
oblivion, mind not her mad throes of dissolvin' bein',
but let the deep waters cover her black head, and
march onward."
Then the old gentleman forgot himself, and sprung
up and hollered
" Yes ! droun the black cat, hold her head under !
What if she is mad ! don't mind her screamin' ! there
will be cats enough left in the world ! do as he tells
you to ! less droun her ! "
Professor Todd finished in a few words, and set
down lookin' gloomy and morbid.
The next speaker was a large, healthy lookin' man,
who talked aginst wimmin's rights. He didn't bring
up no new arguments, but talked as they all do who
oppose 'em. About wimmin outragin' and destroyin'
their modesty, by bein' in the same street with a man
once every 'lection day. And he talked grand about
how woman's weakness aroused all the shivelry and
nobility of a man's nature, and how it was his dearest
and most sacred privilege and happiness, to protect
her from even a summer's breeze, if it dared to blow
too hard on her beloved and delicate form. Why,
before he got half through, a stranger from another
world who had never seen a woman, wouldn't have had
the least idee that they was made of clay as man was,
but would have thought they was made of some thin
gauze, liable at any minute to blow away, and that
man's only employment was to stand and watch 'em,
for fear some zephyr would get the advantage of 'em.
He called wimmin every pretty name he could think
of, and says he, wavin' his hands in the air in a rapped
eloquence, and beatin' his breast in the same he
cried, " Shall these weak, helpless angels, these sera-
B Y MISS MA RIE TTA HOLLE Y. 121
phines, these sweet, delicate, cooin' doves whose only
mission it is to sweetly coo these rainbows, these
posys vote ? Never ! my brethren, never will we put
such hardships upon 'em."
As he sot down, he professed himself and all the
rest of his sect ready to die at any time, and in any
way wimmin should say, rather than they should vote,
or have any other hardship. Betsey Bobbet wept
aloud, she was so delighted with it. Jest as they con-
cluded their frantic cheers over his speech, a thin,
feeble lookin' woman come by where I stood, drawin'
a large baby wagon with two children in it, seemingly
a two-year-old, and a yearlin'. She also carried one
in her arms who was lame. She looked so beat out
and so ready to drop down, that I got up and gave her
my seat, and says I :
" You look ready to fall down."
" Am I too late," says she, " to hear my husband's
speech ? "
" Is that your husband," says. I, " that is laughin* and
talkin' with that pretty girl ? "
" Yes," said she with a sort of troubled look.
" Well, he jest finished."
She looked ready to cry, and as I took the lame
child from her breakin' arms, says I
" This is too hard for you."
" I wouldn't mind gettin' 'em on to the ground,"
says she, " I haint had only three miles to bring 'em ;
that wouldn't be much if it wasn't for the work I had
to do before I come."
" What did you have to do ? " says I in pityin'
accents.
" Oh, I had to fix him off, brush his clothes and
black his boots, and then I did up all my work, and
then I had to go out and make six lengths of fence
the cattle broke into the corn yesterday, and he was
busy writin' his piece, and couldn't fix it and then I
had to mend his coat," glancin' at a thick coat in the
wagon. " He didn't know but he should want it to
wear home. He knew he was goin' to make a great
effort, and thought he should sweat some ; he is dread-
ful easy to take eold," said she with a worried look.
" Why didn't he help you along with the children ? "
$aid I, in a indignant tone.
122 FOURTH OF JULY IN JONES VILLE.
" Oh, he said he had to make a great exertion to-day,
and he wanted to have his mind free and clear; he is
one of the kind that can't have their minds tram-
meled."
" It would do him good to be trammeled hard ! "
says I, lookin' darkly at him.
' Don't speak so of him," says she beseechingly.
" Are you satisfied with his doin's ? " says I, lookin'
keenly at her.
" Oh yes," says she in a trustin' tone, liftin' her
care-worn, weary countenance to mine, " Oh yes, you
don't know how beautiful he can talk"
I said no more, for it is a invincible rule of my life,
not to make no disturbances in families. But I gave
the yearlin' pretty near a pound of candy on the spot,
and the glances I cast on him and the pretty girl he
was a-flirtin' with, was cold enough to freeze 'em both
into a male and female glazier.
Lawyer Nugent now got up and said, " That whereas
the speaking was foreclosed, or in other words finished,
he motioned they should adjourn to the dinner table,
as the fair committee had signified by a snowy signal
that fluttered like a dove of promise above waves of
emerald, or in plainer terms by a towel, that dinner
was forthcoming ; whereas he motioned they should
adjourn sine die to the aforesaid table."
Old Mr. Bobbet, and the Editer of the Gimlet
seconded the motion at the same time. And Shake-
speare Bobbet wantin' to do somethin' in a public way,
got up and motioned " that they proceed to the table
on the usial road," but there wasn't any other way
only to wade the creek that didn't seem to be nec-
essary, but nobody took no notice of it, so it was jest
as well.
The dinner was good, but there was an awful crowd
round the tables, and I was glad I wore my old lawn
dress, for the children was thick, and so was bread
and butter, and sass of all kinds, and jell tarts. And
I hain't no shirk; I jess plunged right into the heat of
the battle, as you may say, waitin' on the children, and
the spots on my dress skirt would have been too much
for any body that couldn't count forty. To say noth-
in' about old Mr. Peedick steppin' through the back
breadth, and Betsey Bobbet ketchin' holt of me and
BY AfISS MARIETTA HOLLEY. 12$
rippin' it off the waist as much as half a yard. And
then a horse started up behind the widder Tubbs, as I
was bendin' down in front of her to get somethin' out
of a basket, and she weighin' above 200, was precipi-
tated onto my straw bonnet, jammin' it down almost as
flat as it was before it was braided. I came off pretty
well in other respects, only about two yards of the
rufflin' of my black silk cape was tore by two boys
who got to fightin' behind me, and bein' blind with
rage tore it off, thinkin' they had got holt of each
other's hair. There was a considerable number of
toasts drank ; I can't remember all of 'em, but among
'em was these, " The eagle of Liberty ; May her quills
lengthen till the proud shadow of her wings shall
sweetly rest on every land."
"The Fourth of July; the star which our old four
fathers tore from the ferocious mane of the howling
lion of England, and set in the calm and majestic brow
of E. pluribus nnnum. May it gleam wilh brighter and
brighter radience, till the lion shall hide his dazzled
eyes, and cower like a stricken lamb at the feet of E.
pluribus" " Dr. Bombus, our respected citizen ; how
he tenderly ushers us into a world of trial, and profes-
sionally and scientifically assists us out of it. May his
troubles be as small as his morphine powders, and the
circle of his joys as well rounded as his pills."
" The press of Jonesville, the Gimlet, and the Augur ;
May they perforate the crust of ignorance with a gigan-
tic hole, through which blushing civilization can sweet-
ly peer into futurity."
" The fair sect : first in war, first in peace, and first
in the hearts of their countrymen. May them that love
the aforesaid, flourish like a green bayberry tree,
whereas may them that hate them, dwindle down as
near to nothin' as the bonnets of the aforesaid." That
piece of toast was Lawyer Nugent's. Prof. Aspire
Todd's was the last.
" The Luminous Lamp of Progression, whose scia-
therical shadows falling upon earthly matter, not
promoting sciolism, or Siccity ; may it illumine human-
ity as it tardigradely floats from matter's aquius wastes,
to minds majestic and apyrous climes."
Shakespeare Bobbet then rose up, and says he:
" Before we leave this joyous grove I have a poem
1 24 FOURTH OFJUL Y IN JONESVILLE.
which I was requested to read to you. It is dedicated
to the Goddess of Liberty, and was transposed by an-
other female, who modestly desires her name not to be
mentioned any further than the initials B. B."
He then read the follerin' spirited lines :
Before all causes East or West,
I love the Liberty cause the best,
I love its cheerful greetings ;
No joys on earth can e'er be found,
Like those pure pleasures that abound,
At Jonesville Liberty meetings.
To all the world I give my hand,
My heart is with that noble band,
The Jonesville Liberty brothers ;
May every land preserved be,
Each climed that dates on Liberty
Jonesville before all others.
The picknick never broke up till most night. I went
home a little while before it broke, and if there was a
beat out creeter, I was ; I jest dropped my delapidated
form into a rockin' chair with a red cushion and says I,
"Then needn't be another word said; I will never go
to another Fourth as long as my name is Josiah Allen's
wife."
" You hain't patriotic enough, Semantha," says
Josiah; "you don't love your country."
"What good has it done the nation to have me all
tore to pieces ? " says I. " Look at my dress, look at
my bonnet and cape ! Any one ought to be a ironclad
to stand it ! Look at my dishes ! " says I.
"I guess the old heroes of the Revolution went
through more than that, " says Josiah. " Well, I hain't
a old hero ! " says I coolly.
" Well, you can honor 'em, can't you ? "
" Honor 'em ! Josiah Allen, what good has it done
old Mr. Lafayette to have my newearthern pie plates
smashed to bits, and a couple of tines broke off of one
of my best forks ? What good has it done to old
Thomas Jefferson, to have my lawn dress tore off me
by Betsey Bobbet ? What benefit has it been to John
Adams, or Isaac Putnam, to have old Peedick step
through it ? What honor has it been to George Wash-
ington to have my straw bonnet flatted down tight to
B Y MISS MA RIE TTA HOLLE Y. 12$
my head ? I am sick of this talk abaut honorin', and
liberty and duty, I am sick of it," says I ; "Folks will
make a pack-horse of duty, and ride it to circus'es and
bull rights, if we had 'em. You may talk about honor-
in' the old heroes and goin' through all these perform-
ances to please 'em. But if they are in Heaven they
can get along with heerin' the Jonesville brass band,
and if they haint, they are probably where fireworks
haint much of a rari'ty to 'em.
Josiah quailed before my lofty tone and I relapsed
into a weary and delapidated silence.
ft*
c
NORA PERRY.
SOMETIME in the " seventies " there appeared in the
Boston and other papers, printed, reprinted, copied one
from the other, a charming, touching little poem called
" After the Ball." Ever since its first appearance in
its fugitive state, the name of Nora Perry has been a
loved and familiar one to all persons, men or women,
possessing any feeling or imagination. This poem which
was some times printed under the title of " Madge
and Maud " was afterwards incorporated in a book
with other poems, published in Boston in 1874, but the
many sweet verses that Nora Perry has written since
that lime, have never blotted out from the memory of
her readers that lovely picture of the two maidens,
who,
" Sat and combed their beautiful hair
After the revel was don 1 ;."
Nora Perry was born in Massachusetts in 1841, but
the family early removed to Providence, in Rhode
Island. Her father was a merchant in good standing
and repute, and his daughter received her education
chiefly at home and in private schools. When about
eighteen Nora commenced writing for the magazines,
her first serial story being " Rosiland Newcomb,"
which was published in Harpers 1859-60. Much
of her time in later years was spent in Boston, whence
she wrote society letters for the Chicago Tribune, and
also became Boston correspondent to the most influen-
tial paper in Rhode Island, the Providence Journal.
At intervals she was in the habit of collecting her maga-
zine contributions and issuing them in book form,
dainty little volumes, such as are often classed as
" summer reading ." In this shape appeared in 1880
" The Tragedy of the Unexpected and Other Stories,"
which by the way is no tragedy at all, but a pleasant
133
134 NORA PERKY.
little summer idyl. In 1881 followed a "Book of Love
Stories," the very title of which endeared it to all the
youthful devourers of " something new " not requir-
ing too much thought. In 1885 we have from her pen
the interesting novelette " For a Woman " ; in 1886 a
volume of "New Songs and Ballads " ; and so
late as 1887 "A Flock of Girls. '' In her last volume
of poems, there are several of as high literary merit as
that to which we have referred and which has so per-
sistently clung in the memories of her readers
"After the Ball," but none we think which holds the
sympathies so completely. Among the best may be
noted " Her Lover's Friend," "Lady Wentworth," and
a piece of fine imagination entitled " The Maid of
Honor."
To most readers we think Nora Perry offers a
refreshing peculiarity in her prose writings, that of
abstaining from any obvious moral purpose in her
stories ; not but that such moral uses may be drawn
from them by the rigid utilitarians, who are never satis-
fied with a book or any object merely for its pleasant
interest or its beauty, if they cannot extract some wise
maxim of life or practical use for it,
Nora Perry we believe has never written a line
which the most super-critical prude might not approve,
but it is a relief now and then to read a story, simply
for the story's sake, without having its wisdom-lesson
thrust upon one in every paragraph, or peeping up
between the lines, compelling one to recognize the
presence of a mentor, when one seeks only recreation,
beauty and refreshment for the weary mind, jaded with
study, or the digestion of overmuch ethics.
DOROTHY.
DOROTHY was going to her first party. She wa&
dressed in a fine white wrought muslin, which had
rather a short, scant skirt, with a little three-inch ruffle
round the bottom. It had also a short waist antt
short, puffy sleeves, with frills of lace that fell softly
against the young, girlish arms with a very pretty
effect. About the waist a sash of rose-colored lute-
string was tied in a great bow. The fringed ends fell
almost to the hem of the three-inch ruffle, and seemed
to point to the white kid slippers, with their diamond
buckles, that were plainly visible beneath the short
skirt.
Dorothy was ready a full half-hour belore it was time
to go, so that she had ample opportunity after her
mother and Phoebe the little m?ld had left her, fora
good many last finishing touches and final glances at
herself; and you may be sure she was no more sparing
of these than any other young girl of seventeen, dressed
for her first party.
As she stands before the glass, giving her long mitts
an extra pull, or settling the rebellious curls above her
forehead, or patting the sleeve puffs carefully, she
makes a very pretty picture a pretty picture and a
quaint one, for the costume is of the Revolutionary
period. As I set her thus before you, you think you are
legarding a young girl of to-day perhaps, decked out
for some fancy dress party in this old-time dress, but
Dorothy belongs to the time of her dress.
She is, or was, the daughter of Mr. Richard Merri-
dew, of Boston, a gentleman, who, from the first, had
ranged himself with those who protested against the
exactions of the British crown. A gentleman of
fortune, his acquaintance was largely with the aris-
tocracy of the country, who were mostly, if not all,
136 DOROTHY.
Tories. Dorothy's natural associates, therefore, were
the sons and daughters of these Tories.
But visiting was not a free-and-easy matter with
young people of her class, as it is now ; and brought up
carefully at home, under private instruction, she had
no opportunities for school intimacies. The company
she had seen the most of up to this time had been her
father's and mother's friends. Now and then they
brought with them on their visits some one of the
younger members of their families, and thus had
sprung up an acquaintance which, while it formed an
agreeable variety in Dorothy's life, was not of the in-
timate and confidential kind that exists between young
girls of this day. Indeed, intimacies of that kind
would have been thought forward and improper, and
would scarcely have been permitted.
During the last year or two before Dorothy's seven-
teenth birthday, there had been little tea-party civilities
exchanged between the young people, and if you could
have looked in upon these parties, you would have
seen a picture for all the world exactly like that quaint
picture that Kate Greenaway has in her pretty book,
" Under the Window," where Phillis and Belinda are
sitting in a garden before a small tea-table ; charming
little maids in their straight, scant dresses and long
sashes and black net mitts. But these were only mild,
little-girl affairs, of the afternoon, and not a fine gather-
ing of youths and maidens, as was this affair for which
the seventeen-year-old Dorothy was prinking before
the glass.
She had given, perhaps, the fortieth pinch and pat to
the little tendril curls over her forehead, when her
father's voice called from below,
" Dorothy ! Dorothy ! " She caught up her gay silk
fan, tipped splendidly with peacock eyes, flung her red
merino cloak, with its caleche hood, over her arm, and
went running down the stairs, her little heels click-
clacking as she went.
"Here I am, father! Has Thomas brought the
chaise round ? " she cried, as she met her father at the
door of the sitting-roona.
" Oh, there's no hurry. I only wanted to see my fine
bird in her new feathers, and I thought by what her
mother had just been telling me, that she had been
B Y NORA PE-RR Y. 137
preening and pruning these feathers quite long
enough."
Dorothy blushed beneath the half-amused, half-
satirical glance that her father bestowed upon her.
As she crossed the floor, the autumn wind that united
with the little blaze upon the hearth to make a draught,
seized upon her long sash-ends and blew them out like
a train.
" Ah, she's quite a bird of Paradise ! or," catching
sight of the peacock tips, " perhaps we might get
nearer to the truth if we got nearer to the earth."
Just then, on the box-bordered garden path fronting
the window, a magnificent specimen of a peacock
spread its splendid court train, and at the same mo-
ment uttered the harsh, discordant cry for which it is
noted.
Mr. Merridew gave a little mocking laugh. "There,
my dear, you see the Prince you named your pet
rightly applauds and welcomes you as one of its kind.
You are going into the company of those who prefer
just such princes, with their shows and noise ; but I
hope my Dorothy by this time has learned to know the
truth and the right ; to know that kings and princes
and their followers are not always as fine as they seem
outside."
Dorothy knew quite well what her father meant.
She had not listened to the earnest conversations
between him and his friends from time to time without
gathering in their spirit, and becoming herself more or
less influenced.
Mr. Merridew was an ardent believer in the rights
of men, and the justice of the colonists' protest against
the crown's renewed taxation. She had heard the
whole discussed again and again, and again and again
had been thrilled with her father's eloquent, im-
passioned words, as he had laid the case before some
wavering neighbor. She knew that if it came to the
point of sacrifice, he was willing to give his fortune and
risk his life for his principles.
Only a week ago, when this invitation had come for
her to attend this fete on the birthday of Mr. Robert
Jennifer's eldest daughter, she had heard a conversa-
tion between her father and mother that had made an
ineffaceable impression upon her mind ; and this con-
138 -DOROTHY.
versation was now brought forward again, as her father
turned and said to his wife
"I feel like half a traitor to my beliefs, Miriam,
as I see our girl decked out like this, and on her way
to those king-loving Jennifers. I didn't like it from
the first. I wish I had not given my consent, for at
the best it is inconsistent with my principles."
" If Dorothy were a son, a young man, it would
be different ; but she is a girl, a mere child, and I
think, as I said in the beginning, that it would be very
unfriendly and unneighborly to keep her from this
visit," responded Mrs. Merridew.
"If Dorothy were a son, it would be different in-
deed. A son, I hope, would be pondering things of
more moment than this gay show at this time ; and in-
stead of making a display of these fine diamonds,
would be storing them away as a fund to be used at the
country's need."
"Richard, I think you lay too much stress upon
these trifles. Dorothy is young, a child; she should
be allowed to have a little girlish enjoyment. It
chances, from our condition in life, that her acquaint-
ance is with those that you term king-loving folks
largely, like the Jennifers. We could not very well
call in the people, the tradefolks, and tell her to make
friends with them at a minute's warning," cried Mis-
tress Merridew, with a little curl of her lip. She could
be satirical as well as her husband.
" Well, well, let the child have her pleasure. Per-
haps I am too severe a judge in these matters. But,
Dorothy, don't let these king-loving folk make you dis-
loyal to the cause of liberty and justice."
" Never fear, father," answered Dorothy, laughing
brightly. "No king-loving folks could make me dis-
loyal."
" You talk as if she were going into a company of
graybeards, Richard ! " exclaimed Mrs. Merridew.
" As if these children would talk of such subjects on
such a merry occasion ! But here comes Thomas with
the chaise, Dorothy. Now be a good girl, and re-
member when you take your cloak off to let the serving-
maid see to it that your' sleeve-puffs are well pulled out
and your hair in neat order."
The sounds of the harp and viol proclaimed that the
BY NORA PERRY. 139
dancers were in full swing when Dorothy alighted at
the Jennifers' door, and a little feeling of perturbation
seized her, as she discovered that, after all her ex-
pedition in dressing, she was a little late. But a cor-
dial greeting from her hostess, and a pleasant and ad-
miring nod here and there from one and another of
the guests, soon relieved this perturbation, and very
soon she found herself tripping the light, or stately,
measures with the best of them.
"Children, indeed!" she thought .as she looked
about her. Here was young Mr. Carroll Jennifer and
his brother Mark, and Mr. Robertson, and the Langton
cousins, quite young gentlemen, with their lace frills
and satin waistcoats, and costly chains and seals hang-
ing therefrom. And Cynthia Jennifer, with her pow-
dered hair and fine brocade gown, looked like a stately
young woman who had seen the world.
In those days dancing was not the only amusement
that young people indulged in at an evening party.
Frolicsome games were greatly the fashion, and after a
contra-dance, little Betty Jennifer proposed that they
should play " King George's troops." This was rather
childish, and there was a little prim demurring on the
part of stately Miss Cynthia, but the stiff starch of
grown-up manners had begun to be a good deal shaken
out of these young people by this time, with the pow-
der in their hair, and there was such a merry second-
ing of Betty's proposition that Miss Cynthia relented.,
not without secret satisfaction.
Do young people still play this game, I wonder ? It
is a pretty game, with its procession that passes along
under the arch of two of the company's clasped and
lifted hands,_ these two singing,
" Open the gates as high as the sky,
To let King George's troops pass by."
There is a forfeit to pay by those whom the keepers
of the gate succeed in catching with a sudden down-
ward swoop of the hands as they pass under, and great
amusement ensues when some captive is set to perform-
ing some droll penance or ridiculous task.
Dorothy had played the game hundreds of times,
and was very expert in evading and eluding the most
I4<D DOROTHY.
wary of keepers. Her dexterity was soon apparent to
the young people about her at the Jennifers, specially
to Carroll Jennifer and Jervis Langton, who were the
gate-keepers on this cccasion. They felt a little
chagrined to be thus repeatedly beaten, and at last, put
on their mettle, determined to conquer before the
game was over.
At length, a heedless misstep on the part of the one
who preceded Dorothy brought a moment of delay, of
which the gate-keepers took advantage. In an instant
Dorothy had seen the misstep, and bending low,
sprang 'forward with renewed celerity. But the sharp-
ened wits of the gate-keepers made them more than a
match for her, and swoop ! there she was, caught and
held fast !
There was a general shout of victory, then a general
rushing forward to see this hard-won captive, and know
her forfeit-fate.
"Ah ha, my little soldier!" cried Carroll Jennifer,
with a gay laugh. "You see that when King George's
officers stand at the gate, they stand there to win. All
his troops must obey his commanding officers."
Suddenly across Dorothy's mind flashed the con-
versation she had heard at home, and her father's
words,
" Don't let those king-loving folk make you disloyal
to the cause of liberty and justice." And she wanted
to cry out,
" I'm not one of King George's loyal troops ! I'm a
rebel ! "
But a feeling of shyness came over her, and she
thought, " How foolish for me to say a thing of that
kind in the midst of a play like this ! "
Somebody else, however, was not held back by this
shyness, for a voice cried, it was a girl's voice, that of
Judith Myles, Dorothy's neighbor,
"Ah! but Mistress Dorothy has been taught to flout
at King George and his officers, and even though she
be one of his soldiers, I* dare say she is in secret a
little rebel, who has been planning and plotting to es-
cape you."
Carroll Jennifers and the Langtons had but just re-
turned from a long visit abroad, and were not very
kjjowing about the individual loyalty of the family
BY NORA PERRY. 141
friends and acquaintances. They only felt and saw
that their pretty captive was blushing with a troubled
distress, and they came to her rescue, Carroll looking
down with the sweetest of kind smiles on his winning
face, and exclaiming,
" Mistress Dorothy couldn't be a rebel in my father's
house."
The bright color fled from Dorothy's cheeks as
quickly as it had come, and she felt for the moment
like a little traitor for being where she was. Then
Jervis Langton took up Mr. Carroll Jennifer's words,
and went on in such a glowing and eloquent fashion
about keeping faith, and being true to one's old home,
and the king being father of his subjects, that Dorothy
was quite bewildered.
She had never heard just this kind of young glowing
talk on the other side the king's side. The only
really eloquent voice she had ever listened to, was that
of her father, and he was on the people's side. As
young Langton talked, he seemed to affect all those
about him. It was like a spark of fire that suddenly
set things into a blaze, which caught here and there,
and drew out a fine fiery sort of talk that had a roman-
tic cavalierish sound to his young listeners.
The whole mental atmosphere was entirely new to
Dorothy. She was made to feel that these king-loving
folk had a high, enthusiastic sense of king and
country, and what they owed to both.
In the midst of all this new excitement, the pretty
play and the forfeit had well-nigh been forgotten.
Carroll Jennifer, suddenly glancing at Dorothy's up-
turned listening face, recalled both the play and his
character and duty as host, and breaking in upon the
talk, said smilingly,
" But the forfeit, Mistress Dorothy, let us see to that.
Ah, by the king's realm, I have it ! You shall repeat
after me the renunciation of all rebellious thoughts,
and swear from this night forth to be loyal to the king
and his crown."
Young Jennifer, as I have said, had little knowledge
of the individual differences that had sprung up in Bos-
ton, and had no idea that Judith Myles' words hinted
at more than a little foolish, girlish bravado. So still
smiling down upon Dorothy, he began lightly,
142 DOROTHY.
" Now repeat after me, ' I renounce from this night
forth all seditious and rebellious thoughts against his
most gracious majesty King George the Third, and
swear to be his most faithful subject ' but I go too fast
I will begin again now, ' I renounce from this
night forth,' " he paused, glancing at Dorothy with
smiling invitation.
Dorothy heard again her father, saying "Don't let
these king-loving folk make you disloyal to the cause
of liberty and justice."
" Come, Dorothy, here is a chance for you to for-
swear the company of the common herd the tinkers
and trades-folk, and take your place where you be-
long," broke in Judirh Myles.
At these words, " tinkers and trades-folks," Dorothy
recalled what her father had said one day of these
tinkers and trades-folk, how high-minded and self-
sacrificing and intelligent they were, and the difficulty
with which they had met this redoubled taxation, and
fed and clothed their families. Were these rough or
boorish or grasping men?
The wax lights of the great cancllelabra sent a thou-
sand shimmering rays upon the satin waistcoats and
glittering knee-buckles and jewelled seals before her.
" Come, Dorothy, Master Jennifer is waiting," said
Judith.
" Come, Mistress Dorothy," Master Jennifer began
again, "I renounce from this night forth."
She looked up into the kind, admiring eyes that
were bent upon her, and around, the splendid room
at the faces that were now full of pleasant looks for
her, but she must not delay longer ; she must take
her place where she belonged, as Judith had said.
With her color deepening, her voice faltering, she re-
peated " I renounce from this night forth"
"All seditious and rebellious,"
"All seditious and rebellious thoughts,"-
" Against his most gracious majesty King George the
Third,"
" Against Dorothy paused, a mist passed before
her eyes, a shudder of horror thrilled her, then with a
sudden uplifting of her head, a sudden and new em-
phasis to her voice, she cried,
"Against, not his most gracious majesty King
BY NORA PERRY. 143
George the Third, but his sorely tried and oppressed
people who are weighed down with the burden of his
unjust taxes."
" Dorothy, Dorothy, how dare you under Master Jen-
nifer's loyal roof ! Are you not ashamed ? " cried out
Judith.
Carroll Jennifer looked from one to another with an
awakening sense of the true situation.
"Mistress Dorothy," he presently exclaimed, "have
these rebels and malcontents frightened you into this ? "
" No no, I have only been frightened by my own
poor spirit just now, into disloyalty to the cause of lib-
erty and justice," she replied.
"There is but one cause, and that is the crown's,
and but one disloyalty, and that is to the king," cried
Jervis Langton.
The clamor of voices arose on every hand. It was a
storm of Tory talk ; vehement protest and assertion
and declaration. In the centre of it stood Dorothy.
She had ceased turning red and white. With her head
slightly bent, her arms drooping, and her hands clasped
together, she looked like a wind-blown lily, bruised and
beaten, but not overthrown.
Listening to the storm of words, she no more felt
ashamed of the cause she had thus publicly espoused ;
she was no more bewildered and tempted by the grace
and splendor of these king-loving folk. But she did
not attempt to speak again, to answer these vehement
assertions or offer protest for protest. She had said
her say, she had made some atonement, she felt, for
her first traitorous feeling of shame, and now she had
nothing to do but wait for the storm to subside.
All at once Carroll Jennifer seemed to realize Doro-
thy's defenceless position. He could not defend her
avowed principles, but she was his guest, and he was a
gentleman ; so he put up his hand with a " Come,
come, we have had enough of this discussion to-night."
A nod to the musicians, and the strains of the harp
and violin broke in upon the clamor of tongues.
At another signal, a door was flung open, and
beyond, could be seen a bountifully spread supper-
table, gay with lights, and the shine of silver and
glass. Young Mr. Jennifer bowed low, as was the
fashion of the time, before Dorothy. He was not go-
144 DOROTHY.
ing to treat his guest with anything but his finest man-
ners, so bowing, he said with airy grace,
" Will my enemy consent to let a wicked Tory serve
her ? "
Dorothy was not so grown up out of her childhood
as she looked, and the thought that she must sit at ta-
ble with those whose clamor of speech had just assailed
her, was unbearable, and she shrank back with so dis-
mayed a face that both Carroll and his sister Cynthia
felt touched with pity.
"We have been making too much of this," said Cyn-
thia in an undertone to her brother. " She's a child,
after all, who has been showing off a little, and does
not know the full meaning of what she has said. You
see she is sorry enough for it now."
Low as this was spoken, it reached Dorothy's ears.
Perhaps if she had been older, she would have been
content to let it pass, satisfied that she had defined her
position sufficiently, but her sensitive conscience, still
stung her for her momentary wavering, and her father's
words haunted her.
She must be true to the very last, or her truth was
worth nothing, she reasoned, and lifting up her head,
began to speak again. Oh, how hard it was, how much
harder than at first, before she knew how sharp
tongues that had so late been friendly, could be.
" No, no," she cried, clearly and distinctly for they
must all hear " I did not say what I did to show off.
I spoke because I wanted to be true and honest. I
was ashamed at first of of my friends of our cause
I was afraid to speak at first and then, after, I was
ashamed of that of my cowardice. Oh ! I know what
I say, I know what I say, you must not take me for
what I am not ; I am a little rebel to the king's cause,
I believe in the people's rights, and not in the crown's,
and I ought not to have come here, I ought not to
have come."
The clear voice faltered and fell, and the next mo-
ment poor Dorothy felt that she had disgraced herself
forever before them all, as she burst into a flood of un-
controllable tears.
Then it was that a new voice was heard, a deeper,
older voice. It was low-toned, yet very distinct, and
BY NORA PERRY. 145
there was an odd thrill, a sort of quiver of emotion to
it, as it said,
" Come, Mistress Dorothy, rebel or no rebel, you
have shown a courage that we may all doff our hats to.
I only hope that every king's soldier may prove his
truth and loyalty to the king's cause as bravely, if he
should be beset by temptation. And you, my fine
young Tories," turning to the young men of the com-
pany, " I hope that you will always be able to give
your meed of admiration and respect to such kind of
courage, wherever you find it. Come, Mistress Doro-
thy, let us go and be served with some of these
dainties that are prepared for us ; and we will see if a
Tory syllabub will not take away the taste of those
tears," smilingly benignly down upon her.
"You are a little rebel and mine enemy, for I am
one of the king's staunchest defenders and hope to
conquer all rebels, but I am proud to have such a rebel
for my guest to-night, I assure you ; " and Mr. Jennifer
bent down his powdered head in a fine obeisance as he
offered Dorothy his arm.
THE TRIAL OF BERYL,
BY
AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON.
AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON.
THE South has furnished but few novelists among
women, and when Miss Augusta Evans wrote her first
story, " Beulah," she had few rivals in a field which has
since been entered by a number of clever story
writers.
Miss Evans is a native of Columbus, Georgia, and
her first book, " Inez, a Tale of the Alamo," was written
when she was still a young lady. It was published by
the Harpers, but met with indifferent success. In
1859 her second book, " Beulah," was issued, and it be-
came at once popular and continues so. It was selling
well when the war broke out and which found Miss
Evans at her home in Georgia. Cut off from the
world of publishers, and intensely concerned for the
triumph of the cause of secession, she wrote nothing
more until several years later, when she published her
third story " Macaria." She sent a copy of her book
with a letter to her former publisher by a blockade-run-
ner, which carried it safely to Havana, from whence it
was mailed to New York. The book was printed on
coarse brown paper, the copyright entered according to
the Confederate States of America, and dedicated to the
brave soldiers of the Southern Army." It had been
printed in South Carolina, and was published by a
bookseller in Richmond. In a letter written subse-
quently to her publisher she says: "The book was
dedicated to our brave Southern Army, and was a great
favorite in camp and hospital ; and my very heart beat
in its pages, coarse and brown though the dear old
Confederate paper was. Some portions of it were
scribbled in pencil, while sitting up with the sick sol-
diers in the hospital attached to 'Camp Beulah ' near
Mobile. ' Macaria ' was seized and destroyed by a
Federal officer in Kentucky, who burned all the
152 AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON.
copies Confederate edition which crossed from
rebeldom."
A Northern publisher who had obtained a copy
through the lines, published it and at first declared
that he would pay no copyright to the author because
she was an arch rebel. Messrs. J. B. Lippincott and
J. C. Derby, two publishers who were interested in
bringing out an edition with the author's consent, ex-
postulated with the self-elected publisher, and finally a
contract was secured whereby he agreed to pay a roy-
alty on all copies sold.
After the war closed Miss Evans travelled to New
York with the copy of " St. Elmo," which was speedily
published and met with great success. Towns, hotels,
steamboats and plantations were named after it, and
the author was recompensed with large financial re-
turns. Her later works, " Vashti " ; " Infelice " ; and
"At the Mercy of Tiberius" have had phenomenal
success. Miss Evans, in 1868, married Mr. Wilson,
a distinguished citizen of Alabama, and since that
time has resided near Mobile in a home whose sur-
roundings are suggestive of poetry and romance. It
is situated on one of the many fine shell roads which
radiate from that city, and stands in a lawn of majes-
tic oaks and fragrant magnolia trees. Long, gray
Southern, moss hang from the wide limbs of the
branches of trees, and touch the gorgeous flowers
which bloom all the year round. Mocking birds sing
in the leafy woods and the rarest tropical plants adorn
the broad piazzas. Mrs. Wilson by her marriage and
through the publication of her six novels has come into
the possession of large wealth, and she devotes much
time to the beautifying of her beloved home.
Mrs. Wilson has never written short stories and her
pen work is performed in the most deliberate and
painstaking manner. She writes for love of her work,
and is happily so situated that she is not impelled by
necessity to produce stories by contract. She is a
woman greatly beloved by the people of the South, who
are most appreciative of her genius, and her literary
reputation is a national one. Gentle, earnest and
deeply religious, Mrs. Wilson's manner has a tinge of
sadness, at variance with her external life, which is ex-
ceptionally happy. She is likewise very domestic, de-
AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 153
voted to her duties as a home-maker, and as hospita-
ble as her own and her husband's wealth permit. She
is not widely known to literary circles because she has
never lived near literary centres, but she is one of the
most interesting and accomplished of American writers,
and has that which is a rare possession a classical
education broadened by constant application. Sensi-
tive and retiring she is genuinely appreciative of the
good-will of her fellow beings, and in a recent letter
she says : " I hold peculiarly dear the confidence and
esteem of my own sex ; and I deem it a nobler privi-
lege to possess the affection of my countrywomen than
to assist my countrymen in making national laws."
Mrs. Wilson is a typical Southerner in many
respects, but her mentality and ability for hard and
sustained study, and her creative faculty are natural
gifts and are common to genius wherever found. Her
personality is most lovable and winsome.
THE TRIAL OF BERYL
STANDING before Ldon Gdrome's tragic picture, and
listening to the sepulchral echo that floats down the
arcade of centuries, " Ave Imperator, morituri te sain-
tant" nineteenth century womanhood frowns, and de-
plores the brutal depravity which alone explains the
presence of that white-veiled vestal band, whose snowy
arms are thrust in signal over the parapet of the bloody
arena ; yet fair daughters of the latest civilization show
unblushing flower faces among the heaving mass of
the " great unwashed " who crowd our court-rooms
and listen to revolting details more repugnant to gen-
uine modesty, than the mangled remains in the Colos-
seum. The rosy thumbs of Roman vestals were potent
ballots in the Eternal City, and possibly were thrown
only in the scale of mercy ; but having no voice in ver-
dicts, to what conservative motive may be ascribed the
presence of women at criminal trials? Are the chil-
dren of Culture, the heiresses of " all the ages ", really
more refined than the proud old dames of the era of
Spartacus ?
Is the spectacle of mere physical torture, in gladia-
torial combats, or in the bloody precincts of plaza de
toros, as grossly demoralizing as the loathsome minutiae
of heinous crimes upon which legal orators dilate ; and
which Argus reporters, with magnifying lenses at every
eye, reproduce for countless newspapers, that serve as
wings for transporting moral dynamite to hearthstones
and nurseries all over our land ? Is there a distinction,
without a difference, between police gazettes and the
journalistic press?
If extremes meet, and the march of human progress
be along no asymtotic line, is the day very distant
when we shall welcome the Renaissance of that wisdom
which two thousand years ago held its august tribunal
in the solemn hours of night, when darkness hid from
155
I 56 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
the Judges everything save well-authenticated facts ?
The supreme aim of civil and criminal law being the
conservation of national and individual purity, to what
shall we attribute the paradox presented in its admin-
istration, whereby its temples become lairs of libel,
their moral atmosphere defiled by the monstrous vivi-
section of parental character by children, the slaughter
of family reputation, the exhaustive analysis of every
species of sin forbidden by the Decalogue, and floods
of vulgar vituperation dreadful as the Apocalyptic
vials ? Can this generation
" in the foremost files of time"
afford to believe that a grim significance lurks in the
desuetude of typical judicial ermine ?
Traditions of ante bdlum custom proclaimed that
" good society " in the town of X , formerly consid-
ered the precincts of courts as unfit for ladies as the
fetid air of morgues, or the surgical instruments on dis-
secting tables ; but the vanguard of cosmopolitan free-
dom and progress had pitched tents in the old-fash-
ioned place, and recruited rapidly from the ranks of
the invaded ; hence it came to pass, that on the second
day of the murder trial, when the preliminaries of jury
empanelling had been completed, and all were ready
to launch the case, X announced its social emanci-
pation from ancient canons of decorum, by the un-
wonted spectacle of benches crowded with " ladies ",
whose silken garments were crushed against the
coarser fabrics of proletariat. Despite the piercing
cold of a morning late in February, the mass of human
furnaces had raised the temperature to a degree that
encouraged the fluttering of fans, and necessitated the
order that no additional spectators should be admitted.
Viewed through the leaden haze of fearful anticipa-
tion, the horror of the impending trial had seemed un-
endurable to the proud and sensitive girl, whom the
Sheriff placed on a seat fronting the sea of curious
faces, the battery of scrutinizing eyes turned on her
from the jury-box. Four months of dread had un-
nerved her, yet now when the cruel actuality seized her
in its iron grasp, that superb strength which the inevit-
able lends to conscious innocence, so steeled and for-
BY A UGUSTA E VANS WILSON. \ 5 7
lifted her, that she felt lifted to some lonely height,
where numbness eased her aching wounds.
Pallid and motionless, she sat like a statue, save for
the slow strokes of her right hand upon the red gold
of her mother's ring ; and the sound of a man's voice
reading a formula, seemed to echo from an immeasur-
able distance. She had consented to, had deliberately
accepted the worst possible fate, and realized the iso-
lation of her lot; but for one thing she was not pre-
pared, and its unexpectedness threatened to shiver
her calmness. Two women made their way toward
her : Dyce and Sister Serena. The former sat down
in the rear of the prisoner, the latter stood for a few
seconds, and her thin delicate hand fell upon the girl's
shoulder. At sight of the sweet, placid countenance
below the floating white muslin veil, Beryl's lips
quivered into a sad smile ; and as they shook hands
she whispered :
" I believe even the gallows will not frighten you two
from my side."
Sister Serena seated herself as close as possible,
drew from her pocket a gray woollen stocking, and
began to knit. For an instant Beryl's eyes closed, to
shut in the sudden gush of grateful tears ; when she
opened them, Mr. Churchill had risen :
" May it please the Court, Gentlemen of the Jury :
If fidelity to duty involved no sacrifice of personal feel-
ing, should we make it the touchstone of human char-
acter, value it as the most precious jewel in the crown
of human virtues? I were less than a man, immeasur-
ably less than a gentleman, were I capable of address-
ing you to-day, in obedience to the behests of justice,
and in fulfilment of the stern requirements of my
official position, without emotions of profound regret,
that implacable Duty, to whom I have sworn alleg-
iance, forces me to hush the pleading whispers of my
pitying heart, to smother the tender instincts of
human sympathy, and to listen only to the solemn
mandate of those laws, which alone can secure to our
race the enjoyment of life, liberty and property. An
extended professional career has hitherto furnished me
no parallel for the peculiarly painful exigencies of this
occasion ; and an awful responsibility scourges me with
scorpion lash to a most unwelcome task. When man
158 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
crosses swords with man on any arena, innate pride
nerves his arm and kindles enthusiasm, but alas, for
the man ! be he worthy die name, who draws his blade
and sees before him a young, helpless, beautiful
woman, disarmed. Were it not a bailable offence in
the court of honor, if his arm fell palsied ? Each of
you who has a mother, a wife, a lily browed daughter,
put yourself in my place, lend me your sympathy; and
at least applaud the loyalty that strangles all individ-
uality, and renders me bound thrall of official duty.
Counsel for the defence has been repeatedly offered,
nay, pressed upon the prisoner, but as often persist-
ently rejected ; hence the almost paralyzing repug-
nance with which I approach my theme.
" The Grand Jury of the county, at its last sitting,
returned to this court a bill of indictment, charging the
prisoner at the bar with the wilful, deliberate and
premeditated murder of Robert Luke Darrington, by
striking him with a brass andiron. To this indictment
she has pleaded ' Not Guilty,' and stands before her
God and this community for trial. Gentlemen of the
jury, you represent this commonwealth, jealous of the
inviolability of its laws, and by virtue of your oaths,
you are solemnly pledged to decide upon her guilt or
innocence, in strict accordance with the evidence that
may be laid before you. In fulfilling this sacred duty,
you will, I feel assured, be governed exclusively by a
stern regard to the demands of public justice. While
it taxes our reluctant credulity to believe that a crime
so hideous could have been commited by a woman's
hand, could have been prepetrated without provoca-
cation within the borders of our peaceful community,
nevertheless, the evidence we shall adduce must in-
evitably force you to the melancholy conclusion that the
prisoner at the bar is guilty of the offence, with which she
stands charged. The indictment which you are about
to try, charges Beryl Brentano with the murder.
" In outlining the evidence which will be presented
in support of this indictment, I earnestly desire that
you will give me your dispassionate and undivided at-
tention ; and I call God to witness, that disclaiming
personal animosity and undue zeal for vengeance, I am
sorrowfully indicating as an officer of the law, a path
of inquiry, that must lead you to that goal where, be-
BY AUGUSTA E VANS WILSON. I 5 9
fore the altar of Truth, Justice swings her divine scales,
and bids Nemesis unsheathe her sword.
" On the afternoon of October the twenty-sixth, about
three o'clock, a stranger arrived in X and in-
quired of the station agent what road would carry her
to ' Elm Bluff,' the home of General Darrington ; as-
suring him she would return in time to take the north-
bound train at 7.15, as urgent business necessitated
her return. Demanding an interview with General Dar-
rington, she was admitted, incognito, and proclaimed
herself his granddaughter, sent hither by a sick mother,
to procure a certain sum of money required for speci-
fied purposes. That the interview was stormy, was
characterized by fierce invective on her part, and by
bitter denunciation and recrimination on his, is too
well established to admit of question ; and they parted
implacable foes, as is attested by the fact that he drove
her from his room through a rear and unfrequented
door, opening into a flower garden, whence she
wandered over the grounds until she found the gate.
The vital import of this interview lies in the great
stress General Darrington placed upon the statement he
iterated and reiterated that he had disinherited his
daughter, and drawn up a will bequeathing his entire
estate to his step-son Prince.
" Miss Brentano did not leave X at 7.15,
though she had ample time to do so, after quitting
' Elm Bluff.' She loitered about the station house
until nearly half- past eight, then disappeared. At 10
P.M. she was seen and identified by a person who had
met her at ' Elm Bluff', crouching behind a ttee near
the road that led to that ill-fated house, and when
questioned regarding her presence there, gave unsatis-
factory answers. At half-past two o'clock she was
next seen hastening toward the station office, along the
line of the railroad, from the direction of the water
tank, which is situated nearly a mile north of town.
Meanwhile an unusually severe storm had been fol-
lowed by a drenching rain, and the stranger's garments
were wet, when, after a confused and contradictory
account of her movements, she boarded the 3.05 train
bound north.
" During that night, certainly after ten o'clock,
General Darrington was murdered. His vault was
l6o THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
forced open, money was stolen, and most significant
of all, the will was abstracted. Criminal jurisprudence
holds that the absence of motive renders nugatory
much weighty testimony. In this melancholy cause,
could a more powerful motive be imagined than that
which goaded the prisoner to dip her fair hands in her
grandfather's blood, in order to possess and destroy
that will which stood as an everlasting barrier between
her and the estate she coveted ?
" Crimes are referrible to two potent passions of the
human soul ; malice, engendering thirst for revenge, and
the insatiable lust of money. If that old man had died
a natural death, leaving the will he had signed, his
property would have belonged to the adopted son, to
whom he bequeathed it, and Mrs. Brentano and her
daughter would have remained paupers. Cut off by
assassination, and with no record of his last wishes in
existence, the beloved son is bereft of his legacy, and
Beryl Brentano and her mother inherit the bloodbought
riches they covet. When arrested, gold coins and
jewels identified as those formerly deposited in General
Darrington's vault, were found in possession of the
prisoner ; and as if every emissary of fate were armed
with warrants for her detection, a handkerchief bearing
her initials, and saturated with the chloroform which she
had administered to her victim, was taken from the
pillow, where his honored gray head rested, when he
slept his last sleep on earth. Further analysis would
insult your intelligence, and having very briefly laid be-
fore you the intended line of testimony, I believe I have
assigned a motive for this monstrous crime, which must
precipitate the vengeance of the law, in a degree
commensurate with its enormity. Time, opportunity,
moti ve, when in full accord, constitute a fatal triad,
and the suspicious and unexplainable conduct of the
prisoner in various respects, furnishes, in connection
with other circumstances of this case, the strongest
presumptive evidence of her guilt. These circum-
stances, far beyond the realm of human volition,
smelted and shaped in the rolling mills of destiny, form
the tramway along which already the car of doom thun-
ders; and when they shall have been fully proved to
you, by unassailable testimony, no alternative remains
but the verdict of guilty. Mournful as is the duty, and
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. l6l
awfully solemn the necessity that leaves the issue of life
and death in your hands, remember, gentlemen, Cur-
ran's immortal words: 'A juror's oath is the adaman-
tine chain that binds the integrity of man to the throne
of eternal justice.' "
No trace of emotion was visible on the prisoner's
face, except at the harsh mention of her mother's
name ; when a shudder was perceptible, as in one
where dentist's steel pierces a sensitive nerve. In
order to avoid the hundreds of eyes that stabbed her
like merciless probes, her own had been raised and
fixed upon~a portion of the cornice in the room where a
family of spiders held busy camp ; but a fascination
long resisted, finally drew their gaze down to a seat near
the bar, and she encountered the steady, sorrowful
regard of Mr. Dunbar.
Two months had elapsed since the Christmas morn-
ing on which she had rejected his floral offering, and
during that weary season of waiting, she had refused to
see any visitors except Dyce and Sister Serena ; reso-
lutely denying admittance to Miss Gordon. She knew
that he had been absent, had searched for some testi-
mony in New York, and now meeting his eyes, she saw
a sudden change in their expression a sparkle, a smile
of encouragement, a declaration of success. He
fancied he understood the shadow of dread that drifted
over her face : and she realized at that instant, that of
all foes, she had most to apprehend from the man who
she knew loved her with an unreasoning and ineradi-
cable fervor. How much had he discovered? She
could defy the district solicitor, the judge, the jury ;
but only one method of silencing the battery that was
ambushed in those gleaming blue eyes presented itself.
To extinguish his jealousy by removing the figment of
a rival, might rob him of the motive that explained his
presistent pursuit of the clue she had concealed ; but
it would simultaneously demolish, also, the barrier that
stretched between Miss Gordon's happy heart and the
bitter waves of a cruel disappointment. If assured
that her own affection was unpledged, would the bare
form and ceremonial of honor bind his allegiance to
his betrothed ? Absorbed in these reflections, the pris-
oner became temporarily oblivious of the proceedings;
and it was not until Sister Serena. touched her arm, that
1 62 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
she saw the vast throng was watching her, waiting for
some reply. The Judge repeated his question :
" Is it the desire of the prisoner to answer the presen-
tation of the prosecution ? Having refused profes-
sional defence, you now have the option of addressing
the Court."
" Let the prosecution proceed."
There was no quiver in her voice, as cold, sweet and
distinct it found its way to the extremity of the wide
apartment ; yet therein lurked no defiance. She re-
sumed her seat, and her eyes sank, until the long black
fringes veiled their depths. Unperceived, Judge Dent
had found a seat behind her, and leaning forward he
whispered :
" Will you permit me to speak for you ? "
" Thank you no."
" But it cuts me to the heart to see you so forsaken,
so helpless."
" God is my helper ; He will not forsake me."
The first witness called and sworn was Doctor Led-
yard, the physician who for many years had attended
General Darrington ; and who testified that when sum-
moned to examine the body of deceased, on the morn-
ing of the inquest, he had found it so rigid that at least
eight hours must have elapsed since life became ex-
tinct. Had discovered no blood stains, and only two
contusions, one on the right temple, where a circular
black spot was conspicuous, and a bluish bruise over
the region of the heart. He had visited deceased on
the morning of previous day, and he then appeared
much better, and almost relieved of rheumatism and
pains attributable to an old wound in the right knee.
The skull had not been fractured by the blow on the
temple, but witness believed it had caused death ; and
the andiron, which he identified as the one found on
the floor close to the deceased, was so unusually
massive, he was positive that if hurled with any force, it
would produce a fatal result.
Mr. Churchill : " Did you at that examination de-
tect any traces of chloroform ? "
" There was an odor of chloroform very perceptible
when we lifted the hair to examine the skull ; and on
searching the room, we found a vial which had con-
BY A UGUSTA E VANS WILSON. 1 63
tained chloroform, and was beside the pillow, where a
portion had evidently leaked out."
" Could death have occured in consequence of in-
haling that chloroform ? "
" If so, the deceased could never have risen, and
would have been found in his bed ; moreover, the limbs
were drawn up, and bent into a position totally incon-
sistent with any theory of death produced by anaes-
thetics ; and the body was rigid as iron."
The foregoing testimony was confirmed by that of
Doctor Cranmar, a resident physician, who had been
summoned by the Coroner to assist Doctor Ledyard in
the examination, reported formally at the inquest.
" Here, gentlemen of the jury, is the fatal weapon
with which a woman's hands, supernaturally nerved in
the struggle for gain, struck down, destroyed a vener-
able old man, an honored citizen, whose gray hairs
should have shielded him from the murderous assault
of a mercenary adventuress. Can she behold without
a shndder, this tell-tale instrument of her monstrous
crime ? "
High above his head, Mr. Churchill raised the old-
fashioned andiron, and involuntarily Beryl glanced at
the quaint brass figure, cast in the form of a unicorn,
with a heavy ball surmounting the horn.
" Abednego Darrington ! "
Sullen, crestfallen and woe-begone was the demeanor
of the old negro, who had been brought vi et armis by
a constable, from the seclusion of a corner of the " Bend
Plantation," where he had secreted himself, to avoid
the shame of bearing testimony against his mistress'
child. When placed on the witness stand, he crossed
his arms over his chest, planted his right foot firmly in
advance, and fixed his eyes on the leather strings that
tied his shoes.
After some important preliminaries, the District
Solicitor asked:
" When did you first see the prisoner, who now sits
before you ? "
" When she came to our house, the evening before
ole Marster died."
" You admitted her to your master's presence ? "
" I never tuck no sech libberties. He tole me to let
her in."
164 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
" You carried her to his room ? "
" Yes, sir."
" About what time of the day was it ? "
" Don't know."
"General Darrington always dined at three o'clock.
Was it before or after dinner?"
" After."
" How long was the prisoner in the General's room?"
" Don't know."
" Did she leave the house by the front door, or the
side door ? "
" Can't say. Didn't see her when she come out."
" About how long was she in the house ? "
" I totes no watch, and I never had no luck guess-
ing. I'm shore to land wrong."
" Was it one hour or two ? "
" Mebbe more, mebbe less."
" Where were you during that visit ?"
" Feedin' my game pullets in the backyard."
' Did you hear any part of the conversation between
the prisoner and General Darrington ? "
"No, sir! I'm above the meanness of eavesdrap-
ping."
" How did you learn that she was the granddaughter
of General Darrington ? "
" Miss Angerline, the white 'oman what mends and
sews, come to the back piazer, and beckoned me to
run there. She said ther' must be 'a high ole fracas',
them was her words, agoin' on in Marster's room, for
he was cussin' and swearin', and his granddaughter was
jawing back very vicious. Sez I, 'Who?* Sez she,
' His granddaughter ; that is Ellice's chile '. Sez I,
' How do you know so much ' ? Sez she, I was darn-
ing them liberry curtains, and I couldn't help hearing
the wrangle '. Sez I, ' You picked a oncommon handy
time to tackle them curtains ; they must be mighty
good to cure the ear-itch '. She axed me if I didn't
see the family favor in the 'oman's face ; and I tole
her no, but I would see for myself. Sez she, to me,
' No you won't, for the General is in a tearing rage,
and he's done drove her out, and kicked and slammed
the doors. She's gone.' "
"Then you did not see her ? "
" I went to the front piazer, and I seen her far down
BY AUGUSTA E^AA'S WILSON. 165
the lawn, but Marster rung his bell so savage, I had to
run back to him."
" Did he tell you the prisoner was his grand-
daughter ? "
" No, sir."
"Did you mention the fact to him "
"I wouldn't 'a dared to meddle with his fambly
bizness ! "
" He appeared very angry and excited ? "
" He 'peared to \\ant some ole Conyyac what was
in the sideboard, and I brung throttle to him."
" Do you remember whether his vault in the wall
was open, when you answered the bell ? "
" I didn't notice it."
" Where did you sleep that night ? "
" On a pallet in the middle passage, nigh the star
steps."
" Was that your usual custom ? "
"No, sir. But the boy what had been sleepin' in
the house while ole Marster was sick, had gone to set
up with his daddie's corpse, and I tuck his place."
" Did you hear any unusual noise during the
night ? "
" Only the squalling of the pea-fowul what was
oncammon oneasy, and the thunder that was ear-split-
ting. One clap was so tremenjous it raised me plum
off'en the pallet, and jarred me to my backbone, as if
a cannon had gone off close by."
" Now, Bedney, state carefully all the circumstances
under which you found your master the next morning ;
and remember you are on your oath, to speak the truth,
and all the truth."
" He was a early riser, and always wanted his
shavin' water promp'. When his bell didn't ring, I
thought the storm had kep' him awake, and he was
having a mornin' nap, to make up for lost time. The
clock had struck eight, and the cook said as how the
steak and chops was dry as a bone from waitin', and so
I got the water and went to Marster's door. It was
shet tight, and I knocked easy. He never answered ;
so I knocked louder ; and thinkin' somethin' was
shorely wrong, I opened the door "
" Go on. What did you find ? "
" Mars Alfred, sir, it's very harryfyin to my feelins."
1 66 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
" Go on. You are required to state all you saw, all
you know."
Bedney drew back his right foot, advanced his left.
Took out his handkerchief, wiped his face and refolded
his arms.
" My Marster was a layin' on the rug before the fire-
place, and his knees was all drawed up. His right
arm was streched out, so and his left hand was all
doubled up. I know'd he was dead, before I teched him,
for his face was set, and pinched and blue. I reckon I
hollered, but I can't say, for the next thing I knowed,
the horsier and the cook, and Miss Angerline, and
Dyce, my pie 'oman, and Gord knows who all, was
streamin' in and out and screamin'."
" What was the condition of the room ? "
" The front window was up, and the blinds was flung
wide open, and a cheer was upside down close to it.
The red vases what stood on the fire-place mantle was
smashed on the carpet, and the handi'on was close to
Marster's right hand. The vault was open, and papers
was strowed plentiful round on the floor under it.
Then the neighburs and the Doctor, and the Crowner
came runnin' in, and I sot down by the bed and cried
like a chile. Pretty soon they turned us all out and
hilt the inquess."
" You do not recollect any other circumstance ? "
"The lamp on the table was burnin' and ther'
wan't much oil left in it. I seen Miss Angerline blow
it out, after the doctor come."
" Who found the chloroform vial ? "
" Don't know."
" Did you hear any name mentioned as that of the
murderer ? "
" Miss Angerline tole the Crowner, that ef the will
was missin', General Darrington's granddaughter had
stole it. They two, with some other gentleman,
searched the vault, and Miss Angerline said everything
was higgledy piggledy and no will there."
" You testified before the coroner ? "
"Yes, sir."
" Why did you not give him the handkerchief you
found ? "
" I didn't have it then."
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 167
" When and where did you get it ? Be very careful
now."
For the first time Bedney raised his eyes toward the
place where Dyce sat near the prisoner, and he hesi-
tated. He took some tobacco from his vest pocket,
stowed it away in the hollow of his cheek, and re-
cros.-ed his arms.
" When Marster was dressed, and they carried him
t to the drawing-room, Dyce was standin' cryin' by
the fireplace, and I went to the bed, and put my hand
under the bolster, where Marster always kep' his
watch and his pistol. The watch was ther' but no
pistol ; and just sorter stuffed under the pillow case
was a hank'cher. I tuk the watch straight to the
gentlemen in the drawin'-room, and they come back
and sarched for the pistol, and we foun' it layin' in its
case in the table draw'. Of all the nights in his life,
ole Marster had forgot to lay his pistol handy."
" Never mind about the pistol. What became of
the handkerchief ? "
"When I picked it up, an injun-rubber stopper
rolled out, and as ther' wan't no value in a hank'cher,
1 saw no harm in keepin' it for a 'mento of ole Mars-
ter's death."
" You knew it was a lady's handkerchief."
" No, sir ! I didn't know it then ; and what's more,
I don't know it now."
" Is not this the identical handkerchief you
found ? "
" Can't say. ' Dentical is a ticklish trap for a pusson
on oath. It do look like it, to be shore ; but two seed
in an okrey pod is ezactly alike, and one is one, and
t'other is t'other."
" Look at it. To the best of your knowledge and
belief it is the identical handkerchief you found on
General Darrington's pillow ? "
" What I found had red specks sewed in the border,
and this seems jest like it ; but I don't sware to no
dentical 'cause I means to be kereful ; and I will
^tand to the aidge of my oath ; but Mars Alfred
jon't shove me over it."
" Can't you read ? "
"No, sir; I never hankered after book-larnin' tom-
y, and other freedom frauds."
1 68 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
" You know your A B C's ? "
" No more'n a blind mule."
As the solicitor took from the table in front of the
jury box, the embroidered square of cambric, and held
it up by two corners, every eye in the court-room fast-
ened upon it ; and a deadly faintness seized the
prisoner, whitening lips that hitherto had kept their
scarlet outlines.
"Gentleman of the jury, if the murdered man could
stand before you, for one instant only, his frozen ringer
would point to the fatal letters which destiny seems to
have left as a bloody brand. Here in indelible colors
are wrought ' B. B.' Beryl Brentano. Do you won-
der, gentlemen, that when this overwhelming evidence
of her guilt came into my possession, compassion for a
beautiful woman was strangled by supreme horror, in
the contemplation of the depravity of a female mon-
ster ? If these crimson letters were gaping wounds,
could their bloody lips more solemnly accuse yonder
blanched, shuddering, conscience-stricken woman of
the sickening crime of murdering her aged, infirm
grandfather, from whose veins she drew the red tide
that now curdles at her heart ? "
As the third day of the trial wore away, the dense
crowd in the court-room became acquainted with the
sensation of having been unjustly defrauded of the
customary public perquisite ; because the monotonous
proceedings were entirely devoid of the spirited verbal
duels, the microscopic hair splitting, the biting sar-
casms of opposing counsel, the browbeating of wit-
nesses, the tenacious wrangling over invisible legal
points, which usually vary and spice the routine and
stimulate the interest of curious spectators. When a
spiritless fox disdains to double, and stands waiting
for the hounds, who have only to rend it, hunters feel
cheated, and deem it no chase.
To the impatient spectators, it appeared a very tame,
one-sided, and anomalous trial, where like a slow
stream the evidences of guilt oozed, and settled about
the prisoner, who challenged the credibility of no wit-
ness, and waived all the privileges of cross-examina-
tion. Now and then, the audience criticised in whis-
pers the " undue latitude " allowed by the Judge, to
BY AUGUSTA E VANS WILSON. 1 69
the District Solicitor ; but their " exceptions " were
informal, and the prosecution received no serious or
important rebuff.
Was the accused utterly callous, or paralyzed by
consciousness of her crime ; or biding her time for a
dramatic outburst of vindicating testimony ? To her
sensitive nature, the ordeal of sitting day after day to
be stared at by a curious and prejudiced public, was
more torturing than the pangs of Marsyas ; and she
wondered whether a courageous Roman captive who
was shorn of his eyelids, and set under the blistering
sun of Africa, suffered any more keenly ; but motion-
less, apparently impassive as a stone mask, on whose
features pitiless storms beat in vain, she bore without
wincing the agony of her humiliation. Very white and
still, she sat hour by hour with downcast eyes, and
folded hands ; and those who watched most closely
could detect only one change of position ; now and
then she raised her clasped hands, and rested her lips
a moment on the locked fingers, then dropped them
wearily on her lap.
Even when a juryman asked two searching ques-
tions of a witness, she showed no sign of perturbation,
and avoided meeting the eyes in the jury-box, as
though they belonged to basilisks. Was it only three
days since the beginning of this excruciating martyrdom
of soul ; and how much longer could she endure
silently, and keep her reason ?
At times, Sister Serena's hand forsook the knitting,
to lay a soft, caressing touch of encouragement and
sympathy on the girl's shoulder ; and Dyce's burning
indignation vented itself in frequent audible grating of
her strong white teeth. So passed Monday, Tuesday,
Wednesday, in the examination of witnesses who
recapitulated all that had been elicited at the pre-
liminary investigation ; and each nook and cranny of
recollection in the mind of Anthony Burk, the station
agent ; of Belshazzer Tatem, the lame gardener ; of
/can and acrid Miss Angeline, the seamstress, was illu-
minated by the lurid light of Mr. Churchill's adroit
interrogation. Thus far, the prosecution had been
conducted by the District Solicitor, with the occasional
assistance of Mr. Wolverton. who. in conjunction with
Mr. Dunbar, had appeared as representative or. UK
I/O THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
Darrington estate, and its legal heir, Prince ; and when
court adjourned on Wednesday, the belief was gener-
ally entertained that no defence was possible ; and
that at the last moment, the prisoner would confess
her crime, and appeal to the mercy of the jury. As
the deputy sheriff led his prisoner toward the rear en-
trance, where stood the dismal funereal black wagon in
which she was brought from prison to court, Judge
Dent came quickly to meet her.
" My niece, Miss Gordon, could not, of course,
come into the court-room, but she is here in the
library, with her aunt, and desires to see you for a mo-
ment ? "
" Tell her I am grateful for her kind motives, but I
wish to see no one now."
" For your own sake, consider the ah ! here is
my niece."
" 1 hope you need no verbal assurance of my deep
sympathy, and my constant prayers," said Leo, tak-
ing one passive hand between hers, and pressing it
warmly.
" Miss Gordon, I am comforted by your compas-
sion, and by your unwavering confidence in a stranger
whom your townsmen hold up as a ' female monster.'
Because I so profoundly realize how good you are, I
am unwilling that you should identify yourself with my
hopeless cause. My sufferings will soon be over, and
then I want no shadowy reflex cast upon the smiling
blue sky of your future. I have nothing more to lose,
save the burden of a life that I shall be glad to lay
down ; but you ! Be careful, do not jeopardize your
beautiful dream of happiness."
"Why do you persist in rejecting the .overtures
of those who could assist, who might successfully
defend you? I beg of you, consent to receive and
confer with counsel, even to-night."
" You will never understand why I must not, till
the earth gives up her dead. You tremble, because
only one more link can be added to the chain that
is coiling about my neck, and that link is the testi-
mony of the man whose name you expect to bear.
Miss Gordon " she stooped closer, and whispered
slowly : " Do not upbraid your lover ; be tender,
cling to him ; and afford me the consplation of Know*
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 171
ing that the unfortunate woman you befriended, and
trusted, cast not even a fleeting shadow between your
heart and his. Pray for me, that I may be patient and
strong. God bless you."
Turning swiftly, she hurried on to the officer, who
had courteously withdrawn a few yards distant. As
he opened the door of the wagon, he handed her a
loosely folded sheet of paper.
" I promised to deliver your answer as soon as pos-
sible."
By aid of the red glow, burning low in the western
sky, she read :
" Mr. Dunbar requests that for her own sake, Miss
Brentano will grant him an interview this evening."
" My answer must necessarily be verbal. Say that
I will see no one."
To the solitude and darkness of prison she fled for
relief, as into some merciful sheltering arms ; and not
even the loving solicitude of Mrs. Singleton was per-
mitted to penetrate her' seclusion, or share her dreary
vigil. Another sleepless night dragged its leaden
hours to meet the dawn, bringing no rest to the des-
olate soul, who silently grappled with fate, while every
womanly instinct shuddered at the loathsome degrada-
tion forced upon her. Face downward on her hard,
narrow cot, she recalled the terrible accusations, the
opprobrious epithets, and tearless, convulsive sobs of
passionate protest shook her from head to foot.
Tortured with indignation and shame, at the insults
heaped upon her, yet sternly resolved to endure si-
lently, these nights were veritable stations along her
Via Dolorosa ; and fortified her for the daily flagella-
tion in front of the jury-box.
On Thursday a slow, sleeting rain enveloped the
world in a gray cowl, bristling with ice needles ; yet
when Judge Parkman took his seat at nine o'clock,
there was a perceptible increase in the living mass,
packed in every available inch of space.
For the first time, Mr. Dunbar's scat between his
colleagues was vacant; and Mr. Churchill and Mr.
Wolverton were conversing in an animated whisper.
Clad in mourning garments, and with a long crape
1/2 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
veil put back from her face, the prisoner was escorted
to her accustomed place ; and braced by a supreme
effort for the critical hour, which she felt assured was
at hand, her pale set features gleamed like those of a
marble statue shrouded in black.
Called to the stand, Simon Frisby testified that " he
was telegraph operator, and night train despatcher for
railway in X . On October the twenty-sixth, had
just gone on duty at 8 P.M. at the station, when prisoner
came in, and sent a telegram to New York. A copy
of that message had been surrendered to the District
Solicitor. Witness had remained all night in his office,
which adjoined the ladies' waiting-room; and his atten-
tion having been attracted by the unusual fact that it
was left open and lighted, he had twice gone to the
door and looked in, but saw no one. Thought the last
inspection was about two o'clock, immediately after
he had sent a message to the conductor on Train No.
4. Saw prisoner when she came in, a half hour later,
and heard the conversation between her and Burk. the
station agent. Was very positive prisoner could not
have been in the ladies' waiting-room during the severe
storm."
Mr. Churchill read aloud the telegram addressed to
Mrs. Ignace Brentano : " Complete success required
delay. All will be satisfactory. Expect me Saturday.
B. B."
He commented on its ambiguous phraseology, sent
the message to the jury for inspection, and resumed
his chair.
"Lennox Dunbar."
Sister Serena's knitting fell from her fingers; Dyce
groaned aubibly, and Judge Dent, sitting quite near,
uttered a heavy sigh. The statue throbbed into life,
drew herself proudly up ; and with a haughty poise of
the head, her grand eloquent gray eyes looked up at
the witness, and for the first time during the trial bore
a challenge. For fully a moment, eye met eye, soul
looked into soul, with only a few feet of space dividing
prisoner and witness ; and as the girl scanned the
dark, resolute, sternly chiselled face, cold, yet hand-
some as some faultless bronze god, a singular smile
unbent her frozen lips, and Judge Dent and Sister
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 173
Serena wondered what the scarcely audible ejaculation
meant :
" At the mercy of Tiberius ! "-
No faintest reflection of the fierce pain at his heart
could have been discerned on that non-committal coun-
tenance ; and as he turned to the jury, his swart mag-
netic face appeared cruelly hard, sinister.
" I first saw the prisoner at ' Elm Bluff', on the
afternoon previous to General Darrington's death.
When I came out of the house, she was sitting bare-
headed on the front steps, fanning herself with her
hat, and while I was untying my horse, she followed
Bedney into the library. The blinds were open and I
saw her pass the window, walking in the direction of
the bedroom."
Mr. Churchill: "At that time did you suspect her
relationship to your client, General Darrington ?"
" I did not."
" What was the impression left upon your mind ? "
" That she was a distinguished stranger, upon some
important errand."
" She excited your suspicions at once ? "
" Nothing had occurred to justify suspicion. My
curiosity was aroused. Several hours later I was
again at ' Elm Bluff,' on legal business, and found
General Darrington much disturbed in consequence of
an interview with the prisoner, who, he informed me,
was the child of his daughter, whom he had many
years previous disowned and disinherited. In referring
to this interview, his words were: 'I was harsh to the
girl, so harsh that she turned upon me, savage as
a strong cub defending a crippled, helpless dam.
Mother and daughter know now that the last card has
been played ; for I gave the girl distinctly to under
stand, that at my death Prince would inherit every
iota of my estate, and that my will had been carefully
written in order to cut them off without a cent.' "
"You were led to infer that General Darrington had
refused her application for money ?"
"There was no mention of an application for money,
hence I inferred nothing."
" During that conversation, the last which General
Darrington held on earth, did he not tell you he was
174 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
oppressed by an awful presentiment connected with
his granddaughter ? "
" His words were : ' Somehow I am unable to get rid
of the strange, disagreeable presentiment that girl left
behind her as a farewell legacy. She stood there at
the glass door, and raised her hand : ' General Darring-
ton, when you lie down to die, may God have more
mercy on your poor soul, than you have shown to your
suffering child.'
" I advised him to sleep off the disagreeable train of
thought, and as I bade him good night, his last words
were :
<: ' I shall write to Prince to come home.' "
"What do you know concerning the contents of your
client's will ? "
" The original will was drawn up by my father in
187-, but last May, General Darrington required me to
re-write it, as he wished to increase the amount of a
bequest to a certain charitable institution. The pro-
visions of the will were, that with the exception of va-
rious specified legacies, his entire estate, real and per-
sonal, should be given to his step-son Prince ; and it
was carefully worded, with the avowed intention of
barring all claims that might be presented by Ellice
Brentano or her heirs."
" Do you recollect any allusion to jewelry ? "
" One clause of the will set aside a case of sapphire
stones, with the direction that whenever Prince Dar-
rington married, they should be worn by the lady as a
bridal present from him."
"Would you not deem it highly incompatible with all
you know of the General's relentless character, that said
sapphires and money should have been given to the
prisoner ? "
" My surmises would be irrelevant and valueless to
the Court; and facts, indisputable facts, are all that
should be required of witnesses."
" When and where did you next see the prisoner ? "
Cold, crisp, carefully accentuated, his words fell like
lead upon the ears of all present, whose sympathies
were enlisted for the desolate woman ; and as he
stood, tall, graceful, with one hand thrust within his
vest, the other resting easily on the back of the bench
near him, his clear cut face SQ suggestive of
BY A UGUSTA E VANS WILSON. 1 7 5
medallions, gave no more hint of the smouldering
flame at his heart than the glittering ice crown of
Eiriksjokull betrays the fierce lava tides beating be-
neath its frozen crust.
"At 10 o'clock on the same night, I saw the pris-
oner on the road leading from town to ' Elm Bluff', and
not farther than half a mile from the cedar bridge
spanning the ' branch', at the foot of the hill where the
iron gate stands."
" She was then going in the direction of ' Elm
Bluff ? ' "
" She was sitting on the ground, with her head lean-
ing against a pine tree, but she rose as I approached."
"As it was at night, is there a possibility of your
having mistaken some one else for the prisoner ? "
" None whatever. She wore no hat, and the moon
shone full on her face."
" Did you not question her about her presence there,
at such an hour ? "
" I asked : ' Madam, you seem a stranger ; have
you lost your way ? ' She answered, ' No, sir.' I
added: * Pardon me, but having seen you at "Elm
Bluff" this afternoon, I thought it possible you had
missed the road.' She made no reply, and I rode on
to town."
" She betrayed so much trepidation and embarass-
ment, that your suspicion was at once aroused ? "
" She evinced neither trepidation nor embarrass-
ment. Her manner was haughty and repellant, as
though designed to rebuke impertinence. Next morn-
ing, when informed of the peculiar circumstances at-
tending General Darrington's death, I felt it incumbent
upon me to communicate to the magistrate the facts
which I have just narrated."
" An overwhelming conviction of the prisoner's guilt
impelled you to demand her arrest ? "
" Overwhelming conviction rarely results from merely
circumstantial evidence, but a combination of accusing
circumstances certainly pointed to the prisoner ; and
following their guidance, I am responsible for her
arrest and detention for trial. To the scrutiny of the
Court I have submitted every fact that influenced my
action, and the estimate of their value decided by the
jurymen, must either confirm the cogency of my reason-
1/6 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
ing, or condemn my rash fallibility. Having under
oath conscientiously given all the evidence in my pos-
session, that the prosecution would accept or desire, I
now respectfully request, that unless the prisoner
chooses to exercise her right of cross-examination, my
colleagues of the prosecution, and his Honor, will
grant me a final discharge as witness."
Turning toward Beryl, Judge Parkman said :
" It is my duty again to remind you, that the cross-
examination of witnesses is one of the most important
methods of defence; as thereby inaccuracies of state-
ment regarding time, place, etc., are often detected in
criminal prosecutions, which otherwise might remain
undiscovered. To this invaluable privilege of every
defendant, I call your attention once more. Will you
cross-question the witness on the stand ? "
Involuntarily her eyes sought those of the witness,
and despite his locked and guarded face, she read
there an intimation that vaguely disquieted her. She
knew that the battle with him must yet be fought.
"I waive the right."
" Then, with the consent of the prosecuting counsel,
witness is discharged, subject to recall should the
necessities of rebuttal demand it."
"By agreement with my colleagues, I ask for final
discharge, subject to your Honor's approval."
" If in accordance with their wishes, the request is
granted."
The clock on the turret struck one, the hour of
adjournment, and ere recess was declared, Mr. Church-
ill rose.
" Having now proved by trustworthy and unques-
tioned witnesses a dark array of facts, which no
amount of additional testimony could either strengthen,
or controvert, the prosecution here rest their case be-
fore the jury for inspection ; and feeling assured that
only one conclusion can result, will call no other wit-
ness, unless required in rebuttal."
Desiring to be alone, Beryl had shut out even Sister
Serena, and as the officer locked her into a dark ante-
chamber, adjoining the court-room, she began to pace
the floor. One tall, narrow window, dim with inside
dust, showed her through filmy cobwebs the gray wai'
BY AUGUSTA E VANS WILSON. 1 77
of rain falling ceaselessly outside, darkening the day
that seemed a fit type of her sombre-hued life, drawing
swiftly to its close, with no hope of rift in the clouds,
no possibility of sunset glow even to stain its grave.
Oh ! to be hidden safely in mother earth away from
the gaping crowd that thirsted for her blood ! at rest
in darkness and in silence ; with the maddening stings
of outraged innocence and womanly delicacy stilled
forever. Oh ! the coveted peace of lying under the
sod, with only nodding daisies, whispering grasses,
crystal chimes of vernal rain, solemn fugue of wintry
winds between her tired, aching eyes and the fair,
eternal heavens ! Harrowing days and sleepless,
horror-haunted nights, invincible sappers and miners,
had robbed her of strength ; and the uncontrollable
shivering that now and then seized her, warned her
that her nerves were in revolt against the unnatural
strain. The end was not far distant, she must endure
a little longer ; but that last batttle with Mr. Dunbar ?
On what ground, with what weapons would he force
her to fight ? Kneeling in front of a wooden bench that
lined one side of the room, she laid her head on the
seat, covered her face with her hands, and prayed for
guidance, for divine help in her hour of supreme deso-
lation.
" God of the helpless, succor me in my need. For-
bid that through weakness the sacrifice should be
incomplete. Lead, sustain, fortify me with patience,
that I may ransom the soul I have promised to save."
After a time, when she resumed her walk, a strange
expedient presented itself. If she sent for Mr. Dunbar,
exacted an oath of secrecy, and confided the truth to
his keeping, would it avail to protect her secret ;
would it silence him ? Could she stoop so low as to
throw herself upon his mercy ? Therein lay the nause-
ous lees of her cup of humiliation ; yet if she drained
this last black drop, would any pledge have power to
seal his lips, when he saw that she must die ?
The deputy sheriff unlocked the door, and she
mechanically followed him.
" I wish you would drink this glass of wine. You
look so exhausted, and the air in yonder is so close, it
is enough to stifle a mole. This will help to brace you
up."
12
178 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
" Thank you very much, but I could not take it. I
can bear my wrongs even to the end, and that must be
very near."
As he ushered her into the court-room, Judge Dent
met her, took her hand, and led her to the seat where
Dyce and Sister Serena awaited her return.
" My poor child, be courageous now ; and remember
that you have some friends here, who are praying God
to help and deliver you."
" Did He deliver His own Son from the pangs of
death ? Pray, that I may be patient to endure."
One swift glance showed her that Mr. Dunbar, for-
saking his former place beside the district attorney,
was sitting very near, just in front of her. The jury-
men filed slowly into their accustomed seats, and the
judge, who had been resting his head on his hand,
straightened himself, and put aside a book. There
was an ominous hush pervading the dense crowd, and
in that moment of silent expectancy, Beryl shut her
eyes and communed with her God. Some mystical
exaltation of soul removed her from the realm of nerv-
ous dread ; and a peace, that this world neither gives
nor takes away, settled upon her. Sister Serena
untied and took off the crape veil and bonnet, and as
she resumed her seat, Judge Parkman turned to the
prisoner.
" In assuming the responsibility of your own defence
you have adopted a line of policy which, however satis-
factory to yourself, must, in the opinion of the public,
have a tendency to invest your cause with peculiar
peril ; therefore I impress upon you the fact, that while
the law holds you innocent, until twelve men agree
that the evidence proves you guilty, the time has ar-
rived when your cause depends upon your power to
refute the charges, and disprove the alleged facts ar-
rayed against you. The discovery and elucidation of
Truth, is the supreme aim of a court of justice, and
to its faithful ministers the defence of innocence is
even more imperative than the conviction of guilt. The
law is a Gibraltar, fortified and armed by the consum-
mate wisdom of successive civilizations, as an impreg-
nable refuge for innocence ; and here, within its pro-
tecting bulwarks, as in the house of a friend, you are
called on to plead your defence. You have heard the
BY A UGUSTA E VANS WILSON. \ 79
charges of the prosecution ; listened to the testimony
of the witnesses ; and having taken your cause into
your own hands, you must now stand up and defend
it."
She rose and walked a few steps closer to the jury,
and for the first time during the trial, looked at them
steadily. White as a statue of Purity, she stood for
a moment, with her wealth of shining auburn hair
coiled low on her shapely head, and waving in soft
outlines around her broad full brow. Unnaturally
calm, and wonderfully beautiful in that sublime sur-
render, which like a halo illumines the myth of Anti-
gone, it was not strange that every heart thrilled, when
upon the strained ears of the multitude fell the clear,
sweet, indescribably mournful voice.
" When a magnolia blossom or a white camelia just
fully open, is snatched by violent hands, bruised,
crushed, blackened, scarred by rents, is it worth keep-
ing ? No power can undo the ruin, and since all that
made it lovely its stainless purity is irrevocably
destroyed, why preserve it ? Such a pitiable wreck
you have made of the young life I am bidden to stand
up and defend. Have you left me anything to live
for ? Dragged by constables before prejudiced stran-
gers, accused of awful crimes, denounced as a female
monster, herded with convicts, can you imagine any
reason why I should struggle to prolong a disgraced,
hopelessly ruined existence ? My shrivelled, mutilated
life is in your hands, and if you decide to crush it
quickly, you will save me much suffering ; as when
having, perhaps unintentionally, mangled some harm-
less insect, you mercifully turn back, grind it under
your heel, and end its torture. My life is too wretched
now to induce me to defend it, but there is something
I hold far dearer, my reputation as an honorable
Christian woman ; something I deem most sacred of
all the unsullied purity of the name my father and
mother bore. Because I am innocent of every charge
made against me, I owe it to my dead, to lift their
honored name out of the mire. I have pondered the
testimony ; and the awful mass of circumstances that
have combined to accuse me, seems indeed so Over-
whelming, that as each witness came forward, I have
asked myself, am I the victim of some baleful destiny,
180 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
placed in the grooves of destroying fate foreordained
from the foundations of the world to bear the burden
of another's guilt ? You have been told that I killed
General Darrington, and stole his money and jewels,
and destroyed his will, in order to possess his estate.
Trustworthy witnesses have sworn to facts, which I
cannot deny, and you believe these facts ; and yet,
while the snare tightens around my feet, and I believe
you intend to condemn me, I stand here, and look you
in the face as one day we thirteen will surely stand at
the final judgment and in the name of the God I
love, and fear, and trust, I call you each to witness,
that I am innocent of every charge in the indictment.
My hands are as unstained, my soul is as unsullied by
theft or bloodshed, as your sinless babes cooing in
their cradles.
" If you can clear your minds of the foul tenants
thrust into them, try for a little while to forget all the
monstrous crimes you have heard ascribed to me, and
as you love your mothers, wives, daughters, go back
with me, leaving prejudice behind, and listen dis-
passionately to my most melancholy story. The river
of death rolls so close to my weary feet, that I speak
as one on the brink of eternity ; and as I hope to meet
my God in peace, I shall tell you the truth. Some-
times it almost shakes our faith in God's justice, when
we suffer terrible consequences, solely because we did
our duty ; and it seems to me bitterly hard, inscrutable,
that all my misfortunes should have come upon me
thick and fast, simply because I obeyed my mother.
You, fathers, say to your children, ' Do this for my
sake,' and lovingly they spring to accomplish your
wishes ; and when they are devoured by agony, and
smothered by disgrace, can you sufficiently pity them,
blind artificers of their own ruin ?
" Four months ago I was a very poor girl, but proud
and happy, because by my own work I could support
my mother and myself. Her health failed rapidlv, and
life hung upon an operation and certain careful subse-
quent treatment, which it required one hundred dollars
to secure. I was competing for a prize that would lift
us above want, but time pressed ; the doctor urged
prompt action, and my mother desired me to come
South, see her father, deliver a letter and beg for
BY AUGUSTA E VANS WILSON. 1 8 1
assistance. As long as possible, I resisted her en-
treaties, because I shrank from the degradation of
coming as a beggar to the man who, I knew, had dis-
inherited and disowned his daughter.
" Finally, strangling my rebellious reluctance, I ac-
cepted the bitter task. My mother kissed me good-
bye, laid her hands on my head and blessed me for
acceding to her wishes : and so following the finger
of Duty I came here to be trampled, mangled,
destroyed. When I arrived, I found I could catch a
train going north at 7.15, and I bought a return ticket,
and told the agent I intended to ta.ke that train. I
walked to ' Elm Bluff,' and after waiting a few moments
was admitted to General Darrington's presence. The
letter which I delivered was an appeal for one hun-
dred dollars, and it was received with an outburst
of wrath, a flood of fierce and bitter denunciation of
my parents. The interview was indescribably painful
but toward its close, General Darrington relented. He
opened his safe or vault, and took out a square tin box.
Placing it on the table, he removed some papers, and
counted down into my hand, five gold coins twenty
dollars each. When I turned to leave him, he called
me back, gave me the morocco case, and stated that
the sapphires were very costly, and could be sold for a
large amount. He added, with great bitterness, that
he gave them, simply because they were painful sou-
venirs of a past, which he was trying to forget ; and
that he had intended them as a bridal gift to his son
Prince's wife ; but as they had been bought by my
mother's mother as a present for her only child, he
would send them to their original destination, for the
sake of his first wife, Helena.
" I left the room by the veranda door, because he
bade me do so, to avoid what he termed ' the prying of
servants.' I broke some clusters of chrysanthemums
blooming in the rose garden, to carry to my mother,
and then I hurried away. If the wages of disobedience
be death, then fate reversed the mandate, and obedi-
ence exacts my life as a forfeit. Think of it : I had
ample time to reach the station before seven o'clock,
and if I had gone straight on, all would have been
well. I should have taken the 7.15 train, and left for-
ever this horrible place. If 1 had not loitered, I
1 82 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
should have seen once more my mother's face, have
escaped shame, despair, ruin oh ! the blessedness of
what ' might have been ! '
" Listen, my twelve judges, and pity the child who
obeyed at all hazards. Poor though I was, I bought a
small bouquet for my sick mother the day I left her,
and the last thing she did was to arrange the flowers,
tie them with a wisp of faded blue ribbon, and putting
them in my hand, she desired me to be sure to stop at
the cemetery, find her mother's grave in the Darring-
ton lot, and lay the bunch of blossoms for her upon
her mother's monument. Mother's last words were :
' Don't forget to kneel down and pray for me, at moth-
er's grave.' "
The voice so clear, so steady hitherto, quivered,
ceased ; and the heavy lashes drooped to hide the tears
that gathered ; but it was only for a few seconds, and
she resumed in the same cold, distinct tone.
" So I went on, and fate tied the last millstone
around my neck. After some search I found the place,
and left the bunch of flowers with a few of the chrysan-
themums ; then I hastened toward town, and reached
the station too late ; the 7.15 train had gone. Too
late ! only a half hour lost, but it carried down every-
thing that this world held for me. I used to wonder
and puzzle over that passage in the Bible, ' The stars
in their courses fought against Sisera ! ' I have
solved that mystery, for the ' stars in their courses '
have fought against me ; heaven, earth, man, time, cir-
cumstances, coincidences, all spun the web that snared
my innocent feet. When I paid for the telegram to
relieve my mother's suspense, I had not sufficient
money (without using the gold) to enable me to incur
hotel bills ; and I asked permission to remain in the
waiting-room until the next train, which was due at
3.05. The room was so close and warm I walked out,
and the fresh air tempted me to remain. The moon
was up, full and bright, and knowing no other street, I
unconsciously followed the one I had taken in the
afternoon. Very soon I reached the point near the old
church where the road crosses, and I turned into it,
thinking that I would enjoy one more breath of the
pine forest, which was so new to me. It was so op-
pressively hot I sat down on the pine straw, and
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 183
fanned myself with my hat. How long I remained
there, I know not, for 1 fell asleep ; and when I awoke,
Mr. Dunbar rode up and asked if I had lost my way.
I answered that I had not, and as soon as he galloped
on, I walked back as rapidly as possible, somewhat
frightened at the loneliness of my position. Already
clouds were gathering, and I had been in the waiting-
room, I think about an hour, when the storm broke in
its fury. I had seen the telegraph operator sitting in
his office, but he seemed asleep, with his head resting
on the table ; and during the storm I sat on the floor,
in one corner of the waiting-room, and laid my head
on a chair. At last, when the tempest ended, I went
to sleep. During that sleep, I dreamed of my old
home in Italy, of some of my dead, of my father of
gathering grapes with one I clearly loved and sud-
denly some noise made me spring to my feet. I heard
voices talking, and in my feverish dreamy state, there
seemed a resemblance to one I knew. Only half
awake, I ran out on the pavement. Whether I dreamed
the whole, I cannot tell ; but the conversation seemed
strangely distinct; and I can never forget the woids,
be they real, or imaginary :
" 'There ain't no train till daylight, 'cepting it be the
through freight.'
" Then a different voice asked : l When is thax
due ? '
" ' Pretty soon I reckon, it's mighiv nigh time now,
but it don't stop here ; it goes on to the water tank>
where it blows for the bridge.'
" ' How far is the bridge ? *
" Only a short piece down the track, after you pass
the tank.'
" When I reached the street, I saw no one but the
figure of an old man, I think a negro, who was walking
away. He limped and carried a bundle on the end of
a stick thrown over his shoulder. I was so startled
and impresseu by the fancied sound of a voice once
familiar to me, that I walked on down the track, but
could see no one. Soon the ' freight ' came along ; I
stood aside until it passed, then returned to the station,
and found the agent standing in the door. When he
questioned me about my movements, I deemed him
impertinent ; but having nothing to conceal, stated the
1 84 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
facts I have just recapitulated. You have been told
that I intentionally missed the train ; that when seen
at 10 P.M. in the pine woods, I was stealing back to
my mother's old home ; that I entered at midnight the-
bedroom where her father slept, stupefied him with
chloroform, broke open his vault, robbed it of money,
jewels and will ; and that when General Darrington
awoke and attempted to rescue his property, I deliber-
ately killed him. You are asked to believe that I am
' the incarnate fiend ' who planned and committed that
horrible crime, and, alas for me ! every circumstance
seems like a bloodhound to bay me. My handkerchief
was found, tainted with chloroform. It was my hand-
kerchief ; but how it came there, on General Darring-
ton's bed, only God witnessed. I saw among the papers
taken from the tin box and laid on the table, a large
envelope marked in red ink, ' Last Will and Testa-
ment of Robert Luke Darrington ' ; but I never saw it
afterward. I was never in that room but once ; and
the last and only time I ever saw General Darrington
was when I passed out of the glass door, and left him
standing in the middle of the room, with the tin box in
his hand.
" I can call no witnesses ; for it is one of the ter-
rible fatalities of my situation that I stand alone, with
none to corroborate rny assertions. Strange, inexplic-
able coincidences drag me down ; not the malice of
men, but the throttling grasp of circumstances. I am
the victim of some diabolical fate, which only innocent
blood will appease ; but though 1 am slaughtered for
crimes I did not commit, I know, oh ! I know, that
behind fate, stands God! the just and eternal God,
whom I trust, even in this my hour of extremest peril.
Alone in the world, orphaned, reviled, wrecked for
all time, without a ray of hope, I, Beryl Brentano,
deny every accusation brought against me in this cruel
arraignment ; and I call my only witness, the
righteous God above us, to hear my solemn assevera-
tion : I am innocent of this crime ; and when you
judicially murder me in the name of Justice, your hands
will be dyed in blood that an avenging God will one
day require of you. Appearances, circumstances, co-
incidences of time and place, each, all, conspire to hunt
me into a convict's grave ; but remember, my twelve
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 1 8$ '
judges, remember that a hopeless, forsaken, broken-
hearted woman, expecting to die at your hands, stood
before you, and pleaded first and last Not Guilty !
Not Guilty ! "
A moment she paused, then raised her arms towards
heaven and added, with a sudden exultant ring in her
thrilling voice, and a strange rapt splendor in her up-
lifted eyes :
"Innocent! Innocent! Thou God knowest! Inno-
cent of this sin, as the angels that see Thy face."
As a glassy summer sea suddenly quivers, heaves,
billows under the strong steady pressure of a rising
gale, so that human mass surged and broke in waves
of audible emotion, when Beryl's voice ceased ; for the
grace and beauty of a sorrowing woman hold a spell
more potent than volumes of forensic eloquence, of
juridic casuistry, of rhetorical pyrotechnics, and at its
touch, the latent floods of pity gushed ; people sprang
to their feet, and somewhere in the wide auditory a
woman sobbed. Habitues of a celebrated Salon dcs
Etrangers recall the tradition of a Hungarian noble-
man who, apparently calm, nonchalant, debonair,
gambled desperately; "while his right hand, resting
easily inside the breast of his coat, clutched and lacer-
ated his flesh tilMiis nails dripped with blood." With
emotions somewhat analogous, Mr. Dunbar sat as
participant in this judicial rouge et twir, where the
stakes were a human life, and the skeleton hand of
death was already outstretched. Listening to the
calm, mournful voice which alone had power to stir
and thrill his pulses, he could not endure the pain of
watching the exquisite face that haunted him day and
night; and when he computed the chances of her con-
viction, a maddening perception of her danger made
his brain reel.
To all of us comes a supreme hour, when realizing
the adamantine limitations of human power, the "thus
far, no farther " of resentless physiological, psycholog-
cal and ethical statutes under which humanity lives,
moves, has its being our desperate souls break
through the meshes of that pantheistic idolatry
which kneels only to " Natural Laws," and spring as
suppliants to Him, who made Law possible. We take
THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
.tion of happiness and prosperity, and while it
.ve wander far, far away in the seductive land of
.osophical speculation, and level in the freedom and
responsibility of Agnosticism ; and lo ! when adver-
sity smites, and bankruptcy is upon us, we toss the
husks of the " Unknowable and Unthinkable " behind
us, and flee as the Prodigal who knew his father, to
that God whom (in trouble) we surely know.
Certainly Lennox Dunbar was as far removed from
religious tendencies as conformity to the canons of con-
ventional morality and the habits of an honorable
gentleman in good society would permit ; yet to-day, in
the intensity of his dread, lest the "consummate
flower" of his heart's dearest hope should be laid low
in the dust, he involuntarily invoked the aid of a long-
forgotten God ; and through his set teeth a prayer
struggled up to the throne of that divine mercy, which
in sunshine we do not see, but which as the soul's
eternal lighthouse gleams, glows, beckons in the
blackest night of human anguish. In boyhood, desir-
ing to please his invalid and slowly dying mother, he
had purchased and hung up opposite her bed, an illu-
minated copy of her favorite text; and now, by some
subtle transmutation in the conservation of spiritual
energy, each golden letter of that Bible text seemed
emblazoned on the dusty wall of the court-room : " God
is our refuge and strength, a very present help in
trouble."
When a stern reprimand from the Judge had quelled
all audible expression of the compassionate sympathy
that flowed at the prisoner's story as the flood at
Horeb responded to Moses' touch there was a brief
silence.
Mr. Dunbar rose, crossed the intervening space and
stood with his hand on the back of Beryl's chair ,
then moved on closer to the jury box.
"May it please your Honor, and -Gentlemen of the
Jury : Sometimes mistakes are crimes, and he who
through unpardonable rashness commits them, should
not escape 'umvhipped of justice.' When a man in
the discharge of that which he deemed a duty, becomes
aware that unintentionally he has perpetrated a great
wrong, can he parley with pride, or dally, because the
haunting ghost of consistency waves him back from
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 187
the path of a humiliating reparation ? Error is easy,
confession galling ; and stepping down from the cen-
sor's seat to share the mortification of the pillory, is at
all times a peculiarly painful reverse ; hence, powerful
indeed must be the conviction which impels a man
who prided himself on his legal astuteness, to come
boldly into this sacred confessional of truth and justice,
and plead for absolution from a stupendous mistake
Two years ago, I became General Darrington's attorney,
and when his tragic death occurred in October last,
my professional relations, as well as lifelong friendship,
incited me to the prompt apprehension of the person
who had murdered him. After a careful and appar
ently exhaustive examination of the authenticated
facts, I was convinced that they pointed only in one
direction ; and in that belief, I demanded and pro-
cured the arrest of the prisoner. For her imprison-
ment, her presence here to-day, her awful peril, I hold
myself responsible ; and now, gentlemen of the jury, I
ask you as men having hearts of flesh, and all the
honorable instincts of manhood, which alone could
constitute you worthy umpires in this issue of life or
death, do you, can you wonder that regret sits at my
ear, chanting mournful dirges, and remorse like a
harpy fastens her talons in my soul, when I tell you,
that I have committed a blunder so frightful, that it
borders on a crime as heinous as that for which my
victim stands arraigned ? Wise was the spirit of a tra-
ditional statute, which decreed that the author of a false
accusation should pay the penalty designed for the ac-
cused; and just indeed would be the retribution, that
imposed on me the suffering I have entailed on her.
" Acknowledging the error into which undue haste
betrayed me, yet confident that divine justice, to whom
I have sworn allegiance, has recalled me from a false
path to one that I can now tread with absolute cer-
tainty of success, I come to-day into this, her sacred
temple, lay my hand on her inviolate altar, and claim-
ing the approval of her officiating high-priest, his
Honor, appeal to you, gentlemen of the jury, to give
me your hearty co-operation in my effort to repair a
foul wrong, by vindicating innocence.
" Professors of opthalmology in a diagnosis of optical
diseases, tell us of a symptom of infirmity which they
1 88 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
call pseudoblepsis, or 'false sight'. Legal vision ex-
hibits, now and then, a corresponding phase of uncon-
scious perversion of sight, whereby objects are per-
ceived that do not exist, and objects present become
transformed, distorted ; and such an instance of exag-
gerated metamorphopsia is presented to-day, in the
perverted vision of the prosecution. In the incipiency
of this case, prior to, and during the preliminary ex-
amination held in October last, I appeared in conjunc-
tion with Mr. Wolverton, as assistant counsel in the
prosecution, represented by the Honorable Mr. Church-
ill, District Solicitor ; the object of said prosecution
being the conviction of the prisoner, who was held as
guilty of General Darrington's death. Subsequent re-
flection and search necessitated an abandonment of
views that could alone justify such a position ; and
after consultation with my colleagues I withdrew ; not
from the prosecution of the real criminal, to the dis-
covery and conviction of whom I shall dedicate every
energy of my nature, but from the pursuit of one most
unjustly accused. Anomalous as is my attitude, the
dictates of conscience, reason, heart, force me into it ;
and because I am the implacable prosecutor of General
Darrington's murderer, 1 come to plead in defence of the
prisoner, whom I hold guiltless of. the crime, innocent
of the charge in the indictment. In the supreme hour
of her isolation, she has invoked only one witness, and
may that witness the God above us, the God of justice,
the God of innocence, grant me the inspiration, and
nerve my arm to snatch her from peril, and trium-
phantly vindicate the purity of her noble heart and
life."
Remembering the important evidence which he had
furnished to the prosecution, only a few hours previous,
when on the witness stand, people looked at one an-
other questioningly; doubling the testimony of their
own senses ; and vox populi was not inaptly expressed
by the whispered ejaculation of Bedney to Dyce.
" Judgment day must be breaking ! Mars Lennox
is done turned a double summersett, and lit plum over
on t'other side ! It's about ekal to a spavinned, ring-
boned, hamstrung, hobbled horse clearin' a ten-rail
fence ! He jumps so beautiful, I am afeered he won't
stay whar he lit ! "
BY A UGUSTA E VANS WILSON. 1 89
Comprehending all that this public recantation had
cost a proud man, jealous of his reputation for pro-
fessional tact and skill, as well as for individual acu-
men, Beryl began to realize the depth and fervor of the
love that prompted it ; and the merciless ordeal to
which he would subject her. Inflicting upon himself
the smarting sting of the keenest possible humiliation,
could she hope that in the attainment of his aim he
would spare her ? If she threw herself even now upon
his mercy, would he grant to her that which he had
denied hemself ?
Dreading the consequences of even a moment's delay,
she rose, and a hot flush crimsoned her cheeks, as she
looked up at the Judge.
" Is it my privilege to decide who shall defend me ?
Have I now the right to accept or reject proffered
aid ? "
"The law grants you that privilege; secures you
that right."
"Then I decline the services of the counsel who
offers to plead in my defence. I wish no human voice
raised in my behalf; and having made my statement
in my own defence, I commit my cause to the hands of
my God."
For a moment her eyes dwelt upon the lawyer's, and
as she resumed her seat, she saw the spark in their
blue depths leap into a flame. Advancing a few steps,
his handsome face aglow, his voice rang like a bugle
call :
" May it please your Honor : Anomalous conditions
sanction, necessitate most anomalous procedure, where
the goal sought is simple truth and justice ; and since
the prisoner prefers to rest her cause, I come to this
bar as Amicus Curia, and appeal for permission to
plead in behalf of my clients, truth, and justice, who
hold me in perpetual retainment. In prosecution of
the real criminal, in order to unravel the curiously
knitted web, and bring the culprit to summary punish-
ment, I ask you, gentlemen of the jury, to ponder dispas-
sionately the theory I have now the honor to submit
to your scrutiny.
"The prisoner, whom I regard as the victim of my
culpable haste and deplorably distorted vision, is as
innocent of General Darrington's murder as you or I ;
190 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
but I charge, that while having no complicity in that
awful deed, she is nevertheless perfectly aware of the
name of the person \vho committed it. \$Q\. pariicfps
criminis, neither consenting to, aiding, abetting nor
even acquainted with the fact of the crime, until ac-
cused of its perpetration ; yet at this moment in pos-
session of the only clue which will enable justice to
seize the murderer. Conscious of her innocence, she
braves peril that would chill the blood of men > and
extort almost any secret ; and shall I tell you the
reason ? Shall I give you the key to an enigma which
she knows means death?
" Gentlemen of the jury, is there any sacrifice so
tremendous, any anguish so keen, any shame so dread-
ful, any fate so overwhelmingly terrible as to transcend
the endurance, or crush the power of a woman's love ?
Under this invincible inspiration, when danger threat-
ens her idol, she knows no self ; disgrace, death affright,
her not ; she extends her arms to arrest every approach,
offers her own breast as a shield against darts, bullets,
s vord thrusts, and counts it a privilege to lay down life
in defence of that idol. O ! loyalty supreme, sublime,
immortal ! thy name is woman's love.
" All along the march of humanity, where centuries
have trailed their dust, traditions gleam like monu-
ments to attest the victory of this immemorial
potency, female fidelity; and when we of the nine-
teenth century seek the noblest, grandest type of
merely human self-abnegation, that laid down a pure
and happy life, to prolong that of a beloved object, we
look back to the lovely image of that fair Greek
woman, who, when the parents of the man she loved
refused to give their lives to save their son, summoned
death to accept her as a willing victim ; and deeming
it a privilege, went down triumphantly into the grave.
Sustained, exalted by this most powerful passion that
can animate and possess a human soul, the prisoner
stands a pure, voluntary, self-devoted victim ; defying
the terrors of the law, consenting to condemnation
surrendering to an ignominious death, in order to save
the life of the man she loves.
" Grand and beautiful as is the spectacle of her calm
mournful heroism, I ask you, as men capable of appre-
ciating her noble self-immolation, can you permit the
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 191
consummation of this sacrifice ? Will you, dare you,
selected, appointed, dedicated by solemn oaths to ad-
minister justice, prove so recreant to your holy trust
as to aid, abet, become accessories to, and responsible
for the murder of the prisoner, by accepting a stainless
victim, to appease that violated law which only the
blood of the guilty can ever satisfy ?
" In order to avert so foul a blot on the escutcheon
of our State judiciary, in order to protect innocence
from being slaughtered, and supremely in order to
track and bring to summary punishment the criminal
who robbed and murdered General Dariington, I now
desire, and request, that your Honor will permit me to
cross-examine the prisoner on the statement she has
offered in defence."
" In making that request, counsel must be aware
that it is one of the statutory provisions of safety to
the accused, whom the law holds innocent until
proved guilty, that no coercion can be employed to
extort answers. It is, however, the desire of the
court, and certainly must accrue to the benefit of the
prisoner, that she should take the witness stand in her
own defense."
For a moment there was neither sound nor motion.
" Will the prisoner answer such questions as in the
opinion of the Court are designed solely to establish
her innocence ? If so, she will take the stand."
With a sudden passionate movement at variance
with her demeanor throughout the trial, she threw up
her clasped hands, gazed at them, then pressed them
ring downward as a seal upon her lips ; and after an
instant, answered slowly :
" Now and henceforth, I decline to answer any and
all questions. I am innocent, entirely innocent. The
burden of proof res's upon my accusers."
As Mr. Dunbar watched her, noted the scarlet spots
burning on her cheeks, the strange expression of her
eyes that glowed with unnatural lustre, a scowl dark-
ened his face ; a cruel smile curved his lips, and
made his teeth gleam. Was it worth while 10 save
her against her will; to preserve the heart he coveted,
for the vile miscreant to whom she had irrevocably
given it ? With an upward movement of his noble
head, like the impatient toss of a horse intolerant of
1 92 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
curb, he stepped back close to the girl, and stood with
his hand on the back of her chair.
"In view of this palpable evasion of justice through
obstinate non responsion, will it please the Court to
overrule the prisoner's objection ? "
Several moments elapsed before Judge Parkman re-
plied, and he gnawed the end of his grizzled mustache,
debating tfie consequences of dishonoring precedent
that fetich of the Bench.
" The Court cannot so rule. The prisoner has de-
cided upon the line of defence, as is her inalienable
right ; and since she persistently assumes that respon-
bility, the Court must sustain her decision."
The expression of infinite and intense relief that stole
over the girl's countenance, was noted by both judge
and jury, as she sank back wearily in her chair, like
one lifted from some rack of torture. Resting thus,
her shoulder pressed against the hand that lay on the
top of the chair, but he did not move a finger; and
some magnetic influence drew her gaze to meet his.
He felt the tremor that crept over her, understood the
mute appeal, the prayer for forbearance that made her
mournful gray eyes so eloquent, and a sinister smile
distorted his handsome mouth.
" The spirit and intent of the law, the usages of
criminal practice, above all, hoary precedent, before
which we bow, each and all sanction your Honor's
ruling ; and yet despite everything, the end I sought
is already attained. Is not the refusal of the prisoner
proof positive, ' confirmation strong as proofs of Holy
Writ ' of the truth of my theory ? With jealous dread
she seeks to lock the clue in her faithful heart, court-
ing even the coffin, that would keep it safe through all
the storms of time. Impregnable in her citadel of
silence, with the cohorts of Codes to protect her from
escalade and assault, will the guardians of justice have
obeyed her solemn commands when they permit the
prisoner to light the funeral prye where she elects to
throw herself a vicarious sacrifice for another's sins ?
For a nature so exalted, the Providence who endowed
it has decreed a nobler fate ; and by His help, and
that of your twelve consciences, I purpose to save her
from a species of suicide, and to consign to the hang-
man the real criminal. The evidence now submitted,
BY AUGUSTA Et'ANS WILSON. 193
will be furnished by the testimony of witnesses who
at my request, have been kept without the hearing of
the Court."
He left Beryl's chair, and once more approached the
jury.
" Isam Hornbuckle."
A negro man, apparently sixty years old, limped
into the witness stand, and having been sworn, stood
leaning on his stick, staring uneasily about him.
" What is your name ? "
" Isam Clay Hornbuckle."
" Where do you live ? "
" Nigh the forks of the road, close to 'Possum
Ridge."
" How far from town ? "
" By short cuts I make it about ten miles ; but the
gang what works the road calls it twelve."
" Have you a farm there ? "
" Yes'ir. A pretty tolerble farm ; a cornfield and
potato patch and gyarden, and parsture for my hogs,
and oxin, and a slipe of woods for my pine knots."
" What is your business ? "
" Tryin' to make a livin', and it keeps me bizzy, for
lans is poor, and seasons is most ginerally agin
crops."
" How long have you been farming ? "
" Only sence I got mashed up more 'an a year ago
on the railroad."
" In what capacity did you serve, when working on
the railroad ? "
" I was fireman under ingeneer Walker on the loky-
motive 'Gin'l Borygyard,' what most ginerally
hauled Freight No. 2. The ingines goes now by
numbers, but we ole hands called our'n always ' Bory-
gyard. ' "
"You were crippled in a collision between two
freight trains ? "
" Yes'ir ; but t'other train was the cause of the "
" Never mind the cause of the accident. You
moved out to ' Possum Ridge ; can you remember
exactly when you were last in town ? "
"To be shore! I know ezactly, 'cause it was the
day my ole 'oman's step-father's granny's funeral
sarmont was preached ; and that was on a Thurs-
'3
194 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
day, twenty-sixth of October, an' I come up to 'tend
it."
" Is it not customary to preach the funeral sermons
on Sunday ? "
" Most ginerally, Boss, it are ; but you see Bre'r
Green, what was to preach the ole 'oman's sarmont,
had a big baptizin' for two Sundays han' runnin', and
he was gwine to Boston for a spell, on the next comin'
Saddy, so bein' as our time belonks to us now, we was
free to 'pint a week day."
" You are positive it was the twenty-sixth ? "
" Oh, yes'ir ; plum postiv. The day was norated
from all the baptiss churches, so as the kinfolks could
gether from fur and nigh."
" At what hour on Thursday was the funeral sermon
preached ? "
" Four o'clock sharp."
" Where did you stay while in town ? "
" With my son Ducaleyon, who keeps a barber-shop
on Main Street."
" When did you return home? "
" I started before day, Friday mornin', as soon as the
rain hilt up."
" At what hour, do you think ? "
" The town clock was a strikin' two, jes as I passed
the express office, at the station."
"Now, Isam, tell the Court whom you saw, and
what happened ; and be very careful in all you say, re-
membering you are on your oath."
" I was atoting a bundle so slung on to a stick, and
it galded my shoulder, 'cause amongst a whole passel
of plunder I had bought ther was a bag of shot inside,
what had slewed 'round oft the balance, and I sot
down close to a lamp-post nigh the station, to shift
the heft of the shot bag. Whilst I were a squatting,
tying up my bundle, I heerd all of a sudden t some-
body runnin', brip brap ! and up kem a man from
round the corner of the station-house, a runnin' full
tilt ; and he would a run over me. but I grabbed my
bundle and riz up. Sez I : ' Hello ! what's to pay ? '
He was most out of breath, but sez he : 'Is the train
in yet ? ' Sez I : ' There ain't no train till daylight,
'cepting k be the through freight.' Then he axed me :
' When is that due ? ' and I tole him : ' Pretty soon, I
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 195
reckon, but it don't stop here : if only slows up at the
water tank, whar it blows for the bridge.' Sez he :
' How fur is that bridge ? ' Sez I : ' Only a short piece
clown the track, after you pass the tank.' He tuck a
long breath, and kinder whistled, and with that he
turned and heeled it down the middle of the track. I
thought it mighty curus, and my mind misgive me
thar was somethin' crooked ; but I always pinteclly
dodges; ' lie-lows to ketch meddlers,' and 1 went on
my way. When I got nigh the next corner whar I
had to turn to cross the river, I looked back and I seen
a 'oman standin' on the track, in front of the station-
house ; but I parsed on, and soon kem to the bridge
(not the railroad bridge), Boss. I had got on the top
of the hill to the left of the Pentenchry, when I
hearn ole ' Bory ' blow. You see I knowed the run n in'
of the kyars, 'cause that through freight was my ole
stormpin-ground, and I love the sound of that ingine's
whistle more 'an I do my gran'childun's hymn chunes.
She blowed long and vicious like, and I seen her
sparks fly, as she lit out through town ; and then I
footed it home."
" You think the train was on time ?"
" Bound to be ; she never was cotched behind time,
not while I stuffed her with coal and lightwood knots.
She was plum punctchul."
" Was the lamp lighted where you tied your
bundle? "
"Yes'ir, burnin' bright."
" Tell the Court the appearance of the man whom
you talked with."
Mr. Dunbar was watching the beautiful face so dear
to him, and saw the prisoner lean forward, her lips
parted, all her soul in the wide, glowing eyes fastened
on the countenance of the witness.
" He was very tall and wiry, and 'peared like a
young man who had parstured 'mongst wild oats. He
seemed cut out for a gintleman, but run to seed too
quick and turned out nigh kin to a dead beat. One-
half of him was hanssum, 'minded me mightly of that
stone head with kurly hair what sets over the socly
fountin in the drug store, on Main Street. Oh, yes'ir,
one side was too pretty for a man ; but t'other !
Fo' Gawd ! t'other made your teeth ache, and sot you
196 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
cross-eyed to look at it. He toted a awful brand to
be shore."
" What" do you mean by one side ? Explain your-
self carefully now."
" I dun'no as I can 'splain' 'cause I ain't never seed
nothing like it afore. One 'zact half of him, from his
hair to his shirt collar was white and pretty like, I tell
you, but t'other side of his face was black as tar, and
his kurly hair was gone, and the whiskers on that side
and his eye was drapped down kinder so, and that
side of his mouth sorter hung, like it was unpinned,
this way. Mebbee he was born so, mebbee not ; but
he looked like he had jes broke loose from the cunjur
and cary'd his mark."
For one fleeting moment, the gates of heaven seemed
thrown wide, and the glory of the Kingdom of Peace
streamed down upon the aching heart of the desolate
woman. She could recognize no dreaded resemblance
in the photograph drawn by the witness ; and judge,
jury and counsel who scrutinized her during the recital
of the testimony, were puzzled by the smile of joy that
suddenly flashed over her features, like the radiance of
a lamp lifted close to some marble face, dim with
shadows.
" Do you think his face indicated that he had been
engaged in a difficulty, in a fight! Was there any
sign of blood, or anything that looked as if he had
been bruised and wounded by some heavy blow ? "
" Naw, sir. Didn't seem like sech bruises aas omes
of fightin'. Teared to me he was somehow branded
like, and the mark he toted was onnatral."
" If he had wished to disguise himself by blackening
one side of his face, would he not have presented a
similar appearance ? "
" Naw, sir, not by no manner of means. No min-
strel tricks fotch him to the pass he was at. The hand
of the LORD must have laid too heavy on him ; no
mortal wounds leave sech terrifyin' prints."
" How was he dressed ? "
" Dunno. My eyes never drapped below that curus
face of his'n."
" Was he bareheaded ? "
" Bar headed as when he come into the world."
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 197
" He talked like a man in desperate haste, who was
running to escape pursuit ? "
" He shorely did."
" Did you mention to any person what you have told
here to-day ? "
''I tole my ole 'oman, and she said she reckoned it
was a buth mark what the man carryd ; but when 1
seen him I thunk he was conjured."
" When you heard that General Darrington had been
murdered, did you think of this man and his singular
behavior that night ? "
" I never hearn of the murder till Christmas, 'cause
I went down to filbert County arter a yoke of steers
what a man owed me, and thar I tuck sick and kep' my
bed for weeks. When I got home, and hearn the talk
about the murder. I didn't know it was the same night
what I seen the branded man."
" Tell the Court how your testimony was secured."
" It was norated in all our churches that a 'ward was
offered for a lame cullud pusson of my 'scription, and
Deacon Nathan he cum down and axed me what mis-
chief I'de been a doin', that I was wanted to answer
fur. He read me the 'vertisement, and pussuaded me
to go with him to your office, and you tuck me to Mr.
Churchill."
Mr. Dunbar bowed to the District Solicitor, who
rose and cross-examined.
" Can you read ? "
" Naw, sir."
" Where is your son Deucalion ? '*
" Two days after I left town he went with a ' Love
and Charity 'scurshion up north, and he liked it so
well in Baltymore, he staid thar."
" When Deacon Nathan brought you up to town, did
you know for what purpose Mr. Dunbar wanted you ? "
" Naw, sir."
"Was it not rather strange that none of your friends
recognized the description of you, published in the
paper ? "
" Seems some of em did, but felt kind of jub'rus
'bout pinting me out, for human natur is prone to
crooked ways, and they never hearn I perfessed
sanctification."
198 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
" Who told you the prisoner had heard your conver-
sation with the man you met that night ? "
" Did she hear it ? Then you are the first pusson to
tell me."
"How long was it, after you saw the man, before
you heard the whistle of the freight train ? "
" As nigh as I kin rickolect about a half a hour, but
not quite."
" Was it raining at all when you saw the woman
standing on the track ? "
" Naw, sir. The trees was dripping steady, but the
moon was shining."
" Do you know anything about the statement made
by the prisoner ? "
" Naw, sir."
" Fritz Helmetag."
As Isam withdrew, a middle-aged man took the
stand, and in answer to Mr. Dunbar's questions
deposed : " That he was ' bridge tender ' on the rail-
road, and lived in a cottage not far from the water tank.
On the night of the twenty-sixth of October, he was
sitting up with a sick wife, and remembered that being
feverish, she asked for some fresh water. He went
out to draw some from the well, and saw a man stand-
ing not far from the bridge. The moon was behind a
row of trees, but he noticed the man was bareheaded,
and when he called to know what he wanted, he
walked back toward the tank. Five minutes later the
freight train blew, and after it had crossed the bridge,
he went back to his cottage. The man was standing
close to the safety signal, a white light fastened to an
iron stanchion at south end of the bridge, and seemed to
be reading something. Next day, when he (witness)
went as usual to examine the piers and under portions
of the bridge, he had found the pipe, now in Mr.
Dunbar's possession. Tramps so "often rested on the
bridge, and on the shelving bank of the river beneath
it, that he attached no importance to the circumstance;
but felt confident the pipe was left by the man whom
he had seen, as it was not there the previous afternoon;
and he put it in a pigeon-hole of his desk, thinking the
owner might return to claim it. On the same day, he
left X to carry his wife to her mother, who lived
in Pennsylvania, and was absent for several weeks.
8Y AUGUSTA EVANS WILSOK. 199
Had never associated the pipe with the murder, but
after talking with Mr. Dunbar, who had found the half
of an envelope near the south end of the biidge, he had
surrendered it to him. Did not see the man's face
distinctly. He looked tall and thin."
"Here Mr. Dunbar held up a fragment of a long white
envelope such as usually contain legal documents, on
which was written in large letters " LAST WILL" and
underscored with red ink. Then he lifted a pipe, for
the inspection of the witness, who identified it as the
one he had found.
" As he turned it slowly, the court and the multitude
saw only a meerschaum with a large bowl representing
a death's head, to which was attached a short mouth-
piece of twisted amber.
The golden gates of hope clashed suddenly, and over
them flashed a drawn sword, as Beryl looked at the
familiar pipe, which her baby fingers had so often
strained to grasp. How well she knew the ghastly
ivory features, the sunken eyeless sockets of that
veritable death's head ? " How vividly came back the
day, when asleep in her father's arms, a spark from
that grinning skull had fallen on her cheek, and she
awoke to find that fond father bending in remorseful
tenderness over her ? " Years ago, she had reverently
packed the pipe away, with other articles belonging to
the dead, and ignorant that her mother had given it to
Bertie, she deemed it safe in that sacred repository.
Now, like the face of Medusa it glared at her, and that
which her father's lips had sanctified, became the
polluted medium of a retributive curse upon his devoted
child. So the Diabolus ex macliina, the evil genius of
each human life decrees that the most cruel cureless
pangs are inflicted by the instruments we love best.
Watching for some sign of recognition, Mr. Dunbar's
heart was fired with jealous rage, as he marked the
swift change of the prisoner's contenance ; the vanish-
ing of the gleam of hope, the gloomy desperation that
succeeded. The beautiful black brows met in a spasm
of pain over eyes that stared at an abyss of ruin ; her
lips whitened, she wrung her hands unconsciously ; and
then, as if numb with horror, she leaned back in her
chair, and her chin sank until it touched the black
ribbon at her throat. When after a while she rallied,
20O THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
*
and forced herself to listen, a pleasant-faced young
man was on the witness stand.
" My name is Edgar Jennings, and I live at T ,
in Pennsylvania. I am ticket agent at that point, of
railway. One day, about the last of October (I
think it was on Monday), I was sitting in my office
when a man came in, and asked if I could sell him a
ticket to St. Paul. I told him I only had tickets as far
as Chicago, via Cincinnati. He bought one to Cincin-
nati and asked how soon he could go on. I told him
the train from the east was due in a few minutes.
When he paid for his ticket he gave me a twenty-
dollar gold piece, and his hand shook so, he dropped
another piece of the same value on the floor. His
appearance was so remarkable I noticed him particu-
larly. He was a man about my age, very tall and
finely made, but one half of his face was black, or
rather very dark blue, and he wore a handkerchief
bandage-fashion across it. His left eye was drawn
down, this way, and his mouth was one-sided. His
right eye was black, and his hair was very light
brown. He wore a close-fitting wool hat, that flapped
down, and his clothes were seal-brown in color, but
much worn, and evidently old. I asked him where he
lived, and he said he was a stranger going West, on a
pioneering tour. Then I asked what ailed his face,
and he pulled the handkerchief over his left eye, and
said he was partly paralyzed from an accident. Just
then, the eastern train blew for T . He said he
wanted some cigars or a pipe, as he had lost his own
on the way, and wondered if he would have time to go
out and buy some. I told him no; but that he could
have a couple of cigars from my box. He thanked
me, and took two, laying down a silver dime on top of
the box. He put his hand in the inside pocket of his
coat, and pulled out an empty envelope, twisted it, lit
it by the coal fire in the grate, and lighted his cigar.
The train rolled into the station ; he passed out, and I
saw him jump aboard the front passenger coach. He
had thrown the paper, as he thought, into the fire, but
it slipped off the grate, fell just inside the fender, and
the flame went out. There was something so very
peculiar in his looks and manner, that I thought there
was some mystery about his movements. I picked up
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSOA?. 2OI
the x paper, saw the writing on it, and locked it up in
my cash drawer. He had evidently been a very hand-
some man, before his 'accident,' but he had a jaded,
worried, wretched look. When a detective from Balti-
more interviewed me, I told him all I knew, and gave
him the paper."
Again Mr. Dunbar drew closer to the jury, held up
the former fragment of envelope, and then took from
his pocket a second piece. Jagged edges fitted into
each other, and he lifted for the inspection of hundreds
of eyes, the long envelope marked and underscored :
" LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF ROBERT LUKE DAR-
RINGTON." The lower edge of the paper was at one
corner brown, scorched, somewhat burned.
" Lucullus Grantlin."
An elderly man of noble presence advanced, and
Mr. Dunbar met and shook hands with him, accom-
panying him almost to the stand. At sight of his
white head, and flowing silvery beard, Beryl's heart
almost ceased its pulsation. If, during her last illness
her mother had acquainted him with their family
history, then indeed all was lost. It was as impossible
to reach him and implore his silence, as though the
ocean rocked between them ; and how would he in-
terpret the pleading gaze she fixed upon his face ?
The imminence, of the danger, vanquished every
scruple, strangled her pride. She caught Mr. Dun-
bar's eye, beckoned him to approach.
When he stood before her, she put out her hand,
seized one of his, and drew him down until his black
head almost touched hers. She placed her lips close
to his ear, and whispered :
" For God's sake spare the secrets of a death-bed.
Be merciful to me now; oh! I entreat you do not
drag my mother from her grave ! Do not question Dr.
Grantlin."
She locked her icy hands around his, pressing it
convulsively. Turning, he laid his lips close to the
silky fold of hair that had fallen across her ear :
" If I dismiss this witness, will you tell me the
truth? Will you give me the name of the man whom
I am hunting? Will you confess all to me?"
" I have no sins to confess. I have made my last
statement. If you laid my coffin at my feet, I should
202 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
only say I am innocent ; I would tell you nothing
more."
"Then his life is so precious, you are resolved to
die rather than trust me ? "
She dropped his hand, and leaned back in her chair
closing her eyes. When she opened them, Doctoi
Grantlin was speaking:
" I am on my way to Havana, with an invalid
daughter, and stopped here last night, at the requesi
of Mr. Dunbar."
" Please state all that you know of the prisoner, and
of the circumstances which induced her to visit
X ."
"I first saw the prisoner in August last, when she
summoned me to see her mother who was suffering
from an attack of fever. I discovered that she was in
a dangerous condition in consequence of an aneurism
located in the carotid artery, and when she had been
relieved of malarial fever, I told both mother and
daughter that an operation was necessary, to remove
the aneurism. Soon after, I left the city for a month,
and on my return the daughter again called me in. I
advised that without delay the patient should be re-
moved to the hospital, where a surgeon a specialist
could perform the operation. To this the young lady
objected, on the ground that she could not assist in
nursing, if her mother entered the hospital, and she
would not consent to the separation. She asked what
amount would be required to secure at home the
services of the surgeon, a trained nurse, and the sub-
sequent treatment ; and I told her I thought a hundred
dollars would cover all incidentals, and secure one of
the most skilful surgeons in the city. I continued from
time to time to see the mother, and administered such
medicines as I deemed necessary to invigorate and tone
up the patient's system for the operation. One day in
October, the young lady came to pay me for some
prescriptions, and asked if a few weeks' delay would
enhance the danger of the operation. I assured her
it was important to lose no time, and urged her to
arrange matters so as to remove the patient to the
hospital as soon as possible, offering to procure her
admission. She showed great distress, and informed
me that she hoped to receive very soon a considerable
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 203
sum of money, from some artistic designs that she felt
sure would secure the prize. A week later she came
again, and I gave her a prescription to allay her
mother's nervousness. Then, with much agitation,
she told me that she was going South by the night ex-
press, to seek assistance from her mother's father, who
was a man of wealth, but had disowned Mrs. Brentano
on account of her marriage. She asked for a written
statement of the patient's condition, and the absolute
necessity of the operation. I wrote it, and as she
stood looking at the paper, she said :
" ' Doctor, do you believe in an Ahnung ? ' I said
' A what ? ' She answered slowly and solemnly :
" An Ahnung presentiment ? I have a crushing pre-
sentiment that trouble will come to me, if I leave
mother ; and yet she entreats, commands me to go
South. It is my duty to obey her, but the errand is so
humiliating I shrink, I dread it. I shall not be long
away, and meanwhile do please be so kind as to see
her, and cheer her up. If her father refuses to give
me the one hundred dollars, I will take her to the
hospital when I return.' I walked to the door with
her, and her last words were : ' Doctor, I trust my
mother to you; don't let her suffer.' I have never
seen her again, until I entered this room. I visited
Mrs. Brentano several times, but she grew worse very
rapidly. One night the ensuing week, my bell was
rung at twelve o'clock, and a woman gave me this
note, which was written by the prisoner immediately
after her arrest, and which enclosed a second, ad-
dressed to her mother."
As he read aloud the concluding lines invoking the
mother's prayers, the doctor's voice trembled. He
took off his spectacles, wiped them, and resumed :
" I was shocked and distressed beyond expression,
for I could no more connect the idea of crime with
that beautiful, noble souled girl, than with my own
sinless daughter; and I reproached myself then, and
doubly condemn myself now, that I did not lend her
the money. All that was possible to alleviate the
suffering of that mother, I did most faithfully. Under
my personal superintendence she was made comfort-
able in the hospital ; and I stood by her side when
Doctor operated on the aneurism ; but her im-
204 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
paired constitution could not bear the strain, and she
sank rapidly. She was delirious, and never knew why
her daughter was detained ; because I withheld the
note. Just before the end came, her mind cleared,
and she wrote a few lines which I sent to the prisoner.
From all that I know of Miss Brentano, I feel con-
strained to say, she impressed me as one of the purest,
noblest, and most admirable characters I have ever
met. She supported her mother and herself by her
pencil, and a more refined, sensitive woman, a more
tenderly devoted daughter, I have yet to meet/'
" Docs your acquaintance with the family suggest
any third party, who would be interested in General
Darrington's will or become a beneficiary by its
destruction ? "
" No. They seemed very isolated people ; those
two women lived without any acquaintances, as far as
I know, and appeared proudly indifferent to the out-
side world. I do not think they had any relatives, and
the only name I heard Mrs. Brentano utter in her last
illness was, ' Ignace, Ignace.' She often spoke of
her 'darling,' and her 'good little girl'."
" Did you see a gentleman who visited the prisoner ?
Did you ever hear she had a lover ? "
" I neither saw any gentleman, nor heard she had a
lover. In January, I received a letter from the pris-
oner enclosing an order on S - & E - , photo-
graphers of New York, for the amount due her, on a
certain design for a Christmas card, which had re-
ceived the Boston first prize of three hundred dollars.
With the permission of the Court, I should like to
read it. There is no objection ? "
" PENITENTIARY CELL, January 8th.
" In the name of my dead, whom I shall soon join I desire
to thank you, dear Doctor Grantlin, for your kind care of my
darling; and especially for your delicate and tender regard for
all that remains on earth of my precious mother. The knowledge
that she was treated with the reverence due to a lady, that she
was buried not as a pauper, but sleeps her last sleep under
the same marble roof that shelters your dear departed ones, is
the one ray of comfort that can ever pierce the awful gloom that
has settled like a pall over me. I am to be tried soon for the
black and horrible crime I never committed ; and the evidence
is so strong against me, the circumstances I cannot explain, are
so accusing, the belief of my guilt is so general in this community,
BY- AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 2O$
that I have no hope of acquittal ; therefore I make my prepara-
tions for death. Please collect the money for which I enclose
an order, and out of it, take the amount you spent when mother
died. It will comfort me to know, that we do not owe a stranger
for the casket that shuts her away from all grief, into the blessed
Land of Peace. Keep the remainder, and when you hear that I
am dead, unjustly offered up an innocent victim to appease
justice, that must have somebody's blood in expiation, then take
my body and mother's and have us laid side by side in the
Potter's' field. The law will crush my body, but it is pure and
free from every crime, and it will be worthy still to touch my
mother's in a common grave. Oh, Doctor! Does it not seem
that some terrible curse has pursued me ; and that the three
hundred dollars I toiled and prayed for, was kept back ten days
too late to save me ? My Christmas card will at least bury us
decently away from the world that trampled me down. Do not
doubt my innocence, and it will comfort me to feel that he who
closed my mother's eyes, believes that her unfortunate child is
guiltless and unstained. In life, and in death, ever
" Most gratefully your debtor,
" BERYL BRENTANO."
A few moments of profound silence ensued ; then
Doctor Grantlin handed some article to Mr. Dunbar,
and stepping down from the stand, walked toward the
prisoner.
She had covered her face with her hands, while he
gave his testimony ; striving to hide the anguish that
his presence revived. He placed his hand on her
shoulder, and whispered brokenly :
" My child, I know you are innocent. Would
to God I could help you to prove it to these people ! "
The terrible strain gave way suddenly, her proud
head was laid against his arm, and suppressed emotion
shook her, as a December storm smites and bows
some shivering weed.
Friday, the fifth and last day of the trial, was
ushered in by a tempest of wind and rain, that drove
the blinding sheets of sleet against the court-house
windows with the insistence of an icy flail ; while now
and then with spasmodic bursts of fury the gale
heightened, rattled the sash, moaned hysterically, like
invisible fiends tearing at the obstacles that barred
entiance. So dense was the gloom pervading the
court-room, that every gas jet was burning at ten
o'clock, when Mr. Dunbar rose and took a position
e to the jury-box. The gray pallor of his sternly
2o6 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
set face increased his resemblance to a statue of the
Julian type, and he looked rigid as granite, as he
turned his brilliant eyes full of blue fire upon the
grave, upturned countenances of the twelve umpires :
" Gentlemen of the Jury : The sanctity of human
life is the foundation on which society rests, and its
preservation is the supreme aim of all human legisla-
tion. Rights of property, of liberty, are merely con-
ditional, subordinated to the superlative, divine right
of life. Labor creates property, law secures liberty, but
God alone gives life ; and woe to that tribunal, to those
consecrated priests of divine justice, who, sworn to lay
aside passion and prejudice, and to array themselves
in the immaculate robes of a juror's impartiality, yet
profane the loftiest prerogative with which civilized so-
ciety can invest mankind, and sacrilegiously extinguish,
in the name of justice, that sacred spark which only
Jehovah's fiat kindles. To the same astute and
unchanging race, whose relentless code of jurisprudence
demanded 'an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a
life for a life,' we owe the instructive picture of
cautious inquiry, of tender solicitude for the inviola-
bility of human life, that glows in immortal lustre on
the pages of the ' Mechilta' of the Talmud. In the trial
of a Hebrew criminal, there were ' Lactets,' consisting
of two men, one of whom stood at the door of the court,
with a red flag in his hand, and the other sat on a
white horse at some distance on the road that led to
execution. Each of these men cried aloud continually,
the name of the suspected criminal, of the witnesses,
and his crime; and vehemently called upon any
person who knew anything iu his favor to come for-
ward and testify. Have we, supercilious braggarts of
this age of progress, attained the prudential wisdom of
Sanhedrim ?
" The State pays an officer to sift, probe, collect and
array the evidences of crime, with which the criminal
is stoned to death ; does it likewise commission and
compensate an equally painstaking, lynx-eyed official
whose sole duty is to hunt and proclaim proofs of the
innocence of the accused ? The great body of the
commonwealth is committed in revengeful zeal to
prosecution ; upon whom devolves the doubly sacred
and imperative duty of defence ? Art you not here to
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 2O/
give judgment in a cause based on an indictment by a
secret tribunal, where ex parte testimony was alone
received, and the voice of defence could not be heard ?
The law infers that the keen instinct of self-preserva-
lion will force the accused to secure the strongest
possible legal defenders , and failing in this, the law
perfunctorily assigns counsel to present testimony in
defence. Do the scales balance ?
" Imagine a race for heavy stakes ; the judges tap
the bell ; three or four superb thoroughbreds carefully
trained on that track, laboriously 'groomed, waiting
for the signal, spring forward ; and when the first
quarter is reached, a belated fifth, handicapped with
the knowledge that he has made a desperately bad
start, bounds after them. If by dint of some super-
human grace vouchsafed, some latent strain, some most
unexpected speed, he nears, overtakes, runs neck and
neck, slowly gains, passes all four and dashes breath-
less and quivering under the string, a whole length
ahead, the world of spectators shouts, the judges smile,
and number five wins the stakes. But was the race
fair ?
" Is not justice, the beloved goddess of our idolatry,
sometimes so blinded by clouds of argument, and con-
fused by clamor that she fails indeed to see the dip of
ihe beam ? If the accused be guilty and escape con-
viction, he still lives ; and while it is provided that no
one can be twice put in jeopardy of his life for the
same offence, vicious tendencies impel to renewal of
crime, and Nemesis, the retriever of justice, may yet
hunt him down. If the accused be innocent as the
archangels, but suffer conviction and execution, what
expiation can justice offer for judicially slaughtering
him ? Are the chances even ?
" All along the dim vista of the annals of criminal
jurisprudence, stand grim memorials that mark the
substitution of innocent victims for guilty criminals;
and they are solemn sign-posts of warning, melan-
choly as the whitening bones of perished caravans in
desert sands. History relates, and tradition embalms,
a sad incident of the era of the Council of Ten, when
an innocent boy was seized, tried and executed for the
murder of a nobleman, whose real assassin confessed
the crime many years subsequent. In commemoration
208 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
of the public honor manifested, when the truth was
published, Venice decreed that henceforth a crier
should proclaim in the Tribunal just before a death
sentence was pronounced, ' ' Ricordateri del porero Mar-
colini ! remember the poor Marcolini ; ' beware of
merely circumstantial evidence.
" To another instance I invite your attention. A
devoted Scotch father finding that his only child had
contracted an unfortunate attachment to a man of
notoriously bad character, interdicted all communica-
tion, and locked his daughter into a tenement room ;
the adjoining apartment (with only a thin partition wall
between) being occupied by a neighbor, who overheard
the angry altercation that ensued. He recognized the
voices of father and daughter, and the words ' barbar-
ity,' ' cruelty,' ' death,' were repeatedly heard. The
father at last left the room, locking his child in as a
prisoner. After a time, strange noises were heard by
the tenant of the adjoining chamber; suspicion was
aroused, a bailiff was summoned, the door forced open,
and there lay the dying girl weltering in blood, with the
fatal knife lying near. She was asked if her father had
caused her sad condition, and she made an affirmative
gesture and expired. At that moment the father re-
turned, and stood stupefied with horror, which was in-
terpreted as a consciousness of guilt; and this was
corroborated by the fact that his shirt sleeve was
sprinkled with blood. In vain he asserted his inno-
cence, and showed that the blood stains were the
result of a bandage having become untied where he
had bled himself a few days before. The words and
groans overheard, the blood, the affirmation of the
dying woman, every damning circumstance constrained
the jury to convict him of the murder. He was hung
in chains, and his body left swinging from the gibbet.
The new tenant, who subsequently rented the room,
was ransacking the chamber in which the girl died,
when, in a cavity of the chimney where it had fallen
unnoticed, was found a paper written by this girl,
declaring her intention to commit suicide, and
closing with the words : ' My inhuman father is the
cause of my death': thus explaining her dying gest-
ures. On examination of this document by the friends
and relatives of the girl, it was recognized and identi-
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 209
fied as her handwriting; and it established the fact
that the father had died innocent of every crime, ex-
cept that of trying to save his child from a degrading
marriage.
" Now, mark the prompt and satisfactory reparation,
decreed by justice, and carried out by the officers of
the law. The shrivelled, dishonored body was lowered
from the gibbet, given to his relatives for decent burial,
and the magistrates who sentenced him, ordered a flag
waved over his grave, as compensation for all his
wrongs.
" Gentlemen of the jury, to save you from the com-
mission of a wrong even more cruel, I come to-day to
set before you clearly the facts, elicited from witnesses
which the honorable and able counsel for the prosecu-
tion declined to cross-examine. An able expounder of
the law of evidence has warned us that : ' The force of
circumstantial evidence being exclusive in its nature,
and the mere coincidence of the hypothesis with the
circumstances, being, in the abstract, insufficient, un-
less they exclude erery other supposition, it is essential to
inquire, with the most scrupulous attention, what other
hypotheses there may be, agreeing wholly or partially
with the facts in evidence.'
" A man of very marked appearance was seen run-
ning toward the railroad, on the night of the twenty-
sixth, evidently goaded by some unusual necessity to
leave the neighborhood of X before the arrival of
the passenger express. It is proved that he passed
the station exactly at the time the prisoner deposed she
heard the voice, and the half of the envelope that en-
closed the missing will, was found at the spot where
the same person was seen, only a few moments later.
Four days afterward, this man entered a small station
in Pennsylvania, paid for a railroad ticket, with a coin
identical in value and appearance with those stolen
from the tin box, and as if foreordained to publish the
steps he was striving to efface, accidentally left behind
him the trumpet-tongued fragment of envelope, that
exactly fitted into the torn strip dropped at the bridge.
The most exhaustive and diligent search shows that
stranger was seen by no one else in X ; that he
came as a thief in the night, provided with chloroform
to drug his intended victim, and having been detected
210 THE TRIAL OF BERYL,
in the act of burglariously abstracting the contents of
the tin box, fought with, and killed the venerable old
man, whom he had robbed.
" Under cover of storm and darkness he escaped
with his plunder to some point north of X , where
doubtless he boarded (unperceived) the freight train,
and at some convenient point slipped into a wooded
country, and made his way to Pennsylvania. Why
were valuable bonds untouched ? Because they might
aid in betraying him. What conceivable interest had
he in the destruction of General Darrington's will? It
is in evidence, that the lamp was burning, and the
contents of that envelope could have possessed no
value for a man ignorant of the provisions of the will ;
and the superscription it was impossible to misread.
Suppose that this mysterious person was fully cogni-
zant of the family secrets of the Darringtons ? Suppose
that he knew that Mrs. Brentano and her daughter
would inherit a large fortune, if General Darrington died
intestate ? If he had wooed and won the heart of the
daughter, and believed that her rights had been sacri-
ficed to promote the aggrandizement of an alien, the
adopted step-son Prince, had not such a man, the ac-
cepted lover of the daughter, a personal interest in the
provisions of a will which disinherited Mrs. Brentano,
and her child ? Have you not now, motive, means,
and opportunity, and links of evidence that point to
this man as the real agent, the guilty author of the
awful crime we are all leagued in solemn, legal cove-
nant to punish ? Suppose that fully aware of the
prisoner's mission to X , he had secretly followed
her, and supplemented her afternoon visit, by the
fatal interview of the night? Doubtless he had in-
tended escorting her home, but when the frightful
tragedy was completed, the curse of Cain drove him,
in terror, to instant flight ; and he sought safety in
western wilds, leaving his innocent and hapless be-
trothed to bear the penalty of his crime. The hand-
kerchief used to administer chloroform, bore her in-
itials ; was doubtless a souvenir given in days gone
by to that unworthy miscreant, as a token of affec-
tion, by the trusting woman he deserted in the hour
of peril. In this solution of an awful enigma, is there
an undue strain upon credulity ; is there any antagon-
BY A UG 6- TA E VANS WILSON. 2 1 I
ism of facts, which the torn envelope, the pipe, the
twenty-dollar gold pieces seen in Pennsylvania, do not
reconcile ?
" A justly celebrated writer on the law of evidence
has wisely said: 'In criminal cases, the statement
made by the accused is of essential importance in some
points of view. Such is the complexity of human
affairs, and so infinite the combinations of circum-
stances, that the true hypothesis which is capable of
explaining and reuniting all the apparently conflicting
circumstances of the case, may escape the acutest
penetration : but the prisoner, so far as he alone is
concerned, can always afford a clue to them ; and
though he may be unable to support his statement by
evidence, his account of the transaction is, for this
purpose, always most material and important. The
effect may be to suggest a view, which consists with
the innocence of the accused, and might otherwise
have escaped observation.'
" During the preliminary examination of this pris-
oner in October, she inadvertently furnished this clue,
when, in explaining her absence from ihe station
house, she stated that suddenly awakened from sleep,
' she heard the voice of one she kneu> and loved' and
' ran out to seek the speaker.' Twice she has repeated
the conversation she heard, and every word is cor-
roborated by the witness who saw and talked with the
owner of that ' beloved voice.' When asked to give
the name of that man, whom she expected to find in
the street, she falters, refuses ; love seals her lips,
and the fact that she will die sooner than yield that
which must bring him to summary justice, is alone
sufficient to fix the guilt upon the real culprit.
" There is a rule in criminal jurisprudence, that
1 presumptive evidence ought never to be relied on,
when direct testimony is wilfully withheld.' She
shudders at sight of the handkerchief ; did she not give
it to him, in some happy hour as a tender Ricordo ?
When the pipe which he lost in his precipitate flight is
held up to the jury, she recognizes it instantly as her
lover's property, and shivers with horror at the danger
of his detection and apprehension. Does not this array
of accusing circumstances demand as careful consider-
ation, as the chain held up to your scrutiny by the
212 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
prosecution ? In the latter, there is an important
link missing, which the theory of the defence supplies.
When the prisoner was arrested and searched, there
was found in her possession only the exact amount of
money, which it is in evidence, that she came South to
obtain ; and which she has solemnly affirmed was given
to her by General Darrington. We know from memo-
randa found in the rifled box, that it contained only a
few days previous, five hundred dollars in gold. Three
twenty-dollar gold coins were discovered on the carpet,
and one in the vault ; what became of the remaining
three hundred and twenty dollars ? With the exception
of one hundred dollars found in the basket of the
prisoner, she had only five copper pennies in her purse,
when so unexpectedly arrested, that it was impossible
she could have secreted anything. Three hundred and
twenty dollars disappeared in company with the will,
and like the torn envelope, two of those gold coins lifted
their accusing faces in Pennsylvania, where the fugi-
tive from righteous retribution paid for the wings that
would transport him beyond the risk of detection.
" Both theories presented for your careful analy-
sis, are based entirely upon circumstantial evidence;
and is not the solution I offer less repugran: to the
canons of credibility, and infinitely less revolting to
every instinct of honorable manhood, than the horrible
hypothesis that a refined, cultivated, noble Christian
woman, a devoted daughter, irreproachable in antece-
dent life, bearing the fiery ordeal of the past four
months with a noble heroism that commands the invol-
untary admiration of all who have watched her that
such a perfect type of beautiful womanhood as the pris-
oner presents, could deliberately plan and execute the
vile scheme of theft and murder ? Gentlemen, she is
guilty of but one sin against the peace and order of this
community : the sin of withholding the name of one for
whose bloody crime she is not responsible. Does not
her invincible loyalty, her unwavering devotion to the
craven for whom she suffers, invest her with the halo
of a martyrdom, that appeals most powerfully to the
noblest impulses of your nature, that enlists the warm-
est, holiest sympathies lying deep in your manly
hearts? Analyze her statement; every utterance
bears the stamp of innocence ; and where she cannot
BY A UGUSTA R VANS WILSON. 2 1 3
explain truthfully, she declines to make any explanation.
Hers is the sin of silence, the grievous evasion of jus-
tice by non-responsion, whereby the danger she will
not avert by confession recoils upon her innocent head.
Bravely she took on her reluctant shoulders the gall-
ing burden of parental command, and Stirling her
proud repugnance, obediently came a fair young
stranger to ' Elm Bluff.' Receiving as a loan the
money she came to beg for, she hurries away to fulfil
another solemnly imposed injunction.
" Gentlemen, is there any spot out yonder in God's
Acre, where violets, blue as the eyes that once smiled
upon you, now shed their fragrance above the sacred
dust of your dead darlings, and the thought of which
melts your hearts and dims your vision ? Look at this
mournful, touching witness, which comes from that
holy cemetery to whisper to your souls, that the hands
of the prisoner are as pure as those of your idols,
folded under the sod. Only a little bunch of withered
brown flowers, tied with a faded blue ribbon, that a
poor girl bought with her hard earned pennies, and
carried to a sick mother, to brighten a dreary attic ;
only a dead nosegay, which that mother requested
should be laid as a penitential tribute on the tomb of
the mother whom she had disobeyed ; and this faithful
young heart made the pilgrimage, and left the offering
and in consequence thereof, missed the train that
would have carried her safely back to her mother
and to peace. On the morning after the preliminary
examination I went to the cemetery 4 , and found the
fatal flowers just where she had placed them, on the
great marble cross that covers the tomb of 'Helena
Tracey wife of Luke Darrington.'
" You husbands and fathers who trust your names,
your honor, the peace of your hearts almost the sal-
vation of your souls to the women you love ; staking
the dearest interest of humanity, the sanctity of that
heaven on earth your stainless homes upon the
fidelity of womanhood, can you doubt for one instant,
that the prisoner will accept death rather than betray
the man she loves ? No human plummet has sounded
the depths of a woman's devotion ; no surveyor's chain
will ever mark the limits of a woman's faithful, patient
endurance ; and only the wings of an archangel can
214 THE TklAL OF BERYL.
transcend that pinnacle to which the sublime principle
of self-sacrifice exalts a woman's soul.
" In a quaint old city on the banks of the Pegnitz,
history records an instance of feminine self-abnegation,
more enduring than monuments of brass. The law
had decreed a certain provision for the maintenance of
orphans ; and two women in dire distress, seeing no
possible avenue of help, accused themselves falsely of
a capital crime, and were executed ; thereby securing
a support for the children they orphaned.
" As a tireless and vigilant prosecutor of the real
criminal, the Cain-branded man now wandering in
some western wild, I charge the prisoner with only one
sin, suicidal silence ; and I commend her to your most
tender compassion, believing that in every detail and
minutiae she has spoken the truth ; and that she is as
innocent of the charge in the indictment as you or I.
Remember that you have only presumptive proof to
guide you in this solemn deliberation, and in the ab-
sence of direct proof do not be deluded by a glittering
sophistry, which will soon attempt to persuade you
that : ' A presumption which necessarily arises from
circumstances, is very often more convincing and more
satisfactory than any other kind of evidence ; it is not
within the reach and compass of human abilities to
invent a train of circumstances, which shall be so con-
nected together as to amount to a proof of guilt, with-
out affording opportunities of contradicting a great
part, if not all, of these circumstances.'
" Believe it not ; circumstantial evidence has caused
as much innocent blood to flow, as the cimeter of
Jenghiz Khan. The counsel for the prosecution will
tell you that every fact in this melancholy case stabs
the prisoner, and that facts cannot lie. Abstractly
and logically considered, facts certainly do not lie ; but
let us see whether the inferences deduced from what
we believe to be facts, do not sometimes eclipse Ana-
nias and Sapphira ! Not long ago, the public heart
thrilled with horror at the tidings of the Ashtabula
railway catastrophe, in which a train of cars plunged
through a bridge, took fire, and a number of passen-
gers were consumed, charred beyond recognition.
Soon afterward, a poor woman, mother of two children,
commenced suit against the railway company, alleging
BY A UGUSTA E VANS WILSON. 2 I 5
.hat her husband had perished in that disaster. The
evidence adduced was only of a circumstantial nature,
as the body which had been destroyed by flames,
could not be found. Searching in the debris at the
fatal spot, she had found a bunch of keys, that she
positively recognized as belonging to her husband, and
in his possession when he died. One key fitted the
clock in her house, and a mechanic was ;ea ly to swear
that he had made such a key for the deceased. An-
other key fitted a chest she owned, and still another
fitted the door of her house ; while, strongest of all
proof, she found a piece of cloth which she identified
as part of her husband's coat. A physician who knew
her husband, testified that he rode as far as Buffalo on
the same train with the deceased, on the fatal day of
the disaster ; and another witness deposed that he saw
the deceased take the train at Buffalo, that went down
to ruin at Ashtabula. Certainly the chain of circum-
stantial evidence, from veracious facts, seemed com-
plete ; but lo ! during the investigation it was ascer-
tained beyond doubt, to the great joy of the wife, that
the husband had never been near Ashtabula, and was
safe and well at a Pension Home in a Western State.
"The fate of a very noble and innocent woman is
now committed to your hands, and only presumptive
proof is laid before you. ' The circumstance is always
a fact; the presumption is the inference drawn from
that fact. It is hence called presumptive proof, be
cause it proceeds merely in opinion.' Suffer no brill-
iant sophistry to dazzle your judgment, no remnant of
prejudice to swerve you from the path of fidelity to
your oath. To your calm reasoning, your generous
manly hearts, your Christian consciences, I resign the
desolate prisoner; and as you deal with her, so may
the God above us, the just and holy God who has
numbered the hairs of her innocent head, deal here
and hereafter with you and yours."
That magnetic influence, whereby the emotions of
an audience are swayed, as the tides that follow the
moon, was in large measure the heritage of the hand-
some man who held the eyes of the jurymen in an
almost unwinking gaze; and when his uplifted arm
slowly fell to his side, Judge Dent grasped it in mute
2l6 THE TRIAL OF RERYL.
congratulation, and Mr. Churchill took his hand, and
shook it warmly.
Mr. Wolverton came forward to sum up the evidence
for the prosecution, and laboriously recapitulated and
dwelt upon the mass of facts, which he claimed was
susceptible of but one interpretation, and must compel
the jury to convict, in accordance with the indictment.
Upon the ears of the prisoner, his words fell as a
-harsh, meaningless murmur; and above the insistent
mutter, rose and fell the waves of a rich, resonant
voice, that surrounded, penetrated, electrified her
brain ; thrilled her whole being with a strange and
inexplicable sensation of happiness. For months she
had fought against the singular fascination that dwelt
in those brilliant blue eyes, and lurked in every line of
the swart, stern face ; holding at bay the magnetic
attraction which he exerted from the hour of the pre-
liminary examination. Of all men, she had feared
him most, had shrunk from every opportunity of con-
tact, had execrated him as the malign personification,
the veritable incarnation of the evil destiny that had
hounded her from the day she first saw X .
Listening to his appeal for her deliverance, each
word throbbing with the fervent heat of a heart that
she knew was all her own, an exquisite sense of rest
gradually stole over her ; as a long-suffering child
spent with pain, sinks, soothed at last in the enfolding
arms of protective love. That dark, eloquent face
drew, held her gaze with the spell of a loadstone, and
even in the imminence of her jeopardy, she recalled
the strange resemblance he bore to the militant angel
she had once seen in a painting, where he wrestled
with Satan for possession of the body of Moses. Dis-
grace, peril, the gaunt spectre of death suddenly dis-
solved, vanished in the glorious burst of rosy light
that streamed into all the chill chambers of her heart ;
and she bowed her head in her hands, to hide the
crimson that painted her cheeks.
How long Mr. Wolverton talked, she never knew :
but the lull that succeeded was broken by the tones of
fudge Parkman.
" Beryl Brentano, it is my duty to remind you that
this is the last opportunity the law allows you, to
speak in your own vindication. The testimony has
BY A UGUSTA E VANS WILSON. 2 \ 7
all been presented to those appointed to decide upon
its value. If there be any final statement that you
may desire to offer in self-defence, you must make it
now."
Could the hundreds who watched and waited ever
forget the sight of that superb, erect figure, that ex-
quisite face, proud as Hypatia's, patient as Perpetua's,
or the sound of that pathetic, unwavering voice ?
Mournfully, yet steadily, she raised her great gray
eyes, darkened by the violet shadows suffering had
cast, and looked at her judges.
" I am guiltless of any and all crime. I have
neither robbed, nor murdered ; and I am neither prin-
cipal, nor accomplice in the horrible sin imputed to
me. I know nothing of the chloroform ; I never
touched the andiron ; i never saw General Darrington
but once. He gave me the gold and the sapphires,
and I am as innocent of his death, and of the destruc-
tion of his will as the sinless little children who prattle
at your firesides, and nestle to sleep in your arms.
My life has been disgraced and ruined by no act of
mine, for I have kept my hands, my heart, my soul, as
pure and free from crime as they were when God gave
them to me. I am the helpless prey of suspicion, and
the guiltless victim of the law. O, my judges! I
do not crave your mercy that is the despairing
prayer of conscious guilt; I demand at your hands,
justice.'
The rushing sound as of a coming flood filled her
ears, and her words echoed vaguely from some im-
measurably distant height. The gaslights seemed
whirling in a Walpurgis maze, as she sat down and
once more veiled her face in her hands.
When she recovered sufficiently to listen, Mr.
Churchill had risen for the closing speech of the pros-
ecution.
'Gentlemen of the Jury: I were a blot upon a
noble profession, a disgrace to honorable manhood,
and a monster in my own estimation, if I could
approach the fatal Finis of this melancholy trial, with-
out painful emotions of profound regret, that the
solemn responsibility of my official position makes me
the reluctant bearer of the last stern message uttered
by retributive justice. How infinitely more enviable
2l8 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
the duty of the Amicus Curice, my gallant friend and
quondam colleague, who in voluntary defence has so
ingeniously, eloquently and nobly led a forlorn hope,
that he knew was already irretrievably lost ! Des-
perate, indeed, must he deem that cause for which he
battles so valiantly, when dire extremity goads him to
lift a rebellious and unfilial voice against the provis-
ions of his foster-mother, Criminal Jurisprudence, in
whose service he won the brilliant distinction and
crown of laurel that excite the admiration and envy of
a large family of his less fortunate foster-brothers, i
honor his heroism, applaud his chivalrous zeal, and
wish that I stood in his place ; but not mine the priv-
ilege of trouncing the white horse, and waving the red
flag of the ' Lactees.' Dedicated to the mournful
rites of justice, I have laid an iron hand on the quiver-
ing lips of pity, that cried to me like the voice of onj
of my own little ones ; and very sorrowfully, at the com-
mand of conscience, reason and my official duty, [
obey the mandate to ring down the black curtain on a
terrible tragedy, feeling like Dante, when he con-
fronted the doomed
" ' And to a part I come, where no light shines.'
So clearly and ably has my distinguished associate,
Mr. Wolverton, presented all the legal points bearing
upon the nature and value of the proof, submitted for
your examination, that any attempt to buttress his
powerful argument, were an unpardonable reflection
upon your intelligence, and his skill ; and I shall con-
fine my last effort in behalf of justice, to a brief analy-
sis and comparison of the hypothesis of the defence,
with the verified result of the prosecution.
" Beautiful and sparkling as the frail glass of
Murano, and equally as thin, as treacherously brittle,
is the theory so skilfully manufactured in behalf of the
accused ; and so adroitly exhibited that the ingenious
facets catch every possible gleam, and for a moment
almost dazzle the eyes of the beholder. In attempt-
ing to cast a lance against the shield of circumstantial
evidence, his weapon rebounded, recoiled upon his
fine spun crystal and shivered it. What were the
materials wherewith he worked? Circumstances,
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 2 19
strained, well nigh dislocated by the effort to force
them to fit into his Procrustean measure. A man was
seen on the night of the twenty-sixth, who appeared
unduly anxious to quit X before daylight ; and
again the mysterious stranger was seen in a distant
town in Pennsylvania, where he showed some gold
coins of a certain denomination, and dropped on the
floor one-half of an envelope, that once contained a
will. In view of these circumstances (the prosecution
calls them facts), the counsel for the defence presumes
that said stranger committed the murder, stole the
will ; and offers this opinion as presumptive proof that
the prisoner is innocent. The argument runs thus :
this man was an accepted lover of the accused, and
therefore he must have destroyed the will that beg-
gared his betrothed ; but it is nowhere in evidence,
that any lover existed, outside of the counsel's imagi-
nation ; yet Asmodeus like he must appear when called
for, and so we are expected to infer, assume, presume
that because he stole the will he must be her lover.
Does it not make your head swim to spin round in this
circle of reasoning ? In assailing the validity of cir-
cumstantial evidence, has he not cut his bridges,
burned his ships behind him ?
" Gentlemen, fain would I seize this theory were it
credible, and setting thereon, as in an ark, this most
unfortunate prisoner, float her safely through the
deluge of ruin, anchor her in peaceful security upon
some far-off Ararat ; but it has gone to pieces in the
hands of its architect. Instead of rescuing the drown-
ing, the wreck serves only to beat her down. If we
accept the hypothesis of a lover at all, it will furnish
the one missing link in the terrible chain that clanks
around the luckless prisoner. The disappearance of
the three hundred and twenty dollars has sorely per-
plexed the prosecution, and unexpectedly the defence
offers us the one circumstance we lacked ; the lover
was lurking in the neighborhood, to learn the result
of the visit, to escort her home ; and to him the pris-
oner gave the missing gold, to him intrusted the de-
struction of the will. If that man came to ' Elm Bluff '
prepared to rob and murder, by whom was he incited
and instigated ; and who was the accessory, and there-
fore particeps criminis ? The prisoner's handkerchief
22O THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
was the medium of chloroforming that venerable old
man, and can there be a reasonable doubt that she
aided in administering u ?
" The prosecution could not explain why she came
from the direction of the railroad bridge, which was
far out of her way from ' Elm Bluff ' ; but the defence
gives the most satisfactory solution ; she was there,
dividing her blood-stained spoils with the equally-
guilty accomplice her lover. The prosecution brings
to the bar of retribution only one criminal ; the de-
fence not only fastens the guilt upon this unhappy
woman, by supplying the missing links, but proves
premeditation, by the person of an accomplice. Four
months have been spent in hunting some fact that
would tend to exculpate the accused, but each circum-
stance dragged to light serves only to swell the dismal
chorus, 'Woe to the guilty.' To-day she sits in the
ashes of desolation, condemned by the unanimous evi-
dence of every known fact connected with this awful
tragedy. To oppose this black and frightful host of
proofs, what does she offer us ? Simply her bare, sol-
emnly reiterated denial of guilt. We hold our breath,
hoping against hope that she will give some explana-
tion, some solution, that our pitying hearts are wait-
ing so eagerly to hear; but dumb as the sphinx, she
awaits her doom. You will weigh that bare denial in
the scale with the evidence, and in this momentous
duty recollect the cautious admonition that has been
furnished to guide you : ' Conceding that assevera-
tions of innocence are always deserving of considera-
tion by the executive, what is there to invest them
with a conclusive efficacy, in opposition to a chain of
presumptive evidence, the force and weight of which
falls short only of mathematical demonstration ? ' The
astute and eloquent counsel for defence, has cited
some well-known cases, to shake your faith in the
value of merely presumptive proof.
" I offer for your consideration, an instance of the
fallibility of merely bare, unsupported denial of guilt,
on the part of the accused. A priest at Lauterbach
was suspected, arrested and tried for the murder of a
woman, under very aggravated circumstances. He
was subjected to eighty examinations; and each time
solemnly denied the crime. Even when confronted at
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 221
midnight with the skull of the victim murdered eight
years before, lie vehemently protested his innocence;
called on the skull to declare him not the assassin, and
appealed to the Holy Trinity to proclaim his innocence.
Finally he confessed his crime; testified that while
cutting the throat of his victim, he had exhorted her
to repentance, had given her absolution, and that hav-
ing concealed the corpse, he had said masses for her
soul.
"The forlorn and hopeless condition of the prisoner
at this bar, appeals pathetically to that compassion
which we are taught to believe coexists with justice,
even in the omnipotent God we worship; yet in the
face of incontrovertible facts elicited from reliable wit-
nesses, of coincidences which no theory of accident
can explain, can we stifle convictions, solely because
she pleads 'not guilty'? Pertinent, indeed, was the
ringing cry of that ancient prosecutor : ' Most illus-
trious Caesar ! if denial of guilt be sufficient defence,
who would ever be convicted ? ' You have been assured
that inferences drawn from probable facts eclipse the
stupendous falsehood of Ananias and Sapphira ! Then
the same family strain inevitably crops out, in the
loosely-woven web of defensive presumptive evidence
whose pedigree we trace to the same parentage. God
forbid that I should commit the sacrilege of arrogating
His divine attribute infallibility for any human au-
thority, however exalted ; or claim it for any amount of
proof, presumptive or positive. 'It is because human-
ity even when most cautious and discriminating is so
mournfully fallible and prone to error, that in judging
its own frailty, we require the aid and reverently in-
voke the guidance of Jehovah.' In your solemn delib-
erations bear in mind this epitome of an opinion,
entitled to more than a passing consideration : ' Per-
haps strong circumstantial evidence in cases of crime,
committed for the most part in secret, is the most sat-
isfactory of any from whence to draw the conclusion of
guilt ; for men may be seduced to perjury, by many
base motives ; but it can scarcely happen that many
circumstances, especially if they be such over which
the accuser could have no control, forming altogether
the links of a transaction, should all unfortunately con-
222 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
cur to fix the presumption of guilt on an individual,
and yet such a conclusion be erroneous.'
"Gentlemen of the jury: the prosecution believes
that the overwhelming mass of evidence laid before
you proves, beyond a reasonable doubt, that the pris-
oner did premeditatedly murder and rob Robert Luke
Darrington ; and in the name of justice, we demand
that you vindicate the majesty of outraged law, by
rendering a verdict of 'guilty.' All the evidence in
this case points the finger of doom at the prisoner, as
to the time, the place, the opportunity, the means, the
conduct and the motive. Suffer not sympathy for
youthful womanhood and wonderful beauty, to make
you recreant to the obligations of your oath, to decide
this issue of life or death, strictly in accordance with
the proofs presented ; and bitterly painful as is your
impending duty, do not allow the wail of pity to drown
the demands of justice, or the voice of that blood
that cries to heaven for vengeance upon the murderess.
May the righteous God who rules the destinies of the
universe guide you, and enable you to perform faith-
fully your awful duty."
Painfully solemn was the profound silence that per-
vaded the court-room, and the eyes of the multitude
turned anxiously to the grave countenance of the
Judge. Mr. Dunbar had seated himself at a small
table, not far from Beryl, and resting his elbow upon
it, leaned his right temple in the palm of his hand,
watching from beneath his contracted black brows the
earnest, expectant faces of the jurymen ; and his keen,
glowing eyes indexed little of the fierce, wolfish pangs
that gnawed ceaselessly at his heart, as the intoler-
able suspense drew near its end.
Judge Parkman leaned forward.
" Gentlemen of the jury : Before entering that box,
as the appointed ministers of justice, to arbitrate upon
the most momentous issue that can engage human
attention the life or death of a fellow creature you
called your Maker to witness that you would divest
your minds of every shadow of prejudice, would calmly,
carefully, dispassionately consider, analyze and weigh
the evidence submitted for your investigation ; and
irrespective of consequences, render a verdict in strict
accordance with the proofs presented. You have
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 22$
listened to the testimony of the witnesses, to the the-
ory of the prosecution, to the theory of the counsel for
the defence ; you have heard the statement of the
accused, her repeated denial of the crime with which
she stands charged ; and finally you have heard the
arguments of counsel, the summing up of all the evi
dence. The peculiar character of some of the facts
presented as proof, requires on your part the keenest
and most exhaustive analysis of the inferences to be
drawn from them, and you ' have need of patience, wis-
dom and courage.' While it is impossible that you can
contemplate the distressing condition of the accused
without emotions of profound compassion, your duty
' is prescribed by the law, which allows you no liberty
to indulge any sentiment, inconsistent with its strict
performance." You should begin with the legal pre-
sumption that the prisoner is innocent, and that pre-
sumption must continue, until her guilt is satisfactorily
proved. This is the legal right of the prisoner;
contingent on no peculiar circumstances of any par-
ticular case, but is the common right of every person
accused of a crime. The law surrounds the prisoner
with a coat of mail, that only irrefragable proofs of
guilt can pierce, and the law declares her innocent,
unless the proof you have heard on her trial satisfies
you, beyond a reasonable doubt, that she is guilty.
What constitutes reasonable doubt, it becomes your
duty to earnestly and carefully consider. It is charged
that the defendant, on the night of the twenty-sixth of
October, did wilfully, deliberately and premeditatedly
murder Robert Luke Darrington, by striking him
with a brass andiron. The legal definition of murder
is the unlawful killing of another, with malice afore-
thought ; and is divided into two degrees. Any
murder committed knowingly, intentionally and wan-
tonly, and without just cause or excuse, is murder in
the first degree ; and this is the offence charged
against the prisoner at the bar. If you believe from
the evidence, that the defendant, Beryl Brentano, did
at the time and place named, wilfully and premedi-
tatedly kill Robert Luke Darrington, then it will be-
come your duty to find the defendant guilty of murder ;
if you do not so believe, then it will be your duty to
acquit her. A copy of the legal definition of homicide,
224 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
embracing murder in the first and second degrees, and
of manslaughter in the first and second degrees, will
be furnished for your instruction ; and it is your right
and privilege after a careful examination of all the
evidence, to convict of a lesser crime than that
charged in the indictment, provided all the evidence in
this case, should so convince your minds, to the exclu-
sion of a reasonable doubt.
" In your deliberations you will constantly bear in
memory, the following long established rules provided
for the guidance of jurors :
" ' I. The burden of proof rests upon the prosecu-
tion, and does not shift or change to the defendant in
any phase or stage of the case.
" ' II. Before the jury can convict the accused, they
must be satisfied from the evidence that she is guilty
of the offence charged in the indictment, beyond a
reasonable doubt. It is not sufficient that they should
believe her guilt only probable. No degree of proba
bility merely, will authorize a conviction ; but the evi-
dence must be of such character and tendency as to
produce a moral certainty of the prisoner's guilt, to
the exclusion of reasonable doubt.
" ' III. Each fact which is necessary in the chain of
circumstances to establish the guilt of the accused,
must be distinctly proved by competent legal evidence,
and if the jury have reasonable doubt as to any ma-
terial fact, necessary to be proved in order to support
the hypothesis of the prisoner's guilt, to the exclusion
of every other reasonable hypothesis, they must find
her not guilty.
" ' IV. If the jury are satisfied from the evidence,
that the accused is guilty of the offence charged, beyond
reasonable doubt, and no rational hypothesis or ex-
planation can be framed or given (upon the whole evi-
dence in the cause) consistent with the innocence of the
accused, and at the same time consistent with the facts
proved, they ought to find her guilty. The jury are the
exclusive judges of the evidence, of its weight, and of
the credibility of the witnesses. It is their duty to
accept and be governed by the law, as given by the
Court in its instructions.'
"The evidence in this case is not direct and positive,
but presumptive ; and your attention has been called
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 22$
to some well known cases of persons convicted of, and
executed for capital crimes, whose entire innocence was
subsequently made apparent. These arguments and
cases only prove that, ' all human evidence, whether it
be positive or presumptive in its character, like every-
thing else that partakes of mortality, is fallible. The
reason may be as completely convinced by circumstan-
tial as by positive evidence, and yet may possibly not
arrive at the truth by either.'
"The true question, therefore, for your considera-
tion, is not the kind of evidence in this case, but it is,
what is the result of it in your minds ? If it has failed
to satisfy you of the guilt of the accused, and your
minds are not convinced, vacillate in doubt, then you
must acquit her, be the evidence what it may, positive
or presumptive ; but if the result of the whole evidence
satisfies you, if you are convinced that she is guilty,
then it is imperatively your duty to convict her, even if
the character of the evidence be wholly circumstan-
tial.' Such is the law.
" In resigning this case to you, I deem it my duty to
direct your attention to one point, which I suggest that
you consider. If the accused administered chloroform,
did it indicate that her original intention was solely to
rob the vault? Is the act of administering the chloro-
form consistent with the theory of deliberate and pre-
meditated murder ? In examining the facts submitted
by counsel, take the suggestion just presented, with
you, and if the facts and circumstances proved against
her, can be accounted for on the theory of intended,
deliberate robbery, without necessarily involving pre-
meditated murder, it is your privilege to put that mer-
ciful construction upon them.
"Gentlemen of the jury, I commit this mournful and
terrible case to your decision ; and solemnly adjure
you to be governed in your deliberations, by the evi-
dence as you understand it, by the law as furnished in
these instructions, and to render such verdict, as your
reason compels, as your matured judgment demands,
and your conscience unhesitatingly approves and sanc-
tions. May God direct and control your decision."
Drifting along the stream of testimony that
rolled in front of the jury-box, an eager and excited
15
226 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
public had with scarcely a dissenting voice arrived at
the conclusion, that the verdict was narrowed to the
limits of only two possibilities. It was confidently
expected that the jury would either acquit uncondition-
ally, or fail to agree ; thus prolonging suspense, by a
mistrial. It was six o'clock when the jurors, bearing
the andiron, handkerchief, pipe, and a diagram of the
bedroom at " Elm Bluff," were led away to their final
deliberation ; yet so well assured was the mass of spec-
tators, that they would promptly return to render a
favorable verdict, that despite the inclemency of the
weather, there was no perceptible diminution of the
anxious crowd of men and women.
The night had settled prematurely down, black and
stormy; and though the fury of the gale seemed at one
time to have spent itself, the wind veered to the
implacable east, and instead of fitful gusts, a steady
roaring blast freighted with rain smote the darkness.
The officer conducted his prisoner across the dim cor-
ridor, and opened the door of the small anteroom
which frequent occupancy had rendered gloomily
familiar.
" I wish I could make you more comfortable, and it
is a shame to shut you up in such an ice-box. I will
throw my overcoat on the floor, and you can wrap your
feet up in it. Yes, you must take it. I shall keep
warm at the stove in the Sheriff's room. The Judge
will not wait later than ten o'clock, then I'll take you
back to Mrs. Singleton. It seems you prefer to re-
main here alone."
" Yes, entirely alone."
"You are positive, you won't try a little hot punch,
or a glass of wine ? "
" Thank you, but I wish only to be alone."
" Don't be too down-hearted. You will never be
convicted under that indictment, at least not by this
jury, for I have a suspicion that there is one man
among them, who will stand out until the stars fall,
and I will tell you why. I happened to be looking at
him, when your Christinas card was shown by Mr.
Dunbar. The moment he saw it, he started, stretched
out his hand, and as he looked at it, I saw him choke
up, and pass his hand over his eyes. Soon after
Christmas, that man lost his only child, a girl five
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 22/
years old, who had scarlet fever. To divert her mind,
they gave her a Christmas card to play with, that some
friend had sent to her mother. She had it in her hand
when she died, in convulsions, and it was put in her
coffin and buried with her. My wife helped to nurse
and shroud her, and she told me it was the card shown
in court ; it was your card. The law can't cut out the
heartstrings of the jury, and I don't believe that man
would lift his hand against your life, any sooner than
he would strike the face of his dead child."
He locked the door, and Beryl found herself at last
alone, in the dreary little den where a single gas
burner served only to show the surrounding cheerless-
ness. The furniture comprised a wooden bench along
the wall, two chairs, and a table in the middle of the
floor ; and on the dusty panes of the grated window, a
ray of ruddy light from a lamp post in the street be-
neath, broke through the leaden lances of the rain, and
struggled for admission.
The neurotic pharmacopoeia contains nothing so
potent as despair to steady quivering nerves, and steel
to superhuman endurance. For Beryl, the pendulum
of suspense had ceased to swing, because the spring of
hope had snapped ; and the complete surrender, the
mute acceptance of the worst possible to come, had
left her numb, impervious to dread. As one by one
the discovered facts spelled unmistakably the name of
her brother, allowing no margin to doubt his guilt, the
necessity of atonement absorbed every other considera-
tion ; and the desire to avert his punishment extin-
guished the last remnant of selfish anxiety. If by
suffering in his stead, she could secure to him life the
opportunities of repentance, of expiation, of making
his peace with God, of saving his immortal soul how
insignificant seemed all else. The innate love of life,
the natural yearning for happiness, the once fervent
aspirations for fame the indescribable longing for the
fruition of youth's high hopes, which like a Siren sang
somewhere in the golden mists of futurity all these
were now crushed beyond recognition in the whirlwind
that had wrecked her.
Her father slept under silvery olives in a Tuscan
dell, her mother within hearing of the waves that broke
on the Atlantic shore ; and if the wanderer could be
228 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
purified by penitential tears, what mattered the shatter-
ing of the family circle on earth, when in the eternal
Beyond, it would be indissolubly reformed? Over the
black gulf that yawned in her young, pure life, the
wings of her Christian faith bore her steadily, unwaver-
ingly to the heavenly rest, that she knew remained for
the people of God , and so, she seemed to have shaken
hands with the things of time and earth, and to stand
on the border land, girded for departure. To meet her
beloved dead, with the blessed announcement that
Bertie must join them after a while, because she had
ransomed his precious soul ; and that the family would
be complete under the heavenly roof, was recompense
so rich, that the fangs of disgrace, of physical and
mental torture were effectually extracted. Bv day and
by night the ladder of prayer lifted her soul into that
serene realm, where the fountains of balm are never
drained; and into her face stole the reflection of that
peace which only communion with the Christian's God
can bring to those whom grief has claimed for its own.
To-night, as she listened to the Coronach chanted
by the gale, and the dismal accompaniment of the
pelting rain, she realized how utterly isolated was her
position, and kneeling on the bare floor, crossed her
arms on the table, bowed her head upon them, and
prayed for patience and strength. The ordeal had
been fiery, but the end was at hand, and release must
be near.
She heard quick steps in the corridor, and the key
was turned in the lock. Had the jury so promptly
decided to destroy her ? For an instant only, she
shut her eyes ; and when she opened them, Mr. Dun-
bar was leaning over her, folding closely about her
shoulders some heavy wrap, whose soft fur collar his
fingers buttoned around her throat. She had not
known that she was cold, until the delicious sensation
of warmth crept like a caressing touch over her chilled
limbs. She did not stir, and neither spoke ; but after
a moment he turned toward the door ; then she rose.
" There is something I wish to say, and this is my
last opportunity, as after to-night we shall not meet
again. During the past four months I have said harsh,
bitter things to you, and have unjustly judged you.
In grateful recognition of all that you have so faithfully
BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. 229
essayed to accomplish in my behalf, I ask you now to
forget everything but my gratitude for your effort to
save me ; and i offer my hand to you, as the one
friend who sacrificed even his manly pride, and en-
dured humiliation in order to redress my wrongs. I
thank you very sincerely, Mr. Dunbar."
He took her outstretched hand, pressed it against
his cheek, his eyes, held it to his lips ; then a half
smothered groan escaped him, and afraid to trust him-
self, he went quickly out.
Believing that she stood on the confines of another
world, she had possessed her soul in patience, waiting
for the consummation of the sacrifice ; yet at the crisis
of her fate, that singular, incomprehensible influence,
long resisted, drew her thoughts to him, whom she
regarded as the chosen puppet of destiny to hurry her
into an untimely grave. She had fought the battle
with him, under fearful odds ; conscious of sedition in
the heart that defied him, warily clutching with one
hand the throat of rebellion in her citadel, while with
the other, she parried assault.
Keeping lonely vigil, amid the strewn wreck of life
and hope, she had waved away one persistent thought,
that lit up the blackness with a sudden glory, that
came with the face of an angel of light, and babbled
with the silvery tongue of sorcery. As far as her future
was concerned, this world had practically come to a
premature end ; but above the roar of ruin, and out
of the yawning graves of slaughtered possibilities,
rose and rang the challenge: If she had never come
South, if she could have been allowed the chance of
happiness that seemed every woman's birthright, if she
had met and known Mr. Dunbar, before he was
pledged to another; what then? If she were once
more the Beryl of old, and he were free ? If? What
necromancy so wonderful, as the potentiality of if?
Weighed in that popular balance appearances how
stood the poor friendless prisoner, loaded with suspi-
cion, tarnished with obloquy, on the verge of an
ignominious death ; in comparison with the fair, proud
heiress, dowered with blue blood, powerful in patrician
influence, rich in all that made her the envy of her
social world ?
In the dazzling zenith of temporal prosperity, Leo
230 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
Gordon considered the heart of her betrothed her
most precious possession ; the one jewel which she
would gladly have given all else to preserve ; and
yet, fate tore it from her grasp, and laid it at the
feet, nay thrust it into the white hand of the woman
who must die for a fiendish crime. A latter-day seer
tells us, that in all realms, " Between laws there is no
analogy, there is Continuity ; " then in the universe of
ethical sociology, who shall trace the illimitable rami-
fications of the Law of Compensation ?
Up and down, back and forth, slowly, wearily
walked the prisoner ; and when the town clock struck
eight, she mechanically counted each stroke. As in
drowning men, the landmarks of a lifetime rise, hud-
dle, almost press upon the glazing eyes, so the phan-
tasmagoria of Beryl's past, seemed projected in strange
luminousness upon the pall of the present, like profiles
in silvery flame cast on a black curtain.
Holding her father's hand, she walked in the Oden-
wald ; sitting beside her mother on a carpet of purple
vetches, she stemmed strawberries in a garden near
Pistoja; clinging to Bertie's jacket, she followed him
across dimpling sands to dip her feet in the blue Medi-
terranean waves, that broke in laughter, showing teeth
of foam, where dying sunsets reddened all the beach.
Through sunny arcades, flushed with pomegranate
glowing with orange, silvered with lemon blossoms,
came the tinkling music of contadini bells, the bleating
of kids, the twittering of happy birds, the distant
chime of an Angelus ; all the subtle harmony, the
fragmentary melody that flickers through an Im-
promptu of Chopin or Schubert. She saw the simul-
acrum of her former self, the proud, happy Beryl of
old, singing from the score of the " Messiah," in the
organ loft of a marble church ; she heard the rich
tenor voice of her handsome brother, as he trilled a
barcarole one night, crossing the Atlantic; she smelled
the tuberoses at Mentone, the faint breath of lilies,
her father had loved so well, and then, blotting all
else, there rose clear as some line of Morghen's, that
attic room ; the invalid's bed, the low chair beside it,
the wasted figure, the suffering, fever-flushed face of
the beloved mother, as she saw her last, with the
Grand Duke jasmine fastened at her throat.
B Y A UG USTA E VANS WILSON. 2 3 1
The door was thrown open, and the officer beckoned
her to follow him. Back iiuo the croudcd court-room
where people pressed even iiuo the \undow sills for
standing room, where Judge and counsel sat gravely
expectant ; where the stillness of death had suddenly
i alien. The officers conducted her to the bar, then
ilrew back, and Mr. Dunbar came and stood at her
aide, resting his hand on the back of her chair.
In that solemn hush, the measured tramp of the jury
advancing, and riling into their box, had the mournful
measured beat as of pall bearers, keeping step to a dismal
dirge ; and when the foreman laid upon the table the
fatal brass unicorn, the muffled sound seemed ominous
as the grating of a coffin lowered upon the cross bars
of a gaping grave. As the roll was called, each man
rose, and answered in a low but distinct tone. Then
the clerk of the court asked :
" Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon your
verdict ? "
" We have," replied the foreman.
" What say you ! Guilty, or not guilty ? "
Beryl had risen, and the gaslight shining full upon
her pale, Phidian face, showed no trace of trepidation.
Only the pathetic patience of a sublime surrender was
visible on the frozen features; the eyes pretei naturally
large and luminous were raised far above the sea of
heads, and their strained gaze might almost have been
fixed upon the unveiled face of the God she trusted.
Her hands were folded over her mother's ring, her
noble head thrown proudly back.
" We the jury, in the case of the State against Beryl
Brentano, find defendant not guilty as charged in the
indictment ; but guilty of manslaughter in the first
degree, and we do earnestly commend her to the
mercy of the Court."
The girl staggered slightly, as if recoiling from a
blow, and Mr. Dunbar caught her arm, steadied her.
The long pent tide of popular feeling broke its barriers,
and the gates of Pandemonium seemed to swing open.
Women sobbed ; men groaned. In vain the Judge
thundered " Silence," " Order ! " and not until an
officer advanced to obey the command, to clear the
court-room, was there any perceptible lull, in the storm
of indignation.
232 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
Turning to the Judge, Mr. Dunbar said :
" In behalf of the prisoner, I most respectfully beg
that the Court will end her suspense ; and render her
return to this bar unnecessary by promptly pronounc-
ing sentence."
" Is it the wish of the prisoner, that sentence should
not be delayed ? "
" She wishes to know her fate."
She had uttered no sound, but the lashes trembled,
fell over the tired, aching, strained eyes ; and lifting
her locked hands she bowed her chin upon them.
Some moments elapsed, before Judge Parkman
spoke ; then his voice was low and solemn.
" Beryl Brentano, you have been indicted for the de-
liberate and premeditated murder of your grandfather,
Robert Luke Darrington. Twelve men, selected for
their, intelligence and impartiality, have patiently and
attentively listened to the evidence in this case, and
have under oath endeavored to discover the truth of
this charge. You have had the benefit of a fair trial,
by unbiased judges, and finally, the jury in the con-
scientious discharge of their duty, have convicted you
of manslaughter in the first degree, and commended
you to the mercy of the Court. In consideration of
your youth, of the peculiar circumstances surrounding
you, and especially, in deference to the wishes and
recommendation of the jury whose verdict, the Court
approves, I therefore pronounce upon you the lightest
penalty which the law affixes to the crime of man-
slaughter, of which you stand convicted ; which sen-
tence is that you be taken hence to the State Peniten-
tiary, and there be kept securely, for the term of five
years."
With a swift movement, Mr. Dunbar drew the crape
veil over her face, put her arm through his, and led her
into the corridor. Hurriedly he exchanged some words
in an undertone with the two officers, who accompanied
him to the rear entrance of the court-house ; and then,
in answer to a shrill whistle, a close carriage drawn by
two horses drew up to the door, followed by the dismal
equipage set apart for the transportation of prisoners.
The deputy sheriff stepped forward, trying to shield
the girl from the driving rain, and assisted her into
the carriage. Mr. Dunbar sprang in and seated him-
BY AUGUSTA E VANS WILSON. 233
self opposite. The officer closed the door, ordered
the coachman to drive on, and then entering the
gloomy black box, followed closely, keeping always in
sight of the vehicle in advance.
The clock striking ten, sounded through the muffling
storm a knell as mournful as some tolling bell, while
into that wild, moaning Friday night, went the desolate
woman, wearing henceforth the brand of Cain re-
manded to the convict's home.
She had thrown back her veil to ease the stifling
sensation in her throat, and Mr. Dunbar could see now
and then, as they dashed past a street lamp, that she
sat upright, still as stone.
At last she said, in a tone peculiarly calm, like that
of one talking in sleep :
" What did it mean that verdict ? "
" That you went back to ' Elm Bluff' with no inten-
tion of attacking General Darrington.'
" That I went there deliberately to steal, and then
to avoid detection, killed him ? That was the verdict
of the jury? "
She waited a moment.
" Answer me. That was the meaning ? That was
the most merciful verdict they could give to the
world ? "
Only the hissing sound of the rain upon the glass
pane of the carriage, made reply.
They had reached the bridge, when a hysterical
laugh startled the man, who leaned back on the front
seat, with his arms crossed tightly over a heart throb-
bing with almost unendurable pain.
" To steal, to rob, to plunder. Branded for all time
a thief, a rogue, a murderess. I ! I "
A passionate wail told the strain was broken : " I,
my father's darling, my father's Beryl! Hurled into a
living tomb, herded with convicts, with the vilest out-
casts that disgrace the earth this is worse than a
thousand deaths ! It would have been so merciful to
crush out the life they mangled ; but to doom me to
the slow torture of this loathsome grave, where death
brings no release ! To die is so easy, so blessed ; but
to live a convicted felon ! O, my God ! my God !
Hast Thou indeed forsaken me ? "
In the appalling realization of her fate, she rocked
234 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
to and fro for a moment only, fiercely shaken by the
horror of a future never before contemplated. Then
the proud soul stifled its shuddering sigh, lifted its
burden of shame, silently struggled up its awful Via
Crucis. Mute and still, she leaned back in the corner
of the carriage.
" I could have saved you, but you would not accept
deliverance. You thwarted every effort, tied the hands
that might have set you free ; and by your own pre-
meditated course throughout the trial, deliberately
dragged this doom down upon your head. You
counted the cost, and you elected, chose of your own
free will to offer yourself as a sacrifice, to the law, for
the crime of another. You are your own merciless
fate, decreeing self-immolation. You were willing to
die in order to save that man's life ; and you can cer-
tainly summon fortitude to endure five years' deprivation
of his society; sustained by the hope that having there-
by purchased his security, you may yet reap the reward
your heart demands, reunion with its worthless, de-
graded idol. I have watched, weighed, studied you ;
searched every stray record of your fair young life,
found the clear pages all pure ; and I have doubted,
marvelled that you, lily-hearted, lily-souled, lily-handed,
could cast the pearl of your love down in the mire, to
be trampled by swinish feet."
The darkness of the City of Dis that seemed to brood
under the wings of the stormy night, veiled Beryl's
face ; and her silence goaded him beyond the limits of
prudence, which he had warily surveyed for himself.
" Day and night, I hear the maddening echo of your
accusing cry, ' You have ruined my life ! ' God knows,
you have as effectually ruined mine. You have your
revenge if it comfort you to know it; but I am inca-
pable of your sublime renunciation. I am no patient
martyr; I am, instead, an intensely selfish man. You
choose to hug the ashes of desolation ; I purpose to
sweep away the wreck, to rebuild on the foundation of
one hope, which all the legions in hell cannot shake.
Between you and me the battle has only begun, and
nothing but your death or my victory will end it. You
have your revenge ; I intend to enjoy mine. Though
he burrow as a mole, or skulk in some fastness of
Alaska, I will track and seize that cowardly miscreant,
BY A UGUSTA E VANS WILSON. 235
and when the law receives its guilty victim, you shall
be freed from suspicion, freed from prison, and most
precious of all boons, you shall be freed forever from
the vile contamination of his polluting touch. For
the pangs you have inflicted on me, I will have my
revenge : you shall never be profaned by the name of
wife."
Up the rocky hill toiled the horses, arching their
necks as they stooped their faces to avoid the blinding
rain ; and soon the huge blot of prison walls, like a
crouching monster ambushed in surrounding gloom,
barred the way.
In two windows of the second story, burned lights
that borrowed lurid rays in their passage through the
mist, and seemed to glow angrily, like the red eyes of
a sullen beast of prey. The carriage stopped. A
moment after, the deputy-sheriff sprang from his wagon
and rang the bell close to the great gate. Two dogs
bayed hoarsely, and somewhere in the building an
answering bell sounded.
Beryl leaned forward.
" Mr. Dunbar, there is one last favor I ask at your
hands. I want my my I want that pipe, that was
shown in court. Will you ask that it may be given to
me ? Will you send it to me ? "
A half strangled, scarcely audible oath was his only
reply.
She put out her hand, laid it on his.
" You have caused me so much suffering, surely you
will not deny me this only recompense I shall ever
ask."
His hand closed over hers.
"If I bring it to you, will you confess who smoked
it last?"
" After to-night, sir, I think it best I should never
see your face again."
The officer opened the carriage door, the warden
approached, carrying a lantern in one hand and an
umbrella in the other. Mr. Dunbar stepped from the
carriage and turning, stretched out his arms, suddenly
snatched the girl for an instant close to his heart, and
lifted her to the ground.
The warden opened the gate, swinging his lantern
high to light the way, and by ils flickering rays Lennox
236 THE TRIAL OF BERYL.
Dun bar saw the beautiful white face, the wonderful,
sad eyes, the wan lips contracted by a spasm of pain.
She turned and followed the warden ; the lights
wavered ; the great iron gate swung back in its groove,
the bolt fell with a sullen clang; the massive key
rattled, a chain clanked, and all was darkness as she
was locked irrevocably into her living tomb.
"N A N."
BY
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
LOUISE CHANDLER was born in Pomfret, Conn,, in
1836. She was educated at the famous seminary in Troy,
N. Y., then conducted by Mrs. Emma Willard. Her
tendency towards the profession of letters developed
itself very early. At fifteen she was already an author-
ess, writing short stories under the nom de plume of
" Ellen Louise. " Her first book published in 1854,
" This, That and the Other," proved very successful ;
thus before she was twenty she found herself fairly
launched in the swiftly growing tide of fictitious litera-
ture. Other stories and essays rapidly followed.
" Juno Clifford " was a full-grown novel, which was
published anonymously in New York in 1855. A
volume of poems published in Boston had preceded
this work. A collection of short stories with the odd
title of " My Third Book" appeared in 1859. In 1873
appeared the first volume of" Bedtime Stories " adapted
for children ; this was published in Boston as were most
of those which succeeded it. In 1874 came the novel
" Some Women's Hearts " : then another volume of
the " Bedtime Stories " in 1875 with theliteralistic title,
" Some More Bedtime Stories." Next a volume of
poems in 1877 ; and the succeeding year " Swallow
Flights and Other Poems." Then another book for
the little ones called " New Bedtime stories," in 1880 ;
"Random Rambles," in 1881 ; "Firelight Stories" in
1883; and "Ourselves and Our Neighbors,'' in 1887 ;
in the same year she also edited, and prefaced with a
biographical sketch, the " Golden Secrets of Phillip
Bourke Marston.
In 1855 Miss Chandler married Mr. William U.
Moulton, who was also a litterateur and publisher in
Boston. Mrs. Moulton was for some time Boston cor-
respondent for the New York Tribune, and when in
Europe occasionally wrote letters on literary and social
243
244 LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
topics for that and other papers from London and Paris.
Mrs. Moulton is a delightful writer for children
tender and sweet, with always a moral aim intended to
rouse the conscience of the little folks against their
besetting sins and childish weaknesses ; but with noth-
ing of the didactic in style so repellent to many young
readers. In her stories for children of a larger growth
Mrs. Moulton develops a very decided tendency to
instruct by induction ; one cannot escape from the
inferences intended to be drawn, and certainly one
idea stands out very prominently in a number of her
stories and it is one which experience teaches all close
observers of mental and moral phenomena, namely,
that Nature always punishes human mistakes with as
much certainty and precision as she does wilful crimes.
As a poet Mrs. Moulton displays that fine love of
natural objects which appears to be inseparable from
the poetic instinct, and the didactic tendency in some
of her prose works entirely disappears when she sings
out her thoughts, her loves, her fancies, in melodious
verse.
"NAN:
A NEW ENGLAND LOVE STORY.
" I hate it all, oh, how I hate it ! "
It was Nan Allen who made this outburst, sitting in
the comfortable " sitting-room " of a New England
farm-house, and rocking to-and-fro in a New England
rocking-chair. Considering how the world wags in
general, and that one of our greatest statisticians has
told us that one in seven of the inhabitants of Great
Britain dies a pauper, it would not seem to a well-
regulated mind that Nan had much to complain of.
It was late in October. The " fall-cleaning " was over
stoves were set-up in the many rooms of Farmer
Allen's house, cleanliness reigned, and the warmth
within defied the menaces of the "hard winter" which
every one was predicting.
The look of homely well-being, without one ray of
beauty to brighten it, made foolish Nan's very heart
siqk. The close heat of the air-tight stove went to her
head, and she sighed, as she wondered what life
meant. Others besides herself wondered what Nan
Allen's life meant. She was a conundrum, which so
far no one had taken the trouble to guess, though we
have all seen other such conundrums in plenty. She
was the daughter of parents without one ray of imagi-
nation. She had grown up in a home where the
" Evangelical Family Library " did duty for literature,
and Fox's " Book of Martyrs " was the nearest ap-
proach to a romance. And yet Nan was a beauty-
lover and a dreamer. I doubt if under the most favor-
ing circumstances she could have written a book or
painted a picture. Hers was the sympathetic, not the
creative, imagination ; still the love of beauty had been
245
246 " NAN."
born in her. Starved into silence by her circum-
stances, it ached on her heart.
As a child she had been content with the sunsets
that burned the western hills, the roses that rioted in
the old garden in June, the sturdy autumn-flowers that
lifted their haughty, handsome heads to face the
November blasts. She had been what the New Eng-
land people called a romp; that is, she had climbed
trees, and roamed far afield after berries, tamed squir-
rels, and coasted down-hill when the winter had glazed
the hillsides with snow and ice. Occupied with these
pleasures she had failed to realize the barrenness of
her home life the utter want of grace and beauty in
all its appointments. But one day the bud becomes a
flower, and one day Nan ceased to be a child. Then
her life confronted her just as it was barren and nar-
row and monotonous, and with no apparent hope of
better days. And in the summer just past she had
made a friend, who had opened to her a glimpse of
another world. A girl not much older than Nan her
self had been sent to Ryefield to board. Miss Amory
was not very strong, and while her mother had led forth
two older daughters to the glories of conquest at Sara-
toga and afterwards at Newport, the family-doctor had
decreed for Blanche a quiet summer, and had per-
suaded a brother physician at Ryefield to take her into
his family.
In some of Miss Amory's walks she had met Nan
Allen, and suddenly they had become friends.
Blanche Amory, with her patrician grace, her fair face
and her perfect toilets, had dawned on Nan as a rev-
elation of what life might be. It seemed as if her
very dreams had taken shape. She surrendered her-
self heart and soul to the new-comer. Miss Amory, in
turn, was delighted with Nan, in something the same
way in which she might have enjoyed an unaccustomed
school of art, a fresh musical sensation, a new country
to travel in.
She had never before seen anything like this girl, so
frank, so honest, so humble yet so proud, so apprecia-
tive yet so ignorant, so well-bred yet so unaccustomed
to society. Miss Amory from Boston, used to all
things and tired of most, read this new page of human
nature with ever-fresh delight.
BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTOJV. 247
From tliis young high-priestess cf the proper, quick-
witted Nan caught speedily the jargon of art
and of society. She had longed vaguely, hitherto,
for something other than she had known. Now her
desires defined themselves ; for she learned what she
ought to wish for. Her very soul hungered within
her for pictures and carvings and Turkish rugs and old
china, and the other things which all seemed common
and necessary as daily bread to the girl from Boston.
Nan used to wonder how Miss Amory would endure
life at Ryefield when the short, cold days should come
and a wildwood, moss-carpeted drawing-room was no
longer among the possibilities. Would this patrician
creature be able to endure the things Nan's own soul
loathed ? Happily the fair Blanche was spared the
ordeal. While still September days were keeping the
world warm, Miss Amory's oldest brother came to take
her away from Ryefield.
Of course Nan Allen saw her friend's brother, and
in Quincy Amory she, a second time, discovered that
her unformed ideal had taken shape. This, then, was
what a man should be so polished, so graceful and
with such clothes ! It might be inglorious, she owned
to herself, to consider the clothes ; but after all, they
were a revelation, and they, as much as his intonation,
and his walk emphasized the difference between Bos-
ton and Ryefield. He was very gracious to Nan for
his sister's sake, no doubt but he could not help
knowing that she was a pretty girl, a far prettier girl, if
the truth must be told, than even Blanche Amory.
Miss Amory was a blonde, tall, slight, with clear
blue eyes, well-cut features and reposeful manners a
kind of human Easter lily. Nan was a spicy rose,
(horny, perhaps, but fragrant and provoking, with her
dark, curling hair, her dark, bright eyes, her petite fig-
ure, her red lips and her cheeks like the sunny side of
a peach. Quincy Amory quite shared his sister's re-
gret when they bade bonny Nan good-bye at the Rye-
field station.
That parting was a month ago, and meantime Octo-
ber frosts had chilled the air, and the vivid autumn
teaves had blown down with the gale, and Mrs. Allen
and her maid-of-all-work had done the fall cleaning,
and here, in the midst of all the comfortable, common-
248 "NAN."
place, unbeautiful surroundings which her soul loathed,
sat Nan. How she hated the rag-carpet on the floor,
and the mats braided out of the old clothes which
could do duty as garments no longer, and the kerosene
lamps, round which their betraying odor always lin-
gered, and the air-tight stove, and the mottoes wrought
in worsted work that hung upon the wall. Was it a
sin to hate it all, she wondered ? Here, to be sure,
here and not elsewhere, her lot had been cast, and it
might be that she ought to be grateful for it.
" No, that is too much," she said aloud. " Patient,
if you like ; but grateful ! "
And just then John Payne came in. I have not
mentioned John, because Nan had thought so very
little about him during the past summer. And yet he
had been a part of her life ever since she could re-
member. When she went to the district school John,
three or four years older than herself, had been her
companion. John had brought her fruit and flowers,
and guided her sled when she coasted, and waited on
her whims like a faithful dog ; and she had taken all
John's services as simply and as much as if they were
a matter of right, as she ate her breakfast. But when
Miss Amory came into her life John went out of it.
She had no need of him, then ; and he had been very
busy all summer, and was wise enough besides to
know when not to intrude.
But now he came in, in the October afternoon, to
say something which he began to think he had left un-
said too long. He had entered by the back way, and
had seen that Mrs. Allen was in the depths of sweet
pickles. He was therefore not likely to be inter-
rupted. Here sat Nan, piquant, wilful, dark-eyed,
rose-sweet Nan, with a look on her face which, to say
the least, offered no vantage-ground to sentiment.
Something might have whispered to John that the
occasion was not favorable but though he was coun-
try bred he was, after all, no coward ; and he chose to
make his own occasions rather than wait for them.
Nan looked up, as he came in, somewhat listlessly.
"Ah! Sit down, John. No doubt the stove will
make your head ache. It does mine ; but we must get
used to it."
John sat down ; but the warmth of which he began
BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 249
to speak was not that of the stove ; and suddenly Nan
found herself listening with a curious interest, while he
told her that he had been in love with her ever since
he could remember. Nan was not a self-conscious
girl ; and she had really never thought of John Payne
in this way. She looked curiously at him as he spoke.
She had never considered what he was like before.
He was a strong, resolute, handsome fellow. There
was no denying that he was handsomer than Quincy
Amory. But then his coat ! And his hands were
hard, and there was yes, there was the slightest sus-
picion of what Mr. Amory would have called a Yankee
twang in his voice. And as for loving him why, of
course she loved John ; she always had, but it was not
in that way. If only it had been Quincy Amory !
"Why, I'm sure I don't know, John," she said can-
didly, when his " winged words " had been spoken.
" I never thought of your feeling like this. I don't see
why you weren't contented to go on just as we always
have. That was nice enough, I'm sure."
" Nice enough for you," John answered firmly, "but
not for me. It's very little I've seen of you the past
summer, and I've found out that I want a good deal
more."
Nan shook her curly head and sat for a space deep
in consideration.
" I don't seem able to think it out quite so sud-
denly," she said. " Give me till to-morrow. Only one
thing, John ; if I said yes, you would have to go away
from here."
"Yes?" John said inquiringly.
" Yes, certainly, John. I dislike rag-carpets I hate
braided mats I loathe air-tight stoves. Life here is
stagnation. If I if what you wish were ever to come
to pass, it could not be until after you had made a life
for yourself somewhere else. You are clever enough
for that, aren't you, John ? " and she looked him over
reflectingly.
" Yes, I believe I am," he answered with a half
vexed laugh, for this was not at all like the love scene
with his thornless rose which he had pictured to him-
self. " I had sometimes thought, myself, that I might
make a broader life somewhere else, but perhaps I was
250 "NAN"
too impatient to win my wife to be willing to go away
from a certainty, and wait, Heaven knows how long."
*' Well, but, John dear, that's the only way you could
win me. There is only one certainty, and that is, that
I will not live here. Now go away, and I'll try to
think it all out by to-morrow night."'
" I've been asking Nan to marry me," John said,
pausing in the kitchen to speak to Mrs. Allen on the
way out.
" You don't say so ! Will she ? "
" I don't know yet. I shall find out to-morrow."
And John Payne went his way. Mrs. Allen under-
stood Nan well enough not to speak to her and that
night the girl did more serious thinking than she had
ever done before. She sent her thoughts back through
her seventeen years of life, and she found John Payne
all along the way. She was very used to John, cer-
tainly. But did she love him ? She was not sure.
Perhaps she felt all that other girls did who married
and it was only the same thing in her which sighed for
impossible rugs and pictures and old china, that cried
out now for a more romantic love, a more dazzling
lover. Any way, no one but John was likely to love
her, she thought, and if she ever were to get out of
Ryefield, it must be by means of his taking her. With
that for a conclusion to her thinking, she went to sleep.
Late in the next afternoon John came again.
"Well?" he said, standing before her and putting
out his strong hands.
" Oh, sit down, John you make me nervous stand-
ing there. I've thought it all out. I'm pretty sure I
like you well enough ; but I can't stay here. It must
all depend on whether you make a home somewhere
else."
John's eyes grew cold, and his lips stiffened a little.
" You mean that you will promise to marry me after
I have gone out into '^ world and won such a meas-
ure of success as seeus. to you worth accepting ? "
" Yes, John."
" You are a shrewder young lady than I gave you
credit for being, my dear. But you are right enough,
no doubt. You hate this narrow life and all its small
economies. Why. indeed, then, should you bind your-
self to live in it ? I have made my plans. I thought
LOUISE CHANDLER MOUL TON, 2 5 I
once of studying law, but that is slow business. I
have written to-day to Uncle Jared Smith, my mother's
brother. He is one of the great merchants of New
York, and he has always promised to find me a place
with him if I would come. He has no son of his own,
and there would be a reasonable chance, if I pleased
him, of my being taken into the firm. Would that suit
you ? "
Nan's eyes fairly danced. New York! Why, that
would even be better than Boston.
"Oh, you dear John!" she cried eagerly. "And
when will you go ? "
" In the latter part of November if Uncle Jared is
ready for me then. Are you in such a desperate hurry
for me to leave ? "
" Oh, John, don't look at me like that. The sooner
you go the sooner it will come to pass, won't it ? "
And John smiled a little grimly, and made up his
mind that it was really just as well they were not to be
married at present. Perhaps his thorny little sweet-
heart would care more for him after she had tried for
a year or two what life would be without him. Even
now she gave him all she had to give. Was it well to
complain of a rose-tree because it could not be an oak,
especially if one loved the rose ?
For the next month all went well. Uncle Jared re-
joiced by letter over the prospect of having his nephew
with him. All John's arrangements were made for
leaving home, and Nan's gay smiles brightened the
gloom of the season ; for Nan was in love with the
prospect of ultimate New York, if with nothing else.
And so the time went on until the 2ist of November.
On the 23d John Payne was to leave Ryefield. He
had talked over his plans with Nan, the night of the
2ist, for the hundredth time. She found them a very
safe subject ; for, long as she Jjad known John, she
was very shy of him as a lover'^nd would rather hear
him talk of anything else thlff^luiat love of his that
was so strong -and so genuine that it came into her life
somewhat like a persistent north wind ruffling a
garden of roses. When John went away he held her
hand for a long time, and looked deep down into her
eyes till she grew petulant, and asked him what he
2$2 "NAN."
saw and what was wrong. And John smiled a puzzling
smile as he answered :
" Nothing is wrong, I think. What does not exist
cannot be wrong. I have got to wait for your heart
to be born. I shall come to-morrow night for good-
bye."
But long before the next night news had gone
abroad in Ryefield, that Ezra Payne, John's father,
had been seized with paralysis. At first the doctors
had thought there was little hope for his life, but they
began to be more cheerful about him after a few
hours.
What would this mean to John, Nan wondered.
That night of November 23, Nan's father, always a
good neighbor, went to watch beside his old friend.
The doctor was there also, and John got away and
came to Nan.
" This is not good-bye in the sense I expected," he
said ; " but I suppose it is good-bye in another way,
and a long good-bye, too. Nan, have you realized that
I must now stay in Ryefield ?"
" Must, John ? "
" Yes, must, even though it should cost me all the
joy of my life. I, and no other, must care for my
father and fill his place. There is no help. I have
thought and thought, and there is no other way. I can-
not leave my plain duty undone. But I do not bind
you, Nan, to the life of Ryefield. You shall be
free."
" And you won't mind ? " Nan whispered, timidly.
" Mind ! " The word came like a cry from John
Payne's lips. Then he held himself in with a strong
hand and spoke very quietly. " No, I won't mind. If
you mean by that, be angry. I will not blame you.
You were honest to me from the first, and we do not
look for a rose to bloom in the storms of winter.
Good-bye, little Nan, whom I have loved all my
life."
There was a deep note in his voice that brought the
tears to Nan's eyes. She sat there silently after he was
gone, wondering whether, after all, love might not be
worth more than some other things, and whether any
one else would ever love her as John did.
That very week an unexpected invitation came to
BY LO U1SE CHA NDL EK .MO UL 7 VN. 253
her, to pass two or three months uith hc-r summer-
friend, Miss Amory. Blanche had not forgotten her,
then. Proud and glad as she was of this, she would
have been no less so had she known how urgently
Quincy Armory had jogged his sister's memory.
Nan was quite used to her own way, and she got it
in this instance. A week's time found her at home in
the Amory mansion, under the shadow of the dome of
the state-house. Blanche's two sisters had gone on a
visit to an aunt in Baltimore, and Blanche was lonely
enough without them to give Nan an eager welcome.
And, now, indeed, Nan felt that she had just begun to
live. A grub might feel thus, she fancied, when he
first discovered he was a butterfly. Here, in this
ancestral home, where British officers had danced
stately minuets when Massachusetts was a colony,
were all the delights of which Nan had vainly
dreamed. Pictures, china, rugs, carvings, old silver,
curios from every country under the sun the glory of
all the kingdoms of the world ! Ah, this it was to live !
Papa Allen had not sent his only child away with an
empty purse, and Miss Amory helped to choose the
simple yet dainty costumes that made the pretty coun-
try-girl ten times prettier. And if Quincy Amory had
been touched before by her wild-rose charms, he found
them in this new setting yet more beguiling. And
since he, the only son of his father, could afford to
please himself in marriage, he began to say to himself,
" Why not ? " Doubtless Nan might have said " Why
not ( ' too, if such a wild thought could ever have
crossed her brain, as that this man. to whom she
looked up with 'such unbounded and admiring hom-
age, could care for her. To be loved by the most
princely man she had ever seen to live always in this
new world of beauty no, Nan's fancies were not
strong-winged enough to soar so high.
But as the weeks went on, and she grew used to
luxury, it began to fill her heart not quite so full as at
first. Sometimes, in the midst of all the glories that
surrounded her, her thoughts went back to Ryefield,
and she heard John's voice say once more .
" Good-bye, little Nan, whom I have loved all my
life."
Quincy Amory did not ask her to marry him until
254 "NAN."
she had been his sister's guest for three months. It
was the very last day but one in February when, one
night, he found that she, a liitle tired, perhaps, of
pleasure, had staid at home instead of going with his
sister to a party, as had been planned. Here was his
ready made opportunity, of which he availed himself
in the most high-bred and polished manner. Perhaps
there was an indescribable something in his voice and
bearing that brought it home to Nan that he was con-
ferring upon her an extreme distinction, instead of
seeking from her, as John Payne had done, the crown-
ing grace and glory of his own life.
If he had made his offer the first month Nan was
there, while yet she was dazzled by the splendor and
nobility of everything, I have little doubt but that she
would have accepted it. Now that she had grown
used to things, they had less power over her and she
began, instead of contemplating the glories ot Quincy
Amory's birth and state, to ask herself if this high-
bred, listless young man really loved her. Suddenly
she asked the question out loud :
" Are you quite sure you love me, Mr. Amory ? "
" Quite sure, indeed. Could I have any other
motive ? "
And his words and his tone lent force to her already
keen sense, that it was something akin to the red
ribbon of the Legion of Honor which this Mayflower-
descended young man was proposing to bestow upon
her. What imp of the perverse was it that would not
let her say yes ?
"Please, I must think a little," she answered
quietly, just as she had answered John Payne before.
" \ will tell you to-morrow night."
And Mr. Amory seemed quite at ease. No doubt
he approved of the delicacy that would not be too
eager. It suited his taste, and even enhanced the
girl's value in his eyes. He talked then about indiffer-
ent subjects some new paintings at the Art Museum,
the photographs at Doll & Richards 'from the pictures
of " The Hermitage," a coming performance of the
Passion music.
Nan was glad, at last, when she could civilly get
away to her own room and think the whole thing over.
A soft coal fire was burning in her grate, and it lighted.
B V LOUISE CHANDLER MOUL TON. 2 5 5
the luxurious room with its warm, soft hangings, its
sleepy-hollow chairs and the dainty writing-table with
all its pretly appointments. This was just what Nan
longed for what she had craved dumbly ever since
she could remember. She had only to say " Yes " to
have it and all it symbolized her own for always.
What was the drawback ? Why did she hear and hear
over and over again, that last good-bye of John's ?
Was it possible that she, too, had loved him all her
life all her life and had never known it until now ?
Was it because it was another, and not John, who
offered them to her, that all the external things she
had craved so long seemed to her in this hour of no
account ? She thought late into the night, and then she
slept a fitful sleep, in which she dreamed that John
Payne and Quincy Amory were each pulling her, one
to the right, the other to the left, and she woke with a
little cry on her lips lest she should be torn in two.
The next morning she said to Miss Amory : " I
must go home to-morrow. It will be the first day of
spring. ''
And, despite all persuasion, she kept to this resolu-
tion. Quincy Amory heard of her purpose with no
misgivings. It seemed natural that, after having
promised to marry him, she should think it well to go
away. Her delicate sense of propriety was one of her
charms. He went, without a misgiving, to find her in
the library, whither she had betaken herself after din-
ner.
" Well, my wilful wild-rose," he said gayly, as he
took his seat beside her, " are you ready to answer
me ? "
" Quite ready, Mr. Amory."
He smiled.
" Don't you think you could learn to say Quincy,
now ? "
" No, Mr. Amory, for I shall have no right."
The careless smile died on his lips, and his eyes
looked into hers with a sudden, grave inquiry.
'' Do you mean," he said, " that you do not like
me ? "
'* Oh, no, no ; I like you so much. I mean only that
that is all. It is not enough, is it?"
256
" That depends. Do yon care for any one else in
that way ? "
Sudden blushes turned Nan's face scarlet.
"I'm afraid that is it," she said. " I did not know
it till last night. It was only when I came to think
what it would be to stay away always from Ryefield,
that I began to understand what I felt for some one I
had known all my life."
" No doubt you are quite right," he said a little
stiffly. " Of course you are right, if there is some one
else."
The tears gathered in Nan's dark eyes.
"Don't be vexed at me," she said humbly and
sweetly. " I am not the girl you ought to marry.
You should have some one who is used to your world
and all the ways of it. As for me I belong to Rye-
field."
The best and noblest side of Quincy Amory came
out, then and there. He took Nan's little brown hand
and raised it to his lips.
" You are a good, frank, girl," he said, " and you
would have been the one for me had you loved me.
You did not, and it is my loss."
He was so good and gentle that Nan half thought
she had made a mistake, even then but deep down
in her heart she knew better ; and she went on her
way the next day with contentment.
She took the father and mother at home by surprise.
They had looked for her in the spring, but not on this
first day of it, when March was coming in, keen still
with the cold of winter, and wild with turbulent gusts.
" Dear me ! " her mother said, using the New Eng-
land woman's natural form of invocation, "dear me, I
expect it'll seem pretty strange to you here, now you've
got used to gas and furnaces and all kinds of city-fix-
ings."
And the truth was it did seem strange, and the rigid,
bare, unbeautiful usefulness of everything was not one
whit more attractive to beauty loving Nan tharf'of old.
" How's John ? " she asked hastily, changing the
subject.
"John ! Oh, I guess he's pretty well, but he's got
his hands full. They say old Mr. Payne's no good at
all; but he hasn't any notion o' dyin.' And John tends
BY LO UISE CHANDLER MO UL TOM 257
him, and sees to his mother, and keeps everything
going on the farm; and it's no wonder if he has grown
thin and looks k.nd o' worn and peaked like. He's
had a hard time doin' his duty, John has."
Nan wondered if people always had hard times
doing their duty, and secretly concluded that this
was probably the case.
How did John Payne know that she had got home?
But, somehow, people always did know things in Rye-
field, and it was nothing strange that John should come
walking in after supper was over. Mrs. Allen was
helping her "girl" wash up the dishes. Mr. Allen was
helping his " man " do the chores. And Nan sat alone
in the sitting-room, where the kerosene lamp did duty
for gas, and already the air-tight stove made her head
ache. Or, after all, was it not something else and not
the stove ? Was it that she was regretting a little the
lovely, rose-hung, wax-lighted room where she had
been wont to sit at this hour and look into the fire ?
Did she possibly regret that with her own hand she
had shut against herself the gate of that Beacon Hill
Eden forever ?
John came in quietly and saw her before she saw
him saw her with eyes into which grew a strange ten-
derness. Soon she felt his presence and looked
around.
" Oh, John ! " she cried, and there was unmistak-
able gladness in her tone.
' You are glad to see me then, even after Boston ? "
Nan looked up into his face. The old, loving light
was in his eyes. No, he had not changed.
" Come and sit down," she said, " and I'll tell you
how I feel after Boston."
John sat down, but he kept his hands quietly before
him those hands that always used to be seeking hers.
" John ! "
It was a low tone, with a little quiver of pathos in it.
"John!"
"Yes, Nan."
' I hate rag-carpets."
"Yes, Nan."
" And I hate braided mats and kerosene-lamps and
air-tight stoves, and life as it is in Ryefield. But
there's one thing I hate worse yet, John."
17
258 "NAN."
"Yes, Nan ?" this time with a note of interrogation.
" Yes, I hate worse any life any life at all where
you can't come in at twilight, and where I'm far, far
away from somebody who said he had loved me all
my life."
John grew pale suddenly. Watchful Nan saw the
color leave his face, and the hands that had not yet
sought hers were trembling.
"Nan," he said, "do you quite know what you are
saying ? "
" Yes, I quite know. You see, I didn't know last
November but I went away and found out."
And why should I play Paul Pry at the rest of the
interview, since after all, the story ends like a fairy-
tale, with " And so they were married ? "
A MEMORABLE MURDER,
BY
CELIA THAXTER.
CELIATHAXTER.
CELIA THAXTER suddenly broke upon the literary
horizon some twelve or fifteen years since, with an
interesting collection of poems entitled " Drift-wood,"
and considering that they came from a group of
islands, away from the mainland far enough to prevent
frequent communication, the poetical debutant was
received with almost as much surprise as pleasure.
For though the Isles of Shoals were well known as a
delightful sea resort, they had certainly never been
regarded as a literary centre, or as a place likely to
develop poetical talent. The means of education were
comparatively remote, and the permanent society of
the islands for the greater part of the year offered
very limited resources for a budding genius. True,
there had been floating through the current literature
for some time stray poems, fragrant with the ozone of
old ocean, signed " Celia Thaxter ; " still it was difficult
for the critical reviewer of Boston to realize that the
bearer of this name was actually a long time resident,
if not exactly a native of those storm beaten isles lying
off the coast of New Hampshire. But when her own
autobiography, of her earlier years, appeared in the
pages of St. Nicholas, the truth was realized at last,
that the atmosphere of Cambridge or Beacon Hill was
not absolutely necessary to the growth and blooming
of the flowers of poesy.
Celia Leighton was born in Portsmouth, New
Hampshire, June 29, 1835, but the family removed
soon after to the Isles of Shoals, a group of almost
bare rocks, on which the famous lighthouse was for
many years the most prominent and attractive object.
The gradual addition of summer visitors to the fishing
population came slowly, Celia's father being the first
to establish anything like a modern hotel. Those who
would know how this child of the sea grew up into a
263
264 CELIA THAXTER.
refined and intelligent woman, should read not only
her early autobiography, but her pleasant little book,
entitled " Among the Isles of Shoals." When quite
young, in 1851, Celia Leighton was married to Mr.
Thaxter, and has continued to reside, at least for a
portion of each year on the principal island of the
group, which has been made known through her pen
to a far wider circle than would ever have been likely
to make the acquaintance of the islands on their own
merits.
Mrs. Thaxter has done for the sea-shore and the
varied aspects of ocean views and the rocky isles of her
home, what Whittier has done for the milder aspects of
the river on whose banks he dwelt. As he may be
said to have exhausted the descriptive beauties of the
Merrimac, Mrs. Thaxter appears to have left nothing
unsaid of the varying features of the ocean, whose
waves were forever beating at her feet. With the
minutest attention to detail ; with the keenest observa-
tion for shades of difference ; with an almost superfine
susceptibility to climatic and meteorological changes,
so that she might be termed a realist in word-painting,
she at the same time possessed the glow and the imag-
ination of the impressionist. Thus we see in her art
the happy combination of the two schools. Certainly
no one can read her poems without the convic-
tion of certainty that she has seen with her own eyes
what she describes. There is something beyond
the photographic accuracy of experienced obser-
vation always to be observed even in her simplest
poems. She sees something more than the mere exter-
nal forms of nature, and however much she may
delight in these, it is not her sole object to reproduce
them for other eyes. Beyond and within the external,
she perceives the actuating soul : and it is this quality
which gives the greatest value to her pictures of sea
and shore.
In her prose writing the picturesque prevails, though
with some marked exceptions ; in all is a moral under-
current which crops out more or less prominently in a'J
of her productions prose or poetry. She has written
some charming poems for children, with such an ex-
quisite blending of the didactic with the scenic and
CELIA THAXTER. 265
emotional, that the intended lesson is conveyed without
exciting the natural repulsion of children to " morals,"
too obviously conveyed.
Because Mrs. Thaxter has written so well of the sea,
her graphic imagery has impressed some critics with
the idea that she writes of nothing else. This is emi-
nently unjust : her poems are not confined to the sea ;
as all will remember who have read the story of " A
Faded Glove," " Remonstrance," " Piccola," and
scores of other verses giving land pictures, and ex-
hibiting some of the finest and most delicate emotions
of the human heart ; not to mention her musical
sonnets on Beethoven and other great masters of com-
position. Mrs. Thaxter was happy to have attracted,
very early in her literary career, the sympathy and ad-
miration of some of the best writers and critics of the
day : among the most enthusiastic of her admirers,
was Thomas Wentworth Higginson, a scholar of fine
penetrating sense, who is also a lover of the sea,
and one of the most competent judges of ocean nature
painting among our modern literati. He failed to dis-
cover any lack of versatility in her genius, and those who
study her works as a whole, will find that there is
scarcely a moral idea, a practical point in ethics, or
an emotion of the human heart, which has not been
the subject of her pen, touched upon at least, with
more or less freedom.
A MEMORABLE MURDER.
AT the Isles of Shoals, on the 5th of March in the
year 1873, occurred one of the most monstrous tragedies
ever enacted on this planet. The sickening details of
the double murder are well known ; the newspapers
teemed with them for months : but the pathos of the
story is not realized ; the world does not know how
gentle a life these poor people led, how innocently
happy were their quiet days. They were all Norwe-
gians. The more 1 see of the natives of this far-off
land, the more I admire the fine qualities which seem
to characterize them as a race. Gentle, faithful, intel-
ligent, God-fearing human beings, they daily use such
courtesy toward each other and all who come in
contact with them, as puts our ruder Yankee manners
to shame. The men and women living on this lonely
island were like the sweet, honest, simple folk we
read of in Bjornson's charming Norwegian stones, full
of kindly thoughts and ways. The murdered Anethe
might have been the Eli of Bjornson's beautiful Arne
or the Ragnhild of Boyesen's lovely romance. They
rejoiced to find a home just such as they desired in
this peaceful place ; the women took such pleasure in
the little house which they kept so neat and bright, in
their flock of hens, their little dog Ringe, and all their
humble belongings ! The Norwegians are an excep-
tionally affectionate people ; family ties are very strong
and precious among them. Let me tell the story of
their sorrow as simply as may be.
Louis Wagner murdered Anethe and Karen Chris-
tensen at midnight on the 5th of March, two years ago
this spring. The whole affair shows the calmness of a
practised hand ; there was no malice in the deed, no
heat ; it was one of the coolest instances of delibera-
tion ever chronicled in the annals of crime. He
admits that these people had shown him nothing but
267
268 A MEMORABLE MURDER.
kindness. He says in so many words, " They were my
best friends." They looked upon him as a brother.
Yet he did not hesitate to murder them. The island
called Smutty-Nose by human perversity (since in old
times it bore the pleasanter title of Haley's Island) was
selected to be the scene of this disaster. Long ago I
lived two years upon it, and know well its whitened
ledges and grassy slopes, its low thickets of wild-rose
and bayberry, its sea-wall still intact, connecting it
with the small island Malaga, opposite Appledore, and
the ruined breakwater which links it with Cedar Island
on the other side. A lonely cairn, erected by some
long ago forgotten fishermen or sailors, stands upon
the highest rock at the southeastern extremity ; at its
western end a few houses are scattered, small, rude
dwellings, with the square old Haley house near ; two
or three fish-houses are falling into decay about the
water-side, and the ancient wharf drops stone by stone
into the little cove, where every day the tide ebbs and
flows and ebbs again with pleasant sound and fresh-
ness. Near the houses is a small graveyard, where a
few of the natives sleep, and not far, the graves of the
fourteen Spaniards lost in the wreck of the ship
Sagunto in the year 1813. I used to think it was a
pleasant place, that low, rocky and grassy island,
though so wild and lonely.
From the little town of Laurvig, near Christiania,
in Norway, came John and Maren Hontvet to this
country, and five years ago took up their abode in
this desolate spot, in one of the cottages facing the
cove and Appledore. And there they lived through
the long winters and the lovely summers, John making
a comfortable living by fishing, Maren, his wife, keep-
ing as bright and tidy and sweet a little home for him
as man could desire. The bit of garden they culti-
vated in the summer was a pleasure to them ; they
made their house as pretty as they could with paint
and paper and gay pictures, and Maren had a shelf
for her plants at the window ; and John was always so
good to her, so kind and thoughtful of her comfort and
of what would please her, she was entirely happy.
Sometimes she was a little lonely, perhaps, when he
was tossing afar off on the sea, setting or hauling his
trawls, or had sailed to Portsmouth to sell his fish.
BY CELT A TffAXTBR. 269
So that she was doubly glad when the news came
that some of her people were coming over from Nor-
way to live with her. And first, in the month of May,
1871, came her sister Karen, who stayed only a short
time with Maren, and then came to Appledore, where
she lived at service two years, till within a fortnight of
her death. The first time I saw Maren she brought her
sister to us, and I was charmed with the little woman's
beautiful behavior ; she was so gentle, courteous,
decorous, she left on my mind a most delightful impres-
sion. Her face struck me as remarkably good and
intelligent, and her gray eyes were full of light.
Karen was a rather sad-looking woman, about twenty-
nine years old ; she had lost a lover in Norway long
since, and in her heart she fretted and mourned for
this continually : she could not speak a word of
English at first, but went patiently about her work and
soon learned enough, and proved herself an excellent
servant, doing faithfully and thoroughly everything
she undertook, as is the way of her people gener-
ally. Her personal neatness was most attractive.
She wore gowns made of cloth woven by herself in
Norway, a coarse blue stuff, always neat and clean,
and often I used to watch her as she sat by the fire
spinning at a spinning-wheel brought from her own
country; she made such a pretty picture, with her blue
gown and fresh white apron, and the nice, clear white
muslin bow with which she was in the habit of fasten-
ing her linen collar, that she was very agreeable to
look upon. She had a pensive way of letting her head
droop a little sideways as she spun, and while the low
wheel hummed monotonously, she would sit crooning
sweet, sad old Norwegian airs by the hour together,
perfectly unconscious that she was affording such
pleasure to a pair of appreciative eyes. On the i2th
of October, 1872, in the second year of her stay with
us, her brother, Ivan Christensen, and his wife,
Anethe Mathea, came over from their Norseland in an
evil day, and joined Maren and John at their island,
living in the same house with them.
Ivan and Anethe had been married only since
Christmas of the preceding year. Ivan was tall, light-
haired, rather quiet and grave. Anethe was young,
fair, and merry, with thick, bright sunny hair, which
2/O A MEMORABLE MURDER.
was so long it reached, when unbraided, nearly to her
knees ; blue-eyed, with brilliant teeth and clear, fresh
complexion, beautiful, and beloved beyond expression
by her young husband, Ivan. Mathew tLontvet,
John's brother, had also joined the little circle a year
before, and now Maren's happiness was complete.
Delighted to welcome them all, she made all things
pleasant for them, and she told me only a few days
ago, " I never was so happy in my life as when we
were all living there together." So they abode in
peace and quiet, with not an evil thought in their
minds, kind and considerate to each other, the
men devoted to their women and the women repaying
them with interest, till out of the perfectly cloudless
sky one day a bolt descended, without a whisper of
warning, and brought ruin and desolation into that
peaceful home.
Louis Wagner, who had been in this country seven
years, appeared at the Shoals two years before the
date of the murder. He lived about the islands
during that time. He was born in Ueckermiinde, a
small town of lower Pomerania, in Northern Prussia.
Very little is known about him, though there were
vague rumors that his past life had not been without
difficulties, and he had boasted foolishly among his
mates that " not many had done what he had done
and got off in safety ; " but people did not
trouble themselves about him or his past, all having
enough to do to earn their bread and keep the wolf
from the door. Maren describes him as tall, power-
ful, dark, with a peculiarly quiet manner. She says
she never saw him drunk he seemed always anxious
to keep his wits about him : he would linger on the
outskirts of a drunken brawl, listening to and absorb-
ing everything, but never mixing himself up in any
disturbance. He was always lurking in corners,
lingering, looking, listening, and he would look no
man straight in the eyes. She spoke, however, of
having once heard him disputing with some sailors, at
table, about some point of navigation ; she did not
understand it, but all were against Louis, and, waxing
warm, all strove to show him he was in the wrong.
As he rose and left the table she heard him mutter to
himself with an oath, " I know I'm wrong, but I'll
BY CELIA THAXTER, 27 1
never give in ! " During the winter preceding the
one in which his hideous deed was committed he
lived at Star Island and fished alone, in a wherry;
but he made very little money, and came often over
to the Hontvets, where Maren gave him food when
he was suffering from want, and where he received
always a welcome and the utmost kindness. In the
following June he joined Hontvet in his business of
fishing, and took up his abode as one of the family at
Smutty-Nose. During the summer he was "crippled,"
as he said, by the rheumatism, and they were all very
good to him. and sheltered, fed, nursed and waited
upon him the greater part of the season, He remained
with them five weeks after Ivan and Anethe arrived,
so that he grew to know Anethe as well as Maren, and
was looked upon as a brother by all of them, as I
have said before. Nothing occurred to show his true
character, and in November he left the island and the
kind people whose hospitality he was to repay so fear-
fully, and going to Portsmouth he took passage in
another fishing schooner, the Addison Gilbert, which
was presently wrecked off the coast, and he was
again thrown out of employment. Very recklessly he
said to Waldemar Ingebertsen. to Charles Jonsen,
and even to John Hontvet himself, at different times,
that "he must have money if he murdered for it."
He loafed about Portsmouth eight weeks, doing noth-
ing. Meanwhile Karen left our service in February,
intending to go to Boston and work at a sewing-
machine, for she was not strong and thought she
should like it better than housework, but before going
she lingered awhile with her sister Maren fatal delay
for her ! Maren told me that during this time Karen
went to Portsmouth and had her teeth removed, mean-
ing to provide herself with a new set. At the Jensens',
where Louis was staying, one day she spoke to Mrs.
Jonsen of her mouth, that it was so sensitive since the
teeth had been taken out : and Mrs. Jonsen asked her
how long she must wait before the new set could be
put in. Karen replied that it would be three months.
Louis Wagner was walking up and down at the other
end of the room with his arms folded, his favorite
attitude. Mrs. Jensen's daughter passed near him
and heard him mutter, " Three months ! What is the
2/2 A MEMORABLE MURDER.
use ! In three months you will be dead ! " He did
not know the girl was so near, and turning, he con-
fronted her. He knew she must have heard what he
said, and he glared at her like a wild man.
On the fifth day of March, 1873, John Hontvet, his
brother Mathew, and Ivan Christensen set sail in
John's little schooner, the Clara Bella, to draw their
trawls. At that time four of the islands were in-
habited ; one family on White Island, at the light-
house ; the workmen who were building the new
hotel on Star Island, and one or two households be-
side ; the Hontvet family at Smutty-Nose ; and on
Appledore, the household at the large house, and on
the southern side, opposite Smutty-Nose, a little
cottage, where lived Jorge Edbardt Ingebertsen, his
wife and children, and several men who fished with
him. Smutty-Nose is not in sight of the large house at
Appledore, so we were in ignorance of all that hap-
pened on that dreadful night, longer than the other in-
habitants of the Shoals.
John, Ivan and Mathew went to draw their trawls,
which had been set some miles to the eastward of the
islands. They intended to be back to dinner, and then
to go on to Portsmouth with their fish, and bait the
trawls afresh, ready to bring back to set again next day.
But the wind was strong an 4 fair for Portsmouth and
ahead for the islands ; it would have been a long beat
home against it ; so they went on to Portsmouth, with-
out touching at the island to leave one man to guard
the women, as had been their custom. This was the
first night in all the years Maren had lived there that
the house was without a man to protect it. But John,
always thoughtful for her, asked Emil Ingebertsen,
whom he met on the fishing-grounds, to go over from
Appledore and tell her that they had gone on to Ports-
mouth with the favoring wind, but that they hoped to
be back that night. And he would have been back
had the bait he expected from Boston arrived on the
train in which it was due. How curiously everything
adjusted itself to favor the bringing about of this hor-
rible catastrophe ! The bait did not arrive till the half-
past twelve train, and they were obliged to work the
whole night getting their trawls ready, thus leaving the
way perfectly clear for Louis Wagner's awful work,
BY CELIA THAXTER. 2?$
The three women left alone watched and waited in
vain for the schooner to return, and kept the dinner
hot for the men, and patiently wondered why they did
not come. In vain they searched the wide horizon for
that returning sail. Ah me, what pathos is in that
longing look of women's eyes for far-off sails ? That
gaze, so eager, so steadfast, that it would almost seem
as if it must conjure up the ghostly shape of glimmer-
ing canvas from the mysterious distances of se'a and
sky, and draw it unerringly home by the mere force of
intense wistfulness ! And those gentle eyes, that were
never to see the light of another sun, looked anxiously
across the heaving sea till twilight fell, and then John's
messenger, Emil, arrived Emil Ingebertsen, courteous
and gentle as a youthful knight and reassured them
with his explanation, which having given, he departed,
leaving them in a much more cheerful state of mind.
So the three sisters, with only the little dog Ringe for a
protector, sat by the fire chatting together cheerfully.
They fully expected the schooner back again that
night from Portsmouth, but they were not ill at ease
while they waited Of what should they be afraid ?
They had not an enemy in the world ! No shadow
crept to the fireside to warn them what was at hand, no
portent of death chilled the air as they talked their
pleasant talk and made their little plans in utter
unconsciousness. Karen was to have gone to Ports-
mouth with the fishermen that day, she was already
dressed to go. Various little commissions were given
her, errands to do for the two sisters she was to leave
behind. Maren wanted some buttons, and " I'll give
you one for a pattern ; I'll put it in your purse," she
said to Karen, "and then when you open your purse
you'll be sure to remember it." (That little button, of
a peculiar pattern, was found in Wagner's possession
afterward.) They sat up till ten o'clock, talking to-
gether. The night was bright and calm ; it was a
comfort to miss the bitter winds that had raved about
the little dwelling all the long, rough winter. Already
it was spring ; this calm was the first token of its com-
ing. It was the 5th of March ; in a few weeks the
weather would soften, the grass grow green, and
Anethe would see the first flowers in this strange
country, so far from her home where she had left
18
274 A MEMORABLE MURDER.
father and mother, kith and kin, for love of Ivan. The
delicious days of summer at hand would transform the
work of the toiling fishermen to pleasure, and all things
would bloom and smile about the poor people on the
lonely rock ! Alas, it was not to be.
At ten o clock they went to bed. It was cold and
"lonesome" upstairs, so Maren put some chairs by
the side of the lounge, laid a mattress upon it, and
made up a bed for Karen in the kitchen, where she
presently fell asleep. Maren and Anethe slept in the
next room. So safe they felt themselves, they did not
pull down a curtain, nor even try to fasten the house-
door. They went to their rest in absolute security and
perfect trust. It was the first still night of the new
year ; a young moon stole softly down toward the west,
a gentle wind breathed through the quiet dark, and the
waves whispered gently about the island, helping to lull
those innocent souls to yet more peaceful slumber.
Ah, where were the gales of March that might have
plowed that tranquil sea to foam, and cut off the fatal
path of Louis Wagner to that happy home ! But nature
seemed to pause and wait for him. I remember look-
ing abroad over the waves that night and rejoicing over
" the first calm night of the year ! " It was so still, so
bright ! The hope of all the light and beauty a few
weeks would bring forth stirred me to sudden joy.
There should be spring again after the long winter-
weariness.
" Can trouble live in April days,
Or sadness in the summer moons ?"
I thought, as I watched the clear sky, grown less
hard than it had been for weeks, and sparkling with
stars. But before another sunset it seemed to me that
beauty had fled out of the world, and that goodness,
innocence, mere}-, gentleness, were a mere mockery of
empty words.
Here let us leave the poor women, asleep on the
lonely rock, with no help near them in heaven or upon
earth, and follow the fishermen to Portsmouth, where
they arrived about four o'clock that afternoon. One
of the first men whom they saw as they neared the
town was Louis Wagner ; to him they threw the rope
from the schooner^ a,nd he helped draw her in to the
BY CELIA THAXTER. 2?$
wharf. Greetings passed between them ; he spoke to
Mathew Hontvet, and as he looked at Ivan Christ-
ensen, the man noticed a flush pass over Louis's face.
He asked were they going out again that night ?
Three times before they parted he asked that question ;
he saw that all the three men belonging to the island
had come away together ; he began to realize his oppor
tunity. They answered him that if their bait came by
the train in which they expected it, they hoped to get
back that night, but if it was late they should be
obliged to stay till morning, baiting their trawls; and
they asked him to come and help them. It is a long
and tedious business, the baiting of trawls ; often more
than a thousand hooks are to be manipulated, and
lines and hooks coiled, clear of tangles, into tubs, all
ready for throwing overboard, when the fishing-grounds
are reached. Louis gave them a half promise that he
would help them, but they did not see him again after
leaving the wharf. The three fishermen were hungry,
not having touched at their island, where Maren always
provided them with a supply of food to take with them ;
they asked each other if either had brought any money
with which to buy bread, and it came out that every
one had left his pocket-book at home. Louis, stand-
ing by, heard all this. He asked John, then, if he had
made fishing pay. John answered that he had cleared
about six hundred dollars.
The men parted, the honest three about their busi-
ness ; but Louis, what became of him with his evil
thoughts ? At about half-past seven he went into a
liquor shop and had a glass of something; not enough
to make him unsteady, he was too wise for that. He
was not seen again in Portsmouth by any human
creature that night. He must have gone, after that,
directly down to the river, that beautiful, broad river,
the Piscataqua, upon whose southern bank the quaint
old city of Portsmouth dreams its quiet days away; and
there he found a boat ready to his hand, a dory belong-
ing to a man by the name of David Burke, who had
that day furnished it with new thole-pins. Then it
was picked up afterward off the mouth of the river,
Louis's anxious oars had eaten half-way through the
substance of these pins, which are always made of the
Hardest, toughest wood that can be found. A terrible.
2?6 A MEMORABLE MURDER.
piece of rowing must that have been, in one night !
Twelve miles from the city to the Shoals, three to the
light-houses, where the river meets the open sea, nine
more to the islands ; nine back again to Newcastle
next morning ! He took that boat, and with the
favoring tide dropped down the rapid river where the
swift current is so strong that oars are scarcely needed,
except to keep the boat steady. Truly all nature
seemed to play into his hands ; this first relenting
night of earliest spring favored him with its stillness,
the tide was fair, the wind was fair, the little moon
gave him just enough light, without betraying him to
any curious eyes, as he glided down the three miles
between the river banks, in haste to reach the sea.
Doubtless the light west wind played about him as
delicately as if he had been the most human of God's
creatures ; nothing breathed remonstrance in his ear,
nothing whispered in the whispering water that rippled
about his inexorable keel, steering straight for the
Shoals through the quiet darkness. The snow lay
thick and white upon the land in the moonlight ; lamps
.twinkled here and there from dwellings on either side ;
in Eliot and Newcastle, in Portsmouth and Kittery,
roofs, chimneys, and gables showed faintly in the
vague light ; the leafless trees clustered dark in hollows
or lifted their tracery of bare boughs in higher spaces
against the wintry sky. His eyes must have looked on
it all, whether he saw the peaceful picture or not.
Beneath many a humble roof honest folk were settling
into their untroubled rest, as " this planned piece of
deliberate wickedness " was stealing silently by with
his heart full of darkness, blacker than the black tide
that swirled beneath his boat and bore him fiercely on.
At the river's mouth stood the sentinel light-houses,
sending their great spokes of light afar into the night,
like the arms of a wide humanity stretching into the
darkness helping hands to bring all who needed succor
safely home. He passed them, first the tower at Fort
Point, then the taller one at Whale's Back, steadfastly
holding aloft their warning fires. There was no signal
from the warning bell as he rowed by, though a danger
more subtle, more deadly, than fog, or hurricane, or
pelting storm was passing swift beneath it. Unchal*
lenged by anything in earth or heaven, h kept on his
BY CELIA THAXTER. 2/7
way and gained the great outer ocean, doubtless pull-
ing strong and steady, for he had no time to lose, and
the longest night was all too short for an undertaking
such as this. Nine miles from the light-houses to the
islands! Slowly he makes his way ; it seems to take
an eternity of time. And now he is midway between
the islands and the coast. That little toy of a boat
with its one occupant in the midst of the awful, black
heaving sea ! The vast dim ocean whispers with a
thousand waves ; against the boat's side the ripples
lightly tap, and pass and are lost ; the air is full of fine,
mysterious voices of winds and waters. Has he no fear,
alone there on the midnight sea with such a purpose in
his heart ? The moonlight sends a long, golden track
across the waves ; it touches his dark face and figure,
it glitters on his dripping oars. On his right hand
Boone Island light shows like a setting star on the
horizon, low on his left the two beacons twinkle off
Newburyport, at the mouth of the Merrimack river ;
all the light-houses stand watching along the coast,
wheeling their long, slender shafts of radiance as if
pointing at this black atom creeping over the face of
the planet with such colossal evil in his heart. Before
him glitters the Shoals' light at White Island, and helps
to guide him to his prey. Alas, my friendly light-house,
that you should serve so terrible a purpose ! Steadily
the oars click in the rowlocks stroke after stroke of
the broad blades draws him away from the lessening
line of land, over the wavering floor of the ocean,
nearer the lonely rocks. Slowly the coast-lights fade,
and now the roar of the sea among the lonely ledges of
the Shoals salutes his attentive ear. A little longer
and he nears Appledore, the first island, and now he
passes by the snow-covered, ice-bound rock, with the
long buildings showing clear in the moonlight. He
must have looked at them as he went past. I wonder
we who slept beneath the roofs thai glimmered to his
eyes in the uncertain light did not feel, through the
thick veil of sleep, what fearful thing passed by ! But
we slumbered peacefully as the unhappy woman whose
doom every click of those oars in the rowlocks, like the
ticking of some dreadful clock, was bringing nearer
and nearer. Between the islands he passes ; they are
full of chilly gleams and glooms. There is no scene
2/8 A MEMORABLE MURDER.
more weird than these snow-covered rocks in winter,
more shudderful and strange : the moonlight touching
them with mystic glimmer, the black water breaking
about them, and the vast shadowy spaces of the sea
stretching to the horizon on every side, full of vague
sounds, of half lights and shadows, of fear, and of
mystery. The island he seeks lies before him, lone
and still ; there is no gleam in any window, there is no
help near, nothing upon which the women can call for
succor. He does not land in the cove where all boats
put in ; he rows round to the south side and draws his
boat up on the rocks. His red returning footsteps are
found here next day, staining the snow. He makes
his way to the house he knows so well.
All is silent : nothing moves, nothing sounds but the
hushed voices of the sea. His hand is on the latch, he
enters stealthily, there is nothing to resist him. The
little dog, Ringe, begins to bark sharp and loud, and
Karen rouses, crying, "John, is that you?" thinking
the experted fishermen had returned. ' Louis seizes a
chair and strikes at her in the dark ; the clock on a
shelf above her head falls down with the jarring of the
blow, and stops at exactly seven minutes to one.
Maren, in the next room, waked suddenly from her
sound sleep, trying in vain to make out the meaning of
it all, cries, "What's the matter?" Karen answers,
"John scared me ! " Maren springs from her bed and
tries to open her chamber door ; Louis has fastened it
on the other side by pushing a stick through over the
latch. With her heart leaping with terror the poor child
shakes the door with all her might, in vain. Utterly
confounded and bewildered, she hears Karen scream-
ing, "John kills me! John kills me!" She hears
the sound of repeated blows and shrieks, till at last her
sister falls heavily against the door, which gives way,
and Maren rushes out. She catches dimly a glimpse
of a tall figure outlined against the southern window;
she seizes poor Karen and drags her with the strength
of frenzy within the bedroom. This unknown terror,
this fierce, dumb monster who never utters a sound to
betray himself through the whole, pursues her with
blows, strikes her three times with a chair, either blow
with fury sufficient to kill her, had it been light enough
for him to see how to direct it ; but she gets her sister
BY CELIA THAXTER. 279
inside and the door shut, and holds it against him with
all her might and Karen's failing strength. What a
little heroine uas this poor child, struggling with the
force of desperation to save herself and her sisters !
All this lime Anethe lay dumb, not daring to move
or breathe, roused from the deep sleep of youth and
health by this nameless, formless terror. Maren, while
she strives to hold the door at which Louis rattles
again and again, calls to her in anguish, " Anethe,
Anethe! Get out of the window ! run! hide!" The
poor girl, almost paralyzed with fear, tries to obey,
puts her bare feet out of the low window, and stands
outside in the freezing snow, with one light garment
over her cowering figure shrinking in the cold winter
wind, the clear moonlight touching her white face
and bright hair and fair young shoulders. " Scream!
scream ! " shouts frantic Maren. " Somebody at Star
Island may hear ! " but Anethe answers with the calm-
ness of despair, " I cannot make a sound." Maren
screams herself, but the feeble sound avails nothing.
" Run ! run ! " she cries to Anethe ; but again Anethe
answers, " I cannot move."
Louis has left off trying to force the door ; he listens.
Are the women trying to escape ? He goes out-of-doors.
Maren flies to the w indow ; he comes round the corner
of the house and confronts Anethe where she stands
in the snow. The moonlight shines full in his face ;
she shrieks loudly and distinctly, " Louis, Louis ! "
Ah, he is discovered, he is recognized ! Quick as
thought he goes back to the front door, at the side of
which stands an ax left there by Maren, who had used
it the clay before to cut the ice from the well. He
returns to Anethe standing shuddering there. It is no
matter that she is beautiful, young, and helpless to
resist, that she has been kind to him, that she never
did a human creature harm, that she stretches her
gentle hands out to him in agonized entreaty, crying
piteously, "Oh, Louis, Louis, Louis !" He raises the
ax and brings it down on her bright head in one tremen-
dous blow, and she sinks without a sound and lies in a
heap, with her warm blood reddening the snow. Then
he deals her blow after blow, almost within reach of
Maren's hands, as she stands at the window. Dis-
tracted, Maren strives to rouse poor Karen, who kneels
280 A MEMORABLE MURDER.
with her head on the side of the bed ; with desperate
entreaty she tries to get her up and away, but Karen
moans, " I cannot, I cannot." She is too far gone ; and
then Maren knows she cannot save her, and that she
must flee herself or die. So, while Louis again enters
the house, she seizes a skirt and wraps round her shoul-
ders, and makes her way out of the open window, over
Anethe's murdered body, barefooted, flying away, any-
where, breathless, shaking with terror.
Where can she go ? Her little dog, frightened into
silence, follows her, pressing so close to her feet that
she falls over him more than once. Looking back she
sees Louis has lit a lamp and is seeking for her.
She flies to the cove ; if she can but find his boat and
row away in it and get help ! It is not there ; there is
no boat in which she can get away. She hears Karen's
wild screams, he is killing her ! Oh, where can she
go ? Is there any place on that little island where he
will not find her ? She thinks she will creep into one
of the empty old houses by the water ; but, no, she
reflects, if I hide there, Ringe will bark and betray me
the moment Louis comes to look for me. And Ringe
saved her life, for next day Louis's bloody tracks were
found all about those old buildings where he had
sought her. She flies, with Karen's awful cries in her
ears away over the rocks and snow to the farthest
limit she can gain. The moon has set ; it is about two
o'clock in the morning, and oh, so cold ! She shivers
and shudders from head to feet, but her agony of
terror is so great she is hardly conscious of bodily sen-
sation. And welcome is the freezing snow, the jagged
ice and iron rocks that tear her unprotected feet, the
bitter brine that beats against the shore, the winter
winds that make her shrink and tremble ; " they are not
so unkind as man's ingratitude ! " Falling often,
rising, struggling on with feverish haste, she makes
her way to the very edge of the water ; down almost
into the sea she creeps, between two rocks, upon her
hands and knees, and crovfches, face downward, with
Ringe nestled close beneath her breast, not daring to
move through the long hours that must pass before the
sun will rise again. She is so near the ocean she can
almost reach the water with her hand. Had the wind
breathed the least roughly the waves must have washed
BY CELIA THAXTER. 281
over her. There let us leave her and go back to Louis
Wagner. Maren heard her sister Karen's shrieks as
she tied. The poor girl had crept into an unoccupied
room in a distant part of the house, striving to hide
herself. He could not kill her with blows, blundering
in the darkness, so he wound a handkerchief about her
throat and strangled her. But now he seeks anxiously
for Maren. Has she escaped ? What terror is in the
thought ! Escaped, to tell the tale, to accuse him as
the murderer of her sisters. Hurriedly, with desperate
anxiety, he seeks for her. His time was growing short ;
jt was not in his programme that this brave little
creature should give him so much trouble ; he had not
calculated on resistance from these weak and helpless
women. Already it was morning, soon it would be
daylight. He could not find her in or near the house ;
he went down to the empty and dilapidated houses
about the cove, and sought her everywhere. What a
picture ! That bloodstained butcher, with his dark
face, crawling about those cellars, peering for that
woman ! He dared not spend any more time ; he
must go back for the money he hoped to find, his
reward for this ! All about the house he searches, in
bureau drawers, in trunks and boxes ; he finds fifteen
dollars for his night's work ! Several hundreds weie
lying between some sheets folded at the bcttcm of a
drawer in which he looked. But he cannot stop for
more throrough investigation ; a dreadful haste pursues
him like a thousand fiends. He drags Anethe's stiffen-
ing body into the house, and leaves it on the kitchen
floor. If the thought crosses his mind to set fire to
the house and burn up his two victims, he dares not
do it ; it will make a fatal bonfire to light his homeward
way; besides, it is useless, for Maren has escaped to
accuse him, and the time presses so hoiribly!
But how cool a monster is he ! After all this hard
work he must have refreshment, to support him in the
long row back to the land; knife and fork, cup and
plate, were found next morning on the table near where
Anethe lay; fragments of food which was not cooked
in the house, but brought from Portsmouth, were scat-
tered about. Tidy Maren had left neither dishes nor
food when they went to bed. The handle of the tea-
pot which she had left on the stove was stained and
282 A MEMORABLE MURDER.
smeared with blood. Can the human mind conceive
of such hideous nonchalance ! Wagner sat down in
that room and ate and drank ! It is almost beyond
belief ! Then he went to the well with a basin and
towels, tried to wash off the blood, and left towels and
basin in the well. He knows he must be gone ! It is
certain death to linger. He takes his boat and rows
away towards the dark coast and the twinkling lights ;
it is for dear life, now ! What powerful strokes send
the small skiff rushing over the water !
There is no longer any moon, the night is far spent;
already the east changes, the stars fade ; he rows like
a madman to reach the land, but a blush of morning is
stealing up the sky, and sunrise is rosy over shore and
sea, when panting, trembling, weary, a creature accursed,
a blot on the face of the day he lands at Newcastle
too late ! Too late ! In vain he casts the dory adrift ;
she will not float away ; the flood tide bears her back
to give her testimony against him, and afterward she is
found at Jaffrey's Point, near the "Devil's Den," and
the fact of her worn thole-pins noted. Wet, covered
with ice from the spray which has flown from his eager
oars, utterly exhausted, he creeps to a knoll and recon-
noitres ; he thinks he is unobserved, and crawls on
towards Portsmouth. But he is seen and recognized
by many persons, and his identity established beyond
a doubt. He goes to the house of Mathew Jonsen,
where he has been living, steals upstairs, changes his
clothes, and appears before the family, anxious, fright-
ened, agitated, telling Jonsen he never felt so badly in
his life ; that he has got into trouble and is afraid he
shall be taken. He cannot eat at breakfast, says " fare-
well forever," goes away and is shaved, and takes the
train to Boston, where he provides himself with new
clothes, shoes, a complete outfit, but lingering, held by
fate, he cannot fly, and before night the officer's hand
is on his shoulder and he is arrested.
Meanwhile poor shuddering Maren on the lonclv
island, by the water-side, waits "till the sun is high M
heaven before she dares to come forth. She thinks lie
may be still on the island. She said to me, " I thought
he must be theie, dead or alive. I thought he might
go crazy and kill himself after having clone all that."
At last she steals out. The little dog frisks before
BY CELIA THAXTER. 283
her ; it is so cold her feet cling to the rocks and snow
at every step, till the skin is fairly torn off. Still and
frosty is the bright morning, the water lies smiling
and sparkling, the hammers of the workmen building
the new hotel on Star Island sound through the quiet
air. Being on the side of Smutty-Nose opposite Star,
she waves her skirt, and screams to attract their atten-
tion ; they hear her, turn and look, see a woman waving
a signal of distress, and, surprising to relate, turn
tranquilly to their work again. She realizes at last
there is no hope in that direction ; she must go round
toward Appledore in sight of the dreadful house. Pass-
ing it afar off she gives one swift glance toward it,
terrified lest in the broad sunshine she may see some
horrid token of last night's work ; but all is still and
peaceful. She notices the curtains the three had left
up when they went to bed ; they are now drawn down ;
she knows whose hand has done this, and what it hides
from the light of clay. Sick at heart, she makes her
painful way to the northern edge of Malaga, which is
connected with Smutty-Nose by the old sea-wall. She
is directly opposite Appledore and the little cottage
where abide her friend and countryman, Jorge Edvardt
Ingebertsen, and his wife and children. Only a quarter
of a mile of the still ocean separates her from safety
and comfort. She sees the children playing about the
door ; she calls and calls. Will no one ever hear her?
Her torn feet torment her, she is sore with blows and
perishing with cold. At last her voice reaches the ears
of the children, who run and tell their father that some
one is crying and calling; looking across, he sees
the poor little figure waving her arms, takes his dory
and paddles over, and with amazement recognizes
Maren in her night-dress, with bare feet and streaming
hair, with a cruel bruise upon her face, with wild eyes,
distracted, half senseless with cold and terror. He
cries, " Maren, Maren, who has clone this ? what is it ?
who is it ? " and her only answer is " Louis, Louis,
Louis ! " as he takes her on board his boat and rows
home with her as fast as he can. From her incoherent
statement he learns what has happened. Leaving her
in the care of his family, he comes over across the hill
to the great house on Appledore. As I sit at my desk
I see him pass the window, and wonder why the old
284 A MEMORABLE MURDER.
man comes so fast and anxiously through the heavy
snow.
Presently I see him going back again, accompanied
by several of his own countrymen and others of our
workmen, carrying guns. They are going to Smutty-
Nose, and take arms, thinking it possible Wagner may
ye* be there. I call down-stairs, "What has hap-
pened ? " and am answered, " Some trouble at Smutty-
Nose ; we hardly understand." " Probably a drunken
brawl of the reckless fishermen who may have landed
there," I say to myself, and go on with my work. In
another half-hour I see the men returning, reinforced
by others, coming fast, confusedly ; and suddenly a wail
of anguish comes up from the women below. I cannot
believe it when I hear them crying, " Karen is dead !
Anethe is dead ! Louis Wagner has murdered them
both ! " I run out into the servants' quarters ; there are
all the men assembled, an awe-stricken crowd. Old
Ingebertsen comes forward and tells me the bare facts,
and how Maren lies at his house, half-crazy, suffering
with her torn and frozen feet. Then the men are dis-
patched to search Appledore, to find if by any chance
the murderer might be concealed about the place, and
I go over to Maren to see if I can do anything for her.
I find the women and children with frightened faces at
the little cottage ; as I go into the room where Maren
lies, she catches my hands, crying, " Oh, I so glad to
see you ! I so glad I save my life ! " and with her dry
lips she tells me all the story as I have told it here.
Poor little creature, holding me with those wild, glitter-
ing, dilated eyes, she cannot tell me rapidly enough the
whole horrible tale. Upon her cheek is yet the blood-
stain from the blow he struck her with a chair, and she
shows me two more upon her shoulder, and ^ier torn
feet. I go back for arnica with which to bathe them.
What a mockery seems to me the "jocund day" as I
emerge into the sunshine, and looking across the space
of blue, sparkling water, see the house wherein all thai
horror lies !
Oh, brightly shines the morning sun and glitters on
the white sails of the little vessel that comes dancing
back from Portsmouth before the favoring wind, with
the two husbands on board ! Mow glad they are for the
sweet morning and the fair wind that brings them home
BY CELIA THAXTER. 285
again ! And Ivan sees in fancy Anethe's face all beauti-
ful with welcoming smiles, and John knows how happy
his good and faithful Maren will be to see him back
again. Alas, how little they dream what lies before
them ! From Appledore they are signalled to come
ashore, and Ivan and Mathew, landing, hear a con-
tused rumor of trouble from tongues that hardly can
frame the words that must tell the dreadful truth.
Ivan only understands that something is wrong. His
one thought is for Anethe ; he flies to Ingebertsen's
cottage, she may be there ; he rushes in like a maniac,
crying, "Anethe, Anethe! Where is Anethe?" and
broken-hearted Maren answers her brother, "Anethe is
at home." He does not wait for another word, but
seizes the little boat and lands at the same time with
John on Smutty-Nose ; with headlong haste they reach
the house, other men accompanying them; ah, there
are blood-stains all about the snow ! Ivan is the first to
burst open the door and enter. What words can tell
it ! There upon the floor, naked, stiff and stark, is the
woman he idolizes, for whose dear feet he could not
make life's ways smooth and pleasant enough stone
dead ! Dead horribly butchered ! her bright hair
stiff with blood, the fair head that had so often rested
on his breast crushed, cloven, mangled with the brutal
ax ! Their eyes are blasted by the intolerable sight :
both John and Ivan stagger out and fall, senseless, in
the srfow. Poor Ivan ! his wife a thousand times
adored, the dear girl he had brought from Norway, the
good sweet girl who loved him so, whom he could not
cherish tenderly enough ! And he was not there to
protect her ! There was no one there to save her !
" Did heaven look on
And would not take their part ! "
Poor fellow, what had he done that fate should deal
him such a blow as this ! Dumb, blind with anguish,
he made no sign.
" What says the body when they spring
Some monstrous torture-engine's whole
Strength on it ? No more says the soul."
Some of his pitying comrades lead him away, like one
stupefied, and take him back to Appledore. John
286 A MEMORABLE MURDER.
knows his wife is safe. Though stricken with horror
and consumed with wrath, he is not paralyzed like poor
Ivan, who has been smitten with worse than death,
They find Karen's body in another part of the house,
covered with blows and black in the face, strangled.
They find Louis's tracks, all the tokens of his disas-
trous presence, the contents of trunks and drawers
scattered about in his hasty search for the money, and
all within the house and without, blood, blood, every-
where.
When I reach the cottage with the arnica for Maren,
they have returned to Smutty-Nose. John, her hus-
band, is there. He is a young man of the true Norse
type, blue-eyed, fair-haired, tall and well made, with
handsome teeth and bronzed beard. Perhaps he is a
little quiet and undemonstrative generally, but at this
moment he is superb, kindled from head to feet, a
firebrand of woe and wrath, with eyes that flash and
cheeks that burn. I speak a few words to him, what
words can meet such an occasion as this ! and having
given directions about the use of the arnica, for Maren,
I go away, for nothing more can be done for her, and
every comfort she needs is hers. The outer room is
full of men ; they make way for me, and as I pass
through I catch a glimpse of Ivan crouched with his
arms thrown round his knees and his head bowed down
between them, motionless, his attitude expressing such
abandonment of despair as cannot be described. His
whole person seems to shrink, as if deprecating the
blow that has fallen upon him.
All day the slaughtered women lie as they were
found, for nothing can be touched till the officers of
the law have seen the whole. And John goes back to
Portsmouth to tell his tale to the proper authorities.
What a different voyage from the one he had just
taken, when happy and careless he was returning to
the home he had left so full of peace and comfort ^
What a load he bears back with him, as he makes his
tedious way across the miles that separate him from
the means of vengeance he burns to reach ! But at last
he arrives, tells his story, the police at other cities are
at once telegraphed, and the city marshal follows
Wagner to Boston. At eight o'clock that evening
comes the steamer Mayflower to the Shoals, with all
BY CELIA THAXTER. 287
the officers on board. They land and make investiga-
tions at Smutty-Nose, then come here to Appledore and
examine Maren, and, when everything is done steam
back to Portsmouth, which they reach at three o'clock
in the morning. After all are gone and his awful day's
work is finished at last, poor John comes back to
Maren, and kneeling by the side of her bed, he is
u'terly overpowered with what he has passed through ;
he is shaken with sobs as he cries, " Oh, Maren, Maren,
it is too much, too much! I cannot bear it!" Ami
Maren throws her arms about his neck, crying, " Oh
John, John, don't ! I shall be crazy, I shall die if you
go on like that." Poor innocent, unhappy people, who
never wronged a fellow-creature in their lives !
But Ivan what is their anguish to his? They dare
not leave him alone lest he do himself an injury. He
is perfectly mute and listless ; he cannot weep, he can
neither eat nor sleep. He sits like one in a horrid
dream. " Oh, my poor, poor brother ! " Maren cries
in tones of deepest grief, when I speak his name to her
next day. She herself cannot rest a moment till she
hears that Louis is taken ; at every sound her crazed
imagination fancies he is coming back for her ; she is
fairly beside herself with terror and anxiety ; but the
night following that of the catastrophe brings us news
that he is arrested, and there is stern rejoicing at the
Shoals ; but no vengeance on him can bring back those
unoffending lives, or restore that gentle home. The
dead are properly cared for ; the blood is washed from
Anethe's beautiful bright hair; she is clothed in her
wedding-dress, the blue dress in which she was mar-
ried, poor child, that happy Christmas time in Norway,
a little more than a year ago. They are carried across
the sea to Portsmouth, the burial service is read over
them, and they are hidden in the earth. After poor
Ivan has seen the faces of his wife and sister still and
pale in their coffins, their ghastly wounds concealed as
much as possible, flowers upon them and the priest
praying over them, his trance of misery is broken, the
grasp of despair is loosened a little about his heart.
Yet hardly does he notice whether the sun shines or
no, or care whether he lives or dies. Slowly his senses
steady themselves from the effects of a shock that
nearly destroyed him, and merciful time, with imper-
288 A MEMORABLE MURDER.
ceptible touch, softens day by day the outlines of that
picture, at the memory of which he will never cease to
shudder while he lives.
Louis Wagner was captured in Boston on the even-
ing of the next day after his atrocious deed, and Friday
morning, followed by a hooting mob, he. was taken to
the Eastern depot. At every station along the route-
crowds were assembled, and there were fierce cries for
vengeance. At the depot in Portsmouth a dense
crowd of thousands of both sexes had gathered, who
assailed him with yells and curses and cries of " Tear
him to pieces ! " It was with difficulty he was at last
safely imprisoned. Poor Maren was taken to Ports-
mouth from Appledore on that day. The story of
Wagner's day in Boston, like every other detail of the
affair, has been told by every newspaper in the coun-
try : his agitation and restlessness, noted by all who
saw him; his curious reckless talk. To one he says,
" I have just killed two sailors ; " to another, Jacob
Toldttnan, into whose- shop he goes to buy shoes, " J
have seen a woman lie as still as that boot," and so
on. When he is caught he puts on a bold face and
determines to brave it out; denies everything with
tears and virtuous indignation. The men whom he
has so fearfully wronged are confronted with him ; his
attitude is one of injured innocence ; he surveys them
more in sorrow than in anger, while John is on fire
with wrath and indignation, and hurls maledictions at
him ; but Ivan, poor Ivan, hurt beyond all hope or
help, is utterly mute; he does not utter one word. Of
what use is it to curse the murderer of his wife ? It
will not bring her back; he has no heart for cursing,
he is too completely broken. Maren told me the first
time she was brought into Louis's presence, her heart
leaped so fast she could hardly breathe. She entered
the room softly with her husband and Mathew Jon-
sen's daughter. Louis was whittling a stick. He
looked up and saw her face, and the color ebbed out
of his, and rushed back and stood in one burning spot
in his cheek, as he looked at her and she looked at
him for a space, in silence. Then he drew about his
evil mind the detestable garment of sanctimoniousness,
and in sentimental accents he murmured, " I'm glad
Jesus loves me ! " " The devil loves you ! " cried John,
B Y CELIA THAXTER. 289
with uncompromising veracity. " I know it wasn't
nice," said decorous Maron, " but John couldn't help
it ; it was too much to bear ! "
The next Saturday afternoon, when he was to be
taken to Saco, hundreds of fishermen came to Ports-
mouth from all parts of the coast, determined on his
destruction, and there was a fearful scene in the quiet
streets of that peaceful city when he was being escorted
to the train by the police and various officers of justice.
Two thousand people had assembled, and such a furi-
ous, yelling crowd was never seen or heard in Ports-
mouth. The air was rent with cries for vengeance;
showers of bricks and stones were thrown from all
directions, and wounded several of the officers who
surrounded Wagner. His knees trembled under him,
he shook like an aspen, and the officers found it neces-
sary to drag him along, telling him he must keep up if
he would save his life. Except that they feared to
injure the innocent as well as the guilty, those men
would have literally torn him to pieces. But at last he
was put on board the cars in safety, and carried away
to prison. His demeanor throughout the term of his
confinement, and during his trial and subsequent im-
prisonment, was a wonderful piece of acting. He
really inspired people with doubt as to his guilt. I
make an extract from the Portsmouth Chronicle, dated
March i3th, 1873: "Wagner still retains his amazing
sang froid, which is wonderful, even in a strong-nerved
German. The sympathy of most of the visitors at his
jail has certainly been won by his calmness and his
general appearance, which is quite prepossessing."
This little instance of his method of proceeding I must
subjoin : A lady who had come to converse with him
on the subject of his eternal salvation said, as she left
him, " I hope you put your trust in the Lord," to which
he sweetly answered, "I always did, ma'am, and I
always shall."
A few weeks after all this had happened, I sat by
the window one afternoon, and, looking up from my
work, I saw some one passing slowly, a young man
who seemed so thin, so pale, so bent and ill, that I
said, " Here is some stranger who is so very sick, he is
probably come to try the effect of the air ; even thus
early." It was Ivan Christensen. I did not recognize
19
290 A MEMORABLE MURDER.
him. He dragged one foot after the other wearily, and
walked with the feeble motion of an old man. He
entered the house; his errand was to ask for work.
He could not bear to go away from the neighborhood
of the place where Anethe had lived and where they
had been so happy, and he could not bear to work at
fishing on the south side of the island, within sight of
that house. There was work enough for him here ; a
kind voice told him so, a kind hand was laid on his
shoulder, and he was bidden come and welcome. The
tears rushed into the poor fellow's eyes, he went hastily
away, and that night sent over his chest of tools, he
was a carpenter by trade. Next day he took up his
abode here and worked all summer. Every day I care-
fully observed him as I passed him by, regarding him
with an inexpressible pity, of which he was perfectly
unconscious, as he seemed to be of everything and
everybody. He never raised his head when he an-
swered my " Good-morning," or " Good-evening, Ivan."
Though I often wished to speak, I never said more to
him, for he seemed to me to be hurt too sorely to be
touched by human hand. With his head sunk on his
breast, and wearily dragging his limbs, he pushed the
plane or drove the saw to and fro with a kind of
dogged persistence, looking neither to the left nor
right. Well might the weight of woe he carried bow
him to the earth ! By and by he spoke, himself, to
other members of the household, saying, with a patient
sorrow, he believed it was to have been, it had so been
ordered, else why did all things so play into Louis's
hands? All things were furnished him : the knowledge
of the unprotected state of the women, a perfectly
clear field in which to carry out his plans, just the
right boat he wanted in which to make his voyage, fair
tide, fair wind, calm sea, just moonlight enough ; even
the ax with which to kill Anethe stood ready to his
hand at the house door. Alas, it was to have been !
Last summer Ivan went back again to Norway alone.
Hardly is it probable that he will ever return to a land
whose welcome to him fate made so horrible. His
sister Maren and her husband still live blameless lives,
with the little dog Ringe, in a new home they have
made for themselves in Portsmouth, not far from the
riverside ; the merciful lapse of days and years takes
BY CELIA THAXTER. 2QI
them gently but surely away from the thought of that
season of anguish ; and though they can never forget it
all, they have grown resigned and quiet again. And
on the island other Norwegians have settled, voices of
charming children sound sweetly in the solitude that
echoed so awfully to the shrieks of Karen and Maren.
But to the weirdness of the winter midnight something
is added, a vision of two dim, reproachful shades who
watch while an agonized ghost prowls eternally about
the dilapidated houses at the beach's edge, close by
the black, whispering water, seeking for the woman
who has escaped him escaped to bring upon him the
death he deserves, whom he never, never, never can
find, though his distracted spirit may search till man
shall vanish from off the face of the earth, and time
shall be no more.
A CUP OF COLD WATER,
BY
GRACE GREENWOOD.
MRS. SARA j. LIPPINCOTT,
GRACE GREENWOOD, was born in Pompey, Onondaga
County, N. Y., in 1823. Her father was a well-known
physician, Dr. Thaddeus Clarke. Miss Clarke was
educated at Rochester, but removed with her family
in 1842 to New Brighton, Pennsylvania. She pub-
lished occasional verses at an early age ; in 1844, began
writing prose for the New York Mirror, and soon after
for the Home Journal and the literary magazines of the
day. In the spring of 1852 she made her first visit to
Europe. In the autumn of the year following she was
married to Mr. L. K. Lippincott, of Philadelphia, and
commenced the publication cf The Little Pilgrim, a
monthly magazine for young folks. Her contributions
to this were remarkable for the happy manner in which
they conveyed historical and biographical information.
Her best known books for children are entitled, " His-
tory of My Pets " (1850) ; " Recollections of My Child-
hood " (1851); " Stories of Many Lands" (1866);
" Merrie England " (1854) ; " Bonnie Scotland "
(1860); "Stories and Legends of Travel and His-
tory " ; " Stories and Sights cf France and Italy "
(1867). The volumes for older readers are two series
of collected prose writings, "Greenwood Leaves"
(1849, 1851); " Poems " (1850) ; "Haps and Mishaps
of a Tour in Europe" (1852); "A Forest Tragedy"
(1856); "A Record of Five Years" (1867); "New
Life in New Lands" (1873); " Victoria, Queen of
England." This last was published, in 1883, by
Anderson & Allen of New York, and Sampson, Low
& Marston, London. Grace Greenwood has been con-
nected as editor and contributor with various American
magazines, and leading weekly and daily papers,
Mrs. Lippincott has written much for London journals.
300 MRS. SARA J. LIPPINCOTT.
especially for All the Year Round. During the
past eight years she has lived almost wholly in Europe,
for the benefit of her greatly impaired health and for
the education of her daughter. She is a cosmopolitan,
and greatly enjoyed the character her friends gave her
of wanderer. Mrs. Lippincott is a writer of wide
fame and well-earned celebrity. The amount of brain-
work she has accomplished in journalism no one can
properly estimate. Her contributions have been con-
tinuous, and they extend over many years. She has a
happy descriptive faculty, which has enabled her to
write interestingly of scenes and events observed in
her travels, and she is of a nature so sunny that her
word-pictures are always fascinating and instinctively
entertaining. Mrs. Lippincott is now again a resident
of her own country, and will live permanently in New
York.
A CUP OF COLD WATER.
SHORTLY after the close of the great war, I trav-
elled on the railway for some hours of a bright, June
day, seated beside a young soldier, a cavalryman,
from Wisconsin, who was on his way home, with
an honorable discharge, after a service of four years.
My fellow-traveller proved to be quite intelligent
and sociably inclined, and beguiled the way by re-
lating many incidents of the battle-field, and of camp
and hospital life. One of the simplest of his stories,
told with an appearance of the utmost good faith, I
have never forgotten remembering distinctly every
derail, while some of his more marvellous and tragical
narrations have quite faded from my mind.
" Our regiment," he said, " was under Banks, in the
spring of 1862, when he made such good time in get-
ting down the Shenandoah Valley, It was an awful,
driving, confused, exhausting, hurry-skurry ' change of
base,' but it's curious that I chiefly remember it by a
little incident, which perhaps you will think was hardly
worth laying up, and is hardly worth telling of."
I signified my desire to hear his little story and he
went on :
" I was one morning dispatched, in hot haste, to the
extreme rear, with a very important order. As ill-luck
would have it, I had to ride a strange horse, as my
own .had fallen lame. The one provided for me proved
just the most ill-natured, vicious brute I ever mounted.
I had hard work to mount him at all, for his furious
rearing and plunging; and when, at last, I reached
the saddle, he was so enraged, there was no getting
him on for a* least five minutes. With his ugly head
down, and his ears back, he would whirl round and
round, pivoting on his fore-feet, and lashing out with
his hind-legs, till I fancy they must have looked like
the spokes of a big wheel. When he found that I was
301
3<D2 A CUP OF COLD WA TER.
master of the situation, that my hand was firm and my
spurs were sharp, he gave in till the next time ; but
I knew that he was continually watching for a chance
to fling me over his head and trample the mastership
out of me.
"I rode hard that day, both because of my orders,
and for the purpose of putting that devil of a horse
through ; but there were many obstructions in the
road marching columns, artillery, army-wagons, and,
above all, hosts of contrabands, who were always
scrambling to get out of your way, just into your way ;
so it was noon before I had made half of my distance.
It was a hot, sultry, and dusty day. I had exhausted
my canteen, and was panting, with tongue almost
lolling, like a dog. Just as my thirst was becoming
quite unbearable, I came upon a group of soldiers,
lounging by a wayside spring, drinking and filling
their canteens. At first I thought I would dismount, as
my horse seemed pretty well subdued and bltnved; but
no sooner did he guess my intention, than he began
again his diabolical friskings and plungings, at which
the stragglers about the spring set up a provoking
laugh, which brought my already hot blood up to the
boiling-point. Still, I didn't burst out at once. I
swung off my canteen, and said to one of the men,
the only fellow that hadn't laughed at my bout with
the horse : * Here comrade, just you fill this for
me.'
" He was a tall, dark, heavy-browed, surly-looking
chap, but, for all that, I didn't look for such an answer
as he growled out :
" ' Fill your own canteen, and be to you ! '
" I tell you I was mad ; the other fellows laughed
again, and then I was madder, and I just says to him:
' You mean devil ! I hope to God I shall yet hear you
begging for a drink of water ! If ever I do, I'll see
you die, and go where you belong, before I'll give it
to you ! '
" Then I galloped on, though some of the men
called to me to come back, saying they'd fill my
canteen. I didn't stop till I reached a house, a mile
or two further on, where a little black boy watered
both me and my horse, and filled my canteen, with a
smile that the handful of new pennies I gave him
BY GRACE GREENWOOD. 303
couldn't begin to pay for. When I compared the
conduct of this poor little chip of ebony, who said he
4 never had no father, nor mother, nor no name but
Pete,' with the treatment I had received from a white
fellow-soldier, I found that that drink of cold water
hadn't cooled down my anger much. And for months
and months after, whenever I thought of that affair,
the old, mad feeling would come boiling up. The
fellow's face always came out as clear before me as my
own brother's, only it seemed to be more sharply cut
into my memory. I don't know why I resented this
offence so bitterly. I have let bigger things of the
sort pass, and soon forgotten them ; but this stuck by
me. I am not a revengeful fellow naturally, but I
never gave up the hope of seeing that man again, and
somehow paying him back for his brutal insolence.
There wasn't a camp or review I was in for the next
two years but I looked for him, right and left. I
never went over a field, after a battle, but that I
searched for him among the dying God forgive me !
At last my opportunity came.
" I had been wounded, and was in one of the Wash-
ington hospitals almost well, yet still not quite fit for
duty in the saddle. I hate, ab:we all things, to be
idle ; so I begged for light employment as a hospital
nurse, and they gave it to me, and said I did my duty
well.
".I never felt for our poor, brave fellows as I did
there. I had been very fortunate, and until that sum-
mer had never been in hospital. Now I saw such
suffering and such heroism as I had never seen on
the battle-field. Companionship helped to keep up
the spirits of those we could not save, to the last.
Then it seemed hard that each brave boy must make
his march down the dark valley alone. But they all
went off gallantly. I would rather have galloped
forward on a forlorn charge, any day, than have fol-
lowed any one of them over to the ' Soldiers' Rest,'
though it is a pretty place to camp down in. In fact,
my heart grew so soft here, so Christianized, as it
were, that I forgot to look for my old enemy ; for so,
you see, I still regarded the surly straggler who refused
me the water at roadside spring.
" After the battles of the Wilderness, a great mul-
304 A CUP OF COLD WA TER.
titude of the wounded were poured in'upon us; all our
wards were filled to overflowing. It was hot, close
weather ; most of the patients were fevered by their
wounds and exposure to the sun, and up and down the
long, ghastly lines of white beds the great cry was for
water. I took a large pitcher of ice-water and a tum-
bler, and started on the round of my ward, as eager
to give as the poor fellows were to receive. The ice
rattled and rung in the pitcher in a most inviting way,
and many heavy eyes opened at the sound, and many
a hot hand was stretched out, when, all at once, on
one of the two farthest beds of the ward, I saw a man
startup, with his face flaming with fever and his eyes
gleaming, as he almost screamed out: 'Water! give
me water, for God's sake ! '
" Then, madam, I could see no other face in all the
ward, for it was he f
" I made a few steps towards him, and saw he
knew me as well as I knew him, for he fell back on
his pillow, and just turned his face toward the wall.
Then the devil tightened his grip on me, till it seemed
he had me fast and sure, and he seemed to whisper into
my ear : ' Rattle the ice in the pitcher, and aggravate
him ! Go up and down, giving water to all the others,
and not a drop to him ! '
" Then something else whispered, a little nearer,
though not in such a sharp, hissing way conscience,
I suppose it was ; good Methodists might call it the
Holy Spirit; other religious people might say it was
the spirit of my mother ; and perhaps we would all
mean about the same thing anyhow, it seemed to
say : ' Now, my boy, is your chance to return good for
evil. Go to him, give him to drink first of all ! ' And
that something walked me right up to his bedside,
made me slide my hand under his shoulder and raise
him up, and put the tumbler to his lips. How he drank
I never can forget in long, deep draughts, almost a
tumbler full at a swallow, looking at me so wistfully all
the time. When he was satisfied, he fell back, and
again turned his face to the wall, without a word.
But somehow I knew that fellow's heart was touched,
as no chaplain's sermon or tract had ever touched it.
" I asked the surgeon to let me have the sole care
of this patient, and he consented, though he said the
BY GRACE GREENWOOD. 305
man had a bad gun-shot wound in the knee, and would
have to submit to an amputation, if he could stand it ;
and if not, would probably make me a great deal of
trouble while he lasted.
" Weli, I took charge of him I had to do it, some-
how but he kept up the same silence with me for
several clays ; then, one morning, just as I was leaving
his bedside, he caught hold of my coat and pulled me
back. I bent down to ask him what he wanted, and
he said, in a hoarse whisper : ' You remember that
canteen business in the Shenandoah Valley ? ' ' Yes ;
but it don't matter now, old fellow,' I answered.
" ' But it does matter,' he said. ' I don't know what
made me so surly that day, only that an upstart young
lieutenant from our town had just been swearing at
me for straggling ; and I wasn't to blame, for I was
sick. I came down with the fever the next day. As
for what I said to you, I was ashamed of it before you
got out of sight ; and, to tell the truth, I've been look-
ing for you these two years, just to tell you so. But
when I met you here, where I was crying, almost dy-
ing, for water, it seemed so like the carrying out of
your cur?e, I was almost afraid of you.'
" I tell you what, madam, it gave me strange feelings
to think of him looking for me, to make up, and I
looking for him, to be revenged, all this time ; and it
was such a little sin, after all. I'm not ashamed to
confess that the tears came into my eyes as I said :
' Now, Eastman (that was his name ; he was a Maine
man), don't fret about that little matter any more ;
it's all right, and you've been a better fellow than I
all along.'
" But he had taken it to heart, and was too weak
to throw it off. It was ' so mean,' he said, ' so un-
soldier-like and bearish ; ' and I was ' so good to for-
give it,' he insisted.
" I stood by him while his leg was amputated , and
when, after a time, the surgeon said even that couldn't
save him, that he was sinking, I found that the man
was like a brother to me. He took the hard news that
he must die, just as the war was almost ended, like the
brave fellow he was. He dictated a last letter to his
sister, the only relative he had ; gave me some direc-
tions about sending some keepsakes to her, and then
306 A CUP OF COLD WA TER.
asked for the chaplain. This was a good, sensible,
elderly man, aud he talked in about the right style, I
think, and made us all feel quite comfortable in the
belief that in the Father's house there must be a man-
sion for the poor soldier, who had so often camped out
in snow and rain ; and that for him who had given his
all for his country, some great good must be in store.
" At last, the poor fellow said to the chaplain : ' Isn't
there something in the Bible, about giving a cup of
cold water ? ' Ah ! madam, I can't tell you how that
hurt me. 'O Eastman!' said I, don't, don't!' But
he only smiled as the chaplain repeated the verse.
Then he turned to me and said : * You didn't think
what you were doing for yourself when you gave me
that glass of ice-water the other day, did you, old fel-
low ? Can I pass for one of the little ones, though,
with my shd-feet-two ? ' Then he went on talking
about being little, and the kingdom of heaven, till we
almost feared his mind was wandering ; but perhaps it
was only finding its way home. ' I do feel strangely
childish to-night," he said. 'I feel like saying the
prayer-verse my mother taught me when she used to
put me to bed, twenty-five years ago. If you'll excuse
me, I'll say it, all to myself, before I go to sleep.'
" So he bade us good-night, turned over on his pil-
low, and softly shut his eyes ; his lips moved a little
while, and then, indeed, he went to sleep."
An Evening's Adventure,
BY
ABBA GOULD WOOLSON.
ABBA GOOLD WOOLSON.
MRS. WOOLSON is the daughter of Hon. William
Goold, who has long been recognized in Portland,
Me., as an authority on matters which concern its
local history. He has served for years as an active
member, and as corresponding secretary, of the Maine
Historical Society ; is the author of several leading
papers in recent publications of the society; and of a
large volume entitled " Portland in the Past," pub-
lished in that city in 1886. For two years he repre-
sented the Portland district in the State Legislature as
senator, with a previous service of two years as
representative.
Abba Louisa, the second of a family of seven chil-
dren, was born April 30, 1838, at the old homestead at
Windham, ten miles from Portland, a town known as a
Quaker stronghold, but whose chief claim to distinc-
tion rests on the fact that it was the birthplace of
Gov. John A. Andrew, of Massachusetts. Here her
family have resided for four generations ; her great-
grandfather, Benjamin Goold a native of Kittery,
Me. having removed thither from Portland (then
Falmouth) in 1774. He served as town treasurer;
his son Nathan was justice of the peace ; represented
the town in the Massachusetts Legislature, when
Maine was a province of that State, and was made
captain of the military company raised in Gorham and
Windham for service in the war of 1812. In the old
field, which slopes broadly toward the west, is the pri-
vate burial-ground of the family, a long, low ridge
shaded with trees, bearing the name of " Happy Hill."
There sleep the several generations of Goolds, from
the great-grandfather aforesaid, to an elder and be-
loved sister, who died but a few years ago.
Her education was received in the several grades of
the Portland public scHools^ and she graduated from
312 ABBA GOOLD WOOLSON.
the Girls' High School in 1856, as valedictorian of her
class. In the same year she was married to the prin-
cipal of the school, Mr. Moses Woolson, an eminent
teacher, who held this position in Portland for thirteen
years. In 1862, he was elected as principal of the
Woodward High School, of Cincinnati, Ohio, and
there Mr. and Mrs. Woolson resided until 1865.
When, at the close of the war, Mr. Woolson was
invited to take charge of the high school of his native
city, Concord, New Hampshire, they returned to New
England. A call to a mastership in the high school
of Boston, drew him to that city in 1868, and there they
lived for about six years, returning to Concord in 1873,
for another residence in that city, this time of thir-
teen years. Since October, 1887, they have lived in
Boston again.
During this time, Mrs. Woolson herself has, for
brief periods, accepted invitations to teach her favorite
studies, acting for some months, while in Cincinnati,
as Professor of Belles Lettres at the Mount Auburn
Young Ladies' Institute ; in Haverhill, Mass., as lady
principal of the high school ; and as assistant in the
Concord High School, where, with her husband, she
taught for awhile the higher mathematics and Latin.
Mrs. Woolson has published four volumes ; viz.
" Women in American Society " (1873) ; " Dress-
Reform " (1874) ; " Browsing Among Books " (1881) ;
and " George Eliot and Her Heroines " (1887).
Her poetry has not yet been published in book
form. When Portland celebrated its centennial in
1886, with elaborate and imposing ceremonies, Mrs.
Woolson was unanimously chosen to fill the position of
poet, and received the thanks of the city for the long
ode she read on that occasion. In Concord, N. H.,
she has also been led, by formal invitations, to deliver
poems at the opening of the Board-of-Trade Building,
of the Chapel of the Second Congregational Society,
and of the Fowler Literary Building. In Boston she is
a member of several literary and benevolent associa-
tions, and is especially active in The Castilian Club, of
which organization she is president.
Her time is largely given to connected courses of
lectures before literary societies on English Litera-
ture in connegtion with English, and with foreign his-
ABBA GOOLD WOOLSON. 313
tory; on the Historical Plays of Shakespeare, and
matters of Spanish History, Scenery, and Life.
In 1883-1884, she made a tour of thirteen months
abroad, spending a summer in Ireland, Wales, Scotland
and England ; and visiting, in addition to the countries
usually seen by tourists, Austria, Hungary, Southern
Italy, Spain, and Morocco. In previous years she had
made a journey to the Pacific Coast, visiting the big
trees, and the Yosemite Valley.
AN EVENING'S ADVENTURE
AT
THE DEAC6N HOUSE.
IF you were one of the thousand curious visitors who
were permitted to examine the wonders of the Deacon
House, previous to the public sale of its furniture and
contents a week ago, you must have noticed a picture
that hung there in the library, above an old, richly
carved cabinet, and which was set down in the cata-
logue as a Delilah by Rubens. It represented the up-
turned face of a woman, so strikingly beautiful, with its
Grecian outline and warm, clear coloring, that the
most careless could not easily forget it.
This picture greatly charmed a wealthy lady, who
had been admitted to a private view of the house before
it was thrown open to the great crowd of ticket holders;
but as she had then no reason to doubt that the paint-
ing was a veritable Rubens, and likely to command an
immense price at the auction, she indulged no hope of
obtaining it for herself. She resolved, however, upon
procuring a copy, if the thing were possible ; and as
she was a personal friend of some of the heirs of the
property, she had no difficulty in obtaining permission
for any artist whom she might select to visit the house
at all hours, previous to the first day of the sale.
The artist chosen was none other than my intimate
friend Jeannette, who had spent considerable time at
copying in the Louvre and other galleries while pursu-
ing her Art education abroad, and whose skill in such
painting had begun to attract attention from connois-
seurs. She liked the task that was given her, and set
immediately about it ; but owing to the constant throngs
of sight-seers that filled the rooms day after day, she
was restricted to a few hours of the early morning and
one of the late afternoon for her work. She became
ambitious to produce an exact and finished copy ; and
315
3 1 6 AN E VENINVS ADVENTURE.
the last afternoon before the sale found her with some
hours' labor yet to be added to the picture before she
could regard it as complete.
On the morning of that day she came to me to ask if
I would be willing to remain with her at the house
from four o'clock, when the crowd would be gone,
until such time in the early evening as her work would
permit her to leave, saying that her brother, who was
to keep her company there, had but just now been
obliged to leave town unexpectedly, and she must rely
upon me. I readily consented, glad of so pleasant an
opportunity to study at my leisure the many rare ob-
jects of interest that I had seen there on a hurried visit
the previous day.
Her plans, as she informed me, were already made.
The doorkeeper in charge, who was directed to afford
her every assistance in his power, had allowed her to
make what arrangement she chose ; and to avoid the
trouble and responsibility of keeping and delivering up
the keys of the hall door and the great gate, we were to
find egress through the rear entrance of the house,
where a door opened upon a court, and was fastened
only by a spring lock. There, as she had arranged, a
carriage was to come for us at an appointed hour, and
wait until we should appear with the finished painting.
As the daylight would soon leave that eastern room,
where she must work, a goodly supply of candles was
to furnish light when needed ; and these could be set
in the chandelier, made for such means of illumination,
and which hung, fortunately, so as to throw a strong,
full light upon the picture. This friend Jeannette is an
energetic little body, and forgets nothing ; for in all the
journeys and labors into which her art studies have led
her, she has been used to looking out for herself.
By means of the pass she had provided, I obtained
admission to the house at the appointed hour, and
found my friend already in the library, making ready
with brushes and pallette, and impatient for the people
to be gone. She had not long to wait. The stately
policemen, who had stood on guard all day in the
different rooms, soon cleared them of their occupants
and departed themselves ; the auctioneer's clerks, who
had been verifying their lists for the next day's sale,
went their ways, and finally, the trusty doorkeeper,
BY ABBA GOOLD WOOLSON. 317
after seeing that all windows were secure, came to an-
nounce that he was ready to go, and that he should
now deliver the house into our care, charging us to see
that the door opening upon the court was firmly closed
whenever we should leave. We went down to it to
make sure that it was all right ; and when we saw the
keeper depart, locking the hall door behind him and
swinging the gates together and fastening them with a
great noise, we rejoiced that we had at length the house
to ourselves.
We thought best, however, to make a hurried tour of
the rooms, to see that nobody had been left behind,
and that everything was as it should be, before we
settled down to the evening's work. So passing up the
broad oaken staircase, past the white marble vase on
the landing, and the great square of Gobelin tapestry
stretched upon the high wall, to the gallery above, we
traversed the empty chamber*, peering hastily as we
went, behind the damask curtains that shrouded the
beds, and into all corners and closets, after the manner
of women when out upon such exploring expeditions.
Then descending, we glanced through the open doors
into the grand cordon of gorgeous apartments that
constituted the ground floor, thronged a few moments
ago with bustling crowds, but now as orderly, as silent
and deserted as if nothing had occurred during the past
week to disturb the hush and gloom that had reigned
there for twenty long years.
Once more in the library, I busied myself with loop-
ing back the heavy velvet curtains from the windows,
that no ray of light might be lost ; while my companion
seated herself at her easel, before the glorious Delilah,
and was soon absorbed in the work. The face and
shoulders of her copy were already finished, and won-
derfully like, but the drapery was still only an outline.
Not to disturb her, I proceeded quietly to examine the
contents of our room. It was not an attractive apart-
ment. You remember the dull, dark paper, the dingy
green velvet draperies, the demoralized steel chandelier.
The great picture of the ascending archangel, beside
the carved fire-frame, was not cheerful to contemplate,
neither was a large and very unpleasant looking soup
plate, fastened to the wall, said to be of majolica, and
attributed, from some old spite perhaps, to Caffagido.
3 1 8 AN E VENINGS AD VENTURE.
Several ancient breastplates and shields, girt about
with divers diabolical weapons, appeared above the
book-cases, beyond my reach. To inspect the mineral
case was to stand in Jeannette's precious light ; and
some magnificent wood carving, which I remembered
as adorning the panels of a cabinet, and a number of
curious old miniatures, were all placed directly under
the Rubens picture, and therefore too near the artist to
admit of close examination.
I resolved to extend my observations to the other
rooms, particularly as I wished to study the Sevres
china, about which I had been informing myself since
my first visit. After setting up the candles in the shaky
chandelier, preparatory to a grand illumination when
their light should be needed, I informed my friend that
I was just starting out on a tour of observation and dis-
covery through the lower rooms.
" Perhaps, " I added, *' I may come across a comfort-
able looking sofa on the way, and conclude to take
a little nap on my own account ; so don't mind if I fail
to put in an appearance for the next hour. I shall
be on hand whenever you want me. Just whistle and
I'll come unto you, my love ; " and laughing I departed,
closing the door behind me, but going back to tell Jean-
nette to be sure to draw the thick curtains well together,
and to shut both doors tightly, if she should touch
off the candles before my return, otherwise the unusual
light in the deserted mansion might alarm the outer
world. Promising on my part not to go beyond call,
and on no account to stray off into the chambers above,
I left her painting in the folds of Delilah's mantle
as if minutes were never so precious.
I found myself then in the salon, which was curtained
with yellow damask. Although the sun must have
already set, the great parlors before me, stretched one
beyond another in a gorgeous vista, were bright with
numberless reflections from mirrors and candelabras,
gilded panels, sheeny satins and lustrous chandeliers.
These rooms, which in the garish daylight, when
filled with a jostling crowd, had seemed to me furnished
with nothing but splendid trumpery, appeared now, in
their gathering shadows and soft gleamy lights, truly
palatial and superb. Their loneliness and silence
were painfully impressive. No sound of the distant
BY ABBA GOOLD WOOLSON. 319
street penetrated their seclusion, from beyond the high,
surrounding wall ; no steps echoed near me as I moved,
for the thick carpels muffled every sound ; no ticking
of a clock was heard, for every one standing on the
glittering mantles had kept its hands fixed in the same
spot for many a long year.
I halted a moment before the great Fragonard paint-
ings set in the wall, to admire again those robustious
young cherubs tumbling about in mid-air, irrespective
of all laws of gravity, and then stepped, not without a
certain reverence, into the little boudoir where were
gathered together the furniture and ornaments that had
once belonged to a beautiful and ill-fated queen. In
such a place and at such an hour I could not help
indulging in a bit of revcry. In these very chairs
Marie Antoinette had sat, on these silken curtains of
embroidered damask her hand had perhaps rested, as
she drew them back to gaze from her palace window,
and on this scarlet satin lounge she may have lain for
a noontide siesta, after her charming peasant-play at
Little Trianon. This exquisite jewel box may have
held the veritable diamond necklace over which she
had cause to shed so many tears. Her husband's
sister, the Princess Elizabeth, looked down from a
medallion on the wall, and the Princess Lamballe
seemed smiling straight into my eyes from under her
rakish little hat. Certainly all three had bent some
day over this centre-table to admire its inlaid Sevres,
and, no doubt, they studied with interest the portraits
of themselves fixed in the backs of these tiny chairs.
I gazed with delight at a painting of frolicsome cherubs
balancing on a tree-bole, over the door, and nearly dis-
located my neck to inspect several others of the same
race waltzing on the ceiling around the rod of a chan-
delier, whose graceful basket of golden lilies depended
between a cloud of pinioned butterflies. What a pity,
thought I, that all the dainty furnishings of this pretty
boudoir, after having been kept together for so many
years, in fact ever since they were owned by the
daughter of Maria Theresa, eighty odd years ago, must
be scattered to-morrow to the four winds, under the
hammer of an auctioneer !
I stepped out at length into the Montmorenci salon,
all aglitter with green and gold, and hurried across to
3 2O AN E VENIN&S AD VEN TURE.
the dining-room, to inspect the famous dishes there,
before it was too dark to behold them well. The great
paintings that covered the walls were fast sinking into
gloom. Making my way to the case of marvellous
china, presented to the French Queen as the gift of a
city, I removed the glass frame that protected it, and
lifted each cup from its niche in the satin case, that I
might examine the exquisite paintings. Then I sur-
veyed the Sevres plates, with the portrait of a court
beauty in the centre, the finger bowls and wine glasses
of pale Bohemian in the curious sideboard, and all the
odd little tea sets and ungainly dishes ranged around
in the cases. These plates and cups of fragile china
had outlived the emperors and queens who had eaten
and drank from them at forgotten banquets, and even
a generation or two of American republicans after their
time.
It was now so dark that I must abandon further ex-
plorations and put all things in order again. But I
found it impossible to replace the heavy glass frame
over the Sevres service, so I left it on the floor till
Jeannette could come to help me. Other and more
mysterious hands, however, were destined to restore it
to its proper place.
No sound had come from the library since I left it.
Jeannette must be getting along famously ; I thought
it were best not to disturb her. Coming back into the
Montmorenci parlor, and remarking again what an eye
that family had for splendor and gilding, I concluded
to while away the time by taking a nap. Bringing
two pieces of rich costuming from a number lying upon
the billiard table in the next room, that they might
serve as a protection from the growing chilliness of the
air, I made myself comfortable upon one of the green
satin sofas that stood in a corner opposite the door of
the little boudoir. Truly, I muttered to myself,
this is not bad ; ensconced in the salon of the Mont-
morencis, in sight of a queen's boudoir, wilh one of
King Louis's waistcoats and the mantle of a Spanish
grandee for wrappings, I may content myself for awhile.
Musing upon the days when these rooms were crowded
with guests, the lights all ablaze, the windows open
into a bower of blossoming plants, gentlemen clinking
BY ABBA GOOLD WOOLSON. 321
their wine glasses and ladies fluttering their fans, I
fell, at length, soundly asleep.
How long I remained there, I do not know, but
when at length I awoke it seemed to be from a deep
sleep, and everything about me appeared shrouded in
the gloom of night. It was not too dark, however, for
me to see across the room where I lay, and dimly to
discern the other apartments beyond. A wind had
arisen since I slept, for there came to my ear a
sound from without, like the swaying of tree boughs ;
and now and then a fitful light stole into the window,
flashing for an instant across the gilded panels, and
gleaming from the hundred crystal pendants of a great
chandelier. Then all grew dark as before. I knew
that the moon was up and struggling through a driving
rack of clouds, though from where I lay I could see
neither moon nor sky. The profound hush about me
was only intensified by the sound of the wind and
the steady dripping of the snow upon the conserva-
tory roof.
I comprehended at once that I had overslept my-
self, and that my friend must, by this time have
finished her work and be r$ady to depart. But not a ray
of light nor a sound came through that distant library
door. I was rising to make my way towards it, when a
continuous noise arrested my attention, as regular as the
snow dropping, but much finer and nearer. I listened ;
it certainly was the ticking of a clock in this very
room. A streak of moonlight that fell just then upon
the wall showed me that the gilded hands of the
mantel clock were actually moving. This was so
strange that I closed my eyes quickly and opened
them wide, to convince myself that I was awake.
Soon the room was in shadow again, deeper than be-
fore, and the dial no longer visible, but the ticking
continued. Rising on my elbow, I was proceeding to
gather up the mantle that had fallen to the carpet,
when I became conscious that in the boudoir opposite,
behind the narrow curtained doorway, a faint light was
shining, a light steadier than the moonlight and not so
pale. No lamp was to be seen there ; but keeping
silent and motionless for by this time I was lost in
wonder at what all this could mean I was sure I heard
a soft rustling, and then a noise like the opening of a
322 AN E VENINGS AD VENTURE.
box-lid or of a cabinet door. Of course, I reflected,
it can only be Jeannette, who has come in there with
a candle, and is standing intent about something be-
side the door. I called her name. Instead of a re-
ply there was an instant hush. I strained my ears, but
could hear only the tick, tick of the clock and the fancied
echoes of my own voice dying away in the farthest
rooms. For some moments this breathless hush con-
tinued. Now if my friend be playing me a trick I may
as well discover it at once, thought I, making bold to
advance towards the boudoir and see for myself who
this unseen occupant might be. But scarcely had I
risen, when the same sharp click struck upon my ear,
as though a small door had been shut, and then the
rustling began again. I held my breath in a wonder-
ing fear. Through the arch of the little curtained
doorway, I could see the mantle-mirror that hung
opposite, and into its depths there moved the reflection
of something like an antique lamp, burning at the tip,
and held high by a white hand. A portion of the
sleeve was visible at the wrist. This was no Jean-
nette who else could be there ? I sank back upon
the sofa, incapable of any motion or thought save this,
that some other being besides*ourselves was shut up in
this dark, deserted mansion.
Then, from a hidden corner near the doorway,
there glided out in the centre of the boudoir the figure
of a woman, tall and dressed in ancient fashion, with a
rich, flowered brocade sweeping the floor and rustling
as she went. Her face was not visible, for she was
moving away from me towards the mantle, and the
tiny lamp glimmering above her head seemed to throw
her figure beneath into shadow while it cast a faint
light around. She paused, as if surveying the two
portraits on the wall before her, and then, while I was
trembling lest some involuntary movement of mine
should attract her attention, she passed suddenly out
of sight through a door communicating with another
salon beyond. I watched intently for her reappearance
but she remained there a long while, without my being
able to detect the slightest sound or flicker of light in
the adjoining rooms.
The entrance hall, containing the great staircase,
occupied a remote corner of the house ; and beneath it
BY ABBA GOOLD WOOLSON. 323
and the parlor into which this being or vision had de-
parted, stretched the billiard room, which had been
dim even at twilight, with its closed blinds, and now
that no ray of the moon penetrated into the other ap-
partments, it was wrapped in darkness. While I was
staring into its depths, and debating if I had not better
attempt to pick my way through it and escape to the
library, the figure crossed my sight again, moving along
the farthest side of the billiard room in the direction
of the hall. Her face, as I beheld it dimly in profile,
for the lamp was well-nigh extinguished, shone pale
and sad, and she looked straight before her as she
walked. But just as she was passing from view, she
turned her eyes full upon me, and raised her hand with
a commanding gesture toward the door. In an instant
she had vanished and I heard the rustling dying away
upon the staircase. When it had wholly ceased, I
flew to the room where, hours ago, I had left my
friend.
And there I found the busy little maid, in the soft
b'aze of a dozen candles, wiping her brushes and
pointing triumphantly to her finished painting. She
started at seeing the expression on my face but soon
burst into merry laughter, and before I could find
breath to explain myself, dragged me before a mirror
to behold the strange rig in which I was arrayed. An
old fashioned waistcoat, bespangled with silken pan-
sies, into which I had thrust my arms before taking
the nap, and which I had since forgotten, was buttoned
well up to the chin, and a high collar, stiff with em-
broidery, was standing about my ears and threatening
to engulf the chignon behind. Above this appeared
a pallid face and eyes set wide. I had to smile, in
spite of the untold wonder I had seen ; and indeed, the
brightly lighted room, the sight of Jeannette, and the
sound of her merry voice were wonderfully reassuring
after my lonesome experience.
I first asked her if it was not nearly midnight, and
she assured me that it was by no means so late as
that, adding that it was plain to her I had been
masquerading with ghosts out there, and had lost my
wits. With some effort I related all I had seen. She
only laughed the more, asserting that I had been half
324 AN E VENINGS AD VENTURE.
asleep, and that this strange being, whoever she might
be, was only a creature of my imagining.
" Were you not conjuring up all kinds of fancies
before you fell asleep ? " she asked.
" Perhaps so," I rejoined, "but this was no dream,
I am sure."
But I have been awake all the while and have
heard nothing. I remember that my door opened
suddenly in the early evening, without apparent cause,
and I got up and looked out, but discovered only your-
self fast asleep on a distant sofa. I closed it and re-
turned to my work ; but a moment after it opened
wider than before. Then I concluded that a window
was left open somewhere in the house, and that the
wind rising had blown the door back. I shut it again
and thought no more about it. If your wandering,
lady-like ghost came to look in upon me, I did not see
her, and this house is not one of the kind to be haunted,
for it has scarcely ever been inhabited by living people.
But come," she added, " the carriage must have been
waiting for us a long while ; put this out of yonr mind
and let us make ready to go."
I recollected the glass frame belonging over the
Sevres china, that I had left on the dining-room floor,
and knew it must be replaced.
Looking out, we saw that the rooms were now bright
with moonlight, and together we started upon this
errand. As we went by the clock in the Montmorenci
salon, its hands were still in motion. On reaching the
dining-room the frame which we had come to lift ap-
peared set in its proper place. I looked at my friend
and saw that she was beginning to share my amaze-
ment, but we said nothing. Passing the hall door on
our return, I could not refrain from glancing up to the
Gobelin tapestry that hung over the staircase, for it
was lighted by the full moon that shone in through an
unseen window on the gallery above. The central
figure of Victory looked out regal and smiling ; but, as
we paused a moment to behold it, a shadow like that
of a woman fell upon it, wavering and floating across
from one side to the other, and then vanishing.
Neither spoke a word as we returned to the library,
but to take up the painting-case and canvas, extin-
BY ABBA COOLD WOOLSON. 32$
guish and remove the candles, loop back the curtains
and depart to the flight of stairs leading down from the
hall to the rear entrance, was the work of a few
seconds.
Through the side lights we saw the carriage wait-
ing ; and there was our faithful Jehu, with his blanketed
horses drawn up to the door, and himself sitting motion-
less upon his box and half asleep in the shadow of the
great house. Soon the outer door was closed tightly
behind us, and we were whirling around the square,
into the lighted street. I glanced back at the mansion
we had left, but the moon, freed from her clouds, was
flooding its front with a peaceful light, and, if any un-
earthly visitants were roaming then through the de-
serted upper chambers, no signs of disturbance ap-
peared at its casements. The breeze had died away,
and within the garden wall the black shadows of leaf-
less trees stretched motionless across the untrodden
snow. We spoke on the way home of what we had
seen, and agreed to say nothing about it to others, until
we had taken time to think it over and account for it
to ourselves, if that might be possible. This is the
first time I have related it to any one, but, though a
week has passed, it appears to me as strange, as inex-
plicable as ever.
Such is the story that was told me last night, as I
sat with a friend by the light of her evening fire, listen-
ing to the "keening" of the wind without. I give it,
with all its minuteness, in her very words. Do I vouch
myself for its truth ? Not at all. I do not believe
in ghosts nor haunted houses the more's the pity
but, when looking into her eyes and witnessing the
e:notion with which she recalled that evening's adven-
ture, I could not doubt the reality of what she told.
When she had closed, we sat a moment in thought. I
asked her, at length, if the figure she had seen could
not have been one of the old servants who had returned
to the house to vecover some forgotten article, and had
entered by a door unknown to her. She replied that
it was no servant, she was certain of that.
" And you and your companion could not have im-
agined what you saw ?"
" Impossible."
326 AN E VENINGS AD VENTURE.
" Then, surely, you believe in ghosts ? "
" No, I cannot admit that I do."
" But you are aware that one or other of these sup-
positions must be true ? "
"Well, it may be; but you shall choose for your-
self."
ADAM FLOYD.
BY
MARY J. HOLMES.
MARY J. HOLMES.
THE four American novelists who have made the
largest sums from their writings are Mrs. Stowe, Mrs.
Holmes, Mrs. Augusta Evans Wilson, and Mrs. Emma
D. E. N. Southworth. Mrs. Holmes has been a pro-
lific and a popular author, and her success has been
uninterruptedly great.
She was Miss Hawes, a niece of the Rev. Dr. Joel
Hawes, a literary man, and forty years ago a popular
writer.
Shortly after her marriage to Mr. Daniel Holmes, a
young lawyer, she wrote her first novel, " Tempest and
Sunshine," and subsequently a story called " English
Orphans." In 1863 appeared her famous novel,
" Lena Rivers," which had a great sale. This was fol-
lowed in quick succession by twenty more works of
fiction, all of which have sold largely. Mrs. Holmes
enjoys an income ranging from ten to fifteen thousand
dollars a year.
From her schooldays she believed herself born to be
a writer of romance, but had at first little encourage-
ment from those about her. To her schoolmates she
always said she should write a book just as soon as
she grew up, and when they would laugh at her and
jeer her she would repeat her declaration with renewed
earnestness. She has spent her life since that time
writing novels which not only her schoolmates but a
great public have read.
Mrs. Holmes resides in an attractive home at Brock-
port, N. Y. Her family consists of her husband and
herself only, but her social circle is a large one and
her popularity is such that were she not a writer she
would be a society leader. She is a member of the
Protestant Episcopal Church and is an active worker,
having charge of the infant class of the Sunday
School, and doing much mission and charity duty.
333
334 MARY J. HOLMES.
As she is the wealthiest woman of her town her name
is found among the foremost donors to all public insti-
tutions and local chariues.
Mrs. Holmes delights in travel and has spent a
great deal of time in Europe. " Brown Cottage," the
name of her home, is closed whenever one of her rest-
less moods comes upon her and she and her husband
go away and roam until both are weary and desire to
be at home again.
The publishers of her novels attribute their great
success to her natural and graceful style, and to the
purity and high moral tone of her writings. She does
not pander to the demand for sensationalism, and has
no hobbies. Her books are wholesome ones to read,
and the public is evidently pleased to read them.
Mrs. Holmes is a very earnest and gifted woman,
conscientiousness being a very marked attribute of her
character.
ADAM FLOYD.
IT was the warmest day of the season, and from the
moment when the first robin chirped in the maple tree
growing by the door, to the time when the shadows
stretching eastward indicated that the sultry afternoon
was drawing to a close, Adam Floyd had been busy.
Indeed, he could not remember a day when he had
worked so continuously and so hard, neither could he
recall a time when he had been so perfectly happy,
except upon onestarlight night when last winter's snow
was piled upon the ground. The events of that night
had seemed to him then like a dream, and they were
scarcely more real now, when pausing occasionally in
his work and leaning his head upon his broad, brown
hands, he tried to recall just the awkward words he
had spoken and the graceful answer she had given ;
answer so low that he would hardly have known she
was speaking, had not his face been so near to hers
that he could hear the murmured response.
" I am not half good enough for you, Adam, and
shall make a sorry wife ; but, if you will take me with
all my faults, I am yours."
That is what she had said, the only she in all the
world to Adam Floyd, now that the churchyard grass
was growing over the poor old blind mother, to whom
he had been the tenderest, best of sons, and who had
said to him when dying,
" I'm glad I'm going home, my boy, for now you can
bring Anna here. She is a bonny creature, I know by
the sound of her voice and the touch of her silky hair.
Tell her how with my last breath I blessed her, and
how glad I was to think that when she came, the old
blind woman's chair would be empty, and that she
would be spared a heavy burden which she is far too
young to bear. God deal by her as she deals by you,
my noble boy."
335
336 ADAM FLOYD.
The March winds were blowing when they made his
mother's grave, and Adam's heart was not as sore now
as on that dismal, rainy night, when he first sat alone
in his little cottage and missed the groping hand feel-
ing for his own. Anna was coining within a week,
Anna who had said, " I am not half good enough for
you." How the remembrance of these words even
now brought a smile to the lips where the sweat drops
were standing as he toiled for her, putting the last fin-
ishing strokes to the home prepared for his future
bride, Anna Burroughs, the Deacon's only daughter,
the fairest maiden in all the goodly town of
Rhodes Anna, who had been away to school for a
whole year, who could speak another language than
her own, whose hands were soft and white as wool,
whom all the village lads coveted, and at whom it was
rumored even Herbert Dunallen, the heir of Castlewild,
where Adam worked so much, had cast admiring
glances. Not good enough for him ? She was far too
good for a great burly fellow like himself, a poor me-
chanic, who had never looked into the Algebras and
Euclids piled on Anna's table the morning after she
came from school. This was what Adam thought,
wondering why she had chosen him, and if she were
not sorry. Sometimes of late he had fancied a cold-
ness in her manner, a shrinking from his caresses ; but
the very idea had made his great, kind heart throb
with a pang so keen that he had striven to banish it,
for to lose his darling now would be worse than death.
He had thought it all over that August day, when he
nailed down the bright new carpet in what was to be
her room. " Our room," he said softly to himself, as
he watched his coadjutor, old Aunt Martha Eastman,
smoothing and arranging the snowy pillows upon the
nicely made up bed, and looping with bows of pure
white satin the muslin curtains which shaded the pretty
bay window. That window was his own handiwork.
He had planned and built it himself, for Anna was
partial to bay windows. He had heard her say so
once when she came up to Castlewild where he was
making some repairs, and so he had made her two, one
in the bedroom, and one in the pleasant parlor looking
out upon the little garden full of flowers. Adam's
taste was perfect, and many a passer by stopped to
BY MARY J. HOLMES. 337
admire the bird's nest cottage, peeping out from its
thick covering of ivy leaves and flowering vines.
Adam was pleased with it himself, and when the last
tack had been driven and the last chair set in its place,
he went over it alone admiring as he went, and won-
dering how it would strike Anna. Would her soft blue
eyes light up with joy, or would they wear the troubled
look he had sometimes observed in them ? " If they
do," and Adam's breath came hard as he said it, and
his hands were locked tightly together, "if they do, I'll
lead her into mother's room ; she won't deceive me
there. I'll tell her that I would not take a wife who
does not love me ; that though to give her up is like
tearing out my heart, I'll do it if she says so, and
Anna will answer "
Adam did not know what, and the very possibility
that she might answer, as he sometimes feared, paled
his bronzed cheek, and made him reel, as, walking to his
blind mother's chair, he knelt beside it, and prayed
earnestly for grace to bear the happiness or sorrow
there might be in store for him. In early youth, Adam
had learned the source of all true peace, and now in
every .perplexity, however trivial, he turned to God,
who was pledged to care for the child, trusting so im-
plicitly in him.
" If it is right for Anna to be mine, give her to me,
but, if she has sickened of me, oh Father, help me to
bear."
This was Adam's prayer, and when it was uttered,
the pain and dread were gone, and the child-like man
saw no cloud lowering on his horizon.
It was nearly time for him to be going now, if he
would have Anna see the cottage by daylight, and
hastening to the chamber he had occupied since he was
a boy, he put on, not his wedding suit, for that was
safely locked in his trunk, but his Sunday clothes, feel-
ing a pardonable thrill of satisfaction when he saw how
much he was improved by dress. Not that Adam
Floyd was ever ill-looking. A stranger would have
singled him out from a thousand. Tall, straight and
firmly built, with the flush of perfect health upon his
frank, open face, and the sparkle of intelligence in his
dark brown eyes, he represented a rare type of manly
beauty. He was looking uncommonly well, too, this
338 ADAM FLOYD.
afternoon, old Martha thought, as from the kitchen
door she watched him passing down the walk and out
into the road which led to the red farm-house, where
Deacon Burroughs lived, and where Anna was waiting
for him.
Waiting for him, we said, but not exactly as Adam
Floyd should have been waited for. Never had a
day seemed so long to her as that which to Adam had
passed so quickly. Restless and wretched she had
wandered many times from the garden to the brook,
from the brook back to the garden, and thence to her
own little chamber, from whose window, looking south-
ward could be seen the chimney of the cottage, peep-
ing through the trees. At this she looked ofien and
long, trying to silence the faithful monitor within,
whispering to her of the terrrible desolation which
would soon fall upon the master of that cottage, if she
persisted in her cruel plan. Then she glanced to the
northward, where, from the hill top, rose the preten-
tious walls of Castlewild, whose young heir had come
between her and her affianced husband ; then she com-
pared them, one with the other Aclam Floyd with
Herbert Dunallen one the rich proprietor of Castle-
wild, the boyish man just of age, who touched his hat
so gracefully, as in the summer twilight he rode in his
handsome carriage past her father's door, the youth,
whose manners were so elegant, and whose hands were
so white ; the other, a mechanic, a carpenter by trade,
who worked sometimes at Castlewild a man unversed
in etiquette as taught in fashion's school, and who
could neither dress, nor dance, nor flatter, nor bow as
could Dunallen, but who she knew was tenfold more
worthy of her esteem. Alas, for Anna ; though our
heroine, she was but a foolish thing, who suffered
fancy to rule her better judgment, and let her heart
turn more willingly to the picture of Dunallen than
to that of honest Adam Floyd, hastening on to join
her.
"If he were not so good," she thought, as with a
shudder she turned away from the pretty little work-
box he had brought her ; " if he had ever given me an
unkind word, or suspected how treacherous I am, it
would not seem so bad, but he trusts me so much !
BY MARY J. HOLMES. 339
Oh, Adam, I wish we had never met ! " and hiding her
face in her hands, poor Anna weeps passionately.
There was a hand upon the gate, and Anna knew
whose step it was coming so cheerfully up the walk,
and wondered if it would be as light and buoyant
when she was gone. She heard him in their little
parlor, talking to her mother, and, as she listened, the
tones of his voice fell soothingly upon her ear, for
there was music in the voice of Adam Floyd, and
more than Anna had felt its quieting influence. It
seemed cruel to deceive him so dreadfully, and in her
sorrow Anna sobbed out,
" Oh, what must I do ? " Once she thought to pray,
but she could not do that now. She had not prayed
aright since that first June night when she met young
Herbert down in the beech grove, and heard him
speak jestingly of her lover, saying " she was far too
pretty and refined for such an odd old cove." It had
struck her then that this cognomen was not exactly
refined, that Adam Floyd would never have called
Dunallen thus, but Herbert's arm was round her waist,
where only Adam's had a right to rest. Herbert's
eyes were bent fondly upon her, and so she forgave
the insult to her affianced husband, and tried to laugh
at the joke. That was the first open act, but since
then she had strayed very far from the path of duty,
until now she had half promised to forsake Adam
Floyd and be Dunallen's bride. That very day, just
after sunset, he would be waiting in the beech wood
grove for her final decision. No wonder that with this
upon her mind she shrank from meeting her lover,
whom she knew to be the soul of truth and honor.
And yet she must school herself to go with him over
the house he had prepared for her with so much pride
and care. Once there she would tell him, she thought,
how the love she once bore him had died out from her
heart. She would not speak of Herbert Dunallen but
she would ask to be released, and he, the generous,
unselfish man, would do her bidding.
Anna had faith in Adam's goodness, and this it was
which nerved her at the last to wash the tear-stains
from her face and rearrange the golden curls falling
about her forehead. " He'll know I've been crying,"
she said, " but that will pave the way to what I have to
34O ADAM FLOYD.
tell him ; " and with one hasty glance at the fair young
face which Adam thought so beautiful, she ran lightly
down the stairs, glad that her mother was present
when she first greeted Adam. But the mother, remem-
bering her own girlish days, soon left the room, and
the lovers were alone.
" What is it, darling ? Are you sick ? " and Adam's
broad palm rested caressingly upon the bowed head of
Anna, who could not meet his earnest glance for
shame.
She said something about being nervous and tired
because of the excessive heat, and then, steadying her
voice, she continued :
" You have come for me to see the cottage, I sup-
pose. We will go at once, as 1 must I'eturn before it's
dark."
Her manner troubled him, but he made no comment
until they were out upon the highway, when he said to
her timidly, " If you are tired, perhaps you would not
mind taking my arm. Folks will not talk about it,
now we are so near being one."
Anna could not take his arm, so she replied :
"Somebody might gossip; I'd better walk alone,"
and coquettishly swinging the hat she carried instead
of wore, she walked by his side silently, save when
he addressed her directly. Poor Adam ! there were
clouds gathering around his heart, blacker far than
the dark rift rising so rapidly in the western sky.
There was something the matter with Anna more
than weariness or heat, but he would not question her
there, and so a dead silence fell between them until
the cottage was reached, and standing with her on the
threshold of the door, he said, mournfully, but oh ! so
tenderly, "Does my little Blossom like the home I
have prepared for her, and is she willing to live here
with me ? "
She seemed to him so fair, so pure, so like the
apple blossoms of early June, that he often called her
his little Blossom, but now there was a touching pathos
in the tones of his voice as he repeated the pet name,
and it wrung from Anna a gush of tears. Lifting her
blue eyes to his for an instant, she laid her head upon
his arm and cried piteously :
BY MARY /. HOLMES. 341
" Oh, Adam, you are so good, so much better than I
deserve. Yes, I like it, so much."
Was it a sense of his goodness which made her cry,
or was it something else ? Adam wished he knew, but
he would rather she should tell him of her own accord,
and winding his arm around her, he lifted up her head
and wiping her tears away, kissed her gently, saying,
" Does Blossom like to have me kiss her ? "
She did not, but she could not tell him so when
he bent so fondly over her, his face all aglow with the
mighty love he bore her. Affecting not to hear his
question she broke away from his embrace and seat-
ing herself in the bay window, began talking of its pretty
effect from the road, and the great improvement it was
to the cottage. Still she did not deceive Adam Floyd,
who all the while her playful remarks were sounding
in his ears was nerving himself to a task he meant to
perform. But not in any of the rooms he had fitted
up for her could he say that if she would have it so she
was free from him, even though the bridal was only a
week in advance and the bridal guests were bidden.
Only in one room, his dead mother's, could he tell her
this. That had been to him a Bethel since his blind
mother left it. Its walls had witnessed most of his
secret sorrows and joys, and there, if it must be, he
would break his heart by giving Anna up.
" I did not change mother's room," he said, leading
Anna to the arm-chair where none had sat since an
aged, withered form, last rested there. " I'd rather
see it as it used to be when she was here, and I thought
you would not mind."
" It is better to leave it so," Anna said, while Adam
continued,
" I'm glad you like our home. I think myself it is
pleasant, and so does every one. Even Dunallen com-
plimented it very highly."
" Dunallen ; has he been here ? " and Anna blushed
painfully.
But Adam was not looking at her. He had never
associated the heir of Castlewild with Anna's changed
demeanor, and wholly unconscious of the pain he was
inflicting, he went. on.
" He went all over the house this morning, except
indeed in here. I could not admit him to the room
342 ADAM FLOYD.
where mother died. Did I tell you that he had hired
me for a long and profitable job ? He is going to
make some repairs at Castlewild before he brings home
his bride. You know he is engaged to a young heiress,
Mildred Atherton."
It was well for Anna that her face was turned from
Adam as she replied,
" Yes, I've heard something of an engagement made
by the family when he was a mere boy. I thought
perhaps he had tired of it."
" Oh, no ; he told me only to-day that he expected
to bring his wife to Castlewild as early as Christmas.
We were speaking of you and our marriage."
" Of me ? " and Anna looked up quickly, but poor,
deluded Adam, mistook her guilty flush for a kind of
grateful pride that Dunallen should talk of her.
" He said you were the prettiest girl he ever saw,
and when I suggested, "except Miss Atherton," he
added, * I will not except any one ; Milly is pretty, but
not like your fiancte? "
Anna had not fallen so low that she could not see
how mean and dastardly it was for Herbert Dunallen
to talk thus of her to the very man he was intending to
wrong so cruelly ; and for a moment a life with Adam
Floyd looked more desirable than a life with Herbert
Dunallen, even though it were spent in the midst of
elegance of which she had never dreamed. Anna's
good angel was fast gaining the ascendency, and might
have triumphed had not the sound of horses' feet just
then met her ear, and looking from the window she
saw Herbert Dunallen riding by, his dark curls floating
in the wind and his cheek flushing with exercise. He
saw her, too, and quickly touching his cap,- pointed
adroitly towards the beechwood grove. With his dis-
appearance over the hill her good angel flew away,
and on her face there settled the same cold, unhappy
look, which had troubled Adam so much.
" Darling," he said, when he spoke again, " there is
something on your mind which I do not understand.
If you are to be my wife, there should be no secrets
between us. Will you tell me what it is, and if I can
help you I will, even though though "
His voice began to falter, for the white, hard look on
Anna's face frightened him, and at last in an agony of
BY MARY J. HOLMES. 343
terror, he grasped both her hands in his and added
impetuously :
" F,ven though it be to give you up, you whom I love
better than my life for whom I would die so willingly.
Oh, Anna! " and he sank on his knees beside her, and
winding his arms around her waist, looked her implor-
ingly in the face. " I sometimes fear that you have-
sickened of me that you shrink from my caresses,
if it is so, in mercy tell me now, before it is too late ;
for, Anna, dear as you are to me, I would rather
to-morrow's sunshine should fall upon your grave and
mine, than take you to my bosom an unloving wife !
I have worked for you, early and late, thinking only
how you might be pleased. There is not a niche or
corner in my home that is not hallowed by thoughts of
you whom I have loved since you were a little child
and I carried you in the arms which now would be
your resting place forever. I know I am not your
equal, I feel it painfully, but I can learn with you as
my teacher, and, my precious Anna, whatever I may
lack in polish, I will, 1 ?#/'// make up in kindness ! "
He was pleading now for her love, forgetting that
she was his promised wife forgetting everything, save
that to his words of passionate appeal there came no
answering response in the expression of her face.
Only the same fixed, stony look, which almost mad-
dened him ; it was so unlike what he deserved and had
reason to expect.
" I shall be lonely without you, Anna more lonely
than you can guess, for there is no mother here now to
bless and cheer me as she would have cheered me in
my great sorrow. She loved you, Anna, and blessed
you with her dying breath, saying she was glad for
your sake, that the chair where you sit would be empty
when you came, and asking God to deal by you even
as you dealt by me."
"Oh, Adam, Adam!" Anna gasped, for what had
been meant for a blessing rang in her ears like that
blind woman's curse. " May God deal better by me
than I meant to deal by you ! " she tried to say, but
the words died on her lips, and she could only lay her
cold hands on the shoulder of him who still knelt
before her, with his arms around her waist.
Softly, gladly came the good angel back, and 'mid a
344 ADAM FLOYD.
rain of tears which dropped on Adam's hair, Anna
wept her hardness all away, while the only sound heard
in the room was the beating of two hearts and the
occasional roll of thunder muttering in the distance.
In reality it was only a few moments, but to Anna
it seemed a long, long time that they sat thus
together, her face bent down upon his head, while she
thought of all the past since she could remember
Adam Floyd and the blind old woman, his mother.
He had been a dutiful son, Anna knew, for she had
heard how tenderly he would bear his mother in his
strong arms or guide her uncertain steps, and how at
the last he sat by her night after night, never weary-
ing of the tiresome vigil until it was ended, and the
sightless eyes, which in death turned lovingly to him,
were opened to the light of Heaven. To such as Adam
Floyd the commandment of promise was rife with
meaning. God would prolong his days and punish
those who wronged him. He who had been so faithful
to his mother, would be true to his wife aye, truer far
than young Dunallen, with all his polish and wealth.
" Adam," Anna began at last, so low that he
scarcely could hear her. " Adam, forgive me all that is
past. I have been cold and indifferent, have treated
you as I ought not, but I am young and foolish, I I
oh ! Adam, I mean to do better. I "
She could not say, " will banish Dunallen from my
mind " it was not necessary to mention him, she
thought ; but some explanation must be made, and so,
steadying her voice, she told him how dearly she had
loved him once, thinking there was not in all the world
his equal, but that during the year at a city school she
had acquired some foolish notions and had sometimes
wished her lover different.
" Not better at heart. You could not be that," she
said, looking him now fully in the face, for she was
conscious of meaning what she said, " but but "
" You need not finish it, darling ; I know what you
mean," Adam said, the cloud lifting in a measure from
his brow. "I am not refined one bit, but my Blossom
is, and she shall teach me, I will try hard to learn.
I will not often make her ashamed. I will even imi-
tate Dunallen, if that will gratify my darling."
Why would he keep bringing in that name, when the
BY MARY J. HOLMES. 345
sound of it was so like a dagger to Anna's heart, and
when she wished she might never hear it again ? He
was waiting for her now in the beech woods she knew,
for she was to join him there ere long, not to say
what she would have said an hour ago, but to say that
she could not, would not wrong the noble man who
held her to his bosom so lovingly as he promised to
copy Dunallen. And as Anna suffered him to caress
her, she felt her olden love coming back. She should
be happy with him happier far than if she were the
mistress of Castlewild, and knew that to attain that
honor she had broken Adam's heart.
" As a proof that you trust me fully," she said, as
the twilight shadows deepened around them, "you
must let me go home alone, I wish it for a special
reason. You must not tell me no," and the pretty lips
touched his bearded cheek.
Adam wanted to walk with her down the pleasant
road, where they had walked so often, but he saw she
was in earnest, and so he suffered her to depart alone,
watching her until the flutter of her light dress was
lost to view. Then kneeling by the chair where she
had sat so recently, he asked that the cup of joy, placed
again in his eager hand, might not be wrested from
him, that he might prove worthy of Anna's love, and
that no cloud should ever again come between them.
Herbert Dunallen had waited there a long time, as
he thought, and he began to grow impatient. What
business had Anna to stay with that old fellow, if she
did not mean to have him, and of course she did not.
It would be a mosf preposterous piece of business for
a girl like Anna to throw herself away upon such as
Adam Floyd, carpenter by trade, and general repairer
of things at Castlewild. Whew-ew ! and Herbert
whistled contemptuously, adding in a low voice, "and
yet my lady mother would raise a beautiful rumpus if
she knew I was about to make this little village rustic
her daughter-in-law. For I am ; if there's one redeem-
ing trait in my character, it's being honorable in my
intentions toward Anna. Most men in my position
would only trifle with her, particularly when there was
in the background a Mildred Atherton, dreadfully in
love with them. I wonder what makes all the girls
admire me so ? " and the vain young man stroked his
346 ADAM FLOYD.
mustache complacently, just as a rapid footstep sounded
near.
It was Anna's, and the next moment he held her in
his arms. But she would not suffer him to keep her
there, and with a quiet dignity which for an instant
startled him beyond the power to speak or act, she put
his arm away, and standing apart from him, told him
of her resolution, and reproached him with his duplicity,
asking him how he could tell Adam that he was about
to be married.
" Because I am," he replied. " I am not to blame
for his believing silly little Milly to be the bride elect.
Won't it be famous, though, for you to order round
your former lover? I've engaged him for a long job,
and you ought to have seen how glad he was of the
work, thinking, of course, how much he should earn
for you. I came near laughing in his face when he
hoped I should be as happy with Miss Mildred as he
expected to be with you."
" You shan't speak so of Adam Floyd! " and Anna's
little foot beat the ground impatiently, while indignant
tears glittered in her blue eyes as she again reiterated
that Adam Floyd should be her husband.
" Not while I live ! " Herbert responded almost
fiercely, for he saw in her manner a determination he
had never witnessed before.
As well as he was capable of doing he loved Anna
Burroughs, and the fact that she was pledged to
another added fuel to the flame.
" What new freak has taken my fickle goddess ? " he
asked, looking down upon her with a mocking sneer
about his mouth as she told him why she could not go
with him.
He knew she was in earnest at last, and, dropping
his jesting tone, he made her sit down beside him,
while he used every possible argument to dissuade her
from her purpose, working first upon her pride, flatter-
ing her vanity, portraying the happiness of a tour
through Europe, a winter in Paris, and lastly touching
upon the advantages of being lady supreme at
Castlewild, with a house in the city, for winter. And
as changeable, ambitious Anna listened, she felt her
resolutipn giving way, felt the ground whjc^ he had
B Y MARYJ. HOLMES. 347
taken slipping from beneath her feet without one effort
to save herself.
" It seems terrible to wrong Adam," she said, and
by the tone of her voice, Herbert knew the victory was
two thirds won.
" Adam will do well enough," he replied. " People
like him never die of broken hearts ! He's a good
fellow, but not the one for you ; besides, you know he's
what they call pious, just like Milly ; and, I presume,
he'll say it was not so wicked for you to cheat him as
to perjure yourself, as you surely would, by promising
to love and honor and all that when you didn't feel a
bit of it!"
" What was that you said of Miss Atherton ? " Anna
asked eagerly, for she had caught the word pious, and
it made her heart throb with pain, for she knew that
Herbert Dunallen could not say as much of her !
Once, indeed, it had been otherwise, but that was
before she had met him in the woods, before she
ceased to pray. Oh, that happy time when she had
dared to pray ! How she wished it would come back
to her again ; but it had drifted far away, and left a
void as black as the night closing around her or the
heavy thunder clouds rolling above her head.
Tightly her hands clenched each other as Herbert
answered jestingly.
" She's one of the religious ones, Milly is ; writes me
such good letters. I've one of them in my pocket now.
she's coming to see me ; is actually on the way, so to-
morrow night, or never, my bride you must be."
" Miss Atherton coining here ! What do you
mean ? " Anna asked, and Herbert replied,
" I mean, Mildred has always been in a fever to see
Castlewild, and as she is intimate with Mrs. Judge
Harcourt's family, she is coming there on a visit. Will
arrive to-morrow, her note 'said ; and will expect to see
me immediately after her arrival."
Herbert's influence over Anna was too great for her
to attempt to stop him, so she offered no remonstrance,
when he continued !
" I suppose Milly will cry a little, for I do be-
lieve she likes me, and always has ; but I can't help it.
The match was agreed ^upon by our families when
she was tNvelye and I fifteen. Of course I'm awfully
348 ADAM FLOYD.
sick of it, and have been ever since I knew you," and
Herbert's lips touched the white brow where only half
an hour before Adam Floyd's had been.
Thicker, and blacker, grew the darkness around
them, while the thunder was louder and nearer, and
still they sat together, Anna hesitating, while Herbert
urged upon her the necessity of going with him the
following night, if ever.
Mildred in the neighborhood would be as formidable
an obstacle to him as Adam was to Anna, while he
feared the result of another interview between the
affianced pair. With all his love for Anna he was not
blind to the fact that the last one with whom she talked
had the better chance of eventually winning. He
could not lose her now, and he redoubled his powers of
persuasion, until, forgetting everything, save the hand-
some youth beside her, the wealthy heir of Castlewild,
Anna said to him,
" I will meet you at our gate when the village clock
strikes one ! " and as she said the words the woods
were lighted up by a flash of lightning so fearfully
bright and blinding that with a scream of terror she
hid her face in her lap and stopped her ears to shut
out the deafening roll of the thunder. The storm had
burst in all its fury, and hurrying from the woods^ Her-
bert half carried, half led the frightened Anna across the
fields in the direction of her father's door. Depositing
her at the gate, he paused for an instant to whisper his
parting words and then hastened rapidly on.
On the kitchen hearth a cheerful wood fire had been
kindled, and making some faint excuse for having been
out in the storm, Anna repaired thither, and standing
before the blaze was drying her dripping garments,
when a voice from the adjoining room made her start
and tremble, for she knew that it was Adam's.
He seemed to be excited and was asking for her.
An accident had occurred just before his door.
Frightened by the lightning which Anna remembered
so well, a pair of spirited horses had upset a travelling
carriage, in which was a young lady and her maid.
The latter had sustained no injury, but the lady's ankle
was sprained, and she was otherwise so lamed and
bruised that it was impossible for her to proceed any
farther that night. So he had. carried her into his cot-
BY MARY J> HOLMES. 349
tage and dispatching the driver for the physician had
come himself for Anna as the suitable person to play
the hostess in his home.
" Oh, I can't go mother, you ! " Anna exclaimed,
shrinking in terror from again crossing the threshold of
the home she was about to make so desolate.
But Adam preferred Anna. The lady was young, he
said, and it seemed to him more appropriate that Anna
should attend her. Mrs Burroughs thought so too,
and, with a sinking heart, Anna prepared herself for a
second visit to the cottage. In her excitement she for-
got entirely to ask the name of the stranger, and as
she was not disposed to talk, nothing was said of the
lady until the cottage was reached and she was ushered
into the dining-room, where old Martha and a smart
looking servant were busy with the bandages and hot
water preparing for the invalid who had been carried to
the pleasant bed-room opening from the parlor.
" How is Miss Atherton ? " Adam asked of Martha,
while he kindly attempted to assist Anna in removing
the heavy shawl her mother had wrapped around her.
" Who ? What did you call her ? " Anna asked, her
hands dropping helplessly at her side.
" Why, I thought I told you. I surely did your
mother. I beg pardon for my carelessness. It's Mil
dred Atherton," and Adam's voice sank to a whisper.
" She was on her way to visit Mrs. Harcourt. I sup-
pose it uould be well to send for Dunallen, but I
thought it hardly proper for me to suggest it. I'll let
you get at it somehow, and see if she wants him. You
girls have a way of understanding each other."
Knowing how, in similar circumstances, he should
yearn for Anna's presence, Adam had deemed it nat-
ural that Mildred's first wish would be for Herbert, and
one reason for his insisting that Anna should come
back with him was the feeling that the beautiful girl,
who face had interested him at once, would be more
free to communicate her wishes to one of her own age.
" Mildred Atherton," Anna kept repeating to herself,
every vestige of color fading from her cheeks and lips,
a she wondered how she could meet her, or what the
]c,ult of the meeting would be.
"{' Sarah, wl^ere are VQU ? Has everybody left me. \ "
35O ADAM FLOYD.
came from the bed, where the outline of a girlish form
was plainly discernible to Anna, who started at the
tones of what seemed to her the sweetest voice she had
ever heard.
" Go to her," Adam whispered, and Anna mechani-
cally obeyed.
Gliding to the bedside, she stood a moment gazing
upon the beautiful face nestled among the snowy pil-
lows. The eyes were closed, and the long, silken lashes
shaded the fair, round cheek, not one half so white as
Anna's, notwithstanding that a spasm of pain occasion-
ally distorted the regular features, and wrung a faint
cry from the pretty lips. Masses of soft black curls
were pushed back from the forehead, and one hand lay
outside the counterpane, a little soft, fat hand, on whose
fourth finger shone the engagement ring, the seal of her
betrothal to the heir of Castlewild ! Oh, how debased
and wicked Anna felt standing by that innocent girl,
and how she marvelled that having known Mildred
Atherton, Herbert Dunallen could ever have turned to
her. Involuntarily a sigh escaped her lips, and at the
sound the soft black eyes unclosed, and looked at her
wonderingly. Then a smile broke over the fair face,
and extending her hand to Anna, Mildred said,
" Where am I ? My head feels so confused. I re-
member the horses reared when that flash of lightning
came, the carriage was overturned, and some young
man, who seemed a second Apollo in strength and
beauty, brought me in somewhere so gently and care-
fully, that I could have hugged him for it, he was so
good. Are you his sister ? "
" No, I am Anna Burroughs. He came for me,"
Anna replied, and looking her full in the face, Mildred
continued,
" Yes, I remember now, his nurse or housekeeper
told me he had gone for the girl who was to be his
wife; and you are she. It's pleasant to be engaged,
isn't it?" and Mildred's hand gave Anna's a little con-
fidential squeeze, which, quite as much as the words
she had uttered, showed how affectionate and confid-
ing was her disposition.
The entrance of the physician put an end to the con-
versation, and withdrawing to a little distance where in
the shadow she could not be well observed Anna, stood,
BY MARY J. HOLMES. 3 5 I
while the doctor examined the swollen ankle, and his
volatile patient explained to him in detail how it all
happened, making herself out quite a heroine for
courage and presence of mind, asking if he knew Mrs.
Harcourt, and if next morning he would not be kind
enough to let her know that Mildred Atherton was at
the cottage. The doctor promised whatever she asked,
and was about to leave the room, when Adam stepped
forward and said,
" Is there any one else whom Miss Atherton would
like to see any friend in the neighborhood who ought
to be informed ? "
Eagerly Anna waited for the answer, watching half
jealously the crimson flush stealing over Mildred's face,
as she replied,
" Not to-night ; it would do no good ; to-morrow is
soon enough. I never like to make unnecessary
trouble."
The head which had been raised while Mildred spoke
to Adam lay back upon the pillow, but not until with a
second thought the sweet voice had said to him,
" I thank you, sir, you are so kind."
As a creature of impulse, Anna felt a passing thrill
of something like pride in Adam as Mildred Atherton
spoke thus to him, and when as he passed her he invol-
untarily laid his hand a moment on her shoulder she
did not shake it off, though her heart throbbed pain-
fully with thoughts of her intended treachery. They
were alone now, Mildred and Anna, and beckoning the
latter to her side, Mildred said to her.
" He meant Herbert Dunallen. How did he know
that I am to be Herbert's wife ? "
There was no tremor in her voice. She spoke of
Herbert as a matter of course, while Anna could hardly
find courage to reply.
" Mr. Floyd works at Castlewild sometimes, and
probably has heard Mr. Dunallen speak of you."
" Mr. Floyd Adam Floyd, is that the young man's
name ? " was Mildred's next question, and when Anna
answered in the affirmative, she continued, " I have
heard of him. Herbert wrote how invaluable he was
and how superior to most mechanics his prime min-
ister in fact. I am glad the accident happened here,
and Herbert too will be glad,"
352 ADAM FLOYD.
For a moment Mildred seemed to be thinking, then
starting up, she said, abruptly,
"And it was Anna Anna Burroughs, yes, I'm sure
that's the name. Would you mind putting that lamp
nearer to me, and coming yourself where I can see
just how you look ?"
Anna shrank from the gaze of those clear, truthful
eyes, but something in Mildred's manner impelled her
to do as she was requested, and moving the lamp
she came so near that Mildred placed a hand on either
side of her burning face and gazed at it curiously ;
then, pushing back the golden hair, and twining one of
the curls a moment about her ringer, she laid it by her
own long, black shining tresses, saying sadly, " I wish
my curls were light and fair like yours. It would suit
Herbert better. He fancies a blonde more than a
brunette, at least he told me as much that time he
wrote to me of you."
" Of me ? " Anna asked anxiously, the color reced-
ing from her cheek and lip. " Why did he write of me,
and when ? "
The dark eyes were shut now and Anna could see
the closed lids quiver, just as did the sweet voice which
replied, " It's 'strange to talk so openly to you as if we
were dear friends, as we will be when I come to Castle-
wild to live. It is my nature to say right out what I
think, and people sometimes calls me silly. Herbert
does, but I don't care. When I like a person I show it,
and I like you. Besides, there's something tells me
there is a bond of sympathy between us greater than
between ordinary strangers. I guess it is because we
are both engaged, both so young, and both rather pretty,
too. You certainly are, and I know I am not bad look-
ing, if Aunt Theo did use to try and make me think I
was. Her story and the mirror's did not agree."
Anna looked up amazed at this frank avowal, which
few would ever have made, even though in their hearts
they were far vainer of their beauty than was Mildred
Atherton of hers. Was she really silly, or was she
wholly artless and childlike in her manner of expres-
sion ? Anna could not decide, and with a growing
interest in the stranger, she listened while Mildred
went on : " In one of his letters last May Herbert
said. SQ much of Anna Burroughs, with her eyes of blue
BY MARY J. HOLMES. 353
and golden hair, calling her a ' Lily of the Valley,' and
asking, all in play, you know, if I should feel very badly
if he should elope some day with his Lily. It shocks
you, don't it ! " she said, as Anna started with a sudden
exclamation. " But he did not mean it. He only tried to
tease me, and for a time it did nake in my heart a
little round spot of pain which burned like fire, for
though Herbert has some bad habits and naughty ways,
I love him very dearly. He is always better with me.
He says I do him good, though he calls me a puritan,
and that time when the burning spot was in my heart, I
used to go away and pray, that if Herbert did not like
me as he ought, God would incline him to do so. Once
I prayed for you, whom I had never seen," and the
little soft hand stole up to Anna's bowed head smooth-
ing the golden locks caressingly, '' You'll think me
foolish, but thoughts of you really troubled me then,
when I was weak and nervous, for I was just recover-
ing from sickness, and so I prayed that the Lily of the
Valley might not care for Herbert, might not come
between us. and I know God heard me just as well as
if it had been my own father of whom I asked a favor.
Perhaps it is not having any father or mother which
makes me take every little trouble to God. Do you do
so, Anna ? Do you tell all your cares to him ? "
Alas for conscience-stricken Anna, who had not
prayed for so very, very long ! What could she say ?
Nothing, except to dash the bitter tears from her eyes
and answer, sobbingly,
" I used to do so once, but now oh, Miss Atherton !
now I am so hard, so wicked, I dare not pray ! "
In great perplexity Mildred looked at her a moment,
and then said, sorrowfully.
"Just because I was hard and wicked, I should want
to pray to ask that if I had done anything bad I
might be forgiven, or if I had intended to do wrong,
I might be kept from doing it."
Mildred little guessed how keen a pang her words
" or intended to do wrong," inflicted upon the repenting
Anna, who involuntarily stretched her hands toward the
young girl as toward something which, if she did but
grasp it, would save her from herself. Mildred took
the hands between her own, and pressing them gently,
said :
2 3
354 ADAM FLOYD.
" I don't know why you feel so badly, neither can I
understand how anything save sin can make you un-
happy when that good man is almost your husband.
You must love him very much, do you not ? "
"Yes," came faintly from Anna's lips, and laying
her face on the pillow beside Mildred's, she murmured,
inaudibly: "God help me, and forgive that falsehood,
I will love him, if I do not now."
Anna did not know she prayed, but He who un-
derstands our faintest desire knew it, and from that
moment dated her return to duty. She should not
wrong that gentle, trusting girl. She could not break
Milly's heart with Adam's as break it she surely should
if her wicked course were persisted in. And then
there flashed upon her the conviction that Herbert had
deceived her in more ways than one. He had repre-
sented Mildred as tiring of the engagement as well as
himself had said that though her pride might be a
little wounded, she would on the whole be glad to be
rid of him so easily, and all the while he knew that
what he said was false. Would he deal less deceitfully
by her when the novelty of calling her his wife had worn
away ? Would he not weary of her and sigh for the
victim sacrificed so cruelly? Anna's head and heart
both seemed bursting with pain, and when Mildred,
alarmed at the pallor ot her face, asked if she were ill,
there was no falsehood in the reply, "Yes, I'm dizzy
and faint I cannot stay here longer," and scarcely
conscious of what she was doing, Anna quitted the
room, leaning for support against the banisters in the
hall and almost falling against old Martha who was
carrying hot tea to Mildred Atherton.
" Let me go home, I am sick," Anna whispered to
Adam, who, summoned by Martha, bent anxiously
over her, asking what was the matter.
It was too late to go home, he said. She must stay
there till morning ; and very tenderly he helped her up
to the chamber she was to occupy, the one next to his
own, and from which, at a late hour, she heard him, as,
thinking her asleep, he thanked his Heavenly Father
for giving her to him, and asked that he might be more
worthy of her than he was.
" No, Adam, oh no pray that I may be more
worthy of you," trembled on Anna's lips, and then lest
BY MARY J. HOLMES. 355
her resolution might fail, she arose and striking a light,
tore a blank leaf from a book lying on a table, and
wrote to Herbert Dunallen-that she could never meet
him again, except as a friend and the future husband
of Mildred Atherton.
Folding it once over, she wrote his name upon it,
then, faint with excitement, and shivering with cold,
threw herself upon the outside of the bed, and sobbed
herself into a heavy sleep, more exhausting in its effects
than wakefulness would have been.
There was another patient for the village doctor,
besides Mildred, at the cottage next morning. Indeed,
her case sank into insignificance when compared with
that of the moaning, tossing, delirious Anna, who
shrank away from Adam, begging him not to touch
her, for she was not worthy.
They had found her just after sunrise, and sent for
her mother, whose first thought was to take her home ;
but Anna resisted at once ; she must stay there she
said, and expiate her sin, in Adam's house. Then,
looking into her mother's face, she added with a
smile,
" You know it was to have been mine in a week !"
Adam did not see the smile. He only heard the
words, and his heart beat quickly as he thought it
natural that Anna should wish to stay in what was to
be her home.
The hot August sun came pouring into the small, low
room she occupied, making it so uncomfortable, that
Adam said she must be moved, and taking her in his
arms he carried her down the stairs, and laid her upon
the bridal bed, whose snowy drapery was scarcely
whiter than was her face, save where the fever burned
upon her fair skin. On the carpet where it had fallen
he found the crumpled note. He knew it was her
writing, and he looked curiously at the name upon it,
while there stole over him a shadowy suspicion, as to
the cause of Anna's recent coldness.
" Herbert Dunallen ! " He read the name with a
shudder, and then thrust the note into his pocket until
the young man came.
Oh, how he longed to read the note and know what
his affianced bride had written to Dunallen ; but not
356 ADAM FLOYD.
for the world would he have opened it, and Anna's
secret was safe, unless she betrayed it in her delirium,
as she seemed likely to do.
A messenger had been dispatched to Castlewild,
informing its young heir of Mildred Atherton's mishap.
In the room he called his library, Herbert sat, arrang-
ing his papers, and writing some directions for his head
man of business.
" Something from Adam Floyd," he exclaimed, as
he tore open the envelope, " Oh, bother," was all the
comment he made, as he read the hastily written lines,
which gave no hint of Anna's sudden illness.
He was not in the least prepared for that, and the
sudden paling of his cheek when, on his arrival at the
cottage, he heard of it, did not escape the watchful
Adam, who quietly handed him the note, explaining
where he had found it, and then went back to Anna,
in whose great blue eyes there was a look of fear
whenever they met his a look which added to the
dull, heavy pain gnawing at his heart. He did not
see Herbert when he read Anna's note did not hear
his muttered curse at woman's fickleness, but he saw
the tiny fragments into which it was torn, flutter past
the window where he sat by Anna's side. One, a
longer strip than the others, fell upon the window still,
and Adam picked it up, reading involuntarily the words
" Your unhappy Anna."
Down in the depths of Adam's heart there was a
sob, a moan of anguish as his fears were thus corrob-
orated, but his face gave no token of the fierce pain
within. It was just as calm as ever, when it turned
again to Anna who was talking in her sleep, first of
Herbert and then of Adam, begging him to forget
that he ever knew the little girl called Anna Burroughs,
or carried her over the rifts of snow to the school-
house under the hill. It seemed strange that she
should grow sick so fast when yesterday she had been
comparatively well, but the sudden cold she had taken
the previous night, added to the strong excitement
under which she had been laboring, combined to
spend the energies of a constitution never strong,
and the fever increased so rapidly that before the
close of the second day more than one heart throbbed
with fear as to what the end would be.
B Y MARYJ. HOLMES, 357
In spite of her lame ankle Mildred had managed to
get into the sick-room, urging Herbert to accompany
her, and feeling greatly shocked at his reply that
" camphor and medicine were not to his taste."
Herbert had not greeted his bride elect very lov-
ingly, for to her untimely appearance he attributed
Anna's illness and decision. He could change the lat-
ter he knew, only give him the chance, but the former
troubled him greatly. Anna might die, and then
Herbert Dunallen did not know what then, but bad as
he was he would rather she should not die with all that
sin against Adam unconfessed, and out in the Beech
woods where the night before he had planned with her
their flight and where after leaving Mildred he re-
paired, he laid his boyish head upon the summer grass
and cried, partly as a child would cry for the bauble
denied, partly as an honest man might mourn for the
loved one whose life he had helped to shorten.
Regularly each morning the black pony from Castle-
wild was tied at the cottage gate, while its owner made
inquiry for Anna. He had discernment enough to see
that from the first his visits were unwelcome to Adam
Floyd, who he believed knew the contents of the note
written him by Anna. But in this last he was mis-
taken. All Adam knew certainly was gathered from
Anna's delirious ravings, which came at last to be un-
derstood by Mildred, who in spite of Mrs. Judge Har-
court's entreaties or those of her tall, handsome son,
George Harcourt, just home from Harvard, persisted
in staying at the cottage and ministering to Anna.
For a time the soft black eyes of sweet Mildred Ather-
ton were heavy with unshed tears, while the sorrow of
a wounded, deceived heart was visible upon her face ;
but at length her true womanly sense of right rose
above it all, and waking as if from a dream she saw
how utterly unworthy even of her childish love was the
boy man, whose society she shunned, until, irritated by
her manner, he one day demanded an explanation of
her coolness.
" You know, Herbert," and Milly's clear, innocent
eyes looked steadily into his. "You know far better
than I, all that has passed between you and Anna Bur-
roughs. To me and her lover, noble Adam Floyd, it
is known only in part, but you understand the whole,
358 ADAM FLOYD.
and I am glad of this opportunity to tell you that you
are free from an engagement which never should have
been made, and of which you are weary. I did love
you so much, Herbert, even though I knew that you
were wayward. I loved you, and prayed for you, too,
every morning and every night. I shall do that yet,
wherever you are, but henceforth we are friends, and
nothing more. Seek forgiveness, first of God, and
then of Adam Floyd, whom you thought to wrong by
wresting from him the little ewe-lamb, which was his
all."
Herbert looked up quickly. Wholly unversed in
Scripture, the ewe-Iamb was Greek to him, but Mildred
was too much in earnest for him to jest. She had
never seemed so desirable as now, that he had lost her,
and grasping her hand from which she was taking the
engagement ring, he begged of her to wait, to consider,
before she cast him off.
" I was mean with Anna, I know, and I meant to
run away with her, but that is over now. Speak to
me, Milly ; I do not know you in this new charac-
ter."
Milly hardly knew herself, but with regard to Her-
bert she was firm, giving him no hope of ever recover-
ing the love he had wantonly thrown away.
After that interview, the black pony stayed quietly in
its stable at Castlewild, while Herbert shut himself up
in his room, sometimes crying when he thought of
Anna, sometimes swearing when he thought of Mil-
dred, and ending every reverie with his pet words, " oh
botheration."
Each morning, however, a servant was sent to the
cottage where, for weeks, Anna hovered between life
and death, carefully tended by her mother and Mildred
Atherton, and, tenderly watched by Adam, who de-
ported himself toward her as a fond parent would toward
its erring but suffering child. There was no bitterness
in Adam's heart, nothing save love and pity for the
white-faced girl whom he held firmly in his arms, sooth-
ing her gently, while Mildred cut away the long, golden
tresses, at which, in her wild moods, she clutched so
angrily.
" Poor shorn lamb," he whispered, while his tears,
large and warm, dropped upon the wasted face he had
B Y MAR Yf. HOLMES. 359
not kissed since the night he and Mildred watched with
her and heard so much of the sad story.
But for the help which cometh only from on high,
Adam's heart would have broken, those long bright
September days, when everything seemed to mock his
woe. It was so different from what he had hoped
when he built castles of the Autumn time, when Anna
would be with him. She was there, it is true ; there in
the room he had called ours, but was as surely lost to
him, he said, as if the bright-hued flowers were blos-
soming above her grave. She did not love him, else
she had never purposed to deceive him, and he looked
drearily forward to the time when he must again take
up his solitary life, uncheered by one hope in the
future.
She awoke to consciousness at last. It was in the
grey dawn of the morning, when Adam was sitting by
her, while her mother and Mildred rested in the adjoin-
ing room. Eagerly she seemed to be searching for
something, and when Adam asked for what, she an-
swered : " The note ; I had it in my hand when I went
to sleep."
Bending over her, Adam said : " I found it ; I gave it
to him."
There was a,perceptible start, a flushing of Anna's
cheek and a frightened, half pleading look in her eyes;
but she asked no questions, and thinking she would
rather not have him there, Adam went quietly out to
her mother with the good news of Anna's conscious-
ness.
Days went by after that, days of slow convalescence ;
but now that he was no longer needed in the sick
room, Adam stayed away. Tokens of his thoughtful
care, however, were visible everywhere, in the tasteful
bouquets arranged each morning, just as he knew Anna
liked them in the luscious fruit and tempting delica-
cies procured by him for the weak invalid who at last
asked Mildred to call him and leave them alone to-
gether.
At first there was much constraint on either side, but
at last Anna burst out impetuously, " Oh, Adam, I do
not know what I said in my delirium, or how much you
know, and so I must tell you everything."
Then, as rapidly as possible and without excusing
360 ADAM FLOYD.
herself in the least, she told her story and what she
had intended to do.
For a moment Adam did not speak, and when he did
it was to ask if Mildred had told her about Herbert.
But his name had not been mentioned between the two
girls and thus it devolved upon Adam to explain.
Herbert had left the neighborhood and gone abroad
immediately after Anna's convalescence was a settled
thing.
" Perhaps he will soon come back," Adam said, and
Anna cried, "Oh, Adam, I never wish him to return, I
know now that I never loved him as I oh, I wish I
had died."
" You were not prepared, and God spared you to us.
We are very glad to have you back," Adam said.
These were the first words he had spoken which had
in them anything like his former manner, and Anna
involuntarily stretched her hand towards him. He
took it, and letting it rest on his broad, warm palm,
smoothed it a little as he would have smoothed a little
child's, but what Anna longed to hear was not spoken,
and in a tremor of pain she sobbed out,
" In mercy, speak to me once as you used to. Say
that you forgive me, even though we never can be to
each other again what we have been ! "
" I do forgive you, Anna ; and, as for the rest I did
not suppose you wished it."
Raising herself up, Anna threw her arms impetuously
around his neck, exclaiming.
" I do wish it, Adam. Don't cast me off. Try me,
and see if I am not worthy. I have sinned, but I have
repented too. Never were you so dear to me! Oh,
Adam, take me back ! "
She was getting too much excited, and putting her
arms from his neck, Adam laid her upon the pillow,
and said to her gently,
" Anna, my faith in you has been shaken, but my
love has never changed. You must not talk longer
now. I'll come again by and by, and meantime I'll
send Miss Atherton. She knows it all, both from
Herbert and yourself. She is a noble girl. You can
trust her."
At Adam's request Mildred went to Anna, and sitting
down beside her, listened while Anna confessed the
BY MARY J. HOLMES. 36 1
past, even to the particulars of her interview with
Adam, and then added tearfully,
" Forgive me and tell me what to do."
" I should be an unworthy disciple of Him who said
forgive, until seventy times seven, if I refused your
request," was Mildred's reply, as she wound her arm
around Anna's neck, and imprinted upon Anna's lips
i he kiss of pardon.
Then as Anna could bear it, she unfolded her plan,
which was that the invalid should return with her to
her pleasant home at Rose Hill, staying there until
she had fully tested the strength of her love for Adam,
who, if she stood the test should come for her himself.
As a change of air and scene seemed desirable, Anna's
mother raised no serious objection to this arrangement,
and so one October morning Adam Floyd held for a
moment a little wasted hand in his while he said good-
bye to its owner, who so long as he was in sight leaned
from the carriage window to look at him standing
there so lone and solitary, yet knowing it was better to
part with her awhile if he would have their future as
bright as he had once fancied it would be.
Eight years have passed away and on the broad
piazza of Castlewild a sweet-faced woman stands,
waiting impatiently the arrival of the carriage winding
slowly up the hill, and which stops at last, while
Mildred Atherton alights from it and ascends the steps
to where Anna stands waiting for her. And Mildred
who for years has been abroad, and has but recently
returned to America, has come to be for a few weeks
her guest, and to see how Anna deports herself as the
wife of Adam Floyd, and mistress of beautiful
Castlewild.
There is a sad story connected with Anna's being
there at Castlewild, a story which only Mildred can tell,
and in the dusky twilight of that first evening when
Adam was away and the baby Milly asleep in its crib,
she takes Anna's hand in hers and tells her what Anna
indeed knew before, but which seems far more real as
it comes from Mildred's lips, making the tears fall fast
as she listens to it. Tells her how Providence directed
her to the room in a Paris hotel, where a fellow-
countryman lay dying, alone and unattended save by
362 ADAM FLOYD.
a hired nurse. The sick room was on the same hall
with her own, and in passing the door, which was ajar,
she was startled to hear a voice once familiar to her
and which seemed to call her name. Five minutes
later and she was sitting by Herbert Dunallen's bed-
side and holding his burning hand in hers, while he
told her how long he had lain there with the fever con-
tracted in the south of France, and how at the moment
she passed his door he was crying out in his anguish
and desolation for the friends so far away, and had
spoken her name, not knowing she was so near.
After that Milly was his constant attendant, and
once when she sat by him he talked to her of the past
and of Anna, who had been three years the wife of
Adam Floyd.
" I am glad of it," he said. " She is happier with
him than she could have been with me. I am sorry
that I ever came between them, it was more my fault
than hers, and I have told Adam so. I wrote him from
Algiers and asked his forgiveness, and he answered
my letter like the noble man he is. There is peace
between us now, and I am glad. I have heard from
him, or rather of him since in a roundabout way. He lost
his right arm in the war, and that will incapacitate
him from his work. He can never use the hammer
again. I do not suppose he has so very much money.
Anna liked Castle wild. In fact I believe she cared
more for that than for me, and I have given it
to her ; have made my will to that effect. It is with
my other papers, and Milly, when I am dead, you will
see that Anna has her own. I did not think it would
come quite so soon, for I am young to die. Not thirty
yet, but it is better so, perhaps. You told me that
you prayed for me every day, and the memory of that
has stuck to me like a burr, till I have prayed for my-
self, more than once, when I was well, and often since
shut up in this room which I shall never leave alive.
Stay by me, Milly, to the last ; it will not be long, and
pray that if I am not right, God will make me so.
Show me the way, Milly, I want to be good, I am sorry,
oh, so sorry for it all."
For a few days longer he lingered, and then one
lovely autumnal morning, when Paris was looking her
B Y MAR Y J. HOLMES. 363
brightest, he died, wilh Milly's hand in his, and Milly's
tears upon his brow.
And so Castlewild came to Anna, .who had been
three years its mistress when Milly came to visit her,
and on whose married life no shadow however small
had fallen, except, indeed, the shadows which are
common to the lives of all. When her husband came
home from the war a cripple, as he told her with
quivering lips, her tears fell like rain for him, because
he was sorry, but for herself she did not care ; he was
left to her, and kissing him lovingly she promised to be
his right arm and to work for him if necessary, even
to building houses, if he would teach her how. But
poverty never came to Adam Floyd and Anna, and
probably never would have come, even if there had
been no will which left them Castlewild. That was a
great surprise, and at first Adam hesitated about going
there. But Anna persuaded him at last, and there we
leave them, perfectly happy in each other's love, and
both the better, perhaps, for the grief and pain which
came to them in their youth.
My Borrowing Neighbor,
BY
MAKGARET E. SANGSTER,
MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
THE literary career of Mrs. Sangster, born Margaret
E. Munson, began in her seventeenth year, when she
wrote and published a book a child's story called
" Little Jamie." Before that, however, she had writ-
ten verses, competed for prizes (and won them) with
essays and other writings. For seventeen years she has
entirely supported her family by journalistic work.
She is a graceful as well as a strong writer ; her
verses are full of tender, often religious, sentiments
and her stories are bright and well told. But most of
her writing at this day is for the newspapers, and goes
out to the world without her name. However pleasant
may be the fields of general literature, when it comes
to the question of a steady income, the writer, if he
is wise, takes to journalism.
Mrs. Sangster married early and accepted the care
of a family of children, and has been a successful step-
mother. She has one child of her own, a son, and
within the last year or two has arrived at the dignity of
grandmotherhood. Her home is in Brooklyn, where
she has many friends, and is noted for her active labors
in connection with church and Sunday-school work.
In the beginning of her settled work she was con-
nected with that attractive but rather short lived paper,
Hearth and Home. .Since that time she has worked
on the Christian at Work, The Christian Intelli-
gencer, and latterly Harper's Young People, in which
she has won lasting fame among the young readers as
"The Little Postmistress." She is a steady worker in
several fields book reviewing, story writing, and verse
making.
Mrs. Sangster, though a steady and systematic
worker, is an enthusiastic one ; in speaking of her pro-
fession as a journalist she once said : "I love it with
all my heart, and would not exchange it with all its
371
*
37 2 MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
drudgery for any other position of which I can dream
Everything about it suits me and charms me. More,
perhaps, than anything else, I value the opportunity it
gives me to say helpful words, and reach a cordial
hand to the struggling of my sex.
For a quarter of a century Mrs. Sangster has been
before the public as a writer, beginning as a writer of
verse, and combining later the practical work of a
critic and journalist. So much of her writing has been
impersonal that she has not the credit her due for
clever work, honestly done.
MY BORROWING NEIGHBOR.
I REMEMBER everything we had for breakfast that
morning. Why I remember so very ordinary a thing
as breakfast, and why that special morning lives in my
memory, distinct and unfaded, I cannot explain.
Among the many mysteries of psychology, none are
more mysterious to my thinking, than the things we
remember, and the things we don't. We set ourselves,
with prayer and pains, to the fixing of a certain event
or string of events in our recollection, and the next
week we try in vain to find the thing again. We've
locked it up in our mental lumber-room and lost the
key. We take no conscious notice of another event, or
string of events ; we are not aware that they are mak-
ing any marked or deep impression upon us, and years
after a random word or an idle jest awakes them, and
up they start as fresh and bright as if they had hap-
pened yesterday.
We had for breakfast that morning fried chicken,
light rolls, and coffee. There was fruit on the table,
of course. We always had fruit whatever the season, and
this being summer time, we had figs fresh figs, pale
green and rich purple, gathered with the morning dew
upon them, great delicious spheres and ovals of hon-
eyed sweetness. Breakfast was well begun, and Cousin
John had just asked for his second cup, when the door
of the dining-room, the door, I mean, that opened
upon the back porch, was shaded by an apparition.
A little negro girl, barefooted, of course, had come
up the porch steps so softly that nobody had heard
her. The first I knew of her presence was my seeing
her standing there, and hearing her say, as she held
out a cup and saucer upon a tray :
"Please, Miss Elizabeth, sendM.\ss Malvina a cup o'
your coffee. She say she done got an' choc'lat dis
yere mornin', but she like a cup o' coffee."
373
374 MY BORROWING NEIGHBOR.
" That must be our new neighbor, Libbie," said
Cousin John, as our dignified waiter, Henry, with the
utmost pomp and ceremony took the cup from the
small servitor and carried it to me.
" Does your mistress like cream and sugar ? " I
inquired.
" Reckon her got sugar want cream, though."
So I poured out a cup of my coffee, and sent it, rich
with cream, to my unknown friend. Her house and
mine were pretty near together, not like houses in
New York, of course, for in the town where we
lived, people had not learned, as yet, to build their
houses like barracks in long uniform rows ; every
man's front door precisely like every other man's on
the street, and the windows all as similar as peas in a
pod. All our houses there had gardens around them,
and places for the children to play, and trees and
flowers, and we all kept dogs and chickens and pigs.
Down at the foot of our lane, there was a picturesque
cottage that had been long untenanted. It had a gar-
den^sloping to the water's edge, and its eaves were over-
run with roses and honeysuckles. A day or two before
the opening of my story, a load of furniture had gone
down the lane, followed soon after by another, and
another. Then a fat and pompous colored woman had
made her appearance at the back door, which was in
full view from ours, a woman who from her gay turban
to her slippered feet had cook inscribed upon her ; a
gray-haired serving man had been seen to shuffle in
a promiscuous manner about the premises, and finally
a carriage load of ladies, a poodle clog, and a canary
bird had arrived, and completed, we supposed, the
family. The first night we had heard no sounds, as
was natural, for having come from somewhere (the car-
riage had been driven up soon after the arrival of the
daily boat) the travellers had been tired, and had gone
to bed early, no doubt. But next morning it was very
pleasant to hear the gay snatches of talk, the rippling
sounds of laughter, and the occasional burst of music
from a rather old, but sweet-toned, piano, that came
floating to us merrily, as we sat on our porch, John
with his newspaper, and I with my knitting.
" I'm glad those girls are there," said John.
" Of course you are," said I ; " though what differ-
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER. 375
ence can it possibly make to you ? you never go very
much with girls."
The fact was that my Cousin John, though a lawyer,
and a good looking man of forty, was as diffident and
shy as a school-girl on commencement day ; and his
usual custom was to beat a retreat to his room, if he
could accomplish it safely, whenever he heard the
approaching rustle of a silk dress, or caught sight of
feathers and flowers, like Birnam wood coming to
Dunsinane, advancing down our garden walk.
" Oh, well ! " said John, " I like to see them about
and hear them, when they don't want me to entertain
them, you know ; and that younger one is certainly
pretty."
Pretty she was, with golden hair, and a white dress :
so much we could see, as she flitted in and out between
her mother and sisters. Indeed, they were all pretty.
The mother, plump, matronly, easy-going; the two
elder girls, brown-haired and stately, and this fairy of
a " Lill," whom everybody was calling on, from morning
to night.
That was one day. It was the second day that they
made my acquaintance and I theirs. It began with
the coffee.
I had established myself in the quiet, pleasant hours
that come midway between breakfast and noon, with
my writing-desk on my lap and my inkstand on a
chair beside me. That's a woman's way of being
cosy and confidential with her paper when she writes
a letter. A man sits straight up with his bath-note or
his commercial on the desk or the table, writes his one
page or his four, and has done with it. A woman
takes her dainty French sheet, with the faint sugges-
tion of perfume, mignonette, or heliotrope clinging to
it, and selects her pen daintily ; and,- if her letter be
to a friend she cares for, some absent precious darling,
her heart lingers over and caresses the words as she
writes them, and the missive, inconsequent and diffuse
and feminine as possible, goes out full-weighted with
tenderness. Now I do hate to be interrupted when
I'm writing such letters as I was that day. My slen-
der stock of patience deserts me utterly if people will
persist in coming with all sorts of questions just when
I'm overflowing with bright thoughts and loving
3/6 MY BORROWING NEIGHBOR.
epithets. " But what has this to do with my nar-
rative ? " you ask.
Well, this : I was just in the midst of a sparkling
sentence when a voice broke on my ear :
u Please, Miss Elizabeth, send Miss Lill two lumps
o' sugar to feed her bird ? Her sugar all done used
up."
How on earth did that mite learn that my name was
Elizabeth ?
Two lumps of sugar ! noblesse oblige. My mother's
daughter was not brought up to count sugar by lumps.
I sent misguided creature that I was I sent a cup-
ful.
Well, I began again on my letter and I finished it
and began another. I was half through that one
when again there came the soft voice, and looking up,
there met my own the great, velvety, appealing eyes
again, black as Erebus, through the surrounding black-
ness of that child's dusky face.
" Please, Miss Eliz'beth, send Miss Constantia a
sheet of note paper and a envelop' ? Her done
dropped de key ob her trunk down de well, and her
want to write a letter to a frien'."
" I'm afraid you are coming upon errands of your
own," I answered with severity of aspect. " Miss
Constantia never sent you."
" Yes, indeed, she did," persisted Black-eyed Susan,
as in my mind I had named this young person.
" Well, here it is then ; but when I see Miss Con-
stantia I'll ask her about it."
A week later we called. Cousin John was so
pleased with the glimmer of Miss Lillie's curls in the
distance that he actually so far overcame his native
shyness as to consent to be my escort. What he wore
I don't know a coat and vest probably, pantaloons
and shoes of some sort, of course, and a necktie and
gloves also a shirt. A gentleman's costume admits
of so little variety. I was in all the glory of a new
suit lavender silk and Brussels point lace, and my
lovely black lace shawl, a shawl that haunts my regret-
ful dreams, though long ago it left' me for parts un-
known, borne away by a burglar on the war-path.
You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will,
but the thought of past laces will hang round it still.
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER. 377
Mrs. Vernon and her daughters received us with
cordial empressement. They were elegant women, all
of them, with society manners and a sort of graceful,
high-bred air that charmed me and utterly captivated
and enthralled Cousin John. I forgot to say I wore
pearls. We always dressed in our very bestest best when
we made calls in town, having no other way in
which to display our goods. It was the thing to be en
grande toilette when you made a call. Ours was delight-
ful. The gray-haired waiter brought us lemonade, and
Mrs. Vernon complimented us on having fruit in abund-
ance in our garden.
"Literally under your own vine and fig-tree,'' she
said. Whereupon I at once gave her the freedom of
berries, cherries, peas, beans, plums, pears and all,
telling her whenever she desired, to help herself freely.
She accepted my courtesy in th same spirit in which
it was offered, and we parted the best of friends.
Constantia, Katherine, and Lillie returned the call
next day, and staid two hours. Katherine tried my
piano, and Lillie made love to my birds. As for Con-
stantia, she was suave and winning, and, if I do say
it, made love to Cousin John. I was delighted to find
that he was blind as a bat to her, however, and had
eyes only for little Lillie.
A few days after, I decided to make plum preserves.
" Henry," I said, " when you have returned from mar-
ket, please gather the plums." A sort of flash, it was
not more, lit the decorous gravity of Henry's usually
immovable features.
" The plums are done picked," he said.
" Oh ! very well," said I. " Then I'll go right at
my preserving."
" But, Miss Elizabeth, Paul gathered the plums yes
terday for Miss Malvina Vernon, and Aunt Hester am
busy preserving them for her."
" All the plums ? " I said, amazed.
" Ebery plum," said Henry solemnly.
The Bible tells about " spoiling the Egyptians and
spoiling the Philistines." I had never felt any special
sympathy with them before, but for five minutes after
I found my plums were gone I knew how they felt,
poor things I wonder if the spoilers took " ei>ery
plum."
378 MY BORROWING NEIGHBOR.
" Henry," said I, " buy me two baskets of plums, and
send them home from market directly," which
Henry did. I put on a calico dress and a housekeep-
ing apron, crossed my little flagged yard and entered
the kitchen. Aunt Diana was paring potatoes, three
or four of her tribe were sitting and standing about,
and at my entrance they scuttled out of the way, all
but the baby, a funny little black ball, that I petted a
great deal. She crawled up to me, and began to play
with the rosettes on my slippers with her little fat
hands.
" Aunt Diana," I said, " I'm going to preserve plums."
" Laws, honey ! " said Aunt Diana, " how can ye
do it to-day, 'less you borrow a preservin' kittle from
some o' the neighbors ? "
" I borrow a preserving kettle ! Why, Auntie, your
wits are wool-gathering ; I've a splendid new one of
my own. Why should I borrow ?"
" Ef you will len' your things, chile, right an' lef
you may come to borrowin' yet. Miss Malvina, she
done took off de preservin' kettle yesterday.'
" Why, I never said she could have it ! "
" She send up while you and Mas'r John out riding ;
say she mus' hab it right off. I say I cannot len' it
without your consent, on no 'suasion whatsoeber."
"That settled it, of course ? "
" Miss Katherine, she come herse'f and say you hab
tole her she could hab it ; so circumstances alterin'
cases, I sent Henry down with it.'*
" Diana, send Henry at once, and say that I am
waiting to use it, and beg they will return it directly."
I sat down and fanned myself. I fanned and
fanned and fanned and concealed my feelings, which
were not serene nor satisfied.
After an interval Henry came bringing with him a
kettle. Shades of my ancestors ! was that my pre-
serving kettle ? Dear to the housekeeping soul is its
humblest pot and pan ; especially sacred is its porce-
lain-lined, immaculate, and thrice-prized and guarded
kettle, in which summer fruits are crystallized into
molds of beauty and things of joy for the winter and
the early spring, the days when there shall be nothing
to make pies of. I was careless about many things :
I lost my best gloves and forgot my umbrella in a
B Y MA K GA RE T E. SANGS TEK. 3 79
store down town ; I put away things ST carefully that
I CDuld not find them, but I did look well on the ways
of my kitchen furniture.
This keule was ruined. It was burned brown three
quarters up the sides. I stood in silent despair. At
List I spoke.
" If you, Diana, can do the plums in that thing you
may. I shall never use it again."
1 shut myself up in that refuge of the weary, my own
chamber. I thought of the misery it was to have a
borrowing neighbor. Our colTee, I may mention was
by this time made daily with an eye to Mrs. Vernon's
needs, and her cup and saucer was now changed for a
small pitcher, which, morning by morning was replen-
ished from my urn. I felt tempted, as that practical
man, Cousin John, suggested occasionally, to make it
half water, but when it came to the point it was not
possible for me to commit such a meanness. Noblesse
oblige again.
A bath, a clean wrapper, cologne, and a new novel,
with the leaves uncut I have another womanly weak-
ness, and like to cut my own leaves restored my
amiability. It was helped too by whiffs of sweetness
that came from the kitchen where Aunt Di, important
and quite equal to the occasion, was doing up my
plums. A cheery voice and a brisk step in the hall
below, and presently my name called, made me aware
that my neighbor was below. Had she come to apolo-
gize ? I was prepared to receive her apologies gra-
ciously, and descended.
How little I knew my friend ! Lightly upon her
conscience, if she were aware of it at all, sat my pre-
serving kettle. Ten of them would not have pressed
a feather's weight on that mercurial mind.
' My love," she said, " how well you look to-day.
You positively don't look a day over sixteen. And
how magnificent you were the other day in that lace
shawl. Katherine would be queenly in it, but since
the Bank broke, my poor girls can't dress as I'd
like to have them. By the bye, they are asked to Miss
Cornelia Pegram's wedding to-day. Our family is
equal to the Pegrams if we are poor, and I'd like hei
to look as well as anybody. She said I must not, in
fact she nearly cried about it, but I told her you would
380 MY BORROWING NEIGHBOR.
be candid and say " no " if you did not want to say
" yes," and it would be no harm to ask you. Now do
say " no " if you'd rather. But if you'd let Kitty wear
your lace shawl, it would drape over her pearl colored
silk in a manner perfectly statuesque."
I am not, I grieve to say, a strong-minded woman.
I dislike to appear disobliging ; I'd rather suffer mar-
tyrdom than say " no " when I'm expected to say
" yes," when only my own convenience is concerned.
So, inly provoked and outwardly calm, as is the Machi-
avellian manner of my sex, I said "yes," and brought
the shawl.
" How sweet you are ! " said Mrs. Vernon, giving
me a patronizing kiss, which I wiped off the moment
her back was turned.
Miss Katherine wore my shawl to the reception, and
she wore it to church, and she wore it everywhere I
am not romancing, reader mine for three immortal
weeks. Then I sent for it, and it came home. It was
not particularly the worse for wear, though I did find a
microscopic tear that had been carefully darned, and
though it had acquired a smell of patchouli and musk
that no amount of airing ever quite took from it till the
day it parted from me forever. When I found it miss-
ing the thought of the musk went a little way toward
consoling me.
My borrowing neighbors borrowed everything, and
never returned an item, from the least to the greatest,
unless they were asked to. They borrowed my prayer-
book and my hymn-book, my last new novel and my
freshest magazine, my aprons for patterns and my bon-
nets for models: They borrowed my cups and sau-
cers, my silver spoons these they did return, however
and my dinner plates and knives and forks. They
borrowed not the raw material only as sugar and tea
and butter and soap, they systematically made de-
mands upon my dinner and supper and breakfast
table, upon my cake-box and my supply of bread, until
I ceased to be wonder-stricken, and yielded an apa-
thetic assent to all they desired. Last of all they bor-
rowed my Cousin John.
John was in love with Lillie. It was too absurd, I
told myself over and over, that John Winthrop, who
had any number of sensible girls to select from, and
B Y MARGARET E. SANGSTER. 38 1
giris near his own age, too, though what man of forty
ever seeks a wife of his own age ? should wear his
heart upon his sleeve for a little trifler like Lillie
Vernon. Her golden hair, her flitting blush, her violet
eyes, and her fairy-like ways had woven a net about
the grave, scholarly man, from which he could not free
himself. He, the most methodical of gentleman, was
often late for meals ; he took to writing sentimental
poetry, with rhymes like " bloom " and " tomb," "sigh"
and "die," "darling" and "starling;" he bought
beautiful things, and lavished them on Lillie, who
received them with extravagant admiration, and wore
them openly. Cousin John was continually at their
service. Mrs. Vernon and all the girls seemed to
regard him as a brother.
"A household of ladies is so unprotected, so very
dependent," Constantia would say, " and Mr. Winthrop
is so obliging."
As for me, I never knew before how many useful
things John had done before Lillie's star had risen in
our path. There are things in this life that we never
prize till we miss them. I did not precisely want her
for a cousin-in-law, but still I liked her much the best
of the family; and I thought that if she were once
John's wife, she would take on some, at least, of the
dignity that was so becoming to John.
There came a day when John consulted me. He
thought Lillie loved him, fair, timid clove, but he feared
to frighten her by a proposal, and he didn't think it
quite honorable to let things go on as they were. He
had spoken to Mrs. Vernon, but she said, while she
was herself quite willing and would feel honored by
the alliance she could not speak for Lillie. She must
decide for herself.
" But then, dear John," said I, " why are you dis-
tressed ? I'm sure Lillie seems to like you ever so
much, and you know the old rhyme :
' He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch
To win or lose it all.'"
"I'll act upon your advice, Cousin Libbie," said
John.
382 MY BORROWING NEIGHBOR.
John did at least he meant to. He went down
the lane one evening a lovely evening in early
autumn. The shaded lamp in the little parlor cast a
mellow light over the room, over Katherine with her
regal head bent over a book of poems, over Constantia
with her crochet work in her while, shapely hands, over
" airy, fairy Lillian," who had on her white dress as
usual, and a set of turquoise, John's gift, as her only
adornment. By her side sate a young gentleman, a tall
fellow with a mustache and curly brown hair.
" Oh, Mr. Winthrop ! " said Lillie, " how pleased I
am to see you ! This is my friend, Mr. Mortimer
Selkirk, and I want him to know you and you to know
him. I may as well tell you, you've been such a friend
to mamma and all of us, that Mortimer and I have
been engaged for the last three years, and we're going
to be married next week."
We sold our house and moved away. Cousin John
never got "over it, really, however, till some years
after he met Mrs. Selkirk at Niagara. She had grown
dumpy and sallow, and had three children and a maid,
and he overheard her asking her neighbor in the parlor
if she wouldn't be so very kind as to lend her her
polonaise long enough for Mary Jane to cut the
pattern.
The Girls' Sketching Camp.
BY
OLIVE THORNE MILLER.
OLIVE THORNE MILLER.
THE writer known by the name of Olive Thorne
Miller was born in Central New York State more than
fifty years ago, and was baptized Harriet Mann. Her
father was a banker, who looking at life through the
rosiest of spectacles, always saw the fair land of prom-
ise a little beyond him, and perpetually followed the
too enticing vision. So her youth was passed " all
along the roacl " from New York to Missouri, stopping
from three to five years in each place. Western New
York, Ohio, Wisconsin and Illinois were respectively
her home, till by marriage she settled herself in Chi-
cago for her first long residence in any place. About
twelve years ago she removed to Brooklyn, N. Y.,
where she still lives.
Almost from the cradle, Mrs. Miller was a book-
worm. Exceedingly diffident, avoiding as far as she
could all association with others, finding no sympathy
with her peculiar tastes at home (her three brothers
being all younger than herself), she shrank more and
more into herself, and lived more and more in her
books. A shy, awkward, overgrown girl, with a pain-
fully ready blush, is the picture of her not too happy
youth.
To write was always her ambition, though school
compositions she hated and shirked when possible ; but
she was slow of development and never sent anything
to the press till nearly twenty years old, when she
began writing short anonymous letters to the daily
papers, on subjects of passing interest. At the age of
twenty-three she married, added the name of Miller
to her own, and with the notions then in vogue, thrust
entirely aside her literary dreams, and gave herself
utterly to the work shi had assumed, of housekeeper
%yd mother, FQUJ children came to her home, and
389
390 OLIVE THORNE MILLER.
not till the youngest was beyond babyhood did she
touch literary work again.
Toward the latter part of this domestic period, she
began to write an occasional letter to a paper, when
feelings grew too strong for silence. It was then she
assumed the name Olive Thorne, and later when the
pseudonym was somewhat widely known, and the pos-
session of two names became inconvenient, she added
her own married name Miller.
She began for children, and for several years she
never attempted writing for others than her little
friends. Gradually she drifted into sketches of natural
history, having a fresh, vivid way of depicting the per-
sonality of bird or beast, that made it an acquaintance
at once, and proved irresistible to every youngster.
These early sketches published everywhere, were col-
lected in 1873 and made into a book which has to this
day a steady, regular sale, and is the dearest treasure
of hundreds of little people all over our land, " Little
Folk in Feathers and Fur." Later she made a second
collection of her animal sketches which she called
" Queer Pets at Marcy's." Meanwhile she wrote her
first long story " Nimpo's Troubles," which ran as a
serial in Saint Nicholas during its first years. A year
or two after she wrote her fourth and last book for
children, " Little People of Asia."
A few years ago a friend introduced Mrs. Miller to
birds, alive and free, and hardly had she begun to
know them, when she dropped all other work and de-
voted herself to them alone. For seven or eight years
now she has given her days and almost her nights to
this study, and every line of her writing in this direc-
tion is original observation. The work of others she
never -draws upon ; what she tells is always what she
has seen for herself, and the one thing she claims for
herself is the strictest accuracy, both of seeing and of
repeating. Her work in this field, after publication in
the Atlantic and other magazines, has been made into
two volumes, " Bird Ways " and " In Nesting Time,"
THE GIRLS' SKETCHING CAMP.
" A PARTY of girls ! Humph ! "
" They'll quarrel," said brothers.
" They'll be imprudent," said mothers.
" They'll be cheated," said fathers.
" Who ever heard of such a thing ? " said Mrs.
Grundy.
" Besides, they don't know how to take care of them-
selves," began the brothers again.
" And they'll be sure to get into trouble," put in the
mothers.
" And spend no end of money," groaned the fathers.
" And people will talk about them," added Mrs.
Grundy.
Persuasions, arguments, and predictions a4ike failed.
These girls had planned the expedition, and they
carried it out, with some concessions to a doubting and
scoffing world. They did not actually camp out, in the
roughest meaning of the words, and they did consent
to a " Dragon," though it must be confessed she was
of the mildest. Her age and gray hairs fitted her for
the position of figure-head of propriety, and nothing
more was needed.
The party of girls, then Cooper Institute art stu-
dents fourteen in number, with boxes and bags and
bundles for a month's absence, sailed out of New York
Harbor one fine Thursday evening of July, in the good
ship Eleanora, bound for Casco Bay.
" I can hardly believe we are off," said Nun short
for None Such as they leaned over the rail, looking
at the ever-widening gulf which separated them from
the waving and cheering crowd on shore. And truly
it did seem doubtful, even up to the last moment, for
parents and elder sisters, brothers and friends, had
crowded the deck, armed with extra wraps, boxes of
candy, lemons, and time-tables, information about
39'
392 THE GIRLS' SKETCHING CAMP.
trains and life-preservers, and, above all, volumes of
advice.
Nun's remark brought out a hearty response, " Yes,
we're really off now, and nobody can prevent ; " and
fourteen very happy girls settled themselves to enjoy
the lovely evening and the quiet sail up the East River
to the Sound.
Perhaps a jollier party never set out from a driving
American city, and surely a more delightful month can
never come into the lives of the girls than began on
that eventful evening when they started alone for
the home they had engaged in the backwoods of
Maine. Among the multitude of letters they had re-
ceived from boarding-house keepers, summer-resort
people, and others of their kind, one sentence in a let-
ter from Maine had come to them with the resistless-
ness of fate.
" Nature in these remote regions," wrote the daughter
of the Pine-tree State, " has not combed her hair, but
in her tangled tresses she is enchanting beyond de-
scription."
Delicious prospect ! with Mother Nature herself for
a pattern no dress, no parade, no " society require-
ments !" "Ah! there we will go." And there they
did go.
The ship steamed on up the East River, past the
dismal islands whose names are familiar in police
records, past the ghastly wreck of the Seawanhaka, out
into the beautiful Sound. The girls' party divided
naturally into two parts, by ties of old friendship and
a mutual lunch. In one part, eleven staid, well be-
haved damsels, who might safely travel alone from
Maine to Florida, with Nun as their head ; in the other
part the three madcaps of the expedition Clip, full of
mischief to the lips ; Peggy, her bosom-friend, ready
to suggest any prank that did not occur to Clip's fer-
tile brain ; the Dragon's daughter, or D. D. and the
Dragon herself, to keep them in order.
Lunch was dispatched ; the woman who was deter-
mined to be seasick, and had carefully established her-
self in the most favorable spot in the cabin, was
sketched, and the girls set out to explore the resources
of the steamer. Under the awning at the back of the
deck were the arm-chairs and the passengers. Out in
BY OLIVE THORNE MILLER. 393
front, temptingly retired and unoccupied, was the sharp
and narrow bow.
They gathered near the pilot-house, and cast long-
ing looks ahead, but between them and the desired
point was only a plank, with one stretched cord for a
rail. Was that a hint to passengers that the bow was
forbidden ? So much the more did they desire it.
Clip looked into the pilot-house. A pleasant-faced
man stood at the wheel.
" Captain," he said, " we girls are dying to walk the
plank : may we do it ? "
" Certainly," he said, " if you dare, and if you won't
stand in the bow. I must see over your heads."
He was thanked, and in a few minutes shawls, rugs,
and girls were safely established in a c zy heap on the
deck forward, where they watched the go geous sunset,
talked over their plans, wondered over what sort of a
place was " Duncan's," and if the unchanging bill of
fare would be pork and molasses, as had been pre-
dicted. And as the hours rolled on, they saw the stars
come out, named the light-houses as they passed, and
at last recrossed the plank, and went below, where
each girl drilled herself in getting into a life-preserver,
and then being on the water " turned in."
" Now, girls," said Clip, the next morning, tossing
her saucy head with an air of compressed wisdom, and
indicating with a sweep of her hand the smaller party
of four, " we are the four chaperons, and if any of you
want information about the coast, or the trains at Port-
land, or the direction of the wind, or the rate of sailing
or anything you can ask me."
The girls indignantly refused to allow her the honor
she had assumed, but this pleasant little fiction it
pleased Miss Clip to keep up all the way. Whenever
the .Dragon, attracted by shrieks of girlish laughter, or
signs of interest on the part of passengers, hurried
away to her madcaps, Clip would always welcome her
with effusion, put her arm through hers, and say, with
dignity, " The four chaperons must keep together."
What this lively party meant, and where they were
going, was a subject of interest to passengers.
" It's a boarding-school," Clip would say, demurely,
when any one looked curious.
" It's an orphan asylum," Peggy would add.
394 THE GIRLS' SKETCHING CAMP.
" We're maniacs," one of the quiet ones put in, but
she was quickly groaned down.
About noon the steamer stopped at Martha's Vine-
yard, and the party went ashore, where Peggy man-
aged to throw stones " like a boy," and began to crow
over the rest, when they rose in their might and put
her down by declaring with one voice that they
scorned to throw stones like a boy ; they preferred to
do it in the girls' way.
" How improper, Peggy ! " said Clip, severely.
" How dare you throw like a boy, and then brag of it ?
This is a girls' party, and boys are not to be quoted to
us."
" Hadn't we better go back ? " suggested some one,
after awhile.
" The captain said he'd wait an hour for me," said
Clip, sweetly.
"What ! " exclaimed the Dragon.
" He said he'd wait an hour any time for a young
lady," she hastened to add.
Groans, and cries of "Oh ! " from the beach.
" Now, my young lady," said the Dragon, taking her
arm as they walked back, " I shall have to look out for
you. You musn't talk to the captain too much."
" No, 'm," said Clip meekly. " I like the engineer
ever so much better. He's perfectly lovely."
"Clip! Clip!" said the alarmed Dragon, "you
haven't been talking to him ? ''
" Oh no, of course not. How absurd ! He talked
to me."
" And you let him ? " with horror.
" Why, what could I do, 'm ? " said Clip, turning a
pair of surprised brown eyes to her monitor. " You
wouldn't have me put my hands over his mouth ? "
" You could walk away," said the perplexed Dragon.
" But that would be rude," said Clip, blandly ;
" mamma always told me so. And he says he'll get us
a truck for our trunks in Portland," went on that child-
like young person, who knew how the Dragon dreaded
the- appaling pile of baggage which goes to fourteen
damsels for a month's absence, even though limited to
one trunk each.
"Well," said she, somewhat mollified, "but you
BY OLIVE THORNE MILLER. 395
really must be careful, Clip. You know a party like
ours attracts attention."
" Oh, I'm a model of discretion," said Clip. " The
captain said I might sit next to him at the dinner-table,
and he would take care of me."
" Oh ! " groaned the Dragon, " you are incorrigible."
The next morning found the steamer settled in her
dock in Portland, and the question of reaching the
railway station became important. It was a mile dis-
tant, and the girls wished to walk. The engineer, a
genuine New-Englander and a gentleman, offered to
show them the way, and the Dragon said she would
take a hack and some of the hand baggage, while the
trunks went ahead on a truck.
A hack was hired to take one passenger and as
much baggage as she chose. The hackmen seemed a
jolly set of men : every face was on a broad grin as the
satchels and boxes and baskets went in through the
windows on both sides, before, behind, under, and over
the solitary passenger. When she was well buried,
and each girl had but one or two packages, which she
was ashamed to add to the load, the procession moved
off, and the horses started. At the first corner the
driver leaned over to his passenger. " We may as well
hev the rest o' them things," said he, smiling.
" So we may," assented the victim, from under her
mountain. He stopped. She called, " Girls, we want
the rest of the baggage."
Nothing loath, they surrounded the hack as flies a
molasses cup. Every one emptied her hands, and
followed the engineer, who carried himself with the
dignity of a professor at the head of a boarding-school.
*' Here, Jim," shouted the hack-driver, as they drew
up at the station, "help the lady out with her
satchel."
"Jim " came up to the door of the hack. First he
stared, and then grinned, and so did everybody who
saw that curious load. The driver and the porter,
stimulated by sundry small coins, gayly carried in the
things, and piled them on one of the long station
benches, which they completely filled.
A horrified Maine woman sat in the station. " Is
that all with one family?" she whispered, in a stage
" aside," to the woman sweeping out.
396 THE GIRLS 1 SKETCHING CAMP.
" All with one lady," was the annihilating reply, and
the questioner subsided, absolutely struck dumb.
The next moment the girls came in, laughing and
talking, in high spirits. The "Orderly " so called by
way of contraries who had an outside pocket, rattled
the whole fifteen checks in it, and looked for a bag-
gage-man, while the rest inquired about trains and
bought their tickets, and a restaurant-man, whose door
opened into the waiting-room, disappeared in some ob-
scure corner, and in a twinkling hung out a sign, " Ice-
Cream."
When they entered the train, they occupied nearly
every seat on one side of the car. Clip and the D. D.
were in the first, Peggy in the second, and the Dragon
third. This arrangement rather put Clip on the lead,
which she was nothing loath to assume, and the conse-
quence was a succession of pranks, in which she
readily persuaded the whole line to join, always, of
course, excepting the Dragon, who, whenever she
could bring her face to the proper degree of sternness,
tried her best to preserve dignity.
Inspired by the sight of Clip's round eyeglasses,
which gave her the look of an owl with an inquiring
mind, and desiring above everything to pass for a
Boston school, they all put on glasses near-sighted
glasses, gray beach glasses, and one pair, large and
round and very dark-colored, that gave the wearer the
appearance of a new species of insect. Then thrust-
ing their heads out of the windows, they faced the
people hurrying by to the train. First respect, and
then amusement, was seen in every face.
" Here comes a howling swell," whispered Clip,
suddenly, " the last we shall see for a month."
In an instant every head was out, and that young
man fairly quailed before the battery of glasses.
The next joke was suggested by the advent of the
conductor who was a little more imposing than ordi-
nary officials of his degree. A whisper ran down the
line, and every girl on that side, as he solemnly
punched her ticket, asked him earnestly, " What time
do we get to Steep Falls ? "
He answered the first, " We call every station " ;
the second, " In about an hour." At the third he
stared, for the station was exceedingly insignificant,
BY OLIVE THORNE MILLER. 397
and a passenger rarely stopped there. At the fourth
he began to suspect a joke, and relapsed into grim
silence, without the ghost of a smile.
That car-load was curiously divided : on one side a
party who felt they were out of the world, as it were,
and could do as they pleased, and on the other, people
on the way to a camp-meeting at Lake Sebago. A!
first these people were very stern, but they soon
entered into the fun of the thing, and were almost as
jolly as the girls when they left the train at the
lake.
Now that Clip had started the fun, the sober girls
caught the spirit. Clip was taken at her word as a
guide-book, and questions about stations, and time-
tables, and so forth were showered on her, one girl fol-
lowing another, till she rebelled, and told the next one
who came to take her seat like a good little girl, and
she would know in due time.
The Portland and Ogdensburg Railroad runs
through a country of wonderful beauty, and jokes were
forgotten as they whisked past charming woods, dis-
tant mountains, and that most lovely of lakes, Sebago,
with its beautiful shores.
On the platform at the station where they left the
train stood one man, a smiling farmer Mr. Duncan
and drawn up beside it were several indescribable
superannuated vehicles to convey the party to his
house, seven miles back in the country. Now they
could find out about their future home, and as soon as
they were started, Clip began on the driver, a sharp
Maine farmer, who drove his own " team," and, in
the language of the country, " was nobody's fool."
"What sort of a place is Duncan's ? " she began.
" It's a nice tidy farm-house up on the mountain,"
he replied.
" Well," went on Clip, " do you cook your corn on
the cob out here ? "
" I believe they do," said the driver ; " leastways I
gen'rally hev mine so."
" It'll have to be cut off for me," said Clip, " I've
lost all my front teeth."
" Du tell ! " said the driver ; I shouldn't hev thought
it, from your age."
" How old do you take me to be ? "
398 THE GIRLS 1 SKETCHING CAMP.
" Wa'al, fourteen or so, I jedge."
" And you a Yankee ! How do you judge ? "
" By your talk, mostly," said the man quietly.
The load laughed, and thought Clip had the worst
that time. She was not silent long.
" Do you have surf bathing up here ? " came
next.
" Wa'al, no not on the mountains," said the
man.
" Why, all we girls have brought bathing suits,"
cried Clip, " and we expect of course to bathe."
" Wa'al, you might find a spring or so up to Dun-
can's, and there's wells all around," he answered.
' Are there any young gentlemen up here ? " asked
Cl p, after a pause.
' Not one."
' Any girls ? "
' Plenty."
'Why's that, I'd like to know ? "
' Wa'al, as soon as a boy can walk, up here, he
walks away from Maine."
" What a dreadful country it must be ! " said Clip.
" Not that we care," she hastened to add. " We've
left New York to get rid of society and gentlemen's
attentions. We're suffering for a rest." So she went
on all the way.
Meanwhile, the horses were climbing the hills,
which they did on a gallop, by-the-way, and they were
passing through a delightful country woods, glimpses
of mountains and lakes, and everywhere a display of
rich summer colors that almost set them wild. The
farms themselves seemed not more than half redeemed
from wlldness. Everywhere nature encroached upon
art ; ferns fringed the roads, wildwoodsy things stole
into the fence corners, green mosses covered the
rough log watering-trough beside the road ; even the
fences were the fantastic roots of giant trees, bleached
by sun and storm to dazzling whiteness.
At last they stopped before a broad old-fashioned
house, its paint washed off by the storms of many
winters, and " ^Etna " nailed over the door like a
charm.
A motherly-looking gray-haired woman appeared at
the open door. The laughing load seemed to stun her.
BY OLIVE THORNE MILLER. 399
Doubtless her heart sank like lead as the possibilities
of the charge she had assumed came over her. She
said, helplessly, " Is is Miss here ? "
Miss was the sweet-faced Nun, and she was
there.
" We feel acquainted with Miss ," said the
hostess, apologetically, after the party had been intro-
duced, and she found them not quite so wild as she
had feared.
The house was on the side of a mountain, and in
mist or fog the whole grand scene from its front door,
of mountains, woods, and lakes, was blotted out, so
that it gave the effect of being at the end of the world,
the veritable " jumping-off place."
The farm-house was not large, and its resources
were pieced out by a small rough carpenter-shop in
the orchard, which was fitted up as an outlying cottage,
and which gave the party just the touch of camping
out that they desired. It had been made fresh and
sweet inside by an entire ceiling of new pine boards,
odorous as the woods themselves, while the outside,
guiltless of paint, retained the rich tints which years
of sun and storm had given it. It held the usual
quantity of bare bedroom furniture of a farm-house,
and it was intended to accommodate five girls.
The Nun, Clip, Peggy, the Orderly, and D. D. the
madcaps and the mischiefs of the party pounced
upon this delicious retreat at once, and claimed it for
their own, proceeding forthwith to make it into a home.
From the five trunks came as many treasures as from
the magical bag of the house-mother in the Swiss
Family Robinson curtains to partition off the bed-
room, gay table-cover, dainty vases, and colored glass
dishes, and a tiny clock, which gave the room an air
of refinement at once. Before an hour, ground-pine
and clematis decorated the walls, ferns and golden-rod
nodded over the glass, trailing vines and sweet woodsy
things filled the vases. The sun came in at the door,
and good Mr. Duncan brought a piece of old sail-
cloth and put it up with poles and crotched sticks for
an awning.
The whole was charming, and a name was sought.
Many were suggested, and at last the happy thought
came.
40O THE GIRLS' SKETCHING CAMP.
" It's the Larks' Nest," said Clip, suddenly, " and
I'll do my best to make it deserve its name."
She was as good as her word, the Larks' Nest it
was; and sundry sounds of girlish revelry that some-
times reached the house christened by the steady
ones in it the Bee-Hive after the " bees " were in
bed, proved that " larks " were really there.
The first dash into country wildness and freedom
came before they had been at Duncan's an hour,
in the shape of a laughing invitation from the far-
mer to take a ride upon a load of hay which was
about to start for a barn half a mile away. Nothing
was farther from his thoughts than that the city young
ladies would accept the offer, and his face was a study
of amazement as the girls, with a rapturous " Oh, may
we ? " rushed for the wagon, gayly mounted - the wheels,
and to the top of the low load in a minute, while the
oxen started off for the trip. At the end of the ride
they divided into two parties to examine their sur-
roundings. One squad explored the mountain on the
side of which the farm-house stood, and from the top
looked upon* a scene too grand and too wide for their
brushes; while the other went through the orchard to
a set of bars where they could step at once from the
farm into a bit of genuine wilderness, noble old woods
on which the hands of man had left no trace.
To fourteen wandering damsels the arrival of the
mail was the important event of the day. The post-
office was a mile away through the woods, but never
was a day so stormy or so warm that there were not
volunteers to take the tramp, while on pleasant
days the whole party would go. Mail began to pour
into that quiet office in a way to astonish the sleepy
postmistress. Letters, sometimes thirty at once, with
papers, magazines, and packages of all sorts, from
boxes of rose-buds, and candy, to extra clothing and
artists' materials.
Life had quickly settled into regularity. Every
morning sketch-books and easels, paint-boxes and
palettes, came out ; the girls broke up into groups of
two or three, and started out in various ways to work.
Not a picturesque spot but had sketchers encamped
about it : a dilapidated set of bars, the scorn of cows
but the delight of an artist , a pile of rocks in an
BY OLIVE THORNE MILLER.
401
orchard, the thorn in the flesh to a farmer, who stared
open-eyed to find it attractive to somebody ; a path
through the woods ; or a luxuriant group of tall ferns.
The neighborhood was an unworked mine of wealth.
One could not turn in any direction without seeing a
charming spot that she longed to carry away with her,
and the only regret of the enthusiastic students was
that each one had not two pairs of hands to work with.
Dinner brought them all home, and then came
criticism, comparison, and much pleasant talk over
canvas and paper, ending in the Larks' Nest in
nailing the studies to the wall, and making ready for
the next day's work.
Before long some of the daily needs of girlish
humanity became pressing, and a party was made up
to visit the "store " of the neighborhood a barn-like
place, with drugs and dress goods, hardware and gro-
ceries, all in one room.
" Have you straw hats ? " asked the first girl.
The clerk was sorry, but they were out of hats.
" What ! no hats? " in a chorus from the party who
had been . seized with an ambition for broad-rim
hats. -
" I should like some shoe-buttons," began the
second.
These, alas, they never kept.
" What ! no shoe-buttons ? " in one breath again.
" Please show me some ribbons," spoke up the
third.
The clerk regretted to say that ribbons were not in
the stock.
" What ! no ribbons ? " cried the chorus in dismay.
" Writing-paper, if you please, cried the fourth,
sure that she at least could supply her wants.
The clerk was embarrassed. He began to have a
horror of the chorus, and hesitated whether he had
better slip out of a back door and let his inquisitors
find out for themselves his stock, or whether he had
better laugh. He decided on the latter just in time,
for Peggy began :
" I want some rye flour for sunburn."
The man shook his head.
" What ! no rye flour ? "
Clip had been looking about, and seeing potatoes, a
26
4O2 THE GIRLS' SKETCHING CAMP.
thought struck her. " I say, girls," she began, in
eager whispers, " now we're out here in the woods,
and no callers, we might cat onions /"
" Onions ! onions ! " whispered one and another.
" Delightful ! so we will ! "
" I love onions," cried Clip ; and turning to the
amused shopkeeper, added, " Please send us up a
bushel."
The man laughed, but again he shook his head.
" What ! no onions ? Oh ! " and thoroughly dis-
gusted with the country store, the party went out in
search of another. After that, whenever in their
rambles, which extended for many miles around, they
came near to a store they invariably went in and asked
for thohe articles, expressing their surprise in cho-
rus as at first, and always ending with the demand for
onions, which, by-the-way, they were never able to get
in that Jand of farms and gardens, though Mrs. Dun-
can offered to send to Portland for them.
One night the Larks had a fright. To begin with,
Peggy, Clip, and D.D. had not only the ordinary home
correspondence to attend to, but each of them wore a
significant ring, and each had many letters to write to
what Clip called " the beloved object." One night,
therefore, they sat around the table engaged in this
occupation. Nun and Orderly were in bed, and, in a
sleepy way, exchanged opinions on the subject.
" I'll never be engaged," began the Nun.
"Nor I," responded the Orderly; "it's too much
bother."
The " engaged " Larks made some saucy speeches
back, and at a late hour, having finished their letters,
started for bed, when they made the unpleasant dis-
covery that the water jugs were empty, and there was
never time to fill them in the morning. Now the
water in that beautiful spot, with thirteen lakes and
ponds in sight, had to be brought in a barrel, and was
then placed in the wood-shed, which, according to
Maine fashion, formed a connecting link between the
house and barn.
The three girls started out in the dark, the way be-
ing straight and familiar, but before they reached the
gate, they were startled by a rustle in the bushes, on
one side, and a sort of choked breathing. As three
BY OLIVE THOKNE MILLER. 403
souls with but a single thought, they turned and fled to
the Nest not to give it up, but to prepare for war.
They girded on their armor. D. D. took her pistol a
savage sUver-lrimraed weapon, the scorn of brothers ;
Clip armed herself with the big dinner horn, which
Mrs. Duncan had provided in case of illness or alarm
in the Larks' Nest ; and Peggy, like a sensible soul,
took the lamp. They sallied out, and a queer pro-
cession they made, with long, straggling shadows
thrown by the lamp, enough to frighten any ordinary
ghost out of his wits. This was probably the case, for
they saw nothing, and having filled their pitchers,
went back to bed.
But sleep was not to be won yet. They were seized
with a fit of punning worse than usual, which was say-
ing much for it. For an hour these five Larks wasted
their breath in this way, and then gradually became
quiet. Not for long, however. Soon the sweet strains
of music breathed through a comb arose in the Nest.
Everybody roused up. There sat Peggy on the side of
the bed treating her sisters to an air from Fatinitza.
As one girl they descended upon her, and despoiled
her of her instrument.
She was not discouraged. Peggy rarely was. She
raised her voice in the classic strains of " Wrass'lin
Jacob," and then " Swing low, sweet chariot," with the
genuine negro twang. Inquiring into this entertain-
ment, the Larks discovered that she had an aching
tooth, and that was her peculiar way of insisting on
sympathy. They ransacked their stores, and at last
quieted her nerves with a dose of siccatif, and once
more settled themselves to sleep.
The days were passed mostly in work, making
sketches in the beautiful country about them, but the
evenings were given to play and entertainments of
various sorts. One that made a merry evening was a
fancy-dress party, where being without fear of Mrs.
Grundy or "gentlemen spectators," and with resources
limited to the contents of their trunks, the costumes
were capital. The Marquis de Lafayette in blue
trousers (of a bathing suit), elegant light drab cut-
away coat, with the long tails now worn on ladies'
basques, lined with scarlet satin, laces and stock of the
most formidable dimensions ; a " swell " of the " swell-
404 THE GIRLS' SKETCHING CAMP.
est" description, similarly gotten up; an African
"mammy" as nurse, with immense silver spectacles,
and face well painted, carrying a delicate baby in long
white dress (the smallest and lightest of the party) ; a
Highlander with kilt of a plaid shawl ; a fish girl cry-
ing her wares, which were sticks of candy on a
stretcher.
Another was a literary and musical entertainment
given by the "Bees" to the Larks, where the Peake
Sisters in immense steeple hats and Quaker dress sang
hymns and offered refreshments from bandboxes and
pillow-case bags, and where was read with great ap-
plause an original " pome " of the acrostic order, of
which a specimen verse or two will serve to show the
literary merit.
" J is for jolly ; the word will explain
Our usual condition since we've been in Maine.
Forgotten all rules of formal propriety,
We revel in nonsense of every variety.
" L for the Larks, fine, amiable birds ;
They remind you of geese, but they're wise as owls,
They live in a state of remarkable unity,
And I promise you they are a lively community.
Every entertainment, of whatever nature, was sure
to end with the " Hindoo Dance," a great favorite, and
an indescribably funny thing, for which, after one or
two trials, Mr. Duncan kindly prepared by putting
props under the parlor floor.
One cloud from the outside world, the domain
of the proprieties, still hung over their horizon.
It was a party of " Boston school-ma'ams," who were
spending their summer at a neighboring farm-house.
These young women never rode in carts, nor blew
horns, nor roused the country generally. They con-
ducted themselves in the most proper manner, and
were supposed to be models of culture. At every un-
conventional deed a ride on a hay wagon, a wade
after water-lilies, a foot-race through the woods the
first thought was " What do you suppose the B. S. M.'s
would say to that ? "
Through much talking these innocent persons grew
to be quite a bugaboo, the one crumpled rose leaf
BY OLIVE THORNE MILLER. 405
-.\hich took from the perfection of their present life.
At last even this faint cloud was to be removed. One
evening Jie d.eaded B. S. M.'s came in solemn array,
in best " Sunday-go-to-meeting " clothes, to call on the
New York students. Great was the fall from the ideal
pedestals on which they had been placed by the magic
of a name. They proved well, to be quite harmless ;
and henceforth the girls troubled themselves no more,
but sang and shouted, and enjoyed themselves as
seemed to them good.
The last week of this delightful month dawned, and
the girls, realizing that their fun was nearly over,
roused themselves in earnest to the duty of getting as
much as possible into that short six days. One day
most of the party went off on a picnic in a hay-cart,
though poor D. D. staid in bed with the toothache'which
puffed her face to twice its usual size. She did not
hesitate to sacrifice her comfort to her art, however,
for when bolstered up, holding a big bowl of ginger tea,
which kind Mrs. Duncan had brewed and sent out to
her, and which, much against her inclination, she felt
obliged to drink, she turned to the waiting messenger,
saying, plaintively, *' Must I take it all ? ' r a picture of
herself suddenly rose in her mind, and she turned to
Peggy, the rapid sketchier, with " Peggy, wouldn't this
make a good pose ? "
" Capital ! " cried Peggy; "don't stir." And in two
minutes she was down in black and white "The
Swell D. D.," as the girls called her.
And now, to crown their precious last days, arrived
the Master, to overlook their work, and accompany
them home. This gentleman a well-known New
York artist has the fortune or misfortune (whichever
it may be thought), to look extremely young ; so be-
fore he arrived he was dubbed the "Old Master," and
by that name he shall be known in this " ower-true tale."
He was charmed with the scenery, the air, and, above
all, the Lark's Nest, which he declared he should like
to transport to New York just as it was.
Now every day had its expedition, of which the best
was a sail the length of Lake Sebago, and up what the
local guide-book called " the sweetly sinuous Songo."
Sweetly sinuous they found it, and shallow as well.
While they were assiduously cultivating the sentiments
406 THE GIRLS' SKETCHING CAMP.
proper to the occasion, Clip forgetting to joke, and
Peggy to pun, the Old Master reading aloud Longfel-
low's poem of the Songo River, and the captain point-
ing out the attractions Peaked Mountain, Rattle-
snake Mountain, One-tree Island, a cave much fre-
quented by Hawthorne in his strange, solitary boy-
hood suddenly they found themselves aground. It
was not to be wondered at, for the channel was but
two feet six inches deep, while the steamer drew two
feet two inches of water.
While they were looking about for help, and two
men with long poles were trying to push them off, a
man appeared driving out from the shore to their
assistance a pair of horses !
The Old Master, falling from the heights of poetry to
this ridiculous accident, was equal to the occasion.
Assuming the gruff, authoritative tones of a stage cap-
tain, he ordered, "Throw a line over one of those
piles, and haul her up into the wind's eye."
The captain looked around, smiled as at child's
play, and said, quietly, " She'll get along fust-rate with
just shovin'." Then turning to the man in the water, he
added, "Just shove her off at the stern, will you, Jim ? "
Jim shoved, and the passengers looked over the rail
at the absurd sight of two men pushing a big steamer
off the bar. But it was done, and they went on, wind j
ing in and out, and meeting and overtaking hundreds
of turtles on the same journey, of which Clip, who was
making a map of the river, kept a record. One of
them, of somewhat large size, swam in front of the
steamer, and with the late disaster fresh in their
minds, they pushed him away with a pole, lest they
should get aground on him. They went on through a
lock, when they left the steamer, and went up a flight
of stairs to another and sinalkr one; through Naples
Bay ; past a veritable Rudder Grange where they
looked almost hopefully for Pomona and the Boarder ;
in sight of the home of Artemus Ward ; to the village
where a wagon was to meet them for the ride home.
Here the Old Master who, though he lived in the
" Hive," proved to be as larky as the Larks themselves
provided the party with tin horns, and they started on
their long moonlight drive. Of that ride home, the
BY OLIVE THORN E MILLER. 407
serenades to the villagers, the comb arias, the horn
solos, the opera and oratorio airs, the college and
Moody and Sankey songs the fun generally any de-
scription would be weak.
The next night the Larks distinguished themselves
by a serenade to the Old Master. With combs and
horns and voices they softly rendered under his win-
dow airs which they thought suitable to the situation :
"I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls," (appropriate
by contrast), and still more significant,, " Douglas,
Douglas, tender and true," winding up with " Fare-
well, my own."
The listener, behind his screen of vines, appreciated
and enjoyed, and repaid them with soft applause,
which disturbed no one, and the Bees slept calmly in
their cells through the whole.
The day before the last one had been set apart from
the beginning for a grand exhibition in the Larks'
Nest to the country people who had shown such a
kindly interest in the party. Everything else had been
done ; picnics, water-lily gathering, rowing, wading,
blueb'n (in the language of the natives), frogging, barn
frolicking, and so forth. The wind up was to be a
fitting conclusion to a perfect month.
Early in the morning the Larks began preparations.
The beams of the nest were decorated with wheat,
oats, ground-pine, and red berries ; the curtains before
the beds, as the place of honor, were given to four
large photographs of the O. M.'s successful paintings
in late exhibitions ; and the rest of the walls were com-
pletely covered from floor to roof with the work of the
girls, for notwithstanding all their fun, work had gone
steadily on from day to day. Sketches iw oil and
water-color, distemper, charcoal, sepia, pencil, and pen
and ink, set off with snowy thistle puffs, ferns, colored
leaves, birds' nests in twigs and branches, long sprays
of clematis, and running evergreen. One of the
most effective things was a curtain of unbleached mus-
lin on which was a group the heads of the five Larks
as silhouettes, of which Clip said that when the
Larks got their heads together, something was sure to
come of it.
Clip, who wore at her girdle an imposing note-book
and pencil, and was called the "Historian," was
408 THE GIRLS' SKETCHING CAMP.
appointed to receive the guests. When their arrival
was announced, she went up to the house, where she
found a dozen or more sheepish-looking men and
boys around the door, talking to Mr. Duncan about
pigs and stock, and the crops. In the parlor she
found perhaps twenty women sitting around the wall
in Sunday clothes, not knowing exactly what to do
with themselves. She invited them out, and took the
head of the procession.
The nest was, clear of furniture, about fifteen feet
square, and it had fifty or sixty guests a regular
crush. Their comments were amusing. " My gorry '"'
(the Maine oath), "can't they paint!" was the first
criticism of an honest old farmer, inspired probably
by quantity rather than quality.
" Wa'al, wa'al, this is really quite a show ! " said
another.
" That's a sunset glow ain't it nice ! " said an old
lady, poking her parasol into a ten-minute sketch of a
gorgeous sunset.
"That's awful pretty!" and, "When that's finished
it'll look nice," were common criticisms.
One old lady was not in the least awed. " My Ed
has done them things by yards and yards," she said
to a companion, who only opened her lips to say,
" Yes, yes, yes."
lt Seems to me that looks sort o' nateral, but I can't
quite make it out," said one of a sketch very hasty and
quite in the " impressionist " style.
One old mother was more interested in the exhibi-
tors. She turned to the O. M. " Air you really
teacher o' them girls, and how old be you ? "
" You call that a dog ? " scoffingly said a boy who
had been brought in to admire the portrait of the
family dog ; " I wouldn't 'a known what it was : it
looks like a pig."
The exhibition was over; the guests went home;
the girls felt that the show was ended, the curtain
about to drop. In silence each camper took down
her sketches, dragged her trunk out, and began to
pack.
At noon the next day the party stood on the plat'
form of the station at Steep Falls, ready for the
BY OLIVE THORNE MILLER. 409
train. Suddenly the O. M. appeared on the scene, his
face beaming with fun and mischief. He had discov-
ered in a corner of the waiting-room a bass drum almost
as big as he was, and he shouldered it. He stepped
on to the platform ; he called for recruits.
' Let's go out with dclat. Let's give a final and
fitting end to this grandest of trips. Let's drop the
curtain with applause."
There was no lack of congenial spirits ; from shawl-
strap and bundle came the horns, and each one fell
into line behind the leader, and once and again
around that station they gayly marched, drum beating
and horns blowing.
But the whistle sounds; the train draws up; the
party embark, and all too rapidly are whirled back to
the everyday world, where Mrs. Grundy holds sway,
and girls must behave themselves, while
" Around Sebago's lonely lake
There lingers not a breeze to break
The mirror which its waters make."
One thing this girl camping party has proved,
namely, that a party of young women can manage and
carry through to success a delightful expedition, with
benefit to health and not utter depletion of purse.
Yea, verily, and yet another : that the presence of
so many unattended gentlewomen turns every Ameri-
can man into a gentleman and a brother, ready to be
of service in any way, and so long as they behave
themselves, even though they indulge in girlish fun,
they have not to dread the slightest rudeness of word
or look in the rural districts of New England.
A CRISIS.
BY
LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEYc
L L ..:... .^.....,^
ELIZABETH W. CHAMPNEY.
MRS. CHAMPNEY, whose proper name is Elizabeth, is
the daughter of Judge S. B. Williams, and was born at
Springfield, O., Febuary6, 1850. She was educated at
"Vassar," graduating from that institution in 1869,
and it was her esteem and attachment to this, her alma
mater, which induced her to give that popular and
suggestive name to that interesting series of books
beginning with "Three Vassar Girls Abroad," and
which consists of seven good sized volumes. One
would hardly realize that the easy reading books which
she has given in such quick succession to the public,
were the result of the most painstaking research, was
it not known that such is the fact.
Mrs. Champney has resided much abroad, and has
never pretended to describe places or communities
without having first conscientiously visited and investi-
gated them, and searched out all the historical facts
which could throw any light upon the era, or people
represented. As aids to her literary work she has
visited England, France, Spain, Portugal, Morocco,
and other well-known and less known portions of
Europe. Her observations and experiences, thus
vitalized by actual contact with strange nationalities,
found in many cases their first expression in Harper's
Magazine, and also in the Century, for which
periodicals she has furnished eighty or more articles
including a very interesting series on Portugal and
those attractive papers entitled "A Neglected Corner
of Europe," and " In the Footsteps of Futuney and
Regnault." Since her return to the United States Mrs.
Champney has written in all, fifteen books ; novels,
stories for juveniles, and really historical works under
cover of stories, mostly adapted to young people. The
novels are, " Bourbon Lilies," and " Romany and Rue."
Of the juveniles, " All Around a Palette," and " Howling
417
41 8 ELIZABETH W. CHAMPNEY.
Wolf and His Trick Pony" appear to be the m
popular. The historical series include such fascinati
stories as " Great Grandmother Girls in New Franc
and in Mexico; and in these semi-historical stori
Mrs. Champney carefully avoids all such embellis^
ments and fancies as would mislead her young reade.
into historical misconceptions : she knows how tc
make them bright and pleasant without drawing on he
inner consciousness, where facts are concerned. Sh<
can be humorous too when she pleases witness that
laughter provoking little poem published in St.
Nicholas, for 1876, " How Persimmon Took Cah ob
de Baby." Beside her magazine stories for children
she has written fourteen juvenile books.
Our " Lizzy Champney," as Elizabeth Wheeler, was
married to Mr. J. Wells Champney, the well-known
artist, on May 15, 1873, a union peculiarly felicitious in
both a domestic and artistic sense, since Mr. Champney
has been the illustrator to a great extent of his wife's
books ; ever appreciative and able to seize, as a
stranger could scarcely so well do, the very spirit of
scenes described and in many of which he had partici-
pated. Both possess artistic natures, but working in
different fields they mutually aid and inspirit each
other. They have one son, Edouard Frere, who is also
ready and able to give his mother " points " as to what
will take with the boys.
Mr. and Mrs. Champney's summer home is in
Deerfield, Mass. It was in this town that the Indian
massacre took place which suggested to her the narra-
tive story relating to " New France." Their winter
residence is in New York.
A CRISIS.
MR. JONATHAN T. WARD, or, as his card more
modernly expressed it, "J. Templeton Ward, Jun.,"
looked like a man supremely satisfied with his fortune
and himself.
He had just received a particularly gratifying letter
from a sister in New York, calling him to the city on a
flattering errand, and as he entered the cars this pleas-
ant October morning the universe seemed irradiated
with his own private sense of happiness. The only
drawback to his perfect enjoyment was the fact that on
this train there was no parlor-car. It was vexatious to
be obliged to breathe the same atmosphere with the
common herd, and to submit his scented personality to
the contamination of proximity to peanut-eating rus-
tics, travel-worn cinereous pilgrims, not overmannerly
children, and the inevitable baby. "He adapted himself
to circumstances, however, with the ready savoir-faire
of an experienced man of the world, turning a seat, and
elongating his finely proportioned form after the man-
ner of the heraldic " bend" an honorable ordinary
which crosses an escutcheon in a diagonal direction
taking up as much space as possible. He dropped his
hand-bag, cane, and light overcoat carelessly in the va-
cant corners, and thus comfortably extended, even the
public car seemed bearable, and he found himself able
to contemplate his plebeian and more crowded neigh-
bors with urbane condescension.
After a few moments his ringers instinctively sought
an inner pocket, and he re-read the letter which had so
contributed to his self-gratulation. It was from his
favorite sister Rose, who had married Henry Molineux,
a wealthy broker, and whose happy married life had
caused no diminution in her home affection. The
Molineux were in their way very grand people, grander
than the Wards, for they counted larger store of
419
420 A CXfSIS.
shekels and lands and antique heirlooms, and Rose
alliance had been fully approved by her brother. 1
Rose herself was a bit of a match-maker, and had lqng^
cherished a dream of a double connection between tjhe
two families by the marriage of her brother with h^r
husband's sister, Miss Winifred Molineux. Unforfc-
unately for her plans, shortly after her own wedding;
her husband's family had sailed for Europe, remaining
abroad four years, and the objects of her romantic 3
schemes had never met. Very deftly, however, Mrs. '
Rose Molineux had managed her cards, keeping up
Miss Winifred's interest in the unknown paragon by
means of shrewd allusions and items of interest, but
never waxing sufficiently enthusiastic to alarm the shy
girl with apprehensions of a matrimonial pitfall
arranged for her unsuspecting feet. With her brother
Mrs. Molineux's manoeuvres had been less strategic
and delicate. The matter had been frankly discussed
between them, and Mr. J. Templeton Ward acknowl-
edged himself prepared to become Miss Winifred's
willing slave at first sight. Indeed, he nearly per-
suaded himself that he was already in love with her,
and he brooded over his sister's letter with all the
benign serenity of an accepted lover.
" DEAR TEMPLETON " (wrote Mrs. Molineux),
" Henry's father and mother have at length returned
from Europe, and have agreed to let me have Winifred
for the winter. I want you to drop everything else,
and devote yourself to us, to escort Winifred to all the
exhibitions, symphony rehearsals, receptions, etc. , of
the season. She is looking remarkably well, and what
is better, has returned entirely heart free. I was afraid
some French marquis would be attracted by her dot,
and snatch her up. I know that you are very sensitive
on such matters, and will not thank me for telling you,
but by the death of her Uncle Robert in Pernambuco
she has come into possession of thirty thousand
dollars, which, in addition to her expectations from
Papa Molineux, makes her a very pretty heiress. Do
not let anything delay your coming. As What's-his-
name says, ' A crisis comes once in the life of every
man.' "
There is a trite old saying in regard to cup and lip
which I forbear quoting, remarking only that it is a
BY LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY. 421
Mistake to confide delicate porcelain to baby fingers.
Mr. Ward's cup would probably never have slipped
had it not been for a baby, of whose influence upon his
fate he was as yet blissfully unconscious. It was a
sorry day for him when the three weird sisters con-
verted Mr. Templeton Ward's cup of happiness which
had hitherto been as carefully guarded as though it
had been a veritable bit of blossomed Dresden or a
fragile specimen of Sevres in Pompadour rose into a
plaything for a ruthless and irresponsible baby.
Mr. Ward had drifted into a day-dream, when he
was recalled suddenly to the actualities of the present
by a sweet voice at his elbow inquiring diffidently, " Is
this seat engaged ?"
Turning sharply, he saw a dignified but youthful
lady, with a face like that of one of Raphael's Madon-
nas. His impressible heart paid her homage at once,
and he was about to spring to his feet with spontaneous
politeness, when the pleasurable emotion was checked
by one of dismay. She held in her arms a baby well
dressed, neat, chubby, bright, and, to a parental eye,
a cherub of a child ; to Mr. J. Templeton Ward, his
pet aversion and peculiar horror.
He looked at the child with an expression of intense
disapprobation. " I think you will be more comfort-
able at the other end of the car," he remarked, slowly
raising his eyeglasses and surveying the perspective of
crowded seats.
" I will try another car," replied the lady, with quiet
dignity.
Mr. Templeton Ward's good-breeding asserted itself.
" Indeed, madam, I had not observed that there were
no vacant seats. Pray do not imagine me so egre-
giously selfish ;" and the little lady was quickly seated
as his vis-d-vts. For some time the baby conducted it-
self in an exemplary manner, drumming on the win-
dow-pane, and watching the rapidly whirling landscape,
and Mr. Templeton Ward had time to observe that the
lady was dressed in that alleviated mourning which
allows certain concessions to fashion and becomingness
in the toleration of white at throat and wrists, and
solitaire pearls in either ear.
"Widowhood," he mused to himself "widowhood
which has passed the first poignancy of grief, and had
422 A CKISIS.
entered the lonely stage which finds a solitary life al-
most unendurable." He noticed with keen, observant
eye the curling sweep of the long jet lashes which
shaded the delicately rounded ivory cheek, and widow-
hood struck him as the most pathetic and attractive
aspect under which he had ever considered woman.
He determined for one hour at least to make her forget
her unprotected condition.
He endeavored first to propititate the maternal
affections.
" You have a fine little boy, madam."
The lady smiled. " She is a very good baby."
Mr. Ward was momentarily confused, " Your little
daughter resembles you strikingly," he remarked.
Again the rarely sweet smile flickered across the
lady's lips.
" You could not compliment me in a more gratifying
manner," she replied.
He turned to the baby, and endeavored to interest it
in an exhibition of his watch and seals.
" What is her name ? " he asked, hoping that the
reply might involve that of the mother.
" We call her Dimple. Don't you think a baby the
most delicious thing in the whole world ? "
"Well, no, it had never occurred to me in that light
before ; but you know I have not had the advantage of
an acquaintance with Miss Dimple."
"You could not help liking her. She never cries;
she is absolutely angelic."
Mr. Ward was on the point of remarking, "I said
she resembled you," but he checked himself ; they
were not sufficiently intimate yet for flattery.
The conversation became impersonal, and drifted
through a wide range of subjects, Mr. Templeton Ward
becoming more and more interested in his travelling
companion, and quite ignoring the presence of the
baby. This young person at last became fidgety and
even cross.
" The precious infant ! " exclaimed the lady.
" How forgetful I am 1 She should have been fed
twenty minutes ago."
A basket was produced, and a little rummaging brought
to light a nursing bottle. " Dear ! (tear ! " murmured
BY LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY. 423
the baby's guardian : " here is the bottle, but where is
the milk ? How stupid in Maggie to forget it ! "
The baby at the sight of the bottle at first chirruped
with gleeful excitement, then became frantically impa-
tient, and finally burst into a roar of anger as the train
paused at an out-of-the-way country station.
"I see farm houses, and cows grazing in the past-
ures," suggested Mr. Ward ; " perhaps I can obtain
some milk for you."
" Oh, no, no ; pray do not trouble yourself," replied
the lady ; "if you will kindly watch baby, lean get
it.'' And before he had time to insist, she was out of
the car and running toward one of the farm-houses.
Mr. Ward explained the situation to the conductor, who
agreed to wait two minutes beyond the usual time for
her return. Two minutes, three minutes, four minutes
passed, and still she came not.
The engineer sounded the whistle, the conductor
shouted : " All aboard ! I can't wait any longer.
She's had plenty of time. I must reach the next sta-
tion before the up-irain," he explained, and the train
moved on. Mr. J. Templeton Ward gazed in a stupe-
fied manner from the window; the baby howled.
" Come, this will never do," he said, as he endeavored
simultaneously to realize the situation and to quiet the
distracting baby, his thoughts and words keeping up a
running fugue somewhat in this manner :
Thought : " What can have detained her ? "
Aloud : " Precious little Dimple, so "
Thought : "Where did she disappear to, anyway?"
Aloud : " it was. She shall have the pretty watch."
Thought : " Great Caesar ! Can it be "
Aloud : "Angelic little cherub ! "
Thought : " a case of desertion ? "
Aloud : " Never cries no, never."
Thought : " Of course not. She was a perfect lady,
impossible."
Aloud : "Shut up this minute, or I'll "
Thought : "What shall I do with the consumed "
Aloud : " speak to you like a father."
Thought : " ihing when I get to the city ? "
Aloud (to old lady who offers a peppermint]: "Thank
you, ma'am." (To baby): " There, choke your blessed
throat 1 "
424 A CRISIS.
Thought : " What a figure I'll cut at the depot ! "
Aloud (Attempting to sing): " Oh, where shall rest
be found ? " " Byelo, byelo " (shaking child violently) ;
" go to sleepy."
Thought : " Suppose Rose should be at the station
with Winifred to meet me ! "
Aloud : " Darling popsy wopsy chickabiddy chum !
See how funny it looks in big man's hat ! " (Extin-
guishes baby in his light-colored high hat.)
Thought : " She said a baby was the most delightful
thing in the whole world. Any woman who can lie like
that is capable of deserting her unprotected offspring."
Aloud (removing the hat}: " Good gracious ! It's
black in the face ; it's going into convulsions ! "
Thought : " I'd like to know what everybody is
laughing at. If I had a pistol I'd shoot somebody."
Aloud : " Look here, now, Miss Dimpsy Impsy.
Come, let us reason together. This thing has got to
be stopped. Be calm I say be calm."
Thought : " I'll leave it in the seat, take my baggage
and put for the smoking car." (Suits the action to the
idea. Settles himself comfortably. Newsboy appears
almost immediately with the baby, still screaming.)
Newsboy : " Please, sir, you left part of your bag-
gage." (Train comes to a stop in New York depot.)
Thought : " There's a policeman. I'll hand the
wretch over to him, and get him to carry it to the sta-
tion-house or the foundling hospital."
A few minutes later and Mr. J. Templeton Ward
gayly mounted the steps of his brother-in-law's brown-
stone mansion. A great incubus had been removed
from his mind, and he now felt disposed to treat the
adventure with hilarity. His sister met him most cordi-
ally, and throwing himself upon the sofa by her side,
he related the story, decorated with considerable im-
aginative embroidery.
" Think, Rose," he said, solemnly, " what a tremen-
dous escape ! There I was a complete victim. Why, I
actually took her for a respectable and fascinating
little widow, and was flirting with her in the most con-
fiding manner."
" Do you really think she meant to desert the baby ? "
asked Mrs. Molineux.
" Oh, without doubt, She had got herself up nicely
LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY. 425
on purpose to deceive ; and to think that I did not sus-
pect her designs when she asked me if I did not think
that execrable baby delicious ! "
" Was the baby pretty, Templeton ? "
" Pretty ! I should think not. I wish you could
have seen it. It bore the marks of depravity stamped
upon its brow. When it howled, if glared at me with
demoniac eyes, and fisted like a prize-fighter. I am
morally certain that its father is one of the champions
of the ring."
" And what did you say you did with it, dear ? "
" I got rid of it as quickly as possible, I assure you.
1 handed it to a policeman, and requested him to drop
it into the East River. I had the satisfaction, how-
ever, of pinching it well before I saw the last of it."
" Do you suppose the man thought you were in ear-
nest, Templeton ? "
" Of course not. He has carted it off to the Home for
the Friendless, or the Asylum for Little Wanderers, or
some institution of that sort, I suppose. But let's drop
the baby. Where's Winifred ? "
" I expect her every moment. There's the door-bell
now. Let me see."
Mrs. Molineux motioned back the servant, and her-
self opened the hall door, finding herself, to her sur-
prise, face to face with her husband, who wore an anx-
ious expression. Mr. Ward, who sat just within the
parlor, heard their conversation distinctly.
Rose. " Why, Henry, what's the matter ? "
Mr. M. " Nothing.' Don't be alarmed ; only a tele-
gram- from Winifred. She was left, and will come on
the next train."
Rose. " Oh ! is that all ? Then she ought to be here
now : the trains run every hour."
Mr. M. " Winifred's all right, but I don't want to
alarm you. Be calm "
Rose- " The baby ! is she sick ? "
Mr. M. " Don't get excited. The baby is not sick."
Rose (desperately}. " Is she dead ? "
Mr. M. " No, no. You always imagine the very
-worst that can happen. She is only lost."
A piercing shriek followed, and Mr. Ward sprang
into the h^U just in time to see his sister faint in the
ttfrns of her fousband. They carried her into the par'
426 A CRfSIS.
lor, and she was at once surrounded by frightened
domestics. In the confusion that followed, Winifred
Molineux arrived. There was no time for introduc-
tions, and indeed none were needed, for Mr. Ward, to
his utter dismay, recognized his companion of the
train, the supposed mother of the baby.
" I was bringing Dimple home from a visit to her
grandmother," she explained, and added: "Is it possi-
ble that you are Mr. J. Templeton Ward ? Then the
baby is safe."
Mrs. Molineux opened her eyes, and suddenly sitting
bolt-upright, assumed a tragic attitude. " Winifred,"
she demanded, " why did you abandon my precious
Dimple ? "
"I left her to get some milk," Winifred replied,
good humoredly, " and as I was coming out of the
dairy a horrid goat barred my passage. The woman
drove him away, but he stopped me again at the past-
ure bars, and I did not reach the station until the
train had left."
Mrs. Molineux laughed hysterically. " Jonathan
Templeton Ward," she exclaimed, " what have you
done with your sister's child ? "
" How was I to know it was yours ? " he asked,
deprecatingly. " I had forgotten that Miss Winifred
would be in mourning for her uncle, and I thought
she was a widow."
" You thought ! " interrupted his sister. " The least
said about that, the better. He sent his niece to the
foundling hospital ; he insulted Winifred and all of us
in a manner not to be repeated. Oh, my precious
Dimple, my lovely pet ! He told the policeman to
drop her into the East River. Henry, he said you
were a prize-fighter. Winifred, he is not worthy of
your slightest thought. Why do you stand there staring
at me in that idiotic manner, Jonathan ? I disown
you ; you are not worthy to be the uncle of that cherub
darling."
Mr. J. Templeton Ward did not wait to hear all. He
darted out of the door, murmuring to himself, " A
crisis comes once in the affairs of every man ;" and
seeking the policeman with frantic haste, Miss Dimple
was in a few hours returned to the bosom Ql her fam-
BY LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY. 427
ily. His sister, however, refused to see him, and it
was not until the marriage of Miss Winifred Molineux
to an officer in the United States navy that Mr. J.
Templeton Ward finally made his peace with his out-
raged relatives.
MEG.
BY
JULIA C. R. DORR.
JULIA C. R. DORR.
MRS. DORR, whose maiden name was Julia Caroline
Ripley, was born at Charleston, S. C., February 13,
1825. She is descended, on her father's side, from
Governor William Bradford of the Mayflower Company,
and on her mother's from a French family, who re-
sided on the Island of San Domingo until driven away
by the insurrection, when they went to Charleston.
Mrs. Dorr spent but two years of her life in South
Carolina, and her home thereafter was Vermont, her
father's native State. The motherless girl was carefully
educated by her father, whose library was the school-
room in which she did her studying and reading.
When she was married to Seneca M. Dorr, then of
New York, but for the last twenty years of Vermont,
she was a very thoroughly cultivated young woman.
Her first published poem was sent by her husband,
without her knowledge, to the Union Magazine, then
edited by Mrs. Kirkland. It was accepted, and she
then wrote a story which she offered for one of the
ten $100 prizes offered by Sartairi's Magazine for the
ten best stories. She was of the successful competi-
tors, the list including Edward Everett Hale and
Henry Herbert ("Frank Forrester"). In 1847 she
published her first novel, " Farmingdale," under the
nom deplume of " Carolina Thomas." Two years later
" Landmere '' was published under her own name.
The care and training of her children (three sons
and a daughter) left her no leisure for novel writing
for a number of years, but poems from her pen ap-
peared from time to time, and since 1869 she has writ-
ten several volumes. Her literary work has formed
but a small part of a life full of manifold activities. ,
She herself says : " My literary work has always been
subordinate ; the smallest part of my life. It has
merely been a kind of overflow."
435
436 JULIA C. R. DORR.
At her handsome home " The Maples " at Rutland,
Vermont, she constantly dispenses an ample hospital-
ity, and in all social and charitable work she is a power
for good. She is president of "The Fortnightly
Club," which has a membership of one hundred and
fifty ; and of a purely literary society called " Friends
in Council." Beside the labor entailed by these two
offices Mrs. Dorr has the oversight of the Public
Library of Rutland, to the establishment of which she
gave all her copyrights for a year or two.
Mr. Dorr, who was for many years conspicuous in
public life, died four years ago, and since that time she
has written comparatively little. The zest has gone
out of her pen work as out of her life since she lost her
husband, who was lover, friend, comrade and critic, all
in one. Her children are grown up and widely scat-
tered, but she is not alone. Friends cluster about her,
and her harmonious and gracious life, full of kindly im-
pulses and activities, has its reward in the gratitude
and affection of those among whom she has always
lived. Mrs. Dorr is one of the best beloved of Ameri
can poets and novelists.
>
MEG.
MARGARET NEALE, a girl of twenty or thereabouts, sat
on a low broad stone near the edge of a cliff that over-
hung the sea. Her features were irregular, but she
had a certain dark gypsy-like beauty of her own. Her
brown stuff gown clung closely about her ; her hat had
fallen back and hung carelessly by the strings ; a red
woolen shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, one
end trailing off over the scant, gray herbage. Her
hands were clasped about her knees ; there was a
hard set look about the unsmiling mouth ; and the eyes
that were sometimes most tender, had a dangerous
light in them as they gazed steadfastly off over the
darkening sea to the distant horizon still red with the
reflected glow of the sunset.
At a little distance, but with his back towards her,
and his steel-blue eyes just as steadfastly bent in the
opposite direction, stood Matthew Enckson, a hand-
some young fellow enough, in the rough dress of a
miner, tall, strong and ruddy, with a full curling, chest-
nut beard, and hair of the same rich color. A blue
ribbon dangled from his left hand.
There had evidently been a quarrel ; and a love
quarrel in a straggling mining hamlet on the north-
west coast of England, does not differ greatly from
one in a scattered fishing hamlet on the eastern coast
of Maine. Forms of speech may differ ; but love and
anger are much the same the wide world over. As for
the queer, quaint, dialect in which this especial pair of
lovers poured forth their mutual grievances, no attempt
will be made to reproduce it here. You may be sure
they said "yo" for "you," and " towd " for " told,"
and "canna" for "cannot," and " ta " for " thou."
But all that shall be taken for granted if not for your
ease and comfort, at least for mine !
Tired of the silence at length the young miner
437
43& MEG.
sauntered away with an air of assumed indifference,
and picking up a handful of pebbles slowly tossed
them one by one, into the waves below. Margaret's
eyes did not waver, but none the less did she follow
every motion of his hand. Having watched the fall of
his last pebble he came back and stood behind her,
winding the ribbon round his finger to its evident
detriment.
' So you will not wear it, Meg ? " he said at last.
" No, I will not," she answered without turning her
head. " Why do you vex me ? There's no more to be
said about it."
"But why, Meg?" and he laid his hand on her
shoulder as with an attempt at conciliation. " Tell me
why ? Surely you can do no less."
" Because because I can't abide blue, Matt
Erickson. It's hateful to me."
" But I like it, Meg ! and if you cared for me you
would be glad to wear a blue ribbon to the fair when I
ask it."
" Why did you buy it?" she asked shortly, turning
towards him by a hair's breadth. " Not to please me,
that's sure ! "
" Yes i to please you, and to please myself. Jenny
wears ribbons as blue as her own eyes, and I am sure
you cannot say they are not pretty. You are just
stubborn, Meg."
Poor Matt ! In his uneducated masculine blindness
he could not see that the delicate color that harmonized
so well with his pretty cousin's pink-and-white cheeks
and sunny curls, was utterly unsuited to his brown
Meg, who needed rich, dark hues and. warm reds to
brighten her somewhat swarthy complexion.
And poor Meg ! She had an instinctive sense of
fitness that taught her this, but she was not wise
enough to know how to explain it to her somewhat
imperious lover. She could only say she "hated
blue ! "
Besides, Meg had carried a sore spot in her heart
for two months ; ever since this same cousin Jenny of
Matt's came on a visit to Rysdyk. She was a dimpled,
delicate little creature from the south from near
London in fact where, as Meg was very certain,
everything was nicer and finer than in Lancashire.
BY JULIA C. R. DORR. 439
Jenny's hands were soft and white, and she had pretty
gowns as befitted the daughter of a well-to-do farmer
who kept men-servants and maid-servants. And she
had a pair of real gold ear-rings and a lace scarf !
Old Mother Marley said it was real lace, but of that
Meg was not quite sure. That was a height of
magnificence to which she was not certain even Jenny
could attain. And Jenny had sweet little coaxing
ways with her , and she was always purring round her
Cousin Matt, like a kitten ; and and she wore blue
ribbons ! Meg would none of them.
She sat for a moment as if turned to stone. Then
she blazed out,
"'Jenny!' 'Jenny!' I am tired of 'Jenny'! She
has turned your head with her flirting ways like a
butterfly, and her yellow hair and her finery. Give
your blue ribbon to her and take her to the fair for
I'll not wear it 1 "
" And you'll not go to the fair either ? " said Matt,
in tones of suppressed passion. "Is that what yoy^
mean ? "
I'll not go with you," she answered, growing cool
herself as he grew angry. " Yet it's likely enough that
I may go. There are plenty of lads who would be
glad to take me with no ribbons at all."
With a strong effort the young man put the curb
upon his tongue, but his face darkened. You will go
with me or with no one, Meg," he said. " This is all
nonsense and we to be married next Michaelmas !
But come," and he put out his hand to raise her from
the stone, " it grows dark."
Meg, still angry, but willing to be pacified if she
must, allowed him to assist her, and stood beside her
stalwart lover with burning cheeks and downcast eyes.
She rather liked, on the whole, his tacit refusal to
defend himself and his masterful way of telling her it
was " all nonsense." But just at this moment, as ill
luck would have it, a small brown paper parcel dropped
from the folds of her shawl. Matt stooped to pick it
up. It burst open, and a yard or two of scarlet ribbon
rippled over his fingers.
Now our poor Meg, not to be outdone by the fair
Jenny, had bought this ribbon herself that very even-
ing, meaning to wear it to the fair next week. But it
44O MEG.
so happened that when Matt went to Mother Marley's
shop to buy his own blue love-token, he had found
Dan Willis there the only man in Rysdyk whose
rivalship he had ever feared. And Dan was buy-
ing a ribbon precisely like this. Mother Marley
had wrapped it in this very piece of paper Matt was
sure, and he had seen Dan put it in his pocket and
walk off with it.
And now, here it was! His gift was spurned then
and his rival's accepted; and all Meg's talk about
Jenny was a mere subterfuge an excuse for a
quarrel.
It was easy to see, now, why she had been so irrita-
ble of late, and so prone to take offence. But a man
could not stand everything, and if Meg preferred Dan
Willis to him, why so be it.
Yet if she would not wear his love-token she
certainly should not wear Dan's. He hardly meant to
do it ; he was sorry the next minute. But what he did,
as the tide of passion swept him off his feet for an
instant, was to wind the two ribbons into a knot and
throw them vehemently into the sea.
"There ! " he cried, " that's settled once for all."
" And something else is settled, too, Matt Erickson,"
retorted Meg, in a white heat. " There will be no
marriage for us next Michaelmas, no marriage then or
ever ! You would strike me some day, for aught I
know, if I should choose to wear a red knot rather
than a blue. I'll not run the risk. I'll have nothing
more to say to you while the stars shine," and darting
round the cliff, she was half way down to the beach
before he ever thought of stopping her.
The next day Erickson,; magnanimous, great-hearted
fellow that he was, after al"i s having gotten over his pet
began to look at their quarrel from Meg's standpoint.
It occurred to him that he might have drawn uncalled
for inferences. Dan Willis might have a dozen sweet-
hearts who all liked red ribbons for aught he knew.
And how like a fool he had behaved, losing his temper
like a hot-headed boy, and throwing Meg's poor little
trinkets over the cliff. No wonder she was afraid to
trust him. More than one husband in Rysdyk was in
the habit of beating his wife on as slight provocation
as the hue of a ribbon ; and it was not strange that a
BY JULIA C. R. DORK. 441
high-spirited girl like Meg should decline to run the
risk after she had once seen him in a fury.
As for Jenny she had come in between him and
Meg. He could see it now. But she was going home
the day after the fair, and he would see Meg that very
night and tell her so. For he did not dream that all
was indeed over between them. He could hardly wait
for the hour to leave the mine.
He changed his soiled clothes, ate his supper
hurriedly and was soon on his way to Meg, stopping
as he went to buy another ribbon red, this time, and
broader and richer and handsomer than the one he
had robbed her of.
Then he went on through the crooked, scattered
little village, till he reached the Widow Neale's cottage
just on the outskirts.
To his surprise he found the door locked and the
shutters closed. As he stood still in his perplexity, a
white headed urchin who was turning somersaults near
by shouted "Ho you, Matt Erickson ! It's no good to
wait there. The widow and Meg have gone away."
" Gone ? Where ? "
" Don't know. To France, like enough or to
Ameriky or to London or somewheres. They took
a big box and a bundle and they don't know but they'll
stay forever'n ever. Meg said so ; " and making a
rotating wheel of himself the lad vanished round the
corner.
Just then the door of the nearest cottage opened
and a woman's face looked out. It was growing dark.
" Is it you, Erickson ? There's no one at home in
the house there. But I have something here I was to
give you when you came this way."
His face was stern and set and white in the fading
light, as he took the little packet from the woman's
hand.
"Where have they gone ? " was all he said.
"" F don't just know. To visit some of their kinfolk
a gre;it v/ay off," the widow said. " Oh ! but she's a
close-mouthed one, she is and Meg's a bit like her.
They 're not gossipy folk. You never get much out
of them," she added with an injured air. "Not but
I 've found them good neighbors enough ; but they 're
rather high and mighty for commoners."
442 MEG.
As soon as he was out of sight Matthew Erickson
opened the packet. He knew what was in it before
he untied the knot. A .-tring of curiously carved
beads with a strange, foreign, spicy odor, that he had
bought of a wandering sailor and fastened round
Meg's neck one happy night ; and two or three other
trifles he had given her. And he found this note,
slowly and painfully written, badly spelled perhaps,
and not punctuated at all. But what of that ? The
meaning was plain enough ; all too plain Matt thought,
as he drew his hand across his eyes as if to clear his
vision.
" I gave you back your troth last night. Here are
the beads, and the silver piece, and the heron feathers.
Now all is over between us." Here she had evidently
hesitated a moment, wondering if her words were
strong enough. For on the line below she had
written, as with an echo from the prayer-book rever-
berating in her ears.
" Forever and ever, amen. Margaret Neale."
Not Meg, his Meg, his proud, high-spirited sweet-
heart but Margaret Margaret Neale ! It set her
at such an immeasurable distance from him. "All
is over between us." As if she were dead, and buried
out of his sight. And he had spoken to James Ray
about the snug cottage beyond the bay ; and they were
to have been married at Michaelmas !
He knew enough of the Widow Neale's habits to ask
no more questions of the neighbors. As one of them
had said, she was close-mouthed. He knew she had a
sister living in Scotland for whom Meg was named ;
but where even he did not know. Scotland was like
a distant, foreign land to the people in Rysdyk. But
the widow had money enough to go to Scotland or
farther if she wished, even on such short notice. She
had never worked in the mines, neither had Meg.
She had a comfortable annuity, left her by her old mis-
tress ; for she had served in a great family before she
married John Neale.
Month after month passed. Michaelmas was over,
the winter came and went, and Rysdyk knew no more
of her or of Meg than when they left. The silence,
the void, grew unendurable to Matt. With the early
spring he carried into effect what had been the one
BY JULIA C. K. DORK. 443
dream of his life before he learned to love Meg.
America was the land of promise for miners as well as
others ; and had he not a friend who worked in the
great iron mines at Ishpeming, on the shores of the
wonderful northern lake that was itself almost as large
as all England ? He had no father or mother, only a
half uncle whose house had been the only home he
had ever known.
What better could he do than to seek work and
forgetfulness together, where there would be nothing
to remind him of the past.
So, when one fine morning nearly a year after her
sudden flitting, the neighbors awoke to find the door
of Widow Neale's cottage ajar and the shutters open,
and the first bit of news Meg heard was that Matt
Erickson had gone to America.
It struck her like a blow Now indeed he had
dropped out of her life, as utterly as months since she
had dropped out of his. For she, too, had had time
to repent. Almost before the blue hills of Scotland
had dawned upon her sight she had repented in dust
and ashes. How foolish she had been, like a child
who throws away its bread in a pet and goes to bed
hungry. Why had she not worn the blue ribbon to
please her lover even if she did not like it ? As for
Jenny but what nonsense was that ! she would have
been ashamed of Matt if he had not been kind to
her.
To be sure he had been cross and had thrown away
her ribbon. But then he was a man and men were
strong and masterful and could not bear contradiction,
and she had angered him by her foolish persist-
ence.
Ah ! if she could but undo it all and haVe her tall,
brave, handsome lover back again.
She would have turned round and gone back to
Rysdyk the very next day if she could have had her
way. But a journey was a journey to people of their
rank and condition, and her mother, who had taken
it to please her and somewhat against her own will,
was not to be blown about like a feather by her
caprices. She had suspected a love-quarrel was at the
bottom of Meg's sudden and impetuous desire to go
immediately on a visit to her Aunt Margaret in Kilmar-
444 MEG.
nock. But once being there the old lady was deter-
mined to have " the worth of her money " before she
went back. She could nut alford to go jaunting round
the country, she said, as if she were the queen herself
with all parliament at her back. When she had had
her visit out she would go home, and not before.
Meg was a good girl, but she was a bit hot-tempered.
This lesson would do her good.
But why, do you ask, did not Meg write to her lover,
if she felt she had been in the wrong? Ah, why do not
wiser ones than she always do the best thing, the right
thing? Besides, she was a woman, and a proud one.
After having discarded her lover she would not forth-
with fall at his feet and ask him to marry her. But,
ah ! she thought, as the long, slow days wore on, if she
were only with him again, if she could but look upon
his face once more, he would know all without the
telling.
There was another reason. Writing was a hard and
unaccustomed task. She could not talk with her pen.
Sometime, if the good God would let her see Matt
face to face, she might be able to explain. But she
could not write.
And now, after all the months of waiting, she was
back in Rysdyk, but he he was in America.
It was as if he had gone out of the world. One
day she went to the rectory and asked Miss Agnes to
let her look at a map of America. The young lady
did so, and showed her England, also, and the widt.
waste of waters that lay between the two. What a
speck England was, to be sure ! Then she asked to
be shown Lake Superior, and Miss Agnes pointed it
out, wonderingly. How far it was ! As far from the
seaboard, almost, as the width of the Atlantic it-
self.
She turned away with a long, shuddering sigh.
Hope was dead within her. Matthew Erickson had
gone out of her little world into another of which she
knew nothing. He would have been nearer if he had
been dead.
Once in a while, as the years went on, at rare inter-
vals news of him came back to Rysdyk. He was well ;
he had fair wages, though gold was not to be had for
the gathering in America any more than in England ;
BY JULIA C. R. DORR. 445
he had been promoted and had charge of a gang of
men. At length there was a long interval of silence.
Then came floating rumors of ill ; then after a while a
letter in a strange handwriting, a letter to his uncle,
who had died three weeks before it came. There had
been a bad accident in the mines an explosion ; and
in the effort to save others Matthew Erickson had
himself received dangerous injuries. No one thought
he could live. But now, after months, he was slowly
recovering, if recovery it could be called, for he was
blind. The poisonous vapors had destroyed his
sight.
It was five years since he went away five years that
had brought many changes to Meg. It was a sobered,
thoughtful woman, not a hot-tempered girl, who knelt
by the Widow Neale's side a week after the letter
came and said :
" Mother, have I been a good, faithful child to you
these many years ? " Her mother looked at her
wonderingly. Two quiet women living alone, they
were not in the habit of being over demonstrative.
" A good child ? Why do you ask that, Meg ?
There's not a better in all Lancashire ! "
" Have I ever vexed you or given you sorrow ? Tell
me, mother."
" No," said the Widow Neale, slowly. " Only it
vexes me that you will not marry. An old maid's no
good, and you know that two of the best men in
Rysdyk worship the very ground you tread on this
day. I call no names and I say nothing. A woman
must answer for herself. But I wish you were married,
Meg. I've saved up a good penny for your dowry ;
you know that."
" Yes," she said, her lips quivering.
" Whatever was the reason you did not have Matt
Erickson ? " her mother went on querulously. " You'd
have been a proud wife now, and he here, hale and
hearty."
With a quick gasp Meg threw up both arms, and
than buried her face in her mother's lap, sobbing
vehemently while the latter sat aghast, half frightened
at the storm she had unwittingly raised. At last she
touched her daughter's hair softly.
" Don't, Meg," she said. " I did not mean it."
446 MEG.
But Meg only drew the wrinkled hands about her
neck and let her tears flow unchecked. At length she
looked up.
" It was I who drove him away Matt Erickson,"
she said. " We had a little quarrel, just a few idle
words about a ribbon, and I told him in my silly anger
I would have no more to say to him while the stars
shone. And now they do not shine for him for he is
blind blind. O mother, I cannot live, I cannot bear
it!"
" Yes, you will live, child," the widow answered
quickly. "We can bear anything, we women. Your
father was brought in to me dead killed in these
mines when you were scarce three years old, my Meg,
and I am alive yet."
" But this is worse than death," she cried passion-
ately. " Mother, do you hear ? He who was my
plighted husband is blind, in a far, strange country. I
must go and bring him home, home to Rysdyk."
She had risen from her mother's arms, and stood
before her in the moonlight, pale, resolute, with her
hands clasped rigidly. " Give me my dowry, mother,
and let me go," she said. " Do not deny me this
thing. I am well and strong and, if I do say it, I am
quickwitted I can make my way. I shall come back
safely. Let me go, mother ! "
"It is not your place, Meg. Let some one else
go."
" Who ? Tell me that ! Has he father or brother
or uncle ? Who is there to go ? "
" But its not right maidenly to go off after a lover,
Meg. What will the folks say? And would you
marry a blind man ? "
" Maidenly ? It is maidenly to do right," said Meg
sturdily, her brown cheek flushing. " What do I care
for the folk ? I'm not a young girl to drop my eyes
and be shamefaced because folk will talk. They al-
ways talk. And as for marrying it is not of marriage
I am thinking now ; it is of bringing Matt Erickson
he whom I drove away by my ill doings back safe to
his own country "
She hesitated a moment and then went on : " But
not play false with you, mother. He'll not ask me
*rry him. But I shall know. If he wants me,
BY JULIA C. . DORR. 447
after all that's past, he shall have me, and I'll take care
of him till 1 die."
Their talk lasted far into the night. But with it we
have no more to do, nor with the details by which a
little money was to be made to go a great way. For,
after many tears, the widow consented that Meg should
take her dowry and spend it as she chose. If they had
been more worldly-wise they would have known how to
accomplish their purpose through the agency of others.
As it was, they saw no other way than for Meg to do
herself the thing she wanted done.
Oh, that weary, weary journey! Why was the world
so wide, the way so long ? Meg kept up a brave heart
until the boisterous ocean was crossed, and she had
made her way as far as Buffalo, where she had been
told to take the steamer for Marquette. It seemed to
her that she had travelled the width of the whole wide
earth already, since her foot first fell upon the soil of
the strange new world.
" Is this Lake Superior, sir," she asked timidly of a
policeman, as she left the cars and saw the waters of
Lake Erie stretching away in the distance. "And can
you tell me, are we near Ishpeming?
" Oh, no, my girl, this is Erie. Lake Superior is way
up north, hundreds of miles from here. Ishpeming ?
Never heard of such a place. But here's your steamer
if you're going up that way."
Her heart sank like lead. Would she ever, ever
reach the end ? All day and day after day she sat
silently in the bow of the boat, gazing steadily forward.
On, on, till Erie was passed, on through lovely St.
Clair with its softly rounded shores and fairy islands,
then up through Lake Huron, still struggling up, as
it were, past towering, frowning heights, past stretches
of interminable forest, past rocky headlands, past sandy
beaches, through tortuous channels and devious ways,
into the wild rapids of the Sault St. Marie. Then at
last Superior! grand, weird, majestic in its awful
silences, sweeping on between its mighty, far-stretching
shores, dark as the ocean, resistless as the grave.
Where was she going ? Would she ever find Matt ?
Sailing on and on penetrating nature's secret places
where the foot of man had never trodden. So it
seemed to her. Could human kind live in these vas*
wild wildernesses ?
448 MEG.
It was like a new birth when after many days the
steamer entered the beautiful bay of Marquette, and
the fair young city rose before her astonished eyes, its
white cliffs gleaming in the sun, its green shores sweep-
ing downward to the water's edge. She was near her
goal at last.
For Ishpeming was but twenty miles away up the
railroad, and thither she went by the first train. How
rough and wild it all was ! And how the charred and
blackened pine trees towered aloft like grim giants, and
pointed their ghastly fingers at her as she swept through
their solitudes !
" Can you tell me where to find a man called
Matthew Erickson ? " she asked of the depot-master,
trembling from head to foot.
"Erickson? Erickson? Blown up in the mines a
year or so ago wasn't he ? He stays at Sam Ajres, the
Englishman's, I believe. Just yer go round that cor-
ner, ma'am, then turn to the right and go up the hill or
stay ? Let me lock up here and I'll go with you.
Ever been in Ishpeming before ? No? I thought you
looked like a stranger in these parts."
He left her at Sam Ayres' gate, having opened it
gallantly when he saw that her cold fingers were unfit
to do her bidding. A kindly-faced woman came to the
door and bade her welcome.
Meg's story was soon told.
" And you have come alone all this long way to take
Erickson home again ? " her eyes filling. " God bless
you, dear, for I'm sure He sent you. We've done the
best we could for him, but you are his sister ? "
"No. I'm a friend a neighbor. There was no
one else," she said simply.
- " What's your name? I'll tell him."
"No matter about the name ; say a friend from the
old country."
The woman came back presently,
" Be careful," she said, "he's weak yet. But I want
to tell you something just to keep your heart up, for he
looks like a ghost. There was a great doctor from
New York up here last week to look at his poor eyes,
and he told Sam there was a chance for him yet just
one chance in a hundred."
. ."Does. he know it ?" asked Meg, tremulously, her
BY JULIA C. R. DORR. 449
color coming and going. . She was but a woman after
all. Only blindness would have brought her there.
" No, and you must not tell him. The doctor said
so most particular. Will you go up now ?"
He had been sitting in the sun by the low window
all day, brooding, brooding. They had been very kind
to him, these people, but even kindness wears itself
out after awhile. What was to become of him ? The
wages he had laid up were wasting away. The early
northern winter would soon set in. He shivered as he
thought of the fierce winds, the pitiless, drifting snows.
There was nothing a blind man could do here. If he
were only at home in Rysdyk ! Would Meg be sorry
for him, he wondered, if she knew how desolate he
was, how lonely in this strange land ? If he were at
home he could learn to weave baskets like old Timothy.
Here he was just a dead weight.
Some one to see him from the old country?
He turned his sightless eyes towards the door where
Meg was entering noiseless as a spirit, and his face
kindled eagerly. Noiselessly she closed the door be-
hind her. He was so changed, so white and worn,
that her own heart stopped its pulsations for a moment.
She feared any sudden shock might overcome him.
She dared not speak lest he should know her voice.
Strange that she had not thought of this before !
He put out his hand vaguely, feeling the presence
that he could not see.
" You are very welcome," he said. " But I do not
know who it is. Who are you ? "
He thought it was some kindly Englishman, who
having heard of his misfortunes had come to speak a
word of cheer and comfort.
She gave him her hand, still silently. A woman's
hand ! A swift thrill shot through his frame, and his
face flushed. Holding herself still with a mighty effort,
Meg knelt by his side, laying her head upon his
knee.
His hand touched her hair, her forehead, her lips.
She gave a low cry, trembling like a leaf.
" Speak to me, quick," he whispered hoarsely.
" Matt ! "
" O Meg, Meg, my Meg ! "
29
.Dot.
A CONFEDERATE IDYL.
BY
MARION HARLAND.
on<_
- .".Dot.
* *'
<2/tstSs /ffosr^A/isisi^, d
7 T
MARION HARLAND.
MRS. MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE, better known to the
reading public as " Marion Harland," has been for
the last three years, 1885-1888, a resident of Brooklyn,
N. Y., her husband, the Rev. Dr. Terhune, being
pastor of the Bedford Avenue Reformed Church of that
city ; previous to which time the family had resided for
many years in Newark, N. J., where the Doctor was
settled over a large prosperous church. Mrs. Terhune
is a lady who admirably exemplifies the value of system
in her literary work and daily life ; and she has also
discovered the secret, unknown to so many Americans,
how to accomplish a large quantity of work, literary,
social, and religious without hurry, or nervous excite-
ment.
In 1854, the New York publisher, Mr. Derby, tells
us, a gentleman came to him with a new novel entitled
" Alone." This was Mr. Samuel P. Hawes, the father
of Mrs. Terhune. This book had already been printed
in Richmond, Virginia, but to be printed then at that
time, could scarcely be considered as " published/'
This proved much more of a success than Mr. Derby
anticipated, more than 100,000 copies of the English
edition having been sold ; and it was afterwards trans-
lated into German for the famous house of Tauchnitz
at Leipzig. But this was not her first literary work : at
the early age of fourteen she had contributed, under an
assumed name, to a local newspaper, and at sixteen
furnished the sketch called " Marrying for Prudential
Motives," for Godey's " Lady's Book."
Mrs. Terhune has written much and well on house-
hold topics, and other suggestive semi-ethical works in
the form of fiction which could hardly fail to exert a
wholesome influence on young girls for whom they are
mostly adapted. Of the many which she has written
" Eve's Daughters" has proved the most popular.
457
458 MARION HARLAND.
The rest of this class is a long list; of them we name
as coming next in interest, the " Hidden Path," " From
My Youth Up," "Husbands and Homes," "True as
Steel," and " Phemie's Temptation." Of the more
directly practical works, " Common Sense in the House-
hold " is perhaps the best and most comprehensive.
She edits a monthly magazine, The Home-maker,
recently established in New York, and is a frequent
contributor to newspaper syndicates. Mrs. Terhune
varies her literary and social life with church work,
ably assisting her husband in his pastoral duties and
in instructing a Bible class of young man connected
with the church. She is in the meridian of life, happily
circumstanced, and surrounded by a family of grown
up children.
A CONFEDERATE IDYL
WE had been "out" all day. The weather was soft
for November, and so were the red clay roads. Our
boots, worn outside of our trousers, were dyed half-
way up the legs, and as stiff as mailed greaves. The
trudge through the adhesive paste was so disagreeable
that we avoided the highways when we could. Miles of
tramping at the heels of the hounds over "old fields,"
of brown straw and wheat stubble, and wading in oozy
swamps criss-crossed by bamboo briers, brought us to
our quarters at nightfall, exhausted and ravenous, just
as a leaden pour of rain began.
The house was vast and scantily furnished. The
Richmond citizen who had bought the plantation at the
close of the war, camped down, rather than lived on it,
with his family in summer. For the rest of the year,
the overseer and his wife occupied one wing leaving
lofty halls and wide chambers to freezing damps and
solitude.
We were there at the invitation of the proprietor's
son. He stood at one corner of the hearth, leaning
against the mantle, pipe in hand. We had supped
upon York River oysters, wild turkey and partridges,
after which we were served with Powhatan pipes and
prime Richmond manufactured tobacco. Not a man
of tw would touch a cigar that week. The table was
pushed to the back of the room ; a mighty blaze, made
lurid by lightwood knots, drew up the chimney with a
roar like that of a steady nor'easter. The evening
had begun auspiciously. Our bodies were warm:d and
rested, our hearts mellowed by good cheer and jolly
fellowship. For the rest, we had found for ourselves by
now what it meant to be Rob Crutchfield's guests.
A slight, well-built man of thirty-eight or forty, but
looking at least five years younger, he was to the
three New Yorkers of the hunting party an object of
459
460 A CONFEDERATE IDYL.
especial attention and interest. During the civil war
he was a scout, famous in both armies for his daring
and success, his risks and deliverances, his dashing
exploits, the coolness that never failed him in the face of
sudden death, and his generosity, his mad frolics, had
been the boast of many a camp-fire tale and post-bellum
experience meeting. A saber-gash in the edge of the
hair above his forehead, and a scarcely perceptible halt
upon the right thigh as he walked, were visible memen-
tos of hair-breadth escapes, "Rebellion keepsakes"
he called them. In demeanor he was quietly courteous,
talking easily and somewhat slowly, with a downward
inflection on the closing words of the sentence, charac-
teristic and pleasing when we became accustomed to
it, but which would have been a drawl in an illiterate
speaker. He had the mellow voice of the Southerner ;
accent and intonation were Virginian, as were certain
provincial tricks of expression, that protracted residence
in higher latitudes would have, corrected or modified.
His smile was singularly pleasant, lending kindly or
humorous gleams to deep-set gray eyes, and showing a
line of white teeth under the drooping moustache.
In a crowd he would be overlooked. With our
knowledge of his antecedents, we found him a fascinat-
ing study, even before he was beguiled ingeniously,
for his modesty was proverbial into the relation of
personal adventures.
Of the four Virginians present, three had served
through the war. Two of the Northerners had seen
service. To-night the desultory after-supper chat
settled down after a while, upon the relation and dis-
cussion of incidents of the national storm, that had
blown itself out into the tired sobbings of the van-
quished, the dignified calm of the victor, fifteen years
before. It was by such gradual approaches that Rob
Crutchfield was drawn on to tell the longest story he
had yet given us :
" If my memory serves me correctly, it was the i4th
or i5th of December, '63, when I was making my way
back to camp after three days ' out.' The other side
had had the best of it that year, and was beginning
to knot together, length by length, the string of forti-
fications meant to strangle Richmond. Inside of this
line was stretched ours. I thought, sometimes, when
B Y MARION HARLAND. 46 1
I got far enough outside, and high enough up to look
down upon the two, in the top of a pine tree, on a high
hill, for example that the Rebel camps were like the
ring we children used to make around the chicken to
keep off the old woman, in the game of ' Chicken-me-
chicken-me-crany-crow,' hands joined all around and
faces towards the enemy. I was not in a fanciful
mood that day, however ; I had been sent out to get
certain information as to one camp in particular, and
I hadn't got it. A division had gone into winter
quarters in exactly the most inconvenient posiiion (for
us) they could have selected. A mile further to the
east, west, north or south, and the settlement would
have been no more to us than a dozen others. If one
of you gentlemen had to sleep in a fourih-story room,
you wouldn't think comfortably of night alarms of fire
after you had heard the key turned on the outside of
your door, you might not care to leave the chamber
before morning, but in case you should ! That camp
was our locked door, and from general down to sutler
we regarded it as the ugliest wart on the face of the
earth. As Dogberry says, ' It was tolerable and not
to be endured.' Every man of us felt that if there was
such a thing as bursting that door off the hinges, he'd
like to have a run at it.
" I had hung about the skirts of the encampment
three days and nights. Fortunately, the weather was
very mild. Two nights I slept in tobacco barns, the
third under a fodder-stack, rolled up in a Federal
military overcoat."
"The one you wore on the nor'ard side of the
big rock? " asked an auditor, quizzingly.
Crutchfield's eyes twinkled.
"The same. That was at Chancellorsville, I was
caught between the two lines. There was an immense
boulder with a fringe' of sassafras and chinquapin
bushes growing around the base. I had slept among
them over night, being on scouting duty at the
time. The firing awoke me, and I could do nothing
but lie low and keep dark until the rumpus was over.
1 had on gray pantaloons and hunting-shirt and this
overcoat. Half the day I was on one side of the rock
wrapped up in the blue cloak, out of compliment to
the Feds ; the other half on the opposite side in my shirt
462 A CONFEDERATE IDYL.
and breeches, because the Rebs were having the best
of it in that direction. It was the liveliest work I ever
did in the way of shifting my political base. The
business has become so c.nnmon in Virginia since
that I have given it up as low.
"The old coat was to serve me a better turn on
this occasion. For half a mile beyond the outer
pickets guarding the objectionable camp, the woods
had been cut down, the tops falling upward. This
was done before the leaves dropped, and they were
now as dry and crackly as so many pieces of writing
paper. I might as well have fired off a musket to give
notice of my approach, as try to creep inside the lines
through this chevaux de /rise. I was lying on the
ground, as cross as a bear, in a thicket of cedars close
to the road, when I heard somebody whistling. It's a
theory of mine that every man, however near akin to a
fool, Cfuld do some one thing well if he would only
give his mind to it. The weight of this man's intellect
wouldn't have strained the back bone of a dragon fly,
bur he had devoted the best powers of it to one
subject. He could whistle more sweetly and clearly,
and could hold out at the task longer than any creature
I ever heard attempt it wild mocking-birds and
trained bull-finches not excepted. I distinguished the
air, in the dead stillness of the war-blasted country
while he was an eighth of a mile off. It was the ' Blue
Danube Waltz.'
" It may have been because I had eaten nothing
that day but two hard-tack biscuits that I turned sick
all over and seemed to hear the thud of my heart as it
dropped suddenly and hit hard. The cedar bushes
and the blue sky and the muddy road went clean away
from me, and I was whirling around the ball-room at
Cape May, the band playing the 'Blue Danube Waltz,'
the sea booming and shining in the moonlight in the
distance outside the windows, and Lucy Deane was my
partner. Her dress was some sort of thin stuff that
looked like cool, pale, purple mist. She had a bunch
of heliotrope in her belt. I begged and got a piece of
it that night when we said ' Good night ' and ' Good
bye/ All that was three years ago last August, when
I was twenty-three and she twenty, and neither of us
dreamed much as we were given to dreaming that
B Y MARION HARLAND. 463
Lincoln could be elected, or that South Carolina would
secede, or that the mouth of hell might gape between
us before the Christmas I then hoped to spend in New
York. Those were the minutes and such were the
thoughts that made clean-mouthed men swear in those
days.
" By the time I was cool and steady again the horse-
man reined up in the road not three yards from my
cover. ' What's that over there ? ' he said, sharply.
" I was sure he had seen me through the cedars, but
I had not scouted for two years not to learn to give
myself the millionth part of a chance, if such existed,
and I lay still. " ' What, sir ? ' answered a voice I
took to be that of an orderly. I dared not stir, but 1
knew both speakers were Yankees.
"'Those things that look like fruit on those trees.'
" ' Persimmons, sir a sort of winter plum that grows
around here.'
" ' Good to eat ? '
" ' When they'r ripe, sir after three or four sharp
frosts. Then they are real sweet and nice.'
" ' Go over there and bring me a handful.'
" As the orderly lighted 1 twisted my head around
softly. ' Over there ' was a knoll some hundred and
fifty yards from the main road, across a gully grown
up with brushwood. The orderly would be out of sight
for, maybe, two minutes while pushing through the
bushes. Unless he turned, his back would be towards
us for five. If we could get away unseen by him I
might count on at least ten minutes start. In less
than fifteen seconds I and my revolver were slaring
into the officer's face across the orderly's empty saddle.
" ' If you speak or move you are a dead man ! ' was
what I whispered, and the pistol silently emphasized.
" Any man would have been startled in the circum-
stances, even if his holsters hadn't been empty, as
I had seen his were. Only a born coward would have
been scared so far out of his senses as not to find them
again under an hour. No corpse ever looked up at me
out of a trench the day after a battle with a blanker
gaze and whiter face than did my prisoner. His teeth
chattered, and I could almost hear his knees and elbow-
joints rattle. He collapsed into a loose bunch. I was
afraid I should have to hold him on his horse. After
464 A CONFEDERATE IDYL.
that spectacle, my course was clear, my mind perfectly
easy. I kept my hand on his bridle for the first mile,
which we took at a smart trot to get well out of the
orderly's way. Then I brought both horses down to a
walk, and took a good look at my prize. Anything
more gorgeous in the way of a uniform I had never
seen off a parrot's back. He was orange and blue
from top to toe. An orange feather in a blue cocked
hat ; a blue body-coat slashed and faced with orange ;
orange stripes down blue breeches ; orange lining cuffs
and collar to his cape surtout. There were actually
sallow streaks in his blue-white complexion.
"'If fine feathers make fine birds, I have captured
the Yankee peacock of the walk ! ' thought I.
" But my military salute was given in good faith to
the prisoner of war not to his clothes.
" ' We may as well understand one another, General,'
said I. It is always safe on an uncertainty to rank a
fellow well-up the line, and I was dazzled into a notion
that I might have in tow the Commander-in-Chief of
the United States Army.
" ' I am neither guerilla nor highway robber nor
yet a deserter from the Federal Army, as you might
suppose from my coat,' I went on to explain. ' I am a
Confederate scout. You came from the camp on the
hill over yonder, I suppose ? '
" He nodded, still tongue tied.
" ' Now, General,' I said, slowly, that he might take
it all in ; 'I mean to use you as my safe-conduct
through that camp. I know just what my life is
worth if I am caught inside your lines in this dress,
just a trifle more than yours will be if vou, by word,
look or gesture give me up. Dead or alive, I am
going through that camp. If you betrey me I will
make a run for life and liberty. I've been in nar-
rower straits than that and got off scot-free. But
I'll drop you first, certain ! I never miss my mark
when I take aim in earnest. If you %o quietly along
with me I engage you shall receive no damage in life
or limb. Now, I expect you to bear yourself like a
man and an enlightened citiztn Gi the United States,
and make things comfortable ail around !'
" The fellow's brain s?.iied awkwardly for the want
of ballast, as I hare intimated. Bu't he had the
B Y MARION HARLAND. 465
instincts of a gentleman, and acted up to his lights
when these had the watch. He returned my salute,
drew out his sword and offered it to me.
" ' Keep it ! ' I said. ' I hope you'll live to draw it
in a better cause than that which made you buckle it
on.'
" By your leave, gentlemen," bowing to us " I'll
tell this story in the jargon of the ' unreconstructed.'
That was the way we all talked and felt at that date.
You wouldn't have respected us if we had turned our
pipes a stop lower."
The trio of Northerners applauded re-assuringly.
" All right ! Go ahead ! " added one.
"That was what we did the general and I. Half a
a mile further on we espied a picket strolling leisurely
from one tree-stump to another and basking in the
sun.
' ' What's your countersign ? ' asked I of my friend.
" For one second the thought that fright had driven
it out of his head took my breath away. In the next
he had caught at it.
" ' Give it ! ' said I, as we reached the picket, and he
minded me without an objection.
"We passed the inner line of posts in the same man-
ner, and rode, side by side, into the heart of the camp,
I on the general's right, the bridle in my left hand,
the cape of the overcoat drawn forward over the right
arm which was crossed on my chest. The right hand
held the revolver. It covered him at half-cock all the
time and my finger was on the trigger. It was a
model encampment for neatness and order, military
discipline of the best kind and sanitary provisions.
Health, comfort, and quiet reigned supreme. But I
made at least one valuable discovery, the force sta-
tioned there had been greatly over-estimated by us.
The hut doors were folded back, the day being Spring-
like, and nearly everybody was out of doors.
" When those we met and passed saluted my general
or his clothes I humbly touched my cap, proud to
be the attendant of His Magnificence. He kept his
eyes fixed upon his horse's ears, noticing nothing and
nobody, but when we had gone at a snail's trot down
one road, and up another and around by a third to
the other side of the camp and passed the last picket,
30
466 A CONFEDERATE IDYL.
I saw that he held his lower lip hard under his teeth
and his face was red with rage and mortification.
" I was sorry for him from the bottom of my heart.
So sorry that had it not been for what he could tell
of my reconnoissance and its object, I would have sent
him back then and there to beautify the scene we had
just left. As it was, I carried him into our lines and
gave him up, with my report, at headquarters.
"An hour afterwards a saucy lieutenant came to my
hut, roaring with laughter.
" ' You've done it this time, Crutch,' said the rascal.
' Do you know what you've brought in ? The colonel
of a Yankee play-regiment a three monther. It seems
he left his men in Washington to be drilled and ran
down in his Sunday clothes to visit a sure-enough camp,
where he happened to have acquaintances, bringing his
own orderly with him. They got there yesterday and
started off this morning to see something of the
country. Didn't dream they were on rebel territory
until he was taken prisoner by what he must consider
an unmilitary manoeuvre. Wants to be sent back with
an apology under flag of truce. Has influential friends
under government who will not -submit tamely to this
outrage.
" ' If you had fetched in his uniform stuffed with straw
it would have been of more account to us. We could
have stuffed our beds with that. This creature is not
worth the keeping and we daren't turn him loose. The
last batch of Yanks were sent forward to the Libby last
night, so your friend will be lonesome I'm afraid.
When I left, the general was swearing like forty
troopers because a guard must be detailed to take care
of this "sugar-candy cuss." You've drawn a white
elephant, my boy ! '
' That was the origin of the name that stuck to the
fellow like shoemaker's wax. We were hard-run for
jokes just then, and this one took tremendously. I
wished a thousand times a day I had left the orange-and-
blue parrot to devour half-ripe persimmons until his
mouth was puckered out of whistling order for a month
of Sundays. The prison barracks was called the
menagerie, and I, Barnum, and the usual salutation
between two men meeting in my hearing was, '
have you seen the elephant ? '
B Y MARION HARLAND. 467
" It took more moral courage than you'd believe
to spur me up to the duty of visiting him every clay,
and there was nothing tempting in the calls themselves.
For a few days he was as sulky as a possum, wouldn't
eat or speak when anybody was by ; just lay on his
bunk with his face to the wall. I took him books
and tobacco and writing materials (such as we had),
and spoke to the guard about treating him well. 1
couldn't do less having got him into the scrape.
I would have done much more to make his situation
endurable, if he had let me. On the first Sunday
he spent with us, I found him up and writing.
" He glanced around and nodded to my salute.
"'Well, Colonel,' said J, 'How goes it? What can
I do for you, to-day ? '
" ' I want to send a letter through the lines.' He
was gruff, but not sullen. ' I guess you can do it, if
anybody can ! '
'* I tried not to smile.
" ' I don't know about that ! Your pickets are on
the lookout for me just now, I reckon, and not in a
humor for the exchange of civilities. I have known
them on both sides to swap newspapers and tobacco by
pitching them across a road or creek. There are ways
and means, however. I'll do my best to get your
letter through by what we call the '" grapevine tele-
graph." '
" He stared hard, but only said, ' Thank you ! '
" Presently he handed me a letter directed to ' Mrs.
Colonel George W. Judson, Orange, New Jersey.'
" ' I thought you were a New Yorker ! ' said I, be-
fore I remembered that it was impolite to see the
address, more rude to remark upon it.
" But the ' Orange, New Jersey,' caught my eye, and
there were reasons why it should.
" He scowled, as was natural and proper, at my im-
pertinence.
" ' My wife is, at present, staying at her father's
during my absence.'
" He jumped up and walked to the door.
" ' I have a confounded headache to-day ! ' he said
In a choked voice.
" I had to remind myself of the preparations on foot
to break up the obnoxious camp founded upon my
468 A CONFEDERATE IDYL.
reconnoissance and report before I could feel like an
honest man again, and not a kidnapper.
"' I am mighty sorry for you, Colonel upon my word
I am!' I told him in all sincerity. 'I wish it hadn't
been a military necessity to capture you, and against
military rules to set you free this very minute.' Then
clumsily enough, but I didn't know just how to fetch
it out ' I am sorrier still that you are married. Sol-
diers ought all to be single men.'
" He wheeled about, red and angry spoke up more
like a man than I had thought was in him.
" ' My wife and I agreed when the North was in-
vaded, that that was carrying the joke a little too far
that it was time United States citizens of wealth and
influence took the field. I raised my regiment, sir.
If every Northern man would exert himself as I have
done the Rebellion would be stamped out in ninety
days ! '
" 'Upon my soul, I reckon you're about right,' said
I, and I was sincere in that, too. 'Mrs. Judson has
cause to be proud of having married a true patriot.
She must be a noble woman.'
'"There isn't another like her in the universe!' he
burst out, choked up again, threw himself face down-
ward on his bunk, and cried like a whipped school-
boy.
"It was my turn to look out of the door. The
prospect wasn't inspiriting at its best, but I couldn't
see it very distinctly now. I don't think it is in the
nature of a sheep-stealing dog to feel meaner than I
did at that particular minute. I'd have given a year of
my life right out to be able to transport that over-
grown baby, who meant well as hard as ever a man
did, to the house of his father-in-law, and leave him
there. He loved his country and he loved his wife,
and his wife, for aught I knew, might live next door to
Lucy Deane, whose home was in Orange, New Jersey.
Military necessity was inhumanity, and I was a brute.
" The prison barracks were removed by four or five
rods from the main camp. It was a rough log shanty,
long and narrow, the chinks daubed with mud. At
one end was a log and mud chimney, at the other the
door ; cotton cloth was tacked over the window frames
to keep out the wind. A soldier would have been
B Y MARION HARLAND. 469
satisfied with such winter quarters. But bless your
heart ! there was not an ounce of soldierhood in that
fellow's body, whatever there might be in his soul.
While he cried out his homesickness, I stood with my
back to him, staring at the waste of red mud around me
on which the rain was beginning to make desolate-
looking puddles. The camp-collection of tents and
log-huts was mean and dreary. The smoke from
stove-pipes and chimneys dropped flat to the ground ;
half-a-dozen drenched sentinels were all the moving
things in sight. A grove of pine trees flanked us on
the right ; 'way beyond were brown-black hills covered
with mournful stumps. And behind me the man I had
snatched from the paradise in which he wore orange
and blue, and fine linen, and fared on canvas-back
ducks, turtle soup, and champagne every day, was sob-
bing for the young wife waiting in her father's house
(in Orange, New Jersey) for his return, crowned with
.aurels and such trash, by a grateful country. She
vould never have let him enter the army if she hadn't
believed as sublimely and idiotically as she did in his
ability to stamp out the Rebellion in ninety days.
Othev men with more brains held the same belief,
even a*. N ate as '63.
" By-^ i-by he called out to me :
" ' You take me for a coward and a baby, Mr.
Crutchfieul ! ' he said, trying to seem dignified. ' But
my nerves have been severely tried lately, and I am
far from well. This is not a dry location, and I have
taken a heavy cold. My head, limbs, and back ache
intensely. I seldom give way to emotion. I have
myself in excellent control usually excellent ! '
"I told all the kind lies inevitable in the circum-
stances, and set myself to work to cheer him up. I
had a roaring fire made in the chimney, hunted up a
sutler, and paid ten dollars (Confederate) for enough
ground (alleged) coffee to make him a cup of hot
drink ; finally, invited myself to dine, and sent for a
double mess to be brought to me there. The colonel
thawed out completely under this process ; was friendly
and forgiving, and talked like a house afire. Politics
was the first topic ; then he gave me the whole history
of his life, at length and in detail ; how his father was a
rich merchant ; where he went to school and college ;
47O A CONFEDERATE IDYL.
and how and when he had gone into business with his
father ; how he had met and fallen in love with her in
'61, and married her on the 2oth of June, '62 ; of the
house built by his father and furnished by hers and
so forth and so on, until I might have thought he was
drunk if there had been a chance of his getting at any-
thing stronger than the (alleged) coffee.
" I bore it all like a saint or the narrator's wife
until dark. Then I ordered in a big heap of lightwood
knots to scare away the blue devils I was afraid might
return when I left, shook hands with the colonel and
hoped he might sleep well. His hands were hot and
dry, his eyes watery.
" ' I believe you have taken cold ! ' said I. ' I'll look
in after supper and see how you are getting on.'
" ' You are awfully good,' said he. ' Hold on a bit ! '
fumbling in his breast-pocket. ' I wouldn't show it to
another Grayback alive. But you have a man's heart,
by Jove ! and I want you to see what justification I
have for giving way as I did awhile ago. ' Tisn't like
me to give way, Mr. Crutchfield, I have myself in
excellent control, as a rule excellent! My wife's
picture, sir ! '
" It was set in a pocket-case of velvet and gold, and
painted on ivory, and as surely as he and I were stand-
ing together in that Heaven-forsaken mud-hole in the
wilderness, Lucy Deane's face was inside of that
frame ! "
Not a word was spoken in the barn-like room as
Crutchfield stooped for the tongs and a live coal to lay
on the fresh tobacco with which he filled his pipe. His
hand shook ; he drew strongly and quickly on the
stem, until the tobacco was ignited.
" I'm a rank fool I know. No man knows it better ;
for I am shivery and achey all over to this day, when
I recollect what shot through me as the glare of the
lightwood fell on that picture. I held it with both
hands to steady it for a fair look. Lucy's blue eyes
just the color of the summer sky, that was so fair
above us that August holiday. Lucy's hair, rippling
about her forehead and looking like a madonna's glory
in the sunshine. Lucy's small red mouth. Lucy's
smile ! Hadn't I got the whole inventory by heart
during the month I spent at the Seagate of heaven in
B Y MARION HARLAND. 471
1860 ? Having seen and talked with her on an average
four hours a day for thirty days, and dreamed of her
by night and day ever since, was it likely I should
make any mistake as to identity, yet I made certain of
this. Straightening myself up the bending down to-
ward the fire ha 1 cramptd me queerly I said :
" ' I could be sure I had seen this face before. It
reminds me of a young lady I met at Cape May in 1860.
By the way, she was from New Jersey, a Miss
Deane.'
" ' Good gracious, man ! why that was her ! Her
maiden name was Deane, and she used to spend a
month or so every summer at Cape May. I remember
hearing her tell of the splendid time she had that very
year. Of all the coincidences! '
" I got away somehow, 1 hope, decently. When I
found Rob Crutchfield again he was marching, like
a sentirrel, backward and forward, on the earthwork
surrounding the camp, saying over and over like a
befuddled donkey 'Of all the coincidences! of all
the coincidences ! '
" I had so few wits left that I could have sworn I
smelt heliotrope the spiced vanilla scent it gives out
in a warm room when beginning to droop in a woman's
belt or hand. I understood the illusion in another
minute. Somebody somewhere was whistling ' The
Blue Danube Waltz.' It sounded like a funeral march
where I was. The wet pine tops complained together
on one side of me ; on the other the camp lights
twinkled through the drizzle like drowning lightning
bugs. A burying ground with a dozen new graves
gaping for tenants would have been cheerful by com-
parison with my location and the morgue that was a
young man's heart two or three hours ago. Mad with
pain I rushed down the earthwork and through the
mud and fog to the barracks. The door was wide
open ; that was the reason I heard the whistle so
plainly. A broad streak of lurid light struck through
the fine, close rain, and turned the puddles to blood.
My prisoner was sitting on the block of wood that
served him for a chair in front of the fire, on which he
had piled all the lightwood at once, whistling as for a
wager of ten thousand dollars (hard money or green-
backs) a side.
472 A CONFEDERATE IDYL.
" I shook him by the shoulder.
"' Stop that infernal racket ! '
" He laughed foolishly, hugged his knees with his
locked arms.
" Why, that's Lucy's favorite waltz. You ought to
hear her play it once. Lucy's a capital performer on
the piano. Beats Herz and Liszt and the rest of the*
professionals all hollow ! '
" He was crazy with fever. I called in an orderly and
between us we got him to bed, then the orderly ran for
the surgeon.
"'In for pneumonia' was his opinion that night.
' Likely to be a bad case, too ! '
" By ten o'clock next morning he had a different
tale to tell.
" ' You've done it for yourself, this time, young man,'
he said, just as that rascally lieutenant had done.
' Here's the devil to pay. You've drawn a white
elephant with a vengeance. This is small-pox 1 And
you've stayed with him all night ! You may be a
Christian. You are certainly a confounded greenhorn.
What's this Yank to you that you should run the risk
of spoiling your manly beauty or' with a savage
growl ' what is more to the purpose, of depriving the
Confederate army of a capital scout ? This is what
comes of your blamed officiousness. I have a great
mind to send you to the guard-house.'
" You never saw a madder man, nor one more
disgusted. You might have thought that I had
manufactured the patient and his disease, or imported
both with malice prepense.
" I stood stupefied, staring at the inflamed face and
glassy eyes on the corn-shuck pillow. It was lumpy,
and he rolled his head uneasily.
"'What is this man to me?' I repeated. 'My
enemy, Doctor! There's no doubt about that !' and,
stuttering along, by mechanical memory of good
words my mother taught me when a boy, ' My enemy !
sick and in prison and athirst ! So I'll give him drink
and stay here and take care of him. As you say, I'm
in for it and may as well take my chances here as
in the guard-house.'
"They quarantined us, of course, and I had in
addition the pleasant consciousness that everybody
B Y MARION HARLAND. 473
held me responsible for bringing that much dreaded
plague into the camp, and echoed the doctor's
curses upon my officiousness. For three weeks I
touched no human hand except the patient's, the
doctor's and that of the orderly, who had helped me
put Judson to bed the night he was taken ill. The
fellow had, luckily, had the small-pox. For the time
this circumstance was the only ray of light I could
discern upon present and future.
" No, gentlemen ! " For there was audible movement
of sympathv and admiration " there was nothing noble
or commendable in my action. I simply did not care
at that time whether 1 lived or died. Sometimes, on
nights, when I sat up alone with the frightful object
his wife wouldn't have known for the superb Hercules
she had married, the deadened heart within me would
warm and stir under the thought that she might owe
his life to me ; that I could do this one thing for her ;
that if she hadn't forgotten me utterly, she might even
guess that I had tended him, not as a Christian should
the creature made in the image of their common Cre-
ator, but for her sake. It wasn't a lofty motive. It
may not have been an honorable or a manly impulse,
but I submit that it was a natural and powerful one.
With me it prevailed over loathing and selfish ease and
loneliness, kept me from flinching when things were at
their worst. I never knew how love for that girl had
grown into, and wound roots about every fibre of my
being, until the horrid ordeal of those three weeks
tested it.
" There was a brisk skirmish that came near being
a general engagement while we were shut off from
the world. The camp I had entered was surprised by
night, and after some hours fighting, the Federals were
driven back to a position more comfortable for them
and for us. Our men had the longed-for chance to set
their shoulders against the locked door, and it went
down under the rush. The commanding general sent
me a kind note the next morning, acknowledging the
important service I had rendered the government and
army, by the valuable information I had secured in
my brilliant and daring exploit. I read it at Judson's
bedside, and threw it into the fire. I was very low of
heart that day.
474 A CONFEDERATE IDYL.
" Last week I saw my three-year old boy, when 3
plaything that wasn't his was taken from him, dash
himself on the floor, and holloa and kick at the offer of
another and a better toy. If he couldn't have what he
had set his heart and head on, he wanted nothing, and
looked upon even his mother's comforting as an insult.
I thought at the time that I knew just how he felt. I
was hardly more than a boy when I ate my Sunday
dinner in the prison barracks, and amiably swallowed
my yawns, as Colonel G. W. Judson spun love and
political yarns. I came out of my month's quarantine
grave, steady and unhopeful. 1 had been badly hurt.
When the right eye is plucked out, or the right hand
struck off, the nervous system feels the jar long after
the wound has healed up.
" For two weeks it had been an even chance with a
slight tilt on the wrong side, whether my man lived or
died. In all these fourteen days he had not a lucid
moment, and all the time he was whistling or going
through the motions.
" You may laugh, but it was the most drearsome
thing you can conceive of. His eyes were swollen
shut, his lips were parched and black, but he pursed
them together for waltzes, psalm-tunes, negro melodies,
marches, quicksteps, sonatas and ' movements,' by the
score and hundred, a maddening, diabolical medley,
until I thought he'd whistle away his immortal soul.
He never held up, except when he was asleep, until the
fever in going off, left him too weak to do so much
as a bar of ' Yankee Doodle.'
" He was just able to travel when we broke camp in
March and fell back to Richmond. In April there was
an exchange of prisoners, and I strained all the poor
influence I possessed to have him included. He was
wonderfully little disfigured by the disease I suppose
because he war too busy whistling to tear at his face
with his nails. We had a capital surgeon, too. as skil-
ful as he was rough spoken, and he had used every pos-
sible means to save the colonel's good looks. When I
parted with him at the Richmond depot, saw the tears
in his eyes, and heard his voice break as he said ' fare-
well,' I thanked God, fervently, thnt since the infec-
tion was in his veins before I met and took him pris-
oner, he had been given into my hands, I had nursed
BY MARION HARLAND.
475
him as I would my brother for his wife's sake. That
he would never know and I never forget. He was
very grateful. There was never a better-hearted fel-
low.
"' As I had to be sick among strangers, its deuced
lucky you happened to get hold of me,' were his last
words. ' But for you, my poor girl would be a widow
instead of expecting her husband home. I shall never
forget your goodness and shall love you forever when
I've told her all about it.'
" In damp weather, the maimed limb aches and
throbs. The neuralgic twinges of thought went through
me, as he said that. The reflection that once and
not so long ago that was not the argument I had
hoped to use to win Lucy Deane to love me forever.
"This was in the spring of '64. In April '65, I went
home for good and all, with a pass signed by U. S.
Grant, U. S. A., in my pocket.
" In May, I received a letter from Judson, directed to
my father's care. He had, this stated, written to me
several times by flag of truce, but I had not heard from
him since our parting, a year before. He was sure
this would reach me if 1 were alive, and he desired to
put his purse, house and business influence at my
service. There was a flourish of compassionate patron-
age throughout the epistle that sat ill upon the stomach
of a defeated rebel, but the honest good-will and sin-
cere gratitude of the writer were yet more apparent.
"The last page was written by a woman, I saw that
as I turned the leaf, and I had to lay the letter on the
table to read the rest, so severe was the remembered
and familiar neuralgic twinge. All women write pretty
much alike nowadays, and what I call the "hickory
splint hand." I had two or three notes trom Lucy
Deane in reply to invitations, gifts of flowers and
the like, and recognized the chirography at once.
" ' My Dear Mr. Crutchfield ' it began ' although
I never had the great pleasure of meeting you in
person, I must call you a dear friend, because you
were so good to my darling husband.'
"I declare to you, gentlemen, that was the worst cut
of all a savage jagged tear with a rusty blade. I was
as a dead man, out of mind with the only woman I had
ever loved the woman for whom
476 A CONFEDERATE IDYL.
" I got up and stamped about the floor like one
demented. Up to that instant I had kept my respect for
her if she had married a handsome, rich gas-bag. She
was never bound to me, although she must have known
that I loved her, and no girl ever forgets the man who
has once made love to her. But to disown our acquaint-
anceship, perhaps because her darling husband was to
read what she wrote to the dear friend who had been
so good to him was worse than ungrateful. It was
unwomanly. Ah, well ! I had worshipped my ideal
that was all. Now let us see what the real Lucy
Deane Judson had to say further.
"It was a neat cut-and-dried note, commonplace to
the last degree of inaneness, dotted with adjectives of
gratitude and endearment, stuck in with the regularity
of the pins in ' Welcome, Little Stranger ! ' on a baby's
pincushion. It was signed ' L. D. Judson.' The
signature set the tombstone above my dead-and-buried
love.
" I was folding up the letter a sadder and a cured
man when I espied a postscript squeezed into the
margin at the side and top of the first page:
" ' My favorite sister Lucy, who remembers with great pleasure
her former delightful acquaintance with you at dear Cape May,
sends her kind regards. My blessed George says you thought
my picture very like her. She is ever so much prettier than
' Yours gratefully
LAURA D. J V
The narrative was broken short by round after
round of applause from hands and feet. The only
bachelor of the party jumped upon a chair and waved
his pipe above his head, huzzahing lustily. When
comparative silence was restored, Crutchfield rapped
out the dead ashes from the bowl of his " Powhatan "
upon the hearthstone ; arose, glad and benignant, bow-
ing his thanks.
"Gentlemen, my friends, one and all, we return to
town day after to-morrow. On that evening I hope to
see each member of this goodly company at my dinner-
table. Mrs. Crutchfield resembles her sister, George
Washington Judson's wife, in one respect, she is
always happy to claim her husband's friends as her
Transcendental Wild Oats,
BY
LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
LOUISA MAY ALCOTT.
LOUISA MAY ALCOTT was the daughter of Amos Bron-
son Alcott, and his wife, Abagail May. She was born
at Germantown, Pa., on the thirty-third anniversary of
her father's birth, November 29, 1832. When she was
eight years of age she became a resident of Concord,
Mass., where she spent the greater portion of her life.
Her instructors were her father and mother, and
Henry Thoreau. Mr. Alcott was a famous teacher,
abolitionist, and intimate friend of Emerson's. He
did not join the Brook Farm community, but in
1843 started a similar colony at Fruitlands, Harvard,
Mass. The life of the family while there is described
in " Transcendental Wild Oats," the story which Miss
Alcott selected for this volume in February, 1888,
shortly before her death. On their return to Concord
they lived at the cottage called " The Wayside," after-
ward purchased by Hawthorne. Subsequently they
resided at " The Orchards."
Miss Alcott wrote her first poem when she was eight
years old, and her first book, called " Flower Fables "
was published in 1855. Meanwhile she wrote a great
number of short stories for various periodicals. Her
first novel, called " Moods," was severely criticised.
She taught school, was a governess for a time, and
kept at her pen work continuously. When the war
broke out she went to Washington and became a hos-
pital nurse. Overworking, she fell a victim to typhoid
ever, and came near to death. She recovered, but
never was entirely well again. Her second book
related her experiences as a nurse, and was called
; Hospital Sketches."
In 1867 she published " Little Women," her most
famous book, and two years later issued " An Old
Fashioned Girl." Her third work was " Little Men,"
which had nearly as great a success. This latter book
483
484 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT.
was written in Rome, during a second foreign tour
made by Miss Alcott ; her first journey was under-
taken in 1865, in company with an invalid lady with
whom she went as a companion. Of her later works,
" Aunt Jo's Scrap Bag " (in six volumes) ; " Work, a
Story of Experience " ; " Eight Cousins " ; " Rose in
Bloom " ; " Under the Lilacs " ; " Proverb Stories " ;
" Spinning-Wheel Stories " ; and " Lulu's Library,"
are equally popular. Her great success as an author
enabled her to provide generously for her aged father
whose writings were not as successful as his daugh-
ter's and to do a great deal of good in many direc-
tions.
Personally, Miss Alcott was a noble woman, well
educated and cultivated. Her associations from her
childhood were with a circle of rarely-gifted men and
women, and she enjoyed the life-long friendship of Mr.
Emerson. She made a fortune from her writings, and
dispensed it with generous hand. Her devotion to
her kindred was a beautiful trait in her character. She
once said that her destiny, it seemed to her, was to fill
the gaps in life : she had been a wife to her father ; a
mother to the orphaned daughter of her sister May,
while still daughter and sister and friend as well. In
her girlhood and youth she was a devoted daughter to
her mother, whose hard struggle to rear her children
and maintain the home she fully realized, and when
she was no more needed by her family, she helped
public movements and individuals as long as she lived.
Miss Alcott did more than any other American woman
to elevate the juvenile literature of her day, and when
she died, February 29, the day after the death of her
venerable father, her country people mourned as for a
familiar friend, whose like they should no more greet
in literature for the young.
TRANSCENDENTAL WILD OATS.
ON the first day of June, 184-, a large wagon drawn
by a small horse and containing a motley load, went
lumbering over certain New Phigland hills, with the
pleasing accompaniments of wind, rain, and hail. A
serene man with a serene child upon his knee was
driving, or rather being driven, for the small horse had
it all his own way. A brown boy with a William Penn
style of countenance sat beside him, firmly embracing
a oust of Socrates. Behind them was an energetic-
looking woman, with a benevolent brow, satirical
mouth, and eyes brimful of hope and courage. A
baby reposed upon her lap, a mirror leaned against her
knee, and a basket of provisions danced about her
feet, as she struggled with a large, unruly umbrella.
Two blue-eyed little girls, with hands full of childish
treasures, saf under one old shawl, chatting happily
together.
In front of this lively party stalked a tall, sharp-
featured man, in a long blue cloak ; and a fourth small
girl trudged along beside him through the mud as if
she rather enjoyed it.
The wind whistled over the bleak hills ; the rain fell
in a despondent drizzle, and twilight began to fall.
But the calm man gazed as tranquilly into the fog as if
he beheld a radiant bow of promise spanning the gray
sky. The cheery woman tried to cover every one but
herself with the big umbrella. The brown boy pil-
lowed his head on the bald pate of Socrates and slum-
bered peacefully. The little girls sang lullabies to
their dolls in soft, maternal murmurs. The sharp-
nosed pedestrian marched steadily on, with the blue
cloak streaming out behind him like a banner; and the
lively infant splashed through the puddles with a duck-
like satisfaction pleasant to behold.
Thus the modern pilgrims journeyed hopefully out
485
486 TRANSCENDENTAL WILD OATS.
of the old world, to found a new one in the wilder-
ness.
The editors of the " Transcendental Tripod " had
received from Messrs. Lion and Lamb (two of the
aforesaid pilgrims) a communication from which the
following statement is an extract ;
"We have made arrangements with the proprietor of
an estate of about a hundred acres which liberates this
tract from human ownership. Here we shall prosecute
our effort to initiate a Family in harmony with the
primitive instincts of man.
" Ordinary secular farming is not our object. Fruit,
grain, pulse, herbs, flax, and other vegetable products,
receiving assiduous attention, will afford ample manual
occupation, and chaste supplies for the bodily needs.
It is intended to adorn the pastures with orchards, and
to supersede the labor of cattle by the spade and prun-
ing-knife.
"Consecrated to human freedom, the land awaits
the sober culture of devoted men. Beginning with
small pecuniary means, this enterprise must be rooted
in a reliance on the succors of an ever-bounteous Prov-
idence, whose vital affinities being secured by this
union with uncorrupted fields and unworldly persons,
the cares and injuries of a life of gain are avoided.
" The inner nature of each member of the Family is
at no time neglected. Our plan contemplates all such
disciplines, cultures, and habits as evidently conduce
to the purifying of the inmates.
" Pledged to the spirit alone, the founders anticipate
no hasty or numerous addition to their numbers. The
kingdom of peace is entered only through the gates of
self-denial ; and felicity is the test and the reward of
loyalty to the unswerving law of love."
This prospective Eden at present consisted of an
old red farm-house, a dilapidated barn, many acres of
meadow-land, and a grove. Ten ancient apple-trees
were all the "chaste supply," which the place offered
as yet; but in the firm belief that plenteous orchards
were soon to be evoked from their inner consciousness,
these sanguine founders had christened their domain
Fruitlands.
Here Timon Lion intended to found a colony of
Latter Day saints, who, under his patriarchal
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT. 487
sfcould regenerate the world and glorify his name for-
ever. Here Abel Lamb, with the devoutest faith in
the high ideal which was to him a living truth, desired
to plant a Paradise, where Beauty, Virtue, Justice and
Love might live happily together, without the possibil-
ity of a serpent entering in. And here his wife, uncon-
verted but faithful to the end, hoped, after many
wanderings over the face of the earth, to find rest for
herself and a home for her children.
"There is our new abode," announced the enthu-
siast, smiling with a satisfaction quite undamped by the
drops dripping from his hat-brim, as they turned at
length into a cart path that wound along a steep hill-
side into a barren-looking valley.
'* A little difficult of access," observed his practical
wife, as she endeavored to keep her various household
gods from going overboard with every lurch of the
laden ark.
" Like all good things. But those who earnestly
desire, and patiently seek will soon find us," placidly
responded the philosopher from the mud, through
which he was now endeavoring to pilot the much-
enduring horse.
"Truth lies at the bottom of a well, Sister Hope,"
said Brother Timon, pausing to detach his small com-
rade from a gate, whereon she was perched for a
clearer gaze into futurity.
"That's the reason we so seldom get at it, I sup-
pose," replied Mrs. Hope, making a vain clutch at the
mirror, which a sudden jolt sent flying out of her
hands.
" We want no false reflections here," said Timon,
with a grim smile, as he crunched the fragments under
foot in his onward march.
Sister Hope held her peace, and looked wistfully
through the mist at her promised home. The old red
house with a hospitable glimmer at its windows cheered
her eyes ; and considering the weather, was a fitter
refuge than the sylvan bowers some of the more ardent
souls might have preferred.
The new-comers were welcomed by one of the elect
precious a regenerate farmer, whose ideas of reform
consisted chiefly in wearing white cotton raiment and
shoes of untanned leather. This costume with a
488 TRANSCENDENTAL WILD OATS.
snov.-y beard, gave him a venerable, and at the same
time a somewhat bridal appearance.
The goods and chattels of the society not having
arrived, the weary family reposed before the fire on
blocks of wood, while Brother Moses White regaled
them on roasted potatoes, brown bread and water, in
two plates, a tin pan, and one mug; his table service
being limited. But, having cast the forms and vanities
of a depraved world behind them, the elders welcomed
hardship with the enthusiasm of new pioneers, and the
children heartily enjoyed this foretaste of what they
believed was to be a sort of perpetual picnic.
During the progress of this frugal meal, two more
brothers appeared. One, a dark, melancholy man,
clad in homespun, whose peculiar mission was to turn
his name hind part before and use as few words as
possible. The other was a blond, bearded English-
man, who expected to be saved by eating uncooked
food and going without clothes. He had not yet
adopted the primitive costume, however; but con-
tented himself with meditatively chewing dry beans out
of a basket.
" Every meal should be a sacrament, and the vessels
used should be beautiful and symbolical," observed
Brother Lamb, mildly, righting the tin pan slipping
about on his knees. " I priced a silver service when in
town, but it was too costly ; so I got some graceful
cups and vases of Britannia ware."
" Hardest things in the world to keep bright. Will
whiting be allowed in the community?" inquired
Sister Hope, with a housewife's interest in labor-sav-
ing institutions.
"Such trivial questions will be discussed at a more
fitting time," answered Brother Timon, sharply, as he
burnt his fingers with a very hot potato. "Neither
sugar, molasses, milk, butter, cheese, nor flesh are to
be used among us, for nothing is to be admitted which
has caused wrong or death to man or beast."
"Our garments are to be linen till we learn to raise
our own cotton or some substitute for woolen fabrics,"
added Brother Abel, blissfully basking in an imaginary
future as warm and brilliant as the generous fire be-
fore him.
B Y LOUISA M. jic'rrr. 489
" Haou abaout shoes ? " as'^d I*rv>v" Moses, sur-
veying his own with interest.
"We must yield that point till we cap manufacture
an innocent substitute for leather. B?.rk, wood, or
some durable fabnc will be invented in time. Mean-
while, those who <iesire to cany out our idea to the
fullest extent can go barefooted, 1 ' said Lion, who liked
extreme measures.
" I never will, nor let my girls/' murmured rebellious
Sister Hope, unaei her breath."
" Haow clo you cattie'ate to treat the ten-acre lot ?
Ef things ain't 'tended to right smart, we shan't hev no
crops," observed the practical patriarch in cotton.
" We shall spade it," replied Abel, in such perfect
good faith that Moses said no more, though he in-
dulged in a shake of the head as he glanced at hands
that had held nothing heavier than a pen for years.
He was a paternal old soul, and regarded the younger
men as promising boys on a new sort of lark.
"What shall we do for lamps, if we cannot use any
animal substance ? I do hope light of some sort is to
be thrown npon the enterprise," said Mrs. Lamb with
anxiety, for in those days kerosene and camphene were
not, and gas was unknown in the wilderness.
"We shall go without till we have discovered some
vegetable oil or wax to serve us," replied Brother
Timon, in a decided tone, which caused Sister Hope
to resolve that her private lamp should always be
trimmed, if not burning.
" Each member is to perform the work for which
experience, strength and taste best fit him," continued
Dictator Lion. " Thus drudgery and disorder will be
avoided and harmony prevail. We shall rise at dawn,
begin the day by bathing, followed by music, and then
a chaste repast of fruit and bread. Each one finds
congenial occupation until the meridian meal, when
some deep-searching conversation gives rest to the
body and development to the mind. Healthful labor
again engages us till the last meal, when we assemble
in social communion prolonged till sunset, when we
retire to sweet repose, ready for the next day's activ-
ity.''
" What part of the work do you incline to yourself ? "
490 TRANSCENDENTAL WILD OATS.
asked Sister Hope, with a humorous glimmer in her
keen eyes.
" I shall wait till it is made clear to me. Being in
preference to doing is the great aim, and this comes to
us rather by a resigned willingness than a wilful activ-
ity, which is a check to all divine growth," responded
Brother Timon.
" I thought so." And Mrs. Lamb sighed audibly,
for during the year he had spent in her family, Brothel
Timon had so faithfully carried out his idea of " being,
not doing " that she had found his "divine growth"
both an expensive and unsatisfactory process.
Here her husband struck into the conversation, his
face shining with the light and joy of the splendid
dreams and high ideals hovering before him.
" In these steps of reform, we do not rely so much
on scientific reasoning, or physiological skill as on the
spirit's dictates. The greater part of man's duty con-
sists in leaving alone much that he now does. Shall
I stimulate with tea, coffee, or wine ? No. Shall I
consume flesh ? Not if I value health. Shall I sub-
jugate cattle ? Shall I claim property in any created
thing ? Shall I trade ? Shall I adopt a form of relig-
ion ? Shall I interest myself in politics ? To how
many of these questions, could we ask them deeply
enough and could they be heard as having relation
to our eternal welfare would the response be
' Abstain ? ' "
A mild snore seemed to echo the last word of Abel's
rhapsody, for Brother Moses had succumbed to mundane
slumber and sat nodding like a massive ghost. Forest
Absalom, the silent man, and John Pease, the English
member, now departed to the barn ; and Mrs. Lamb
led her flock to a temporary fold, leaving the founders
of the " Consociate Family ; ' to build castles in the air
till the fire went out and the symposium ended in
smoke.
The furniture arrived next day, and was soon be-
stowed ; for the principal property of the community
consisted in books. To this rare library was devoted
the best room in the house, and the few busts and
pictures that still survived many flittings were added
to beautify the sanctuary, for here the family was to
meet for amusement, instruction, and worship.
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT. 491
Any housewife can imagine the emotions of Sister
Hope, when she took possession of a large, dilapidated
kitchen, containing an old stove and the peculiar
stores out of which food was to be evolved for her
little family of eleven. Cakes of maple sugar, dried
peas and beans, barley and hominy, meal of all sorts,
potatoes and dried fruits. No milk, butter, cheese,
tea, or meat appeared. Even salt was considered a
useless luxury and spice entirely forbidden by these
lovers of Spartan simplicity. A ten years' experience
of vegetarian vagaries had been good training for this
new freak, and her sense of the ludicrous supported
her through many trying scenes.
Unleavened bread, porridge and water for break-
fast ; bread, vegetables and water for dinner ; bread,
fruit and water for supper was the bill of fare
ordained by the elders. No tea-pot profaned that
sacred stove, no gory steak cried aloud for vengeance
from her chaste gridiron ; and only a brave woman's
taste, time and temper were sacrificed on that domestic
altar.
The vexed question of light was settled by buying a
quantity of bayberry wax for candles; and, on discov-
ering that no one knew how to make them, pine knots
were introduced, to be used when absolutely necessary.
Being summer, the evenings were not long, and the
weary fraternity found it no great hardship to retire
with the birds. The inner light was sufficient for most
of them ; but Mrs. Lamb rebelled. Evening was the
only time she had to herself, and while the tired feet
rested, the skilful hands mended torn frocks and little
stockings, or anxious heart forgot its burdens in a
book.
So "mother's lamp" burnt steadily, while the philos-
ophers built a new heaven and earth by moonlight ;
and through all the metaphysical mists and philan-
thropic pyrotechnics of that period Sister Hope played
her own little game of " throwing light," and none but
the moths were the worse for it.
Such farming was probably never seen before since
Adam delved. The band of brothers began by spad-
ing garden and field ; but a few days of it lessened
their ardor amazingly. Blistered hands and aching
backs suggested the expediency of permitting the use
492 TRANSCENDENTAL WILD OATS.
of cattle till the workers were better fitted for noble
toil by a summer of the new life.
Brother Moses brought a yoke of oxen from his farm
at least, the philosophers thought so till it was dis-
covered that one of the animals was a cow ; and
Moses confessed that he " must be let down easy, for
he couldn't live on garden sarse entirely."
Great was Dictator Lion's indignation at this lapse
from virtue. But time pressed, the work must be
done ; so the meek cow was permitted to wear the
yoke and the recreant brother continued to enjoy for-
bidden draughts in the barn, which dark proceeding
caused the children to regard him as one set apart for
destruction.
The sowing was equally peculiar, for owing to some
mistake, the three brethren who devoted themselves to
this graceful task, found when about half through the
job that each had been sowing a different sort of grain
in the same field ; a mistake which caused much per-
plexity as it could not be remedied ; but, after a long
consultation, and a good deal of laughter, it was de-
cided to say nothing and see what would come of it.
The garden was planted with a generous supply of
useful roots and herbs; but, as manure was not
allowed to profane the virgin soil, few of these vege-
table treasures ever came up. Purslane reigned su-
preme, and the disappointed planters ate it philosophi-
cally, deciding that Nature knew what was best for
them, and would generously supply their needs, if they
could only learn to digest her "sallets" and wild roots.
The orchard was laid out, a little grafting done, new
trees and vines set, regardless of the unfit season and
entire ignorance of the husbandmen, who honestly be-
lieved that in the autumn they would reap a bounteous
harvest.
Slowly things got into order, and rapidly rumors
of the new experiment went abroad, causing many
strange spirits to flock thither, for in those days com-
munities were the fashion and transcendentalism raged
wildly. Some came to look on and laugh, some to be
supported in poetic idleness, a few to believe sincerely
and work heartily. Each member was allowed to
mount his favorite hobby, and ride it to his heart's
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT. 493
content. Very queer were some of the riders, and
very rampant some of the hobbies.
One youth, believing that language was of little con-
sequence if the spirit was only right, startled new-
comers by blandly greeting them with "Good-morning,
damn you," and other remarks of an equally mixed
order. A second irrepressible being held that all the
emotions of the soul should be freely expressed, and
illustrated his theory by antics that would have sent
him to a lunatic asylum, if as an unregererate wag
said, he had not already been in one. When his spirit
soared, he climbed trees and shouted ; when doubt
assailed him, he lay upon the floor and groaned
lamentably. At joyful periods he raced, leaped and
sang; when sad, he wept aloud; and when a great
thought burst upon him in the watches of the night he
crowed like a jocund cockerel, to the great delight of
the children and the great annoyance of the elders.
One musical brother fiddled whenever so moved, sang
sentimentally to the four little girls, and put a music-
box on the wall when he hoed corn.
Brother Pease ground away at his uncooked food,
or browsed over the farm on sorrel, mint, green fruit,
and new vegetables. Occasionally he took his walk
abroad, airily attired in an unbleached cotton poncho,
which was the nearest approach to the primeval cos-
tume he was allowed to indulge in. At midsummer
he retired to the wilderness, to try his plan where the
woodchucks were without prejudices and huckleberry
bushes were hospitably full. A sunstroke unfortu-
nately spoilt his plan, and he returned to semi-civiliza-
tion a sadder and a wiser man.
Forest Absalom preserved his Pythagorean silence,
cultivated his fine dark locks, and worked like r.
beaver, setting an excellent example of brotherly lo\v,
justice and fidelity by his upright life. He it was who
helped overworked Sister Hope with her heavy washes,
kneaded the endless succession of batches of bread,
watched over the children, and did the many tasks left
undone by the brethren who were so busy discussing
and defining great duties that they forgot to perform
the small ones.
Moses White patiently plodded about, "chorin'
raound," as he called it, looking like an old-time patri-
494 TRANSCENDENTAL WILD OATS.
arch, with his silver hair and flowing beard, and saving
the community from many a mishap by his thrift and
Yankee shrewdness.
Brother Lion domineered over the whole concern ;
for, having put the most money into the speculation,
he was determined to make it pay as if anything
founded on an ideal basis could be expected to do so
by any but enthusiasts.
Abel Lamb simply revelled in the Newness, firmly
believing that his dream was to be beautifully realized,
and in time, not only a little Fruitlands, but the whole
earth be turned into a Happy Valley. He worked
with every muscle of his body, for he was in deadly
earnest. He taught with his whole head and heart ;
planned and sacrificed, preached and prophesied, with
a soul full of the purest aspirations, most unselfish pur-
poses, and desires for a life devoted to God and man,
too high and tender to bear the rough usage of this
world.
It was a little remarkable that only one woman ever
joined this community. Mrs. Lamb merely followed
wherever her husband led, " as ballast for his bal-
loon," as she said in her bright way.
Miss Jane Gage was a stout lady of mature years,
sentimental, amiable and lazy. She wrote verse
copiously, and had vague yearnings and graspings
after the unknown, which led her to believe herself
fitted for a higher sphere than any she had yet
adorned.
Having been a teacher, she was set to instructing
the children in the common branches. Each adult
member took a turn at the infants ; and, as each taught
in his own way, the result was a chronic state of chaos
in the minds of these much afflicted innocents.
Sleep, food and poetic musings, were the desires of
dear Jane's life, and she shirked all duties as clogs
upon her spirit's wings. Any thought of lending a
hand with the domestic drudgery, never occurred to
her; and when to the question, "Are there any beasts
of burden on the place ? " Mrs. Lamb answered, with
a face that told its own tale, " Only one woman ! " the
buxom Jane took no shame to herself, but laughed at
the joke, and let the stout-hearted sister tug on alone.
Unfortunately, the poor lady hankered after the
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
495
flesh-pots, and endeavored to stay herself with private
sips of milk, crackers, and cheese, and on one dire
occasion she partook of fish at a neighbor's table.
One of the children reported this sad lapse from
virtue, and poor Jane was publicly reprimanded by
Timon.
"I only took a little bit of the tail," sobbed the
penitent poetess.
"Yes, but the whole fish had to be tortured and
slain that you might tempt your carnal appetite with
one taste of the tail. Know ye not, consumers of flesh
meat, that ye are nourishing the wolf and tiger in your
bosoms ? "
At this awful question and the peal of laughter that
arose from some of the younger brethren, tickled by
the ludicrous contrast between the stout sinner, the
stern judge, and the naughty satisfaction of the young
detective, poor Jane fled from the room to pack her
trunk, and return to a world where fishes' tails were
not forbidden fruit.
Transcendental wild oats were sown broadcast that
year, and the fame thereof has not ceased in the land ;
for, futile as this crop seemed to outsiders, it bore an
invisible harvest, worth much to those who planted in
earnest. As none of the members of this particular
community have ever recounted their experiences be-
fore, a few of them may not be amiss, since the inter-
est in these attempts has never died out and Fruitlands
was the most ideal of all these castles in Spain.
A new dress was invented, since cotton, silk and
wool were forbidden as the product of slave-labor,
worm-slaughter, and sheep-robbery. Tunics and
trowsers of brown linen were the only wear. The
women's skirts were longer, and their straw hat-brims
wider than the men's, and this was the only difference.
Some persecution lent a charm to the costume, and
the long-haired linen-clad reformers quite enjoyed the
mild martyrdom they endured when they left home.
Money was abjured as the root of all evil. The prod-
uce of the land was to supply most of their wants, or
to be exchanged for the few things they could not
grow. This idea had its inconveniences; but self-
denial was the fashion, and it was surprising how many
things one could do without. When they desired to
'496 TRANSCENDENTAL WILD OATS.
travel they walked, if possible, begged the loan of a
vehicle, or boldly entered car or coach, and, stating
their principles to the officials, took the consequences.
Usually their dress, their earnest frankness, and gentle
resolution won them a passage ; but now and then they
met with hard usage, and had the satisfaction of suffer-
ing for their principles.
On one of these penniless pilgrimages they took
passage on a boat, and, when fare was demanded, art-
lessly offered to talk instead of pay. As the boat was
well under way and they actually had not a cent, there
was no help for it. So Brothers Lion and Lamb held
forth to the assembled passengers in their most elo-
quent style. There must have been something effec-
tive in this conversation, for the listeners were moved
to take up a contribution for these inspired lunatics,
who preached peace on earth and good-will to man so
earnestly, with empty pockets. A goodly sum was col-
lected ; but when the captain presented it the re-
formers proved that they were consistent even in their
madness, for not a penny would they accept, saying,
with a look at the group about them, whose indiffer-
ence or contempt had changed to interest and respect,
" You see how well we get on without money ; " and
so went serenely on their way, with their linen blouses
flapping airily in the cold October wind.
They preached vegetarianism everywhere and re-
sisted all temptations of the flesh, contentedly eating
apples and bread at well-spread tables, and much
afflicting hospitable hostesses by denouncing their
food and taking away their appetites, discussing the
" horrors of shambles," the " incorporation of the
brute in man," and "on elegant abstinence the sign
of a pure soul." But, when the perplexed or offended
ladies asked what they should eat, they got in reply a
bill of fare consisting of " bowls of sunrise for break-
fast," " solar seeds of the sphere," " dishes from
Plutarch's chaste table," and other viands equally
hard to find in any modern market.
Reform conventions of all sorts were haunted by
these brethren, who said many wise things and did
many foolish ones. Unfortunately, these wanderings
interfered with their harvests at home; but the rule
was to do what the spirit moved, so they left their
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT. 497
crops to Providence, and went a-reaping in wider, and,
let us hope, more fruitful fields than their own.
Luckily the earthly Providence who watched over
Abel Lamb was at hand to glean the scanty crop
yielded by the " uncorrupted land " which, " conse-
crated to human freedom," had received " the sober
culture of devout men."
About the time the grain was ready to house, some
call of the Oversoul wafted all the men away. An
easterly storm was coming up and the yellow stacks
were sure to be ruined. Then Sister Hope gathered
her forces. Three little girls, one boy (Timon's son),
and herself, harnessed to clothes-baskets and Russia-
linen sheets, were the only teams she could command ;
but with these poor appliances the indomitable woman
got in the grain and saved food for her young, with
the instinct and energy of a mother-bird with a brood
of hungry nestlings to feed.
This attempt at regeneration had its tragic as well
as its comic side, though the world saw only the
former.
With the first frosts, the butterflies, who had sunned
themselves in the new light through the summer, took
flight, leaving the few bees to see what honey they had
stored for winter use. Precious little appeared beyond
the satisfaction of a few months of holy living. At
first it seemed as if a chance of holy dying also was to
be offered them. Timon, much disgusted with the
failure of the scheme, decided to retire to the Shakers,
who seemed to be the only successful community
going.
" What is to become of us ? " asked Mrs. Hope, for
Abel was heart-broken at the bursting of his lovely
bubble.
"You can stay here, if you like, till a tenant is found.
No more wood must be cut however, and no more corn
ground. All I have must be sold to pay the debts of
the concern, as the responsibility rests with me," was
the cheering reply.
" Who is to pay us for what we have lost ? I gave
all I had furniture, time, strength, six months of my
children's lives, and all are wasted. Abel gave him-
self body and soul, and is almost wrecked by hard
work and disappointment. Are we to have no return
y,
498 TRANSCENDENTAL WILD OATS.
for this, but left to starve and freeze in an old house,
with winter at hand, no money, and hardly a friend
left, for this wild scheme has alienated nearly all we
had. You talk much about justice. Let us have a
little, since there is nothing else left."
But the woman's appeal met with no reply but the
old one : " It was an experiment. We all risked some-
thing, and must bear our losses as we can."
With this cold comfort, Timon departed with his
son, and was absorbed into the Shaker brotherhood,
where he soon found that the order of things was re-
versed, and it was all work and no play.
Then the tragedy began for the forsaken little
family. Desolation and despair fell upon Abel. As
his wife said, his new beliefs had alienated many
friends. Some thought him mad, some unprincipled.
Even the most kindly thought him a visionary, whom it
was useless to help till he took more practical views of
life. All stood aloof, saying, " Let him work out his
own ideas, and see what they are worth."
He had tried, but it was a failure. The world was
not ready for Utopia yet, and those who attempted to
found it got only laughed at for their pains. In other
days, men could sell all and give to the poor, lead lives
devoted to holiness and high thought, and, after the
persecution was over, find themselves honored as
saints or martyrs. But in modern times these things
are out of fashion. To live for one's principles, at all
costs, is a dangerous speculation ; and the failure of an
ideal, no matter how humane and noble, is harder for
the world to forgive and forget than bank robbery or
the grand swindles of corrupt politicians.
Deep waters now for Abel, and for a time there
seemed no passage through. Strength and spirits were
exhausted by hard work and too much thought. Cour-
age failed, when, looking about for help, he saw no
sympathizing face, no hand outstretched to help him,
no voice to say cheerily, " We all make mistakes, and
and it takes many experiences to shape a life. Try
again, and let us help you,"
Every door was closed, every eye averted, every
heart cold, and no way open wflereby he might earn
bread for his children. His principles would not per-
mit him to cjo many things that others did \ and in the
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
499
few fields where conscience would allow him to work,
who would employ a man who had flown in the face of
society as he had done ?
Then this dreamer, whose dream was the life of his
life, resolved to carry out his idea to the bitter end.
There seemed no place for him here, no work, no
friend. To go begging conditions was as ignoble as to
go begging money. Better perish of want than sell
one's soul for the sustenance of his body. Silently he
lay down upon his bed, turned his face to the wall, and
waited with pathetic patience for death to cut the knot
which he could not untie. Days and nights went by,
and neither food or water passed his lips. Soul and
body were dumbly struggling together, and no word of
complaint betrayed what either suffered. His wife,
when tears and prayers were unavailing, sat down to
wait the end with a mysterious awe and submission ;
for in this entire resignation of all things there was an
eloquent significance to her who knew him as no other
human being did.
"Leave all to 'God," was his belief; and, in this
crisis the loving soul clung to this faith, sure that the
All-wise Father would not desert this child who tried to
live so near to him. Gathering her children about her
she waited the issue of the tragedy that was being en-
acted in that solitary room, while the first snow fell out-
side untrodden by the footprints of a single friend.
But the strong angels who sustain and teach per-
plexed souls came and went, leaving no trace without,
but working miracles within. For, when all other
sentiments had faded into dimness, all other hopes
died utterly ; when the bitterness of death was nearly
over, when body was past any pang of hunger or
thirst, and soul stood ready to depart, the love that out-*
lives all else refused to die. Head had bowed to
defeat, hand had grown weary with heavy tasks, but
heart could not grow cold to those who lived in its ten-
der depths, even when death touched it.
"My faithful wife, my little girls, they have not for-
saken me, they are mine by ties that none can break.
What right have I to leave them alone ? what right to
escape from the burden and sorrow I have helped to
bring ? This duty remains to me, and I must do it
50O TRANSCEA'DENTAL WILD OATS.
manfully. For their sakes, the world will forgive me in
time ; for their sakes, God will sustain me now."
Too feeble to rise, Abel groped for the food that al-
ways lay within his reach, and in the darkness and soli-
tude of that memorable night, ate and drank what was
to him the bread and wine of a new communion, a new
dedication of heart and life to the duties that were left
him when the dreams fled.
In the early dawn, when that sad wife crept fearfully
to see what change had come to the patient face on the
pillow, she saw it smiling at her, and heard a feeble
voice cry out bravely, " Hope ! "
What passed in that little room is not to be recorded
except in the hearts of those who suffered and endured
much for love's sake. Enough for us to know that
soon the wan shadow of a man came forth, leaning on
the arm that never failed him, to be welcomed and
cherished by the children, who never forgot the experi-
ences of that time.
"Hope" was the watchword now; and while the last
log blazed on the hearth, the last bread and apples cov-
ered the table, the new commander, with recovered
courage, said to her husband,
" Leave all to God and me. He has done his part ;
now I will do mine."
u But we have no money, dear."
"Yes, we have. I sold all we could spare, and have
enough to take us away from this snow-bank."
" Where can we go ? "
" I have engaged four rooms at our good neighbor's,
Lovejoy. There we can live cheaply till spring. Then
for new plans, and a home of our own, please God."
" But, Hope, your little store won't last long, and we
have no friends."
" I can sew, and you can chop wood. Lovejoy offers
you the same pay as he gives his other men ; my old
friend, Mrs. Truman will send me all the work I want ;
and my blessed brother stands by us to the end.
Cheer up, dear heart, for while there is work and love
in the world we shall not suffer."
" And while I have my good angel, Hope, I shall not
despair, even if I wait another thirty years before I
step beyond the circle of the sacred little, world in
which I have still a place to fill."
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT. 50!
So one bleak December day, with their few pos-
sessions piled on an ox-sled, the rosy children perched
a-top, and the parents trudging arm in arm behind, the
exiles left their Eden and faced the world again.
" Ah, me ! my happy dream ! How much I leave be-
hind that can never be mine again," said Abel, looking
back at the lost Paradise, lying white and chill, in its
shroud of snow.
" Yes, dear ; but how much we bring away/' an-
swered brave-hearted Hope, glancing from husband
to children.
" Poor Fruitlands ! The name was as great a failure
as the rest ! " continued Abel, with a sigh, as a frost-
bitten apple fell from a leafless bough at his feet.
But the sigh changed to a smile, as his wife added, in
a half-tender, half-satirical tone,
" Don't you think that Apple Slump would be a bet-
ter name for it, dear?"
DAYE'S WIFE.
BY
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
m
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
ELLA WHEELER might be said to have suddenly ap-
peared upon the poetical horizon in her volume called
"Poems of Passion." Though not her first work it
was this which caused the public to realize that the far
western state of Wisconsin had produced a poetess of
surprising power and individuality. That it met with
severe criticism from many sources did not blind any
one to the fact that there was unusual force of ex-
pression and rhythmic beauty in the verses, whether
they approved of them or not. In fact the wonder
was, how this young girl had developed such powers of
fancy and imagination, and such command of metrical
composition, without apparently any special scholastic
cultivation, or even any social environment calculated
to favor such a precocious flow of sentiment.
Born in a prairie village, without influential friends,
or any personal knowledge of literary people ; unac-
quainted even with any editor or journalist, this young
girl found it impossible to resist the impulse to pour
out her youthful, immature thoughts, in rhymed meas-
ure. Her first verses, sent to the editor of the New
York Mercury were rejected, and with that proverbial
insight and inspiration which editors and publishers
fancy they possess, she was calmly advised to give up
her idea of becoming a poet.
But she viewed the situation differently, and con-
tinued to besiege the editorial sanctum with successive
poems, under different nom tie plumes, and finally with
success. But it was the Wavcrley Magazine which
first introduced her to the public under her own name.
Two small volumes, almost juvenile in their character
finally struggled into print. These were " Drops of
Water" and " Shells," the former mainly devoted to
enthusiastic pleas for temperance. Her next book was
a great improvement upon these, both in form and sub-
509
510 ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
ject. Her mind rapidly matured ; and by the time she
was eighteen, most of the " Poems of Passion " had
been composed if not published.
It was not long after this volume appeared, in May,
1883, that a very unusual testimonial was offered her in
the city of Milwaukee. A " benefit " for her had been
arranged by some of the leading citizens of that enter-
prising place. A member of the United States Senate
made a eulogistic address, and at its close he presented
to the fair young poetess a fancy basket, containing five
hundred dollars in brave gold pieces. Far more satis-
factory to her, at that time, than a myrtle crown from
Mount Parnassus itself would have been.
One year later Ella Wheeler was married to Robert
Wilcox, a cultivated and estimable gentleman, whose
fine taste and critical ear, proved an excellent aid to
the exuberant young poetess.
" Poems of Pleasure " is generally thought to con-
tain the finest poetical work of Mrs. Wilcox. Her
prose story " Mai Moulee " has many admirers, as also
other short stories and a novel entitled "The Advent-
ures of Miss Volney." Besides the ordinary editions,
a volume de lux of " Poems of Passion " has been pub-
lished. " Maurinne " contains, we believe, the first por-
trait of the authoress added to any of her works.
Since her marriage Mrs. Wilcox has resided in the
eastern states, and for some time has been located in
New York City, which will be her permanent home.
DAVE'S WIFE.
" So Dave has brought his wife home ? "
Deacon Somers cut a larger chip from the stick he
had been whittling down to a very fine point as he
answered Deacon Bradlaw's query by the one monosyl-
lable, " Ye-a-s."
"Got home last night, I hear."
" Ye-a-s ; " and the stick was coming down to a very
fine point now, so assiduously was the deacon devoting
all his energies to it.
Deacon Bradlaw waited a moment, with an expec-
tant air ; then he clasped one knee with both hands, and
leaned forward toward his neighbor.
" Well, what do you think of your boy's choice ? " he
asked. " What sort of a woman does she seem to be ?
Think she'll be a help in the church ? "
Deacon Somers was silent a moment. Whirling the
whittled stick around and around, he squinted at it, with
one eye closed, to see if it was perfectly symmetrical.
(Deacon Somers had a very mathematical eye, and he
liked so have everything "plumb," as he expressed it.
He had been known to rise from his knees at a neigh-
bor's house in prayer-meeting time and go across the
room and straighten a picture which offended his eye
by hanging " askew.") Having convinced himself that
ihe stick was round, the deacon tilted back against the
side of the country store where he and his companion
were siting, and began picking his teeth with the afore
said stick, as he answered Deacon Bradlaw's question
by another, and a seemingly irrelevant one.
" Do you remember Dave's hoss trade ? "
" No," answered the deacon, surprised at this sudden
turn in the conversation, " I can't say I do."
" Wa-al, just after he came home from college, two
years ago, he got dreadfully sot against the bay mare
I drove. I'd had her for years, and she was a nice
512 DAV&S WIFE.
steady-going animal. We had a four-year-old colt too,
that I drove with her. Wa-al, Dave he thought it was
a shame and a disgrace to drive such a ill-matched
span. The young hoss was right up and off, and the
bay mare she lagged behind about half a length. The
young hoss was a short stepper, and the bay mare
went with a long, easy lope. They wasn't a nice-
matched span, I do confess.
" Wa'al, Dave he kept a-talkin' trade to me till I
give in. He said he knew of a mighty nice match for
the young hoss, and if I would leave it to him he'd
make a good trade. So I left it to him, and one day
he come drivin' home in grand style. The old mare
was traded off, and a dappled-gray four-year-old was
in her place. A pretty creature to look at, but I knew,
the minute I sot eyes onto her, that she'd never pull a
plough through the stubble-ground, or haul a reaper up
that side-hill o' mine.
" ' Isn't she a beauty, father ? ' said Dave.
" ' Yes,' says I ; ' but handsome is as handsome does
applies to hosses as well as to folks, I reckon. What
can this 'ere mare do, Dave ? '
" Dave's face was all aglow. ' Do ! ' says he. ' Why,
she can trot a mile in two minutes and three-quarters,
father, and I only give seventy-five dollars to boot
'twixt her and the old mare.'
" Wa'al, you see, I was just struck dumb at that
there boy's foil}', but I knew 'twa'n't no use to say a
word then. I just waited,- and it come out as I ex-
pected. The dappled-gray mare took us to church or to
town in fine style passed everything on the road slick"
as a pin. But she balked on the reaper, and give out
entirely on the plough. And I hed to buy another
mare for the hoss, and let the dappled mare stand in
the stable, except when we put her in the carriage."
Deacon Somers paused and his glance rested on
Deacon Bradlaw's questioning, puzzled face.
" Well ?" interrogated Deacon Bradlaw.
" Wa'al," continued Deacon Somers, " Dave's mar-
riage is off the same piece as his hoss trade. Pretty
creature, and can outstrip all the girls round here in
playin' and singin' and paintin' and dressin,' but come to
washin' and bakin' and steady work why, we'll hev to
get somebody else to do that, and let her sit in the
BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 513
parlor. Mother V I both see that at a glance ; " and
the deacon sighed.
" I see, I see," mused Deacon Bradlaw, sympathet-
ically. " Too bad ! too bad ! Dave knew her at col-
lege, I believe ? "
" Yes ; they graduated in the same class. She car
ried off all the honors, and the papers give her a long
puff 'bout her ellycution. Dave's head was completely
turned, and he kept runnin' back and forth to see her,
till I thought the best thing for him to do was to
marry her and be done with it. But Sarah Jane
Graves would have suited mother V me better. You
know Dave and she was pretty thick before he went
off to college."
" She's a powerful homely girl, though," Deacon
Bradlaw said ; " and the awkwardest critter I ever see
stand in church choir and sing. Seems to be all
elbows somehow."
" Ye-a-s ye-a-s ; a good deal like the bay mare
Dave was so sot against awkward, but steady-goin'
and useful more for use than show. Wa'al, wa'al, I
must be going home ; all the chores to do, and Dave's
billin' and cooin'. Good afternoon. Come over and
see us."
When Dave Somers and his bride walked up the
church aisle, the next Sunday morning, over Parson
Elliott's congregation there passed that indefinable
flutter which can only be compared to a breeze sud-
denly stirring the leaves of a poplar grove. Every eye
was turned upon the handsome, strong-limbed young
man, and the fair, delicate girl at his side, who bore
the curious glances of all these strangers with quiet,
well-bred composure.
After service people lingered in the aisle for an in-
troduction, in the manner of country village churches,
where Sunday is the day for quiet sociability and the
interchange of civilities. And after the respective
friends of the family had scattered to their several
homes, Dave's wife was the one universal topic of dis-
cussion over the Sunday dinner.
" A mighty pretty girl," "A face like a rose," "Too
cute for anything," " Stylish as a fashion plate," " A
regular little daisy," were a few of the comments
33
514 DAVE'S WIFE.
passed by the young men of the congregation. To
these remarks the ladies supplemented their critical
observations after the manner of women : " Her nose
isn't pretty ; " " Her mouth is too large ; " " Her face
was powdered I saw it ; " " Her hat was horrid ; "
" I don't like to see so much agony in a small place."
But Sarah Jane Graves said : " She is lovely. I would
give the world to be as pretty as she is. No wonder
Dave loved her." And she choked down a lump in
her throat as she said it.
All the neighboring people called on Dave's wife
during the next month, and, with one or two excep-
tions, introduced the conversation by the question,
" Well, how do you like Somerville ? " To the monot-
ony of this query Dave's wife varied her replies as
much as was possible without contradicting heiself.
" I am quite delighted with the fertility of my mind,"
she laughingly remarked to Dave at the expiration of
the first month. " To at least fifteen people who have
asked me that one unvaried question I have invented
at least ten different phrases in which to express my
satisfaction with Somerville. I have said : ' Very
much, thank you ; ' ' Oh, I am highly pleased ; ' ' Fai
better than I anticipated even ; ' 'I find it very pleas-
ant ; ' 'It has made a very agreeable impression upon
me ; ' and oh, ever so many more changes I have rung
on that one idea, Dave ! " and the young wife laughed
merrily. But under the laugh Dave seemed to hear
a minor strain. His face grew grave.
" I fear I did wrong to bring you here among these
people," he said. " They are so unlike you so com-
monplace. I fear you are homesick already, Madge."
" No, no ; indeed you are wrong, Dave ; indeed I
am happy here, and like your friends," Madge pro-
tested, with tender earnestness.
But as the months went by it was plain to all eyes
that Dave's wife was not happy, that she did not
assimilate with her surroundings. She made no inti-
mate friendships; she sat silent at the sewing society,
and would not take an interest in the neighborhood
gossip, which formed the main topic of conversation at
these meetings. She would not take a class at Sun-
day-school, claiming that she was not fitted to explain
BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 515
the Gospel to any unfolding, inquiring mind, as she
was not at all sure that she understood it herself.
Dark insinuations were afloat that Dave's wife was
an " unbeliever," or at least a Unitarian, and her
fashionable style of dress marked her as "worldlv-
mincled " at all events. Deacon Bradlavv and Deacon
S uners held many an interview on the shady side of
the village store, and " Dave's wife " always came up
for discussion, sooner or later, during those inter-
views.
" She's settin' a bad example to all of Somerville,"
Deacon Bradlaw declared. " My gal Arminda'sgettin'
just as fussy and proud as a young peacock about her
clothes ; nothin' suits her now unless it looks stylish
and cityfied. And I see there's a deal more exirava-
gnnce in dress among all the women-folks since Dave's
wife came with her high heels and her bustles and her
trimmins. You ought to labor with her, Brother
Somers."
Brother Somers sighed. " I do labor with her," he
said, " but the poor thing don't know what to do. Her
guardian she was an orphan, you know give iier
the little money she had left after her schoolin', to
buy hef weddin' fixin's. She'd no idee what plain
folks she was a comin' among. So she got her
outfit accordin' to the way she'd been brought up.
Lord ! she's got things enough to last her ten years,
and all trimmed to kill, and all fittin' her like a duck's
foot in the mud ; and what can she do but wear 'em
now she's got 'em, she says; and I can't tell her to
throw 'em away and buy new. 'Twouldn't be econ-
omy. She's been with us nigh onto a year now, and
she's never asked Dave for a cent's worth of any-
thin."
" But she's no worker ; anybody can see that.
And you've hed to keep a girl half the time since
she's been with you," Deacon Bradlaw added, some-
what nettled that his neighbor made any excuses
for Dave's wife, whose fair face and fine clothes and
quiet reserve had inspired him with an angry resent-
ment from the first.
"Ye-a-s, ye-a-s, that's true," Deacon Somers con-
fessed. " She's no worker. Lord ! the way she
tried to make cheese ; and the cookin' she did !
516 DAV&S WIFE.
Mother bed to throw the cheese curd into the pig's
swill, and the bread and cake she made followed it.
More waste from that experiment of hers than we've
hed in years ; and she was flour from head lo foot,
and all of a perspiration, and sick in bed from cryin'
over her failures into the bargain. The poor thing did
try her very best. But it was like the dappled mare
tryin' to haul the plough she couldn't do it, wa'n't
built for it."
When Deacon Somers reached home his brow was
clouded. His good wife saw it, and questioned him
as to the cause. He shook his head.
" I'm troubled about church matters, mother," he
said. " The debt fur that new steeple and altar, and
all the rest of the expense we've been to the last two
years, wears on me night an' day. And Deacon Brad-
law he's gettin' mad at some of the trustees, and says
he'll never put another dollar into the church till
they come forward and head a paper with fifty
dollars apiece subscription. I know 'em all too well
to think they'll ever do that, and Deacon Bradlaw he's
a reg'lar mule. So the first we know our church'll
be in a stew that will send half its members over to
the rival church that's started up at Jonesville, with
one o' them sensation preachers that draws a crowd
like a circus," and Deacon Somers sighed.
" Isn't there something that can be done to raise
the money ? " asked Mother Somers, anxiously.
" Can't we get up entertainments ? "
"That's old, and 'taint strawberry season," sighed
the deacon. " We couldn't charge more'n fifteen or
twenty cents at the door, and that wouldn't bring in
much for one entertainment, and nobody would turn
out to a second. There don't seem to be no ingenuity
among the young folks here 'bout gettin' up anything
entertainin'. Our strawberry festival was just a dead
failure barely paid expenses."
Dave's wife, sitting with her pale face, which had
grown very thin and wan of late, bent over a bit of
sewing, suddenly looked up. Her listless expression
gave place to one of animated interest. "Father
Somers," she began, timidly, " do you suppose do
you think I could get up a reading ? "
" A what?" and Deacon Somers turned a surprised
BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 517
and puzzled face upon his daughter-in-law. It was so
new for her to betray any interest in anything.
"A reading. You know I took the prize for elocu-
tion when I graduated. I know ever so many things
I could recite, and it might draw a crowd just from its
being something new. We could charge twenty-five
cents admission, and it would give the impression of
something good, at least. After they had heard me
once they could decide for themselves if I am worth
hearing again."
Deacon Somers looked upon the glowing face and
animated mien of Dave's wife with increasing wonder.
Was this the listless girl he had seen a few moments
before ?
" Ton my soul," he ejaculated, " I don't know but
it might draw a crowd, just from curiosity. Every-
body would go to see Dave's wife. Not that I hev
much of a opinion of readin's ; never heard any but
once, and then I went to sleep. But it might draw,
seenin' it's you. You can try it if you want to."
Dave's wife did try it. It was announced before
service Sunday morning that Mrs. David Somers would
give a reading in the church edifice on Thursday even-
ing : admission, twenty-five cents. Proceeds to be
applied toward the church debt.
Again there was a breezy stir in the congregation,
and scores of eyes were turned upon Dave's wife, who
sat in her silent white composure, with her dark eyes
lifted to the face of the clergyman.
But Sarah Jane Graves could not help noticing as
she had not before the marked change in the young
wife's face since the day she entered that church a
bride.
" How she is fading ! I wonder if she is unhappy? "
she thought.
Thursday night came fair and clear. As Deacon
Somers had predicted, the announcement that Dave's
wife was to give a reading had drawn a house ; the
church was literally packed. Dave's wife rose before
her audience with no words of apology or introduction,
and began the recitation of the old, hackneyed, yet
ever beautiful
" Curfew shall not ring to-night."
m
5l8 DAVE'S WIFE.
It was new to most of the audience, and certainly the
manner of its delivery was new to them. They forgot
themselves, they forgot their sunoudings, they forgot
that it was Dave's wife who stood before them. They
were alone in the belfry tower clinging with bleeding
hands to the brazen tongue of the bell as it swung to
and fro above the deaf old janitor's head. When the
recitation was finished two or three of the audience
found themselves on their feet. How they came there
they never knew, and they sat down with a shamefaced
expression.
Sarah Jane Graves was in tears, and one or two
others wiped their eyes furtively, and then the old
church walls rang with cheers. So soon as they sub-
sided Dave's wife arose, and, with a sudden change of
expression and voice began to give a recital of " An
Evening at the Quarters." It was in negro dialect,
and introduced one or two snatches of song and a violin
air. To the astonishment of her audience Dave's
wife picked up a violin at the appropriaie time, and
played the air through in perfect time and tune; and
then the house resounded to another round of cheers,
ajid the entire audience was convulsed with laughter.
Everything which followed, grave or gay, pathetic or
absurd, was met with nods of approval, or the clap-
ping of hands and the drumming of feet. Somerville
had never known such an entertainment before. The
receipts for the evening proved to be over forty
dollars.
During the next three months Dave's wife gave two
more readings, the proceeds of which paid half the
church debt, and this so encouraged the members that
old grudges and quarrels were forgotten, and Deacon
Bradlaw and the elders made up the remaining hali,
and Somerville church was free from debt.
Yet Deacon Bradlaw was heard to say that while he
was glad and grateful for all that Dave's wife had done,
he did not in his heart approve of turning the house of
God into a " theatre." "She performed exactly like
them women whose pictures are in the store winders
in town," he said, " a-makin' everybody laugh or cry
with their monkey-shines. I don't think it a proper
way to go on in the house of God. Never would hev
BY ELLA WHEELER WlLCOX. 519
given my consent to it ef I'd known what sort of enter-
tainment it was to be.''
" Dave's wife ever been a actress ? ;! he asked Deacon
Somers when they next met.
" Actress ? No. What put that into your head ?
answered Deacon Somers, with some spirit.
" Oh, nothin', nothin' ; only her readin's seemed a
powerful sight like a theatre I went to once. Didn't
know she'd been on the stage ; it's gettin' fashi'nable
nowadays. Anyway, she's missed her callin'. Wait a
minute, neighbor; don't hurry off so. I want to talk
church matters."
" Can't," responded Deacon Somers, whipping up
his horse. "Dave's wife is sick in bed, and I came to
the store to git a few things for her bitters, and some
nourishin' things to eat. She's sort o' run down with
the exertion she made in them readin's. She used to
be just drippin' with perspiration when she got home."
Dave's wife was ailing for months, unable to do more
than sit in her room and paint an hour or two each
clay. The house was filled with her paintings. They
ornamented brackets, and stood in corners, and peeped
from the folds of fans, and smiled from Dave's china
coffee-cup.
One day Dave proposed to his wife that she should
go to her old home the home of her guardian and
make a visit.
"We've been married fifteen months now," he said,
" and you've never been away. I think a change will
do you good. You seem to be running down every
day."
So she went. After an absence of ten days she
wrote to Dave to send her paintings to her by express.
She had need of them ; would explain when she re-
turned. Dave packed them carefully, and sent them
with a sigh.
Poor Dave \ He had come to realize that his mar-
riage was a great mistake. To be sure, he loved
Madge yet, but the romance of his youthful attachment
had all passed away in the dull commonplace routine
of his domestic life, where Madge had proved such an
inefficient helpmeet.
He had been blindly in love with his divinity ; elated
with the fact that he had won her away from two or
52O DAVE'S WIPE.
three other suitors. Madge was a brilliant scholar and
a belle, and with the blind faith of young love, Dave
had believed that she would excel in domestic duties
as in intellectual pursuits. Her ignominious failures,
her utter uselessness, and his mother's constant and
indisputable references to her inefficiency about the
farm-work, had presented her to his eyes in a new
light. The brilliant girl who was the prkle of the
college, and the helpless, thriftless wife whose husband
was regarded with pity by a sympathetic neighborhood,
were two distinct individuals, as were also the young
elocutionist carrying off the honors of her class, and
the tired, tearful woman weeping over her soggy bread
and melted butter.
The success in hei readings had revived his old
pride in her for a time. But her consequent illness
and listlessness had discouraged him.
Mrs. Somers saw the express package, and in-
quired what it was. Dave told her, remarking at the
same time that he did not know what she intended to
make of them.
" Maybe she's going to give 'em away to those who will
appreciate 'em," suggested his mother. " I am sure
we've no room for such rubbish. But her time's no
more'n a settin' hen's and she might as well spend it
in that way as any other. She can't do nothin' that
amounts to anything."
" I think her readings amounted to a good deal,"
Dave responded, glad that he could once speak author-
itatively of his wife's usefulness.
" Oh, yes ; for that emergency. But its steady work
that tells. Lor* pity you and father ef I couldn't do
nothin' but give readings ! Wonder where your meals
would come from. Your marriage and your horse
trade were 'bout off one piece, Dave. Your wife's pretty
in the parlor or on the floor readin', and your mare
looks nice and drives nice in the buggy. But they
can't work."
Dave's wife came home at the expiration of a month,
looking fresher and feeling stronger, she said. And
she did not bring her paintings.
Deacon Somers came into Dave's room the night
after her return, to talk about a certain piece of land
BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. $21
that was for sale. It "cornered on " to the deacon's
farm, and a stream of water ran across it.
" It will be worth a mint of money to me," he said,
" for I can turn that field into a pasture, and all my
stock will water itself. But the man who's sellin'
wants a hundred and fifty dollars down. He's goin'
West, and must have that amount this week. I don't
see the way clear to pay it, for expenses have been a
good deal of late, takin' doctors' bills and hired help
and all into consideration, and my ready money has
run low. Do you think of anybody that'll be likely to
lend us that amount for three months, Dave ? "
But before Dave could reply, Dave's wife spoke.
" Father Somers," she said, " I can let you have the
money not as a loan, but as a gift. I have been of so
little use to you, and have made you so much expense,
I shall be very, very happy if you will let me do this
for you." And rising up, she came a id laid a little
silken purse in Deacon Somers's hands.
" But where did you get it, child ? " asked the
wondering deacon, looking from the plethoric little
purse to her face, which had flushed a rosy red.
" I sold my paintings," Dave's wife answered.
" A gentleman happened to see a little thing I painted,
and he said he knew where I could dispose of any
quantity of such work. And, sure enough, I sold
every one of those things I painted when I was sick,
for good prices. And I decorated some plates for a
lady, who paid me well for it. So I have one hundred
and seventy-five dollars in that purse, which you are
more than welcome to."
Deacon Somers removed his spectacles and mopped
them, with his silk handkerchief. "1 can't do it, my
child," he said ; " it wouldn't be right. You must keep
your own money."
" But I have no use for it," cried Dave's wife. " I
intended to spend it all in Christmas gifts for the
family, but this is better. I have everything I need.
All I ask or desire is to be of some use and to have
you all love me," she added, softly.
" A hundred and seventy-five dollars for that trash !
Well, the world is full of fools ! " Mrs Somers ejaculated
when she was told of what had occurred. But she
looked at Dave's wife with an expression of surprised
522 DAVE'S WIFE.
interest after that, as if it was just dawning upon her
that one might be of use in the world who could
neither cook nor make cheese.
Deacon Somers's farm boasted a fine stone quarry,
and he was very busily at work every spare moment,
quarrying stone for the foundation of a new barn he
was to build. One day Dave drove to town, ten miles
distant, with a load of grain for market. It was Sep-
tember, and the market had risen during the last few
days. All the neighboring farmers had turned out and
hurried their grain away, Deacon Somers remained at
home, quarrying stone. Mrs. Somers rang the great
bell at noon-time, but he did not come. Then she grew
alarmed.
" Some one must go up to the quarry and see if any-
thing has happened," she said. And Dave's wife was
off like a young deer before the words were outj>f her
mouth.
It did not seem three minutes before she stood at
the door again, with white lips, her dark eyes large
with fright. " Father is wedged in under a great
bowlder," she said. " You and the girl must go to
him. Take the camphor and ammonia ; it may sustain
his strength until I can bring relief. I am going to
ride the dappled mare to the village, and rouse the
whole neighborhood."
" We have no saddle," gasped Mrs. Somers : " and
the mare will break your neck."
<; I can ride anything," Dave's wife answered as she
sped away. " It was taught me with other useless
accomplishments."
A moment later she shot by the door, and down the
street toward the village. She had bridled the mare
and buckled on a blanket and surcingle. She sat like
a young Indian princess, her face white, her eyes large
and dark, looking straight ahead, and urging the mare
to her highest speed. Faster, faster she went, until
the woods and fields seemed flving pictures shooting
through the air. Half-way to the village, which wns
more than two miles distant, she met Tom Burgus, the
blacksmith. She reined up the mare so suddenly she
almost sat her down on her haunches.
" Deacon Somers has fallen under a bowlder in his
BY ELLA WtEELER WILCOX. 523
quarry," she cried. " Go to him quick ! Dave is
away." Then she rode on,
At the village she roused half a dozen men, and to
the strongest and most muscular she said : " Take this
mare and put her to her highest speed. Tom Burgus
is already there. You two can lift the bowlder, per-
haps. I will ride with Dr. Evans."
The man mounted the mare, and was off like a great
bird swooping close to the earth. He swept away and
eut of sight.
When Dr. Evans reined his reeking horse at the
quarry, Tom Burgus and Jack Smith, who had ridden
the mare from the village, were propping up the bowlder
with iron bars, while Mrs. Sotners and her help were
trying to remove the deacon's inanimate form. The
doctor and Dave's wife sprang to their assistance. In
another moment he was free from his perilous position,
and Dr. Evans was applying restoratives. " He will
live," he said; " but in five minutes more, if help had
not come, he would have been a dead man. It is very
fortifnate you had a swift horse in the stable, and a
rider who could keep her seat," and he glanced
around at .Q^ve's wife just in time to see her fall in a
iimp heap.
Deacon Somers was quite restored to his usual
health the following morning. " Dave's wife and the
dappled mare saved my life," he said to Deacon Brad-
law, who came to call. " So the boy didn't make so
poor a bargain either time, neighbor, as I once
thought."
The deacon recovered rapidly, and just as rapidly
Dave's wife lost strength and color. She faded before
their eyes like some frail plant, and at last one day
with a tired sigh she drifted out into the Great Un
known ; and with her went the bud of another life,
destined never to blossom on earth.
After they came home from the churchyard where
they had left her to sleep, Dave found the dappled
mare cast in her stall ; her halter strap had become
a noose about her slender throat. She was quite
dead.
Over the low mound where " Dave's wife " sleeps
the marble mockery of a tall monument smiles in irony
at those who pause to read its flattering inscription,
524 DAVE'S WIFE.
It is so easy to praise the dead ! And the memorial
window sacred to her memory in Somerville church
a proposition of Deacon Bradlaw's uushes in crimson
shame while suns rise and set.
And a sturdy farm-horse pulls the plough through
Dave's stubble field, and Sarah Jane drives the work in
his kitchen.
THE DEACON'S WEEK.
BY
ROSE TERRY COOKE.
ROSE TERRY COOKE.
PITTSFIELD, in Massachusetts, has always considered
itself an aristocratic town, cultured, refined, beyond
the usual measure of even New England's aspirations.
It must be happy now, since to its other attractions it
can boast of the permanent presence of Mrs. Rose
Terry Cooke, who with her husband, Mr. Rollin S.
Cooke, took up her residence in its beautiful elm-
shaded " East Street " more than a year ago. Rose
Terry was born in Connecticut, in the suburbs of Hart-
ford, in a farmhouse of the better sort, built on a farm
owned by her father ; her mother belonged to one of
the oldest Wethersfield families, her name being Anne
Wright Hurlbut. This lady had somewhat old-
fashioned ideas of education, teaching her little
daughter Rose to read before she was three years
old, and at six demanding of her the study of Walker's
Dictionary, columns of which had to be learned
with their definitions, and compositions written
including the words learned. With this exacting
mother to encourage, or perhaps compel, this precocious
child, the young creature was set to keeping a diary
from the age of six to ten which diary has been pre-
served to the present day. The dictionary saturating
process gleams out of these infantile pages in such
sentences as this: "To-day I imbued my fingers with
the blood of cherries ! " Her father having lost his
property in the Morus Multicaulus speculation, moved
into Hartford, and when Rose was about ten she
was sent to the Hartford Female Seminary, and
there her literary instinct induced her to beg admis-
sion to a class considered far beyond her capacity,
being instruction in literature and composition given
by the principal, Mr. Brace, to well-grown young la-
dies. She gained her point, which was no doubt a
help to her in after life.
531
532 ROSE TERR Y COO ICE.
Rose found herself at sixteen necessitated to dosome-
thing towards her own support, and when she grad-
uated from the seminary became a teacher, first in pri-
vate schools, then in the family of a friend.
By both father and mother she had been brought up
in the severest puritanical habits and absolutely re-
stricted from the company of young men ; but that did
not prevent nature from having its course, and the
feelings of youth, thus arbitrarily suppressed in real
life, bubbled up spontaneously and overflowed into
printed verse.
Some of her earliest contributions were published in
Putnam's Magazine, and the Atlantic Monthly, then in
the Galaxy, published in Philadelphia, and in Harper's.
Stories and poems have followed for years in quick
succession. Mrs. Cooke has been particularly happy
in her delineations of rustic New England life. One of
these tales, entitled " Mrs. Flint's Married Experience,"
setting forth the " closeness " of the average farmer
nature, was severely criticised as overwrought ; but its
correctness was proven by recourse to certain records,
town and church books, which exhibited just such a
state of facts existing in the life history of certain peo-
ple in the town of Torringford, Connecticut Another
very popular story of Mrs. Cooke is " The Deacon's
Week," republished in this volume.
THE DEACON'S WEEK.
THE communion service of January was just over in
the church at Sugar Hollow ; and people were waiting
for Mr. Parkes to give out the hymn ; but he did not
give it out, he laid his book down on the table, and
looked about on his church.
He was a man of simplicity and sincerity, fully in
earnest to do his Lord's work, and do it with all his
might ; but he did sometimes feel discouraged. His
congregation was a mixture of farmers and mechanics,
for Sugar Hollow was cut in two by Sugar Brook, a
brawling, noisy stream that turned the wheel of many
a mill and manufactory ; yet on the hills around it there
was still a scattered population, eating their bread in
the full perception of the primeval curse. So he had
to contend with the keen brain and sceptical comment
of the men who piqued themselves on power to hammer
at theological problems as well as hot iron, with the
jealousy and repulsion and bitter feeling that has bred
the communistic hordes abroad and at home ; while
perhaps he had a still harder task to awaken the
sluggish souls of those who used their days to struggle
with barren hill-side and rocky pasture for mere food
and clothing, and their nights to sleep the dull sleep of
physical fatigue and mental vacuity.
It seemed sometimes to Mr. Parkes that nothing but
the trump of Gabriel could arouse his people from their
sins and make them believe on the Lord and follow his
footsteps. To-day no a long time before to-day
he had mused and prayed till an idea took shape in his
thought, and now he was to put it in practice ; yet he
felt peculiarly responsible and solemnized as he looked
about him and foreboded the success of his experiment.
Then there flashed across him, as words of Scripture
will come back to the habitual Bible-reader, the noble
utterance of Gamaliel concerning Peter and his brethren
533
534 THE DEACON'S WEEK.
when they stood before the council : " If this counsel
or this work be of men, it will come to naught : but if
it be of God ye cannot overthrow it." So with a sense
of strength the minister spoke.
" My dear friends," he said, "you all know, though
I did not give any notice to that effect, that this week
is the Week of Prayer. I have a mind to ask you to
make it for this once a week of practice instead. I
think we may discover some things, some of the things
of God, in this manner, that a succession of prayer-
meetings would not perhaps so thoroughly reveal to us.
Now when I say this I don't mean to have you go
home and vaguely endeavor to walk straight in the old
way ; I want you to take ' topics,' as they are called,
for the prayer-meetings. For instance, Monday is
prayer for the temperance work. Try all that day to be
temperate in speech, in act, in indulgence of any kind
that is hurtful to you. The next day is for Sunday-
schools ; go and visit your scholars, such of you as are
teachers, and try to feel that they have living souls to
save. Wednesday is a day for fellowship meeting ; we
are cordially invited to attend a union-meeting of this
sort at Bantam. Few of us can go twenty-five miles
to be with our brethren there ; let us spend that day in
cultivating our brethren here ; let us go and see those
who have been cold to us for some reason, heal up our
breaches of friendship, confess our shortcomings one
to another, and act as if, in our Master's words, ' all
ye are brethren.'
" Thursday is the day to pray for the family rela-
tion ; let us each try to be to our families on that day
in our measure what the Lord is to his family, the
church, remembering the words, ' Fathers, provoke
not your children to anger ; ' ' Husbands, love your
wives, and be not bitter against them.' These are
texts rarely commented upon, I have noticed, in our
conference meetings ; we are more apt to speak of
the obedience due from children, and the submission
and meekness our wives owe us, forgetting that duties
are always reciprocal.
" Friday, the church is to be prayed for. Let us
then, each for himself, try to act that day just as we
think Christ, our great Exemplar, would have acted in
our places. Let us try to prove to ourselves and the
BY ROSE TERRY COOKE. . 535
world about us that we have not taken upon us his
name lightly or in vain. Saturday is prayer-day for
the heathen and foreign missions. Brethren, you know
and I know that there are heathen at our doors here ;
let every one of you who will, take that day to preach
the gospel to some one who does not hear it anywhere
else. Perhaps you will find work that ye knew not of
lying in your midst. And let us all, on Saturday
evening, meet here again, and choose some one brother
to relate his experience of the week. You who are
willing to try this method please to rise."
Everybody rose except old Amos Tucker, who never
stirred, though his wife pulled at him and whispered
to him imploringly. He only shook his grizzled head
and sat immovable.
" Let us sing the doxology," said Mr. Parkes ; and
it was sung with full fervor. The new idea had roused
the church fully ; it was something fixed and positive
to do ; it was the lever-point Archimedes longed for,
and each felt ready and strong to move a world.
Saturday night the church assembled again. The
cheerful eagerness was gone from their faces ; they
looked downcast, troubled, weary, as the pastor ex-
pected. When the box for ballots was passed about,
each one tore a bit of paper ftom the sheet placed m
the hymn-books for that purpose, and wrote on it a
name. The pastor said, after he had counted them :
ft Deacon Emmons, the lot has fallen on you."
" I'm sorry for't," said the deacon, rising up and
taking off his overcoat. " I haint got the best of
records, Mr. Parkes, now I tell ye."
"That isn't what we want," said Mr. Parkes. "We
want to know the whole experience of some one among
us, and we know you will not tell us either more or less
than what you did experience."
Deacon Emmons was a short, thick-set man, with a
shrewd, kindly face and gray hair, who kept the village
store, and had a well-earned reputation for honesty.
"Well, brethren," he said, " I dono why I shouldn't
tell it. I am pretty well ashamed of myself, no doubt,
but I ought to be, and maybe I shall profit by what
I've found out these six days back. I'll tell you just
as it come. Monday, I looked about me to begin with.
I am amazin' fond of coffee, and it ain't good for me
536 THE DEACON'S WEEK.
the doctor says it ain't ; but, dear me, it does set a
man up good, cold mornings, to have a cup of hot,
sweet, tasty drink, and I haven't had the grit to
refuse. I knew it made me what folks call nervous, and
I call cross, before night comes ; and I knew it fetched
on spells of low spirits, when our folks couldn't get a
word out of me, not a good one, any way ; so I
thought I'd try on that to begin with. I tell you it
come hard ! I hankered after that drink of coffee
dreadful ! Seemed as though I couldn't eat my break-
fast without it. I feel to pity a man that loves liquor
more'n I ever did in my life before ; but I feel sure
they can stop if they try, for I've stopped, and I'm
a-goin' to stay stopped.
" Well, come to dinner, there was another fight. I
do set by pie the most of anything ; I was fetched up
on pie, as you may say. Our folks always had it
three times a day, and the doctor, he's been talkin' and
talkin' to me about eatin' pie. I have the dyspepsy
like everything, and it makes me useless by spells, and
onreliable as a weathercock. An' Doctor Drake he
says^there won't nothin' help me but to diet. I was
readln' the Bible that morning, while I sat waiting for
breakfast, for 'twas Monday, and wife was kind of set
back with washin' and all, and I come acrost that part
where it says that the bodies of Christians are temples
of the Holy Ghost, Well, thinks I, we'd ought to
take care of 'em if they be, and see that they're kep ?
clean nor pleasant, like the church ; and nobody can
be clean and pleasant that has dyspepsy. But, come
to pie, I felt as though I couldn't ! and, lo ye, I didn't !
I eet a piece right against my conscience ; facin' what
I knew I ought to do, I went and done what I ought
not to. I tell ye my conscience made music of me
consider'ble, and I said then I wouldn't never sneer at
a drinkin' man no more when he slipped up. I'd feel
for him and help him, for I see just how it was. So
that day's practice giv' out, but it learnt me a good
deal more'n I knew before.
" I started out next day to look up my Bible-class.
They haven't really tended up to Sunday-school as they
ought to, along back ; but I was busy, here and there,
and there didn't seem to be a real chance to get to it.
Well, 'twould take the evenin' to tell it all; but I found
B Y ROSE TERR Y COOKE. $tf
one real sick, been abed for three weeks, and was so
glad to see me that I felt fair ashamed. Seemed as
though I heerd the Lord for the first time sayin', ' In-
asmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye
did it not to me.' Then another man's old mother says
to me before he come in from the shed, says she, ' He's
been a-sayin' that if folks practised what they preached
you'd ha' come round to look him up afore now, but he
reckoned you kinder looked down on mill-hands. I'm
awful glad you come.' Brethring, so was 1 ! I tell you
that day's work done me good. I got a poor opinion
of Josiah Emmons, now I tell ye ; but I learned more
about the Lord's wisdom than a month o'Sundays ever
showed me."
A smile he could not repress passed over Mr. Parkes'
earnest face. The deacon had forgotten all external
issues in coming so close to the heart of things ; but
the smile passed as he said :
" Brother Emmons, do you remember what the
Master said, ' If any man will do His will, he shall
know of the doctrine, whether it be of God, or whether
I speak of myself ' ?''
" Well, it's so," answered the deacon, " it's so right
along. Why, I never thought so much of my Bible-
class, nor took no sech int'rest in 'em as I do to-day,
not since I begun to teach. I b'lieve they'll come
more reg'lar now, too."
" Now come fellowship day. I thought that would
be all plain sailin' ; seemed as though I'd got warmed
up till I felt pleasant towardst everybody; so I went
around seein' folks that was neighbors, and 'twas easy;
but when I come home at noon spell, Philury says, says
she, ' Square Tucker's black bull is into th' orchard
a-tearin' round, and he's knocked two lengths o'fence
down flat ! ' Well, the old Adam riz up then, you'd
better b'lieve. That black bull has been a-breakin'
into my lots ever sence we got in th' aftermath, and it's
Square Tucker's fence, and he won't make it bull-
strong, as he'd oughter, and that orchard was a young
one jest comin' to bear, and all the new wood crisp as
cracklin's with frost. You'd better b'lieve I didn't
have much feller-feelin' with Amos Tucker. I jest put
over to his house and spoke up pretty free to him,
when he looked up and says, says he, 'Fellowship-
538 THE DEACON'S WEEK.
meetin' day, ain't it, deacon ? " I'd ruther he'd ha'
slapped my face. I felt as though I should like to slip
behind the door. I see pretty distinct what sort of
life I'd been livin' all the years I'd been a professor,
when I couldn't hold on to my tongue and temper one
day ! "
" Breth-e-ren," interrupted a slow harsh voice,
somewhat broken with emotion, " /'// tell the rest on't.
[osiah Eminons come around like a man an' a Chris-
tian right there. He asked me for to forgive him, and
not to think 'twas the fault of his religion, because 'twas
hisn and nothin' else. I think more of him to-day than
I ever done before. I was one that wouldn't say I'd
practise with the rest of ye. I thought 'twas ever-
lastin' nonsense. I'd ruther go to forty-nine prayer-
meetin's than work atbein' good a week. I believe my
hope has been one of them that perish ; it hain't worked,
and I leave it behind to-day. I mean to begin honest,
and it was seein' one honest Christian man fetched me
round to't."
Amos Tucker sat down and buried his grizzled head
in his rough hands.
" Bless the Lord ! " said the quavering tones of a
still older man from a far corner of the house, and
many a glistening eye gave silent response.
" Go on, Brother Emmons," said the minister.
" Well, when next day come, I got up to make the
fire, and my boy Joe had forgot the kindlin's. I'd
opened my mouth to give him Jesse, when it come
over me sudden that this was the day of prayer for the
family relation. I thought I wouldn't say nothin'. I
jest fetched in the kindlin's myself, and when the fire
burnt up good I called wife.
" ' Dear me ! ' says she, * I've got such a headache,
'Siah, but I'll come in a minnit.' I didn't mind that,
for women are always havin' aches, and I was jest
a-going to say so, when I remembered the texWabout
not bein' bitter against 'em, so I says, ' Philury, you
lay abed. I expect Emmy and me can get the vittles
to-day.' I declare, she turned over and give me sech
a look ; why, it struck right in ! There was my wife,
that had worked for an' waited on me twenty-odd year
'most scart because I spoke kind of feelin' to her. I
went out and fetched in the pail o' water she'd always
BY ROSE TERRY COOKE. 539
d rawed herself, and then I milked the cow. When I
come in Philury was up fryin' the potatoes, and the
tears a-shinin' on her white face. She didn't say
nothin', she's kinder still ; but she hadn't no need to.
I felt a leetle meaner'n I did the day before. But
'twant nothin' to my condition when I was goin',
towards night, down the suller stairs for some apples,
so's the children could have a roast, and I heerd Joe,
up in the kitchen, say to Emmy, ' I do b'lieve, Em, pa's
goin' to die.' ' Why, Josiar Emmpns, how you talk ! '
' Well, I do ; he's so everlastin pleasant an' good-
natered I can't but think he's struck with death.'
" I tell ye, brethren, I set right down on them sullar
stairs and cried. I did, reely. Seemed as though the
Lord had turned and looked at me jest as he did at
Peter. Why, there was my own children never see me
act real fatherly and pretty in all their lives. I'd
growled and scolded and prayed at 'em, and tried to
fetch 'em up, jest as the twig is bent the tree's in-
clined, ye know, but I hadn't never thought that
they'd got right and reason to expect I'd do my part
as well as they theirn. Seemed as though I was
findin' out more about Josiah Emmons's shortcomin's
than was real agreeable.
"Come around Friday I got back to the store. I'd
kind o' left it to the boys the early part of the week, and
things was a little cuterin' but I did have sense not to
tear round and use sharp words so much as common.
I began to think 'twas gettin' easy to practice after
five days, when in come Judge Herrick's wife after
some curt'in calico. I had a handsome piece, all done
off with roses and things, but there was a fault in the
weavin', every now and then a thin streak. She
didn't notice it, but she was pleased with the figures
on't, and said she'd take the whole piece. Well, just
as I was wrappin' of it up, what Mr. Parkes here said
about tryin' to act jest as the Lord would in our place
come acrost me. Why, I turned as red as a beet, I
know I did. If made me all of a tremble. There
was I, a doorkeeper in the tents of my God, as David
says, really cheatin' and cheatin' a woman. I tell ye,
brethren, I was all of a sweat. ' Mis' Herrick,' says I,
' I don't b'lieve you've looked real close at this goods ;
'taint thorough wove,' says I. So she didn't take it;
540 THE DEACONS WEEK.
but what fetched me was to think how many times I'd
done such mean, onreliable little things to turn a
penny, and all the time savin' and prayin' that I
wanted to be like Christ. I kep' a-trippin' of myself
up all day jest in the ordinary business, and I was a
peg lower down when night come than I was a Thurs-
day. I'd ruther, as far as the hard work is concerned,
lay a mile of four-foot stone wall than undertake to do
a man's livin' Christian duty for twelve workin' hours ;
and the heft of that is, it's because I ain't used to it,
and I ought to be.
"So this momin' come around, and I felt a mite
more cherlc. Twas missionary mornin', and seemed
as if 'twas a sight easier to preach than to practise. I
thought I'd begin to old Mis' Vedder's. So I put a
Testament in my pocket and knocked to her door.
Says I, * Good-mornin', ma-am', and then I stopped.
Words seemed to hang, somehow. I didn't want to
pop right out that I'd come over to try'n convert her
folks. I hemmed and swallered a little, and fin'lly I
said, says I, * We don't see you to meetin' very frequent,
Mis' Vedder.'
** * No, you don't ! ' ses she, as quick as a wink. ' I
stay to home and mind my business.'
" * Well, we should like to have you come along with
us and do ye good,' says I sort of conciliatin'.
Look a here, deacon ! ' she snapped ; ' I've lived
drinks and swears, and Malviny dono her letters. She
knows a heap she hadn't ought to, besides. Now what
are you a-comin' here to-day for, I'd like to know, and
talkin' so glib about meetin' ? Go to meetin' ! I'll go
or come jest as I darn please, for all you. Now get
out o' this ! ' Why, she come at me with a broomstick.
There wasn't no need on't ; what she said was enough.
I hadn't never asked her nor hern to so much as think
of goodness before. Then I went to another place
jest like that, -I won't call no more names, and sure
enough there was ten children in rags, the hull of 'em,
and the man half-drunk. He giv' it to me, too ; and
I don't wonder, I'd never lifted a hand to serve nor
save 'em before in all these years, I'd aid consider*
BY ROSE TERRY COOKE. 54!
*ble about the heathen in foreign parts, and give
little for to convert 'em, and I had looked right over
the beads of them that was next door. Seemed as if I
could hear Him say, ' These ought ye to have done,
and not have left the other undone.' I couldn't face
another soul to-day, brethren. I come home, and
here I be. I've been searched through and through
and found wantin*. God be merciful to me a sinner ! "
He dropped into his seat, and bowed his head ; and
many another bent, also. It was plain that the dea-
con's experience was not the only one among the
brethren. Mr. Payson rose, and prayed as he had
never prayed before ; the week of practise had fired
his heart, too. And it began a memorable year for the
church in Sugar Hollow ; not a year of excitement or
enthusiasm, but one when they heard their Lord say-
ing, as to Israel of old, "Go forward;" and they
obeyed his voice. The Sunday-school flourished, the
church services were fully attended, every good thing
was helped on its way, and peace reigned in their
homes and hearts ; imperfect, perhaps, as new growths
are, but still an offshoot of the peace past understand-
ing.
And another year they will keep another week of
practise, by common consent.
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