MY POOR REUTIONS 
 
 MAARTEN MAARTENS
 
 MY POOR RELATIONS
 
 BY MAARTEN MAARTENS. 
 
 Each, l2fflo, doth, tilt, $1.50. 
 
 DOROTHEA. 
 A Story of the Pure in Heart. 
 
 GOD'S FOOL. 
 
 Twtt/th Printing. 
 " The story is wonderfully brilliant. . . . The Interest 
 never lags; the style is realistic and intense ; and there is 
 a constantly underlying current of subtile humor. ... It 
 is, in short, a hook which no student of modern literature 
 should fail to read." — Boston Times. 
 
 JOOST AVELINGH. 
 
 Twelfth Printing. 
 
 "We are given a glimpse of Dutch politics, and more 
 than a glimpse — a charming, all-round view of Dutch 
 people at home." — New York Times. 
 
 THE GREATER GLORY. 
 
 Sixth Printing. 
 
 " Maarten Maartens in 'The Greater Glory' has even 
 eclipsed his fine performance in the writing of 'God's 
 Fool.' This new work deals with high life in Holland, 
 and the Dutch master has portrayed it with the touch of 
 true genius. The storj' is full of color and of dramatic 
 situations delicately wrought oni." -I'kilatiel/ihia Press. 
 
 HER MEMORY. 
 
 With Photogravure Portrait. Third Printing. 
 
 "Maarten .Maartens took us all by storm some time 
 ago with his fine story christened 'God's Fool.' He estab- 
 lished himself at once in our affections as a unique crea- 
 ture who had something to say and knew how to say it in 
 the most fascin.itin;; way."— .Vz-w York Ileralii. 
 
 SOME VOMEN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 With Frontispiece. Third Printing. 
 Maarten Maartens is recognized by all readers of 
 fiction as one of the most artistic and finished novel- 
 ists of the day, and he has done nothing that shows 
 certain fine characteristics of his work better than 
 this gallery of charmingly executed miniatures. 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
 
 POOR RELATIONS 
 
 STORIES OF DUTCH 
 PEASANT LIFE 
 
 "^^ MAARTEN MAARTENS 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 "DOROTHEA," " GOD'S FOOL," " JOOST AV^LINGH," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 1905
 
 Publithed March, 1905
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Jan Hunkum's Money 
 The Fair-Lovbr 
 The Mother 
 The Summer Christmas 
 The Notary's Love Story 
 The Banquet 
 " Silly " . . 
 The Minister's Dog . 
 Tom Potter's Pilgrimage 
 ' The Trick " . 
 Why He Loved Her 
 In Extremis . * 
 A Bit of To -Day 
 
 A COMEDV UF CrIMB . 
 
 page 
 7 
 
 99 
 126 
 180 
 204 
 227 
 246 
 262 
 2S2 
 296 
 314 
 327 
 336 
 357
 
 Jan Hunkum's Money 
 I 
 
 THE whole hamlet effervesced with delicious per- 
 turbation. Every one was telling every one else 
 that Jan Hunkum lay murdered in his bed. 
 
 The Hemel is one of the dirtiest spots in a country 
 where no spot is very dirty. The appearance of the 
 place is against it : some few dozen disorderly hovels lie 
 pitched across a field, their builders having allowed 
 them to fall as they chose. Some, abusing this permis- 
 sion, lurch heavily, looking as if, like many of the 
 people inside them, they had frequently taken a drop 
 too much. Others bend backwards, propped up with 
 the pride that cometh before a fall, and the general 
 crookedness, and the old age that accentuates it, give 
 the tumble-down dwellings a disreputable leer such as 
 many of the indwellers have developed for themselves. 
 Our conceptions of heaven — wLich is " De Hemel " — 
 must inevitably remain inadequate at the best : perhaps 
 the angels up yonder, in clouland, cannot properly 
 distinguish the gulf which, in our ap^.reciation, sinks a 
 pool of poverty and wickedness like this httle Dutch 
 hamlet beneath a favoured nook of our deteriorated 
 Paradise such as, say, Monte Carlo. Still, the name is 
 undoubtedly euphemistic : and yet, again, how easily 
 
 7
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 the place might have been, or grown, worse ! True, its 
 houses, and heads, are untidily thatched : the nakedness 
 of the land is as patent as that of many a yokel pretending 
 to till it : never has anything connected with the village 
 been properly drained or trained : never has anything 
 been quite sufficiently scrubbed, excepting the newest 
 born baby — yet, as a rule, the community washes itself 
 grey, and in all its rag-and-bone debasement it tries to 
 draw the hne at vermin. Dutch squalor does. 
 
 In Jan Hunkum's day the old man's cottage was the 
 only hale and hearty building of the lot. Forty years of 
 his stupid hfe Jan Hunkum spent in it — more than half 
 the whole — and during that long period of possession, 
 for he owned it, he had it once repainted and twice 
 repaired. Therefore it stood, distinctly noticeable, 
 amongst the straggUng paths and rough potato-plots, 
 with a yellow zone of weeded gravel round it, a sort of 
 self-important centre towards which its ramshackle sur- 
 rounders seemed to have been huddling before they came 
 to pieces on the moor. 
 
 Across the open space in front of this central cottage 
 a rabble of excited men, women, and children now 
 swarmed, eagerly expectant of horrors to come. It was 
 early morning, misty and chilly, a raw November day- 
 break. The damp little dwelUng stared back at the 
 whispering groups, its two windows tightly shuttered, 
 the door in the middle ostentatiously opaque. 
 
 Somebody — no one knew who — running past some- 
 body else, had cried out that Jan Hunkum lay murdered. 
 Somebody — opinion here varied — had raced off to 
 Horstwyk, the village, for its single policeman. Sud- 
 denly every one was full of the news. No two stoiies 
 coincided as to persons or particulars. Nobody really 
 
 8
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 knew anything. That, too, was dehghtful. For neces- 
 sity became the swift mother of invention. 
 
 But all were fully agreed that it served Jan Hunkum 
 right. Not because he was a bad man — few of them 
 cared to discriminate badness — but because he was rich 
 and a miser, and they, the whole tribe of them, were his 
 putative heirs. 'Tis ill waiting for the death of a cousin 
 close on eighty, when that cousin daily duns you for 
 exorbitant rent. 
 
 Jan Hunkum had long been known as the oldest 
 inhabitant. There might easily have been many far 
 older — for the human plant, as all men can see, excepting 
 sanitarians and scientists, grows toughest on a dunghill 
 — but the population tired of its grandparents as soon 
 as the old people got " it " on the chest, and would 
 bundle them off to the Horstwyk poorhouse with a 
 shamelessness which disgusted the very beggars of the 
 more respectable place. In defence of the Hemelers it 
 must be stated that admission into the poorhouse was 
 considered a safeguard against death, on the principle 
 that it takes two killings to kill a pauper, just as a charity 
 child is known to have nine lives. " And what's more," 
 said Joop Sloop, the Hemelers' self-appointed wiseacre, 
 " there never yet was anybody born so fond of his 
 relatives, that he could 'a stood them coughing all night 
 unless he'd had a cough of his own ! " After seventy all 
 died of " it " on the chest. Nobody had ever been mur- 
 dered. That was distinctly original. 
 
 It was just like Jan Hunkum, who had always been 
 unique. Who but he had ever kept money in his purse 
 or kept a purse to keep the money in ? Jan Hunkum 
 had strong boxes, iron safes, coffers full of gold. Nobody 
 had ever beheld them : everybody knew they were there. 
 
 9
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 Nobody minded their existence — have there not always 
 been rich folk and poor folk ? — but everybody abused 
 him for the cruel old miser he certainly was, these 
 improvident rapscallions all around him being far too 
 necessitous to understand the madness of money 
 unspent. 
 
 And yet he was one of themselves, cousin, variously 
 removed, to the whole lazy crew of them. Herein also 
 his case was peculiar. For while many of them were 
 affiliated, and many at feud, he was everybody's relation 
 and detested by all. 
 
 A voice rose above the loud murmurs by the cottage. 
 " I won't go for to say it serves him right ! " said the 
 voice. " Seeing as 'tis Goramighty gives us all our dues. 
 But I will say as 'twas bound to happen. Lor, it'll 
 happen again ! " 
 
 This statement was received in silence. 
 
 " With an old man living by himself," continued the 
 voice, " in a house that's packed with gold from floor to 
 ceihng ! " 
 
 Though all recognized this well-known fact, yet a 
 thrill ran through the assembly to see it thus nakedly 
 exposed. 
 
 " And tramps going by all day," said another voice. 
 This suggestion received general approval. Everybody 
 eagerly said — " Tramps." 
 
 " Is the gold there ? " queried a small boy with a 
 wizened face. He pointed to the cottage. 
 
 A murmur arose like the swift soughing of the wind. 
 Momentous question ! Was the gold still there ? Each 
 hungry creature gazed into his neighbour's apprehensive 
 eyes. Supposing that, in the very moment of righteous 
 acquisition, the trecisure of the Hemel had melted away 
 
 10
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 from the extended claw ! A groan broke loose : then, 
 of a sudden, all were talking together, out loud. 
 
 They must get into the silent house to make sure ! 
 They could go round by the back — no, that would be 
 impossible ! — they must all break open the door. 
 Somebody — no, all together — by the httle scullery win- 
 dow ! — why together ? — for a moment, in the fierce flare 
 of universally disclaimed distrust, there arose a menace 
 of battle — all together, mind ! Share and share ahke — 
 who says the poUce must enter first ? Oh, only that 
 fool, Jaap Avis ! 
 
 " 'Tis the law," said Jaap Avis quietly, audible amid 
 the noise. 
 
 " The law ? And a man's relations ? Shall a dead 
 corpse he weltering in gore and its own relations not try 
 to restore it ? " 
 
 A woman's screech had soared above the Babel with 
 " own relations ! " Immediately there followed a lull. 
 A gaunt creature with violent eyes had pushed herself 
 to the front. " Yes, own relations," she repeated 
 fiercely. " 'Tis a dead man's nearest relations must look 
 after things. That's the law ! And I'm sure, if my 
 Uncle Hunkum " 
 
 Fierce as she was, she shrank back before their out- 
 burst of abuse. " Uncle, indeed ! Her uncle ! The 
 impudence ! Her daughter's uncle, perhaps ? Ha ! 
 Ha ! He was every one's uncle and nobody's uncle ! 
 They were all his equal relations, his cousins, his heirs ! " 
 
 " No ! " cried Joop Sloop, the publican and barber. 
 There was conscious authority in his accents. " Shares'll 
 depend on degrees of relationship. Of cousinship," he 
 added, with a scornful glance at the silently defiant 
 " niece." 
 
 II
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 For a moment again they stood hushed, all grown 
 suddenly genealogical. And amidst the knitted brows 
 and dumbly computing lips a meek little voice piped 
 forth— 
 
 " But supposing he's left a Scripture, Joop ? " 
 
 " A testament, you mean, Jaap Avis. How ignorant 
 you people are ! He hasn't left, as I happen to be aware, 
 any sort of last will or testament." 
 
 " How aware ? " cried a dozen voices. " What's a 
 last will or testament, Joop ? " 
 
 The barber rubbed his unshaven cheek. 
 
 " Never you mind how I know what I know," he said. 
 
 " I don't care," persisted Jaap Avis, the shoemaker, 
 sullenly. " When a man makes a writing at a notary's, 
 his relatives don't get a cent. I know they don't. For 
 why ? I had a plaguy sister did it." 
 
 They all jeered at this boast. " A sister as was a lady, 
 I suppose ? " said one. 
 
 " No a lady's maid," retorted the little man, too weak 
 to swear at any but the absent or the dead. He turned 
 on his heel. 
 
 " And what's more," continued Joop Sloop, with 
 unction, " I advise you all to wait very patiently till 
 Government pays each man his share. Government's 
 never in a hurry. 'Cause why ? 'Cause Government 
 never dies. And now go home, you people, and don't 
 anybody talk of breaking in doors." 
 
 " But the money ! " clamoured half a dozen voices. 
 " The money ! Is it there ? Is it gone ? " 
 
 " He's there, at any rate," said a young girl, who, till 
 then, had stood silent beside the " niece." All stared at 
 her. A new idea again. 
 
 " Hes there," the girl repeated hurriedly. " One'd 
 
 12
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 think his ghost was peering at us through that hole in the 
 left-hand shutter. I've seen his eye a-twinkling there 
 a hundred times when I came to bring the bread. That's 
 his bedroom." 
 
 A couple of women shrieked. The girl stepped for- 
 ward to the barred and watchful house. " La, I saw 
 something shine ! " she cried, and leaped away. 
 
 But, if this was a ruse to protect the cottage, it failed. 
 Protestant Dutchmen are the least superstitious of 
 mankind. With a general outcry, " The thief ! The 
 thief ! " the whole band, intent upon saving " their " 
 property, rushed madly at the door. 
 
 Before any one could reach it, they saw it fall open. 
 The murdered man stood on the threshold. Screaming 
 now, in good earnest, the whole dingy flight fluttered 
 back. 
 
 He was wrapped in a faded dressing-gown. His livid 
 face, with the bushy eyebrows and immense protruding 
 underlip, was swathed in linen bandages. There were 
 horrid stains upon the bandages. His wicked eyes shot 
 fire. 
 
 " Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! " he said : there was no laugh in the 
 sound. " Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! " For a 
 moment he seemed incapable of any other utterance. 
 " My poor relations ! " he said at length. " My poor, poor 
 — relations ! Are you all there, my relations ? Has 
 nobody forgotten to come ? " 
 
 They stood in a furious half-circle. But nobody 
 minded his sarcasm, except the girl, who shrank behind 
 her mother. 
 
 " Walk in, ladies and gentlemen," continued Jan, 
 standing aside with a swift profusion of bows. The ends 
 of linen on his bald head went bobbing to and fro. 
 
 13
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " Walk in, pray, and inspect the property ! A very 
 desirable property ! " Then, as nobody moved, he 
 burst out — 
 
 " Come here — do you mind me ? — you white-Uvered 
 cowards ! What are you afraid of, you skulking thieves ? 
 Is it a dead man you fear, you robbers ? Afraid he's not 
 dead enough — ha ! " And now he really laughed — a 
 discordant twang. " Come in and see what there's left 
 of Jan Hunkum's money ! Each of you may keep what 
 he finds and be welcome to waste it ! — ha ! " By sheer 
 force of passion he dragged them towards him : slowly 
 the whole troop crept forward into the narrow passage 
 and, pushed from behind, all over the two little 
 rooms. 
 
 The cottage presented a scene of the wildest disorder. 
 Everything bore evidence, in the bedroom, of a struggle, 
 in the parlour, of a search. The scant furniture had been 
 upset and flung asunder and scattered across the floor. 
 Nothing seemed seriously damaged or broken, but the 
 cupboard doors swung everywhere unlocked, the drawers, 
 with their meagre contents, lay yawning right and left. 
 The clumsy visitors hung open-mouthed. Not one of 
 them had ever been, as yet, inside Jan Hunkum's 
 jealously bolted door. 
 
 " Now search while you can ! " cried the miser, 
 rubbing his discoloured hands. " If there's a penny left, 
 find it, keep it, and spend it ! But only for money, 
 mind ! Is there any money left, you murderers ? 
 Which of you has got it, you cut-throats ? Or have 
 you already divided it between you — share and share 
 ahke ! — and nobody blabs ? " 
 
 The gaunt woman turned indignantly. " Now the 
 Lord Almighty is witness, Jan Hunkum," she said, " that 
 
 14
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 none of us has ever seen a penny of yours. / haven't. 
 And well I might." 
 
 " Is that you ? " replied the old man coolly. " Trust 
 you to talk loudest, Mary Brock. And why, pray, should 
 / pay, more than others, for Mary's daily gin ? " 
 
 " 'Cause she's your niece, don't you know — cousin ! " 
 broke in a lean woman with a hump. 
 
 " My niece ? That's a lie, and she knows it. Her 
 grandfather was brother to my mother. Oh, I know 
 about your precious relationships — none better — as 
 some day you'll all find out ! " 
 
 At this moment Jaap Avis, whose mild eyes had been 
 ceaselessly travelling round the apartment, darted for- 
 ward and picked something up. " One florin for me," 
 he said gently. " You said we might keep all we found." 
 
 " What ! " shrieked the old man. " Have they left 
 
 me a florin ? G , let me look at it, Jaap Avis ! A 
 
 florin ! A whole silver florin ! Well, an honest man's 
 word is as good as an oath, they say " — his voice died to 
 a moan — " you must keep it." He sank into an old 
 wicker armchair and covered his face with his hands. 
 
 The search now began in earnest ; the whole rabble 
 turned and twisted in the narrow space, bumping one 
 against the other as they painfully bent, while the 
 children gleefully scrambled in and out, or rubbed their 
 grumbling elders' unaccustomed backs. The owner of 
 the cottage had adjusted his bandage and sat watching, 
 with folded arms, no expression on his wicked old face. 
 
 " That's right ! " he said. " Mind you look every- 
 where ! Think of Jaap Avis' florin ! Only yesterday, 
 as all of you know, my house was heaped full of gold 
 and silver. And now there's nothing left but one beg- 
 garly florin, and Jaap Avis has gotten that. Oh Law ! " 
 
 15
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 He began to moan and beat his breast. " Jaap Avis ! " 
 he cried with sudden fury, " Jaap Avis has gotten 
 that ! " 
 
 Evidently, no such luck was in store for the others. 
 One by one, the searchers slackened ; the children had 
 long ago desisted : suddenly all stopped, dead beat. 
 The oldest and weariest, hngering last, sank in a heap on 
 the floor. None of the Hemelers was accustomed to 
 labour in any form. 
 
 " Not a penny left," said the old man slowly, and 
 stared at the knocked-up do-nothings in front of him. 
 " Robbed of everything in a single night. Are you sure 
 that you've looked everywhere ? Jaap Avis found a 
 florin. My last florin. Look again. Look everywhere. 
 Look again." 
 
 Some of them turned despairing eyes to various cor- 
 ners, but the heart had gone out of the Hemelers. Jan 
 Hunkum's glance fell upon the girl, as she lolled, indif- 
 ferent, against the outer door. " Go home, Liza Brock," 
 he said almost gently for him. And she obeyed him, 
 slinking away. 
 
 " And now, hear me, you all ! " he began. " You see 
 that I've been robbed of every penny. Go and find the 
 man that did it : go and bring my money back. It's in 
 a brown leather chest — no very big chest — a brown 
 leather chest with bright brass fittings. All my money's 
 in that chest. The man that brings my money back — 
 hearken to me : I swear it by the Heaven that made us 
 — made me, at any rate, you brutes — the man that brings 
 me my money back shall have every penny of it, legally, 
 lawfully, by will and testament, if ever I come to die. 
 But first he must kill the man that took it. And hearken 
 again, you brutes" — he spoke very carefully, without 
 
 i6
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 any excuse for the violence of his language — " you've 
 seen the whole place now, as you've thirsted to do for 
 years and years — oh, I know you ! — you've seen the 
 coffers and cupboards, and the diamonds all piled to the 
 ceiling " — he cast a swift leer round the bare but clean 
 little bedroom — " and now if one of you ever darkens 
 my threshold again on any pretence — mind you, on any 
 pretence — I swear it : he shall never — no, not if he did 
 it to save my life — he shall never inherit a penny of 
 mine. I shall write that down in a will to-night, lest 
 I die ere I've done it. Get out ! " He pointed to the 
 door and continued silently pointing till the last ragged 
 figure had slouched away into the bluish autumn mist. 
 
 Then he slowly raised himself and began to unwind 
 the blood-stained bandages. His bald head with its 
 fluffy fringe, his skinny neck and sharp cheek-bones and 
 chin, the whole cunning, covetous countenance gradually 
 stood out clear against the whitewashed wall. He drew 
 forward to the little tenpenny shaving-glass that hung 
 in the window. There was no sign of a wound anywhere. 
 He chuckled softly. " I should like to hear Jaap Avis," 
 he muttered aloud, " when he finds that his florin's a 
 bad one. I've had it about me more than twenty years : 
 never did I think to get so advantageously rid of it. 
 The more fool I to take counterfeit coin ! " 
 
 II 
 
 That evening the customary Saturday conversazione 
 at Joop Sloop's was quite unprecedentedly animated. 
 Clouds of surmise and suggestion ascended over the pipes 
 and " Hollands." There was much discussion, but little 
 argument. 
 
 2 17
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 Immemorial tradition decrees that the least indolent 
 of the Hemelers shall shave all the others on Saturday 
 nights at a farthing per chin. Also that he shall be 
 permitted to eke out his Uttle profits by keeping them 
 waiting as long as he likes (they're not in a hurry) whilst 
 purveying, for their delectation, the smallest of gossip 
 and the filthiest of unlicensed spirits. Joop Sloop had 
 now been a barber for a quarter of a century, by right of 
 his possessing the biggest front room. Also he possessed 
 a strapping red and black daughter, Juha, who could 
 take the gin-money, and a coarse jest, with a laugh, and 
 could parry the jest. He was absent to-night. Mean- 
 while Juha was doing the honours. 
 
 " Well ? " said Jaap Avis with measured exultation. 
 " Now whom do you believe, pray, neighbours, Joop 
 Sloop or me ? Can a man leave his money where he likes 
 or can't he ? " Jaap Avis felt that sometimes 'tis 
 pleasanter to be proved mistaken, "Jan Hunkum 
 makes his testament and none of us gets our own. 
 Now that he's lost his money, the old rogue gives it 
 away." 
 
 " You needn't complain, Jaap Avis," replied one of 
 the men with a grunt. " You've got your florin, you 
 have. None of us can say as much." The others looked 
 stolid approval : very rarely does the real peasant com- 
 mit himself to the proverbial " nod " of assent. 
 
 Jaap Avis smiled. " Yes, I've got my florin," he 
 said. But then his complacent cheeks sank in. " And 
 what's a beggarly florin ? " he said. 
 
 " 'Tis twenty stivers, a hundred cents. Two whole 
 years' shaving," came the quick reply. " 'Tis a bird in 
 the hand, and is a bit of good luck, 'tis a — shame ! 
 You'll have to stand treat, Jaap Avis." 
 
 l8
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 The speaker, a blustering bully, struck the table with 
 his fist. 
 
 " All right : hold your row," muttered the shoemaker 
 fretfully. " Julia, get Fistycuffs a pennyworth o' gin ! " 
 The girl stretched across her brown arm for the bottle, 
 throwing little Jaap Avis, as she did so, a look of uncon- 
 scious contempt. " And fill it up full ! " grinned the 
 giant. " Don't try to bully me," retorted Julia, de- 
 liberately spilling a great splash from the glass. 
 
 At this juncture her father entered. In th3 sudden 
 silence every face said — " Well ? " All being anxious 
 to put the same question, nobody spoke. Solemnly the 
 slow barber seated himself. 
 
 " A — a — ah," he said. Then he wiped his forehead 
 with a red pocket-handkerchief. " Mum's the word," he 
 said. 
 
 " Did anybody ask ye anything ? " questioned the 
 bully. Joop Sloop stared straight in front of him. 
 " The testamfent," he continued softly, " is sealed. 
 Mum's the word." 
 
 Somebody more nervous than the rest spat on the floor. 
 
 " And the fate of the Hemel," whispered Joop Sloop, 
 " is sealed too." 
 
 A flash of covetousness died away across twenty 
 cautiously closing eyes. The barber leant back in his 
 chair, secure of his effect. " But hush ! " he said, and 
 put one finger to his lips. " So much I owe to Cousin 
 Jan ! " 
 
 The bully stumbled to his feet and came heavily for- 
 ward. " You'll finish now that you've begun, Joop 
 Sloop ! " he cried, " or I'll mash your potato nose into a 
 pancake, Joop Sloop ! " He thrust up a great dumpy 
 fist : the girl struck it down. " Two goes of gin," she 
 
 19
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 said deliberately, " to whoever turns the drunken rascal 
 out ! " 
 
 " I'll turn myself out, if you'll gi' me the drink," 
 replied the fellow coolly. " Boys, you all heard her ! 
 She owes me twopennyworth of the best Schiedam ! " 
 He grinned. " Best or worst, 'tis all equally bad," he 
 said — " Pah ! " This termination seemed to exasperate 
 Juha. She ran round the counter. " Pack o' cowards ! " 
 she screamed. " Smoke your pipes and see me Uck the 
 biggest coward amongst ye ! " A lubberly, yellow- 
 haired young fellow, who had been dozing on a settle, 
 sprang up as she passed him, and, pushing her down on 
 it with one hand, caught the bully with the other by 
 the scruff of the neck. " Out you go ! " he said 
 quietly. They could all hear Fistycuffs swearing, 
 as he picked himself up on the outer side of the bolted 
 door. 
 
 Then Julia, crossing the room in silence, reached down 
 from the mantelshelf a brilliantly painted tumbler, 
 " Love's Gift " in a wreath of forget-me-nots and roses, 
 an heirloom, dusty with half -forgotten honour and long- 
 buried affection. The others looked on. 
 
 Careless of their conclusions, she almost filled the 
 undusted goblet. " Strong drinks to the strong ! " she 
 said under her breath. 
 
 " No more liquor for me," replied her champion, 
 plunging both red hands into rusty pockets. The girl's 
 eyes clouded with angry tears. 
 
 " Please yourself," she answered harshly and made as 
 if she would have dashed her offering to the ground. 
 But she only poured back the drink, with steady hand, 
 into the great square jar beside her. 
 
 " Won't you let me get you something, Barend ? " 
 20
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 she questioned softly, and began polishing the painted 
 flowers with a slip of her dirty apron. 
 
 " Get me first turn at the shaving," answered the 
 young fellow ; " I'm simply sick o' waiting here." He 
 flung round on his heel, and again the angry blushes 
 swept over Julia's passionate face. " Me first, Joop ! " 
 cried Barend, " Julia says I'm to have first turn ! I'm 
 in a hurry, don't you see ? Fistycuffs is waiting for me 
 outside." All joined in his laugh, but mildly, not caring 
 to remove their pipes. 
 
 The barber bent over his battered kettle and further 
 very primitive apparatus. " To hear you go on, Barend 
 Everts," said Sloop, " one'd think you were Rothschild 
 or old Jan Hunkum ! " 
 
 " Me ! " Suddenly the young chap disclosed a pair of 
 sleepy blue eyes. 
 
 " Yes, you," retorted the barber irritably. " I sup- 
 pose you don't care to know — not you, nor nobody 
 here present — about money being left 'em in a will — oh, 
 no ! " He started round with uplifted strap. The 
 various countenances, scattered in the dusk of the 
 paraffin-lamp, twitched. 
 
 " But surely Jan Hunkum's money is gone," inter- 
 posed Jaap Avis nervously, protruding his big head from 
 a cloud of smoke. 
 
 " So it is — stolen," replied Joop. " And what are the 
 police for — pray — but to get it back again ? " 
 
 A shout of derision rang out around the words. All 
 their pent-up, disappointed cupidity poured down scorn 
 on the police. A dozen recent undiscovered murders 
 filled the air with a tumult of dispute. " Hush, hush ! " 
 remonstrated the barber, vainly holding up his hands. 
 " Hush ! Remember, the police " 
 
 21
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " Never see what isn't shown 'em," said a grim voice 
 from a corner, " and all the better for every one of us." 
 There was an awkward lull, a general feeling of vexation. 
 
 " I wouldn't touch a penny of Hunkum's money — no, 
 not if the pohce was to come and bring it me." Barend 
 Everts settled himself in the shaving-chair. " You 
 needn't sneer, for I wouldn't, Joop Sloop. I wouldn't 
 touch money that the dirty Government gives you, with 
 their testaments and notaries and God knows what ! 
 Nor I wouldn't let any man give me money. I'm no 
 beggar, I ! The little I want I can get for myself." 
 
 " Earn for yourself ? " suggested the barber sweetly, 
 flourishing his razor. 
 
 The other's ruddy face grew dark. " Yes, earn for 
 myself, thank God." 
 
 " God ? " repeated the barber. 
 
 " Father, hold your tongue ! " broke in Julia's loudest 
 tones. " Barend's never been hauled up for anything 
 worse than poaching, and that's more than the best of 
 your friends can say for you ! " 
 
 Joop Sloop ran across to his daughter. " You fool ! " 
 he hissed. " But it isn't me you're hurting ! Idiot ! — 
 to tell the whole room that you've lost your black heart 
 to a lout who won't look at you ! " 
 
 " What do I care if he won't look at me ? " rephed the 
 girl in a furious whisper — " as long as I can look at 
 him ! " 
 
 " Why, a poacher," suggested Jaap Avis smoothly, 
 " a poacher's as much of a gent as any other sportsman. 
 Money's the only difference between them, and money 
 never made a gent, as the baron was wont to say." 
 
 " Well, the soap's cold," remarked Barend indif- 
 ferently, still lying back, " you must make some fresh 
 
 22
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 lather, Joop. And all for one cent. One'd think — but 
 that ail know better — it was you didn't care for tin. 
 Well, whom has old Jan left his money to — the money 
 he says he's no longer got ? " 
 
 " Will you stand me a dram if I tell ? " said the 
 barber. 
 
 Jaap Avis threw down his florin. " I'll pay," he said. 
 " So much," he added, mimicking the barber, " I owe 
 our Cousin Jan." 
 
 Joop Sloop looked round the company. "Jan 
 Hunkum," he began, amid a sudden deepening silence 
 as in church — " Jan Hunkum has been and gone and 
 done exactly what he threatened to. He's made a will. 
 / was witness." Joop Sloop drew himself up and then 
 resumed his shaving. " He's left his money between 
 his heirs. Each'U get his legal share ' as in their dota- 
 tion,' * to use the proper legal phrase. So, when he dies 
 — and die he must — all we shall have to do' 11 be to call 
 on the notary for our legacies. But there's one con- 
 dition — he said there would be" — Joop Sloop looked 
 round triumphantly — " a sinecure now. Whoever can 
 be proved to have entered his house, on any pretext 
 whatever, after the date of the making of the will, loses 
 all chance of touching a penny and remains disqualified 
 forever. So now you know. Amen." He recited these 
 last sentences like a lesson aiid once more fell to rasping 
 Barend Everts' chin. 
 
 " And no legacies specified ? " Jaap Avis questioned 
 anxiously. " No distinctions made ? " No favour 
 shown ? " 
 
 Joop Sloop smiled with leisurely enjoyment of the big 
 
 1 "Ab intestato." 
 23
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 lie he was going to tell. " Not a penny," he answered 
 loudly. " Everything fair and square. Share and share 
 alike, according to your Bible birthright." 
 
 Barend Everts broke away from under the knife. 
 " 'Tis a rascally shame," he cried, starting up. " A mean, 
 beastly shame ! Just the kind of low thing for one old 
 scoundrel to do and another old scoundrel to boast 
 about." 
 
 " Softly, softly," said the barber. " For shame," 
 expostulated Avis. " Your father was a second cousin, 
 same as me." 
 
 " 'Tis a shame because it is a shame," retorted Barend 
 Everts. " Like everything, that's a shame. And if I 
 was Government, such things wouldn't be allowed. 
 Though, of course, if I was Government, I'd be as bad 
 as Government is." 
 
 " He means Liza Brock," put in Julia from behind the 
 bar. " He wants Liza Brock to have old Jan's money. 
 And he wants to marry Liza Brock. Pity her name ain't 
 Liza Hunkum, Barend ? Sold, my boy ! You'll have 
 to marry her just as she is." She jingled the money in 
 her bag. 'Twas only coppers. 
 
 The great simpleton stared right and left in angry 
 amazement. Then he found natural relief in a tre- 
 mendous oath, and fled, upsetting a chair, with the echo 
 in his ears of inaudible laughter. 
 
 Outside in the darkness hung the grey November mist. 
 The rustle of its unrelenting drip was everywhere. On 
 the bare hedgerows, down the scraggy trees, along the 
 tattered eaves. In the darkness the shiny globules 
 formed and fell incessantly, the puddles gleamed across 
 the slippery roadway : amid the windless silence all 
 
 24
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 things seemed to listen for the next pat, and the next. 
 The air was raw and miserable. Barend stumbled on, 
 for that was his way of walking. He never noticed 
 damp. 
 
 He lighted a farthing cigar, the weight of his thoughts 
 oppressing him. Active indignation confused his placidly 
 discontented brain. He was one who took life easily, 
 although, or more probably because, they feel, with a 
 strong man's helplessness, that most things on earth 
 are evil, especially the Powers that, irrevocably, Be. 
 And he hated oppression, even of others. 
 
 He went on across the hazy fields, where a dim light 
 twinkled here and there. Presently he stood still, in the 
 dripping desolation, near a tumble-down pig-stye, and 
 whistled. He whistled again, balancing himself against 
 the fence of roughly-hewn firs, the rank steam rose 
 around him. " Hang the girl," he said aloud. " I 
 thought I was late enough ! " 
 
 " So you were," cried a voice behind the pig-stye. 
 " And I'd leave you to whistle a few minutes longer, 
 Barend, if this weren't the first and last time you'll 
 whistle for me." The girl came round the corner and 
 confronted him. " Well, now," she said sullenly, " make 
 haste. Pray, what may you want with me ? " 
 
 " I want to tell you that I'm sweet on you," he 
 answered sullenly too. 
 
 " You've told me that before," she retorted angrily. 
 As angrily as a woman can. Not so very angrily. 
 
 " Well, it's as true now as then. Truer." 
 
 " And what did I answer you at the time ? " 
 
 " You know," he said, kicking at the rotten fence. 
 
 " Well, that's as true now as then. Truer." 
 
 " Truer ? " He caught at the word. 
 
 25
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " Truer. ShaU I tell you why ? " 
 
 " Yes. Tell me." 
 
 "I won't. Not to-night, at any rate. I can't. Go away." 
 
 One of the pigs in the stye moved heavily. " And 
 what should I marry you f or ? " the girl burst out, 
 goaded by his sorrowful silence. " What have you to 
 offer me, pray ? " 
 
 There followed a moment of derisive exultation on her 
 part, then Barend gasped forth painfully, with the air 
 of a man who has put his own hand to his throat — " Liza, 
 if you really wanted that, I — could make you a rich 
 woman, Liza ! " 
 
 She stared at him curiously, peering forward, pursing 
 up her lips. " Rich ? " she echoed. " ReaJ rich, 
 Barend ? Could you make it worth my while ? With a 
 blue silk dress and a servant-girl ? Are you sure and 
 certain, Barend, you could let me have a girl ? " 
 
 " Sure," he answered. " And two silk dresses. Oh, 
 Liza, were you really wanting that ? " 
 
 " I should like to be rich," she said frankly. 
 
 Then she laughed shrilly in his face, and the next 
 m.oment, quite seriously — 
 
 " So it was you took old Jan's money ? " she said. 
 
 " No, I didn't. Though, perhaps, some day I shall." 
 
 The night-mist dropped all round them. And although 
 he hardly knew it, his very heart was dark. 
 
 " From whom ? " she asked breathlessly. 
 
 " Why — from old Hunkum." She gave a gasp of 
 relief. " Take it from old Hunkum to give to you. For 
 it isn't stolen yet." 
 
 " What do you mean ? What do you know ? " Her 
 voice still trembled. " My God ! who could rob that poor 
 old man ? " 
 
 26
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 "It isn't stolen, I tell you. Every one says I'm a fool 
 — I suppose I am. But I've seen through Jan Hunkum's 
 trick at any rate. P'raps I see things by myself at 
 times that only a fool can see. He's thought out a plan 
 to secure himself against any of us trying to rob him. 
 And that's where this will comes in — oh, your mother'U 
 tell you about the will. He's got his money, never fear. 
 'Tis a cunning little plot that one fool has understood." 
 
 " I don't believe a word of it," the girl retorted scorn- 
 fully. " You are a fool ; you know that everybody says 
 so. And the florin ? — how about Jaap Avis' florin ? 
 Could you ever think Jan Hunkum would throw a florin 
 away ? " 
 
 " I don't understand about the florin," replied the 
 lover humbly. 
 
 " There, you see ! " she cried in triumph. " I know 
 Jan Hunkum better'n you ! Don't I take him his bread 
 every morning, regular ? And he always says ' Good- 
 morning, Liza,' regular, which is more than he does to 
 any one else." 
 
 " Doesn't he ever say anything more ? " asked Barend. 
 
 " Never anything more. He comes outside and he 
 says — ' Good-morning, Liza,' and he takes his loaf and 
 pays his pence and shuts his door, and I go on to my 
 other customers. And if there's a change in the price of 
 bread he always knows." 
 
 " And he's never said a kind word to you all these 
 years ? " 
 
 " Why should he say a kind word to me ? " 
 
 He shrank back before the fierce defiance of her tone. 
 " Do people in this hell of a place say kind words to one 
 another ? Love-making words, perhaps, or wheedling 
 words to cheat a poor girl or to diddle your neighbour ; 
 
 27
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 but kind words ! — kind ! — I wonder what they sound 
 Uke ! Psha ! " She beat the ground with her foot, 
 turning away. 
 
 " I'm sorry mine don't sound kind," he answered 
 more humbly than ever; " I mean 'em to." 
 
 " Psha ! " she said again. 
 
 " But it does seem to me that Jan Hunkum ought to 
 be special good to you. Special good. And he ought 
 to leave his money to you, instead of wasting it on a lot 
 of lazy cousins. I said as much this evening, speaking 
 for myself at Joop Sloop's " 
 
 " You said as much this evening at Joop Sloop's ? " 
 She came close to him, thrusting her clenched fists into 
 his face. " Oh, you brute, you cowardly brute ! I 
 wish I was a man like yourself to thrash you for it ! I 
 hate you. To think of your insulting me like that before 
 them all ! " 
 
 " I didn't mention names," protested Barend. 
 
 " 'Tis a he, I tell you, a cowardly lie," she hurried on 
 without heeding him. " Jan Hunkum's not my father. 
 I'm as respectable as the rest of you : my father was my 
 mother's husband ; my name's Eliza Brock ! " She 
 spat out the words in the fury of her vindication, her 
 great eyes glared through the moving mist. " My 
 mother's a respectable woman ! " she cried, " and I'm a 
 respectable woman ! Liars that you are ! I've always 
 hated all of you ! Brute ! My name's Eliza 
 Brock J" 
 
 " Yes, hush — hush, yes," he stammered, confusedly, 
 bewildered by her violence. " Make it Eliza Everts, 
 that's all I ask of you." 
 
 " Oh, hold your tongue," she answered, and all the 
 fury had died out of the voice. " No, I won't make it 
 
 28
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 Liza Everts, because " She hesitated. "I wonder," 
 
 she said reflectively, " shall I tell you because why ? " 
 " No need," he said bitterly. " You've told me al- 
 ready. You want to be rich, and I'm poor." He flung 
 away from her, out of sight. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Presently he stopped. The hovel lay behind him, in 
 the drizzle and the mist. He stood staring at nothing. 
 
 " Oh, she needn't because me no becauses. I felt the 
 because in her voice, plain enough. Lucky fellow, 
 
 whoever he is, d him. I wonder who it is ? " He 
 
 stumbled forward and, as he went, his footfall grew 
 heavier under him, with deliberate resolve. 
 
 " No, not with all the money, she'd never have taken 
 me," he reasoned, " she don't want the money for her- 
 self, I'd never believe it of Liza. She wants it for him. 
 A hundred times I've wanted it for her. Well, things 
 are altered now. As she wants it, I suppose she must 
 have it. I'd better speak to Mary at once." He turned 
 aside towards the yellow blur which encircled the bar- 
 ber's window. " Pleasant work, Barend, you fool," he 
 thought, " finding the needy for a rival ! " 
 
 From Joop Sloop's came sounds of quarrelling and 
 cursing, the usual Saturday evening row. Just as 
 Barend drew near, the door sprang open suddenly, and, 
 through a broad torrent of lamplight and blasphemy, a 
 guttering silver piece plashed in the mud at his feet. 
 
 " Cheat your own sort, if you can ! " yelled the barber. 
 29
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " You won't get a soul in this place to believe tnat Jan 
 Hunkum 'd give you a counterfeit coin ! " 
 
 " And I swear 'tis the florin I picked up this morning," 
 Jaap Avis retorted shyly. He appeared in the hght of 
 the doorway, staggering as if from some invisible impetus. 
 " Hands off, you seller of counterfeit gin ! Get the 
 Government to grant you a licence, and don't talk of 
 ' coiners ' to me ! And give me my money back in- 
 stantly ! Give it me instantly. Sloop ! " 
 
 " You can pick it up whenever you choose," rang the 
 answer in Julia's metallic tones. " But you don't 
 require it to pay me the twelve stivers you owe me — in 
 coin of the realm ! " 
 
 " It ts a bad 'un," said Everts, who had been carefully 
 testing the piece, " a fine bit o' work any man might be 
 proud of." He pushed the florin into its owner's hand 
 and entered the house. He understood the whole thing 
 now with fresh admiration of old Jan's cunning. Jaap 
 Avis, afraid to go in or go home, stood whining in the 
 middle of the road. 
 
 " Where's Mary Brock ? " asked Barend, peering into 
 clouds of smoke. The louder women of the hamlet often 
 look in on the Saturday shaving. " I can't tell why, for 
 they let their beards grow," says the winking village 
 constable. 
 
 " Here she is," cried Julia, whose red cheeks were 
 empurpled with gin-fed emotion. " Here, Madame 
 Mary Brock, here's Mr. Everts, Poacher. He's come to 
 propose, in proper form, for the hand of your lovely 
 daughter ! He offers himself and all his traps." 
 
 " Hang you," said the violent-faced woman, and rose 
 to her feet. Barend stood in the middle of the room, 
 quietly contemplating Julia. " You're too clever by 
 
 30
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 half," he said. " What an awful thing it 'd be for both 
 if you was to marry a fool." She looked straight up at 
 him, her eyes grown suddenly tender. " See here," he 
 hurried on, " I want to have a talk with Mary. Let us 
 into your room — can't you ? — here at the back." 
 
 " No — no — no ! " she cried — the words sprang from 
 her lips like a troop of barking dogs. " Go out into the 
 roadway — it's raining — nobody 'd ever disturb you 
 
 there, not even " She laughed and, with a defiant 
 
 flourish, filled up her half-empty glass. 
 
 " Now the Lord 'a mercy on me, Barend Everts, and 
 what can you want with me ? " said the woman Brock. 
 " You don't expect me — surely — to help you make love 
 to Liza ? " 
 
 Barend answered her meaningly — " If it was love I'd 
 been after I'd never 'a come to you." He reproached 
 himself for those cutting words as soon as they had left 
 his lips. It was Julia's example, he fancied, made him 
 spiteful, not his overwhelming, overbearing wretchedness. 
 
 " Look here," he continued, coming close to her, 
 " I'm going to do what you want me to. So shut up 
 and go home." 
 
 A hot light filled her vehement eyes. " I don't under- 
 stand in the least," she answered significantly; "but 
 I can't stand the smell in here any longer. So good- 
 night, Julia ; have a chat with Barend. Lord bless 
 you, I don't mind ! " And she lifted up her nose on 
 high. 
 
 " Barend'll please himself," retorted the irate 
 damsel, " without asking advice of you, though you 
 certainly might be his mother ! But you ain't. No, 
 nor his mother-in-law, as yet. Have out your secret- 
 with him presently. Nice little secrets, I dare say ! " 
 
 31
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 A hoarse laugh went up from all present : even the 
 man under the knife grinned, with care. 
 
 Barend Everts sat himself down squarely, and called 
 for a pennorth o' gin. " I thought you'd had Uquor 
 enough," exclaimed Julia, aflame with resentment. 
 " Oh, bother," he answered crossly, " that was an hour 
 ago." He sat contemplating his massive limbs, in 
 dull repose. He was the strongest man in the room : 
 he knew the fact, good-humouredly ; but of what avail is 
 the greatest strength that a woman's laugh can break ? 
 
 He got up again and slouched out. In the doorway 
 he looked at his watch. Five minutes to ten. As he 
 went tramping back along the slushy road to the 
 Brocks' outlying hovel, the distant chimes of Horstwyk 
 faintly struck the hour. 
 
 About halfway, at a turn of the road, he heard a 
 couple of voices behind a hedge. " So, then, it's 
 settled for twelve to-night," a man was saying. Barend 
 stopped. 
 
 " And that'll teach the old skinflint to play us tricks," 
 the speaker continued. " You see, the richest part of 
 it is, he can't even run to the police. Why, hasn't he 
 told us all that his money is stolen already ? Then, 
 how can any one steal it to-night ? " 
 
 " Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! " laughed another voice. " He 
 ought to have waited till to-morrow." 
 
 " Hush. Twelve, mind you. Look sharp." The 
 principal speaker came breaking through the hedge as 
 Barend noisily turned the corner. The two rivals 
 challenged each other in usual peasant fashion, by a 
 suspiciously spoken " Good-even." 
 
 " Fistycuffs," said Barend, " were you waiting for 
 me ? Better not fight : I'm the stronger." 
 
 32
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " I'm not waiting to fight you," swore the bully, 
 " I'm waiting for a girl." 
 
 In a lightning survey of the nearest cottages all pos- 
 sibilities flashed across Barend's brain. Liza's hut — 
 thank Heaven ! — was farthest off, a tumble- down shed 
 by the dyke. 
 
 " I'm waiting for a girl," repeated Fistycuffs : " some- 
 thing must have happened, for she's always before time. 
 The hussy, to keep me waiting ! I'll box her ears if 
 she don't come soon." 
 
 " A nice girl she must be," said Barend, scornfully, 
 passing him. 
 
 "So she is — so her mother thinks. And I. 
 And — other people. I'm going to marry her some 
 day, if I choose, so I don't mind telling you her 
 name." He put himself in a posture of possible 
 defence. " 'Tis Liza Brock," he said. Barend faced 
 round. 
 
 " Look here, you'd better fight me," he said 
 gently. " Better take your licking that way." 
 
 "Fight! Who's talking of fighting?" Fistycuffs 
 began to retreat in alarm. " Don't be a fool, Barend 
 Everts ! Why shouldn't I marry a girl that's in love 
 with me ? And, d me, I will ! " 
 
 " Do," said Barend, dropping his arm. He hastily 
 continued his way. 
 
 Presently a shadow slipped past him, along the 
 shiny hedgerow. He turned with a flood of scorn 
 beating against his teeth. But he only called — 
 
 " Listen to me, Liza, a moment, please ! " 
 
 She crept back sullenly, angry under this exposure. 
 " I haven't time," she said, hurrying off. 
 
 " You're not really going to marry Fistycuffs ? " 
 
 3 33
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " Yes, I am. So now you know. Well — that's what 
 I'd like to have lots of money for." 
 
 " Hist ! He won't make a good husband." 
 
 " He'll make a good husband to me." 
 
 " For why ? " 
 
 " For why ? Because I love him, Barend Everts. 
 Can't you understand ? " 
 
 "Hist! Don't speak too loud. Well, you ain't got 
 the money at any rate. He'll have to wait a precious 
 long time for that." Suddenly he resolved that he 
 would not help her to secure this worthless prize. But 
 he was a clumsy reader of woman's thoughts. 
 
 " You fool ! " she answered. That was all. 
 
 " Liza, you only think you love him. For your 
 own sake, Liza, wait a few months and make sure." 
 
 He was frightened by the fury this suggestion aroused 
 in her. " What affair is it of yours," she cried, " why 
 I marry and when ? So mind your own business ! I 
 shall marry him in rags and be wretched, and love 
 him for beating me because Lm as poor as himself ! I 
 shall love him because he's wicked and worthless, and 
 brutal, and a bully ! Just as 1 hate you because — 
 because you're so good, and a fool ! " 
 
 " Liza ! " he cried with the cry of an animal in pain. 
 
 She buried her face in both hands, sobbing. " I'm 
 going to marry him in a fortnight's time," she mur- 
 mured. " I wouldn't wait — if I could." 
 
 " Could ? " In spite of himself his voice roughened. 
 
 " Ay ! could. You talk as if you were some fine 
 nobleman, instead of just Everts of the Hemel. Who 
 are we — if you please ? " She ran sobbing down the road. 
 
 " My God ! " said Barend Everts. Perhaps it was 
 the first prayer he ever uttered. He thought no othei 
 
 34
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 thought till he stood in Mary Brock's untidy room — 
 the living-room and sleeping-room, the whole untidy 
 dwelling. 
 
 Mary Brock sat on a three-legged stool by the roaring 
 fire. She had borrowed, from some neighbour, an 
 armful of stolen sticks : the room was far too hot. Her 
 clothes were inevitably dirty, but she had smoothed 
 them somewhat, and damped her untidy hair into still 
 more noticeable disorder. By taking off her cap she 
 had unwittingly imparted a naked look to her head and 
 shoulders ; about her surroundings there seemed a 
 suggestion of putting to rights which made all the 
 wrongs stand out. 
 
 " So ! " she said in welcome. She pointed to a 
 couple of bloaters which lay, a brilliantly golden spot^ 
 upon the dimly illumined table. " I got those for 
 you," she said. " Leastways, I was passing." He 
 sat down in silence, filling his mouth with the fish. 
 
 " Well ? " she said, without any sign of impatience. 
 In fact, she had waited until she saw that he had quite 
 done with the bloaters. " Well ? " He lay back, 
 wiping his lips. Suddenly she turned round on him, 
 her black eyes ablaze. 
 
 " Oh, no, hang it," he answered, and thrust back 
 his chair. " Why, Mary, I'm after your daughter ! 
 Leastways ' wels.' " His great hands dropped beside 
 his chair : everything about him seemed to fall. 
 
 She dashed a log into the fireplace, scattering sparks 
 and ashes far across the room. 
 
 " You're just crazy ! " he exclaimed roughly. " You 
 always was. I can't help your being crazy. Look here, 
 Mary ! Can you listen to me, like a woman that's sane ? " 
 
 " Not if you tell stories, you cheat ! " 
 
 35
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " I never told stories to you and I never cheated 
 you. I've come about the paper. I always told you 
 I should never use it." 
 
 " Then let me have it back to give to a better man 
 than you." 
 
 " And this evening, at Joop Sloop's, I told you that 
 I would," 
 
 " So, you see, you lied all along ! " 
 
 He took no notice of her unreasoning spite, but 
 continued calmly — " Everything's changed now. She 
 don't want me. She wants money. She don't want 
 me. That's certain." 
 
 " You might have known that six months ago." 
 
 "Well, I didn't. Not for certain. Not before 
 to-night." 
 
 She kicked at the fire. " I'm glad," she said, " glad, 
 glad!" 
 
 " No, you're not : I don't believe it. Oh, don't begin 
 shouting at me. I know exactly what you wanted 
 and haven't got." 
 
 He loosened his vest and, from some inner pocket, 
 drew forth a faded pocket-book. Out of this he pro- 
 duced a bit of dingy paper. " Here it is," he said, 
 spreading it carefully out upon the table and thereby 
 adding a stain from his bloatered fingers. " Here it 
 is, just as you gave it me six months ago." She 
 snatched it up and made out the familiar words she 
 could not have read — 
 
 " This is to certify that Widow Brock's daughter Eliza 
 is my child, Jan Hunkum." And the place, and the date. 
 
 " When you gave me that six months ago," con- 
 tinued Barend, " you called it Liza's dowry. You 
 wanted me to use it against Jan Hunkum. All of a 
 
 36
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 sudden, one night, you put it into my hand. * Here,' 
 you said, ' here's Liza's dowry.' I was awful glad to 
 have it, for I was awful sweet on Liza. Do you know 
 why I was glad to have it ? I'd have put it into the 
 fire on the night of my wedding-day." 
 
 " Burnt it ! " She rose, screaming. " Burnt it, you 
 idiot ! Burnt ! " 
 
 " Bad names don't break no bones, Mary, but they 
 don't, neither, sound as pretty as you seem to think 
 they do. Well, there's not going to be no wedding- 
 day — leastways, not for me. And if Liza wants money 
 that I needn't share, she must have it — seems to me, 
 she wants it quick ! So let me see what I can do to 
 help her. 'Tisn't a pleasant job, so I'll get it over at 
 once." 
 
 " Barend," said the woman by the fire, " you was 
 always mighty particular, but if so be that everything's 
 over 'twixt you and Liza " 
 
 " Hist! " he said imperiously. The woman started : 
 her dark cheeks sank. When she spake again, her voice 
 had changed to an accustomed beggar's whine. " And 
 the poor thing never doubts but she's Luke Brock's 
 lawful daughter, and he gone a year and more before 
 her birth, and me a poor starving widow that ' did ' 
 
 for the wicked, wheedling, wealthy " She stopped. 
 
 " God ! " she burst out, " Now that he's lost his 
 money, you come with your stupid — or, listen to me ! " 
 — her voice instinctively dropped to a whisper — " Did 
 you take the money, Barend ? You'll do the right 
 thing by us. As soon as I heard, this morning, I thought 
 that it must be you." 
 
 " Thank you," said Barend. 
 
 " But Liza ! — she flew out in one of her rages ! 
 
 37
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 Barend, she says, '11 never catch nothing worth having 
 but rabbits and hares." 
 
 " Did she say that ? " 
 
 " Ay ! she did. She knows what a fool you are." 
 
 Barend meditatively drew his finger through the 
 grease of the empty dish. 
 
 " Give me a third — no, a quarter, Barend. Then 
 you can keep the rest and the dockyment and Liza too." 
 
 Barend Everts stepped back roughly. " I haven't 
 
 got the money," he said. " And I don't want — d ! 
 
 I can't get — the girl. Can't you understand that I 
 wouldn't take a penny from any man or woman living? 
 'Tis no fault of mine. I'm made that way." 
 
 " But you'd take hares," she interrupted spitefully. 
 
 " Now that it'll never be for me, in any case, I'll go 
 to Jan Hunkum this night and get him to act a father's 
 part to Liza, if I can. He's alive to-night, at any 
 rate ; the neighbours say he groaned all day. P'raps 
 he's ill. I don't believe about the robbery. And sup- 
 posing he was to die to-night, where'd Liza be ? Penni- 
 less ! " His eyes grew wistful : he was thinking. 
 
 " She'd have all the money," said Mary Brock. 
 
 He stared at her. " You don't know Government," 
 he said. " Government don't give poor folks money. 
 By George, if Jan won't act a father's part to Liza, I'll 
 tell him this bit o' paper'll be stuck up to-morrow 
 morning on the door of Horstwyk ChurcK ! " 
 
 " The parson'd pull it off," said Mary. Barend 
 smiled down at his huge fists. 
 
 " I shouldn't do it, in course," he said, " to bring 
 shame on Liza. But 'tis a fair threat, and I hope it'll 
 bring him round." 
 
 " What do you call a father's part ? " said Mary. 
 38
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " I dunno. My father's part was kicks." 
 
 " I'd do it better myself ! " cried Mary, springing 
 up in sudden doubt. " Always supposing the old 
 rogue gets his money back ! You're that good-natured 
 and simple, you don't know money's worth. I'd — 
 I'd always made up my mind to wait till the moment 
 he was dead, then I'd have taken my dockyment 
 straight to the Burgomaster, and he'd 'ave given me 
 every penny of which my lawful daughter's father died 
 possessed ! She'll be a rich girl some day, will my 
 lawful daughter. That's why I wanted you to have 
 her, Barend. And you could, if you choose." 
 
 " In course I could," retorted Barend moodily 
 " That's why she's sweet on Fistycuffs." 
 
 Mary Brock again kicked the faggots. " She's 
 sweet on Fistycuffs, and when she's done being sweet on 
 Fistycuffs, she'll want to marry you ! " 
 
 " I'd thank you for no man's leavings." 
 
 " Please yourself. But when a man loves a woman 
 like you love Liza, the best thing he can do is to love 
 her for better and for worse. He can't help himself. 
 Lor ! 'Tis no man's leavings. Mark my word ! she 
 loves you — and she's in love with Fistycuffs. And 
 if you weren't a fool, you'd take what you can get." 
 
 " And as I am a fool," he cried, banging his fist on 
 the table — " Give me that paper back, and let me go ! " 
 
 " Lord ! " said the woman, in astonishment. Pre- 
 sently she held out the dirty scrap in silence. He took 
 it, rose, and buttoned it out of sight. 
 
 " Never you talk," he said, " of taking this to Bur- 
 gomasters. Once Jan Hunkum is dead, 'tis a bit of 
 waste paper." 
 
 She made no reply, turning her back on him and on 
 the light. ^^
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " 'Cause I know," he continued, nettled. " For 
 why ? Once a man dies — in our class of life — his 
 mother goes to the lawyers. My mother — she came 
 from beyond the Rhine, you know — she had an aunt 
 that died and left a hundred thousand guilders — a 
 hundred thousand guilders. There was thirteen heirs 
 turned up and seven lawyers, and in all the five years 
 till mother died she got two thousand paid her — and 
 oh, the heartsore and worry of getting that ! She left 
 it all in the Bank at Dordrecht, and two years later 
 they wrote to say it had all got lost in shares ! Shares 
 for the lawyers, I s'pose they meant, and for themselves 
 and Government. We never got a penny. Oh, that's 
 why I hate the sight of a broadcloth coat in the streets, 
 Mary. If it belongs to the man inside — he's stolen it ! " 
 
 She took no notice. 
 
 In the doorway he stopped. " Kind thanks for the 
 bloaters, Mary," he said, and, as she neither turned 
 nor answered him, he slammed the door. 
 
 IV 
 
 Outside, he looked at his watch, a great, absurd thing, 
 like a tin bun. The dull flare from the clouded window 
 fell across its face. 
 
 "Nearly eleven," he said, "and they settled for twelve." 
 The mist had thickened to a steady downpour. The 
 ground was steaming ; the desolate expanse, with its 
 scattered hovels and black potato-plots, lay pitchy dark. 
 As he went along, Barend's thoughts were of the mis- 
 creants preparing to attack old Hunkum. Apparently 
 
 40
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 they were pleasant thoughts, for he kept complacently 
 slapping his heavy thighs. 
 
 Presently the yellow zone of gravel shone in front of 
 him. He crunched across it towards the silent door. 
 
 He was about to knock, but checked himself. The 
 old man inside was stone deaf, when he chose, and would 
 certainly never open, however plainly he might hear. An 
 intending visitor, at this hour — or at any other, unless 
 the man had been invited — could only obtain admittance 
 by forcing his way in. Barend passed slowly round the 
 little house, inspecting its irresponsive shutters. Fool- 
 ishly enough, he had not foreseen this difficulty. The 
 faint chimes from Horstwyk steeple came thrilling 
 through the night. 
 
 At the back of the house, by the kitchen-entry, was a 
 little window, with bars outside. Before this he stood 
 half a minute, meditating ; then, with a swift clench of 
 both fists, he tore one of the bars toward him. It came 
 away shrieking, amongst a shower of splinters from the 
 broken window-frame. One moment he waited, gasping 
 for breath. Then he wrenched out a second bar, and a 
 third ; the great beads of perspiration stood cold upon 
 his forehead. With the formidable weapon he now held 
 in his hands he struck aside the glass panes and the 
 shutter behind them, and so passed into a tiny pantry, 
 groping his way amongst empty shelves. 
 
 He listened, expectant. Amidst the swash of the rain 
 outside a sudden creak of timber told him how undis- 
 turbed the stillness of the house remained. He found 
 no difficulty in forcing the lock of the pantry door, and so 
 obtained admittance to the passage, also dark. Here he 
 hung back, for the awe of the living silence fell upon 
 him. 
 
 41
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " Over yonder's his bedroom door," he reflected. 
 " How early the old man goes to bed. And to sleep ? 
 Old people don't sleep much, they say. Surely this one 
 shouldn't." He hated Liza's father, with all the con- 
 tempt of a diametrically opposite nature. Indolence and 
 wastefulness were the faults he condoned. 
 
 He pushed along the wall to the door through which 
 he had passed that morning with all the rest. It was a 
 queer thought that here he was burglariously entering 
 Jan Hunkum's house, to protect Jan Hunkum's property 
 on every Hemeler's behalf except his own ! 
 
 And now, as his fingers touched the handle, he felt 
 that his night's work was going to begin. There was no 
 light whatever visible from the inside. Presumably, 
 therefore, the room was as dark as the rest of the house. 
 Or was it possible so laboriously to close up all the chinks 
 that not a ray could pierce panel or shutter ? Was it 
 thinkable that, behind this enclosing blackness, there 
 should be light and life ? Perhaps, even now, the old 
 man, sitting up in the great green bedstead, was watching 
 with dilated eyeballs each twist of the door-knob ? The 
 suspense of these invisible eyes became unbearable to 
 Barend : he flung his full weight against the door, and, 
 as it broke away before him, he fell forward into the 
 middle of the room. 
 
 A bright lamp stood on the table by the bed. Jan 
 Hunkum sat erect, against the pillows, without sign of 
 hurt or sickness, his skinny red face in a tremble, the 
 grey locks, under the knitted nightcap, dark upon his 
 contorted brows. On the table lay piled a heap of 
 papers, under the glare of the lamp — business papers, 
 mortgages, bonds — some of them had fallen to the floor 
 beside a gaping money-chest ; others mingled on the 
 
 42
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 counterpane with bundles of banknotes and a glitter of 
 scattered gold. The intruder started back before the 
 agonized appeal of the old man's motionless stare. 
 
 " I haven't come to hurt you ! " he shouted. 
 " Haven't come to rob you, don't you hear ? " There 
 was no response whatever. " Haven't come to rob 
 you," he repeated, " rob you, rob you." Old Hunkum 
 lifted a shaky finger and pointed to the iron bar. Barend 
 dropped it impatiently, from his unconscious grasp, on 
 the foot of the great green bed. 
 
 He drew nearer to explain his object, and in doing so 
 struck against the open chest, evoking a gentle jingle 
 from its depths. The miser shrieked in eager response 
 and flung himself across the widespread treasures in 
 front of him, his hooked fingers gathering up banknotes 
 and tumble-down piles of metal, in a vain endeavour to 
 cover them all, as a hen her too numerous brood. The 
 nightshirt fell open from his panting chest ; his whole 
 face was now working ; his scream died away to a 
 crooning appeal still more piteous to hear. 
 
 " Now, listen to me," cried Barend, bending over him. 
 " Listen to me, Jan Hunkum, and do as you please. 
 But I've come to help you — to help you, so help me God ! 
 Do you believe me now ? In less than an hour a couple 
 of scoundrels will be here — burglars — coming to rob 
 you — coming to kill you. And I'll help you — do you 
 hear me ? — against them — help you." 
 
 The old man still bent forward, staring his terrified, 
 unmeaning stare, and impotently raking the counter- 
 pane. 
 
 " There's no time to lose, so I'd better be very plain,' 
 continued Barend, bending his burly form between 
 Hunkum's face and the lamp. " I'll help you to keep 
 
 43
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 your confounded cash, but, by Heaven, if I do, Jan 
 Hunkum, you must make an honest use of a httle of it 
 at last ! I've got in my pocket here " — he slapped his 
 chest — " the paper you wrote for Mary Brock. Liza's 
 your child, Jan Hunkum. I don't want to call an old 
 man names, but twenty years ago — I will say that — 
 you weren't a better man than you are to-day. Liza's 
 your child, bought with bread ! If you want to keep 
 the rest of all this stuff here you said was stolen, you 
 must give me an honest lump of it — a good, fair, honest 
 lump of it — for your daughter Liza to-night ! " He 
 caught up a handful of banknotes and scattered them 
 loosely over the floor. 
 
 Then Jan Hunkum found rapid speech. " Pity a 
 poor old man," he said hoarsely. " Have mercy on a 
 poor old man, a poor old man." His visitor stood look- 
 ing down on him, with squarely-folded arms. 
 
 " Liza Brock's going to marry," Barend said. The 
 old man cast up at him a quick leer of contemptuous 
 penetration. " She's going to marry," Barend con- 
 tinued steadily, " a good-for-nothing brute. As long as 
 she's able to support him, he won't ill-treat her. So you 
 must settle the money on your daughter — say ten 
 thousand guilders — you must give them me to take away 
 to-night. You're not listening : I don't believe you 
 hear me. It doesn't matter." He raised his voice. 
 " Ten thousand florins to-night, at once, for your 
 daughter Liza — or I leave you to your fate ! " 
 
 " Have pity on a poor old man," said the miser. 
 
 " Leave you to be robbed of every penny lying here 
 — and you will be ! " Barend forgot his professed 
 respect for old age. " And why shouldn't I, you thief ? " 
 he cried. " Why shouldn't other thieves have as much 
 
 44
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 right to the gold as you ? " He unloosened his arms. 
 His eyes flashed. 
 
 " To all my relations, when I die," mumbled the miser. 
 " To you, and the rest. You're my cousin also, Barend 
 Everts. First cousin once removed. I'm an old man. 
 I only want to die in peace." 
 
 " You lie," said Barend sternly. " By entering this 
 house to-night, I have given up all chance of any share 
 in your inheritance. I know it ; we all know it. You 
 lie." He picked up a ten-guilder note. " I don't want 
 your dirty money," he added, slowly. " Some small 
 share — as much as this ? — would have come to me some 
 day, I suppose. Let me have it now, so you may see 
 for yourself what I do with it ! " He waved the flimsy 
 scrap of paper over the lamp. To his astonishment the 
 old man leaped aloft and fell upon him, tearing it 
 away. 
 
 " Gently," said Barend, stepping back. 
 
 " It's blackmail ! " cried Jan Hunkum furiously. 
 " It's infamous imposture and robbery ! Why don't 
 you kill me at once and have done with me ? Take all 
 the money and kill me and go, you hulking beast of a 
 poacher ! " 
 
 For answer Barend drew forth his precious document 
 and held it on high. " Do you recognize this or not ? " 
 he asked. " Do you dare to deny that Liza is your 
 child ? " 
 
 The miser sank back among his pillows. " I deny 
 nothing," he said. " I'll leave her ten thousand guilders. 
 rU leave her twenty thousand. Be a good husband to 
 her. I'll leave you twenty thousand guilders. Go away 
 now. I'll make a new, expensive will." 
 
 " She shan't wait till you're dead ! " exclaimed Barend, 
 
 45
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 brandishing his document. " For one thing, she'd never 
 get a penny ! Once you're dead, all your money will 
 go to the notaries and Government ! That's a pleasant 
 reflection — the notaries and Government. So now, while 
 you've got it, give a little to your daughter that needs 
 it ! Your daughter that's in rags and in — give it her ! 
 Give it her at once ! " He began passionately shuffling 
 the papers that lay on the table ; his broad shadow 
 darkened the bed. " I see you don't believe a single 
 word of all that I've been saying. It's true, all the same, 
 and I'll settle those fellows for you in a jiffy. But you 
 give me the money for Liza ! Look here ; I don't under- 
 stand about these papers." 
 
 He did not perceive that the old man's arm went 
 stealthily gliding down to the bed-foot, down to the iron 
 bar which lay there. " Now, for instance, tell me 
 honestly, what is this bundle worth ? " He turned, and, 
 in turning, sprang aside : the heavy bar came whizzing 
 past him ; his arm, thrown up in hasty self-defence, 
 upset the petroleum lamp. With a crash it exploded, 
 amongst a sudden blaze of papers : the yellow flames 
 ran up the thin green curtains of the bed. The miser's 
 murderous weapon clanged upon the money-chest ; the 
 old man himself, borne down by the weight of his futile 
 blow, fell forward, right into the flames. He did not 
 seem to feel or, if he felt, to regard the spread of the 
 swift conflagration, but plunged frantically deeper, his 
 naked arms outstretched, clutching at the charred frag- 
 ments that sailed away everywhere around him on 
 broadening rivers of fire, while from his lips all the time 
 broke a rapid succession of moans like the plaint of a 
 wounded beast. Barend, in his first bewilderment, had 
 run to the washstand, ignorantly seeking fuel for the 
 
 46
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 furnace : to his open-mouthed amazement it seemed 
 Hke a judgment from Heaven that water should cause 
 flames to increase ! But after a moment of stupefied 
 staring, he flung himself into the burning mass and 
 dragged out the old man, who shrieked and struck 
 wildly again and again in the fierceness of unavaihng 
 resistance, amid the crackle of paper and the clatter of 
 gold. Desperately fighting his way to the bed, Barend 
 tore himself loose from the miser's clutches, and sprang 
 to pull down the blazing hangings and to cast the dead 
 blackness of the bedclothes — the counterpane, the 
 mattresses, the coat off his own back — across the abysm 
 of flame and smoke. In another moment it was all over. 
 He stood, uncertain, in utter darkness and dirt. 
 
 Presently he struck a match, and found a tallow candle, 
 and, coughing away the clouds around him, he looked 
 round. Jan Hunkum lay on the floor, his right hand 
 once more fiercely clasping the murderous iron bar ; 
 his eyes were closed : there was a splatter of blood all 
 about him. 
 
 Barend Everts knew nothing of sickness, and little of 
 death. His father had been shot in a poaching affray ; 
 his mother had died in a fit : for the rest, his pathological 
 experiences were confined to the animal world. When 
 a hare had a hole like that behind its ears it was done for. 
 He gently turned the old man on his back again : the 
 eyes were dull ; the breath had stopped. Jan Hunkum 
 was dead : he, Barend Everts, was somehow mixed up 
 with his death. The miser must have fallen — perhaps 
 in taking fresh aim ? — and in falling must have struck 
 against a corner of the chest. But what did these par- 
 ticulars matter ? When Government finds a man killed 
 and a hve man beside him, it says that the live man has 
 
 47
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 murdered the dead one — at least, if the live man's 
 poor. 
 
 There was no more to be done for Jan Hunkum. 
 Barend rose slowly to his feet and ran from the room. 
 
 He struck his elbow against the wall of the passage — 
 he struck his face against the wall of the pantry — at last 
 he was out of the window, out in the rain. 
 
 He tried to understand what had happened. His 
 heart throbbed into his brain. He couldn't, and once 
 more he hated himself for a fool. It was he who had 
 upset the lamp. He wondered : had he murdered Jan 
 Hunkum twice — from a legal point of view ? Did they 
 punish you twice, if so ? He knew nothing of legal 
 subtleties, except that they invariably exculpate the 
 wealthy and inculpate the poor. 
 
 He wished the night was darker. It was horribly, 
 brutally light. He could not remain standing there 
 on the shiny gravel : the whole world was watching 
 him, before and behind — especially behind — from a 
 thousand staring eyes. He flung himself to the ground 
 and crept, on hands and feet, across the soaked potato- 
 fields. 
 
 He laboriously reached a plantation of oak brush- 
 wood, and in a dry ditch alongside it sank panting. 
 Baronial brushwood, he reflected bitterly — anxiously. 
 The Great — the Government — the vague, ever-present 
 Oppressor ! He looked down at his clothes, at his hands. 
 He was all over slimy clay, miserably dirty. A good 
 thing he had on his grey work-a-day shirt, not to- 
 morrow's shiny white one. Yonder, that twinkle far 
 down along the ditch was Liza's hovel. Jan Hunkum 
 was dead. Well, Fistycuffs might come and take the 
 money now. He, just as well as the Government. 
 
 48
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 ' But you love me, Fisty ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Say you love me, then ! " 
 
 " In course I love you, confound you." 
 
 " Kiss me, then." 
 
 " Not I. Not as long as you call me Fisty." 
 
 " But, Ferdy, I like to call you Fisty. It sounds 
 strong. Like as if you could beat me." 
 
 " So I could beat you. And so I will, if you go on 
 forgetting my name's Ferdinand." 
 
 " Could — could ! " She drew herself up haughtily, 
 and leisurely inspected her naked brown arm. Then she 
 fell back into her former tone. " Don't be disagreeable, 
 Ferdy. I love you so. If you only loved me as I 
 love you ! " 
 
 He shook himself impatiently. " And what am I 
 marrying you for ? " he said. " Your money, I sup- 
 pose ? " 
 
 " Don't, Ferdy. You'd like me to have money, 
 shouldn't you ? — I wish I had ; I wish I had." 
 
 Her voice grew miserable, for the shadow crossed her 
 soul of a love which longed for gold — to give it her ! 
 
 He had been lolling against the pig-stye ; his manner 
 suddenly grew businesshke. " Why, what a fool I 
 am ! " he said. " I never thought of it before ! Look 
 here, you're as strong as a man, Liza — though I could 
 lick you with half a hand — you could do a man's work 
 any day, couldn't you ? " 
 
 " Couldn't I ? " said Liza proudly. " And — what's 
 more ! — when we're married, I will. I'll work for you 
 4 49
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 all day long, Ferdy, like mother worked for father, and 
 Aunt Judy works for uncle, and " 
 
 " Oh, shut up, do," he interrupted impatiently. 
 " You women always talk as if we did nothing. As if 
 watching all night for rabbits were nothing, with the 
 beastly moonlight, and all the risk, and things ! But I 
 didn't want to bother about that. Curse the stupid 
 chatter. Look here, Liza Brock, you want to marry 
 me, don't you ? " 
 
 " I do," she said, and took his hand and kissed it. 
 
 He shook her off. 
 
 " And the sooner the better ? " 
 
 " The sooner the better, indeed ! " Her voice trem- 
 bled. She folded her hands in front of her. 
 
 " Then the sooner we've got the necessary funds, the 
 better for us both," he said doggedly. " I'm not going 
 to marry you till then, mind that." 
 
 " I haven't got any money, and I can't get any, Ferdy. 
 I shouldn't know how. But once we're married, I'll — " 
 
 " Oh, stop your confounded bleating. It's I will get 
 the money, but you can lend a hand. I'm going to leave 
 this confounded hole and take you with me. I'm going 
 to be a fine gentleman, Liza, and you shall be a lady. 
 The thing 'd have been done by now but that long- 
 armed Pete — the funk ! — pretended he heard a noise. 
 No ma'.ter : he won't split : there'll be all the more for 
 us." 
 
 '■ It is late — past twelve," said Liza nervously. " I 
 must be getting back through the window. Mother 
 will find me out." 
 
 " What, you funking too ! " cried the man with a 
 thunderous oath. " Look you here : I haven't called 
 you out for any fooling, mind you. Listen to me. You 
 
 50
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 must help me to-night to get Jan Hunkum's money. 
 It's a beastly shame, this new-made will of his, that 
 every one's talking about ! — wasting all his money 
 where it can't do nobody no good. We'll get it, and 
 away to America to-morrow ! I shall have to give 
 something to Pete, I suppose, and he and his noises be 
 hanged." 
 
 He had hstened to his own voice in speaking. A 
 long silence ensued. 
 
 " I'm not a thief," said Liza, almost inaudibly. 
 
 " Aren't you ? Well, then, you're a thief's wife. I 
 could do it by myself, if I didn't feel a bit uncomfortable 
 about that creepy noise." 
 
 " Oh, Fisty, don't. There's no money, Fisty. Why, 
 it was stolen away last night — you know it was — and 
 old Hunkum half murdered. Didn't you see him this 
 morning, with his head done up in bandages ? There 
 isn't any money there — I know there isn't — there 
 isn't " 
 
 He struck at her, and she started back. " Hold your 
 jaw, you fool ! " he blustered. "I can see through the 
 cunning old devil, if you cannot. Nobody can among 
 these drunken idiots, and that's my chance ! Fetching 
 the plunder away to-night's as safe as safe can be. He 
 can never say he's been robbed to-night, for there's 
 nothing left to take ! " He laughed. 
 
 " I don't care. I'm not a thief," said Liza Brock. 
 And she added in a lower key — " Supposing I was, of 
 all the people in the world, I wouldn't rob Jan 
 Hunkum." 
 
 " Whew ! " said Fistycuffs. Then he burst out — 
 " So that's what you flaunt in my face, do you ? A 
 nice respectable sort of person you are to have moral 
 
 51
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 sentiments ! Why, you idiot, it's no robbery in your 
 case ; that's where the moral sentiments comes in ! 
 It's taking your own — what belongs to you — from an 
 unnatural old wretch who wants to waste it upon 
 strangers. That's what I feel all along. Now that 
 I'm going to marry Jan Hunkum's daughter, it's my 
 duty to her — to you, don't you see ? — to secure the 
 inheritance of which he's defrauding her." He mis- 
 pronounced the word " defrauding," but he rolled 
 out the whole long sentence like a much-repeated 
 task. 
 
 A horrible light flared up in her heart, but she beat 
 it down. " It's a lie ! " she exclaimed. " No, I don't 
 mean that, Ferdy, but you do worrit one so ! It's all 
 a lie got up against mother and me. It's all Aunt 
 Judy's doing, the hateful, spiteful thing ! Mother's 
 as honest as the best of them. I don't say she don't 
 drink ! I don't say she don't swear ! That'd be silly 
 of me. But she's honest — do you hear ? — as the best 
 of them ! I like Jan Hunkum, 'cause he says ' Good- 
 day ' to me, mornings, regular, when I take round the 
 bread. That's his way of being kind. And I won't have 
 him robbed, so there ! " 
 
 " You won't, will you ? You won't ? Take that." 
 His patience was overwrought ; he stepped forward 
 and slapped her cheek with the full force of his open 
 hand. 
 
 " Don't," she said, " Don't, Ferdy ! " 
 
 " Will you come with me up to Jan Hunkum's, or 
 will you have some more ? " 
 
 " I'll have some more," she said. 
 
 He struck her again and again, till, wearied of his 
 blows, or perhaps inflamed by them, she ran upon his 
 
 52
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 breast, between his open arms. Under their double 
 weight, as they stumbled backwards, the wretched door 
 of the pig-shed swung open, and together they rolled 
 into the litter, among the pigs. For a moment they 
 struggled there amidst grunts and squeakings : then, 
 suddenly, she started up, leaped through the dim hght 
 of the entry, and shot the outside bolt. " Promise 
 not to go near Hunkum to-night ! " she gasped, one hot 
 cheek against the door. 
 His answer was a volley of oaths. 
 " Promise me," she pleaded. " Promise, Ferdy ! " 
 " I'll promise to murder him the moment I get out," 
 he shrieked. " And I'll black your black eyes till 
 they're blue ! " 
 
 " Promise me," she pleaded — " promise, Ferdy ! " 
 " Let me out this instant, you hussy," was the only 
 answer she received. 
 
 " I can't allow you to hurt Jan Hunkum," she re- 
 peated desperately, with her hand on the bolt. She 
 ran away from the door and ran back to it, half mad 
 with alarm and uncertainty. She could hear him 
 hitting the lumbersome swine in his rage, as he shouted 
 and swore. Furious, he called out to her the whole 
 villany of his lovemaking : the report, picked up in a 
 tavern, that Jan Hunkum had made her his heiress, the 
 sudden alarm of the pretended robbery, the discom- 
 fiture of to-night's new will ! She stood trembhng as 
 the wave swept down on her ; she sank on her knees. 
 " Promise me," she repeated mechanically. " Don't, 
 Ferdy, don't ! I love you ! " She had never learnt 
 to pray, but she cried out to God to influence — some- 
 how — Fistycuffs. Not that she believed He could do 
 it. " Promise me ! Promise me ! " she cried ; her 
 
 53
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 voice was hoarse with yearning. Gradually the useless 
 petition died away : she lay against the door in the 
 drizzle, with a sickness swelling at her throat. Pre- 
 sently a human grunt arose among the swinish ones, 
 a grunt which steadied to a snore. Fisty cuffs had fallen 
 asleep, his head on a rough pink belly. She lay listen- 
 ing, and, in the general appeasement, her own passion 
 sank to rest. 
 
 When she awoke, it was early dawn, grey, grizzly. 
 Her mother was standing over her, abusing her violently, 
 with occasional kicks, like commas. She started to 
 her feet. 
 
 " Slut ! " said Mary Brock, half a dozen times in 
 quick succession, with evident enjoyment of the hateful 
 word. " Bring down disgrace on your respectable 
 mother by the life you lead ! That I should have 
 Hved to behold such a daughter ! I was respect- 
 able." 
 
 " Hush, hush, mother ; I know you was." Liza 
 looked round confusedly. " I like you for it. Well, 
 I'm not. Well, I can't help it. A good many people 
 aren't. In these parts at any rate." 
 
 " At least say it was Fistycuffs ? " questioned Mary 
 with real interest. 
 
 " Of course it was Fistycuffs ! " exclaimed Liza, 
 aflame. " Mother, what do you take me for ? He 
 came by the window, near midnight, and I just slipped 
 out for a talk. When he went away, I leant, thinking, 
 against the pig-stye, and I must have fallen asleep." 
 
 " More fool you," said Mary Brock. " Well, come 
 away. It's Sunday, you stupid : you've got to be half 
 an hour earHer to-day." 
 
 54
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " Don't I know ? " replied the girl peevishly. She 
 crept away to the house. Ten minutes later she looked 
 into the pig-stye apprehensively : it was empty. 
 
 She earned her hving by trudging round, twice daily, 
 with her heavy basket of baker's bread. Twice a day 
 she had to fetch it, first from Horstwyk, the village 
 which lies three miles away. What with crossing and 
 recrossing the potato-fields, in a continuous zig-zag, 
 her daily perambulations from cottage to cottage must 
 have filled eight hours or more. She was proud, with 
 sullen pride, of working amongst a hundred loafers, 
 and especially made it a point of honour, and of all- 
 absorbing interest, to secure unwilling settlements from 
 the most insolvent customers. For the Hemelers, too 
 lazy to bake their own supply of bread, were still less 
 anxious to pay for it. The girl, hardly able to read 
 and oblivious of early pothooks, scratched together 
 mysterious accounts which completely bewildered the 
 baker, in all but their final satisfactory result. 
 
 On Sundays she had to be half an hour earlier, so 
 that her customers might eat their breakfast tranquilly 
 before they went to church. They always ate their 
 breakfast tranquilly. They never went to church. 
 
 This Sunday morning she started along the straight 
 long road, between the straight tall poplars, thinking, 
 thinking, all the way to Horstwyk, how she could 
 possibly save Jan Hunkum from her lover. She 
 shivered in the naked November silence that lay pale 
 across the shivering earth. The dawn spread white 
 and thin, like an ancient virgin whose locks no longer 
 hide the baldness underneath. 
 
 She was not afraid of Fistycuffs, for she fancied that, 
 whatever he might do to her, she should rather like his 
 
 55
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 doing it. Supposing he killed her ? She shut her eyes, 
 along the bare blank road, and tried to feel him killing 
 her. But he mustn't hurt Jan Hunkum. No, above 
 all, she must warn Jan Hunkum. 
 
 Presently he would come out to her, as he always 
 did, for his hump of rye-bread. He got special daily 
 fractions nowadays, his toothless gums having quite 
 refused to masticate the cheap stale bread he had 
 bought so long. He would come out and he would say — 
 " Good morning, girl," and then he would go in again. 
 Must she catch him by the tail of his coat and cry — 
 " Beware of Fistj-cuffs " ? No, never Fistycuffs. 
 " Jan Hunkum, they don't believe you've been robbed 
 already. Somebody's coming to rob you soon. They'd 
 have been here to-night but that somebody stopped 
 them. Somebody ? Who ? Somebody ? — I ! " 
 
 She could not say so much. She could not say enough. 
 One question would lead to another. The police would 
 get mixed up in the matter. She would end by be- 
 traying Fistycuffs. 
 Her heart stood still. She must save Jan Hunkum. 
 She cared nothing for the miser. Rather, she dis- 
 liked him for the rumour which mixed up with his, in 
 shameful promiscuity, her mother's good name and her 
 own. But he had spoken civilly to her through all 
 these years ; moreover, he had always paid. Few of 
 the Hemelers did either. Besides, Jan Hunkum had 
 rough words for every one he spoke to, excepting her. 
 So she plodded on her daily round till his turn came. 
 Then she resolutely walked towards the gravel-plot. 
 She would trust to the intuition of the moment. 
 
 As she neared the shiny little house, in the rawness 
 of the grim November; morning, she watched to see the 
 
 56
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 green door open, and the old man totter out. Nothing 
 stirred. It was cold this morning — she never minded 
 weather ; but the old man was growing feebler : per- 
 haps she might be a trifle early. With a calm beginning 
 of surprise she knocked. 
 
 She knocked again — and waited. And then before 
 that unaccustomed irresponsiveness a sudden terror 
 flashed across her brain. Supposing Fistycuffs — dur- 
 ing her culpable slumbers — had got away and done the 
 deed ! 
 
 She shrieked aloud and, without thought of the laden 
 basket on her arm, began tearing round the cottage. 
 In another moment she halted, breathless, ashamed, 
 her basket empty, its contents scattered right and left. 
 Very contritely, she stooped to collect them, although 
 she knew by this time that something must indeed 
 have happened inside the silent house, for not even her 
 crazy conduct had caused its single inhabitant to stir. 
 
 She soon found the little back window, with the 
 black bars lying under it. One was missing. Then 
 she knew that for the first time in her life she was face 
 to face with crime — with what she would consider 
 crime. She stood away from the walls, and the walls 
 stared back at her. A fit of trembling seized her. 
 " It is behind us," said the walls. " It is horrible. No 
 wonder you feel afraid." 
 
 She sank on her knees. She was afraid. Though 
 she could hardly have said of what. Not of meeting 
 burglars. 
 
 Presently she fancied she heard a sound inside the 
 house. She looked up, listening. The air was so still, 
 she held her breath. And then she knew she had heard 
 it again, low and distinct — a groan ! 
 
 57
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 She started to her feet. Two men stood watching 
 her, beside the peat-shed, their figures clear against the 
 morning Hght. She stared into their faces. 
 
 " Oh, Ferdy ! " she gasped. 
 
 " Let's call somebody," he answered, white as she. 
 " Let's go home." He seized her by the arm. " Come 
 away ! " 
 
 " No ! " she answered, fiercely resisting him. " No ! 
 No ! No ! " He read the terror in her eyes. 
 
 " It's no doing of mine ! " he cried. " I swear it 
 isn't ! Whatever it is, 'tis no doing of mine ! How 
 could it be when you kept me locked up in that 
 beastly place till daybreak ? Here, Pete, swear we've 
 got nothing to do with it. God, there it is again ! " 
 
 " Hush," said the girl, shuddering. " I don't care 
 for Pete's oaths. Nor for anybody's oaths. Look 
 me in the face, Fisty, before we go in, and say it wasn't 
 you ! " 
 
 " It wasn't " began Fistycuffs. " Confound it, 
 
 what do you mean by ' going in ' ? Hark, there it is 
 again ! " 
 
 " I'm going through the window," said the girl. 
 
 " No : you're not." he cried, in a fury. " Nor are 
 we — eh — are we, Pete ? You've forget about the 
 will : that's like you, Liza ! From the cottages a dozen 
 eyes may be watching us ; if you're seen to go inside, 
 you lose your money, once for all." 
 
 Liza picked up her bread-basket and stood reflect- 
 ing. Should the miser die, she would be rich. Often 
 and often her mother had boasted that Hunkum's death 
 would prove Liza to be his heiress, his nearest relative, 
 his — niece. She understood nothing about the laws of 
 inheritance. She fully believed in the " niece." 
 
 58
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 In a few hours then, possibly, she would be rich. Jan 
 Hunkum had probably been plundered, but of course 
 the police would recover the treasure. And, in any 
 case, as Barend Everts had remarked last night, rich 
 people might be robbed of much, but they couldn't 
 be plundered poor. 
 
 She would be rich. She wanted to be rich. Fisty- 
 cuffs would marry her then and be good to her. 
 
 She dropped her basket and looked at him. The 
 moan from the cottage seemed to pass between them. 
 
 " I'm going through the window," she said. 
 
 He sprang at her with an oath. " Never," he cried, 
 " never while I live. Here — help me, Pete ! " Un- 
 consciously, if seemed to her, she struck out at him, 
 straight from the shoulder, toppling him over, motion- 
 less, flat on his back. 
 
 Then she dragged herself up through the window, 
 without as much as a glance at hang-dog Pete. 
 
 The whole house was full of smoke and burning. 
 Disconcerted at this, she went back to the pantry, and 
 took up a knife from where it lay beside the miser's 
 untasted supper of bread and fat. She noticed that 
 the few objects on the shelves were clean and tidily 
 arranged. For, in contrast with the horde of his 
 relations, Jan Hunkum was neat. 
 
 She walked quickly into the bedroom, her knife in her 
 hand. 
 
 The bedroom was dimly dark, full of fumes and 
 smell. And Jan Hunkum lay stretched across the floor. 
 So much she saw in entering. She shuddered back to the 
 door, for fear of a possible assassin concealed in the 
 darkness, watching. The next moment she flung 
 herself boldly across to a window, drew a bolt, raised 
 
 59
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 a bar, turned back a shutter : a chink of grey light fell 
 thin across the floor. 
 
 All the time she faced round to that heap in the 
 middle, to the centre of all her considerations, the 
 moan. Jan Hunkum lay amongst the disorder of wraps 
 and bedclothes, with his treasures scattered about him. 
 She had never seen gold before. For a moment the 
 sight caught her breath. Jan Hunkum's fortune, then, 
 had neither been invented nor carried off. Gold ! 
 Here was the one thing all men lived for. Jan Hunkum 
 was d}dng for it. 
 
 She knelt beside the old man, resolutely, and per- 
 ceived with surprise that his fingers clutched, in an 
 attitude of attack, the missing iron bar. She loosened 
 them with difficulty and pushed the bar aside. 
 
 Jan Hunkum's eyes were closed ; he was probably 
 but semi-conscious. As she tried to lift him up, he 
 shrieked, and she saw that his naked arms and breast 
 were terribly burnt. She propped up his head, and 
 went for some water, dazed, wondering if water was 
 good for burns. 
 
 She could do nothing. Whenever she touched him, 
 he screamed. " Alone ! " hs murmured several times. 
 His eyes remained closed. 
 
 She sat down on the floor beside him, helpless, and 
 her eyes mechanically wandered across a crumpled 
 scrap of paper that lay open in the twilight. She 
 thought it was money, like all the rest. 
 
 I hereby certify that Liza Brock is my daughter. 
 
 Jan Hunkum. 
 
 She read it over and over again, dully wondering 
 what it meant, while yet she had instantly realized 
 
 60
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 every word. She got upon her feet again, and stared 
 down at her father. 
 
 She hated him with a hate that suddenly filled her 
 whole soul like a furnace. She clenched her fists tight, 
 lest she should strike at the upturned face. She would 
 have rejoiced to fall upon him and tear out his wicked 
 grey hair and beard ; she would gladly have stamped 
 on his prostrate body. The fury of her denial swept 
 across her like a storm. She bent both hot cheeks down 
 to his. 
 
 " Can't I do anything for you ? " she said softly. 
 " Not anything at all ? " 
 
 At the sound of her voice he opened his eyes, and 
 recognized her. He saw the paper she clutched in one 
 hand — Barend Everts' " document." Their glances 
 met. 
 
 He struggled to say something, between his groans. 
 It was a piteous something, by the piteous expression 
 of his disfigured features ; he struggled, for a moment, 
 with the vehemence of despair. Then, suddenly, she 
 saw the eyeballs roll up as the head fell back, and the 
 whole body collapsed. She had never seen death be- 
 fore. Horror-struck, she knew it at once. 
 
 She stood motionless. Presently she burst into a 
 torrent of indignant outcries. " It's a lie ! It's a lie ! " 
 she repeated again and again, in the presence of the 
 dead man, as if to shame him. She tore the palms of 
 her hands with her teeth. " It's a lie ! It's a cowardly, 
 devilish lie ! " But the conviction had gone from her 
 voice. 
 
 "Well! " she said aloud, with desperate resolve, " if 
 I'm — his daughter, I can marry Fistycuffs. All this 
 money's mine, I suppose." Her voice dropped. " I 
 
 6i
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 wonder what's the worth of a bundle such as this ? 
 I'm the richest woman in the neighbourhood." She 
 pushed aside some of the confusion around her, drawing 
 the bed-clothes over the body in decent covering. And 
 out of the tangle she disengaged the remnants of a 
 broken petrolemn lamp and also a half-soaked pea- 
 jacket. 
 
 She snatched at the latter with a cry. It wasn't 
 Ferdinand's, thank God ! Yet she fancied she had seen 
 it before. It belonged to Barend Everts. 
 
 Barend ! The whole thing flashed upon her. Barend 
 had come here and done this deed, because she had told 
 him how much she wanted money. For her sake he had 
 killed Jan Hunkum, httle dreaming that she was indeed 
 Jan Hunkum's child. Perhaps the old man had pro- 
 duced the paper ? Perhaps — more probably — Barend 
 had never heard of it. However that might be, it was 
 her ignoble greed that had killed her father for his gold. 
 
 " Not I," she murmured miserably, hiding her face 
 in the sodden pea-jacket. " Ferdinand, Ferdinand," 
 — and she found herself pitying Barend, the murderer. 
 
 Somebody stood watching her ; his eyes drew up hers 
 to his face. She sprang away from him. " You did 
 it, Barend ! " she cried. " You ! You ! Murderer ! " 
 
 He did not answer, staring stupidly. Through the 
 gloomy half-light she could see something of the con- 
 dition he was in. His clothes and hands were caked 
 with clay ; his head was bare. 
 
 " You've killed him," she continued, " a poor help- 
 less old man. All the world shall know how brutally 
 you killed him. I shall tell. They will punish you — 
 
 dreadfully. And I — I " She stopped. Would she 
 
 be glad ? 
 
 62
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " And you will marry Fistycuffs," he said drearily. 
 He stepped forward to take up the jacket. 
 
 " No," she said. " That is part of my evidence." 
 
 He turned on her, gently withal. " You won't need 
 evidence," he said, " I'm my own evidence. I'm 
 going to give myself up." 
 
 For a moment she stood silent. Then she burst out — 
 " Don't do that ! For God's sake, don't do that ! 
 Don't you know that the people who give themselves 
 up are always condemned ? " 
 
 " I know," he answered. " When Government gets 
 hold of you, it doesn't let you go. Especially if you're 
 innocent," he added bitterly, 
 
 " But you're not innocent ! " she cried quickly. " Oh, 
 I can't bear the thought of it. Go ! " 
 
 Again he looked at her. " You really feel quite sure 
 I killed your father ? " he said. The new word caused 
 her to wince. " Well, perhaps I did," he added. " It 
 don't really matter much. I shall give myself up to 
 the constables, and you can marry Fistycuffs." 
 
 She came after him. " I can't help it. I don't 
 understand at all. I love Fistycuffs. I always knew 
 you were the better man. And now you've killed my 
 father. He was my father, Barend. I'm not even a 
 respectable girl. I hate him, though he's dead. Per- 
 haps that's why I can't be as angry with you as I ought 
 to be. I know 'tis very wicked. But Fistycuffs is 
 going to marry me. He must. Barend ! " 
 
 " Yes." He stopped in the pantry door. 
 
 " Barend, you can't leave the house. He's outside." 
 
 " If so, he saw me climb through the little window. I 
 had to come back and see after the old man. I couldn't 
 help myself. But I'm not afraid of Fistycuffs." 
 
 63
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " Barend, say you didn't do it because of anything 
 I said ! " 
 
 " Didn't do what ? Oh, yes, all right. I didn't do 
 it because of anything you said." 
 
 " Barend — hsten ! Listen ! Don't give yourself 
 up ! " 
 
 He did not answer ; already he was climbing to the 
 window. 
 
 " For my sake ! " she pleaded wildly. " Don't say 
 anything ! Wait and see ! " 
 
 " For your sake ? " He smiled drearily. " Very 
 well. I don't understand what's really happened. 
 Not a bit. But, then, I'm a fool. For your sake ? 
 Very well. Good-bye." 
 
 She was once more alone in the house with the dead 
 man. She forced herself to go back for one last look 
 at him, her father. The pea-jacket lay on the floor, 
 forgotten. She took it up and, fastening it round her 
 waist as best she could, clumsily hid it away. She 
 crept out of the house, crying. She had not been in it 
 more than a quarter of an hour. 
 
 She took up her bread-basket, looking around her. 
 At first there was no sign of Fistycuf^s. Daylight had 
 come. To which of the distant cottages should she bear 
 the news ? 
 
 Fistycuf^s stole from behind the kitchen wall. " It's 
 stopped," he whispered. " Well ? " Then he added 
 immediately : " Come away off the gravel, you fool. 
 Come behind the house." 
 
 " There's no danger," she answered, slowly following. 
 " On Sundays none of 'em wakes till I calls 'em. There's 
 only Jan Hunkum I have to go to first, this side." She 
 shuddered. 
 
 64
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " And you won't wake him," said Fistycuffs. " Liza, 
 you might just as well have done it with me. I didn't 
 mean murder. Is the money there, I say ? How 
 much of it did you bring away with you ? Hang it, 
 you jade, what were you doing in therewith Everts ? " 
 
 " Did you see him ? " she cried in alarm. 
 
 " Blood and thunder, what do you mean ? " he cried. 
 " See him ? I'll tear your heart out ! One of his 
 friends knows who the murderer is ! All the worse for 
 the murderer ! " 
 
 " Hold your tongue," she said, outwardly calm. 
 '' When Barend came, Hunkum was dead. I'm going 
 over yonder to give the alarm." 
 
 " To give the alarm that you found the house 
 closed ! " he cried with ill-checked excitement. " Have 
 you again forgotten, fool, that it's ruin to have been 
 inside ? " 
 
 " No, I haven't," she made answer. A dogged 
 something in her voice and expression disconcerted 
 him. 
 
 " Don't expect me to marry you," he said brutally, 
 " unless you get your share."^ 
 
 " Ferdy ! " — suddenly she flung herself at his feet 
 — " you won't marry me anyhow, Ferdy." 
 
 " I can see ! " — he grinned ; " that's why there's such 
 a hurry about this marriage." His vbice' changed. 
 " Curse it ! Everts ? " he said. ■ ■ ' '•"''"^' '^'' 
 
 She rose to her feet. " YouaLteiiiad',*' she said, not 
 less fiercely. " I mean that my mother — that I am 
 Jan Hunkum's daughter. I can't help it. I'm so 
 sorry. Oh, Ferdy — I couldn't but tell you— say you 
 will!" 
 
 " I'll marry you fast enough,'' he answered, " if you 
 5 65
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 make it worth my while. So you are Jan Hunkum's 
 daughter, you clever hussy. You own to it now that 
 the right time's come. I don't know much about 
 law, but a daughter of any kind must come off best 
 on such occasions. Perhaps you'll have half ! And 
 now, Liza, mum's the word : you've not been inside the 
 house. And we'll set the police to catch that murderous 
 bully ! You run across to the Kippels yonder, and I 
 make myself scarce. Good-bye." 
 
 "But, Ferdy " 
 
 He came back to her. " If the money's there," 
 he said, " and the old man's really dead, why shouldn't 
 we go in and take some now ? " 
 
 She eyed him narrowly. "I'm yearning to marry 
 you, Ferdy," she answered. " I'd do anything for it. 
 But I won't — no, I won't — steal." 
 
 " What a fuss you make," he said. " Well, it's 
 easier to get it regular." 
 
 VI 
 
 An hour later the Hemel was ringing with the news. 
 Against yesterday's disappointment stood out lurid 
 the reaHty of to-day. Jan Hunkum was really mur- 
 dered. He would not come back to say he was not. 
 The constable from Horstwyk, forcing the door against 
 which the bread-girl had vainly beaten, had found the 
 miser prostrate among his treasures, killed by a blow 
 from a bar which still lay by his side. It appeared 
 that the lamp had been overturned in the struggle. 
 Panic-stricken, probably, the murderer had fled, leaving 
 
 66
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 most of the booty behind him. The money was there. 
 
 The money was there. Horrible details of the 
 tragedy leaked out. The money was there. In each 
 family circle the Hemelers softly computed impossible 
 legacies, but the incidents of the crime were the public 
 delight of the hour. 
 
 In the course of that Sunday afternoon Barend 
 Everts was arrested at the house where he lodged. 
 There was absolutely no evidence against him, no 
 ground for suspicion, except that Jaap Avis had seen 
 him creep home in the early morning, without a coat 
 on, and covered with dirt. But the police locked him 
 up. Monday's newspapers all called him " the mur- 
 derer," and the public conscience was appeased. Con- 
 fronted with the examining magistrate, he refused to 
 answer any questions. " I am a fool," he said. " Every- 
 one knows I am a fool. Whatever I replied would be 
 sure to do me harm." He remained obstinately silent. 
 The authorities, accustomed to extorting confessions, 
 were nonplussed. 
 
 While the slow investigation, with its futile interro- 
 gatories and blind quest of the missing jacket, dragged 
 wearily nowhere, the body of Jan Hunkum was laid 
 solemnly to rest, amid the hysteric lamentations of the 
 Hemel. And immediately afterwards the contents of 
 the will became known. Liza Brock was sole heiress. 
 In her default the money would go to the cousins, pro- 
 portionately, as the barber had told them — to the whole 
 of the hamlet, in fact. The proviso about never having 
 entered the cottage was written down also, and, whether 
 expressly or through some inadvertence, it included 
 Liza among the rest. Perhaps the recollection of this 
 had tortured Hunkum's dying moments ? No one 
 
 67
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 will ever know. The conditions of the document must 
 have been fresh in his mind. It had been drawn up a 
 few hours before his death. 
 
 The whole hamlet sank away from Liza in one groan 
 of admiration and scorn. She was an heiress indeed, 
 and heiress of gold and of shame, said the Hemelers. 
 From the miser's careful account-books it was proved 
 that nearly one-half of his fortune had perished in the 
 flames ; some forty thousand guilders remained. The 
 children, playing in the streets, stopped to call out, 
 " Liza Hunkum ! " their grinning elders casually re- 
 minded the girl how each successive speaker had " al- 
 ways stood her (solitary) friend." The morose pointed 
 out that the money was still in the hands of the lawyers. 
 " I wish it would remain there ! " the heiress had fool- 
 ishly exclaimed. A shower of opprobrious epithets fell 
 behind her stiffening back. 
 
 As for Liza herself, she would gladly have hidden 
 all day in her garret. She hated Jan Hunkum for the 
 shame he had brought upon her. She despised, with 
 a dogged affection, the mother who had sought, and now 
 shared, her disgrace. The thought of the money was 
 abhorrent to her : she scorned herself for desiring it 
 still. The wretched jacket, that every one was writing 
 and talking about, she had buried near the pig-stye. 
 Sometimes she hoped they would find it. But nobody 
 dreamed of her as a possible accessory. She had 
 knocked at the murdered man's door, and, receiving no 
 answer, had run to a neighbour's and given the alarm. 
 
 Fistycuffs was formally engaged to the heiress. They 
 were to be married as soon as this business was settled. 
 " Not a moment too soon," said the gossips. But that, 
 in a place like the Hemel, was captiousness. It was 
 
 68
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 envy and malice and much uncharitableness. For 
 nobody, in the Hemel, married " too soon." 
 
 Fistycuffs showed himself frankly happy and good- 
 natured. Everybody said he was not half a bad fellow. 
 So they treated him — for he treated them — well. 
 
 " I shan't say a word about having seen Everts," he 
 confided to Liza. " People might ask of us what we 
 were doing there, don't you see ? Best keep away from 
 the police if you can. Besides, 'pon my honour, I 
 wouldn't do any man a useless bad turn. Not even 
 Everts. I'm not such a cad as to help the police." 
 
 The matter was indeed a point of honour with the 
 speaker, perhaps the only point of honour he had. A 
 point which would vanish as soon as convenient. 
 
 Liza had now one supreme preoccupation, and that 
 was to get married " in time." But herein she un- 
 expectedly found herself hindered by her mother. 
 Mary Brock had wept stormy tears over her daughter's 
 unspoken reproaches, over Jan Hunkum's horrible end, 
 over Barend's misfortune. She loudly proclaimed her 
 belief in the latter's innocence. He was too good, she 
 declared, for the likes of her daughter, just as he had been 
 too good for herself. And she stood up, facing Fistycuffs 
 and Liza. 
 
 " As long as it's not settled what happens to Barend," 
 she said, " there'll be no marryings nor merry-makings 
 here ! " And she brought down her fist with a sympa- 
 thetic crash on the tottery table in front of her. 
 
 " You be bio wed ! " said Fistycuffs, and pulled at his 
 pipe. " Barend Everts is safe enough. The police 
 haven't got any evidence. They'll have to let him 
 
 go." 
 
 " Are you sure ? " asked Liza, looking up quickly 
 
 69
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 from a tiny something she was clumsily endeavouring 
 to sew. 
 
 " Sure. They can't convict a man of murder for 
 coming home without his coat. I don't understand 
 about that business. If they had found the coat — as 
 they should have done — at Jan Hunkum's — whew ! " 
 He ended in an expressive whistle. Liza bent over 
 her needlework. 
 
 " But why don't he speak ? " Fistycuffs resumed. 
 " Where is the coat ? That's what all the papers are 
 asking, and he as mute as that table that Mary's gone 
 and cracked." 
 
 " It ain't your table," retorted Mary fiercely. Never- 
 theless she looked with some interest for corroboration 
 of the charge. " Barend's as innocent," she added, 
 " as innocent as — me." She turned on her daughter. 
 " WTiat d'ye mean ? " she cried, in a fury. 
 
 " I ? Nothing," replied Liza with genuine amaze- 
 ment. " I said nothing." 
 
 " Ah, but you meant the more, you limb. Barend's 
 as innocent of murder as an unborn baby. If he won't 
 speak, it's because there's some woman in the business. 
 He never was near Hunkum's cottage, you bet ! He's 
 shielding some woman." 
 
 The three looked at each other, uneasy, each with half 
 a secret to hide. 
 
 " I know Barend," concluded Mary, shaking her head. 
 " He's as much of a gentleman as the Baron." 
 
 " I don't believe it," said Liza. 
 
 " Believe what yer like. Yer don't believe in yer own 
 mother. D'yer think 'cause he wouldn't have yon, that 
 he wouldn't have nobody ? " 
 
 " Oh, shut up, the pair of you ! " shouted Fistycuffs, 
 70
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 kicking out his legs under the table. " He's done it, 
 sure enough, and mighty cunning too ! First he smashes 
 the poor old fellow's head with the bar he brought in for 
 the purpose, then he upsets the petroleum lamp, so 
 people should think it was an accident. In course he 
 hoped the whole cottage 'd burn ! And he made off 
 with all he could grab in his hurry. I don't doubt we 
 shall get back what he stole, but what he burnt's burnt, 
 and I wish he was " 
 
 " Yes, yes, we've heard all that before," interrupted 
 Liza, nervously striking her foot on the floor. 
 
 " You hold your jaw and let me speak ! Don't you 
 see, Mary ? All the papers are saying the same. 'Tis 
 as clear as ditch-water. But none of it can be brought 
 home to him, and they'll have to let him off." 
 
 " And he'll dance at your wedding," said Mary Brock. 
 
 "What? The man that murdered Liza's father? 
 For shame on you ! Besides, we shall be married long 
 before they let him out." 
 
 " Not till he's out o' prison. You won't be married 
 till he's out o' prison," said Mary Brock. 
 
 " What the devil do you mean ? " said Fistycuffs, 
 sitting up and curiously eyeing his prospective mother- 
 in-law. 
 
 "What I say. I always do. You don't. Liza's 
 under age, and I'm her mother. And I know what's 
 respectable, though Liza thinks I doesn't. There'll 
 be no feastings in this family, Ferdinand, till the murder 
 business is over, say I ! " 
 
 " Say it again, and I'll black your eyes for you ! " 
 
 "Till this murder business is over " Liza started 
 
 to her feet. 
 
 • ' Go now, Ferdinand ; it's late," she said. 
 
 71
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " Very well," answered Fistycuffs sullenly. " But. 
 mind yer, we marry next month cr not at all I " he 
 blustered out. The two women stood watchmg each 
 other. 
 
 " Mother, he is right," said Liza softly. " We must 
 marry next month." 
 
 Mary Brock sat down on the shaky table. " The 
 law's on my side," she said, folding her arms. 
 
 " But unless they get more evidence, the case may 
 drag on for months. Don't you want us, mother, to 
 be married at all ? " 
 
 " Ah, my lady, you're mighty soft-spoken to your 
 disreputable mother — all of a sudden ! You won't be 
 married till this murder business is over I Fool, 'twill 
 always be soon enough to find yourself chained to 
 Fistycuffs ! " 
 
 Liza Brock gazed at her mother's set jaws and hot 
 eyes. Formalities are numerous in Holland : clandes- 
 tine marriages impossible. 
 
 " You can't be married without 1 give you leave," 
 cried Mary overbearingly. " You can't ! You can't ! " 
 
 " I know," replied Liza. Her voice was so gentle, 
 Mary stared in astonishment. 
 
 " I'm your mother," continued Mary, nettled. " You 
 can't help that." 
 
 Liza Brock stepped back. " No, I can't," she 
 said. " Nor could you ! Nor could you ! " 
 
 She lashed the other woman's coarse soul with the 
 laugh in her scornful tones, but the next moment her 
 face was grown sad again. " Perhaps I care about 
 things you don't care about. Mother, I want to be 
 married — soon ! I want to be ! " There were tears 
 in her rough voice. She threw forward her supple 
 
 72
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 young body in the fervour of her appeal. " I want to 
 be ! I want to be ! " 
 
 " Oh yes, you're a fine lady," said Mary, scratching 
 her head. " And what's fine enough for your mother 
 ain't half fine enough for you ! I know. Your ideas 
 of decency aren't mine, you say. They aren't. There 
 was no need for hurry when I married — no need at all, 
 and if I hadn't been left a poor lone widow, waiting for 
 bread — but there, 'tis no use talking. There'll be no 
 marrying here, and no giving in marriage, till this trial's 
 over. I won't hear another word." 
 
 Liza quietly left the house, not even troubling to close 
 the door. Mary called after her, hot words of abuse. 
 
 Although it was already past eleven, the girl walked 
 straight to Joop Sloop's and knocked loudly. 
 
 " Walk in, mum," said Julia, with a mock curtsey, 
 on the threshold. " The door didn't happen to be 
 locked, mum. I didn't know in these parts as they ever 
 was ! " 
 
 " I didn't want to take you unawares," answered Liza. 
 " Where's Fistycuffs ? " 
 
 " Him ! " said JuUa, and dropped a rapid glance down 
 her visitor. " Don't do unto others — I see ! Mr. Fisty- 
 cuffs, madam, is here." 
 
 " So I thought," replied Liza. Then she flushed with 
 self- annoyance. " I mean," she added clumsily, " he 
 said he'd look in here." 
 
 " Just so," remarked Julia. 
 
 " There's only two things I believe he really cares 
 about. One's me and t'other's drink." 
 
 " Indeed ? " replied Julia, smiling. " Now, I never 
 give him drink, so he has to come to me for myself alone. 
 You might try ? " 
 
 73
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 Liza clenched her fists. " Where's Fistycuffs ? " she 
 said, as if till now they had been talking of some one else. 
 " I want to speak to him, not to you. Tell him to come 
 to me instantly. Outside." 
 
 " Undoubtedly outside," retorted Julia. She went 
 £md fetched the bully out of the inner room. " You 
 needn't hide," she said. " She knows you're here. 
 Trust any woman to know. I knew when she was after 
 Barend." 
 
 " That's a d d lie," cried Fistycuffs. " Barend 
 
 was after her, and you know it ! " 
 
 " Swear at your wife, you brute ! " replied Julia, 
 thrusting him forward. " Do you think that I'd ever 
 have looked at you, if it hadn't been to pay her out ? " 
 
 " Don't, Julia. I'll be back in a minute. When I'm 
 married, we needn't hide." He went out sullenly to 
 Liza in the dark. " What do you want with me ? " he 
 said. Then he tried humour. " Haven't you had 
 enough of me all this while ? Didn't you tell me your- 
 self to get out ? " 
 
 " I meant you to go home," said Liza. 
 
 " So I shall when I've had my drink. I want it after 
 talking myself hoarse over Barend. And, look here, 
 I won't stand no nonsense " 
 
 " Don't, Ferdy. Mother says she won't let us marry 
 until the trial's over. I know mother. Nothing'll 
 move her. Ferdy, we can't wait ! " Her voice rang 
 out in despair. 
 
 " Hold hard, can't ye ? D'ye want Joop Sloop to 
 hear ? D'ye mean to say, Liza, that it's a really, truly, 
 settled fact ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And Mary calls Barend a fool ! " exclaimed Fisty- 
 
 74
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 cuffs with huge contempt. " Why, a case Hke this — 
 all suspicion and little evidence — drags on for months 
 and months. All right. You go home and leave me 
 to settle this little matter. I know how to manage it. 
 You'll be married next month. Good-night." He 
 turned, looked to right and left — all the yearning and 
 hope of her heart swelled on high — and then he went 
 back into the house. 
 
 " Why," he said to himself, " if we waited until she'd 
 lost her chief reason for marrying me — hang it if I don't 
 think she wouldn't have me at all ! " 
 
 Next morning he solicited an interview of the examin- 
 ing magistrate and remained closeted with that impor- 
 tant functionary for some considerable time. 
 
 VII 
 
 For three months after the " murder " the newspapers 
 consistently abused the police. They abused them for 
 not having discovered anything, and also for not having 
 communicated their discoveries to the Press. They 
 abused them for not following up the clues vouchsafed 
 by intelligent reporters, and still more for following them 
 up when these clues came to nothing. The public agreed 
 with the newspapers, and so did the police themselves. 
 
 In the midst of this customary muddle — and of the 
 month of February — an announcement was sent round 
 by the authorities that the case had been sent up for 
 trial. The Public Prosecutor was in possession of all 
 the necessary evidence ; the accused would undoubtedly 
 be condemned. 
 
 Whereupon the newspapers, which had recently 
 
 75
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 commenced pitying " the person still under arrest," 
 immediately returned to attacks on " the murderer." 
 And readers all over the country dropped their interest 
 in this unravelled detective story, and, calmly awaiting 
 the day of the trial, turned to the fourteen " mysteries " 
 still on their list. 
 
 Not so at the Hemel, however, where the excitement 
 flared up and burned brighter than ever. Speculation — 
 the only flame whose increase needs no fuel — filled the 
 air. But it illumined emptiness. One woman, in the 
 silence of her garret, of her trudges on the high road, 
 kept asking : Had Barend confessed ? 
 
 And for the hundredth time that woman turned upon 
 herself. Why should Barend, the big, blue-eyed fool, 
 who never needed money, why should Barend, of all the 
 Hemelers, have sought to murder Hunkum ? Only one 
 explanation seemed possible : recollecting their conver- 
 sation on the night of the catastrophe, she made a close 
 guess at the facts. " It was I that sent him," she 
 whispered, in the loneliness of the garret, of the high 
 road. " He knew about the paper. He knew I wanted 
 money. He wanted the money for me." She would 
 have been far more wroth with her father's murderer had 
 she not often accused herself of the crime. 
 
 Why, if he wanted the money, had he not taken it ? 
 The Hemel declared that he had. It felt confident that 
 he had hidden underground the greater part of the miser's 
 untold millions, cunningly leaving the " trifle " inherited 
 by Liza. It was unanimous in declaring that the 
 torture ought to be applied, to make him confess where 
 the treasure lay hidden. And it also said that Liza had 
 got more than she deserved, and that the Government 
 ill-treated the prisoner. 
 
 76
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 Meanwhile, the accused was removed to the chief town 
 of his province, where the High Court of Justice would 
 try his case. The day before the proceedings began, 
 the penniless Hemel diligently counted up its pennies. 
 It found it had not money enough for a trip to the city, 
 but it bravely resolved to go all the same. It never has 
 money for anything, and only spends what it hasn't got 
 on pleasure — for what else, it says truly, is money for ? 
 Loud envy ran riot around " the heiress," whose expenses 
 were paid as a witness. " Filthy lucre," said Joop 
 Sloop, " always falls in heaps." 
 
 " Are you going, Ferdy ? " asked Liza suddenly. For 
 days she had delayed the question. It was now the 
 night before the trial. 
 
 Fistycuffs grinned. " I wouldn't miss the winding- 
 up," he answered ; " no, not for anything." 
 
 " Then you can go with me," said Mary Brock, " Liza 
 being a witness." 
 
 He objected, stammering clumsily. " I can't have 
 any one bothering. I'm going alone," he said. 
 
 " With Julia," remarked Liza imperturbably, turning 
 her face to the mother. " Don't, mother ; let him go." 
 
 " 'Tis a lie ! " shouted Fistycuffs ; " a regular Liza-lie ! 
 You've got such an infernal temper, Liza, hang me if 
 I don't think I'm a fool for wanting to marry you at all ! " 
 
 " Oh, you'll marry me," sneered Liza sadly ; " I shall 
 always be worth your while." 
 
 He started up and came at her. Mary Brock flung 
 an oath between them. " Don't, Ferdy," said the girl. 
 " Don't worry me, then. I don't mind who you go 
 with. I wish the whole horrible business was done." 
 She shivered. 
 
 " Julia swears she ain't going at all," answered the 
 
 77
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 bully, somewhat mollified. " Dang me if I don't some- 
 times think she was sweet on that poacher chap." 
 
 " She ? " cried Liza, her pent-up scorn ablaze. " She's 
 sweet on them all, bad and good." 
 
 " Well, if she is, she don't show it," retorted Fisty- 
 cuffs, nettled. Liza bit her lips. 
 
 Immediately after, in the painful silence that followed, 
 there came a loud knock at the door — such a knock as 
 means a command. The next moment two buttoned-up 
 officials seemed to fill the room with their presence. 
 
 " Liza Brock ? " said one of these men. " Which is 
 Liza Brock ? Look here, you must come with us. No 
 harm's intended. Put on your hat and come." 
 
 She sprang from her stool. " Have they found it ? " 
 she cried. 
 
 " Found what ? " The detective, to whom every 
 human being was, of course, an undetected criminal, 
 eyed her sharply. 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " You just come at once," said the detective, less 
 kindly than before. 
 
 " Gentlemen," spoke Mary Brock, with obsequious 
 resentment, " you needn't have given the poor girl such 
 a turn, which is dangerous, considering the circimistances. 
 And if either of you knows by experience as a father " 
 
 " Ain't that girl ready yet ? Look sharp," said the 
 inspector. 
 
 " I s'pose 'tis this same business about her evi- 
 dence " 
 
 " Come along," said the inspector, and bundled out 
 Liza into the night. The pair of policemen took her 
 between them, and stumbled through the darkness till 
 they emerged upon the high road at some distance from 
 
 78
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 the hamlet. Here a hired wagonette was in waiting. 
 Liza recognized the bottle-nosed driver asleep on the 
 step. 
 
 " Look sharp," said the inspector. That was his 
 favourite phrase : he had risen in the force by repeating 
 it. As the carriage rolled away, he flashed a dark 
 lantern across his watch. " We shall just be in time," 
 he said, " to catch the last train at Horstwyk Station." 
 
 So Liza knew she was being taken to the town. She 
 resolved not to put any questions, pretending not to 
 care. 
 
 Yet, in spite of all her assumed indifference, she could 
 not keep her cheek from paling when, two hours later, 
 she alighted under the dismal glare of a massive lantern 
 over heavy gates. She knew that these dead walls 
 enclosed a prison. It was here that Barend Everts sat 
 awaiting his uncertain fate. 
 
 She shivered between locked doors in the chill of the 
 whitewashed entry. But then she forced herself to 
 remember that Barend was her father's murderer. 
 " What, in the name of mercy, gentlemen, do you want 
 with me ? " These words were at her lips, but she did 
 not utter them aloud. For two long hours she had been 
 refusing to pronounce them. 
 
 Her conductors led her, through whitewashed passages, 
 to a whitewashed parlour. Everything was white- 
 washed — doubtless an object lesson from the people 
 outside to the people within. Liza remembered having 
 heard somewhere — not in a church, for she never went 
 there — the expression " a whited sepulchre," words 
 whose meaning she had never understood. She won- 
 dered now whether they could have referred to the prison. 
 She was so unaccustomed to cleanhness, it seemed a 
 
 79
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 hateful thing. She drew her shawl around her as if to 
 avoid it. 
 
 " Barend Everts, the murderer, wants to see you," 
 began the inspector, suddenly dropping that mystifica- 
 tion which, with all criminal investigation people, passes 
 for cleverness. " He's broke silence to-night, and says 
 he wants to see you. The trial's to-morrow. He'll 
 confess, he says, to you." 
 
 She sank down on one of the rush-bottomed chairs, 
 and repeated to herself that she was calm. Her tight- 
 clutching fingers tore away the ragged fringe from the 
 corners of her shawl. 
 
 A narrow door opened in the wall at the farther end. 
 Two gentlemen entered, one old and one young. She 
 noticed that the younger one carried a bundle of papers 
 and wore a coloured cravat. Immediately after him 
 came two warders, bringing the prisoner between them. 
 In his prison dress the latter already looked two-thirds 
 a convict. His heavy hands were superfluously mana- 
 cled. His appearance was dejected and numb. 
 
 " Here, then, is the young person you were anxious to 
 speak to," began the examining magistrate, as soon as 
 he had seated himself at the table. After the noisy 
 entry of cumbersome boots on the boarded floor an 
 uncomfortable hush had fallen. Barend stood in the 
 loud light, seemingly unconscious of his jailers. 
 
 But at the sound of his persecutor's voice he drew 
 away his eyes from Liza's face. 
 
 " Go away, you all," he said in a low tone. 
 
 His gaze travelled stupidly round the half a dozen 
 stolid men. One of the warders smiled. 
 
 " You forget to whom you are speaking ! " ex- 
 claimed the magistrate, angrily rapping the table. 
 
 80
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " Whatever you may wish to say must be said in my 
 presence. Surely you didn't expect a private inter- 
 view with the principal witness ? " 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the prisoner, " I want to speak 
 to Liza." 
 
 The young clerk glanced up with a gleam of interest 
 upon his good-natured face. He was a trifle too well 
 dressed and too carefully groomed for the bareness 
 and misery around. 
 
 " So you can — in my presence," repeated the magis- 
 trate testily. " Every word you that say will of course 
 be taken down." 
 
 He played with his eyeglass. In all matters judicial 
 he dreaded what he called " the personal note." 
 
 " Then I shan't confess a word," said Barend dog- 
 gedly. 
 
 A long moment of silence ensued, so painful that 
 Liza, irresistibly, coughed. 
 
 " I wanted to tell you, Liza, exactly how it happened," 
 began Barend immediately. " I can't tell the Govern- 
 ment ; I'm too great a fool ; they'd twist it all against 
 me. I've thought it all out in prison. I've not been 
 unhappy in prison. Government's better to poor 
 people in prison than it is to poor people outside." 
 He paused, as if ruminating this great truth. The 
 clerk's pen scratched across the paper, " than it is to 
 poor people outside." 
 
 " You needn't put in that bit," said the magistrate 
 leaning over. 
 
 Barend suddenly veered round to the girl — so sud- 
 denly that the warders caught at him.. He shook them 
 off. '■ Listen well," he said, " remember it afterwards. 
 I've thought it all out in prison. I've never been a good 
 6 8i
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 man, Liza. I've never pretended to be. I don't mean 
 about the poaching. I can't fancy God Almighty 
 thinks catching one hare in a hundred a very bad crime. 
 Seems to me, before Government made the game laws, 
 God Almighty had already given all the game away." 
 
 The young Nimrod at the table swept every vestige 
 of sympathy from face and heart in one gigantic frown. 
 " No, I don't mean the poaching, but all the same I'm 
 not a good man. But it was all such a muddle at first, 
 that I couldn't make out for the life of me if I'd done it 
 or not. But I wondered if God Almighty would tell 
 me — He must know, I suppose, although nobody else 
 
 does — and one night I asked Him, and " He 
 
 turned on the hearkening group all round him : " Damn 
 you all ! " he burst out. " How can I tell her how 
 God Almighty helped me, with all you standing by ? " 
 The magistrate, three fingers thrown up in alarm, made 
 as if he would have repressed such language, but re- 
 frained. The criminal again turned away ; his tone 
 had so completely changed, it sounded almost jocular. 
 " Look here, Liza," he said, " it's aU nonsense, you 
 know. I never murdered Hunkum. They say they've 
 got plenty of evidence. How can they have plenty of 
 evidence of what I never did ? They only say it to 
 
 frighten me. When I found you " The gentlemen 
 
 at the table exchanged glances. Liza caught the 
 movement and hfted a warning hand. 
 
 " There, you see ! " cried the prisoner, his face 
 instantly gone white. " They'd twist everything 
 against me. I won't say another word. But mark 
 you this, Liza, whatever they may prove or witness at 
 the trial to-morrow, I never hurt your father. Re- 
 member that, won't you ? That's all." He made a 
 
 82
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 clumsy bow to the magistrate and slouched towards the 
 door. Halfway he halted and came back. 
 
 " It can't be helped, then," he said in a stifled voice. 
 " You must just make believe there's no one listening. 
 I love you, Liza. I've always loved you. I've never 
 loved — not loved — anybody else. It's worth being 
 dragged here in this way — isn't it ? — to hear any man 
 say that. Good-night." He stood still. She went 
 forward to him ; twisting his hand round as best she 
 could, in the manacles, she clasped it with steadfast 
 face. 
 
 " Remove the prisoner." said the old magistrate 
 mildly. He rose, and the young man with him. The 
 latter beckoned the inspector. " Find that girl some 
 decent lodging for the night," he said. " Look after 
 her." The police officer saluted, and, when the gentle- 
 men were gone, tore a leaf from his pocket-book. 
 
 " There ! " he said, hastily writing down an address, 
 " you'll be all right there. It's my belief you're just 
 an accomplice. Past midnight ! I can't be bothered. 
 Look sharp ! " 
 
 VIII 
 
 In the great court the great trial was on. In the 
 great court, with its long-drawn hush, its stifled crowd, 
 its continuous murmur at the farther end. The 
 Hemelers, all personally interested, had pushed to the 
 front, their uncleanness affording them a pass. Most 
 of them now hung over the barrier triumphant, and 
 nodded to the witnesses down below, in proof that they 
 also were connected with the affair. 
 
 83
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 Liza, looking straight ahead, as she passed through 
 the special entrance, had been astonished to see Fisty- 
 cuffs already ensconced in the corner allotted to wit- 
 nesses. He was laughing and nodding to some one in 
 the gallery : Liza, following his gaze, caught Juha's 
 insolent response. The next moment Fistycuffs sat 
 awkwardly studying his boots. He had no wish to 
 offend the heiress before she became his wife. 
 
 " Ferdy a witness ? " questioned Liza. Why had 
 he not told her ? And why had he never been present 
 at any of the prehminary proceedings ? Her heart 
 misgave her. He had seen Barend leave the cottage. 
 That was all, but it was a great deal ; perhaps it would 
 prove enough. He had always said the police must 
 help themselves. Pals or police ? No man of honour 
 would help the police. 
 
 Oh, what did the whole wretched business matter to 
 her ? Again and again she had reiterated that question 
 through the long night watch in her luxurious lodging- 
 house bed. Again and again she had told herself — 
 nothing. And the question had risen, unanswered, 
 across the reply. 
 
 She would give her insignificant evidence. She 
 had found the house unopened, that was all. That 
 would inculpate nobody. Now Fistycuffs would add 
 that he had seen Barend leave the cottage. Well, that 
 was true ; could she help it ? Surely it would not be 
 sufficient to convict any one of murder. And if the 
 Government thought that it was, the law must take its 
 course. What could she, a wretched girl from the 
 Hemel, understand about Government ? 
 
 Whatever might have been her doubts or hesitations 
 before, since last night she knew Barend was innocent. 
 
 84
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 He had told her. And, until she saw Fistycuffs 
 mysteriously included among the witnesses, she had 
 never seriously believed but that the prosecution would 
 fail. Every one had said it must fail for want of 
 evidence. In legal investigation, as she knew, guilt or 
 innocence does not seriously matter, but proof. 
 
 Barend, then, would be liberated, and she would 
 marry Fistycuffs. She would have plenty of money to 
 make Fistycuffs happy with, and her shame would be 
 taken away. Never would child of hers rise up against 
 her, as she rose against Mary Brock ! Fistycuffs, if 
 only he had money, was good-natured and kind. 
 Everybody said so. She would be happy with Fisty- 
 cuffs. 
 
 The Public Prosecutor was reading his Act of Accusa- 
 tion, as they call it. It seemed very lengthy and very 
 strongly worded. To hear him, you would fancy the 
 proofs were overwhelming. She strained to understand 
 what he was saying, before he should be saying some- 
 thing else. A witness, he declared, would be forth- 
 coming who could testify to the actual commission of 
 the crime. A thrill of astonishment ran through the 
 audience. She did not remark it : for her a handful 
 of personages filled the vast building : the prisoner, 
 Fistycuffs, the judges — perhaps Julia — and herself. 
 
 The first witness of interest was Jaap Avis. The 
 Hemel, bored by technicalities, expected a little diversion 
 from him, but not much excitement from any one. 
 There were no witnesses : that was the misfortune. 
 
 Jaap Avis, intuitively prying, had seen Barend slink 
 home at daybreak in sorry plight. It was Providence, 
 said Jaap Avis, which had caused him, at the right 
 moment, to draw back his window-blind. 
 
 85
 
 • JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 For the first, and last, time during the proceedings 
 the prisoner smiled. He knew that Providence was 
 Jaap Avis' drunken neighbour's dirt-sodden " wife " 
 ■ — the widow with the black ringlets and pleading 
 eyes, his own — the prisoner's — quondam landlady. 
 
 " You were up early," said the presiding judge to 
 the witness. 
 
 " Yes, my lord judge," smirked Jaap Avis, " and the 
 last to go home the night before." 
 
 " Drunk," said the prisoner's counsel. 
 
 But the presiding judge ruled this question irrelevant, 
 unless counsel desired to argue that witness was still 
 drunk in the morning. The advocate hastened to 
 deprecate any such intention. His had merely been 
 an involuntary annotation ; without any hint of 
 inquiry in it. He did not doubt for a moment that six 
 hours would suffice to render any Hemeler sober — as 
 sober as a judge. The Hemelers grinned at each other, 
 gratified, in perfect good faith, by the compliment. 
 The lawyer was a teetotaler, inclined to grow rabid. 
 All gin's sin : all sin's gin. That was his theory. 
 
 It was proved, then, that Barend had come home 
 without his jacket. Not much more was proved. His 
 counsel eagerly pointed out that the jacket had not 
 been found in Hunkum's cottage, that its absence 
 therefore disculpated his client : the man had been 
 poaching 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the President testily. " Quite true. 
 If the prisoner would but say where the jacket was 
 lost " But the prisoner would say nothing, cor- 
 rectly surmising that, among lawyers, only the guilty 
 may possibly find benefit in speech. The disconcerted 
 judges declared his attitude indecent. The advocate, 
 
 86
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 despairing, clenched both fists underneath his desk. 
 The general conviction deepened that the prisoner was 
 guilty, but would get off. 
 
 It was then that the Public Prosecutor called for 
 Ferdinand. He stepped forward brightly, but he 
 didn't look at Liza. A smile of prospective triumph 
 lit the Prosecutor's yellow face, Liza clutched at the 
 rail in front of her. Supposing Fisty had found the 
 jacket ? Why had she gone so often, at midnight, 
 to make sure it was still there ? Why had she gone 
 last night again ? Supposing her lover betrayed the 
 man who loved her ? The tears stood in her 
 eyes. 
 
 The next moment she steadied herself. After all, 
 she couldn't help it. She must speak the truth. So, 
 of course, must Fistycuffs. And the law must take its 
 course. 
 
 " I followed the prisoner," Fistycuffs said smoothly. 
 His clear accents filled the silent hall. " It was close 
 upon twelve o'clock : I wondered where he was going. 
 I thought he was after Jan Hunkum's chickens. Jan 
 Hunkum had no chickens. I saw him go round the 
 house to the little window at the back." 
 
 " Was it a moonlit night ? " inquired the President. 
 
 " N — n — no," replied Fistycuffs, " it was not a 
 moonlit night. I was quite close to him. And he 
 wrenched away the iron bars from the window, and so 
 he got in." 
 
 " Could you wrench away iron bars like that ? " 
 asked the President. 
 
 " Yes," said Fistycuffs. Barend Everts looked to- 
 wards him, quietly. The Hemelers nudged each 
 other, their wide mouths stretching from ear to ear. 
 
 87
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MOiNEY 
 
 " I crept round to the bedroom window," continued 
 the witness. " There was a chink in the shutter and 
 I looked through. Jan Hunkum was sitting in bed, 
 with his money heaped up around him, heaps of money, 
 all around him, heaps of banknotes and silver and 
 gold ! " 
 
 " Not silver," interposed the Public Prosecutor softly. 
 
 " I fancied there was silver as well," replied Fisty- 
 cuffs, half apologetic, half reproachful. " Poor men 
 like me can't distinguish properly when they see a lot 
 of treasure heaped up like that." 
 
 " And, besides, the chink was narrow," said the 
 Prosecutor, turning to the judges. 
 
 " And, besides, the chink was extraordinary narrow. 
 Barend Everts went straight up to the bed, with one 
 of the window bars in his hand, and he struck Jan 
 Hunkum down with it among the bedclothes, dead." 
 
 " How did you know he was dead ? " asked the 
 President. 
 
 " He looked dead. Mynheer the President. Barend 
 Everts dragged down the body and threw it on the floor. 
 Then he filled his pockets with gold and banknotes, 
 stuffing them in anyhow as fast as he could. And 
 then he upset the burning petroleum lamp among the 
 rest of the papers, and then he ran away." 
 
 Fistycuffs stopped speaking, and now looked across 
 at Liza, magnificently : his task was accomplished, his 
 success assured. A long thrill of delighted horror per- 
 vaded his audience, which had never doubted the im- 
 mensity of Barend's secreted spoil. But some of the 
 bolder spirits amongst the Hemelers stared curiously. 
 They had often felt interested in Jan Hunkum's shutters. 
 They had never found chinks. 
 
 88
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " The pockets of his jacket ? " inconsistently ques- 
 tioned the President. 
 
 " Which hide the treasure they are hidden with to 
 this day," suggested the Prosecutor. 
 
 " I don't know," said the witness, for the President 
 awaited an answer. He added : " The chink was ex- 
 traordinary narrow." 
 
 " Mr. President," said the prisoner's advocate, " that 
 chink seems to have expanded and contracted at will," 
 The President frowned. He was delighted with this 
 unexpected assistance. Of course, as they all knew, 
 the prisoner was guilty. They would be able to prove 
 him so now. 
 
 But the President was a moral man. He liked to 
 point a moral, just as Fistycuffs ilked to adorn a 
 tale. 
 
 ' Did it not occur to you, witness," he began, " when 
 you saw the prisoner enter the house, that you might, 
 by immediately following him, avert an impending 
 catastrophe ? " 
 
 " Do what, your worship ? " aked Fistycuffs, to gain 
 time. 
 
 " Might prevent the old man's being killed ! " ex- 
 plained the President angrily. 
 
 Fistycuffs opened his eyes. He wanted to marry 
 Liza without more delay. He was not in the world 
 to avert catastrophes. 
 
 " No," he said, " it didn't occur to me. I didn't 
 know there was going to be murder. And, besides, is 
 your worship aware that, if I had entered Jan Hun- 
 kum's house, I should never have been able to inherit 
 a penny of Jan Hunkum's gold ? " 
 
 " You are almost an accomplice," said the President, 
 89
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 very red in the face. " The moral standard of the lower 
 classes in this country is deplorable. It is incompre- 
 hensible, when all the non-Christian virtues are daily 
 taught in the undenominational schools. This man's 
 evidence is of the greatest importance. You can step 
 down." 
 
 The Public Prosecutor popped up. " We have now 
 to hear the statement," he said, " of the girl who warned 
 the constables, whereupon these latter found the victim 
 lying exactly as the last witness has described. That, 
 with some minor, technical, evidence, will complete 
 the case." 
 
 " Speak up," said the President to Liza, before she 
 had spoken a word. 
 
 She turned when she stood in open court, desirous 
 only not to see Fistycuffs. 
 
 " Look this way," said the President. An usher 
 pushed her. She gazed up at the lofty tribunal, the 
 robed judges, the big inkstands, the majesty of the 
 law. 
 
 " Please, I must stand like this," she said in tones 
 thick like a swollen torrent. " It's all lies what the 
 last witness has been saying. It's lies, my lords, 
 lies ! I can prove it. Let me speak, like this ! Leave 
 me alone, you man ! I can prove it. It is hcs, 
 lies, lies ! " No one had stopped her. They fell back 
 in amazement. The Hemelers, who considered the 
 heiress their own especial, important property, had 
 concentrated much of their attention upon her from 
 the first. The whole crowded concourse, however, 
 now suddenly realizing that this was the heroine of 
 the tragical story, the murdered man's daughter, the 
 last witness's sweetheart, the ragged inheritress of 
 
 90
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 fabulous wealth — the whole concourse rose, struggling, 
 to stare at her, to see her, enjoy and understand her, 
 to get an impression, a sensation, something engrossing 
 that you can carry away. There v/as a flutter, and 
 the continuous "Hush, hush! "of increasing excite- 
 ment. Her rapid words came tumbling, as waves 
 before the wind. 
 
 " It is lies," she repeated. " I can prove it. He 
 cannot have been near Jan Hunkum's cottage. He 
 cannot have seen what he says he saw. It isn't true, 
 and if it had been true he couldn't have seen it." 
 
 " Why not, pray ? " asked the judge. 
 
 " Because it's lies. All Hes." The Prosecutor smiled 
 again, " You will have to prove what you say. 
 You are engaged to the last witness, are you not ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You give your lover a very bad character. What 
 is your reason for affirming that he has not spoken 
 the truth ? " 
 
 " I would rather not say. But it's all lies." 
 
 Despite the general tension a ripple of laughter 
 passed over the public. The professionals steadied 
 their faces to a sneer. 
 
 " You will have to say. To say everything. To 
 prove, instantly, your charge." 
 
 " I can prove it." 
 
 " How ? " the President barked. 
 
 " Because he was with me." She spoke the words 
 quite softly : everybody heard them at the back of the 
 gallery. 
 
 There was a silence. Presently the Public Prosecutor 
 said — " We know he was. That is to say, he had been. 
 It was coming away from the witness which made him 
 
 91
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 so late. They had enjoyed each other's company till 
 very near midnight, Mynheer the President. That 
 is no business of mine." 
 
 " The morals of the rural population ! " said the 
 President, and he threw up both hands. By the way, 
 he owned a wife for each. 
 
 " I can't help it, Ferdy ! " exclaimed Liza desperately, 
 still staring away over the heads of the judges. " I 
 must tell them ! You know you were in the pig- stye ! 
 You know I had locked you up in the pig-stye ! 
 Your worships, I had locked him up in the pig-stye, 
 because — because I wanted to ! He stayed there all 
 night, your worships. He couldn't have seen any- 
 thing happen anywhere, my lords ! " 
 
 " You seem to do most things because you want to," 
 said the President. " Are you in a hurry to be married 
 because you want to, or because you must ? " He 
 leered at her : the Public Prosecutor bit his nails. 
 
 " Because I must," she answered fearlessly. She 
 threw back her head, facing them all, in her rage. 
 " And I want to as well," she added. " But it's lies 
 about Hunkum's falling dead ! Fistycuffs — Ferdinand 
 says he saw Hunkum fall dead under a blow from 
 Barend. I love him — yes, gentlemen, I love him ! " — 
 she shrieked out the words — " I'm going to marry 
 him as you say, but he musn't say it, gentlemen, he 
 mayn't say it ! I know it isn't true, for why ? — 
 when " 
 
 She stopped suddenly. She perfectly realized what 
 was coming. She knew what she was going to do. 
 
 " When ? " said the President, bending across the 
 table. His fat hands, from the distance, seemed to be 
 fumbling at her breast. 
 
 92
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 She hesitated. Why, after all, should she do it ? 
 
 " When I reached Jan Hunkum's house in the early 
 morning," she struggled on, " I heard a sound inside of 
 someone moaning, and I crept through the little window 
 and got inside." 
 
 A loud oath sprang from Fisty cuff's throat like a 
 pistol-shot. The Hemelers surged forward, their faces 
 aflame, rapacious, exultant, exuberant. 
 
 " Silence ! " cried the President, in a fury. And 
 now Liza turned round, looking straight at her lover, 
 and speaking very fast. 
 
 " Jan Hunkum was still alive," she said. " He couldn't 
 speak to me. But the iron bar was in his hand, clutched 
 tight, and he lay beside the money-chest, and he'd 
 struck his head on the edge, I suppose, but the bar 
 was in his hand, my lord ! " 
 
 The prisoner had sunk his face on his hands, hiding 
 it completely. 
 
 " And that is all I have to say, my lord. It's the 
 truth, the Gospel truth, and not a word's been added. 
 I couldn't help it, Ferdy. I should never have spoke 
 if you hadn't forced me to by " 
 
 "Silence!" cried the President again. " Do you 
 know, my girl, that you charge your lover with perjury ? 
 Perjury — that's swearing false. Either he or you 
 swear false. He will go to prison on a charge of 
 perjury." 
 
 Liza stretched out both hands to Fistycuffs. The 
 look in his eyes met hers. " Don't, Ferdy ! " she 
 cried, and fell in a heap on the floor of the court. 
 
 93
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 IX 
 
 In the darkened garret — it was dark enough, at best — 
 she lay stretched on her bed. The surroundings were 
 far from beautiful, but there was a white look on her 
 dusky face which somehow partly beautified them. 
 She opened her eyes. 
 
 " I want to see the child," she said wearily. 
 
 " The child's dead," replied Mary, in a loud voice. 
 Presently she sniffed, but rather in defiance of some 
 unknown fate than in sorrow, 
 
 Liza closed her eyes again, and the lashes slowly 
 moistened. It was some time before she said — " All 
 right." 
 
 Again there was a long pause. Then Mary re- 
 marked — " You can see it all the same," and she got 
 up and brought the httle bundle across. 
 
 " I should be glad it was dead," said Liza, gazing 
 steadily, " if I was dead too, and — and Ferdinand. 
 I wish Ferdinand was dead too, and me." 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed Mary. " You don't mean 
 to say you still care for that scoundrel Fistycuffs ? 
 You haven't mentioned his name, Liza, since you left 
 off being delirious. Not that you've said much since 
 then. But to care for a scoundrel like Fistycuffs ! 
 I'm glad the babe's dead, for it might have been like 
 him." 
 
 " Hush, mother ! Yes, you're right," murmured 
 Liza. " Yes, it's best about the baby. I — I don't 
 want, I'm sure, to speak about Ferdinand. I don't 
 want never to mention his name again. He's dead to 
 
 94
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 me. But I wish we was both under the black earth, 
 mother, and nobody to speak of the shame." 
 
 " Ferdinand's in prison," retorted Mary. 
 
 It was what Liza had dreaded throughout the gloomy 
 days, yet the fact came home to her with a shock. 
 She burst into a crying fit. 
 
 " Don't be a fool ! " objected Mary. " Where else 
 should he be, if you please, with judges in the land ? 
 They ought to hang him. The scoundrel ! " 
 
 "Don't, mother," sobbed the girl. "I don't care 
 about Ferdinand. I don't never want to hear his 
 name again. But I don't want you, neither, to speak 
 like that. If he's in prison, it's ray doing. Will they 
 — will they punish him bad ? " 
 
 " Indeed they will," replied Mary, with conviction. 
 " It's swearing lies, and that's a crime against the 
 Queen. Not like swearing ordinary, or telling common 
 lies, which ain't crimes at all, Joop says. They'll 
 make it penal servitude. And serve him right." 
 
 " The lamp smells so," said Liza wearily. "I do 
 wish it wouldn't smell. It makes my head so bad." 
 
 " Well, you've grown mighty finical to mind the 
 smell of a lamp," replied her mother. " You'll be 
 better soon now, Liza : Aunt Judith says so, and she 
 came and ' read the words ' over you again last night. 
 She's been wonderful good about ' exercising ' you. 
 And when you're a wee bit stronger, you won't mind 
 no smells of lamps." 
 
 " But I wish you'd open the window now," said 
 Liza. Her mother obeyed, grumbling. As the sash 
 went up — it was a sort of skyliglit — there came through 
 the mirky air, faintly across the distance, a sound of 
 uproarious singing, of drunken revelry. 
 
 95
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " That's your doing," said Mary moodily. " Not 
 Fistycuff' s being in prison, which is his very own. But 
 that's your doing, more fool you ! " 
 
 " What's my doing ? " asked Liza, turning her 
 head on the pillow. 
 
 " Why, all that noise there ! The singing and goings 
 on at Joop's, and half a dozen other places ! I'ts 
 been so night after night, ever since they come back 
 from the trial, and that is a week ago to-day. They're 
 spending the money that's going to come to 'em — 
 thanks to you, that squandered your rightful property 
 amongst a lot of ne'er-do-wells. Not a house in the 
 Hemel, they do say, excepting ours, but gets its hundreds 
 or thousands, Liza — Brock ! " 
 
 "You'll get your share," murmured Liza. "Please 
 mother, I couldn't help it. I wish you'd let me go to 
 sleep." 
 
 With a grunt Mary retreated to the lamp. She 
 sat down helplessly, a bit of towelling between her 
 dirty fingers. It was just a week to-day since Liza, 
 on the night of her return from the trial, had given 
 untimely birth to a puling babe. The babe had stopped 
 puhng yesterday. The bit of towelling lay on 
 Mary's lap, the needle sticking in its third uneven 
 hem. 
 
 To-day, according to Dutch legal usage, the verdict 
 had been pronounced in the city, and, doubtless, Barend 
 had been released. Every one said he must be released — 
 for want of evidence. As for the unsolved mystery, 
 the triangular psychological puzzle, those now in- 
 terested professionals only. Fistycuffs, hopelessly 
 ruined, had confessed, with abundance of tears. People 
 wanted Barend to get off. The Hemelers, prospectively 
 
 96
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 wealthy, were not inclined to be hard on the author 
 of their good fortune. 
 
 Mary Brock had fallen crushed beneath the crash 
 of all her splendid aspirations. At first she could 
 only sit and moan. Then, at last, she got up — because 
 she had to — and nursed both child and grandchild, 
 in very clumsy manner, nursed them and cursed them 
 and cried over them alternately — or even simultan- 
 eously, when her feelings got too much for her under 
 the deep depression of Liza Hunkum's — Hunkum's, 
 mind you ! — self-defeat. 
 
 She sighed again. She felt she was a wicked woman : 
 the music maddened her. She rejoiced at any relief. 
 The door creaked open, and Barend Everts stood before 
 her. 
 
 He seemed to fill the attic. She thought he looked 
 all the better for his long seclusion. There had been 
 some strange rumour, lately, of money having come 
 to him. But that was doubtless false. 
 
 He came right into the middle of the room, stopped 
 a moment to gaze down on the dead baby, looked 
 across to Mary, seemed about to say something, and 
 then checking himself, in the hush, turned to the dark 
 corner, to the bed. 
 
 He kneeled beside it. " Liza," he said, " I want to 
 speak to you. I want to say something. May I ? " 
 
 She opened her eyes and looked at him. 
 
 " I'm going to America," he hurried on. " I've got 
 some money, Liza. 'Tis the final payment on my 
 mother's legacy — her aunt's, you remember — it's come 
 whilst I was in prison — five thousand guilders — a trifle 
 over. I'm going to America to try and farm. I want 
 you to come with me, Liza." 
 7 97
 
 JAN HUNKUM'S MONEY 
 
 " How could I ? " she said softly. " I don't deserve 
 to, Barend. Oh, Barend, you mustn't take me. Oh, 
 no, no, no." 
 
 " Liza, have you got my jacket ? Did you hide it ? 
 Have you got it still ? " 
 
 She nodded. 
 ' Liza, won't you marry me ? " 
 
 '' No, no, no," she said almost inaudibly, unwillingly, 
 ever fainter. 
 
 He bent so close, he kissed her before and between 
 the words. 
 
 98
 
 The Fair-Lover 
 
 ANNEKE PETERS stood before the cottage door. 
 She had finished the drudgery of the day for the 
 day. To-morrow morning she would begin the whole 
 thing over again, as she had begun it yesterday, patiently. 
 Anneke Peters was a good girl. She knew it. That was 
 the one bright spot in her life of monotonous doing- 
 your-best. 
 
 For seven years, ever since her father died, she had 
 lived with her widowed uncle, old Pete Peters ; Pete the 
 miser, as the village called him, " Mammie's Grave 
 Pete." Her own mother she could not remember : her 
 father, she remembered, drank. She was fourteen when 
 she came to keep house for Uncle Pete ; she had never 
 done anything else, excepting, before that, keep house 
 for her father. The latter had frequently abused, and 
 occasionally fondled her : Uncle Pete had never done 
 either, but he grumbled from morning till night. He 
 was a respectable man in his way : born amongst a 
 pauper set, he had worked himself up a few steps in the 
 world, as a pedlar, by sheer industry and lies. He had 
 a talent for commercial mendacity, the lie that pays ; 
 he was the cleverest liar for miles around. He would 
 swear himself black in the face, while describing his 
 
 99
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 goods, " by the grave of his sister " ; his* excuse to 
 himself, and to God, being this, that he never had had 
 any sister to swear by. But when he substituted 
 " mother's " for " sister's " he could always be relied on. 
 Those who had frequent doings with him found him out, 
 and that is how he got his nickname. In middle life he 
 had married, and soon after lost, a childless widow with 
 a competency. He then gave up his little business, and 
 henceforward did nothing, living poorly, and lying for 
 diversion, as he had formerly lied for gain. His other 
 amusement was grumbling. He grumbled at every- 
 thing and everybody, the Government, the weather, 
 and Anneke, from morning till night. And he told 
 stories all over the village, inventing complications, 
 embroiling neighbours, keeping up a sort of perpetual 
 April fooling and finding it excellent sport. 
 
 Anneke worked from morning till night to make all 
 things go so well there should be no cause for grumbling, 
 but that undertaking is hopeless where the grumbler 
 needs no cause. She was very ignorant, she could 
 barely read and write, but she had a natural liking for 
 refinement of the outer kind — for pretty things and 
 pleasantness ; she put a couple of geraniums upon the 
 window-sill, though " Mammie's Grave Pete " complained 
 they kept you from seeing the girls go by. 
 
 " Boys go by," he corrected himself, with a leer. 
 *' They don't stop to look in, Anneke — much less, cross 
 the threshold." He had few jokes, but frequent. 
 " There's none come to fetch you for the Kermesse," 
 he said. He said it over and over again. 
 
 He had grumbled over it on this summer evening, 
 complaining that no man would ever come to take her 
 off his hands. Here was Truda engaged to the hand- 
 
 100
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 somest ne'er-do-well that had ever left black children 
 behind him in India, and nobody to give Anneke as 
 much as a look, unless it be the blind beggar, Jan 
 Siemen. 
 
 Anneke had not replied that she saved her uncle a 
 servant, nor had she pointed out that Jan Siemen never 
 came near their uncharitable door. She had simply 
 gone and stood outside in the early summer twilight, 
 and thought how beautifully clear and still the sky was 
 in the soft blue evening shades. 
 
 Yes, Truda was engaged. To handsome Harmen 
 Reys, the Indian corporal. Truda, the child of Aunt 
 Peters' prosperous sister, the wealthy innkeeper's only 
 daughter, whose father jingled his keys and talked of 
 his " iron safe " ; Truda, who wore clothes to church 
 on Sunday such as no other girl could have got at 
 honestly. Truda Batsy had always scorned her low- 
 born uncle's lower niece. She had been taught to do so, 
 and had gladly learnt the lesson. " We must be decent 
 to ' Mammie's Grave,' " said Juffrouw Batsy. " It'll 
 be all the better when he steps into his own." 
 
 " Then I wish to God he would," said the innkeeper. 
 
 " But, as for Anneke Peters, she's of no account at 
 all," said Juffrouw Batsy. She had slapped Truda as a 
 child for asking if Anneke was a cousin of theirs. 
 
 And now Truda was engaged, and more aggressively 
 scornful than ever. For years, from the days of their 
 meeting at the infant school, the bigger girl, two years 
 younger, but florid and healthy, had pinched, bullied, 
 insulted the weakling creature with the plaintive eyes. 
 Many and many a time she had gibed at her in the streets. 
 Now she was triumphant, and, indeed, why should it 
 not be so ? She had always triumphed from the first. 
 
 101
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 All success and comfort and delight had always been 
 hers. She even drove in her father's chaise on week- 
 days. 
 
 As for being engaged — that is, formally engaged to be 
 married — such grandeur unachievable formed no part of 
 Anneke Peters' wildest dreams. But certainly she 
 would have felt pleased had she received those more 
 casual attentions which fall to the lot of most country 
 girls. Nobody ever offered to keep company with 
 Anneke ; nobody suggested a walk, or stopped for a 
 chat by her window. She was plain ; she was poor ; 
 she was modest ; people did not even feel absolutely 
 sure that her father and mother had " been to the 
 mayor's." Luckily for her, the chief proof on her 
 behalf was furnished by Pete's persistent denial of the 
 fact. 
 
 Yes, she would have liked a sweetheart — especially a 
 Kermesse sweetheart — once in a way ; a young man 
 who would have taken her, as all the other girls got 
 taken, sooner or later, to the annual fair at Overstad. 
 That fair was the event of the year to all the peasants 
 for miles around. The fair at Overstad, the splendid, 
 riotous, ruinous fair ; everybody went there in couples ; 
 it was a monstrosity to remain away. She only wanted 
 to go one year. She only wanted to see, to have seen, 
 to be able to talk about the thing with the others, who 
 talked of it all through the year. Her uncle, unwilling 
 to accompany her, had always refused to let her go 
 unattended. " If you want to see it," he said, " get a 
 lover — like the other girls. Ha ! " 
 
 As she stood before the cottage door, this summer 
 evening, Truda Batsy came by on her way to her own 
 home, the tavern two hundred yards off. Harmen Keys 
 
 102
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 was with her, looking bored. Perhaps the two had been 
 quarrelHng ? Anneke's good httle human heart gave 
 a httle leap of pleasure, instantly checked. 
 
 " Well ? " said Truda, stopping short. She was vexed 
 with her ne'er-do-well lover, and her heart was full of 
 spite. " Anneke, are you going to the fair this year ? 
 They say it's quite unusually fine." 
 
 " Perhaps," replied Anneke boldly. 
 
 " Really ? And whom are you going with ? " 
 ' Wouldn't you just hke to know ? " 
 
 " I shouldn't. I don't care tuppence who goes with 
 whom, as long as I go with Harmen. But you'll want a 
 sweetheart, Anneke, unless you take your Uncle Pete." 
 
 " Good-night, Truda," said Anneke, turning away. 
 
 " Or you might take Beggar Siemen. Anneke, if I 
 were you, I'd rather hire a sweetheart than never go 
 at all ! " She passed on with a laugh, her lover trailing 
 in her wake. Anneke stood looking after her. 
 
 " What a brute you are ! " said Harmen, and twirled 
 his light moustache. 
 
 Truda Batsy laughed again. " Why shouldn't she 
 go with a hired lover ? " said Truda. " Better people 'n 
 she have done it a hundred times. But Uncle Pete'd 
 never give her the money : that's why." 
 
 " You're a brute," replied Harmen, still more sulkily. 
 " It'd almost be better to go with a meek little brown- 
 eyed thing like that than with such a vixen as you." 
 
 " Smooth words, please," said the girl, angrily. 
 " Why don't you go with her yourself, then ? Don't 
 overcharge, she ain't got much. None but the lowest 
 of the low let themselves out at the fair." 
 
 " You're a brute," he said again. He was a man of 
 few ideas. 
 
 103
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 She turned round suddenly and struck him a sounding 
 slap on the cheek. 
 
 The quondam corporal straightened himself ; a pink 
 flush spread round the red mark on his fair skin. " I 
 never strike a woman," he said, and, saluting, left her. 
 
 Anneke had gone back into the house. She walked 
 slowly, meditating. She did not hate the innkeeper's 
 daughter, for she could not honestly have wished her ill, 
 but if there was any one on earth she loathed and 
 dreaded, that person was Truda Batsy. 
 
 " Truda, eh ? — with her lover ? " said old Pete. " I 
 thought so, but I couldn't make sure because of your 
 damned geraniums." She went to mix her uncle his 
 evening glass of brandy and water — cold from June to 
 September, hot from September to June : she had done 
 that nightly now for half a dozen years. He always 
 grumbled over the mixture, yet once, on the single 
 occasion when she had spent a few days in bed, he had 
 told her, grumbling, that no one could prepare it as well 
 as she. 
 
 " What a good-looking man he is," pursued old Pete. 
 " No wonder that, out in the Indies, he could bring down 
 sweethearts like cocoa-nuts ! " 
 
 " Was he very bad ? " asked Anneke, with an innocent 
 thrill. 
 
 " Bad ? What a fool-girl's question ! Is it bad when 
 you potter about your stupid bit of a garden, if you smell 
 at the stocks and wallflowers and things ? What are 
 they for else ? Though, depend upon it, he didn't smell 
 at wallflowers. You're a wallflower, Anneke." 
 
 She made no reply, but helped him to bed. He was 
 an unpleasant old man, and this part of her daily task 
 
 104
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 was especially distasteful to her. She went up to her 
 own Uttle white attic — every year she did the white- 
 washing herself — and lingeringly undressed. " What 
 folly ! " she said at last, endeavouring to cast off the 
 thought which returned in the night and next morning. 
 After all, the folly was possible. Other girls had com- 
 mitted it. 
 
 In the afternoon, when she ran out with a big tub of 
 washing-water to the reedy canal that creeps along by 
 the village, she saw Truda sitting idle, with a couple of 
 others, under the big chestnut in front of the inn. They 
 were laughing heartily. The " Ho ! ho ! ho ! " of 
 Truda's booby cousin Tony rose above the cackle of the 
 girls. Harmen was there again also. " Do you forgive 
 me ? " Truda had asked that morning, a little shame- 
 facedly, for her. " No," he had answered, " let's talk 
 of something else." 
 
 " Anneke ! " called Truda across the blazing sunhght. 
 
 Anneke turned paler than usual. " It is the sign ! " 
 she thought. For, in her foolishness, she had told herself 
 that never would she venture to question Truda about 
 girls who had hired their squires, but if Truda began, 
 well, then 
 
 She came away from the waterside, with her tub held 
 out before her, hot from her work, through the lazy heat, 
 to the shadow of the chestnut tree. The others were 
 cool and merry ; a great basket of cherries stood in the 
 middle of the group. 
 
 " Well, have you got him already ? " questioned 
 Truda. " I was telling Corry and Suzy you were going 
 to pay for a sweetheart." 
 
 " Will she advertise for one ? " said Corry, who had 
 from childhood been Truda's principal friend, and who 
 
 105
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 now was being courted by the red-faced farmer lad, 
 Tony. 
 
 " Nonsense," said Tnida. " All she need do is to go 
 to old Nell Trops in the Weavers Street at Overstad. 
 That's where the girls apply who can't get a lover for 
 themselves." The big innkeeper's daughter folded her 
 fat pink arms, and looked triumphantly from Anneke 
 to Harmen. " You go to Nell Trops in the Weavers 
 Street," she said. 
 
 " It isn't true ! You're chaffing me ! " said Anneke ; 
 but some of them saw the flash in her eyes as Truda 
 gave the address. 
 
 " It's true enough," remarked lumbering Tony 
 Dunder. " We had a cow-girl at our place two years ago 
 that got one cost her a florin. A florin he took, and 
 everything free — the shows, and merry-go-rounds, and 
 the waffles." 
 
 " And he treated her decent ? " questioned Anneke, 
 eagerly. " He — he just kept her company, and let her 
 go home when she liked ? " 
 
 " Oh, I dare say he treated her just as she wanted him 
 to," replied Tony, laughing clumsily. Corry laughed 
 also. Suzy sat silently eating cherries, and shying the 
 stones into Anneke's tub. 
 
 " I don't believe a word of it ! " cried Anneke. " It's 
 all chaff and rubbish ! " The girls jeered back at her. 
 
 Harmen Reys bent forward, and, taking a big handful 
 of cherries, threw them into the washing-tub. " Have 
 some ? " he said. " They're very good." 
 
 Anneke's heart was too full for any sort of answer. 
 She crept back to her house and her work. 
 
 " Do you know, she intends to do it," announced 
 Truda, and pursed up her lips. 
 
 io6
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 " Nonsense ! " cried the other girls. 
 
 " I tell you she does. And, look here, we must have 
 a lark. Of course, she will do it on Farmers' Thursday, 
 when all the countryside is there. Harmen, you must 
 go to Mother Trops, and get her to give you to Anneke." 
 
 " What ! " cried Harmen Keys. " No, thank you ; 
 I'm going with you." 
 
 " So you shall, you dunderhead ! But, first, you must 
 fetch the fair Anneke. You will take her to the circus, 
 and seat yourselves on one side ; then we shall come in 
 afterwards — a lot of us — the whole village — and seat 
 ourselves opposite ; then, presently, you'll think of 
 some pretext to escape and come over to the empty 
 seat beside me, and Anneke, who's paid for her 
 lover " 
 
 " Ho ! ho ! ho ! " burst in Tony. The others all 
 shook and cried out with laughing. 
 
 " What fun it'll be ! " screamed Truda. 
 
 " / think it's rather low," said Harmen. 
 
 " Don't be a fool," remonstrated Tony. 
 
 " No," retorted Harmen, " I won't so long as I 
 couldn't, anyhow, be as big a fool as you." 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! " interposed Truda. " Let's think 
 the plot out. We must arrange about it all in a day or 
 two." 
 
 " It'll keep till to-morrow," said Harmen, rising and 
 stretching his long limbs. " The cherries are all eaten. 
 I'm going home. I've got something to do." A loud 
 laugh went up from them all, for it was well known that 
 Harmen lived and loafed on his Indian corporal's 
 pension. 
 
 " I'm coming with you," ejaculated Tony, stumbling 
 to his feet. 
 
 107
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 " Something to do means gin," said Truda, scorn- 
 fully. " Why don't you go in and drink father's ? " 
 
 " Because it comes too expensive," retorted Harmen. 
 
 " But if I give it you it costs you nothing." 
 
 "It couldn't be dearer than when you give it me," 
 said Harmen with a smirking sneer. 
 
 He slung off with a jerk of annoyance. She jarred on 
 him, especially of late. He wasn't a good man ; he 
 didn't mind a bad woman, but the worst man wants a 
 woman to be tender, 
 
 " Truda isn't the sort of girl I should care to marry," 
 said Tony, slouching along beside the other's army step. 
 
 " Nor is Corry," replied Harmen sharply. 
 
 The bumpkin grinned, a sudden break of white along 
 his crimson face. " Who talks of marrying Corry ? " 
 he replied. " Marrying's one thing, and courting's 
 another. Kermesse comes once in a year, and marriage 
 comes once in a lifetime." 
 
 " Yes," said Harmen meditatively, his pale eyes 
 dreamy with reminiscence of a sunny country where the 
 wedding knot is more easily untied. 
 
 " And she hasn't got the money either that people say 
 she has." 
 
 " What ? " cried the other, suddenly attentive, all the 
 dreaminess gone from his gaze. 
 
 " No, she hasn't," said Tony with malicious alacrity, 
 " if everybody knew what we know ! But then, luckily, 
 they don't." 
 
 " Tony, let's go and have a drink." 
 
 "I'm agreeable, if you pay. You just take the train 
 to Overstad and ask the registrar of mortgages there on 
 whose property he registered a mortgage last Thursday 
 ' No, thank you, not I,' says father when Uncle Batsy 
 
 io8
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 come to him. ' I don't go lending o' my money to chaps 
 as speculate in corn ! ' " 
 
 " Phew ! " said the corporal between his teeth. 
 
 " But there's old Pete Peters, Tony : all his dead 
 wife's money'll be Truda's some day." 
 
 " If he leaves it her. But he always says he is going 
 to leave it to Anneke." 
 
 " That don't prove anything, coming from such a 
 born liar. I wonder if he's really free to leave it as he 
 chooses ? " 
 
 " Let's take him for a drink, and make him tell us on 
 his mother's bones ! We shall find him under the 
 beeches by the church." 
 
 They marched off in that direction. 
 
 " What's Truda done to you ? " asked Harmen 
 presently. 
 
 " Done to me ? Nothing. What should she have 
 done to me ? We'll see whether she can always get as 
 many Kermesse sweethearts as she chooses ! A lubber 
 may only be a lubber, but he's better than nothing at 
 all." 
 
 " I see," said Harmen, scornfully. " That was last 
 year, I suppose." 
 
 They found old Pete filling his pipe with newly 
 purchased tobacco. " She's a very good girl," said 
 Pete ; his little eyes twinkled, disappeared. 
 
 " I shaU leave her every penny I have," he said 
 presently, comfortably ensconced in his favourite 
 corner, in his favourite public-house. " I shall. By 
 my sister's grave, I shall." He saw suitors on the 
 horizon. He wanted to have suitors, that he might 
 enjoy dismissing them. The young men gave him a 
 couple more glasses of gin. 
 
 109
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 " I shall leave her every penny, every penny," he said, 
 nodding over his glass. " Yes, I swear it, every penny. 
 By my mother's grave, I shall." 
 
 " Oh, hang your idiotic mother's grave," said Harmen, 
 getting up to go. 
 
 Meanwhile Anneke, standing over the washtub, 
 slowly thought the matter out. She felt she could no 
 longer bear the public ignominy, not so much of never 
 having possessed an accredited sweetheart, as of never 
 having found a swain to take her to the fair. She knew 
 that many a maid in her position would have started 
 boldly for the Kermesse, and waited there until some 
 honest fellow invited her to spend the evening with him, 
 as in more exalted circles men came up to claim a waltz. 
 But when she thought of such indelicacy her heart 
 bumped. To hire a cavalier, to pay honourably for 
 honourable companionship, that seemed a very different 
 matter. " Nell Trops in the Weavers Street," she 
 repeated to herself. " Overstad is such a big city, 
 nobody will ever find out." She flattered herself that 
 she had admirably kept her own counsel before her 
 tormentors. It would be best to go on " Farmers' 
 Thursday," when all the villagers, for miles around, 
 trooped in to make high holiday. On that day, following 
 his invariable custom, Uncle Pete would go across to 
 Rotterdam to fetch his quarter's income, getting back 
 at midnight with the money, sober as a judge. That was 
 his Kermesse treat, he always used to say. 
 
 Yes, she would go, and, taking two tickets for the 
 circus, would sit revealed to all beholders — especially 
 to the young folks of her own village, most especially 
 to Truda — revealed as a girl who can keep Kermesse, if 
 
 IIO
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 she chooses, and keep it with better men than those she 
 left at home. Her heart glowed as she pictured the hour 
 of triumph to herself. For the twentieth time she 
 counted the few florins in her purse. She believed she 
 had enough. 
 
 II 
 
 Two days later, on the morning of the momentous 
 Thursday, Anneke, up betimes from a sleepless couch, 
 hurried through her work as if she had not the whole 
 long day before her. Presently she laid out her uncle's 
 rusty Sunday clothes : she dropped from her trembling 
 hands the fuzzy black hat she was brushing. 
 
 " Stupid ! " growled Pete ; he rarely said anything 
 more, but, then, he was always saying this. There were 
 times when she almost regretted her father's volleys of 
 oaths. 
 
 " I shan't be back till midnight," said Uncle Pete. 
 She knew that. These quarterly trips to the bank were 
 the supreme satisfaction of the old man's life. She 
 watched him depart, a tottery old scarecrow with an 
 abnormal umbrella, along the poplar-bordered road. 
 
 In the afternoon, having nothing left to do, she sat 
 down to sew at some of the numerous clothes in which 
 her soul delighted. It seemed astonishing, to her 
 accustomed activity, how slow the hot hours passed. 
 She dressed carefully, in her dark green gown, and 
 fastened her mother's great gold ear-pins into the snowy, 
 tightly fitting cap. Then, as seven o'clock, in the full 
 glory of the solemn July evening, she crept forth, locked 
 the cottage door behind her, and hastened away. 
 
 Ill
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 The station was a mile off, along open road. But 
 Anneke, trembling like a guilty thing lest the village 
 cronies should observe her, made a circuit of two miles 
 under cover of brushwood, along ditches and fields. 
 The platform, when she reached it, was deserted. All 
 the others had gone in the morning, making a day of it. 
 She had watched them passing the window in excitable 
 groups. 
 
 At Overstad Station there was plenty of commotion. 
 The roar of the Kermesse seemed to rush out and 
 welcome the trains. Over the whole city hung an 
 atmosphere of burning grease ; in the distance, about 
 the vast Cattle Market, rose a yellow flare of dirty light 
 against the tranquil sunset and the soUtary evening star. 
 
 Anneke, avoiding that quarter, crept round to the 
 Weavers Street, and studied the names inscribed on the 
 doors, according to a custom very general in Holland. 
 
 The street was a side one, short, uncanny in its still- 
 ness. Before one of the tall houses a little child was 
 playing on the doorstep. Anneke hoped it would go in. 
 
 " Well, my dear, and what are you doing here ? 
 Surely you ought to be at the Kermesse," said a pleasant 
 voice behind her. She turned in alarm. The speaker 
 was a tall man, with a somewhat gruff appearance, and 
 a beard that looked as if it would better have fitted 
 somebody else's face. 
 
 " \yell," he continued, as she did not answer, " what 
 do you say to going there with me ? " 
 
 The idea of thus accompanying an unknown, un- 
 recommended person struck horror into her breast. 
 " Oh, no, no," she said anxiously. " Please go away. 
 I have come here to see a friend." He fell back, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 XI2
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 " Perhaps your friend lives there ! " he cried, pointing 
 to a Httle house that hung twisted into a corner, half 
 hidden between two tall neighbours — a little house, with 
 a slouching doorway and a window that winked. She 
 watched him turn the corner ; she waited until he must 
 be definitely gone. For a moment she desired to return 
 to the station ; she was miserable, she was alarmed ; 
 she took a few steps towards the road. Then a sort of 
 bravado came over her — the dogged resolve to go 
 through with it. She walked straight up to the little 
 house and boldly rang the bell. An old woman opened 
 the door. 
 
 " Do you know where Nell Trops lives ? " asked 
 Anneke, faintly. 
 
 " Nell Trops lives here, my pretty," said the old 
 woman. " Come in." 
 
 Anneke followed the creature into a back room. Of 
 procuresses, evil houses, dangers to the innocent, she 
 knew nothing. The vices she had heard of were the 
 vices of the fields. 
 
 " And what do you want of Nell Trops, my dear ? " 
 The old woman cast a sidelong glance all over the 
 shrinking figure ; her expression grew indifferent. 
 Nothing worth much. 
 
 " I — I — I," stammered Anneke, her pale face a dusky 
 red ; "I had heard — I thought that here " 
 
 " Then you had heard wrong," said the old woman 
 sharply. She held the door open. There was a musty 
 smell in the little dingy room. 
 
 " But there was a girl from our village got one," cried 
 Anneke, emboldened by necessity. 
 
 " I dare say," replied Nell Trops, drily. Then, 
 suddenly, a light seemed to break in upon her. " You 
 8 irS
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 want a sweetheart to go a-fairing with ? " she said, with 
 a cunning glance. 
 
 Anneke hung her head. 
 
 " Is that all ? " went on the woman briskly. " Quite 
 right, my dear, quite right. Yes, this is the correct 
 address. Now, what sort would you like to have, my 
 dear — town or country ? Do you hke 'em fair or dark ? 
 — and what are you going to pay for him ? " 
 
 " Oh, don't ! " said Anneke. 
 
 " My charge," said the old woman with precision, " is 
 fifty cents. With an umbrella, seventy-five." 
 
 Anneke hfted her glance. " Why with an umbrella ? " 
 she asked in sudden curiosity. 
 
 " It has always been so," replied Nell Trops, snap- 
 pishly. " In my mother's time, and her mother's before 
 her. An umbrella looks respectable ; it means a better 
 class. Every one knows that ; it's a recognized fact, 
 like the cathedral. Nothing's changed but the prices — 
 they're lowered. Times are bad in everything. And the 
 girls have got so bold, they find sweethearts for them- 
 selves ! " 
 
 " Please, I'll take an umbrella," said Anneke. Nell 
 Trops went out, and locked the door behind her — from 
 habit. The girl started up with a shriek. That dim 
 consciousness of the world's evil which is the torment 
 and the safeguard of every innocent creature fluttered 
 her whole heart with an agony of fear. " Let me out ! " 
 she cried, " let me out ! " 
 
 Instantly the old hag stood before her. " You fool," 
 said Nell Trops, with vast scorn, " how pretty do you 
 think you are, pray ? " The words, dimly understood, 
 struck the girl's heart like a foul missile, leaving an 
 indehble stain. 
 
 114
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 " Would you like a sweetheart with a nice black 
 beard ? " continued Nell more gently, for her 
 visitor's expression alarmed her. " Beards are extra 
 respectable. You'd have to pay a quarter more for a 
 beard." 
 
 " No, not a beard," replied Anneke, suddenly reminis- 
 cent of the stranger in the street. 
 
 " Well, I haven't got 'em in boxes like tin soldiers," 
 said the woman, put out. " You should have let me 
 know this morning, and you could have had half a dozen 
 to choose amongst. Beards are my taste. A big beard 
 and a bald head for me." 
 
 " Yes, yes, a bald head ! " exclaimed Anneke, who now 
 only wanted not to have the stranger. 
 
 Again the old woman went out, this time without 
 closing the door. She returned immediately, ushering 
 in the man from the street. 
 
 " Not — not this gentleman," was what Anneke tried 
 to say. But she dared not. And, whilst the words still 
 struggled in her throat — " There now, my dears," said 
 Nell Trops, " you just go a-f airing together ! A 
 pretty couple you make," said Nell Trops. She almost 
 pushed Anneke into the pasasge. " The florin, my dear, 
 if you please. Yes, that's right. Come and tell me 
 to-morrow how much you've enjoyed yourself ! " The 
 door closed behind Anneke. The room had been dark ; 
 the street did not seem much lighter. 
 
 " Now, let's hurry up and enjoy ourselves," said the 
 stranger gruffly. " You'll find me a good sort. Good 
 as gold, honour bright ! " 
 
 Somewhat reassured, she walked on beside him in 
 silence, towards the increasing tumult of the Market. 
 As yet this excursion was not very enjoyable : she had 
 
 115
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 pictured it altogether different. In fact, she was 
 miserable. 
 
 But the Cattle Market — the central glory of the 
 Kermesse — that certainly was a sight to be seen. Far 
 away it shone into the deep blue silence, a yellow lake of 
 many thousand oil lamps, with — high in air, obtrusive — 
 the white electric glare. The uninterrupted bellow of 
 sound — bands, singing, yells, cat-cries, calls of salesmen 
 and showmen, pistol-shots, merry-go-rounds, organs — 
 formed the music of a Pandemonium. Between the 
 long alleys of flaring booths and stalls of every sort 
 rocked a crowd of red-faced peasants, many of them 
 jumping, husthng, shouting — all excited, and a large 
 percentage drunk. Uniforms were everywhere in quanti- 
 ties, especially about the pipe-hung shooting galleries : 
 men and women massed together — sombre clothes and 
 muslin caps and golden ornaments — whirled, insensate, 
 to the weary jingle of the merry-go-round. Before 
 canvas walls, ablaze with kings and lions, stood acrobats 
 and actors, gorgeously bedizened, hoarsely mouthing 
 their offers of entertainment. And above it all, above 
 the steam of the fritter-shops, the sputter of the fat little 
 grease cakes or " puffers," the big drums, the street 
 songs, the somersaults, the jostlings, the vice and the 
 vulgarity — above it all, and beneath the serenely 
 solemn sky, ever5rwhere, in a hundred medallions and 
 paintings, the pure face, no less serenely unconscious, 
 of the little girl-Queen of the Netherlands. 
 
 A great deal of it came back to Anneke now from 
 memories of stray visits with her father when she was 
 quite a child. But it was not at all as she had remem- 
 bered it : it was noisy and common. Where possibly 
 could be the wild delight of the others ? No wonder n^ 
 
 ii6
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 one ever cared to take her. No wonder they said she 
 was not like other girls. 
 
 There were plenty of gingerbread stalls in all direc- 
 tions ; there was plenty of gilt on the gingerbread ; but 
 to some people gingerbread is quite unattractive, even 
 when all the gilt is still on. 
 
 " Now, what would you like to see first ? " courteously 
 inquired her companion. " There's a calf with two 
 heads, of which one is a pig's, and there are some capital 
 fighting fleas." 
 
 " Let's go to the circus at once," replied Anneke. 
 
 " Just as you Hke, it is rather late. And we can go to 
 some of the shows when the circus is over." 
 
 They passed in — she paying for the tickets — and 
 through a long, dimly-lit corridor reached their seats. 
 The first thing she noticed on entering was that Truda 
 sat just opposite with her party, and that next to Truda 
 there was a vacant place. Almost simultaneously, as 
 she turned to sit down, a muffled cry escaped her. Her 
 companion had lost his beard, and, with it, his beetling 
 eyebrows. Handsome Harmen stood laughing behind 
 her. " Hush," he said, " it's all right. It's only a 
 joke ! " 
 
 She had never seen a disguise before : she did not 
 know that beards could be stuck on. As for jokes, she 
 had small experience of those also. They knew, then — 
 they would all know — that she had come to Overstad to 
 hire a companion ! She sat down in her seat and quietly 
 cried. 
 
 " Don't," he whispered presently, " the others will 
 
 notice." She stopped crying at once. " And, besides, 
 
 I can't bear to see you do it. Let's be pleasant and enjoy 
 
 ^ourselves. Look, they're going to begin ! " A couple 
 
 ^ 117
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 of clowns came leaping and laughing into the ring. 
 Harmen settled down to the delights of the performance. 
 Anneke tried to turn her eyes from the gay party oppo- 
 site, who were evidently discussing and deriding her. 
 She knew Harmen Keys but little : he was not of her 
 village. She had always admired him from a distance : 
 he was dashing, good-looking, his gaze was a caress. 
 In these clothes he appeared different, almost a gentle- 
 man. She wondered what he wanted, what he intended 
 to do. 
 
 The performance proceeded, and the people opposite 
 grew restless. Truda, especially, began to make signs 
 to her lover. In the first interval of ten minutes, when 
 the circus half emptied, these appeals grew obstreperous. 
 Tony came across and said something to Harmen. "You 
 be hanged ! " was the audible answer, the only one he 
 got. 
 
 Innocent as Anneke might be — and she remained a 
 woman, wdth all womanly instincts — she could not help 
 realizing that Truda was claiming her lover. 
 
 " Truda wants you," she said softly. 
 
 " Let her want," was his reply. 
 
 " But — I think you ought to go to her." 
 
 " I so seldom do what I ought to." 
 
 " You might begin now." 
 
 " Do you know, I almost think I am beginning." 
 
 " Oh, what a leap that horse gave ! " 
 
 " Did it frighten you ? " 
 
 " No ; only startled. I'm not soon afraid of horses.' 
 
 " I thought you were such a coward. Truda says 
 so." 
 
 " P'rhaps I am. I'm afraid of what wants to hurt 
 me." 
 
 Ii8 #
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 " Nod away, Truda, nod away. You nod back to her, 
 little Anneke ; enjoy your triumph while you can ! " 
 
 " What triumph ? " asked Anneke. 
 
 He laughed at her. " Can't you really guess ? " he 
 said. 
 
 Yes, she could guess. She could see that, for some 
 reason or other, Harmen, remaining beside her — Harmen, 
 the Don Juan of the moment — openly flouted his sweet- 
 heart before her friends. He was noticeably amiable to 
 Anneke ; he got her a glass of lemonade and refused to 
 let her pay for it. Other girls looked up at him as he bent 
 over her, twirling his moustache. Certainly, for the 
 moment, her success was complete. She smiled ; she 
 thought him delightful. He gave her his arm when the 
 performance was over ; and, ignoring the now utterly 
 annihilated Truda, led out the lady of his choice. 
 
 They went into some of the shows together, Anneke 
 selecting a menagerie and a collection of stereoscopic 
 views. Harmen yawned, but acquiesced. 
 
 " And now," he said, " we must go and eat waffles." 
 He conducted her to a white-and-gold pavilion, gay with 
 the movements of immaculate cooks. He was making 
 for a cabinet at the back. 
 
 " Not there, please," said Anneke. " Here in front 
 we can see the people passing." 
 
 " But we want to be alone, do we not ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 A long silence followed the answer. They ate their 
 waffles among the smells and the uproar. 
 
 " You're not the best of company to go Kermessing 
 with," said Harmen. But a moment later he entirely 
 changed his tone. He was very gentle and sjmipathetic, 
 full of friendly interest. He told her how often he had 
 
 119
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 pitied and admired her ; how Tnida's coarseness had 
 long disgusted him — he had never been actually engaged 
 to Truda ; how this evening's ruse had simply been a 
 means of approaching the better woman, Anneke, just 
 the kind and tender helpmate for a scapegrace anxious 
 to reform. All this music he poured into her unreluctant 
 ears, amidst the clash of cymbals and the caterwaulings, 
 and the ceaseless " By your leave ! " of the white-clad 
 waiters, who, the waffles being eaten, now wanted these 
 customers to depart. But the heads of the couple bent 
 lower and their murmurs grew softer, and people respect 
 that sort of thing at fairtime, especially the caterers, 
 who know it to be the corner-stone on which the whole 
 erection res s. 
 
 When she lifted her eyes at last, there was a happiness 
 in them such as comes to no woman twice. She believed 
 in him, purely, implicitly. 
 
 " I want to go home," she said. 
 
 " What, now ? Why, the fun is only just beginning." 
 
 " I want to go to the station " — she detained him. 
 •' Alone." 
 
 An oath escaped from his lips. It hurt her, but not 
 disagreeably. It reminded her of the only man who had 
 loved her before, and sworn at her. 
 
 " Why, what a fool you are ! " he said. " Come along 
 with me, and we " 
 
 " I am going to the station," she interrupted him. 
 " Good-night." 
 
 She ran off into the darkness, thinking of nothing but 
 joy. Her triumph of the evening she had entirely for- 
 gotten. On reaching the railway she asked for the train. 
 They laughed at her : it had left twenty minutes ago. 
 Then first since leaving home she glanced at a clock. 
 
 120
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 The only train now available did not stop at her 
 village. She would have to walk six miles in the middle 
 of the night. Worse than that, she would get home, 
 with the key in her pocket, an hour after Uncle Pete. 
 She dimly wondered whether Harmen had known about 
 the time ? No, he was a good man. She knew already 
 that she would get to love him. He must go to Uncle 
 Pete, and obtain the old man's leave to court her. Uncle 
 Pete was anxious she should marry : there would be no 
 objection on his part. How nobly Harmen had spoken ! 
 Already she admired him from the bottom of her heart. 
 
 She got out at the other station and flew along the 
 road. How glorious was the stillness around her, the 
 mild light of the great yellow moon among the poplars 
 and across the broad fields, where the cattle occasionally 
 moved. All about her was softness, and sweetness, and 
 silence : the roar of the evening seemed centuries away. 
 And Harmen had truthfully told her he cared for her ! 
 Were this little soul of ours less infinite than heaven, 
 how could it contain the whole of heaven for an hour ? 
 
 As she approached the cottage, she saw that the old 
 man was pacing up and down in front of it. She had 
 known that he would be there, infuriate. But somehow, 
 timid as she usually was, she had not found time to think 
 of him. 
 
 " Hussy ! " he shouted, as soon as she was near 
 enough. And then he used a yet uglier word. He 
 looked a grotesque figure in the moonlight, with his 
 round umbrella and tall hat. 
 
 She hurried to open the door, that she might the 
 sooner conceal his shouting. She was glad when they 
 were safe in the cottage together, and the storm of his 
 wrath broke loose over her alone. She listened, shrink- 
 
 121
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 ing back, but calmly inattentive. He had never abused 
 her thus before, only grumbled. But then, she had 
 never given him cause. 
 
 " Gad, I have found you out ! " he cried, " with your 
 smooth white face and soft church manners ! Go your 
 ways, as much as you choose : only don't bring the 
 brats to me ! " 
 
 In an instant the brutal words turned her heart to 
 stone. She faced her uncle, upright, by the flaring tallow 
 candle. " I am sorry I missed my train," she said. 
 
 " And he let you come back by yourself ? " asked Pete, 
 more soberly, but with a sneer. 
 
 " I went alone. I met Harmen Keys. He was alone 
 too. So we went to the circus together." 
 
 " Really ? And that was all ? " 
 
 " No." Her voice and manner again grew gentle. 
 " He told me — uncle — he was fond of me " — very softly. 
 *' It seems he has thought — thought so for some time. 
 He is going to ask you about it." Her head sank on her 
 breast. 
 
 Old Pete sat down, and laughed till he shook. 
 
 " He's been in a mighty hurry about it ! " chuckled 
 old Pete. " Lor', it can't be more than three days ago 
 that I told him about my money." 
 
 Anneke looked up, suddenly anxious. " What ? " 
 she said. " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " He was mighty inquisitive about my money, he was. 
 Who was I going to leave it to ? I told him, you ! Lor', 
 what fools men are ! I told him, you ! By my mother's 
 grave, I did." 
 
 " Uncle ! " her voice wavered between gratitude and 
 distress. 
 
 " And so I shall ; it's true enough ! Aren't you my 
 122
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 natural, lawful heir ? Only — I ain't got any money to 
 leave, not a hundred florins, I ain't. The money was 
 your dead aunt's, and she left it all to Truda. The 
 notary's got it, in the city. And whatever I saved — 
 though that ain't much — was to go to Truda also ; that 
 was what she made me agree to, and sign at the notary's. 
 ' The savings is my money ; I won't have it go to your 
 beggarly family,' she says. But I ain't saved much, I'm 
 a poor man, a poor man, Anneke. And, besides, I ain't 
 going to die yet awhile ! " He sat gloomily staring at 
 the candle, in his big tattered armchair. 
 
 " Lor', what a lark ! " he said, brightening up again. 
 " He's a cool chap, that Keys. I hadn't never meant to 
 tell you, till after I was dead. But it's greater fun 
 telling you now, and you deserve it for letting me stand 
 about in the dark for two mortal hours. And me that 
 tired ! " 
 
 " I don't beheve it," she said bitterly. She had never 
 spoken so to him before. " Nobody can ever believe 
 you," she went on. " Nobody does. You can't have 
 waited more than one hour, for instance. You always 
 tell lies." 
 
 His pimpled face grew black with thunder. He pushed 
 back the old tall hat, and leant forward on the umbrella. 
 " I can tell truth when I choose," he said slowly, " as 
 well as anybody. You'll never have a halfpenny of 
 mine, you slut. All of it goes to Truda." 
 
 She flung herself forward, suddenly, desperately ; the 
 candle streamed against her cheek. " Swear it to me," 
 she cried hoarsely. " Swear it. Say you swear it by 
 your mother's grave." 
 
 " Lor'," he answered, " have you found that out ? 
 Well, every man has his weakness. I'll swear it, if 
 
 123
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 you like, by my sister's grave, and by my mother's, 
 too," 
 
 She turned her back on him. " Good-night," she 
 said, and went upstairs with her candle. 
 
 The old man, left in the dark, holloaed to her in vain ; 
 then, striking a light for himself, he went and banged 
 against her door. He got no answer. Worn out, he 
 stumbled and tumbled into bed, immediately falling 
 asleep. 
 
 Next morning, at the usual hour, Anneke, with drawn 
 features and red-rimmed eyes, came down and went 
 about her work. To her uncle she spoke when neces- 
 sary. Frequently she looked out of window. Her 
 geranium-pots lay smashed outside — old Pete had done 
 that in his rage last night, before the fastened door. 
 She cleared up the mess and hurried in again. She was 
 ashamed to show her face outside the door, until she 
 knew how matters would come to stand between her and 
 her last night's lover. She had always been a good girl — 
 hitherto that had been her one satisfaction and solace. 
 
 Towards noon Harmen Reys came lounging along the 
 canal and across the open space between the inn and the 
 clump of cottages. Anneke laid down the pan she was 
 scouring, and walked out to him at once in the laughing 
 summer sunshine. ^ 
 
 " Harmen Reys," she began, ignoring his pleasant 
 greeting, " first of all I want to tell you this. What my 
 uncle said to you was a lie, or as good as a lie. When he 
 comes to die, all his money will go to Truda. I shall not 
 have a penny. His money was all his wife's." 
 
 Harmen Reys' fair face flushed with swift annoyance. 
 " Oh, nonsense. That can't be true," he said. " It's a 
 lie of the old man's, Anneke." Truda had come out of 
 
 124
 
 THE FAIR-LOVER 
 
 the inn, and advanced halfway towards them. She 
 stood irresolute — her eyes aflame. 
 
 " No, Harmen, it is true. He will leave me what he 
 has, but then he has nothing to leave me. I thought you 
 ought to know." Her tones were wistful, though her 
 face was firm. " I know it's true. I am sure. But — 
 Harmen " She checked herself. 
 
 The handsome corporal slowly lifted his cap, and 
 slightly bent his head. Then, leaving her standing there, 
 he walked straight across to Truda. 
 
 " Well," he said, extending his hand, " confess that 
 I've paid you out for that slap in the face you gave me ! " 
 
 125
 
 The Mother 
 I 
 
 IN the long grey twdlight of the chilly autumn evening 
 the old woman stood gazing down the far descent 
 of road. Around her the inhospitable pine-woods sank 
 into the distance, darkling, on both sides of the desolate 
 hill. Not a leaf stirred ; the solemn stillness lay 
 unbroken, but for the monotonous dripping of many 
 thousand trees. 
 
 From her solitary cottage near the summit, half hidden 
 behind a low bank of firs, a faint gleam of firelight 
 deepened across the approaching dusk. Down the hills 
 stretched straight the narrow line of the by-road, dull 
 yellow, faintly shiny, pointing its weary, immovable 
 length to the darkness, the village, the haunts and 
 bright conversation of men. 
 
 " He's very late," said the old mother aloud. " I'm 
 thinking he gets to be later. But no wonder, he likes 
 a chat down in the village ; why shouldn't he have it ? 
 Last year I could see to that far clump of firs, where my 
 father killed the fox." 
 
 She went back to the cottage, stumbling along be- 
 neath the heavy damp of the trees. The supper-pot 
 was bubbling over. A magpie hung by the darkening 
 window. " All right ! " said the magpie. " Go away ! " 
 
 "La, Blackie, it's me!" replied his mistress, lifting 
 126
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 a skinny arm to light the lamp. " You surely don't 
 want me to take myself off ? I'm thinking you'd lose 
 the only companion you ever had. You stupid, you 
 took me for a tramp ! ' ' 
 
 " All right ! " said the magpie, who may, or may not, 
 have had recollections of other companions across field 
 and forest, but who certainly now would have known 
 Widow Quint's step at any time. His vocabulary was 
 limited, like his list of acquaintances. Of these latter 
 he had two : the widow, who loved, the widow's son, 
 who ignored him. Likewise, for all contingencies of his 
 tiny existence, he was possessed of two utterances which 
 amply sufficed his philosophy — " All right ! " "Go 
 away ! " 
 
 " La, it's not really late ! " exclaimed the widow, who, 
 like most lonely persons, spoke frequently aloud. " 'Tis 
 the days growing shorter misled me ! " She stood, 
 studying the cuckoo clock. " Not yet five o'clock, and 
 the paraffin two cents dearer ! But I always have 
 dreaded the boy's being late. Now, 'tis just my foolish 
 fancy. Yes, Blackie, your mistress is simply a fool ! 
 Dear, how often my John would say that, and never 
 mean it ! Nor he couldn't bear any one else to repeat 
 it ; well he knew who it was had the clearer head of the 
 two ! " She laughed softly to herself, a tender little 
 pitying laugh. " God 'a mercy on him," she said, looking 
 into the supper-pot. " The onions are browning beauti- 
 ful. Isaac'll be in before the cuckoo strikes again ! " 
 
 " Go away," said the magpie. 
 
 The old woman stopped stirring. " Drat the bird ! " 
 she ejaculated. " Blackie, you ought to be whipped, if 
 only you was built accordin'. I can't think why the 
 little brute never took to the boy, and he the best boy 
 
 127
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 that ever was — ay, or will be ! No, that's saying too 
 much, but one soon thinks one's owl an eagle." The 
 widow never sought an explanation in the fact that the 
 boy, being jealous of his mother's affection, had not 
 shown a liking for the bird. She had been slow to learn, 
 through her own life's experience, that love is with most 
 of us largely a matter of take. 
 
 For more than sixty years she had lived in this lonely 
 cottage ; she had been bom in it, an only daughter, and 
 after her mother's death, she, then being fifteen, had taken 
 the vacant place by the taciturn widower's side. When 
 the bloom of her youth had faded away from her, the 
 father, also dying, left Mary alone in an unknown world. 
 She had been an under-keeper in the service of the baron 
 to whom the woods belonged. A new man, some seven 
 years her junior, was appointed to the post and the cot- 
 tage ; a difference of opinion arose as to the value of her 
 father's old bureau ; he proposed that she should settle 
 it by marrying him, and she accepted the offer, for why 
 should she do anything else ? 
 
 By the time her first babies were born she was nearing 
 forty. The three eldest children successively died, in 
 infancy or in early childhood, torn from a grasp whose 
 despair might have vanquished any power but Death. 
 The youngest only survived — Isaac. 
 
 It was after two long years of silence that his feeble 
 puling once more seemed to fill the cottage ; she never 
 for a moment doubted that this son of her decline had 
 come to stay. 
 
 " He will be the prop of my old age," she said. " I 
 shall live to kiss his children." 
 
 ■'Our times are in God's hand," said the minister, 
 sitting by the bedside, very solemn. 
 
 128
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 " And a good thing, too," replied Mary Quint. " I'm 
 thinking God remembered that when He sent me my 
 Isaac. I shall laugh over him as Sarah did." 
 
 " My good woman, you've got your facts wrong," 
 objected the minister peevishly. He was hot from his 
 long walk, and he disapproved of poor people's talking 
 nonsense or sentiment. 
 
 Mary hugged to her breast one small fact she had got 
 right. " Please, Domine," she said a little anxiously, 
 " you won't object to my calling him Isaac ? " 
 " I hope it's a family name," said the Domine. 
 " Oh, it's bound to be that," replied Mary. " 'Tis a 
 name in your family, isn't it, John ? " 
 
 " Surely," assented her husband, who was sometimes 
 good-natured and never over-scrupulous, and who cared 
 for nothing in the world but drink. 
 
 " Isaac let the young child be then," declared the 
 minister, rising pompously, " and may he indeed prove 
 a Son of the Promise ! Quint, I'm going. It's an hour 
 and a quarter from here to the village." 
 
 " Surely," said the under-keeper again, rising to 
 accompany his rare visitor to the door, "for a gentle- 
 man it would be. The likes of me does it in fifty-five 
 minutes ; but what is the likes of me ? " 
 
 " All men are alike. Quint — ahem ! — before God," 
 replied the minister, annoyed ; " but our physical powers 
 undeniably vary. That is of Httle consequence, how- 
 ever, for the Bible expressly warns us that bodily exer- 
 cise profiteth nothing." 
 
 " Does the Bible tell such a — thing as that ? " cried 
 the keeper, amazed. 
 
 " Certainly," replied the stodgy little parson, re- 
 provingly. " You should read your Bible, Quint." 
 9 129
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 He paused just outside the threshold. " How old is 
 your wife ? " 
 
 " Thirty-nine come next April, God willing," replied 
 the keeper promptly. He always deducted a couple of 
 years from his consort's actual age : he called this 
 " sphtting the difference." 
 
 The Domine meditatively shook his big head. 
 
 " She has foolish ideas," he said. " I fear she is 
 rather a foolish woman. Quint." 
 
 " Yes, Domine, so she tells me herself," replied the 
 keeper, " over and over again ; but still I can hardly 
 believe it. There never was any one like her for cooking 
 and baking. She's got no book-learning to boast of ; 
 but then, as I'm always a- telling her, we can't all get 
 clothed and educated at other people's expense " — the 
 Domine winced : he was a charity-boy. " Now, what 
 use would your reverence, saving your presence, be in 
 a family, with washin' and bakin' ? She sees it at once, 
 sir. No use at all." 
 
 " Good-day," said the Domine. The keeper went 
 back to the inner room, where his wife lay. " John, 
 come and look at little Isaac," said a voice from the 
 press-bed. " He's got a dimple in his chin, John, just 
 like what my father had." 
 
 " You're a fool," replied the husband, filling his pipe. 
 " You always was." 
 
 Little Isaac grew up, and his dimple deepened. He 
 was an easy-going child, all good-nature and love of 
 tranquillity. He took an early dislike to his father's 
 vehement caresses and violent abuse : on the whole, he 
 experienced a distinct sensation of pleasure when, before 
 his seventh year had reached its completion, the noisy, 
 brawling voice dropped out of his existence, and he was 
 
 130
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 left alone in the cottage with a mother whose love and 
 whose anger were both equably righteous and calm. 
 
 The closing year or two of John Quint's poor life had 
 been one black tempest of drunkenness, lighted up by 
 fierce flashes of repentance. At last the thing happened 
 which the wife had long tremblingly foreseen. On a 
 dark December night the keeper stumbled once too 
 often. Next morning they brought him to his cottage 
 shot through the head. The widow thanked the sympa- 
 thetic and the curious before she bade them go. " I'm 
 not accustomed," she said, " to seeing so many people 
 about me. It confuses me." AU slunk away, except 
 the minister. 
 
 " Mary," began the minister, " this is a dreadful 
 visitation." 
 
 She sat by the fireside, her face averted from the bed, 
 frightened, little Isaac plucking at her knee. 
 
 " Ahem ! " continued the minister, " it is a visitation, 
 and also a warning to all of us " (" us," indeed ! he 
 thought). Unconsciously he fingered the blue ribbon 
 at his button-hole. " Alas ! there can be no doubt that 
 your husband was under the influence " — mechanically 
 he bent over the bedside : at one leap the woman lay 
 between him and the corpse ! 
 
 " Tut ! tut ! " exclaimed the minister, starting back. 
 Little Isaac, upset on the hearthstone, began to cry 
 shrilly. " Hist ! " said his mother. And he stopped. 
 
 " Why this futile palliation ? " cried the minister, 
 audibly snuffling. " Mary, I trust you have not learnt 
 to feel sympathy for your poor husband's failing. Your 
 life is too lonely up here, my good woman. Well, an 
 end will now soon come to that. You will live in the 
 
 village henceforth, and your child " 
 
 131
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 " Domine, please go away," said the widow, shielding 
 the dead man behind her. 
 
 " Oh, of course, if you wish it," repHed the minister, 
 in high dudgeon. " But, observe, I shall not soon 
 come again. The distance from the village is more than 
 an hour and a quarter, and if it had not been for John 
 Bost's meeting me with his cart " 
 
 " The cart is waiting," said the widow ; " I hear the 
 harness jingle." 
 
 " Certainly it is waiting. He was afraid of his horse 
 catching cold up here. But I said I must speak to the 
 widow. What is the chance — the off-chance — of a 
 horse catching cold, compared to — to — a human soul ? " 
 
 " The widow ! " Mary Quint winced at the novel 
 title which would henceforth always be hers. But she 
 only held out her hand to her son without stirring from 
 her guard. 
 
 The Domine departed towards the door. " Take 
 care that you do not make an Ishmael of your Isaac," 
 he said with a suave relish, " you Hagar in the desert ! " 
 Thus he retreated in triumph, eager to repeat to Petro- 
 nella, his sister, who was proud of him, this new speci- 
 men of his wit. The Domine was stiU young ; he would 
 yet have numerous opportunities of increasing in foolish- 
 ness. 
 
 The widow, left in peace, sat gazing at her dead hus- 
 band, and gradually a few tears rolled down her cheek. 
 " I'm sorry," she said softly. " I — I don't think it 
 was exactly love, John ; not as some wives feel ; but 
 perhaps that is my fancy. I think I did my best — and 
 you did yours. I'm very sorrJ^" The boy, pulling at 
 her skirts, whined for "her to come away. She followed 
 him to the window ; a wintry drizzle fell slanting against 
 
 132
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 the black outline of the firs. " Isaac," she said, but she 
 spoke to herself — " Isaac ! " She lifted his face to her 
 own. " Isaac, if I'd never had children, I don't think 
 I'd ever have known ! " She let the boy's head drop 
 and looked out into the rain. 
 
 A few days later, when the funeral was over and 
 everybody had forgotten her, and everything went on 
 again, she dressed in her best mourning, took her boy 
 by the hand, and trudged away to the village and the 
 great house beyond. She left the child at the lodge : 
 then she faced the hall door, the big dog, and the 
 butler. 
 
 " Quint ! " said the grey-haired Lord of the Manor, 
 glancing over his glasses and joining his finger-tips. 
 " Yes, of course. Quint ! Very sad." Then he looked 
 down at his writing-table, and, being a kind-hearted 
 man, reflected what a bore things were. 
 
 " Yes, it certainly was very sad," he repeated, wheel- 
 ing round to the figure in black, " and also " he 
 
 checked himself, " very sad." 
 
 " Mynheer the Baron, my father served you faith- 
 fully," said the widow, " for more than forty years." 
 
 " Yes, of course," replied the Baron. Then the in- 
 congruousness of his expression, in our present dispensa- 
 tion, struck home to him. " I mean, of course, I am 
 aware of the fact." 
 
 " And my husband — did his best," continued Mary 
 tremulously. " Mynheer the Baron, I don't mean to 
 speak about that, but I've lived in the cottage more 
 than half a century ! " 
 
 " Whew ! " said the Baron. " I see. 'Tis a lonely 
 cottage. You'll be much better down in the village." 
 
 " And now my one hope and prayer is this, that 
 
 133
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 Mynheer will let me stay on up there with the child ! 
 I've never asked any one anything. I don't know how 
 to speak properly — much less to Mynheer the Baron." 
 The widow clasped her hands in front of her. " I've 
 always lived alone." 
 
 " Seems to me you know how to ask right enough," 
 said the Baron with testy good-humour. " The cottage 
 has invariably gone wdth the place." 
 
 " I could do a certain amount of the work, Mynheer, 
 saving your presence." Baron Varik laughed, glanced 
 up, and suddenly steadied his features. " I could look 
 after the firewood, for instance, and keep off children 
 and vagrants " 
 
 " And catch the poachers," interrupted the Baron. 
 
 " No," said the widow ; and yet, but for womanly 
 unobtrusiveness, she might have told him how twice 
 her keen watchfulness had enabled her muddle-headed 
 husband to effect an arrest. " No, I couldn't pretend 
 to be aught of a gamekeeper or claim aught of a game- 
 keeper's pay." 
 
 " Oh, of course, I must make some arrangement when 
 you leave," said the Baron hastily. " A small pen- 
 sion " He paused, unwilling to commit himself, 
 
 for these things were done by rule. 
 
 " 'Tis the cottage I want ! " cried the widow, for- 
 getting all timidity. " I've been born there, Mynheer 
 the Baron : and there's no habit grows on one like 
 loneliness. And my boy, that's seven already, must 
 grow up to be the Baron's keeper, and live in the cottage 
 as the rest of us have done ! " 
 
 " Seven ! " exclaimed the Baron, still fretfully smiling. 
 " He'll take time, my good woman, to grow up ! " 
 
 " He'll do it as fast as he can," replied the widow. 
 
 134
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 " Nobody shall do it faster. It don't take long to grow 
 up! " 
 
 " Good Lord, no, that's true ! " exclaimed the Baron. 
 " It seems only yesterday I was a small boy myself ! " 
 and he went into the next room, where his wife was 
 sitting with some fancy-work before her. 
 
 " My dear, here is the Widow Quint," he said, " and 
 she asks to be my under-keeper ! " and then he told her 
 all. " My father built the cottage on purpose for the 
 under-keeper to live in," he grumbled, " and she can't 
 support herself on the pension, besides." 
 
 " My dear," said the Baroness, smiling, " your reason 
 for wishing a thing to be done is always that it has been 
 done before." 
 
 " And a very good reason too," retorted her husband. 
 " If you wish her to have the cottage, of course she must 
 have it. She ought to go down to the village and work." 
 
 " Surely I expressed no opinion," replied the Baroness, 
 still smiling over her work. " Far less did I give advice. 
 If she does half a keeper's work, couldn't she get half a 
 keeper's pay ? " 
 
 The Baron drummed his fingers against the window- 
 pane. " But, then, how am I to book that ? " he burst 
 out at last, in evident distress. " The pension I can 
 book as has always been done. It comes under ' III 
 —The Estate.' " 
 
 " Book it as treasure laid up in heaven," said the 
 Baroness. 
 
 " That is ' Charity— VIII,' " rephed the Baron. " I 
 wonder whether my steward will consider that correct ? " 
 
 " Before I married you," continued the lady smoothly, 
 " I imagined that only shop-people ' booked.' " 
 
 " My dear, do not let us return to that fruitful, and 
 135
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 fruitless, subject of discussion. I will do as you wish 
 about the widow," he sighed. " She might at least 
 have been young and good-looking." 
 
 " Vrouw Quint ? She has a very striking appear- 
 ance. I notice her every Sunday in church." 
 
 " Every Sunday you go," corrected the Baron, and, 
 with that parting bit of compensation, he went back to 
 Vrouw Quint. 
 
 " You can have the cottage," he said quickly, " and 
 half your husband's wages, and the usual pension. And 
 you must do half your husband's work. You must 
 arrange about that with the head-keeper, Basset." 
 
 For a moment the widow stood silent. " I'm a bad 
 hand at speaking my thanks," she said then, " but I'm 
 thinking Mynheer the Baron feels them." 
 
 " Egad, my wife's right," thought the Baron ; " the 
 woman has fine eyes." 
 
 " Oh, I hope Basset won't mind ! " exclaimed the 
 widow. 
 
 The Lord of the Manor bit his lip. " You must dis- 
 tinctly understand that a certain amount of work will 
 be required of you, for the pay — you understand me ? — 
 must come out of the estate." 
 
 " I understand. Mynheer the Baron," said the widow, 
 in the doorway. " And Isaac, when grown up, must 
 make good all my deficiency." 
 
 The Baron followed her, fearing he had seemed unkind. 
 " So Isaac is to be trained for my service ? " he said 
 pleasantly. 
 
 The widow stopped under the hall lamp. " Please 
 God," she said vehemently, all her gratitude bursting 
 forth, " he shall learn to be such a servant to your 
 honour as few masters have had before ! " 
 
 136
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 ' Tut, tut ! I am nearly sixty-five," said the Baron. 
 
 " Who knows what may befal ? " replied the widow. 
 " Was I not an old maid at thirty-five ? And see, I 
 am a widow before fifty ! " She went back to the lodge 
 and fetched Isaac, giving a penny to each of the lodge- 
 keeper's stolidly astonished children. That night she 
 cried over the boy long and silently : he always remem- 
 bered those tears as the last he saw his mother shed. 
 
 Then the current of their lives, unbroken now by 
 squalls, flowed smoothly onward. But Isaac easily 
 comprehended that absence of storm-winds did not 
 mean a licence to drift, and he opened his sails, as small 
 mariners will, to a gentle, but consistent, breeze. He 
 grew up conscious that he might do what he liked as 
 long as he Hked no wrong. There came a period, vainly 
 delayed, when he must frequent the far-off village 
 school. His mother could not leave her forest, where less 
 wood was now stolen (as Basset unwillingly admitted) 
 and fewer snares were set than on any other part of 
 the estate. She bade the boy " God- speed," and ridi- 
 culed his dread of the lonely roads ; but she spent days 
 and nights in anxiety and supplication. Every morning 
 she watched his shiny knapsack out of sight ; every 
 evening she toiled to the turnpike to meet him. She 
 loved the glint of the knapsack, and polished it long 
 after other children's had dulled to a rusty brown. 
 
 Isaac, with his good looks and good humour, all blue 
 eyes and broad dimples, did well at school, and wherever 
 he went. He preferred not to exert himself by nature, 
 but whatever duty gave pleasure to his mother he was 
 always prepared to perform. Once or twice he was 
 first of his class for her sake, and on the occasion of a 
 national festival he recited a patriotic poem in the 
 
 137
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 courtyard of the manor-house before all the school, 
 half the manor-house servants, and the manor-house 
 family itself. " The boy's a good boy," said the 
 Baroness graciously. " He has a good mother. But 
 he's very unlike you in face, Vrouw Quint." 
 
 That night his elation was damped by his mother's 
 unreasonable crossness, a thing he was least of all 
 accustomed to. He burst out at last with suppressed 
 irritation — 
 
 " Why, mother, whatever have I done ? " 
 
 " Hush ! " she said. " Nothing, Isaac. You can't 
 help it, boy. I was only thinking. The Baroness was 
 right : you are much like your father in manner as well 
 as in face." 
 
 " Is that what you are angry with me for ? " he 
 questioned sullenly. 
 
 " God forbid ! " she exclaimed with superfluous 
 vehemence. " Isaac, never dare to say anything like 
 that again ! " 
 
 The boy shrank back, cowed. 
 
 An hour later she crept up the few steps to his garret. 
 " You are a good boy," she said in the dark. "Oh, 
 Isaac, you are all I have ! Promise me you will always 
 be good." 
 
 " I promise," he answered under the bedclothes. And 
 then she kissed him — an unusual thing — kissed him 
 through the sheet. 
 
 He was thirteen now, and school days were over. She 
 got him taken as odd boy at the home farm. He brought 
 his first week's single florin home to his mother, and, 
 whatever may have happened before or after, that re- 
 mained the proudest moment of Mary Quint's whole 
 hfe. 
 
 138
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 " Isaac," she said, " you are not a man yet ; but, 
 also, you are no longer a child. You are one of Myn- 
 heer's servants. Remember this — remember what I 
 told you — whatever you do for Mynheer, you can never 
 repay our debt." 
 
 " I intend to do my best," he answered. But she 
 caught him by the arm. 
 
 " Isaac, my Son of the Promise," she cried, drawing 
 him towards her, " I have toiled night and day for this 
 moment ! Isaac, you will be faithful, will you not ? " 
 
 He looked up into her pallid face. " Why, yes, 
 mother," he said. " Oh, you've been a good mother to 
 me, mother ! I love you heart and soul ! " 
 
 A couple of years later the steward sent him to assist 
 the widow, and gradually he took upon himself all the 
 work that had once been his father's. The Baron, 
 meeting Vrouw Quint in a plantation, informed her, 
 with a sigh of relief, that she now would receive only her 
 pension. " And mind you henceforth do no manner 
 of work," said the Baron, with a twinkle in his eye. 
 " I have no objection to your living with your son if 
 you wish. But should I catch you feeding pheasants, 
 I must send you away. You are pensioned as an under- 
 keeper's widow. You are booked as pensioned. Good- 
 day ! " 
 
 II 
 
 The widow sat by the fireside waiting, as she waited 
 every evening of her life. Presently Isaac would come 
 in from his work, and then she would forget she had 
 waited. 
 
 139
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 There came a knock at the door, and the widow 
 looked up surprised. 
 
 " Go away ! " cried the magpie, for that was his rule 
 after sunset. 
 
 The widow placed her hand on the bolt, but the 
 voices outside reassured her. 
 
 She admitted two " neighbours " — a mile across 
 country ! — the big farm-wife, Vrouw Brodel, with her 
 pretty daughter Christine. 
 
 " We are late," remarked the farm-wife, panting ; 
 " one of our men should have met us at the village. 
 Woman, I wonder you're not afraid to be murdered. 
 Some day you will be. I am afraid, and I'd thought 
 
 perhaps Isaac Hold your tongue, Christine ; I 
 
 shall say as I choose." 
 
 Pretty Christine had been shaking her head to the 
 widow. The latter flashed her eyes on her. Pretty 
 Christine looked away. 
 
 " Men murder with an object," said the widow's 
 grave voice. " I expect Isaac in every minute. He 
 wiU gladly walk home with you." 
 
 " Oh, no, no," murmured pretty Christine, with deep 
 energy. " Please tell mother, Vrouw Quint, the roads 
 are perfectly safe ! " 
 
 *■ I have been out on them and in the wood these 
 sixty-three years, night and day," said the widow, 
 " and never met with an injury from man or from beast." 
 
 " Quite possible," repHed the farm-wife, and inso- 
 lently jingled her heavy gold ear-rings. " But / am 
 afraid. It seems to me, widow, your Isaac comes 
 home very late ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes, we can't possibly wait for him ! We can't 
 wait for Isaac," cried pretty Christine. 
 
 140
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 " All right. Go away," said the magpie. 
 
 The widow lifted her gaze to Vrouw Brodel's red face. 
 " Ah, what time, pray, neighbour." she said coldly, 
 " do you deem that my son should be in ? " 
 
 But the other, vexed to find herself thwarted, replied 
 with much spite : " At the time when all other men are 
 back with their wives. 'Tis not good for young blood 
 to remain single, neighbour Quint." 
 
 The widow's eyes flashed. " Isaac always leaves 
 work last," she said proudly. She tapped on the floor 
 with her foot. 
 
 " It's going to rain, mother," interposed the girl's 
 voice from the window. " We must hurry if we want 
 to get home ! " 
 
 At these words the farm-wife, who had on her best 
 cream-ribboned bonnet, hastened out to inspect the 
 black sky. 
 
 " Well," she said desperately, " Isaac may not be here 
 before midnight ! You should keep him in better order. 
 Catch my sons not turning up at meal-times ! Well, 
 neighbour, good-night ! " 
 
 The widow's indignation did not permit her to answer. 
 She sat by the table, and v.-as angry with the cuckoo 
 for his ostentatious proclamation of the half -hour. 
 " But the woman is a fool," she said aloud. " A mother, 
 and not to fathom her own daughter's heart ! Aha ! 
 little Christine, I found out your secret six months ago 
 — in one flash of the eye, at the church door, in passing ! 
 You won't cheat this mother, Christine — that's his step ! " 
 
 The keeper came in, accompanied by his dog, Beppo. 
 He was a tall fellow, well-built, in his faded brown 
 clothes, and his boyish good looks suited well with the 
 great leather boots and the gun. 
 
 141
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 "You have just missed Vrouw Brodel," said his 
 mother. " She was here not ten minutes ago." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said the son, hanging up his empty 
 game-bag. 
 
 " But I suppose you don't mind about that ? She 
 wanted you to see her safe home." 
 
 " Another time I shall be very willing. After supper, 
 if possible." 
 
 " Christine was with her. Christine is very pretty, 
 Isaac." 
 
 " Yes, mother, but I couldn't have seen much of her 
 good looks in the dark. I'm very hungry." 
 
 " Well, supper has been waiting some time." 
 
 They ate in silence. Constant seclusion had made 
 them a taciturn pair. 
 
 Besides, the widow was screwing up her devotion to 
 a lengthily meditated step. As she cleared up the 
 remnants — at a moment when her face was turned away 
 from him — she began : 
 
 " You're a grown man now, Isaac, nearly four-and- 
 tvventy. It's time you were marrying, I sometimes 
 think." Her own voice startled her, saying the terrible 
 words. 
 
 He had risen to light his pipe. He stopped in the 
 act. " Why, mother, are you tired of looking after 
 me ? " he said. 
 
 She did not answer, but turned. They stood facing 
 each other for a moment, then, before he knew what he 
 was doing, he had thrown his arms round her neck. 
 
 " Have done, Isaac, have done ! " cried the widow. 
 " For shame ! A grown man to be kissing ! You haven't 
 done that since you was quite a small boy ! " 
 
 The keeper went back to the hearth. 
 142
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 " Nor you haven't talked of turning me out," he said ; 
 then his face grew long, and he puffed in silence at the 
 freshly lighted pipe. At last he said gravely : " I don't 
 intend to marry." 
 
 " Why ? " exclaimed the widow, anxiety mingling 
 with exultation in her accent. And as he did not im- 
 mediately answer : " Men ought to marry. Don't think 
 I'm selfish ; I should rejoice to see you marry a good 
 girl like Christine ! " 
 
 Isaac drew the dog towards him, perhaps hardly con- 
 scious that he did so. Presently, looking his mother 
 full in the face, " Would you really ? " he asked. For 
 a moment she did not answer ; then she simply said, 
 " Yes." She sat down in her usual arm-chair, and 
 began at her interminable knitting. The clock ticked. 
 
 " Isaac, how strange your manner is ! " she said, 
 after a long silence ; she was knitting on very fast. 
 " Why, boy, if I didn't know all your heart, and you an 
 honest lad from your earliest youth upward, as I well 
 know you are and always will be — why, Isaac " 
 
 " Well ? " he said, his chin set firm on the palm of 
 his hand. 
 
 " Well ! Nothing. If I didn't— but, you see, I do ! " 
 
 " Mother, I don't understand you." 
 
 " Yes you do, Isaac. You and I have always under- 
 stood each other, thank God ! And I thank Him, too, 
 that when your time comes, there'll be nothing to pre- 
 vent your asking an honest maiden to be your wife. I 
 hope it'U come soon, Isaac. Before God, I do." She 
 rose to quit the room that he might not see her face. 
 
 " Mother ! " he cried after her, " wait a moment. I 
 must be off again to-night." 
 
 ' Off ! " she exclaimed, in troubled amazement. 
 
 143
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 " Why, it's getting to be every night, it is! It didn't 
 use to be so in your father's time. I can't think what 
 Basset means by it ! " 
 
 " Basset ? " repeated the son. " 'Tisn't Basset. 1 
 hke to take a look round before turning in." 
 
 " Ah, I told Susan Brodel that was your view of 
 work ! " said the widow triumphantly. 
 
 He reddened in the glow of the fire. She drew nearer 
 and began gently stroking his yellow hair. 
 
 " Don't," he said, " don't ! " 
 
 "It rejoices my heart to see how faithfully you serve 
 your master. But, Isaac, I can't help disliking your 
 being out thus night after night. I lie and think of 
 those long hours when I used to wait for your father. 
 And one morning they brought him me, dead ! " She 
 shuddered ever so slightly. 
 
 The son smoked. Again a heavy silence sank between 
 them. At last he said : " I have never asked you be- 
 fore. I have never asked any one. To-night we are 
 speaking of many things — strange things. Tell me — 
 what made my father's gun go off ? " 
 
 She stood behind him immovable. 
 
 "Keepers' guns don't," said the son, smoking. 
 
 " Hush ! " The cuckoo burst out, hooted eight 
 hideous calls, and disappeared. The room grew doubly 
 silent. 
 
 " Was it a poacher killed him ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then he was drunk ! " Isaac spoke thickly. The 
 words came pouring out. " It was that, I am sure of 
 it. I have always known it, though I never dared to 
 ask. You spoke of him, mother, so — so tenderly. I 
 was very little when it happened ; nobody told me. 
 
 144
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 Somehow I have always known it, dreaded it. My 
 God, he was drunk ! " 
 
 She neither moved nor spoke. 
 
 " That is why you hate drunkenness so madly ! " 
 His voice rose to a cry. " Now I understand ! I have 
 always understood. My God ! " 
 
 " Hush, Isaac. Be silent. It is not for you to judge 
 your father. Be thankful you have not his temptation. 
 He was a good man. We all have our failings. Be 
 humble, and, above all, give thanks ! " 
 
 " Nay, I do not judge him. I do not judge him," 
 said Isaac. " I, least of all." Then for more than an 
 hour they sat side by side without exchanging another 
 word. Once or twice the dog, half rising, licked his 
 master's hand. From time to time, as the hands neared 
 the hour, Isaac glanced up almost apprehensively at 
 the clock. 
 
 " I hate that cuckoo," he said suddenly. And he went 
 to get his cap and gun. 
 
 " Why, Isaac, how silly you are ! You said that the 
 other day." 
 
 " Well, I do. One never knows when it is going to 
 burst out at one." 
 
 " At the hour and the half -hour," said the widow 
 coolly. She picked up her ball. " Jane, at the turn- 
 pike, has one that calls out the quarters." 
 
 " Well, that would almost be better." He walked to 
 the door. " How you can endure him and the magpie 
 in the silence is more than I understand. Well, mother, 
 you've a good conscience. Remember your promise ; 
 you won't sit up. Beppo, look after your mistress." 
 
 The widow gazed up at the offending clock, at the 
 fast-closed little door, which, in another moment or two, 
 10 145
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 would fly open with a bang. " La ! he couldn't wish 
 me," she reflected, " not to know what o'clock it was ! 
 And how should I know he was near coming home ? 
 'Tis my one comfort, is the cuckoo and Blackie. All 
 right, Blackie ; all right ; all right." 
 
 " Go away ! " replied Blackie, who hated being dis- 
 turbed of nights. 
 
 Isaac walked on very fast at first through the drip- 
 drop of the woods ; then, presently, he slowed down, as 
 a man who comes to himself and realizes that he is 
 hurrying nowhere. He paused, struck off to the right 
 with apparent resolve, hesitated, walked on a few paces, 
 turned back again. 
 
 " God ! " he said, under his breath. " O God ! " 
 
 Something stirred in the black masses of underwood 
 beside him. Some bird, half aroused from its sleep. 
 He went on through the dripping darkness, twisting 
 backwards and forwards with swift indecision, not as 
 if stalking or doubling, but like an animal attracted to 
 one spot, and as fatally repelled. 
 
 A grey stain showed on the footpath a few yards in 
 front of him. It rose, screeching, across the dense 
 branches — an owl ! For a space its shrieks followed 
 him through the stillness. Then again all was silent : 
 the cloud-masses deepened in swift changes overhead. 
 
 " What a night for the poachers ! " he thought. 
 " Would to Heaven they but came ! " 
 
 He was walking quite fast again, away into desolate 
 spaces, the wide mist of the heath. He stood still. 
 
 " 'Tis no use," he said aloud, " I can't help it. O 
 God, you see that I can't ! " He faced round, and 
 soon the swiftness of his steps almost changed to a run. 
 
 In the thickest of the forest he broke away from the 
 146
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 narrow footpath and dodged rapidly amongst the trees. 
 At last, pausing for breath, he halted before a big oak, 
 no more noticeable than the others around it. But 
 Isaac, without any hesitation now, plunged a feverish 
 hand into the hidden recesses of its stem, and, drawing 
 forth a bottle, drank greedily and long. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said in a deep sigh which seemed to linger 
 on the stillness. He walked leisurely now, up and down, 
 with the bottle in one hand. And from time to time he 
 took a slow draught in the tranquil dark and the silence, 
 sometimes with a half- suppressed shudder of con- 
 tent. 
 
 He was thinking of his mother's words about her dead 
 husband : " Your father was a good man, Isaac. He 
 had his weaknesses — who has not ? But he was a good 
 man." Never had he realized his powerlessness more 
 deeply than to-night. " Mother, you would say the 
 same of me. God grant you may never have occasion ! " 
 He lifted his handsome face as if to the lowering clouds 
 above him. " I can't help myself ! " he cried aloud, 
 and then his voice dropped to a whisper. " Never," 
 he said. " No, little Christine, I may be a coward, but 
 I'll never be a cad." With a swing of the arm, he flung 
 his gun back and started homewards. " Some day I 
 shall end like father," he thought, " but not until mother 
 is dead." He began whistling a music-hall tune of the 
 day. 
 
 From a thicket he had just passed, whistling, two men 
 crept forth and looked after him. 
 
 " Whistle away. Master Isaac," said one ; " here's a 
 hare you may whistle f or ! " 
 
 " Shut up, Tom," replied his elder companion ; " he's 
 as smart a keeper as ever stepped, and a very good fellow. 
 
 147
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 There's a hollow oak I've noticed will do first-rate to 
 hide things in. Come along." 
 
 Isaac stopped his whistling long before he neared the 
 cottage. And as he crossed its threshold he mechani- 
 cally drew himself up with a jerk. In the dark the dog, 
 Beppo, struck a light tail along the floor. 
 
 " Good-night, mother," said Isaac steadily, before 
 the half-open door. 
 
 " Good-night, boy ; good-night ! " 
 
 He tramped upstairs to his garret. 
 
 The next day being a Sunday, mother and son spent 
 their morning, according to an invariable rule, in the 
 distant village church. As they came out at the central 
 door the Baron stopped them, and walked a few paces 
 by the widow's side, which mark of favour was the 
 highest that he could confer on any of his humbler 
 dependants. Isaac fell back. 
 
 " If it weren't for Sunday church," said the Baron, 
 " I do believe you'd never come down to the village 
 from year's end to year's end. One would think you 
 disliked your neighbours." 
 
 " No, indeed. No, indeed," replied the widow. 
 " But, saving your presence. Mynheer the Baron, if 
 you'd lived all your life in the backwoods, you'd feel 
 like a squirrel yourself." 
 
 " I wish I were half as frisky," said the Baron. " Well, 
 weU, I've no right to complain. I'd never have thought 
 to see Isaac my gamekeeper." 
 
 Still hale at eighty something, the Baron walked 
 almost erect. 
 
 " And a very good keeper he makes, I'm told," said 
 the Baron cheerfully, nodding his silvery hair. 
 
 The old woman, in her stiff cap and gown, smiled. 
 148
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 " Thank God and Mynheer the Baron, he is what he is," 
 she answered ; " and I wish he was more. Not that 
 I'm complaining. In some ways 'tis hard work — night 
 after night, and the winter nights a-coming ! Don't 
 please think I'm afraid, Mynheer the Baron. I well 
 know every trade has its own peculiar dangers ; and 
 wasn't I a keeper's daughter, and a keeper's wife and 
 mother ? — and, la ! I was a bit of a keeper myself ! 
 Still, I'm glad every night of my hfe to hear my boy's 
 good-night." 
 
 " But he needn't go out every night of your life," 
 objected the Baron. He struck a little irritably at a 
 pebble with his stick. 
 
 Whereupon the widow's serious features assumed 
 that air of tranquil triumph which had been a secret 
 source of amusement to her neighbours ever since the 
 day when she had first led Isaac to the village school. 
 
 The Baron now watching her, also laughed good- 
 humouredly. " Well, well, Basset says the hillside 
 woods are the best looked after on the whole estate." 
 
 "They were that in my father's time, were they not, 
 Mynheer the Baron ? " 
 
 Well, well — perhaps they were. I have an idea, 
 Vrouw Quint, you consider the hillside woods belong to 
 you quite as much as they do to me ? " 
 
 " No, Mynheer the Baron," replied the widow gravely. 
 " But I know every stick and every stone of them, 
 and have done these fifty years. The money value is 
 yours, sir." 
 
 " Well, well," said the Baron again, " there's a pretty 
 girl waiting to walk home with you. Isaac is gone, is 
 he ? Or only lagging behind ? H'm. Good-day 
 Christine Brodel. Good-day, Vrouw Quint.'* 
 
 149
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 " 'Tis a long walk for a girl by herself, Christine," 
 remarked the widow, as they trudged on side by side. 
 
 " Father's behind," replied Christine, " with — with 
 Isaac." 
 
 " Your mother doesn't come to church as often as 
 she might," continued the widow. 
 
 " No, nor Isaac wasn't there last Sunday," said the 
 girl. 
 
 " Isaac had some snares to look after," protested the 
 widow quickly. " Well, well," she added in a gentler 
 tone, " your mother's very stout." 
 
 " Yea, and she don't like to rob the old horse of his 
 Sunday rest." 
 
 " Nor Isaac can't bear to see me start alone. La ! 
 ' Judge not that ye be not judged.' You're right, girl ; 
 there isn't a truer text in the Bible.'* 
 
 For some minutes after that each was busy with her 
 own thoughts along the sodden road. 
 
 " It is a great way," said Christine. " Dear, how 
 you must tire of it ! But you were bom in the cottage, 
 
 weren't you ? and I suppose you'll " She checked 
 
 herself. 
 
 " No, I shan't," replied the widow coolly. " When 
 my son marries, I take myself off." 
 
 " Oh, you couldn't ! " exclaimed the girl, all a-blush 
 with vexation. " His wife 'd never — she " 
 
 " Well, she ? " said the widow provokingly, 
 
 " I don't know anything about her," replied Christine 
 with some spirit, " but the whole country knows about 
 you and your son. Nobody 'd venture to part you, 
 Vrouw Quint." 
 
 " Part ! " repeated the widow, her eyes far away over 
 the tree- tops. " Divide, you mean ? No wife could 
 
 150
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 do that, but she separates. God has willed it so, little 
 Christine. Your father is calling — now, where is that 
 booby of an Isaac ? Gone altogether ? Disappeared ? 
 La ! what fools young men are in our days ! " 
 
 She trudged on alone through the barren autumn 
 landscape, through the sullen autumn day. At the 
 turnpike, where dwelt her nearest neighbour and friend, 
 lame old Kate Lonkeboor, she stopped for a few remarks 
 about the weather, then turned off towards the hill and 
 the woods. She felt tired, and breathed with some 
 difficulty ; yet, from old habit, she found it almost 
 impossible to keep to the open road ; before she had 
 gone any distance all trace of her was lost among the 
 trees. 
 
 She had penetrated into the heart of her familiar 
 woods, when a low whistle struck suddenly on her ear. 
 She knew the meaning of that whistle immediately. It 
 was a signal. She darted round a low plantation of 
 brushwood, and almost ran up against Tom Bunsing. 
 
 " D " cried the poacher, starting back. Two 
 
 pheasants hung from his elbow. 
 
 " I recognized your whistle ! " said the widow quietly. 
 But she gasped. 
 
 " D you for an old spy ! " said Tom Bunsing. 
 
 " I knew your precious son was on t'other side of the 
 hill. Oh, on t'other side— ha ! ha ! " 
 
 " I shall report you to Basset. You shall be prose- 
 cuted," said the widow fearlessly. 
 
 Tom Bunsing laughed. " No you won't," he replied 
 threateningly. " You'll keep a quiet tongue in your 
 head. There'll be more repor tings some day than you 
 bargain for. Give my love to your dear son, my lady, 
 and tell him I shall drink his health to-night. Ta, ta ! " 
 
 151
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 " Oh, the scoundrel ! " cried the widow, trembling 
 with rage. " I shall certainly report you to Basset ! " 
 
 She hurried on home, full of her indignation. Isaac 
 was pacing the small kitchen in one of his restless moods. 
 She got ready their mid-day meal. They had nearly 
 finished it before she told of her adventure with Tom 
 Bunsing. 
 
 " What did he say ? " exclaimed Isaac, dropping 
 knife and fork. " Did he say that ? What did he say, 
 mother, about drinking my health ? " 
 
 " Goodness, Isaac, what's the matter ? How pale 
 you are ! You've got cold, these wintry days, in the 
 woods. After dinner I'll make you some " 
 
 " No, no ; I'm all right. What did he say about 
 drinking my health ? " 
 
 " Oh, that was his insolence. I shall certainly tell 
 Basset." 
 
 " Mother, I do wish you'd leave the care of the woods 
 to me ! " 
 
 Her thin cheek coloured ever so faintly, but she only 
 called to the dog. She could make nothing of Isaac's 
 manner. Instead of sitting dozing over the Sunday 
 fire, he started up on the first opportunity and hastened 
 out. The widow remained pensive, occasionally talking 
 to Blackie, for Beppo, his dinner over, had followed his 
 master. 
 
 Presently the lame turnpike-woman looked in for a 
 chat, and from Katey Mary Quint learnt, amid a flood 
 of other gossip, that Tom Bunsing had announced his 
 intention of marrying Christine Brodel. For Tom 
 Bunsing, though he went poaching from sheer devilry, 
 was the son of a small but respectable farmer. 
 
 " Aha ! I understand ! " said the widow to herself. 
 152
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 Isaac, free from the torture of his mother's eyes, tore 
 through the quiet woods to his distant hiding-place. 
 He reached it in a fever of anxiety, and thrust his hand 
 down into the hollow ; it struck against the bottles ; 
 they were safe. 
 
 He laughed aloud. With considerable pains he had 
 procured this store of spirits, buying it in the market- 
 town, at a place where he was entirely unknown, care- 
 fully conveying it away and secreting it, a few bottles 
 at a time. Not a soul in the village had ever seen him 
 buy more than one dram ; certainly none would have 
 thought the worse of him for doing so ; but his mother's 
 peace of mind — his unique preoccupation — was safe. 
 It mattered not, as he often most bitterly told himself, 
 that some day he should become a notorious drunkard, 
 such being his terrible, inevitable fate — if only the grave 
 had first closed on the one heart that loved him ! Only 
 so long, so long, O God ! 
 
 He opened one of the bottles, and put it to his lips. 
 Immediately he dropped it, spluttering. It contained 
 nothing but water. The broken pieces lay on the 
 ground. The dog crept up and licked them. 
 
 Isaac stood horror-stricken, trying to realize what 
 this trickery meant. His secret was in the hands of 
 the poachers. 
 
 He stood for a long while, but the whirlwind of his 
 thoughts would not twist itself clear. The dog pushed 
 up against him, whining. He stooped and patted 
 it. 
 
 Already the dull November day was declining. Sud- 
 denly, in a shiver of searching wind, one thought arose 
 before him, terribly distant. The night was coming 
 — it was already there — and he hadn't a drop of drink ! 
 
 153
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 Then the drink- frenzy came upon him — the dread 
 of the approaching craving, the agony of thirst. He 
 shrieked aloud and fled straight across the forest to the 
 hill-road, past the cottage, towards the village, towards 
 the tavern, towards relief ! The dog ran panting 
 beside him. 
 
 By the time he reached the nearest houses in the 
 twilight the lamps were coming out. The long haste, 
 the increasing desire — these had strained every fibre 
 of his being till he moaned as if in physical pain. He 
 hurried along the deserted street to the public-house. 
 At its door he stood gasping for a moment ; then he 
 entered, and, steadying his voice — 
 
 " Good evening. Baas Picker — a dram ! " he breathed. 
 
 A shout of laughter arose from a corner of the badly-lit 
 room. Round a table, in the half-dark, amidst fumes 
 of gin and petroleum, half a dozen choice spirits sat 
 grouped. 
 
 The keeper turned and faced them with a violent 
 effort at self-control. 
 
 " Let me stand you a glass, Quint," cried the voice of 
 Tom Bunsing. 
 
 " Thank you, I can pay for myself," retorted Isaac, 
 with difficulty suppressing his fury. He tossed down 
 the Hquor, and felt his brain steady itself. " With 
 honestly-got money," he added. 
 
 " You'll want it to supply your cellar," remarked 
 another voice in the dusk. 
 
 " Hist ! " said an older man. 
 
 Isaac stood by the bar, yearning to tear himself away 
 from the deepening disgrace. 
 
 " Give me another," he said. " 'Tis a very damp 
 night." 
 
 154
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 Another shout of merriment greeted the words. 
 
 " Why, keeper, you're unusually thirsty ? " said the 
 publican with a meaning smile. 
 
 The men in the corner sat watching. 
 
 " I say, Quint," called Tom Bunsing, " friends, you 
 know — and no harm meant ! But your mother had 
 better keep a quiet tongue in her head." 
 
 " Hold yours," said Isaac. 
 
 The poacher jumped up with an oath, and came for- 
 ward. 
 
 " One more," said Isaac, calmly, " then I'm off." 
 
 But nobody laughed this time. The men had gathered 
 round. 
 
 " I tell you," began Bunsing, " your mother " 
 
 *'Tf you mention her again in this place, I'll knock 
 you down," said the keeper, pushing back his empty 
 glass. 
 
 The other laughed defiantly, though he stepped back 
 a pace. 
 
 " Your mother " 
 
 " Do you want any more ? " questioned Isaac, as 
 Tom Bunsing picked himself up. 
 
 " Look you, I'll have no fighting here," interposed 
 the publican angrily. " Go outside, the whole lot of 
 you, and, Tom, give him as good as you got ! " 
 
 " I'll give him better — some day," said the crestfallen 
 hero, rubbing his forehead. 
 
 But nobody moved. 
 
 " You can find me whenever you want to," retorted 
 Isaac. " Here, Picker, put me up a bottle of gin ! 
 Here's the money." 
 
 They all stood watching the publican at work. Isaac 
 pushed the bottle into the pocket of his pea-jacket. 
 
 155
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 " Look here, you fellows," he said in a low, clear 
 voice, " I — I'm an honest man. I've never done any 
 of you an ill-turn. I'll fight any of you, if you wish it, 
 though I don't know why. But no knives." He ad- 
 dressed himself to the older man. " Bost," he said, 
 " make them see they must spare my mother ! Don't — 
 don't let it get to my mother ! It's a good joke — a 
 capital joke against me. But it'll keep. She's an old 
 woman," — his voice grew desperate — " don't let it go 
 farther at present ! Boys, think of your own — no, it' 
 not the same. Here, do what you like with me, but 
 don't let it get to her ! " 
 
 The others stood aside, awkward, with evil grins. 
 But Jan Bost stepped forward. 
 
 " There's not a soul in the country doesn't honour 
 your mother, Quint. She's a good plucked one, and she 
 got m.e two days in quod. Nobody 'd have the heart or 
 the courage to breathe a word against you in her pre- 
 sence. Here, shake hands, and go home." 
 
 The keeper retraced his steps with leaden heart. He 
 chewed tobacco as he went to keep down the smell of 
 the spirits. He must find a new hiding-place for his 
 treasure. It was nearly nine when his mother opened 
 the door. 
 
 " What a strange Sunday ! " she said. " Where have 
 you been ? " Then, lest her words should seem to imply 
 suspicion or reproach : 
 
 " Don't think I'm spying on you, Isaac. La ! I 
 know you're in love. But there, I dare say it's only my 
 fancy. She's a sweet Httle girl, and a good." She set 
 out his supper, carefully kept hot. " Not but what you 
 ought to tell me, Isaac," she added with simple incon- 
 sistency. " I'm your mother, and I've a right to be 
 
 156
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 told. Sometimes I think you're afraid to tell me, for 
 fear I should mind or be jealous. Boy, surely you know 
 me better than that ! " 
 
 " Indeed, mother, there's nothing," he protested, 
 pretending to eat. 
 
 She posted herself in front of him, squaring her arms. 
 " So you're not in love ? " she said. 
 
 He had never lied to her point-blank. " I told you 
 before, I shall never marry," he answered. 
 
 She laughed a happy little laugh. " They all say 
 that," she said, " a week or two before the courting. 
 Very well, Isaac, only mind one thing. Don't let her 
 mother know it's settled before I do ! " 
 
 " All right ! " he answered. " But if I promise that 
 mother, you must promise me something too." 
 
 " All right," said the magpie. 
 
 " Well, what is it ? " asked the widow, full of tranquil 
 content. 
 
 " That you will leave Tom Bunsing alone." 
 
 " Leave Tom Bunsing alone ! " she repeated, and all 
 the brightness went from her voice. " Do you mean to 
 say not teU Basset that I found him with two phea- 
 sants ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 The widow rested her hand on the table. " My own 
 son ask me to cheat our master ? " she said. 
 
 " No," said Isaac clumsily. " I'll tell them I let him 
 off with a caution. They can't convict him on your 
 story of the pheasants. Mother, I don't want to make 
 him desperate. I'm afraid of him." 
 
 " Afraid ! " she repeated, with a clear ring of scorn. 
 "Afraid of your rival? Oh! Isaac, it's not that; 
 forgive me, dear. I understand. Nonsense, he won't 
 
 157
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 hurt me, Isaac. Why, none of them's ever touched me 
 all these years." 
 
 " Let him alone, mother. I'm the keeper. It's my 
 business." The words rang louder than he knew. 
 
 " Isaac, you never spoke to me like that before ! " 
 Her quick eyes flashed. 
 
 " I don't want to speak wrong to you now. It isn't 
 my fault if you meddle " 
 
 " Silence ! " She waited. " I am going to bed," she 
 said, and passed out of the room. 
 
 Ill 
 
 In a few days the whole country-side — one solitary soul 
 excepted — had learnt that the good-looking, respectable 
 young keeper — Quint, old widow Quint's son, Isaac 
 Quint — habitually took drink, in large quantities., on the 
 sly. Now, the consumption of strong liquors, though 
 perhaps hardly a thing to be proud of, was not either a 
 subject for general disapproval or even remark ; but 
 the secrecy, the hoard, and especiaUy the trick so 
 successfully played on " the hypocrite," all these com- 
 bined to heap contempt on his head. No one was 
 angrier than Picker, the publican, who, considering 
 himself cheated of legitimate profit, openly expressed 
 his opinion that young Isaac had stolen the liquor he so 
 carefuUy hid. This presiunption the village rejected, 
 but it accepted another, namely, that the keeper, whom 
 nobody had ever seen drunk, must have accustomed 
 himself to intemperance from his boyhood. For weeks, 
 nay, for months, the detected delinquent lived in an 
 atmosphere of angry derision. The long-dreaded dis- 
 
 158
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 covery had come. He faced it, content, if but, on 
 returning from his work in the evening, he read the still 
 unchanged welcome upon his mother's face. 
 
 If ! — there hung the daily, hourly suspense which made 
 his life an unbroken terror. At any moment the blow 
 might fall. His thoughts dwelt on it alone in the woods, 
 at work amongst his comrades, whilst receiving orders 
 at daybreak, whilst watching through the silence of the 
 night. Even now perhaps, as he sat laughing at the 
 joke in the loud tavern, the fatal word was being spoken 
 in the cottage. If his mother talked apart with some 
 neighbour he trembled. One evening, in the beginning 
 of his torment, she chuckled suddenly over the little 
 local paper — Old Gossip the coimtry people called it. 
 " Why, here's a capital story," she said. And she read 
 aloud, sufficiently altered for printing, the tale of " The 
 Tippler Tricked." 
 
 As she finished, he joined in her laugh. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! very funny ! " he said. 
 
 She peered over her spectacles. For one second his 
 heart stood still. " Yes," she assented, " and serve him 
 right, says I ! " 
 
 With the tact which is born only of infinite tenderness, 
 he still studied to avoid betraying himself. In common 
 with so many for whom the drink-craving is a disease, 
 his body neither demanded nor easily developed intoxi- 
 cation. He never came home the worse for liquor, 
 excepting late at night ; he was never at any time tipsy 
 in the popular sense. In spite of his constantl chewing 
 tobacco, his mother, of course, occasionally noticed that 
 he had taken a glass of spirits. She had never known a 
 man who did not. 
 
 As the weeks went by, and the storms lulled without 
 
 159
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 reaching the hill- top, some measure of tranquillity re- 
 turned to Isaac's breast. After all, it was a fact of 
 universal experience that evil rumours but rarely en- 
 countered the persons immediately concerned. Nobody, 
 except a politician, has the faintest idea what is said of 
 him by his foes or his friends. But for the scene in the 
 tavern, Isaac himself might have doubted the truth. 
 His master had never mentioned the subject. Only, 
 once, the head keeper had bidden him, with a sneer, to 
 look out. 
 
 So, Sunday after Sunday, the widow, in her stiffest of 
 garments, walked to church on her tall son's arm. She 
 noticed, indeed, that people stopped and stared after 
 them, but people, especially women, had always done 
 that. She smiled to herself. If she had met a young 
 fellow like Isaac she also would have stopped and 
 stared. 
 
 It was true, as Jan Bost had said, that her neighbours 
 respected her respectability. Strong provocation would 
 be required to do her a cruel and superfluous wrong. 
 The man who most appreciated their forbearance 
 loathed himself for requiring it. He had never yet 
 fought against the curse which oppressed him as he 
 fought during those first weeks while the whole world 
 was mocking him. He must conquer now. For, when 
 the truth crashed down upon her, as it inevitably some 
 day would, and she arose, broken-hearted, to reproach 
 him, then must he be able to answer that his guilt, if 
 not his shame, was a thing of the past. He must con- 
 quer. For many weeks he fought with the energy of 
 despair. And, despairing, fell. 
 
 Then even the last frail hope broke under him, and 
 he let himself sink. There was no longer any reason 
 
 1 60
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 for hiding his secret from any but his mother. He went 
 openly to buy drink at the village tavern ; he stayed to 
 consume it there. It was pleasant to drink in company 
 and forget the horror at his heart. Far better than to 
 pace the woods in the rainy wmter nights. And some 
 of the chaps at the tavern were not half bad if you got 
 to know them. The circumstances of his mother's life 
 had made her too unsociable. What was the use of 
 never quitting the desolate hill, living like a weasel or 
 an owl ? Tom Bunsing had capital stories — if he 
 poached, it was from sheer love of danger, a feeling that 
 even a keeper could understand. Isaac had never borne 
 malice ; when Tom stepped up to him grinning and 
 said, " Come, I owe you a dram, Quint ! " the poor 
 fellow accepted the offer with a laugh that sounded 
 bright. 
 
 Meanwhile, the scandal of his intemperate habits 
 having become a patent fact, the neighbourhood ceased 
 to talk. But one Sabbath the minister, gazing down 
 from the pulpit on mother and son, suddenly made up 
 his mind to " take measures." The minister was an old 
 man now, and he still believed himself a wise one. 
 
 " Petronella," he said on the Monday at dinner to the 
 maiden sister who lived with him, " Isaac Quint must 
 become a Blue Ribbonite. I shall walk over presently 
 and tell his mother so." 
 
 " His mother ? " The sister looked up. " His 
 mother ? Remember, James, his mother doesn't 
 know." 
 
 " Amazing ! " said the minister. " Yes, of course, I 
 am aware ! She must be very blind." 
 
 " Love is blind," replied the Httle old lady, shaking 
 her corkscrew curls, " in her case. And foreseeing, in 
 11 l6i
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 his. How he must love her ! I cannot help watching 
 them in church." 
 
 " Fie ! " said the minister. " Not during the sermon, 
 I hope ? " 
 
 " Could we but help them ! " she continued. " Yes, 
 we will go together. It will require a great deal of care." 
 
 " You ! " exclaimed the minister. " It would cer- 
 tainly upset you ! You cannot walk half so far ! " 
 
 She looked across at him and reflected. 
 
 " Yes, I can," she said. " Yes, I can. It is a fine 
 afternoon. Let us go." 
 
 A few minutes later they started ; the frail little 
 spinster held on bravely along the straight line of road. 
 
 The widow was feeding her pigs. Nothing discon- 
 certed, she asked her visitors to sit down while she went 
 to wash her hands. 
 
 " I am sure you're dead beat," said the Domine, 
 anxiously watching his sister. 
 
 " No, no," she answered faintly. " What a quiet 
 spot it is ! Peace everywhere, even on the woman's 
 face." 
 
 " Yes, she must be very lonely. Here she comes. 
 Vrouw Quint, I have called to speak to you on a matter 
 of importance. You have doubtless heard of the Blue 
 Ribbon." 
 
 " No, Domine," replied the widow ; " but there's so 
 many advertisements nowadays." 
 
 " This isn't an advertisement. It's an association." 
 
 " For the Queen's birthday ? " said the widow. 
 
 " By no means." The Domine spake with asperity. 
 
 " I beg pardon," replied the widow humbly. " I had 
 heard something about a feast on the Queen's birthday. 
 It must have been something else." 
 
 162
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 " It was," said the Domine. " The Blue Ribbon is 
 an association for the suppression of drink. But I for- 
 got. You know nothing of the evils caused by intem- 
 perance." 
 
 " I think I do," replied the widow softly, her mind 
 reverting to that wintry morning when they had brought 
 her husband home. 
 
 " H'm ! " — the Domine's sister glanced up at him. 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course. We all do. The curse of this 
 country is the drink-devil. Quite true, Widow Quint. 
 I am glad you take so sensible a view of the matter. You 
 know what is meant by signing the pledge ? " 
 
 ■' Promising never to touch a drop of spirits in one's 
 life." The widow suppressed a yawn. 
 
 " Just so," said the Domine, pleased. " It is a cause 
 in which all of us can help. You must sign the pledge. 
 Widow Quint ! " 
 
 " I ? " exclaimed the widow indignantly. 
 
 " You. As I also have done." 
 
 " You ? Well, Domine, I should never have thought 
 it of you ; but I suppose it began at college. My cousin 
 in Utrecht do say as the drinking is dreadful at college. 
 But, as for me, I can't think what you mean, Domine ! 
 I never touched spirits in my life ! " 
 
 She rose, her brown eyes aflame. 
 
 " That's the very sort we begin with," said the 
 Domine sweetly, quite unconscious of any aspersions on 
 himself. " Nine-tenths of our members are young 
 ladies of position who couldn't distinguish madeira from 
 gin. That's the very sort of people we want. Widow 
 Quint, to — to set an example. Now, your son — you 
 must employ all your influence to make Isaac wear the 
 Blue Ribbon." 
 
 163
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 * Never," said the widow, and sat down again. 
 
 The Domine, who had been watching for his sister's 
 approvaJ of his diplomacy, turned round with a jump. 
 
 " What do you mean, Domine ? I can't think what 
 you mean, sir ! I don't know if any one's been calum- 
 niating Isaac : I defy them to their face ! " 
 
 She suddenly grew calm again. " I beg your par- 
 don," she said. " There must be some mistake. The 
 boy's a well-behaved boy, as nobody knows better than 
 I. And nobody can say that he drinks. Isaac!-" 
 
 She ruffled her apron ; her hands twitched. 
 
 " At least you cannot pretend that your son is a 
 teetotaler," protested the Domine with almost a 
 sneer. 
 
 " No, Domine. Is anybody ? I never met anybody 
 that was. He takes his occasional glaiss of spirits, like 
 all men ; and his beer at meal-times, as I do La ! to 
 think of my insulting Isaac by saying he ought to take 
 the pledge ! " 
 
 " But, dear Vrouw Quint, I never get drunk," inter- 
 posed the Domine's sister mildly ; " yet I also have 
 joined the association. We do so to protest against the 
 habit of drinking ! " 
 
 " Then that must be a fancy of ladies and gentlemen, 
 miss ; and of those I never pretended to know nothing. 
 All I know is that the Domine asks me to tell Isaac and 
 the neighbours that I think he's a drunkard. Isaac ! 
 Me ! La ! Domine, please let's talk of something else. 
 Would you like, miss, to see my little brown pig ? " 
 
 The Domine had been moving uneasily on his chair. 
 " There are moments, Petronella," he began, "when we 
 feel that silence would mean participation in guilt. At 
 whatever cost to myself or to others, as pastor of this 
 
 164
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 parish, it is my duty to take a paramount interest in the 
 welfare of the people " 
 
 " Yes, quite true," exclaimed Petronella in great 
 agitation, " and so let us look at the little brown pig." 
 
 " Pig ? There are no pigs like the human. Vrouw 
 Quint, listen to me ! What I am going to reveal to you 
 will cause you great pain. My good woman, I appeal 
 to your courage, your Christian resignation. Your son 
 has doubtless excellent qualities. But he also has faults." 
 
 At this moment the Domine, to hide his perturbation, 
 paused and took snuff. Had he not done so, the widow's 
 fate had been sealed. But the break gave her courage. 
 
 " Mejuffrouw, may I speak ? " she began timidly, 
 with her hand to her fluttering breast. " I know that 
 Isaac is not perfect. Ask him if, in his youth, I did not 
 punish him when he misbehaved. I could speak now 
 of his shortcomings, but were that befitting in his 
 mother ? Is it necessary that others should point out 
 his vices to me — imaginary or not ? " Once more she 
 rose, with a noble gesture of command and appeal. 
 
 " Come," she said, " let us go and see the little brown 
 
 pig ? " 
 
 " All right," said the magpie, who had listened atten- 
 tively all through the interview. 
 
 " Yes, let us go," assented the old maid in a low voice. 
 " James, she is right ; let us leave her and her son to 
 the mercy of God." 
 
 " I sometimes fancy, Petronella," replied the minister 
 testily, " you believe that you are wiser than I." 
 
 " No, indeed, dear ; no, indeed. A great deal less 
 wise. But " 
 
 " But what ? Well then, in Heaven's name, let us 
 be going ! We've no time for sight-seeing. You'll be 
 
 165
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 ill as it is, Petronella. I never ought to have allowed it. 
 But you make me do whatever you please." 
 
 The widow, left alone, ran out for a breath of air. 
 She felt as if she should suffocate ; her heart beat 
 against her ribs. 
 
 She had gone farther along the road thans he knew, 
 when she saw Christine Brodel in a small orchard, at 
 some distance, picking up apples. She called out to 
 her, and skirting the wood, ran across. 
 
 In her indignation she poured out the story of the 
 visit. She appealed eagerly for sympathy to the silent 
 figure beside her. 
 
 " Why, Christine, you're as taciturn as people say / 
 am ! Girl, what would you have said if the Domine had 
 told you that Isaac got drunk ? " 
 
 The farmer's daughter fingered the apples in her 
 apron. " I should have demanded proof," she replied 
 slowly. " But the Domine didn't say that — did he now, 
 Vrouw Quint ? " 
 
 " No, indeed," replied the widow. " Well, perhaps 
 I'm over-sensitive. But to think of it — dear me ! to 
 think of it ! It gave me such a turn ! " 
 
 The girl peered into her face. " You aren't well," 
 said Christine, with a warmth in which all her pent-up 
 sympathy bubbled over. " You should see the doctor. 
 You know you aren't well, Vrouw Quint." 
 
 " I'm well enough, but my heart isn't as strong as it 
 used to be, and my breath is apt to catch. I wish Isaac 
 were safely married. Girl, when he's not out in the 
 woods at night he's watching your window — the young 
 fool ! " 
 
 " Did he tell you so ? " cried Christine, her rosy cheeks 
 aflame. 
 
 1 66
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 " Tell me ! No. Trust a mother to find out. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 But the girl held her back. " Mother," she said 
 earnestly, " you don't couple our names like that, do 
 you ? — please ! " 
 
 Something in Christine's face struck alarm to the 
 widow's heart : " What do you mean ? " she said 
 fiercely. " What's wrong ? " 
 
 " Nothing," answered Christine faintly. " It's all 
 your fancy. Nothing's wrong : nothing's right." 
 
 " Pooh, you don't understand about sweethearting ! 
 So much the better. / know Isaac's in love. But 
 perhaps it's not with you, child ! Why should it be ? 
 La, la ! " And the two women kissed. 
 
 Christine, left to her apples, finished the last heap with 
 laggard steps and sad eyes. On her homeward way a 
 few tear-drops stole into undue prominence. She had 
 just dashed one back when, at a turn of the lane, she met 
 Bunsing. 
 
 " I was waiting for you," said Tom. " I saw you kiss 
 old Mother Quint ! Now, don't look scared. There 
 were two fields between us. See here, you don't mean 
 to say that you stick to that brute of an Isaac ? " 
 
 " No. How dare you speak to me like that ? Let 
 me pass ! " 
 
 " Don't be silly, Christine. There's as good fish in the 
 sea as ever drank too much of it. You know as well as 
 I that my father '11 be only too glad to have me settle 
 down at the farm. Give a fellow a chance ! " 
 
 " Let me pass ! " she repeated, furiously, " you 
 
 poacher, you ! " 
 
 He dropped aside with an oath : " Yes, I'm a poacher," 
 he said. " Let your keeper look out ! " He slunk away, 
 
 167
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 leaving her in a tremble of diversified feelings. One 
 thing, however, she clearly understood — she could never 
 marry the man she loved. 
 
 The widow meanwhile, true to her long-tried precept 
 that work in God's woods was the best cure for worry, 
 had undertaken a survey of the preserve which belonged 
 to her son's especial care. She was longing, yet fearing, 
 to meet him. The events of the morning had left a 
 painful impression upon her. There had been somethuig 
 in the manner of those she had spoken to which filled her 
 with unreasoned alarm. A vague dread of misfortune 
 hung heavy in the air. She was furiously angry with 
 the Domine that he should have ventured to annoy her 
 — her, John Quint's widow — with his superfluous talk 
 about drink. Did she not nightly thank God that He 
 had answered her prayers, that Isaac came home with 
 steady step and steadily wished her " Good-night " ? 
 
 As she hastened on, walking off her irritation, her 
 keen eyes — still so keen at a distance ! — caught sight of 
 a half-effaced footstep, which was certainly not Isaac's. 
 She followed the direction in which it pointed. It led 
 her down a slope, among brushwood, to a nearly dry 
 little runnel, close by which, admirably hidden, she 
 found a carefully spread net. Her eyes flashed with 
 triumph. Immediately she began cutting it loose. 
 
 " Hillo ! " called a voice from the other side. Tom 
 Bunsing rose up among the brushwood. He had come 
 straight from his interview with Christine to look after 
 his net. " You leave that alone, you she-dragon ! " 
 
 " I'm doing my duty to the Baron," intrepidly replied 
 Widow Quint. " Go home to your poor mother, Tom 
 Bunsing, and dry her tears ! " He jumped across with- 
 out answering. In the scuffle which ensued he soon 
 
 1 68
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 gained possession of the net, upsetting the old woman 
 on the bank. " I can't help it," he said. " Why do 
 you interfere, you hateful old thing, with what isn't 
 your business ? Do get away home." 
 
 She picked herself up. " Keep your net," she said 
 scornfully. " I don't need it. I've got the other, just 
 like it ; I found it a week ago. All I wanted was full 
 proof they were yours. To-morrow I lay the whole case 
 before the head-keeper. You'll spend the next month 
 or two in jail." 
 
 Tom Bunsing's dark face turned pale. He swore a 
 great oath. He had never been caught before. He had 
 never dreamed of imprisonment. 
 
 When he spoke again his voice was quite calm. " Look 
 here," he said, " I'll go back with you to your cottage, 
 Vrouw Quint, and you'll hand me over that net." 
 
 " I shall not," said the widow, rising to depart. 
 
 " Then I shall go and fetch it. Isaac is down at the 
 village, doing some work for the Baron. I knew he was, 
 or I should not have come here." 
 
 The widow faced her antagonist with a confident 
 smile. " You won't find the net in the cottage," she 
 said ; " for 'tis hidden in the woods." 
 
 " In Isaac's oak ! " exclaimed Tom. 
 
 " What — ^what do you mean ? " 
 
 " In Isaac's oak, where he hides his — oh, hang you, 
 Vrouw Quint ! Don't you hurt my mother, and I won't 
 hurt your son." 
 
 " Hurt my son ? How can you hurt Isaac ? What 
 does Isaac hide in the oak ? " 
 
 " Never you mind. Where did you hide my net ? " 
 
 " Tom Bunsing, I can't — I can't. What do you know 
 of my son ? " 
 
 169
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 " No more than of my net. Look here. I'll give you 
 until nightfall — no, I'll give you until eight o'clock If 
 by that time the net isn't back in the place that you took 
 it from, then " 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " The worse it will be for you." 
 
 " Pooh ! " 
 
 " And for Isaac." 
 
 " Tom Bunsing, what harm can you do Isaac ? " 
 
 " Till eight o'clock, mind you — not ten minutes later. 
 I won't — do you hear me ? I won't go to prison — for the 
 sake of the old folks at home, who wouldn't stand it. 
 Be careful. 'Tis ill fighting with a desperate man." He 
 turned and disappeared into the underwood, without 
 waiting for another word. 
 
 Vrouw Quint retraced her steps homewards. She was 
 very anxious and very tired. Something, surely, must 
 be wrong with Isaac. It could not be anything serious. 
 Still, young men were not saints : she had never ex- 
 pected him to prove perfect. Again, she had unpleasant 
 visions of imprudent lovemaking. Or could he, once 
 in a way, have lost money at cards ? No, what about 
 the oak ? What had he hidden from the others — from 
 her? 
 
 As she drew nigh to the cottage, she saw that a figure 
 was standing by the door. Presently she recognized the 
 carrier, John Bost. 
 
 " I have a message for you from Isaac," said John. 
 " I promised to take it : I didn't dream you'd be out. 
 Woman, how ill you're looking ! Go in and sit down." 
 
 " What is it ? " she gasped. 
 
 " The Baron and Baroness have gone to spend the 
 day at Roodwell with the Baron's brother ; they've 
 
 170
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 taken Isaac with them, to see about some pigeons. He'll 
 be back about eight." 
 
 This was terrible news to the widow. She sat think- 
 ing, her hands clasped tight on the knobs of her chair. 
 " John Bost, you've got your cart here," she began. 
 " You must drive across to Roodwell with a note from 
 me to Isaac." 
 
 " You're a cool 'un ! " replied John. " A note ! Is 
 it to ask the Baroness to come back with him to supper ? " 
 She looked up at him, and his voice fell. " I can do it," 
 he said ; " 'taint much out of my way. But make 
 haste." 
 
 She went to her father's bureau, and laboriously in- 
 dited the following epistle — 
 
 " Dear Isaac, — You must speak to the Baron and to 
 Basset immediately. The thing must be done at eight 
 o'clock to-night, in the Hillside Woods. I have every- 
 thing ready. Come home to supper. Come as quick 
 as you can. 
 
 " Your Mother." 
 
 She enclosed this in an envelope and gave it to the 
 carrier. Supposing he opened the letter and betrayed 
 her ? No, people never did such sort of things outside 
 the newspapers. Besides, she had no choice. " You're 
 an honest man, John," she said, " I know. I'll give you 
 a five-penny bit." 
 
 " Hang your five-penny bit," replied John, and walked 
 out of the cottage. 
 
 She stood uncertain for a moment, then she ran after 
 him and called him back. 
 
 " John, John, listen ! Answer me one thing before 
 171
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 you go. The Domine — has he ever asked you to take 
 the Blue Ribbon, John ? " 
 
 John Bost stared hard into the old woman's face. 
 " Asked me ! " he said cheerily. " Dozens of times. 
 Whom doesn't he ask ? Why, the Baron wears one — 
 and the Baroness too ! " 
 
 " No, I've never seen that," objected the widow. 
 
 " Well, anyhow, he's made them teetotalers," replied 
 John, a bit disconcerted. 
 
 " Thank you ! Thank you ! " the widow cried fer- 
 vently. " Never mind me, John. See that Isaac gets 
 my letter. Good day ! " 
 
 " So it's that," said the carrier to himself, gazing down 
 at the envelope. " Poor old woman, she don't look 
 like living much longer, but, if she does, she's bound to 
 find out." 
 
 The widow, back in her armchair, broke into joyful 
 and angry tears — tears that were wrath with herself for 
 the moment's brief doubt of her boy. 
 
 He would understand her message, for although she 
 rarely referred to the subject, he knew that she was pre- 
 paring with Basset the arrest of Tom Bunsing, as soon 
 as they had proof of his guilt. She admired Isaac's 
 refusal to take any steps against his rival ; it was like 
 the nobility of his character. But she must concert 
 measures where he naturally held aloof. The very 
 dehcacy of his position made it doubly incumbent on 
 her to do her duty to their master. It was this feeling 
 which had left her no rest. " I won't plot anything 
 extra against Tom," had said Isaac. " If he comes in 
 my way, the worse for him." He added to himself, 
 " and for me." 
 
 The evening began to fall, and the widow, having 
 172
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 peeled her potatoes, sat waiting for Isaac's return ; 
 waiting, wondering what was going to happen, not 
 speculating overmuch, resolved to do her duty to the 
 Baron, whatever might befall. The dog, after unappre- 
 ciated attempts to push his nose between her fingers, 
 had curled himself to sleep against her skirt. The mag- 
 pie occasionally annoyed her with his futile " All 
 right ! " 
 
 Supper-time crept by without bringing Isaac. The 
 cuckoo called the hour of seven and half-past. Then 
 she could bear the suspense no longer. She went out 
 into the dark night, and, exhausted as she was, began 
 walking along the road to meet him. Suddenly a dumb 
 anxiety increased upon her, the fear of a catastrophe 
 drawing nigh. She felt that she must speak to some 
 human being, hear some human voice. She toiled down 
 to the turnpike by the high-road ; she would hear there 
 if any one had passed. 
 
 " Yes," said Katey, " the Baron had driven over to 
 Roodwell, in the brougham, with Isaac on the box, 
 beside the coachman. The Baron would be coming back 
 presently ; they never were late. But Isaac had re- 
 turned on foot — why, a couple of hours ago ! He had 
 struck off into the woods ; had he not yet been home ? " 
 
 " The woods ! " repeated the widow. " Katey, had 
 he his gun ? " 
 
 " No, he had not," replied the turnpike woman. " I 
 particularly noticed that. For I said to myself, he 
 ought to take his gun of nights. Don't we all know 
 Tom Bunsing has said that he'd do for him." 
 
 " Tom Bunsing do for him ! " repeated the widow. 
 
 " Yes, neighbour, and I don't hold with those that 
 think you ought to know nothing about your son's 
 
 173
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 doings, nothing at all ! Some things there may be — 
 but there " 
 
 " What things ? " cried the widow. " There can be 
 none." 
 
 " There, there ! But surely you know Isaac and 
 Bunsing are both sweet on Christine ? " 
 
 " I know nothing for certain of either." 
 
 " Well, well ! Tom's a desperate character, and I say 
 that Isaac had better be careful." 
 
 " Nonsense," said the widow ; " he's gone up into 
 the woods to meet Basset." 
 
 " That he hasn't, for Basset went by with two wagons 
 of faggots, ten minutes ago — to the village," 
 
 The widow clutched at her breast. All further doubt 
 was impossible. Between Isaac and Tom Bunsing 
 there existed some secret link of shame. Instead of 
 obeying his mother's message, the keeper had gone up 
 alone, to warn the poacher or to defy him. Even now, 
 perhaps, they were contending in the darkness of the 
 forest, her son and the man she had threatened. " Don't 
 drive me desperate, I too have a mother. Don't drive 
 me desperate," Tom Bunsing had said. 
 
 " How late is it ? " she asked wildly. 
 
 " Near eight o'clock." 
 
 " No, no, your clock's always much too slow. 'Tis 
 more like a quarter past ! " 
 
 " Well," said the turnpike woman apologetically, 
 " the clock certainly ain't particular about a few minutes 
 here nor there. Still, I don't think " 
 
 From the far dark of the woodlands a faint report of 
 firearms rang out clear across the night. 
 
 " Hark, what's that ? " exclaimed Katey. 
 
 But the widow was running along towards the spot 
 
 174
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 where the hill road branched off from the highway. 
 " Isaac ! Isaac ! " she cried stupidly — " Isaac ! " 
 
 She stood still, panting : her leaden limbs refused to 
 carry her farther ; a great sickness and oppression 
 weighed upon her chest. " Isaac ! " — the wide expanse 
 of her beloved woods stretched merciless before her, 
 away into the blackness of the silent winter evening ; 
 with a terrible distinctness she saw him lying motionless, 
 stretched on the turf beneath the ghastly grimness of 
 the trees. 
 
 As she stood gazing, helplessly, the high horizon 
 seemed to lighten : in another moment a paleness spread 
 across it, then, slowly, a pink and purple glow. The 
 woods above the cottage, near the hill-top, were on fire. 
 
 Still she stood gazing, helplessly. The conflagration 
 increased with solemn, far-away stateliness, gradually 
 spreading and filling the east. Now, doubtless, the 
 cottage was burning — the animals ! What had hap- 
 pened ? What had happened to her son ? 
 
 She sank on her knees. " God ! " she screamed — 
 " O God ! O God ! " 
 
 A carriage was coming along the high road at a furious 
 pace. She lifted herself up. The Baron, hurrying home. 
 For an instant the thought flashed across her dizzy brain 
 that blind old Katey might possibly have been mis- 
 taken ! Perhaps she should see Isaac sitting safe beside 
 the coachman ! " Stop," she cried, running to meet the 
 horses — " stop ! " 
 
 The coachman, alone on the box, drew up with a pull. 
 Amidst the clatter of the horses and the harness, the 
 Baron's voice was heard at the window. " Oh, Myn- 
 heer the Baron ! — the forest — Isaac — Isaac — the cot- 
 tage " was all that the widow could articulate. 
 
 175
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 " How ? Isaac ? " exclaimed the Baroness. The 
 Baron opened the carriage door. " Come in here, 
 Widow Quint," he said ; " there is room on the Uttle 
 seat. Quick we've no time to lose. We are hastening 
 to the village for help ! " 
 
 As the carriage flew on through the darkness, the 
 widow, growing gradually somewhat calmer, found 
 breath enough to gasp out her suspicions and her fears. 
 In broken accents she told of Tom Bunsing's miscon- 
 duct and his threats. " And if harm has befallen Isaac 
 — as surely it has — the fault, Mynheer the Baron, is 
 mine ! " 
 
 She burst out weeping. The old couple had listened 
 in anxious sympathy. 
 
 " Yes, weep," said the Baroness, gently, taking the 
 widow's hand. 
 
 " Fault ? " repeated the old man. " Nay, that is not 
 the word. You have acted nobly, in accordance with 
 your whole righteous life." Both of them silently ad- 
 mitted that her fear was well-founded. It would not 
 be the first time, nor the second, that woods had been 
 fired to conceal a poacher's crime. 
 
 The Baron sighed. " Nothing is certain yet," he 
 said. " Isaac has always been an admirable son to you ; 
 no wonder you are anxious about him. But he is pro- 
 bably alive and well ! " 
 
 " Oh, Mynheer — oh, Mevrouw, he is all in all to me," 
 said the widow. " Since the day of his birth he has 
 been my daily glory ! Never mother had a nobler 
 son ! " 
 
 " Well, we shall know in another minute," said the 
 Baron. 
 
 The carriage was rattling along the village street. 
 176
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 The street was full of hurry and voices. Suddenly the 
 horses stopped. 
 
 " There is Basset," cried the Baron. " Hi ! Basset — 
 how about Isaac Quint ? Is he safe ? " 
 
 " Safe enough ! " came the keeper's excited reply. 
 " No fear of his being up in the woods, Mynheer the 
 Baron ! The drunken sot's here in the tavern — too 
 drunk to move ! " 
 
 With a shriek which rang over the rumbling of the 
 fire-engine, the widow sprang out of the shelter of the 
 carriage. 
 
 " Mynheer the Baron, he lies — he lies ! " she cried, 
 and ran into the public house. The others followed 
 her. 
 
 On a bench, up against the wall, sat Isaac, staring 
 stupidly, trying to collect his senses. Half a dozen 
 other men, including Tom Bunsing, were gathered be- 
 side him, near a table covered with glasses. 
 
 At sight of his mother, sick and distraught, the young 
 keeper's eyes seemed to clear, and he steadied himself 
 against the whitewashed wall. 
 
 " Merciful God ! what has happened ? " cried the 
 widow. 
 
 Isaac did not answer. He was trying to remember. 
 When his mother's message had reached him, he had 
 asked the Baron's immediate permission to depart, but, 
 instead of consulting with the head-keeper, he had 
 hurried to the woods to look for Bunsing and secure his 
 silence. He had found the poacher there, and had 
 learned his ultimatum : restitution of the net before 
 eight o'clock, or betrayal of the secret to the widow. 
 In vain Isaac had pleaded his powerlessness ; Tom 
 Bunsing, equally desperate, had answered with the in- 
 12 177
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 formation, strangely new to the sufferer's son, that 
 Vrouw Quint had acknowledged a heart complaint to 
 Katey, who had whispered the news to Vrouw Brodel 
 at the farm. " And a sudden shock may kill her," said 
 Tom Bunsing knowingly. Isaac, conscious that any 
 appeal to his mother would prove worse than useless, 
 had broken down utterly, had implored the other to 
 delay at least until the morning, had finally rushed away, 
 through brake and brushwood, to end his miseries at the 
 tavern in drink. Tom Bunsing, left alone near the spot 
 where he knew the evidence of his guilt must lie hidden, 
 had set fire to a pile of dry twigs which lay dangerously 
 near to his hand. Then he too had fled, emptying his 
 pouch that no cartridges might be found upon him — 
 hence the report — had fled across country to the tavern, 
 where all men would see him. This warning was enough 
 for him ; he would never poach again. 
 
 " I'm all right — all right," said Isaac. 
 
 " Isaac, how came you drunk ? " faltered his mother. 
 ' Why didn't you warn Basset ? Why is Tom Bunsing 
 here ? Don't you know the woods are on fire ? " 
 
 " The woods on fire ! " cried Isaac, starting up and 
 reeling. " So they were saying. I thought they were 
 joking ! " He turned, searching for some one. " Here, 
 Bunsing, yon did that ! " 
 
 " Yes, you did that ! " echoed the widow, gasping, and 
 sinking back. Strong arms seized her. and drew her 
 into a chair. " Mynheer the Baron, he did it ! Tom 
 Bunsing — the poacher ! " 
 
 " Did I ? " exclaimed Tom, " or did Isaac Quint, the 
 drunken keeper ? — Isaac Quint, who gets drunk in the 
 woods every night, and keeps bottles of spirits in 
 the hollow trees up yonder ? — Quint, the drunkenest 
 
 178
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 drunkard in the village, as everybody standing here 
 knows, except his old fool of a mother ! " 
 
 " Silence ! " said the Baron in a terrible voice. 
 
 The widow stared up at the faces around her, and read 
 acquiescence in them all. The vague dangers and threat- 
 enings which all day had muttered around her condensed 
 into definite shape. A look came into her eyes, as they 
 looked on her son, which none that saw it has ever for- 
 gotten. Her head bent ; she fell forward in a heap on 
 the floor. 
 
 They lifted her immediately, and the doctor, coming 
 to the front — for the whole village was assembled in or 
 near the tavern — tried to do what little could be done. 
 With a cry whose echo seemed unending in the silence, 
 Isaac had sunk upon his knees beside the body. 
 
 The police were in the room, putting back the crowd. 
 Outside, the rustic firemen were continuing their futile 
 preparations. The distant heaven was ablaze with 
 light. 
 
 The doctor desisted, with a shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 " Arrest these two men," said the police-inspector 
 softly. 
 
 Isaac held out both arms to the handcuffs, and over 
 the set anguish of his face swept a gleam that was almost 
 of hope. 
 
 179
 
 The Summer Christmas 
 
 IT is an old story, forgotten long ago, I think, in that 
 quiet corner of the world which saw it happen. A 
 touching story it has always seemed to me, and strangely 
 quaint ; but that, perhaps, may only be because to me 
 its memory remains indissolubly blended with recol- 
 lections of the place in which I used to hear it told me, 
 because the soft voice of the teller must ever be to me 
 the music of the tale. For me alone is this : why should 
 I seek, then, to intrude it upon others ? To them it will 
 be a passing incident, printed, paid for (a tenth part of a 
 sixpence), sliced between two others, yawned over for 
 five minutes, and forgot. But to me it is the changeless 
 Nowel, the young anthem of the angels around the 
 cradle of the Saviour of the world. And again I hear my 
 mother speaking, in the wainscot chamber with the 
 painted panels, in the half light of the fire-logs and her 
 face, hear her telling, with a voice hke distant church- 
 bells, all the story, how it happened, with but little 
 alteration, many winter evenings, almost word for word. 
 The voice is stilled. The winter evenings were long and 
 cold and dark. They are longer now. 
 
 I said the story is an old one. That must be true. 
 For one thing, there are no Counts Edelstam in Holland 
 now ; the family has died out, and the simple customs 
 
 i8o
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 among which they hved are also dead or dying. All 
 this I know. Yet to me the story is so fresh and new 
 it might occur to-morrow. The oldest thing in a man's 
 life (and they say it is the last) is the memory of his 
 mother — daughters may forget : however that be, 
 thank God ! to this eternal soul — a-flutter round the 
 flame betwixt two shadows — come some few thoughts 
 that remain untinged by time. 
 
 It was on a winter evening that Magda von Malitz 
 arrived at Stamsel — a bitter winter evening, cold and 
 dark as this. The old Count had been expecting her 
 since sunset. The carriage, sent to meet her at the 
 post-house, should have brought her back three hours 
 ago. He sat in the wainscot chamber, where the painted 
 panels are, wondering if some accident could possibly 
 have befallen the horses. The suggestion troubled him- 
 He rang for Peter. 
 
 " Peter, do you think that anything can have happened 
 to — the young Baroness ? " 
 
 " I do not think so. Mynheer the Count." 
 
 " And why not, pray ? " asked the old gentleman 
 testily. 
 
 " Oh ! if you wish it, of course. Mynheer the Count." 
 
 Count Edelstam took snuff. He used to be a long 
 time about taking snuff. 
 
 " Travelling is not so dangerous " began the old 
 
 servant, who never spoke unless spoken to, except when 
 he thought he had gone too far. 
 
 " What ? " His master stopped, amazed, with up- 
 lifted pinch. 
 
 " As it used to be, I was going to say." 
 
 " That is true. Now, when I went to Paris " — the 
 i8i 4
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 old gentleman snuffed, shook his head and waited — 
 " yet that was before the Revolution ! " He presented 
 his mull to the servant, a thing he never did by daylight. 
 
 " Your Nobleness could not go now," said Peter. 
 
 " Peter, you presume. Mind your own business," 
 replied the Count with vivacity. For that subject was 
 a sore one, as will readily appear. 
 
 " Still I wish she had arrived," said the Count. 
 
 " So she has," said the servant. 
 
 " What on earth do you mean ? " said the Count. 
 
 " I hear the carriage in the courtyard," said the ser- 
 vant. 
 
 " Then why the devil can't you speak ? " said the 
 Count. 
 
 " I did not wish to presume," said the servant. 
 
 " You are the curse of my life," exclaimed the Count, 
 running out into the hall. 
 
 " And its blessing," said, preparing to follow, the 
 servant. 
 
 Magda von Malitz was being ushered up the marble 
 steps from the great doorway. She was very young, 
 with a lot of fair hair, and big blue eyes. She must have 
 looked charming under her travelling-hood. 
 
 She dropped a deep curtsey to the stately old gentle- 
 man, her uncle, in the cloud of white hair (was it pow- 
 dered ? ) and splendid lace ruff. He took her by the 
 hand with a few words of greeting, and led her into the 
 parlour. 
 
 " You are like your mother," he said, lifting the lamp- 
 shade to gaze at her. " Why did she go all the way to 
 Austria ? It is too far." 
 
 " The foot goes where the heart leads it, my uncle," 
 said Magda, and dropped another curtsey. 
 
 182
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 " Tut, tut. Well, she died there ; it is seven years 
 ago. 
 
 " Eight years, my uncle," said Magda. 
 
 " Tut, tut. You mustn't contradict me. Nobody 
 contradicts me here." 
 
 Magda dropped another deep curtsey. There must 
 lie little satisfaction, she reflected, in pretending to be 
 right. But she only said — 
 
 " And where is my Uncle Robert, Uncle Charles ? " 
 
 " Your Uncle Robert is away," replied Uncle Charles. 
 And he coughed a great deal, and cleared his throat, and 
 choked. 
 
 " Away ? " 
 
 " And why not, pray ? " said the old gentleman 
 sheirply. 
 
 " My mother has told me you always lived together, 
 that was all," she answered, with eyes full of innocent 
 surprise ; "six months here at Stamsel, six months at 
 Bardwyk, four miles off." 
 
 " It is four and a half," said Count Edelstam. 
 
 " And she had never known you two days apart. I 
 have often heard her say that. When, please, is he 
 coming back ? " 
 
 " You ask too many questions, my niece," replied the 
 Count. " You are a stranger here. You could ask 
 questions for ever. My housekeeper will show you to 
 your apartment. After that, pray come down and have 
 some supper." 
 
 " Forgive me," she said, " I hardly feel myself a 
 stranger. I used to hear about you and Uncle Robert 
 every day while mother was aUve." 
 
 He solemnly kissed her on the forehead. 
 
 " You will be happy here, I trust," he said. " We 
 183
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 will do everything to make you happy. It is a quiet 
 place, but so is Bardwyk ; and neither of them is quieter 
 than your convent of Plauensee." 
 
 " I am happy to be rid of school. I am happy to be 
 here," said Magda, departing under care of Vrouw Slomp. 
 
 The old Count turned abruptly to his servant. " Now 
 that is very strange, is it not ? " he said, " that she should 
 begin by asking after Robert." 
 
 " Not so very strange, if your Nobleness comes to 
 consider. Evidently the young lady knows more of 
 what happened before than of what has occurred in the 
 last six years." 
 
 " Well, go and live with my brother Robert," replied 
 Count Charles inconsequently. 
 
 " As your Nobleness pleases. Shall I send you my 
 brother Paul ? " 
 
 The one old man looked in the other's imperturbable 
 face. Then they both had snuff ; and while they were 
 enjoying it, Magda came back. Her hair was all about 
 her brow in curls and ringlets ; her dark frock, high- 
 waisted, after the fashion of the period, suited the trim- 
 ness of her graceful figure. She was all dimples and 
 sweetness and smiles. 
 
 " Now to prove that I am no stranger," she said gaily, 
 " I will teU you about that snuff-box. Uncle Charles, 
 which you have got in your hand. It has a stag chased 
 on top of it, silver-gilt, with two rubies for eyes." 
 
 " Dear, dear, it is time you came home," he said, 
 laughing. " Yet, my dear, you were never in the 
 Netherlands before." 
 
 " Still, they are home," she answered gravely. " I 
 never knew my Austrian father : my mother has been 
 dead so long. Brabant has always seemed my father- 
 
 184
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 land ; mother wished me to think so. She never tired 
 
 of telling me about her life before her marriage. Uncle 
 Charles, I was so sorry you could not have me a month 
 earlier, before Christmas. I should have liked, above 
 all things, to be present at the ' Peace-making.' I had 
 been looking forward to it. Of course my Uncle Robert 
 was here for that ? " 
 
 " My dear, I must go and wash my hands for supper," 
 said Uncle Charles, and he hastily beat a retreat. From 
 one of the panel-chamber's many gloomy corners old 
 Peter came forward into the shaded light. 
 
 " Young Freule," he said, " you will excuse me, but 
 the name of your Uncle Robert is never mentioned in this 
 house." 
 
 " Why, Peter," cried the girl, " whatever do you 
 mean ? And where is Paul ? " 
 
 " Paul, an 't please your Nobleness, has gone with 
 Count Robert to Bardwyk ; they live there always now. 
 Six years ago our masters quarrelled : they have never 
 met or spoken since." 
 
 " Quarrelled ? " 
 
 " It came on about a journey — quite unexpectedly, 
 as one may say. They had always been the best of 
 friends, though very different characters. My master 
 is quick and kind-hearted. Count Robert is slow — but 
 la ! he's kind-hearted too." 
 
 " I know," said the girl impatiently ; " but the 
 quarrel ! What quarrel ? " 
 
 Old Peter peered out of his little grey eyes. " Your 
 Nobleness knows a deal," he said. " They'd been 
 planning their journey for months, but they always 
 squabbled over it. Count Robert, he wanted to go to 
 Paris ; he'd never been out of the country at all. Count 
 
 185
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 Karel had been, as a young man, with me, thirty-nine 
 years ago come next June, and he wouldn't go again, 
 for the one place he'd been to was Paris. La ! what a 
 time we had in Paris ! It was just before the outbreak 
 of the great Revolution ; 'tis a wonder I'm here to tell 
 the tale ! " That was Peter's stereotyped expression at 
 this stage of his story. You were now expected to 
 request further details. 
 
 " They quarrelled ! " said the Freule, speaking as in a 
 dream. 
 
 Peter knit his bushy eyebrows. " After what we had 
 gone through, I cannot be surprised at my master's 
 decision," he said. 
 
 " But there was no revolution six years ago in Paris ! 
 Revolutions are done." 
 
 " There might have been," said Peter emphatically ; 
 " any time. The people that did what the French did 
 in '89 — do you know what they did to the Dauphin ? " 
 
 " Yes," said the girl softly. 
 
 " Dear, dear, they shouldn't teach young ladies such 
 things. And to thousands of innocent women ! No 
 wonder Count Karel will never go to Paris again. No, 
 he wanted to visit London ! Count Robert refused to 
 hear of London, because the English have taken the 
 Cape of Good Hope." 
 
 " That, also, I can understand," remarked Magda. 
 
 " They had frequently quarrelled about the matter, 
 amicably, as we fancied, but one evening, suddenly, they 
 grew violent. They were rude to each other." Old 
 Peter's voice dropped to a whisper. " Words fell 
 between them — in fact, in the presence of us servants, 
 they called each other names. I should not tell you, but 
 that it is necessary you should understand. It is not 
 
 186
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 the quarrel, it is that which one cannot forgive the other. 
 Each refused to apologize ; both were in fault. Count 
 Robert left for Bardwyk that night with my brother. 
 There has been no communication between the two 
 houses since." 
 
 " But the Peace-making ! " cried Magda, the tears 
 in her eyes. " Surely they must meet at the Peace- 
 making ! " 
 
 " Hush ! I hear my master's step ! Neither has been 
 present at the Peace-making, Freule, since the Christmas 
 before the quarrel ! " 
 
 At this juncture Count Karel entered, and, offering 
 his hand, led Magda to the supper-table. The soft light 
 of the candles fell from massive candlesticks : there were 
 glittering glass and snowy napery and simple fare. They 
 ate almost in silence, with formal question and answer 
 about the journey. It was only when the oranges and 
 walnuts were put on the table that Count Karel said 
 what he wanted to say. 
 
 " It has been arranged," he began, looking down on 
 the crackers he was carefuUy adjusting, " that you will 
 spend six months of the year with me and six at Bardwyk. 
 I shall ask you to leave for Bardwyk on the 31st of June. 
 Meanwhile, please let us avoid the subject." 
 
 She laid her head upon the table-cloth and sobbed. 
 
 " Don't," said Count Karel ; his voice trembled. 
 
 " I — I can't help it. Please forgive me. It is so 
 different from the home-coming I had expected." 
 
 " You cannot miss anything. You had never seen 
 either of us, Magda ! " 
 
 " I — I know. But I have loved you both ever since 
 I can remember. Mother taught me to. And she said 
 your love for each other was the blessing of the neigh- 
 
 187
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 bourhood. It had taught you to institute the Peace- 
 making " 
 
 " Silence ! " said Count Karel in a voice of thunder. 
 Its tones rang through the lonely house. Old Peter 
 crept up anxiously and peeped through the door. 
 
 That was the end of Magda's first evening at Stamsel. 
 Many days and evenings followed — cold, quiet, comfort- 
 able, uniformly dull. At least they got dull when she 
 realized their uniformity. A silence hung over the 
 house — a beautiful old house, full of art-treasures, many 
 of the present lord's collecting. Everything was in 
 absolute order under Peter's most absolute rule. The 
 housekeeper was a nonentity. Magda was a guest. In 
 the clockwork machinery of the house no hitches occurred 
 except such as the master occasionally provoked. Count 
 Karel's temper was quick. He believed in, although he 
 detested, scolding. He even scolded Peter. Peter ruled 
 him with a rod of iron. 
 
 " The house is silent," said Magda ruefully. She 
 obtained, by not asking for it, permission to drive over 
 to Bardwyk from time to time. The latter was a smaller 
 edifice, a tiny castle, still more valuably furnished, not 
 with art-curios, but with beautiful sixteenth-century 
 furniture in its original place. Nothing much lay be- 
 tween the two properties but a stretch of bleak Brabant 
 country, dotted over with stunted trees. Connected 
 with each place was a ragged village : here and there a 
 stray house lay lost. Half-way stood the church, in 
 almost desolate loneliness, with the dwelling-house of the 
 priest. 
 
 And so Magda got to know her Uncle Robert. He 
 very much resembled his elder brother, but in a quieter 
 way : there was not the eagle flash of the eye : there was 
 
 i88
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 a stronger, squarer chin. Count Robert was a book- 
 worm, perfectly content among county histories, local 
 and provincial and familial chronicles, oddities and 
 quiddities, notes and queries, intellectual parings and 
 fringes, and rubbish of every sort. He hked his niece to 
 sit by him, working tapestry. " But I miss my bil- 
 liards ! " he exclaimed one day, suddenly, looking up 
 from van Leeuwen's Batavia Illustrata. She did not ask 
 him to explain the " but," or the aggressive denial in his 
 tone. " Do you play billiards, Magda ? " 
 
 " No, Uncle Robert : they did not teach us in the 
 convent," replied Magda demurely, bending over her 
 work. 
 
 " My dear, they were very right. When you come 
 here you must learn to play at billiards, and also at 
 backgammon." 
 
 " Uncle Charles and I play backgammon of evenings," 
 said Magda. " He plays beautifully." 
 
 " H'm — but not with proper caution. Backgammon, 
 of all games, requires caution." 
 
 " Does it ? " 
 
 " I shall prove to you that it does when we play 
 together. My dear, it wants a long time till the 31st of 
 June." 
 
 " This is the 17th of April," was Magda's only answer. 
 
 His pride prevented his asking her whether she looked 
 forward to the transmigration, yet he would have given 
 a good deal to know. 
 
 " It is time for me to go home," said Magda. That 
 final word invariably annoyed him. But he quietly 
 rang the bell and asked for the Freule's carriage. 
 
 Old Paul stood in the doorway, a stouter replica of 
 Peter, with a redder nose and whiter hair. 
 
 189
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 " An't please your Nobleness," said Paul, " Thys 
 cannot drive the Freule back to-night." Thys was the 
 Stamsel coachman. 
 
 " It does not please my Nobleness at all," replied 
 Count Robert. " Pray, what is the matter with Thys ? " 
 
 " Thys has been suddenly taken ill," said Paul, with 
 a grin and a side glance towards the Freule. 
 
 "Drunk, of course," said the Count with quiet triumph. 
 
 " An't please your Nobleness, no," said Paul, with 
 still greater satisfaction. 
 
 " Then what is the matter ? Out with it ! " 
 
 " I hardly hke to tell before the Freule," said Paul, 
 with beaming face and fidgety feet. " I am not at all 
 sure that the Freule will approve. But to speak the 
 truth, Mynheer the Count, there's been a fight between 
 Thys of Stamsel and one of our Bardwyk men, and Thys 
 has been beaten all to pieces." 
 
 " Which of our men ? " asked old Count Robert, 
 buried in Batavia Illustrata. 
 
 " Red-headed Jons, the stable-boy." 
 
 " The rogue ought to be ashamed of himself." Count 
 Robert's head suddenly emerged from the book. " You 
 will not give him a gold piece, Paul ; do you hear ? 
 I will not have it." 
 
 Magda had risen. " No one need ask what the quarrel 
 was about," she said sadly. 
 
 " My dear, it is only natural that servants should 
 stick up for their masters." 
 
 " And the masters ? " She looked him full in the 
 face. His eyes fell. " I can drive myself home to-night," 
 she said. " But I very much fear this will prevent my 
 ever coming again." 
 
 Her uncle followed her. " You can have a boy from 
 190
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 here," he said. " Magda, listen. You are right. Tell 
 your uncle that I much regret this incident, and that 
 Thys (whom I have always liked, but that is neither 
 here nor there) shall have every care and comfort. No- 
 thing more, child — do you hear ? and nothing less. 
 Good-night ! " 
 
 She drove back with an exultant Bardwyk boy behind 
 her. Her heart, by nature light, was very heavy. At 
 the pastorage-house, half-way, she paused, and going in, 
 sat down by the old priest's side. 
 
 " You love them as much as I," she said. 
 
 " Boy and man," replied the old priest meekly, 
 " I have known them fifty years." 
 
 " How long ago is it, reverend father, that they 
 instituted the ' Peace-making ' ? Tell me all about it ; 
 you have never told me before." 
 
 " Child, I think I have told you everything. It was 
 twenty years ago, when your mother, who was so much 
 younger than they, married and went to live in Austria. 
 Your mother, as you know, did not marry early ; she 
 had long kept house for them. When she was gone, they 
 said — and I think they were right — there seemed to 
 be many more fights and squabbles among the people. 
 We Brabanders are always a quarrelsome race, at 
 Kermesses and feasts and funerals, and we love a law 
 contention or a long-drawn family feud. Your mother 
 — God rest her gentle presence — had somehow been a 
 Messenger of Peace. She would go into the cottages and 
 bid the men — and the women ! — shake hands. Then, 
 when she was gone, and the fights and contentions grew 
 continuous, your uncle and myself — yes, my dear, I 
 had a share in it [he smiled] — we started the Christmas 
 Peace-making. Once a year, at the Holy Feast of 
 
 191
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 Peace and Goodwill, after the Midnight Mass of the 
 Nativity, we hold a little special service, full of ' Blessed 
 are the Peace-makers,' and we sing the Angels' Song. 
 It is very short and simple. The Bishop gladly gave 
 permission. And then, ere it is over, they who will 
 shake hands before the altar : some I call by name ; 
 with many I have spoken previously ; with some I 
 reason, even on the altar-steps. Ah, my dear, it used 
 to be a beautiful service " — the old man sighed heavily — 
 " shedding an especial glory over our Christmastide." 
 
 " But it still takes place ! " 
 
 Father Cordes sighed again. "It still takes place. 
 What will you have ? The manorial pew stands empty 
 on that day. On all other occasions Count Robert goes 
 to a strange church, across the moor ! The whole 
 countryside knows of the quarrel. The influence of 
 your uncles is gone. On more than one occasion in 
 former years Count Karel, rising in his seat, has com- 
 manded some resolute wrong-doer to make atonement. 
 And now ? Let quarrel who quarrel will. Their 
 masters hate each other. Fathful Thys of Stamsel 
 lies at Bardwyk with a broken head." Tears came into 
 the old priest's voice. 
 
 " I have done what I could," he said presently ; 
 " I have reasoned, I have pleaded. God alone can 
 touch hearts. I am growing very feeble. Freule, my 
 earthly pilgrimage is nearly over. I often feel that I 
 could die in peace if I could see my masters reconciled." 
 
 " You will see them reconciled," said Magda suddenly. 
 
 " God grant it." She rose. 
 
 " Ask him. Ask Him often," she said. 
 
 " I have asked Him every day." 
 
 " Then how can it not happen ? But ask that it may 
 192
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 happen now, dear father, before another Christmas 
 comes." 
 
 " It must, if I am to see it — on earth," said the father 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 She left him without another word, for she could not 
 have spoken it. 
 
 Count Karel was fortunately inclined to take a 
 favourable view of the affray. His natural sweetness 
 came to his assistance, for he was one of those people 
 who are permanently sorry they have taken offence. So 
 he waited till the assurance that his coachman's injuries 
 were anything but dangerous (and honestly earned), 
 and then he even went so far as to smile. " Give the 
 boy from Bardwyk a pot of beer," he said to Peter, "and 
 see that he has some food before he goes back." He 
 turned in the doorway. " What boy is it ? " he added. 
 
 " One of Kotter's, the gamekeeper's, Mynheer the 
 Count." 
 
 " Well, that's a good litter. I'm glad Count Robert 
 has taken him on. But, my dear Magda, I should say 
 you had better give up going across for the present." 
 
 " In all things, dear uncle, I shall do as you think 
 fit." 
 
 It took Robert three weeks to write and ask if his 
 niece might pay him another visit. He would not apply 
 direct to her, that being contrary to his ideas of etiquette ; 
 so at last he sent a note : " Count Robert presents his 
 compliments to Count Karel," his logical mind forbidding 
 him to use the phrase " Dear Brother." When she came, 
 " I have missed you very much," he said, and sat and 
 read his folio for the rest of the afternoon. 
 
 Driving along the untidy road, between the scraggy 
 poplars, she came across the doctor ; and she stopped 
 13 193
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 to inquire after Father Cordes, who seemed more feeble 
 than ever of late. 
 
 " What will you have ? " said the doctor coolly. 
 " The man is nearly eighty. He will live through the 
 summer, I should say ; but in any case the autumn 
 damps will kill him." 
 
 " That is very sad," remarked the Freule. 
 
 " Sad ? If you saw what I see in one day, young lady, 
 you would alter your ideas of grief." 
 
 " I was thinking of something else," replied the girl, to 
 the doctor's annoyance, and she drove on through the 
 mild May dampness, with grey thoughts in the gathering 
 grey. 
 
 " Your uncle is well, I presume ? " said Count Karel, 
 when they met at the five-o'clock dinner. 
 
 " He had a cold." 
 
 " He was always subject to colds. He does not pay 
 proper attention to draughts. I merely inquire because, 
 unless his health is equal to the exertion, you could not 
 go to stay with him, dear Magda, in June." 
 
 " Do you find me very exhausting ? " inquired Magda 
 with a smile. 
 
 " I ? Far from it. But a guest in a little household 
 like Robert's must cause considerable commotion. 
 Peter manages everything admirably : I should hardly 
 have the same confidence in Paul. And Robert is a 
 bookworm. My dear, if I thought you would not be 
 quite comfortable there, I should not allow you to go." 
 He looked across anxiously : this reflection had frequently 
 been troubling him of late. 
 
 " Dear uncle, let us go there together," she said, 
 trembling. He did not answer at all, but in the middle 
 of dinner, in his nervousness, took snuff. 
 
 194
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 " I met the doctor," she began presently, unable t6 
 bear the silence any longer. " He says that Father 
 Cordes cannot live through the autumn." 
 
 " Doctors always say that," replied Count Karel in- 
 continently. But his mouth twitched. 
 
 " He certainly is very old and feeble." 
 
 " I shall go and see him to-morrow, and tell him about 
 my vinery. I am in hopes he will have, this year again, 
 a bunch of grapes on the longest day." Count Karel 
 spoke with unconcealed vaingloriousness ; in those days 
 that was a great achievement. Count Karel loved his 
 green-house. 
 
 Next morning he went and told the priest, and the old 
 man answered : " Count Karel, I thank you kindly. 
 But oh, 'tis a branch of olive you should bring me 
 first of all." The Lord of the Manor walked home in a 
 rage, but several days elapsed before he remarked to 
 Magda : " Yes, undoubtedly. Father Cordes is not very 
 well just now. It is probably a passing indisposi- 
 tion." 
 
 " Poor, dear old man," said Magda. 
 
 " He is not so very old. He is not yet eighty." A 
 long pause. " True, you are eighteen." 
 
 " Uncle, supposing the doctor were right ? Supposing 
 the father were not to get better." Magda stood looking 
 out of the window. " Supposing he were to meet my 
 mother, and — and — uncle, my mother never knew." 
 
 " How dare you ? " exclaimed Count Karel, and 
 walked out of the room. 
 
 " You are right in so far," said Count Robert two 
 days later. " I have much respect for your judgment, 
 Magda ; for a woman's it is singularly sound. My 
 brother has never sufficiently considered the importance 
 
 195
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 of even your least significant actions, with an eye to the 
 peasantry around. It is a mistake I have often pointed 
 out to him, when we were — in the habit of conversing. 
 Now this subject you have occasionally referred to, 
 of our living together or separately — in itself it is a 
 matter of slight signification (we have two houses) — 
 but it has its exceedingly objectionable side." 
 
 " I am so glad to hear you say that, dear uncle," 
 said Magda fervently. 
 
 The old man blinked his eyes. " I am alluding," he 
 explained hastily, " to the Christmas Peace-making. 
 Viewed with an eye to the Peace-making, it is illogical, 
 absurd. I have often thought that. It is absurd. 
 Now supposing I was present, by accident, at the Peace- 
 making, from a simple consciousness of absurdity, I 
 should have to get up and take Karel's hand." 
 
 " You would forgive ? " she panted. 
 
 " My dear, you are not as reasonable as I expected. 
 No. Before my servant my brother called me ' an idiot.' 
 To accept that epithet would be to render my position 
 untenable." 
 
 " Paul ! He is deaf. I am sure he never heard it. 
 Have you asked him ? " 
 
 " It is not a subject one discusses with one's servant," 
 said Count Robert stiffly. 
 
 She came up to him with an arch imperiousness and 
 rang the little hand-bell by his side. 
 
 " My dear, you forget yourself ! " 
 
 " Trust me," she said pleadingly, " not to do that." 
 
 And when Paul came in — " Paul," she began, " I 
 think you have omitted " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Freule," interposed the old 
 servant promptly. " I can't hear what you say." 
 
 196
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 "To do something I asked you the other day," 
 shouted the Freule. 
 
 " I never heard you. I'm getting deafer. But I was 
 always deaf. What was it, Freule ? " 
 
 " Paul," interrupted Count Robert suddenly. " The 
 last time I conversed with my brother, did you happen 
 to hear what passed ? " 
 
 Magda cast the old servant, who adored her, a quick 
 glance of intelligence. 
 
 " Not a word, Mynheer the Count," said Paul. " How 
 could I ? Why, that's but six years ago. I was quite 
 as deaf then as now." 
 
 " You may go," said Count Robert calmly. " My 
 dear, I was under the impression that we shouted. I am 
 glad we spoke like gentlemen. Perhaps it was not as 
 much of a quarrel as we thought. Still, he was very 
 rude to me. I can never forgive him. But I admit that 
 the Christmas Peace-making has become ridiculous. 
 I miss my billiards, Magda ; I hope you will develop an 
 aptitude for the game. It is a logical game. I wish 
 July was here ; I am looking forward to your 
 coming." 
 
 Magda went back to her Uncle Charles. She found 
 him in a state of exultation. He had just secured, by 
 chance, from an itinerant pedlar, a rare piece of genuine 
 old Delft. He lingered in front of his show-cases, and 
 she observed that he especially attracted her attention 
 to the acquisitions of the last half-dozen years. " It is 
 a pity," he said, more to himself. " Robert was a very 
 fair judge of a curio. Now you, Magda, you do your best 
 dear ; you do your very best." 
 
 " Uncle Karel," said Magda, " in a few weeks I shall 
 be going to Bardwyk for good." 
 
 197
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 " Till the 31st of December," corrected the Count, 
 with annoyance. " I cannot help it. I am exceedingly 
 vexed. I shall miss you most dreadfully. Do not 
 agitate me, Magda. I am the elder ; you cannot expect 
 me to take the first step." 
 
 " The second ? " begged the girl, with her arm round 
 his neck. 
 
 " Nor the second. He called me an idiot before my 
 servant. Me, the head of the family — no man would 
 stand that." 
 
 " But, dear, uncle," said Magda, half laughing. " You 
 called him an idiot too ! " 
 
 " In the second place, Magda, I called him an idiot, 
 most certainly. I was right. He was an idiot. As 
 far as that goes, we were both idiots." 
 
 " In that case, dear uncle, you, with your natural 
 perspicacity — forgive your little niece ; Uncle Robert is 
 so deliberate, so logical, but he is very much slower 
 in coming to a conclusion than you — you, with your 
 quickness, your keenness of perception, I am sure you 
 would have realized the situation, would have expressed 
 your opinion of it, much sooner than he." 
 
 " Dear me, there is something in that ! " said Count 
 Charles. " You think I must have been the first to dis- 
 cover he was an idiot ? " 
 
 " I am sure of it," replied Magda demurely, and kissed 
 her uncle's hand. 
 
 Count Charles took a few steps up the drawing-room 
 and down again. " In any case I refuse to consider the 
 matter before Christmas," he said. " I refuse abso- 
 lutely ; do you understand ? It would be unfair to your 
 Uncle Robert, who has a right to your six months alone 
 with him. It would be mean. I do not think I have 
 
 198
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 ever done a mean thing. He would say that was my 
 motive. I refuse absolutely. You will particularly 
 oblige me by not mentioning the subject again." 
 
 " You will particularly oblige me," said Uncle Robert, 
 next week, " by not mentioning the subject again. I 
 should have no objection to a satisfactory settlement 
 with Charles pro forma, though I cannot forget that he 
 erroneously mistook me for an idiot. But I have always 
 resolved that any such form of reconciliation should 
 take place exclusively at Christmastide, at the Peace- 
 making. That ceremony I consider the only raison 
 d'etre of a truce. Our example, I understand, has had 
 the most disastrous effects. The whole neighbourhood 
 is in a more lawless and quarrelsome condition than it 
 ever was before. And no wonder. Logic, after all, 
 rules the world, though short-sighted philosophers deny 
 it. The Peace-making has gone to ruin. There are 
 families that have quarrelled for years. But for us 
 to restore it, personally, as we could do, for ever, would 
 be humiliating in the extreme. Of late, my dear, I have 
 thought it all out. We have no further choice ; we must 
 either remain absurd or become contemptible. I should 
 not object to the Peace-making ; but it is for ever im- 
 possible. Take a book." 
 
 Magda went and told the priest, and they wept 
 together. "In no case shall I see their reunion ! " 
 sighed Father Cordes. " My days on earth are numbered, 
 I cannot live two months." 
 
 " I can do no more. I give it up," said Magda, weep- 
 ing. " Let us speak of other things. There is one thing 
 I have long been wanting to ask you to do for me, father. 
 On the 17th of June is the anniversary of my mother's 
 death. I want you to let us read a Mass for her and to 
 
 199
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 hold a short commemoration service in this church of 
 yours she loved so well." 
 
 " I will come myself," said the old man, trembling. 
 
 It was during the following night, in a dream, that 
 the great thought came to Magda. Eagerly she went 
 across to Bardwyk, and begged of Count Robert to come. 
 " I loved her dearly," said Count Robert ; " I cannot 
 reasonably refuse to be present. Magda, you are a good 
 girl, I would not hurt your feelings. However, I shall 
 not sit in our chairs : you must see I have a seat on the 
 opposite side of the chancel." 
 
 Magda stopped at the Pastorage, and held a long 
 confabulation with the father. He blessed her at 
 parting, his hand on her sunny young head. 
 
 " Your Uncle Robert coming ? " said Uncle Charles. 
 " Well, that shall not keep me from being present. We 
 want such a peace-maker here as your mother, my dear. 
 The long feud between two families at Bardwyk ended 
 yesterday, Peter tells me, in a murder." 
 
 " God forgive the guilty," said Magda under her 
 breath. 
 
 He glanced across her at quickly. "The Father is 
 failing fast," she said. 
 
 " He will outlive Robert and me," replied Count 
 Edelstam testily ; " but young people always think the 
 old are going to die." 
 
 " He v^dll never conduct another Christmas Peace- 
 making," said Magda. 
 
 " We shall see when Christmas comes," repUed the 
 Count defiantly. 
 
 " When Christmas comes," repeated Magda, and she 
 looked away into the pale blue sky. " When Christmas 
 comes." 
 
 200
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 " You are pledged to reticence," said the Count 
 meaningly, " till Christmas comes." 
 
 " Yes," answered Magda, " Christmas." 
 
 " When does Christmas come ? " she suddenly ex- 
 claimed — " Wherever the Lord Christ, surely, is born 
 into human hearts. Christmas ! it is the Lord Christ's 
 coming ! It is his message of peace and his birth of 
 goodwill ! " She passed out into the summer night. 
 
 For the ensuing weeks she was busy in the little 
 village church. She renovated it entirely with deft 
 fingers, preparing its ornamentation as if for a festival. 
 When the day approached, its altars shone bright with 
 fresh gilding, new embroideries, a profusion of flowers. 
 AU the last afternoon she worked hard, admitting no 
 one. Only Father Cordes lent her assistance. It had 
 been her especial desire that the service should be held 
 at the same solemn hour as the midnight Mass of Christ- 
 mas Eve. She had conquered her uncles' opposition. 
 " It was the time of my mother's death," she reminded 
 them. 
 
 And thus, when the hour was come, the peasants, for 
 miles around, crept through the balmy stillness of a 
 soft midsummer midnight to the blazing portal of the 
 little church. In his stall by the high altar, robed and 
 shrouded, white with approaching dissolution, sat the 
 hoary parish priest they had all known all their lives. 
 And, opposite each other, on both sides of the chancel, 
 gazing neither right nor left, but at each other, sat the 
 two Lords of the Manor, the old Counts Edelstam. 
 Between them knelt my mother, thinking of her mother, 
 praying as the pure and loving pray for the pure and 
 good. The humble little church was a splendour of 
 hghts and roses — white roses, the symbol of peace and of 
 
 201
 
 THE SUMxMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 innocent grief. And lo ! before the altar, in the place 
 where all were accustomed to see it each December, was 
 the presentment of the holy Nativity in the manger, the 
 worship of the shepherds and the princes, the song of 
 the angels, the evangel of Peace. 
 
 There was nothing unusual in the service — the Mass 
 for the Dead. It was not until quite towards the con- 
 clusion that the unexpected occurred. The old father 
 got up from his seat, and, tottering, came forward. His 
 broken voice rose shrilly gaining in strength. 
 
 " Blessed are the peace-makers, for they shall be 
 known as the children of God." 
 
 It was the little Christmas service of the Peace-making, 
 falling in where it would have fallen, at the end of the 
 Midnight Mass. When the customary brief allocution 
 was reached, the old priest gasped for breath. In a few 
 simple words he told his hearers that he would never keep 
 Christmas with them again ; he had grieved to see how 
 dissensions had increased among them ; the recent mur- 
 der had filled all Christian souls with horror. Once more 
 before God called him away to his rest, he desired to 
 hold among them the wonted festival. He had chosen 
 this anniversary of the death of her to whom the insti- 
 tution owed its origin, the blessed peace-maker that had 
 long been called away from amongst their midst. " But 
 the eternal Prince of Peace is here," said the father : in 
 the utter silence his feeble words fell low. " He is here, 
 and He is waiting for His birth in every heart. And His 
 message is the same, my children, yesterday, to-night, 
 and for ever, the message of forgiveness and good-will." 
 
 As he ceased speaking, the simple village choir, but 
 little disconcerted, raised the familiar chant of the 
 Heavenly Host, and the whole congregation took it up. 
 
 202
 
 THE SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 As the Christmas Anthem filled the building the two 
 brothers left their places — none has ever distinguished 
 who moved first — and silently crossed the chancel and 
 grasped each other's hands. 
 
 The father stood, with arms uplifted, transfigured, 
 upheld. 
 
 Out of the congregation, before any other could 
 stir, two old men pushed their way to the front, and, 
 below the chancel-steps, Paul and Peter embraced. 
 
 203
 
 The Notary's Love Story 
 
 THIS is not a love story. Not a story, at least, of 
 the fashionable little love with a big L. The 
 little Love that explodes and fizzles, like a little flaring 
 match. 
 
 The Notary has never heard of loving or being in 
 love. Only of love-making, the foolish pastime of 
 red-faced lads and lasses, on summer Sunday evenings, 
 among the darkling woods. He disapproves of it. 
 
 The village street of Hardeveld lay winking beneath 
 the glare of the savage August sun. Its white cheeks 
 glowed ; its green eyes glistened ; at its feet the grass 
 blades shrivelled and curled among the red, red-hot 
 paving-bricks. Across every house-front the shutters 
 closed tight, in alternate bars and slits ; there was not 
 a breath of motion, not a flutter of shadow, all down the 
 shiny road. Nothing alive but the Lord of an empty 
 Heaven, spreading, like a truculent Pacha, his ample 
 glory before a veiled and cowering Harim. 
 
 The whitest-robed and closest-veiled of the houses 
 was the Notary's. A cat pressed up against the blister- 
 ing door. The Notary's tortoiseshell cat. Rhubarb. 
 
 Inside, the Notary's clerks lay, clammy, across their 
 foolscap. He himself sat silent in his sanctum, the 
 Notary, Anthony Barbas. A quantity of papers were 
 
 204
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 spread before him ; he was dozing. He had a right 
 to doze ; it was the hour of his fifteen minutes' nap. 
 
 He never, in all his uniform life, did anything he 
 hadn't a right to do. It was his method never to do 
 anything else. " All the rest," he used to say, " is 
 waste of time." I speak of him in the past, yet the 
 good man lives, and, therefore, I know, is doing his 
 duty still. Method with him has become a sort of 
 madness, not an easy thing in a country notary. Many 
 times a week he must drive to all-day auctions in un- 
 trodden nooks and by-ways ; at any moment he may 
 be summoned by any scheming mortal anywhere. 
 
 His only systematic weakness at the time I knew 
 him was his nightly pint of Burgundy, " St. Georges." 
 As the days of the week are uneven in number and his 
 habits are regular, he finished the bottle on Sunday. 
 The one failing had begotten another, his sole bodily 
 ailment. He called it sciatica. The doctor called it gout. 
 
 In the quiet house an unobtrusive housekeeper moved 
 smoothly round her middle-aged master. The cat 
 purred, when cosiness seemed to require it. The big 
 white poodle lived, a daily demonstration that life 
 is an enjoyable thing if taken leisurely. His intelligence 
 had never been wearied by useless performances. 
 " Not even a dumb animal," said the Notary, " should 
 be needlessly taught tricks." 
 
 The clock chimed the quarter, and Anthony Barbas 
 opened his spectacled eyes. The eyes were pale, like 
 the face, and the face was somewhat pompous, like the 
 figure. Anthony was a comfortably rounded man, 
 respectably angular in feature, profoundly common- 
 place. His thoughts had been active while he dozed. 
 All the morning he had been abnormally occupied with 
 
 205
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 himself. Thinking of that first white hair he had 
 brushed to the dusty-brown surface in dressing. 
 
 He had worn gently, for he was close upon fifty. Of 
 late years he had had his sciatica to remind him how 
 very well he felt. Until to-day he had always under- 
 stood that man was mortal and life everlasting. To- 
 day he knew that life is exceedingly short. It is an 
 experience common to all thoughtful men with one 
 white hair or more. Life is short. And when first 
 we hear the clock strike we look up : 'tis half past ! 
 
 Anthony Barbas sighed gently, perusing the close- 
 written deed before him. It was not particularly 
 interesting, not even important. His eyes escaped to 
 the lines of light between the shutter-bars. From all 
 these well-screened houses you can look out as much 
 as you care to. That is the beauty of discretion. It 
 cloaks. 
 
 " I shall do it to-day," said Anthony Barbas. " It " 
 was a proposal of marriage to Mejuffrouw Sophy Mulder. 
 Mejuffrouw Sophy Mulder was a pleasant young woman 
 of twenty-eight, the impecunious companion of a well- 
 to-do elderly cousin, Mejuffrouw Martha Mary Quint. 
 For the last three years the Notary had intended to 
 marry Sophy Mulder. Often and often had he made 
 up his mind to do it, and have done. But the modifica- 
 tion of his domestic economy appeared too incisive, seen 
 close. There was the dilemma. Was it right ? Was 
 it honourable to take advantage of Miss Mulder's 
 position ? How would faithful Sarah Mopsel stomach 
 the insinuation that she had not tended her master well ? 
 Was it fair to risk tardy disparagement of Rhubarb and 
 Ruff ? " Every benefaction," the Notary was wont to 
 say, " creates an obligation. For the benefactor." 
 
 206
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 He would reason lengthily, stringing together alternate 
 pros and cons. That is a sensible attitude towards 
 marriage, before thirty, when men seldom assume it. 
 Not that he doubted his personal predilections. He 
 would greatly have liked to marry pretty, pleasant 
 Sophy Mulder. His evenings were lonely ; his comfort 
 oppressed him ; he wanted something more than com- 
 fort. It was not his fault that he had not married in 
 time (as women phrase it). His youth had been poverty- 
 stricken, burdened by the care of a mother and sister, 
 both of whom had died when Anthony, past forty, was 
 able to support them. It had taken him some time to 
 shake himself to rights in the belated loosening of his 
 life. Now, he was old and unaccustomed, full of little 
 twists, uninteresting, yet not selfish enough to make a 
 successful bachelor. He hesitated around Sophy Mulder 
 as a moth near a candle, a bee by a flower. 
 
 Yesterday he had heaps of time. To-day his feeUngs 
 were those of the man who must catch a train. 
 
 " I shall do it this evening," he said, " as soon as the 
 sun has sunk low in the heavens." He sighed suddenly, 
 and shivered mentally. There was an ugly echo about 
 the words. 
 
 A quick step resounded along the silent, stifled street. 
 He knew it was Sophy's ; every Thursday afternoon, at 
 two precisely, she passed, on her way to the almshouses. 
 Peering cautiously, he saw her go by, fresh and refresh- 
 ing, like a cloud. The Notary wiped his hot forehead. 
 
 And once more he built up his resolution, striving to 
 make assurance doubly sure. All the same, he knew 
 that his courage would fail him five hours hence. How 
 many a man has missed a happy marriage because he has 
 to get his hat and go and see about it ! 
 
 207
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 Sarah Mopsel broke in mildly on his musings. He had 
 been very gentle to her, apologetic even, that morning, 
 when she smoked his coffee. " No, no, it was good 
 coffee," he protested, and then, still unerringly truthful, 
 good coffee up to a certain point. The point when you 
 put it in the pot, Sarah." 
 
 " That young man Olland," said Sarah now, " is 
 asking to see you. John Olland, the 'pothicary 'prentice 
 that makes love to the hussy next door." 
 
 " Show him in," replied the Notary. " Take a seat, 
 young man. The dog won't hurt you." 
 
 " 'Tis that grease-spot on your trousers he's smelling 
 at," remarked Sarah in retiring. She abhorred the girl 
 next door. 
 
 John Olland reddened. He was a harmless-looking 
 creature, not yet five and twenty, with a wave of yellow 
 hair. He deposited a big case under his chair, like an 
 infant's coffin wrapped in baize. " I am come, Mynheer 
 the Notary," he stammered, " I am come, as you may 
 
 possibly perceive " the door flew open. " Notary," 
 
 cried the intruding Sarah, her melancholy features 
 ablaze, "you know I wouldn't venture to trouble you, 
 but if you could give him a bit of my mind about 
 Susan " she was gone. 
 
 The Notary cleared his throat. " Her manner is 
 wrong, but her meaning is right," he said gravely. 
 " You live almost opposite Mynheer Olland. You 
 should not serenade the servant next door. The habit 
 in itself is objectionable. And, besides, it disturbs your 
 neighbours' sleep." 
 
 " But I only do it for practice," feebly protested the 
 unfortunate assistant, " she likes me to do it. I don't 
 mean her ! " 
 
 208
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 " Indeed ! " cried the Notary, veering round in a 
 fume. 
 
 " She knows I don't. I told her it was practice. She 
 thinks that it's very good fun. And, surely, Mynheer the 
 Notary, it does nobody any harm. The liquid sounds of 
 the violin these beautiful moonlit nights " 
 
 " I prefer sleep," interrupted the Notary, restlessly 
 re-arranging his papers. 
 
 " But that's not what I wanted to speak about," the 
 young man hurried on, perceiving the movement ; his 
 chest broadened, his eye brightened ; he was not half 
 a bad-looking young fellow. " I came to ask you to 
 lend me some money," he said cheerfully. 
 
 " Oh, of course," retorted Anthony. " Why ? " 
 
 " When you want money you always go to notaries, 
 don't you ? " said Olland reproachfully. 
 
 " I don't. Perhaps you thought that was what 
 notaries were made f or ? " 
 
 " Ye— es. Partly." 
 
 " Your information was incorrect." 
 
 " Look here, M5mheer Barbas. Let me tell you all 
 about it, just one minute " — he flung himself nervously 
 forward, tugging at the violin case. " You know me as 
 the apothecary's assistant opposite. But I'm not that. 
 I wasn't born to be that. You were speaking of my 
 
 serenade to Su to Susan. That's what I am. 
 
 Mynheer Barbas, by birth and by right, a musician. I've 
 never been properly taught — worse luck ! — all the same 
 I can play — and compose." He drew breath, hotly. 
 
 " Pose. You were about to remark ? " The lawyer 
 abstractedly studied his finger-tips. 
 
 " I don't say I'm an unparalleled genius — like Beet- 
 hoven. People come with a story like that to practical 
 14 209
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 men like yourself and get written down idiots at once. 
 All I say is I've plenty of talent. I want to earn my 
 living as a teacher — meanwhile. And now there's an 
 opportunity, such as'U never re-occur, of buying out an 
 old creature that's anxious to retire. It's in my native 
 town ; he's got a lot of cheap pupils. Some day I shall 
 be a popular composer — and pay you back. Look here, 
 Notary. Six weeks ago I sent two of my ' Capriccios ' to 
 Brahms — he's a composer, too, and a sort of connexion 
 of mine ; at least, his name's also Johannes, and, when 
 you've got nobody, that seems like a kind of link. 
 Yesterday I had his answer — you see, they do answer 
 occasionally." 
 
 " And what does he say ? " exclaimed the Notary, 
 bending forward with sudden interest. 
 
 " It isn't a very long answer. But I hardly expected 
 it would be. ' Endeavour is always an admirable thing,' 
 he says, * yet it is better not to try again than never to 
 succeed.' Of course it is. ' Endeavour,' you see, he 
 says, ' is an admirable thing.' Isn't that encouraging ? 
 A great man like Brahms advising me to persevere ! " 
 
 " My time is much occupied," was the Notary's 
 unexpected reply. He spoke irritably, from sheer dis- 
 appointment. He looked away from John Olland's 
 ingenuously upturned countenance. " Presently I must 
 — ahem — pay a visit." He glanced nervously at the 
 clock. " I have not, as you appear to imagine, immense 
 cellars full of gold at my disposal ; but, of course, I can 
 sometimes — for my clients — negotiate a loan. On 
 excellent security. Yours would be ? " 
 
 " My talent," replied Johannes. 
 
 " Quite so. Your security would be your assurance. 
 And the sum required ? A couple of hundred florins ? " 
 
 210
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 " Fifteen hundred," replied Johannes, a Httle crest- 
 fallen. 
 
 " I fear I can hardly manage it. Good-day, Mynheer 
 Olland. Take a bit of unsought advice. Stick to your 
 pestle and mortar. Few men want music, and all men, 
 sooner or later, want pills." 
 
 John Olland's face was purple. He rose to his feet. 
 " I'm not ashamed of the shop," he said. " It's not 
 that. I could have stayed on here quietly enough, and 
 worked at the composing meanwhile. But it's Susan. 
 Hang it, Mynheer Barbas, the real Susan's name is 
 Sophy. I'm awfully sweet on her. I'm longing to 
 marry her. And no one could ask her to take up with a 
 chemist, though perhaps she might stoop — for stooping 
 it would be — to a Brahms." 
 
 " ' Sophy,' " repeated the Notary, rapidly reviewing 
 the few beauties of Hardeveld. An increasing anxiety 
 sharpened his accent and features. 
 
 " It's Sophy Mulder. The ' Serenade ' is to her ; only 
 I never can let her hear it, because of her old cousin and 
 — the watchman. I love her — awfully. My parrot — 
 you know my clever parrot ? " — (" I do, indeed," 
 inserted the Notary, bitterly) — " yells out ' Susan ' from 
 morning to night. I had to make it ' Susan ' but he 
 means ' Sophy.' Your neighbour's servant knows he 
 don't mean her. You can't think how it cheers me in 
 the shop." 
 
 " And Miss Mulder returns your affections ? " faintly 
 murmured the Notary. 
 
 " She's never heard of them as yet. Had you lent me 
 the money " — wistfully — " I should have gone to Miss 
 Martha Mary to-night. Won't you let me just try that 
 ' Capriccio ' ? I brought my instrument with me on 
 
 211
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 purpose. You will see there is really something in it. 
 Brahms liked it " — the violin was already at his shoulder, 
 a preliminary shriek swept the strings 
 
 " Not here ! Not in office hours ! " cried the Notary, 
 now also erect, hardly knowing what he said. " Myn- 
 heer Olland, I consider you impertinent. The lady in 
 question is five times your age, and is also your social 
 superior ! " He threw open the door to the office. 
 There was a sudden scratching of pens. The office 
 seemed almost hotter than the sanctum. 
 
 " Five years older, you mean," corrected the apothe- 
 cary's assistant politely. " It's three. Well, sir, I 
 suppose it can't be helped. No offence was intended. 
 Excuse me. Good day, sir." 
 
 As the visitor departed through one door, the Notary 
 opened the other. He just stopped for his tall hat and 
 stick, in the hall, and then, avoiding the business 
 entrance from the garden, burst out into the roadway, 
 upsetting the cat. He tore up the dead street and round 
 a corner. Then he paused for breath, mopping his 
 neck with a red pocket handkerchief, and reflected that 
 after having waited five years, he might now have 
 waited to put on a clean shirt. At least he could have 
 extracted the tell-tale hair. He had left it untouched 
 that morning, in the vain yearning that it might re- 
 brown. 
 
 "The insolence! the idiocy!" he muttered, as he 
 swayed across the village square. " But its I that am 
 the idiot with my shilly-shally selfishness ! Had she 
 fallen a reluctant victim — poor unbefriended orphan — to 
 that blockhead serenader — T — I — I." He panted along 
 the sunlit parsonage palings. The minister's slow head 
 
 212
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 arose above them. " Somebody dying," concluded the 
 minister. " Humph ! Sending for him, not for me." 
 
 Miss Martha Mary Quint was one of the chief notables 
 in a village destitute of gentry. She enjoyed (out- 
 rageously) the reputation of being the richest person in 
 the place. For years she had lived with her now defunct 
 sister, Miss Mary Martha, in the house which their 
 father had built and bequeathed to them. The latter 
 worthy, a shrewd master-builder and prop of the national 
 church, had all his life long kept one eye on the main 
 chance here below, and the other on possible awards up 
 above. He had always proclaimed himself prosperous 
 and pious, and people had taken him at his own valua- 
 tion. His first daughter he had named after both the 
 sisters of Bethany. " For, with full respect for the 
 powers that be," he said, " seems to me you want the 
 pair of them, to get through all round. Why, without 
 Martha to help her, Mary would never have got to the 
 other side at all ! So Martha for this world, Domine, 
 and Mary for the next." " And you put Martha first ? " 
 said the minister. " She was the eldest," retorted the 
 deacon. 
 
 The birth of a second child had seriously nonplussed 
 him, till, suddenly, on the second day, his knotted brow 
 relaxed, " She must take her chance of this world," he 
 said. " And we'll call her Mary Martha." 
 
 Truly enough. Miss Mary Martha had proved the less 
 ungentle of the sisters. She had granted straw when 
 exacting bricks, and her whips had fallen slack beside 
 Miss Martha Mary's scorpions. She had accentuated 
 her other-worldliness by dying before her elder sister. 
 " And on a Sunday, too," said Miss Martha Mary tri- 
 umphantly. 
 
 213
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 " I am glad it is you, Notary," exclaimed Miss Martha 
 Mary, rising from her straight-backed chair, as the 
 purple gentleman boiled over into her shaded parlour. 
 " I have been wanting to send for you — for days." 
 
 " I have not been from home, madam," replied the 
 lawyer, as soon as he could trust himself to speak. " I 
 myself am now venturing to approach you on a matter 
 of considerable importance " 
 
 " My affairs first, if you please," interrupted the lady. 
 Her harsh voice shook. He wondered, could she possibly 
 be " nervous." 
 
 " Let me speak at once, or I shan't speak at all," she 
 continued. " I want you to make me a will. There, its 
 out. Now the rest'U be easy enough." She gave a little 
 gasp. " Make me a will ! It sounds mighty queer. 
 I've always had sufficient will of my own, for this side 
 of the grave, at any rate. Mary Martha died intestate, 
 and very proper, with me behind her ; but in my case, 
 that won't do. So, although I never did such a thing 
 in my life before, and detest the disgusting idea, just sit 
 down immediately. Notary, and write off my will." 
 
 " My dear lady," expostulated the lawyer, for the 
 fiftieth time in his career, " there is really no cause to 
 feel flurried. The mere consigning to paper of a last 
 will and testament, in itself an exceedingly commendable 
 action " 
 
 " Flurried ? " she cried furiously, vexed to read his 
 thoughts by her own, " do you fancy I fear that I'm 
 going to die, as a consequence of making my will ? I 
 am making my will, Mr. Notary, because I am going to 
 die ! " she snorted at him. " Two months ago," she 
 hurried on, " the doctor told me I had a heart complaint, 
 warranted to kill without warning. I knew it. ' You 
 
 214
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 may live to be a hundred,' he said. They always say 
 that. So I may. I'm sixty-seven. Had I been Mary 
 Martha, I should have been underground by now." 
 
 This was so manifestly correct that the Notary nodded 
 his head. 
 
 " So make me a testament," continued the spinster, 
 " and just put in this : ' I leave all my possessions, 
 whatever they are, to Sophia Alethea Mulder, my cousin 
 once removed.' " 
 
 The Notary, worn out with the hurry and worry, felt 
 the straight-lined room curve suddenly all around him. 
 " Am I to understand," he stuttered, " that you appoint 
 Miss Sophy Mulder your unconditional heiress and 
 residuary legatee ? " 
 
 " Of course, you're to understand what I say, Barbas 
 — if you can ! Residential legatee, I suppose, is your 
 lawyer's jargon. So she is. She's lived with me now 
 six years and more, and a very good girl she is on the 
 whole. At least, she is good in intention, which is more 
 than can be said of a servant nowadays." 
 
 " But you told me not long ago — I remember it dis- 
 tinctly — that not a penny of yours should ever go to 
 Sophy ! I know you did ! I know you did ! " 
 
 " Hoity-toity, do you grudge the girl her better luck ? 
 I remember perfectly. It was at the doctor's, Barbas, 
 that evening you trumped my ace. It's three years ago, 
 at the least. And I don't mind telhng you now that I 
 thought in those days you were weighing your chances 
 with Sophy. And I wasn't going to have you reckon 
 on any pickings of mine. I stand in my own shoes. 
 Notary. For shame, an old fellow like you ! But I 
 know now, of course, I was mistaken. The best girls 
 don't marry, I always say — won't marry, I mean." 
 
 215
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 " Miss Sophy Mulder," repeated Anthony dully. 
 
 She shot a sharp glance at him. " Barbas," she said, 
 " you are growing old before your time. There's a 
 white hair on the left side over your ear. But there 
 mustn't be any mistake about my will, mind. Perhaps 
 it were better a younger man should make it ? " 
 
 " As you please," said the Notary stiffly. 
 
 " Ta, ta. A young man, and not take a joke from an 
 old woman ! For you are a young man still, or very 
 nearly. One white hair doesn't make a winter. Marry, 
 Anthony Barbas, marry while you still can get a woman 
 under forty. Soon that idea will seem absurd. And 
 now, is my will to be made or not ? " 
 
 " Perhaps you will permit me to suggest," protested 
 the miserable man, " that stamped paper is required for 
 official documents." 
 
 " I know that," responded Miss Quint, " there's a 
 sheet in the chiffonniere that the carrier brought me from 
 town. I've had it in the house six weeks." 
 
 " I would rather work the clauses out at home," said 
 the Notary ; " it is customary " 
 
 " Clauses ? There are no clauses. You shall do it 
 here, and at once, or not at all," said Miss Martha 
 Mary Quint. 
 
 She marched to the cupboard, and unlocked it, enjoy- 
 ing now, with a certain unction, the long-dreaded 
 ceremonial. The formal arranging of the implements 
 took time. 
 
 " And now, it is hopeless and impossible ! " reflected 
 Anthony Barbas, his pale eyes staring at the wall. Over 
 and over again he said to himself, " Yesterday I might 
 have done it — any time these last five years I might 
 have done it ! I can never do it now." 
 
 2i6
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 " What's worth doing at all is worth doing at once," 
 said Miss Martha Mary. " that's why I waited six 
 weeks." She carefully selected a new pen. " And all 
 things come round to the man who can wait. That's why 
 I'm in such a foolish hurry now. No one would ever have 
 known what fools men are, if it weren't for the proverbs. 
 ' The accumulated wisdom of the centuries,' the paper 
 called them yesterday." " And now, for heaven's sake. 
 Notary, don't be all day about it ! " she burst out pet- 
 tishly, with true human (men call it " feminine ") 
 logic, as she laid down the pen before him. " Get it 
 over, and you shall have a glass of my home-made 
 anisette." 
 
 The Notary knew the notorious anisette. It had 
 given him the heartburn before. 
 
 He settled gloomily down to his work, and laboriously 
 indited the beloved one's name, encurling it in flourishes 
 which made him feel thirty years younger — memories 
 of a caligraphic clerkship, a moth-eaten past. Miss 
 Martha Mary looked over his shoulder. " I suppose I 
 must pay for those whirligigs ? " she said. 
 
 He looked up in her face. There were tears behind 
 his spectacles ; she thought they were rheum. 
 
 " Miss Sophia Alethea Mulder, spinster — spinster — 
 spinster. Two witnesses are of course required," he 
 said, " in writing. Have you got them in the chiffon- 
 niere too ? " 
 
 " Dear me, Anthony Barbas, that's the first time in all 
 these twenty years I've heard you say anything sounding 
 sharp. Not that it could be, really, coming from so 
 mild a man. You don't look well this afternoon ; I 
 suppose it's the heat upsets you. Though Sophy keeps 
 this room cool enough, I'm sure, since last week's 
 
 217
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 scolding. Oh, I can manage Sophy ! Call in any two 
 men from the street." 
 
 " I prefer my own clerks," suggested the Notary, 
 " they are better at keeping the secret " 
 
 " I daresay. And the fees. Nonsense, Barbas, of 
 course you will read — as always — so that nobody under- 
 stands a word. And besides, all the village may know 
 — I should like it to know — my intentions regarding 
 Sophy ! " She threw back the window-blind : suddenly 
 a torrent of golden heat filled the solemn parlour. 
 
 On the further side of the dusty road there stretches 
 a sort of common, broken by beech trees. Under the 
 shade of a prominent giant lounged a solitary individual ; 
 his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the house. " There's 
 nobody in sight," cried Miss Quint with annoyance. 
 " The whole world's a furnace ; nobody could venture 
 out but the Three Good Young Men and yourself. 
 Sophy doesn't count. She's an angel. Who's that 
 yonder under the beech trees ? Come here, you, sir, you 
 'pothicary's 'prentice ! Why aren't you doing your 
 duty, concocting poisons ? Come here, and make your- 
 self useful, for once, in connexion with death ! " She 
 beckoned vehemently. 
 
 Barbas started up. " You don't mean to say," he 
 exclaimed, " that you're going to entrust such a secret 
 to yonder young mountebank ! Consider, Miss Quint, I 
 beseech you " 
 
 She faced him. " My secrets are my own to betray," 
 fhe said viciously, " I'm doing what I can for the girl. 
 And she won't nurse me any the better, or worse. Ring 
 the bell for my gardener, Barbas. Good afternoon, 
 Olland. Take a seat. Psha ! " 
 
 John Olland sat down, darting terrible menaces at 
 2l8
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 Anthony. Deaf Pete was introduced from the pigstye, 
 and the atmosphere grew heavy with the fragrance of 
 the fields. " Phew ! " said Miss Martha Mary, clutching 
 her Eau de Cologne bottle. " This is my last will and 
 testament. Read quick, Notary. Please ! " 
 
 When Barbas' agitated explanation and brief reading 
 of the document were over, John Olland remained staring 
 angrily from face to face. He considered himself in- 
 sulted and outwitted by this evil couple of capitalists. 
 He clenched his impotent fists. To offend Sophy's 
 tyrant would be madness. All his accumulated wrath 
 glowed red against the Notary. He flung his signature 
 sprawling across the open page, and, with scornful 
 rejection of the timidly proffered fee, he made for the 
 door. 
 
 " A word in your ear, young man ! " cried Miss Martha 
 Mary. She lifted her yellow face to his red one. " I 
 spoke to the watchman to-day," she said, " of people 
 who prowl round my house at night ! But I see they 
 now come at all hours ! " 
 
 " I was waiting for the Notary ! " murmured Olland. 
 He fairly ran away, and Anthony Barbas ran after 
 him, 
 
 " Notary ! Notary ! " screamed the spinster. " It 
 wasn't my business brought you here ! Remember that, 
 please, when you make up your bill. And now, what 
 might you want of me, pray ? " 
 
 " Nothing, nothing. I have changed my mind," 
 replied Anthony, in the doorway. 
 
 " I suppose it was an offer of a mortgage. Now, 
 Barbas, I have told you before that the only investments 
 I believe in are Government securities. You will never 
 see a penny of mine." 
 
 219
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 " So I quite understand," replied the Notary, dis- 
 appearing. 
 
 " Oh, I quite understand," said the Notary, outside. 
 
 Miss Martha Mary resumed her knitting. " And a 
 very lucky thing he came," she mused, "for I don't 
 think I should ever have brought myself to summon 
 him. As for that young noodle's appearance on the 
 scene — why, that was simply providential." She nodded, 
 wisely, and rang an angry handbell. Sophy came in, 
 looking strong and cool. " Sophy, I'm sure that it's 
 time for my medicine. I've just left you all my money. 
 So no wonder you want me to die." 
 
 Sophy stole her pretty arm round the wrinkled neck. 
 " What a wicked creature you would be," she answered, 
 " if you meant one-half you say." 
 
 " If I said what I mean, I should be far wickeder," 
 declared the old woman, almost regretfully, and 
 winked. 
 
 Anthony Barbas, duUy wandering homeward, found 
 the first narrow pathway blocked by the chemist's 
 assistant. 
 
 " One moment, please. Notary ! " said the young man 
 ceremoniously, " one question, please. When I spoke 
 to you this afternoon about Sophy had you formed any 
 plans of your own ? " 
 
 The Notary hesitated, wishing for once he had learnt 
 how to lie. With a rush all John Olland's pent-up 
 reproaches rose hissing to the surface. 
 
 " I followed you to the house ! " he shouted. " What 
 a hurry you were in to betray me ! What a joke with 
 the old beldame, while securing the heiress. Ah, you 
 thought I was ' insolent,' did you ? — ' impertinent ' to 
 
 220
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 come in your way ! I'm not such a fine gentleman as 
 you ; I haven't got any money or position ! And she's 
 younger than you, never fear ! " He fell back half a pace, 
 and the Notary threw up one arm, but the poor fellow's 
 thoughts were not of physical violence. " I wouldn't 
 exchange with you," he said, " not with you, Mr. 
 Barabbas." 
 
 From the depths of the Notary's own bitter disap- 
 pointment a smile bubbled up. " Your comparison," 
 he said, " is unfortunate. The notable point about 
 Barabbas was surely that they let him go." The other 
 fell aside with an oath. 
 
 The Notary was more to be pitied than John Olland, 
 and he knew it. For his disillusionment, neither so 
 high nor so low, was a dead and definite level. He 
 had nurtured this plan for five years. There would be 
 no more plans. 
 
 He was excessively irritable about the soup, which 
 Sarah Mopsel had burnt. " It's too bad that you cannot 
 attend to me better," he grumbled. Incontinently she 
 sniffed. " You can't say I'm exacting," he exclaimed 
 in desperation. " God forbid," replied Sarah. " And 
 what would you do, then, if I sent you away ? " " Go, 
 — and pray God bless you," said Sarah with a gulp. He 
 pushed back his armchair from the table. " Oh, bring 
 me the Burgundy ! " he cried. He thought the room 
 looked squalid. He reached for his tobacco-pouch. At 
 this accustomed signal Rhubarb jumped down on his 
 shoulder, and Ruff placed a soothing pink nose between 
 his knees. 
 
 It was some days later that Anthony Barbas, as he 
 passed down the street in the hush of a cloudless evening, 
 
 221
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 his sad thoughts bending a back already bowed — 
 stopped suddenly, hearing his own name called. He 
 turned in the middle of the road, his wide hat against 
 the sunset, his arms, and projecting stick, behind his 
 portly frame. A shriek and a whistle greeted him. 
 " Barabbas ! Barabbas ! " cried the parrot from his 
 perch, " Pretty Susan ! " John Olland stood by the 
 window in a Napoleonic attitude, a sneer on his good- 
 natured face. 
 
 The Notary shuffled round again. " No, I shall not 
 complain to the chemist," he muttered, " God bless my 
 soul, what does it signify ? " But Sarah was not so 
 half-hearted, she said ; and, as the nuisance increased 
 and attracted notice, she threw out dark hints of a mis- 
 sion for Rhubarb. " Peace," said the Notary, sud- 
 denly, sternly. " Barabbas ! Barabbas ! " The little 
 street boys called it. 
 
 So the melancholy days went slipping by each other, 
 and nobody got married in the village of Hardeveld. 
 Bat that had always been the rule, the Hardeveld 
 virgins said. Winter came ; the whole world grew old. 
 The Notary had a cough. 
 
 He was sitting at his breakfast one foggy day, when a 
 brown paper parcel was brought to him. He opened it 
 listlessly, and there lay the parrot, his persistent tor- 
 mentor, the sharp eyes glazed in death. " Rhubarb ! " 
 exclaimed the Notary, to the tortoiseshell cousin on the 
 hearth rug, " Rhubarb ! " There was no responsive 
 slink. Besides, cats have no consciences. Their mor- 
 ality is a purr and a grin. 
 
 Rhubarb lay blandly smiling, with closed eyes and 
 swelling chops. Anthony gingerly turned the stiff 
 bundle. A paper lay under it. 
 
 222
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 " Sir, — It's not your cat's doing ; I wrung the bird's 
 neck. Serves me right. I behaved hke a cad and am 
 very sorry for it. " John Olland. 
 
 " P.S. — I couldn't bear to hear him always saying 
 * Pretty Susan,' anyhow. 
 " P.P.S. — He was growing very old and mangy." 
 
 Anthony dropped the carcase. 
 
 There was actually a P.P.P.S. ! — " She's a rich woman 
 now, too good for either you or me." 
 
 Anthony dropped the paper. He sat looking out of 
 window, wondering what those last words meant. He 
 had heard nothing. 
 
 " Here's Mynheer Olland," said Sarah gruffly, at his 
 elbow. " Of course you won't admit him." Her little 
 eyes lengthened at sight of the mess on the floor. 
 
 " Yes, he will," said John Olland, in the middle of the 
 room. " Notary, the man's a coward that can only 
 write he was wrong. I've come to say it." 
 
 Barbas held out his hand. " What's this," he asked, 
 " about Sophy — Miss Mulder ? " 
 
 " Haven't you heard ? Then they're sure to be here 
 in a moment. Miss Martha Mary was found dead in her 
 bed this morning. You and I know what that means 
 for Sophy. She's the richest woman in Hardeveld 
 now." 
 
 The Notary nodded. "It doesn't make an atom of 
 difference to you or to me," added Olland, " I've long 
 ago given up thinking of her — given up all thought of 
 her, I mean." 
 
 The Notary nodded again, busy with his own reflec- 
 tions. 
 
 " I suppose she refused you," continued his visitor, 
 223
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 " like the plucky creature she is. No offence. I was 
 sorry for you, Mynheer Barbas. After a while." 
 
 " There is Miss Martha Mary's gardener," said the 
 lawyer, rousing himself. " I must go to him, Mynheer 
 Olland. Come and talk to me about the music some 
 evening " — he leaped boldly, self-sacrifice begetting its 
 brother — " and play." 
 
 John Olland shook his head. " The music's no good 
 for a Uvelihood," he said, " not for me. I can play, and 
 I can compose, but what's the use if nobody buys ? So 
 I'm going to be a chemist after all." He turned on his 
 heel. 
 
 A few minutes later the Notary was closeted with 
 Miss Sophy for the first time in his hfe. Sophy sat, 
 sweetly sorry and tearful, but the Notary was the paler 
 of the two. 
 
 " From which written declaration of the defunct now 
 before you," the Notary was saying, " it appears that, 
 after sustaining considerable losses through speculation, 
 she sank the remainder of her means in an annuity 
 which just enabled her to keep up her position in this 
 place. When everything is paid, dear Miss Mulder, you 
 will be practically penniless. I cannot understand " — 
 his face grew fierce — " the comedy of the will." 
 
 " It was all she could do for me," replied Miss Sophy 
 gently, " she meant it as a kindness ; she thought it 
 would get known and would help me to secure a husband. 
 It was very unselfish of her, really." Miss Sophy smiled 
 faintly through her tears. 
 
 " But what now ? " cried the agitated lawyer. " What 
 are you going to do ? " 
 
 " Surely that is a little premature," replied Miss 
 Sophy ; " unlearn being an heiress first." 
 
 224
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 " Will you marry me ? " cried Anthony Barbas. 
 " Now, don't go and think me indecent, and your cousin 
 not yet cold. It was brutal of her, I tell you, Miss 
 Sophy. Miss Sophy, I'm a middle-aged man with a lot 
 of grey hairs and a competence. I'm not rich. Miss 
 Sophy, will you marry me ? " 
 
 The girl's eyes dropped ; her whole frame trembled. 
 " Hush," she said, " hush. You shouldn't speak of such 
 things now. Mynheer Barbas — and here." She cast a 
 timid glance over her shoulder. " You are very good — 
 very good, and I know it. Very kind." 
 
 " Which means no," said Anthony softly. " I am old 
 and a fool. I hope to God you will get a better husband, 
 my dear ! " 
 
 A long silence ensued. " It doesn't matter," said 
 Sophy at length, " about the will. Nobody knows." 
 
 " One man knows," said the Notary. 
 
 A blush overspread all her pink and white face. " You 
 mean John Olland," she replied. " Oh, but he has got 
 nothing to do with it. It is nothing to him." 
 
 Something — he could not have told you what — 
 brought Anthony a sudden revelation as she spoke. He 
 got up. " I will come again this afternoon," he said, 
 " and help you with everything. Good-bye." 
 
 He did not go home immediately, but walked into the 
 chemist's and bought four pennyworth of lozenges for his 
 cough. John Olland was alone in the shop. " Olland," 
 said the Notary carelessly, " you say you were so fond 
 of Miss Mulder once. Have you ever spoken to the 
 lady ? " 
 
 And John Olland's healthy cheeks grew apple-red at 
 once. " Often," he replied, hard at work on his little 
 parcel. " She was in the choral society, Mynheer 
 15 225
 
 THE NOTARY'S LOVE STORY 
 
 the Notary. I used to meet her regularly once a 
 week." 
 
 " Nothing, I suppose, has ever passed between you ? " 
 The Notary drew circles on the floor \nth his stick — 
 painfully accurate circles. 
 
 " I regret you should consider that question neces- 
 sary," repUed John OUand, hurt. " Am I the proper 
 person to make love to the heiress of Hardeveld ? " 
 
 " She isn't an heiress, John. She is penniless." The 
 Notary shouldered his stick. " Listen, boy ; wait a 
 week or two, and then go and ask her to marry you. 
 If she consents " 
 
 " I — I don't understand," said John Olland, crushing 
 down the little parcel on the counter. 
 
 "If she consents, come and talk to me about that httle 
 loan of yours. One thousand florins ought to get you a 
 small pharmacy of your own. In another village, John. 
 You won't mind that." 
 
 " I — I don't understand," said John Olland. " Was I 
 wrong after all, this morning, Notary ? Had you never 
 proposed to her ? " 
 
 " You were wTong," said the Notary. " I had never 
 proposed to her." And he walked out of the shop to- 
 wards his ofl&ce door. 
 
 226
 
 The Banquet 
 
 THEY were sitting in the tidy cottage, at the summer 
 Sabbath midday, round the Sabbath midday meal, 
 the four of them — old Lobbers and his wife, and his 
 two half-sisters, Lisbeth and Maria, tottery and de- 
 crepit, all four of them, and a little snuffy and blear- 
 eyed, but neat, like the cottage, with Dutch neatness, 
 of spotless muslins and abundant starch and soap. 
 
 Liza, the elder of the step-sisters, a flabby loosely 
 built female, in the careful Poorhouse dress — Liza 
 stretched out a long arm towards the steaming cauldron, 
 but her watchful hostess knocked it aside. 
 
 " We ain't all got your teeth ! " said Vrouw Lobbers. 
 " Give yer family a chance, if ye can." 
 
 " But I ain't had my money's worth yet ! " cried 
 Liza, with uplifted fork. " I ain't had my money's 
 worth, Jane ! " 
 
 " And what d'ye consider y'r money's worth, pray ? " 
 retorted Vrouw Lobbers, " with potatoes at four florins 
 the " 
 
 " I don't care what's the price o' potatoes. I pay 
 you a silver twopenny bit every Sunday, to come and 
 have my Sunday dinner here, and if I can't be allowed 
 to have my money's worth, I'll go and give my silver 
 somewhere else." 
 
 227
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 " Where ? " interposed her step-brother, fiercely 
 chewing. 
 
 " Anywhere. They'll take me anywhere for two- 
 pence — ay, and give me butcher's meat." 
 
 Vrouw Lobbers laughed aloud. She was rather a 
 cheerful-looking woman, with a red face in the snowy 
 frills of her cap. "Butcher's meat!" she repeated, 
 vastly amused. 
 
 " Butcher's meat ! " echoed pensively the younger 
 step-sister, Maria, who lived with the Lobberses, and 
 her eyes rested long on the contents of the pot. 
 
 " She lies," said old Lobbers. 
 
 " Of course. She knows that as well as you do," 
 assented his wife, still laughing. 
 
 " I wish I was dead," said old Liza, making another 
 dash at the dish. 
 
 The Vrouw shook her head. " Don't you go tempt- 
 ing the Powers above," she said solemnly. " They've 
 forgotten you. Let well alone, and eat your dinner," 
 and she thoughtfully drew, with her knife, two fat 
 bits of bacon out of her sister-in-law's reach. 
 
 " There's not ten years between the whole lot of us," 
 replied Liza, curiously watching the bacon. 
 
 " No. I'm sixty-seven, and you're seventy-five — 
 that's the difference. All the same, your one single 
 back- tooth — for feeding — is worth half a dozen o' 
 mine." 
 
 " I haven't no back-tooth, and you know it," replied 
 the spinster, peevishly grinning. " Nor I don't believe 
 you've got half a dozen. I don't need to chew my 
 food. I just bolt it. That does well enough." 
 
 " You've nigh killed yourself over-eating several 
 times, all the same," objected her step-brother. 
 
 228
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 " Nigh killed ain't near buried," grunted Liza. 
 " And I had a good time while it lasted. Doctor says, 
 down at the house : ' You're a glutton. You'll die 
 of an indigestion,' he says; and a fine thing, I tell 
 him, for a pauper to die of ; but I shan't have got it 
 in the Poorhouse — no ! " She chuckled. " All the 
 pork's eaten," she said, bending for a closer inspection. 
 " You might as well let me finish the carrots before 
 they get cold." 
 
 " There's almost enough left to do for to-morrow," 
 began Vrouw Lobbers doubtfully. 
 
 " If you was to die, there'd be a vacancy," said 
 Lobbers, pushing back his chair ; " and who knows 
 but we might get in Maria ? " 
 
 " I won't take the bath," interrupted Maria. 
 
 Vrouw Lobbers pushed the pot across with sudden, 
 resolution. " Help yourself, Elizabeth, and welcome." 
 she said. " You'd take the bath quick enough, 
 Maria, if they put you into it." 
 
 " I wouldn't ! I wouldn't ! " reiterated the old 
 creature with tremulous eagerness. " You wouldn't 
 let 'em ; would you. Dirk ? " 
 
 " What a fuss ! " said the grumpy brother. " Don't 
 ye wash yer face and hands every morning ? It's 
 only like washing them a little lower down." 
 
 "It'd kill me!" cried Maria hysterically. "I 
 never took a bath in my life. Dirk, you wouldn't 
 let em bathe me as if I was a woman from the streets ! " 
 
 " Oh, hold yer tongue about yer killings ! " inter- 
 posed Vrouw Lobbers unamiably. " Liza isn't dead 
 yet." — " No," said Liza. — " And she's two years 
 older 'n you." After that nothing was heard for some 
 time but the noise of Liza's greedy eating : then the 
 
 229
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 mistress of the cottage crossed to a perfectly ordered 
 cupboard and produced a bottle of gin and a bag of 
 tobacco. She filled two bright Uttle glasses for her 
 husband and Liza. The gin was an extra : during 
 its consumption both purveyor and purchaser watched 
 anxiously for some cause of recrimination or complaint. 
 
 When the last drop had been licked from her glass, 
 Liza struggled to her feet. " I shall go and visit Greta, 
 our cousin," she said, and then added, in a sudden 
 impulse of malice — " As you wish it, I'll speak to her 
 about dining there o' Sundays. She could easily give 
 me a better dinner than yours for the money, and she 
 wouldn't talk about wanting me dead ! " 
 
 " We wish it ! " exclaimed Vrouw Lobbers aghast. 
 " Oh, the wickedness ! And I that allowed you to 
 clean out the dish ! " 
 
 " I didn't say I'd decide nothing — not definite," 
 replied the old pauper, pinning on her workhouse 
 shawl. " But I'm sick o' being told every week that 
 I eat too much. You want to make too big a profit 
 out o' me, Jane. That's the truth. I don't mind 
 you having the money as well as another — blood's 
 blood — but twopence is twopence. And I've a right, 
 as I may say, to my " 
 
 " Don't yer say ' money's worth ' ! " cried Lobbers, 
 with a bang of his fist on the table. 
 
 " La ! at Cousin Greta's I could say what I choose ! 
 I'U just go across to her and see what she thinks." 
 
 " I'll take yer across," said Maria. " Maybe, as 
 it's Sunday, she'll give us some coffee." And the 
 two old women wandered away down the populous 
 village street. 
 
 Their sister-in-law remained watching them from 
 230
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 her freshly whitewashed Httle house with the broad 
 geraniums in the window — the cottage stands back 
 by itself, beyond a sort of common : from it you coula 
 see the usual .Sunday picture of animated repose — 
 children in brilliant colours scrambling across the 
 roadway, men with shiny shirt-sleeves loitsring against 
 green shutters, a medley group, beneath the lengthen- 
 ing shadows, playing at pitch-and-toss. 
 
 Vrouw Lobbers turned back into the dusky house. 
 " Any man but you," she said, " 'd be ashamed to 
 have such sisters." 
 
 " Step-sisters," corrected Lobbers, smoking viciously. 
 
 " 'Tis all the same. I'm dead-sick o' feeding 'em '. " 
 
 " Liza pays her tuppence," said the man, " when she 
 comes. 0' Sundays." 
 
 " And what does Maria pay — Sundays or weekdays 
 — whom we've had on our hands these fifteen years ? " 
 
 " If Liza was to die," said the man, " we could get 
 Maria into the Poorhouse. She wouldn't cost us 
 anything. She'd pay her tuppence o' Sundays." 
 
 " Liza ain't a-thinking o' dying," said the woman, 
 tidying up the things. 
 
 " You can die without thinking," replied Lobbers 
 sententiously. " Some day some big morsel '11 stick 
 in her throat." 
 
 " I wonder " — remarked the woman, pausing re- 
 flectively. Then she drew the gin bottle out of her 
 husband's reach. The old man did not ask what she 
 wondered. 
 
 " Such things do happen," continued Vrouw Lobbers, 
 carefully considering. " When I was a girl, and in 
 service, there was the cook's son, a charity boy, used 
 to come o' Sunday evenings, and his mother 'd give 
 
 231
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 'im a dinner. And one Sunday, after he 'd eaten it — 
 veal pudding it was and cold pastry — ' Mother,' he 
 says, ' what d'ye think I done afore I come away ? 
 Eaten all the other boys' porridge,' he says, ' twelve 
 plates — as none o' the others 'd touch.' " 
 
 "There was fourteen plates," interrupted Lobbers, 
 puUing at his pipe, " and he went home that night 
 and his stomach burst. You've told me that story 
 before, Jane. La ! — not two Sundays goes by that 
 you don't tell the tale to Liza, not ten meals that you 
 don't tell it to Maria." 
 
 " You're mighty quick in your 'rithmetic," spite- 
 fully retorted the woman. " Their appetites wouldn't 
 so madden me as they do, could I fancy a morsel 
 myself." 
 
 " There you're right," said the man with conviction. 
 " I and you, we was always poor eaters. Cheap eaters 
 we was. I often think what a lot we could save if it 
 wasn't for Maria ! She's wonderful hungry for one 
 as does no work." 
 
 The woman came and sat down over against him : 
 the smart little pink and white tablecloth spread be- 
 tween them, a blue vase stood upon it, with pretty 
 blue flowers. 
 
 " You talk, but I reckon," she said. 
 
 " I know, Jane, you was always an excellent reckoner." 
 
 " I reckon, I tell ye. Down to a cent, and the half 
 of a cent. I've got it all down on paper, every penny 
 she cost us. Not that it's any use, for we shan't ever 
 get back a brass farthing, but I can't help it: I was 
 bom that way ; I must cipher and count. She costs 
 us a florin a week, speaking roughly, more than we 
 should need to spend if she wasn't there." Vrouw 
 
 232
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 Lobbers got up again. " I'll give ye the exact figures, 
 she said, " I've got 'em in my copy-book." 
 
 "No," said the man, with an oath, " I don't want no 
 figures. It's bad enough as it is, but it can't be helped." 
 
 " No, it can't be helped," she repeated, and picked 
 a loose thread from the tablecloth. " At least," she 
 added presently, " I suppose not." 
 
 He stared, with extended pipe. " What d'ye 
 mean ? " he said roughly. 
 
 " I wish it could be helped ; that's all I mean. We 
 should be very comfortable if it weren't for Maria." 
 
 " We can manage," he said, a little anxiously. " At 
 any rate, at present." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she exclaimed, advancing 
 her face across the table. 
 
 " I've always had my wages regular : that's all I 
 mean. Six florins a week ; 'tisn't much, but it's 
 more than they always gives to a labourer. I shouldn't 
 like if they was to give us less." 
 
 " Like ? — it 'd ruin us, I tell ye. You're no reckoner 
 like me. I save and I slave all day long to keep things 
 going. I can just do it with the money. Don't you 
 bring home a penny less." 
 
 " I never did, Jane. I never was one o' that sort 
 — no, not as a young man." 
 
 " Then don't you go talking nonsense about begin- 
 ning now. I want every penny I can get to keep things 
 going. D'ye hear ? " She cast a proud look round 
 her spotless cottage. " Only yesterday the minister's 
 wife was in, and ' Vrouw Lobbers, there's not a neater 
 dwelling than yours,' she says." 
 
 " I know, I know. You told us at dinner. And 
 she's said it before." 
 
 233
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 " Said it before ? I should think she had. She 
 says it every time she comes." 
 
 At this stage, Maria crept meekly in. 
 
 " Well ? " cried husband and wife together. 
 
 " Liza was taken bad," said Maria. " We had 
 coffee at Cousin Greta's, and currant buns — Liza had 
 two, and a cucumber. She was taken bad with a 
 choke on her chest — so bad that they sent for the 
 doctor." Maria sniffed. 
 
 " Well ? " repeated husband and wife together, 
 craning forward, the pair of them. 
 
 " * She'll kill herself some day with her greediness,' 
 the doctor says." 
 
 " Bah ! " exclaimed the husband, sinking back. 
 " He's said that before." 
 
 " * She's got something wrong with her heart,' said 
 
 the doctor : he was a long time bringing her round. 
 
 ' One such another attack, at her age, might kill her,' 
 
 said the doctor." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the wife. 
 
 ***** 
 
 And the week slipped quietly by. Nothing hap- 
 pened — as usual : the days were, as usual, monoto- 
 nously full. Lobbers went to his regular work as a 
 labourer in the Baron's woods ; Vrouw Lobbers scrubbed 
 and polished late and early ; at night she sat down, 
 spotless, and looked around her spotless home. Maria 
 tried to help — to do as much work as was desired of 
 her, continuously scolded, and mercifully resigned. 
 Of evenings, when the man came home, things would 
 grow cheerful : he would read aloud odds and ends 
 from the newspaper, smoking, while the women sewed. 
 
 The Saturday came round, on which he was always 
 
 234
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 twenty minutes later — pay-time delaying him, Vrouw 
 Lobbers watched at the door, till the minutes had 
 lengthened beyond the half- hour ; then she frowned 
 and smoothed down her ample bosom, and sent off 
 Maria to the Poorhouse to find out if Liza were better 
 and could be expected to the Sunday dinner. For 
 Liza had remained ailing all the week with what Maria 
 called " chronicles in her inside." " It's a fit of in- 
 digestion," the doctor had answered, when Vrouw 
 Lobbers stopped him in the road ; " she'll get over 
 it and live for a year or two yet. But she mustn't 
 have any more." 
 
 " Drat the man ! " now said Vrouw Lobbers in 
 equivalent Dutch. " If he's gone to the public-house 
 — a thing he never did before — I shall give him more 
 of my mind than he'll care for." But, even as she 
 spoke, her husband turned the corner and came across 
 the common with slow and uncertain step. 
 
 Uncertain also, Vrouw Lobbers waited till he lurched 
 over a molehill : then she said decidedly — " He's 
 drunk. Oh, the scandal in a respectable family ! 
 Five and forty years long have we never had a thing 
 to be ashamed of. Alas ! the day." She stood wait- 
 ing, her arms akimbo : her husband passed her, as if 
 unconscious of her presence : he went in and sat down. 
 
 " And this is the condition you come home in," 
 began the housewife, " on a Saturday night ! I don't 
 know what's befallen you, Lobbers, that you should 
 bring down disgrace on two people as never did any- 
 thing as any one ever could find fault with before ! " 
 
 He looked up at her, not having heard, with dazed 
 eyes. 
 
 "Well, get them copy-books," he said. 
 
 235
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 " What, in the name of mischief, do you mean ? " 
 
 " Them copy-books, you know." 
 
 " What copy-books ? '" 
 
 " Them as you ahvays write down all the house- 
 keeping in. You ain't got no others. Let me see if 
 I can't understand that two and two don't make five ! " 
 
 " Why, you never wanted to see 'em before in your 
 Hfe. You're " 
 
 " Never mind ; I want to see 'em now. And look 
 here, Jane, give me my pipe." 
 
 She went to the cupboard, wondering, not sure of 
 his condition. But she brought the copy-books in 
 silence and spread them out before him. There were 
 two of them, fat and strongly stitched in so-called 
 moleskin : during all her long married life she had 
 neatly written down her accounts first in one, then in 
 the other, carefully re-backing them when they fell 
 to pieces from age. 
 
 He turned over a few pages, backwards and forwards, 
 listlessly gazing at the close- written columns cf figures : 
 then his eyes grew dim. " I've never been able to 
 make anything of sums," he said. " You tell me. But 
 nobody could fell a tree quicker 'n I. And now they 
 say I can't ! " 
 
 ** Who says ? " she exclaimed, erect and fierce. 
 
 " The Baron's agent. Jane, it's come at last. I've 
 been expecting it ever since the winter. I'm put on 
 the ' old ones' ' list, as they call it. I'm to have a 
 florin less than till now." 
 
 " A florin less ! I can't manage, I tell you ! I can't 
 manage ! " She snatched at the copy-books and drew 
 them towards her. 
 
 " Don't," he said. " 'Tisn't my fault." 
 236
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 A sudden compunction seized her. " And I thought 
 you was drunk ! " she said. 
 
 He looked up reproachfully. 
 
 " For shame ! " he answered. " You know I was 
 never drunk in my life." 
 
 She turned over the pages hurriedly, confusing him 
 with their glitter. " Look here," she said ; " let me 
 show you. I can't manage on less. Work it out with 
 me. You must tell the agent. I canH keep things 
 decent : the others don't want to. You and I, we're 
 simple folk : we don't eat not more than a morsel, 
 we don't drink not more than a sip of gin on Sundays, 
 for you — but we must live clean and decent. We 
 should die if we was turned out of this little cottage. 
 La — a whole florin less ! What we had was hardly 
 enough to keep soul and body together ! " 
 
 " I can't tell him. He won't care," said the man. 
 
 They sank into silence, their eyes on the books. 
 
 " I've never wasted a farthing on nothing," said 
 the woman at length, in the dusk ; " not since we 
 was married, five and forty years ago. The last money 
 I ever wasted went in buying you a fairing, Dirk, when 
 we was courting. I bought you a little red purse — 
 d'ye remember ? — to put y'r money in. It cost eighty 
 cents — it had a very good clasp." 
 
 " I've got it still," said the man. 
 
 " In course you have. But I've always regretted 
 it. People like us don't want no purse." She waited 
 a long time. " All the same," she said reflectively, 
 " I got it cheap. " 
 
 " Where's Maria ? " said the man, anxious to com- 
 municate the tidings of his trouble. The woman made 
 answer — 
 
 237
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 " Maria, she costs us a florin a week," 
 
 " What's that to do with my question ? " 
 
 " Maria ? I tell you she costs us just a florin a 
 week." 
 
 " Well, where is she ? " 
 
 " Gone to ask about Liza's coming to-morrow. Liza's 
 still poorly. Dirk, don't you hear me ? Maria, she 
 costs us exactly a florin a week," 
 
 " Hear ? I should think so ! I've heard it a dozen 
 
 times. Go to h with your florin ! She'll have 
 
 to cost us less." 
 
 " Do you think she costs us more than she must ? 
 Not a cent ! " 
 
 " Well, what then ? " 
 
 " We shall have to get rid of Maria." 
 
 " We can't. They won't take her in the Poorhouse, 
 Jane — not while Liza's there." 
 
 " Don't I know that ? Else she'd have been in 
 ten years ago, I promise you." 
 
 " What then ? We can't kill her." 
 
 The woman rose, indignant. " How dare you say 
 such wickedness, Dirk ? If any one was to hear us 
 you'd be shamed afore the village." 
 
 " I was only joking," he expostulated, with an awk- 
 ward laugh. 
 
 " Joking ! 'Tain't no subject for joking. Sakes 
 alive, here's Maria ! " 
 
 " Are you there, Maria ? " began Lobbers imme- 
 diately. " Something terrible has happened, you 
 
 must be prepared for it. The agent " Maria 
 
 began to cry. " The agent has put me among the 
 ' old ones.' I'm to have a florin less." 
 Maria laughed, a feeble, old woman's quaver, " I 
 238
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 thought you was going to say ' turned off,' " she 
 cried. 
 
 Her sister-in-law burst out at her in a fury. " Turned 
 off ! " she exclaimed ; " you grinning fool ! And 
 why should they turn him off, pray ? D'ye think 
 he's been accused of stealing, as you was in y'r last 
 place but one ? " 
 
 " It was a lie," protested the old spinster, with fresh 
 tears. " It was proved to be a lie. They caught the 
 thief." 
 
 " Lie or no lie, it might have been the truth," re- 
 torted Vrouw Lobbers, who had flung this hbel in 
 Maria's face a thousand times. 
 
 " She don't understand," interposed the old man. 
 " Not earning her own bread, she don't mind how it's 
 paid for. Look ye here, Maria, make sense of this : 
 There's a florin less to spend every week in this family 
 where there never was florins to spare. Jane and I 
 can't eat less than we do, Maria." 
 
 " Nor I can't," said Maria, with a gulp. 
 
 " Well, you'll have to go and get fed somewhere 
 else, then." 
 
 " You wouldn't send me away, Dirk. I ain't got 
 no tuppences to go buying a dinner with." 
 
 " How is Liza. ? " queried Jane, looking up. 
 
 " Very poorly, the doctor says. She's had some 
 bad suffocations. But she's coming to-morrow — she 
 told me to make sure and tell you. She's coming 
 to-morrow, so you shouldn't think she was ill." 
 
 " Trust her to grudge us the tuppence," said Lobbers. 
 " She wouldn't pay for her dinner and not eat it — 
 not she." 
 
 " Well, she's a right to it," said Vrouw Lobbers 
 239
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 briskly. Her voice had resumed its cheery tone. She 
 went and got a shawl and a basket. " I'm just step- 
 ping across to the High Street," she said. " As she's 
 coming to-morrow, we must give her the dinner she 
 pays us for. She shall have it, Dirk ; she shall have 
 it, Maria, and, as she's poorly, of the best. Saveloys 
 is Liza's favourites : she shall have a saveloy. And 
 cabbages and cucumbers was always her particular 
 vegetables. She shall have a cabbage and a cucumber, 
 Maria ; she shall have a cucumber and she shall have 
 a cabbage. Dirk." 
 
 It was late when she returned and triumphantly 
 displayed her purchases. The frugal supper did not 
 take long to get ready : they partook of it, and a 
 chapter in Chronicles closed the day. After Jane 
 had kissed and comforted her husband, she lay awake 
 for a long time, doing interminable, unreasonable 
 sums. When, at last, she fell asleep, she dreamed she 
 had the nightmare from over-eating. She woke, 
 tired and flurried. She felt glad the morning was 
 Sunday. Maria cooked the coffee ; there was nothing 
 to be done but to sally forth leisurely to church. Jane 
 tied her husband's broad black bow for him, as she 
 had always done these five and forty years. In church 
 she looked so neat and " bonnie," with her big black 
 bonnet and big white curls, the minister's wife could 
 not keep back an approving nod. She listened in- 
 tently all through the sermon : perhaps the minister's 
 wife would not have smiled so kindly had she known 
 that Vrouw Lobbers did not think much of the minister's 
 easy theology. " He's always talking of love," said 
 Vrouw Lobbers, with unconcealed scorn. 
 
 After church the old couple waited for Liza, and 
 240
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 took her along with them. They hstened almost in 
 silence to the poor creature's querulous complaints. 
 
 " Yes, I'm coming," said Liza eagerly. " ' If I'm 
 well enough to go to church,' I says to the matron 
 (which I'm not), ' I'm well enough to go and get a 
 better dinner than the Poorhouse '11 supply.' Not that 
 your dinners are anything to boast of at the price, 
 Jane, but the doctor, he's been giving me chicken- 
 broth without any chicken for a week." 
 
 At this stage they came across the doctor. " Now, 
 mind you," he said, stopping, " don't you go and eat 
 anything indigestible, Eliza. I won't answer for the 
 consequences if you do. Vrouw I.obbers, see that 
 she's careful." 
 
 " Yes, sir, certainly, all I can," replied Vrouw Lob- 
 bers, with a curtsey. And as the doctor passed on his 
 way, " You heard him," she said to her sister-in-law. 
 
 " I shall eat what I choose," snapped Liza. 
 
 Vrouw Lobbers called after the doctor — 
 
 "She won't listen to you, sir: how '11 she listen to 
 me ? " cried Vrouw Lobbers. " It ain't my fault, 
 sir, whatever she does. Mark my words ; it ain't no 
 fault o' mine." 
 
 " Let her kill herself, if she chooses," the doctor 
 cried back in a rage. 
 
 Vrouw Lobbers repeated these words to herself, 
 half aloud. She repeated them twice over. Liza 
 grinned. 
 
 " Better go home and have your broth," said Dirk 
 suddenly. 
 
 " So that you should eat the dinner I paid for ! " 
 burst out his step-sister. " Give me back my tup- 
 pence, then." 
 
 16 241
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 " I will," said Dirk. 
 
 Both women stared. 
 
 " You'd better be saving of your tuppences," sneered 
 Liza. " You'll have fewer of them than ever, I'm 
 told." 
 
 " Who told you ? " 
 
 " Never you mind. It's all over the place. You're 
 shelved among the old ones." 
 
 " We should be able to get along all the same if it 
 wasn't for Maria and you." 
 
 " Me ?— me ? " 
 
 " Hold your tongue. Dirk, and don't say such wicked 
 things," interposed his wife. " And come in to your 
 dinner, Liza, and thank your stars we can give it you 
 as good." 
 
 So they sat down to the midday meal, the four of 
 them, tottery, clean-clothed, blear-eyed, to the Sunday 
 midday meal. They again grew very silent. Maria 
 put down the food. 
 
 " A saveloy ! " exclaimed old Liza. " Now I take 
 that kindly of you, Jane ! My favourite dish, of all 
 things ! That's better than Poorhouse broth ! " 
 
 " Don't you eat of it," said the man, suddenly laying 
 down his knife and fork. " Remember what the doctor 
 told you." 
 
 " No, don't you eat of it ! " eagerly echoed the wife. 
 Her fingers twitched : there were two white spots on 
 the hard red of her fresh-coloured old face. 
 
 " No, don't," repeated Maria. 
 
 " So there should be more for you — eh ? " answered 
 Liza, looking from one to the other. "I to pay — 
 and you to eat ? " 
 
 " D'ye think tuppence pays for saveloys, you old 
 242
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 pauper ? " screamed the sister-in-law ; but imme- 
 diately her voice dropped : " I bought it a-purpose 
 for you," she said. " I don't fancy such things. Eat 
 the whole of it if you like : that'll please us." 
 
 " I don't believe you, but I will," replied Liza, her 
 mouth full. And so they ate in silence : certainly 
 Vrouw Lobbers had but little appetite : she sat staring 
 at her woe-begone husband : the two sisters consumed 
 as much as they could get. 
 
 " Don't you touch the cucumber, Maria," inter- 
 posed Vrouw Lobbers. " I got it on purpose for 
 Liza." 
 
 " Wait till you can pay, Maria," said Liza ; but 
 she helped her sister to a few slices as she spoke. 
 
 " I shall never be able to pay," said Maria. 
 
 " Yes, you will when I'm dead, and they get you 
 into the Poorhouse." Vrouw Lobbers started, despite 
 her self-control. " But I don't intend to give them 
 a chance yet awhile." 
 
 " Have some cabbage, Liza ? " said Vrouw Lobbers. 
 
 " So I shall ; but I'll take my own time about it, 
 as I shall about dying. One'd think you want me to 
 over-eat myself." 
 
 Vrouw Lobbers pushed forward what was left of 
 the saveloy. 
 
 " They couldn't get me in. I wouldn't take the 
 bath," said Maria. 
 
 Vrouw Lobbers smiled. 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Maria, do ! " cried her brother 
 — almost kindly. 
 
 Liza threw down her fork and knife with a clatter. 
 " Well, it's been a banquet ! " she said. " A banquet ! 
 Jane, if you get the gin, I shall drink your health. 
 
 243
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 Here, get an extra glass for yourself. I'll stand you 
 a sup to drink my health in return with." 
 
 " You know I never drink gin," said Jane. 
 
 " No ; you're a fine lady, you are. But you'll not 
 refuse to drink my health ? " 
 
 " Yes, I will," said Jane, with downcast eyes. 
 
 " It's an ungracious action. Never mind. Here 
 goes yours ! You always was an ungracious creature, 
 but I dare say you means well." 
 
 Vrouw Lobbers did not answer. 
 
 " She means well, I suppose. Dirk, doesn't she ? " 
 continued Liza, with a laugh. 
 
 " In course she means well," said Dirk suddenly. 
 
 The old woman rose to her feet with a gasp. "I'm 
 going back to the house," she said; " I certainly don't 
 feel comfortable. There's this suffocation coming on 
 again. But I've had a good time, and I thank you 
 kindly, Jane." 
 
 She tottered out. Maria would have followed, but 
 Jane imperiously motioned her back. The three in 
 the cottage settled down to their several thoughts. 
 The man smoked; Maria dozed; Jane sat with an 
 open Bible on her lap, or occasionally got up and paced 
 the floor. 
 
 It was dusk before the doctor burst into the room, 
 his face inflamed. 
 
 "What have you been giving that woman to eat ? " 
 he exclaimed. " It's killed her." 
 
 " Doctor, it's no fault of ours," repHed Vrouw 
 Lobbers, in great agitation. " She woidi share our 
 dinner ; we hadn't thought she was a-coming. You 
 heard her ; you heard her yourself, doctor ; it's no 
 fault of ours ! " 
 
 244
 
 THE BANQUET 
 
 " I didn't say it was," retorted the doctor testily. 
 " Well, she's done it, as I always said she would." 
 
 Maria burst out into noisy crying. " I won't go 
 to the Poorhouse," she sobbed. " I won't, I won't ! 
 I won't take the bath ! " 
 
 The doctor gazed at her open-eyed. 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Maria, will you ? And before 
 the doctor, too ! " cried Vrouw Lobbers. Then she 
 turned to that gentleman. " Don't mind her, please, 
 sir ; she's a little — you understand. But that doesn't 
 matter for the Poorhouse, does it, sir ? So many of 
 them are. She's down next in the list, sir, and we 
 recommend her for the vacancy. Dirk — hold your 
 tongue, Maria ! — say we recommend her for the 
 vacancy ! " 
 
 " We recommend her for the vacancy," said Dirk. 
 
 245
 
 " Silly 
 
 SILLY sat gazing away into the sea. That was 
 his usual manner of spending the empty mornings 
 the empty afternoons. Unless his mother called 
 him back to do some work for her, which was unusual, 
 for Silly did things wrong. 
 
 The fifteen years of his lonely life were like a placid, 
 shallow, stagnant water, over which, at constant 
 intervals, swept, from daybreak until evening, the 
 storms of his mother's rages, his brothers' and sisters' 
 teasings and taunts. His father was good to him : 
 sometimes, when his mother beat him, his father would 
 bid her leave off. 
 
 He would creep out of the cottage, as often as he 
 could, away among the sand-dunes. He would linger 
 there for hours, and, if unmolested, he would drift 
 away still farther, to the shore. 
 
 " Silly, what are you doing ? " 
 
 " Nothing, mother." 
 
 " Then leave of^ at once, and come here." 
 
 Sometimes he would obey, sometimes not. If not, 
 he would run away farther, into the sand-dunes, and 
 she would beat him, late at night, when he came back. 
 If he went to her at once, she had forgotten, as often 
 as not, for what reason she had called him : if she 
 
 246
 
 " SILLY " 
 
 remembered, and set him a task, he would make a 
 mess of it, and then, probably, she would beat him 
 for that. She was hard-working herself, a poor 
 fisherman's wife with many children and many trials : 
 for ten long years she had been angry with God and 
 with Silly, that her eldest child should have proved 
 an impracticable fool. 
 
 And when she saw her sister's boy of twelve go out 
 with his father to the fishing, she hated Silly. On 
 the day when that first took place, and they had extra 
 coffee and buns, with gin for the men, at the sister's 
 house, she broke out angrily, and would not allow Silly 
 to take his bun like the rest. 
 
 " Put it down," she said. 
 
 He looked at her, hesitating, disinclined to obey. 
 
 " Put it down," she said again, with a stamp of 
 her foot. 
 
 Then he did as he was told, and went and sat among 
 the other children, bunless. 
 
 In the evening, when the shadows were falling and 
 the noise of life was stilled, perhaps she somewhat re- 
 pented — perhaps she thought of. her nephew away 
 among the dangers of the deep : she looked kindly 
 at her eldest born, and made as if she would have 
 kissed him, but amongst her sort there was little kissing 
 of big children, and so she refrained, ashamed. But 
 she gave him a penny to buy sweets with. Next 
 morning, however, Silly had dropped the penny, and 
 she boxed his ears. 
 
 There was considerable excuse for Silly's mother 
 if she failed in tenderness to her eldest son. Had she 
 kissed him, he would probably not have understood — 
 perhaps, if he had understood, he would hardly have 
 
 247
 
 " SILLY » 
 
 cared. The most manifest fact about this clouded 
 nature was that he " didn't notice things," as averse 
 to being petted as he was to being whipped. In truth, 
 he had not sufficient experience of kindly treatment : 
 slow intellects like his require more than a passing 
 impression, and in the haphazard education of the 
 poor a certain quickness is needed for a child to discover 
 that his parents are fond of him. Silly never dis- 
 covered or thought out anything beyond the immediate 
 gratifications of the simplest animal tastes. He cared 
 about getting sufficient food, if possible, and basking 
 in the sunlight or near the winter fire. 
 
 And thus he would lie for hours and hours, beyond 
 farthest reach of his mother's calling, on the sands, 
 in the golden sunlight, gazing out towards the sea. 
 
 * * 3): * 9|C 
 
 In the Chateau, a mile inward, among the spreading 
 beeches, sat the young Countess through the morning, 
 with her hands upon her lap. 
 
 " I am good for nothing," said the Countess. 
 
 Her courtly adviser looked half-reproachful sympathy 
 from the depths of his kindly grey eyes. He was an 
 English gentleman of high position, a well-known and 
 righteously honoured philanthropist : he had been 
 stajdng for a few days with the young Countess's 
 parents : the forlornness of her lot had struck him. 
 She was nearly thirty : she was not yet married, nor 
 likely to find a husband ; she sat in the weary pomp 
 of her upbringing, and the gilded days — of which she 
 never perceived the gilding — passed motionless, if 
 such a thing can be. 
 
 " Nobody," said the philanthropist, bending forward, 
 " ever was good for nothing yet. I don't say there have 
 
 248
 
 " SILLY " 
 
 never been people who never found out what especial 
 thing they were good for — though such cases, I should 
 hope, are rare; but there certainly never has been a 
 creature of God's creation that was good for nothing 
 at all." 
 
 " Not even snakes ? " inquired the young Coun- 
 tess. 
 
 " Not even snakes," replied the philanthropist, 
 who trusted his theory to pull him through, though 
 he inwardly despaired of his zoology. 
 
 " What use are snakes ? " said the Countess. 
 
 " Snakes are — are — my dear young lady, they eat 
 a lot of other harmful animals " 
 
 " What use are they ? " interrupted the Countess ; 
 but he pretended not to hear her, hurrying on : 
 
 " And very many-er-charming objects are manu- 
 factured out of their beautiful skins — such as-er-purses, 
 and — pocket-books " 
 
 " Ah, yes," said the young Countess, with sudden 
 feeling, " some creatures have, indeed, only one use : 
 to die ! " 
 
 Her pale blue eyes, that wandered across the park, 
 filled with silent tears. He fancied her maudlin ; 
 he was far from guessing the hidden sadness of her 
 words. A large sum of money had been left her, under 
 trusteeship, some years ago by an aunt : her father 
 wanted the money ; she knew it. 
 
 " Our duty is to live," he said, with slight impatience, 
 " and to glorify God." 
 
 " But what can I do ? I can do nothing," said the 
 Countess. 
 
 The distinguished philanthropist had never heard of 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, but he asked the annoying 
 
 249
 
 " SILLY " 
 
 young person beside him whether there were no poor 
 about her gates. 
 
 " Poor ? Oh, yes, but the minister's wife looks after 
 them, and tells mamma of any case that's especially 
 bad. I should be afraid to speak to poor people." 
 
 " Then you have thought over the matter ? You 
 feel it would be your duty ? " 
 
 " Everybody does nowadays, don't they ? It is 
 in the air." 
 
 " I wish it were ! " 
 
 " Oh, not the doing good ! The feeling that we 
 ought to." 
 
 " But if we discern our duty " 
 
 " Although we perfectly well know we can't." 
 
 " Scratch my head," said the parrot. For there was 
 a parrot in the room, and the philanthropist wished 
 there wasn't. Last night, in the middle of the drawing- 
 room meeting, having been reinstated by some mis- 
 chievous nephew, he had spoilt an eloquent bit of 
 special pleading by ejaculating " Humbug ! " in that 
 tone of deep conviction which parrots assume. 
 
 The young Countess laughed, and, rising, obeyed 
 her favourite's behest. " When I die," she said, " that 
 is to be my epitaph — my Cousin Frank has promised 
 me — ' Here lies one who never refused to scratch her 
 parrot's head ! ' " 
 
 The philanthropist smiled, and shook his finger 
 at her. 
 
 " Admit at least that it shows a kindly disposition. 
 Peter is the single creature I am not afraid to speak to, 
 the single creature I know who is not cleverer than I." 
 
 " And you have repeatedly told me that you thought 
 him very clever." 
 
 250
 
 " SILLY " 
 
 " He is clever with my cleverness : so I can compare. 
 He has no initiative, but he can do as he is told." 
 
 " Well, we came across a boy on the sands yesterday 
 when I was out walking with your mother — a rather 
 nice-looking boy of about fifteen, with a gentle, foolish 
 face. Your mother said he was silly." 
 
 " Yes, that is his name." 
 
 " His name ! Poor chap ! Well, now, my dear 
 young lady, do as you are told. Your mother informed 
 me that nobody had ever tried to make anything of 
 ' Silly.' His own parents ignore or ill treat him ; 
 the schoolmaster says, ' I have no time for imbeciles ' ; 
 the minister says, ' I have no time for irresponsibles. 
 Is my information correct ? " 
 
 " Undoubtedly ; you have it from my mother." 
 
 " Then here is an opportunity. You have time." 
 
 " For imbeciles ? One has to." 
 
 He looked at her anxiously, for he was as humble as 
 he was kind-hearted and shrewd. " Surely you could 
 go and talk to this boy," he said, " and make him ever 
 so little happier and wiser and better than he is." 
 
 " I ? Do you take me for a magician ? " 
 
 " How so ? " 
 
 " I could make him — momentarily — happier by 
 giving him a penny ; all the unhappier, afterwards, were 
 his mother to take it away. But ' better,' ' wiser ' ! 
 Shall the blind lead the blind ? " 
 
 He waited a moment, looking away. Then he said 
 slowly — " Yes, the one who can open her eyes shall lead 
 the one who cannot. My dear young lady, I have no 
 intention of preaching to you, but at least, if you can 
 do nothing else, you can teach him the one thing you 
 declare yourself to be clever in. Teach him to do as 
 
 251
 
 " SILLY " 
 
 he is told : a most useful thing for one of his mental 
 capacity. His mother, whom we visited, deplored 
 that he was often exceedingly refractory. Here is a 
 mission for you." 
 
 " But " 
 
 " I do not think you are as clever in the one thing 
 you are clever in as you imagine yourself to be." 
 
 She laughed. " You have me there. I must either 
 prove myself mistaken or obey. I obey, but the 
 consequences be upon your head." 
 
 " I accept them. Would that I could always accept 
 consequences as gladly ! " 
 
 She went out, still laughing ; and he, watching from 
 the window, saw her cross the court. 
 
 " Humbug ! Scratch my head," said the parrot. 
 
 He turned abruptly, walked across to the beast, 
 and scratched. 
 
 " I think you are wrong," he said to the bowing 
 paiTot. " I don't think it's all humbug. You see, 
 I've devoted my whole life to it ; but, of course, one 
 can never be quite sure." 
 
 At that moment the old Countess came in. She 
 was not really old, but middle-aged and comfortable- 
 looking. " What ! Have you forgiven Polly ? " she 
 said, laughing, for her tact was of the kind peculiar 
 to countesses. 
 
 He answered gravely — " I am earning an epitaph." 
 
 " I see. You have been enjoying Hilda. She is 
 really a good girl, much cleverer and kinder than you 
 might think " 
 
 " You give me credit for little discernment," he 
 interrupted. 
 
 " But she has been brought up among views widely 
 252
 
 " SILLY " 
 
 different from yours. Her father always tells her that 
 the only use of the peasants is for shooting." 
 
 " For shooting ? " 
 
 " Not for being shot, of course. You understand 
 as well as I do," 
 
 " Meanwhile, Miss Hilda has gone out to make friends 
 with Silly." 
 
 The Countess sat down. " The great difficulty," 
 she said, sighing heavily, " with a creature like that 
 is to find him a fixed occupation. Were he to earn 
 something, however little, I believe his mother might 
 be made to grow fond of him. Do you like shrimps ? " 
 
 " Very much. I like all good things. What con- 
 nexion have they to your idiot ? " 
 
 " None at all. I came in to ask ; there is a man 
 with them in the kitchen — a rare opportunity ; it is 
 so seldom we can get fish near the sea ! You shall 
 have an omelette aux crevettes for lunch." 
 
 " But I thought the people were fishermen ? " 
 
 " So they are, but they have contracts with big firms, 
 and everything is sent off to the city." 
 
 " Well, then, here is a small beginning for your protege. 
 Surely he might learn a little shrimp-catching ; it is 
 work for old men and children." 
 
 " An excellent idea. I must speak to his mother 
 about it." 
 
 " I am going for a stroll by the sea before lunch. 
 If I meet Mademoiselle Hilda, I will tell her." 
 
 " Oh, blessed omelet ! " laughed the Countess. 
 
 Meanwhile, Hilda walked with lagging steps along 
 the wide sea-shore. She enjoyed the sunlit day, the 
 far expanse of sand and ocean ; she did not enjoy the 
 prospect of Silly somewhere at the end. She had 
 
 253
 
 " SILLY " 
 
 always felt an instinctive dread of mental derangement ; 
 had avoided the harmless simpleton, who avoided 
 every one else. 
 
 " I have brought it on myself," she thought. " I 
 must keep up my reputation for the only virtue I 
 pretend to possess." She was very fond of the English 
 guest, an old friend of her mother's. " I do not think 
 he does any positive harm," said the Count. 
 
 Sniy sat on a sand-dune at no great distance from 
 the village, for his mother had told him to " clear out " 
 that morning ; so he felt comparatively safe. He 
 saw the young Countess coming, but did not run away 
 from her, as the last thing he would have considered 
 likely was that she should address him. His world 
 did not include her — it included barely half a dozen 
 human beings — but he touched his cap, as did every 
 one, as she passed. 
 
 " Good morning," said the Countess, and, to their 
 common perturbation, she sat down. 
 
 Silly did not answer, being too shy. 
 
 " What a fine morning it is ! " presently continued 
 the Countess ; this remark Silly considered exceedingly 
 foolish. 
 
 The Countess dug deep down into her intelligence. 
 " What is your favourite amusement ? " she began, 
 following the rules she had learnt for conversation. 
 
 " No," replied Silly, meaning he had none, or couldn't 
 understand, or think it out. " Have you ? " 
 
 " Philanthropy," answered Hilda promptly. " If 
 you had a little toy boat you could sail it on the sea." 
 
 " Jan's on the sea. I mayn't," said Sill>. 
 
 " Who is Jan ? " 
 
 " Jan's Jan, Aunt Mary's son. He's httler'n me." 
 
 254
 
 " SILLY » 
 
 " Are you fond of Jan ? " 
 
 "No. He hits me. But I'm stronger 'n him." 
 
 " Then why don't you hit back ? " queried Hilda 
 curiously, rather forgetting her mission. 
 
 " Cos I'm stronger. 'Twouldn't be fair." 
 
 " Dear me ! " She was thoughtful for a moment. 
 " That doesn't sound a bit like other boys." 
 
 " Mother says I'm not like other boys. I'm silly." 
 
 " True," said Hilda, thinking aloud. " If you weren't 
 silly, you'd only hit what was weaker than you." 
 
 " I'll remember that," said Silly. 
 
 Then she realized that she was making a mess of 
 things. 
 
 " My dear boy," she explained, " you mustn't mind 
 what I say. You don't understand." 
 
 Silly got up. " I'm going," he said. 
 
 " Where to ? " 
 
 He pointed to a neighbouring dune. 
 
 " I'll come with you," said Hilda. 
 
 The boy sat down again. " That's what I was going 
 for," he said. 
 
 She coloured violently. " But," she protested, 
 " I — I want to do something for you. Is there nothing 
 I could do ? I — I am the Countess Hilda, you know. 
 Is there nothing you would like ? " 
 
 "No," he said. "Yes. Scratch my back." 
 
 The Countess recoiled. " You can do that for 
 yourself," she said. 
 
 " No, I can't," he said obstinately. " I can't reach 
 to it." 
 
 " Everybody can. Try." 
 
 Again he prepared to slouch off. The image of the 
 Englishman rose before her — she seemed to see his smile. 
 
 255
 
 " SILLY " 
 
 " Sit down ! " she said desperately. " I'll rub 
 your back if you'll listen to what I've got to say." 
 
 So she moved her gloved hand to and fro across his 
 jacket, while she preached him a brief little homUy 
 about being gentle and good and kind. He did not 
 understand two words of it. But when she stopped 
 for a moment — the rubbing, not the talking — he said, 
 " Go on." 
 
 " If you was my mother would you be good to me ? " 
 he interrupted suddenly, that consideration having 
 penetrated his sluggish brain. 
 
 " Now had she said " No," what had become of her 
 homily ? So she said " Yes." 
 
 " You wouldn't have beaten me ? " 
 
 " N-no," she repUed, feeling disloyal. 
 
 " I should Hke to come and hve with you." 
 
 She sat silent in the face of this emergency. 
 
 " But your mother doesn't beat you when you're 
 good," she began feebly. " That's why, as I was 
 saying, you should always be obedient and good." 
 
 " She beats me 'cos I'm not clever," he answered 
 sullenly. " Are you clever ? " 
 
 " No," she answered promptly. " But, of course, 
 I know a great many things you don't." 
 
 " Do ye ? " he said doubtingly. " I know a great 
 many things nobody knows. I know them all my- 
 self." 
 
 " What sort of things ? " 
 
 " About the sea, and the birds, and the creeping 
 things. They come and tell me. Mother knows nothing 
 about 'em. She says the sea's just the sea. And 
 she wants to teach me to do a lot o' things I can't do. 
 And they say I'm stupid." 
 
 256
 
 " SILLY " 
 
 " You poor fellow ! " exclaimed Hilda, with tears 
 
 in her eyes. 
 
 He glanced up quickly, saw them, and from that 
 moment his whole expression changed. 
 
 " You must try and do what she tells you," con- 
 tinued the Countess. "People like you and me, who 
 are not particularly clever about managing things 
 for ourselves, cannot do better than just simply leave 
 others to arrange everything for us." 
 
 " I don't understand," said S'lly, with clouded brow. 
 
 " When you don't know v/ljat to do, do just what 
 you're told to do You understand that ? " 
 
 " P'raps." 
 
 " You'll be much happier. You know you cannot 
 find out for yourself, S " She checked the word. 
 
 " D'ye mean to say I must do whatever she tells me ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Whew ! Well, nobody spoke ever to me like 
 you before : it sounds nice. P'raps I'll try." 
 
 " Do. Come, shall we walk home together ? " 
 She got up from the sandhill ; together they strolled 
 along the beach. He picked up a couple of shells and 
 gave them her, common shells, such as any one might 
 pick up, and none but a child or a fool would keep. 
 
 " Good-bye," she said, stopping, when the cottages 
 were a few yards off. 
 
 " Why don't you call me by my name, please ? " 
 was his unexpected reply. 
 
 "Because I don't know it," s?ie answered uncom- 
 fortably. 
 
 " Why, it's ' Silly.' You know, it's ' SiUy.' " 
 
 She colourr-d again. " Good-b3'e, Silly," she said, 
 and held out her hand, which he took awkwardly. 
 ^' 257
 
 " SILLY " 
 
 " Remember," she said, " and if you don't want to 
 do what she tells you, ask God to make you want." 
 
 " P'raps." He was slouching off, when the Enghsh- 
 man came round the comer. 
 
 " I have been looking for you," said the Englishman. 
 " I have an idea for this poor boy. He is to learn 
 shrimp-catching, an easy work. Let us go and tell 
 his mother." 
 
 So they went, and the mother was delighted at any 
 
 chance of the lad's earning a trifle. Silly, too, was 
 
 delighted — naturally — for the highest aspiration of 
 
 his life was to get nearer than possible to the sea. 
 * * * ♦ * 
 
 In the evening, an hour before sundown, he started, 
 accompanied by his younger cousin Jan. All the 
 afternoon the pair had been busy with an old shrimp- 
 catcher who lived near them, learning : and, though 
 Silly still felt shaky, Jan had fully mastered the very 
 simple trick. A net had been borrowed, and, attired 
 in the old shrimper's oilskin bags, a sadly comic figure, 
 Silly now sallied forth. 
 
 " Mind you don't make a fool of yourself," said his 
 mother. " Do what Jan tells you, mind." 
 
 " I mind." 
 
 " I must go out to-night with father," said Jan 
 importantly. 
 
 " You have plenty of time to go with Silly first. 
 You can have a penny of what he earns," said the 
 mother, going in. 
 
 So they trudged along the sands, to a far-away spot 
 where no one would disturb them, and Silly went into 
 the water, triumphantly pushing the net in front of 
 him. It was the happiest moment of his hfe. 
 
 258
 
 " SILLY " 
 
 Jan directed him from the shore with much super- 
 fluous superiority, and he drove his net along in the 
 calm grey water, under the fading light. But they 
 caught no shrimps. 
 
 After a time the interest began to pall. " I'll tell 
 you what," cried Jan from the shore. " I'll just 
 run home and get things ready. You stop here till 
 I come back, mind." 
 
 " In the water ? " cried Silly. " P'raps." 
 
 " Mind you do. I'll only be a minute. Didn't 
 your mother say you was to do exactly as I said ? 
 If you stir I'll tell her, and she'll lick you." 
 
 " I don't mind that ! " cried Silly. 
 
 " All you've got to do is to stay and catch 'em ! " 
 shouted Jan, most mindful of his penny. 
 
 " How am I to catch them ? I wish I could ! " 
 
 " Go in farther, you fool ! " cried Jan, running off. 
 
 At his own door his father waylaid him, and, heedless 
 of his familiar protests, sent him a mile away for some 
 particular gin. 
 
 But Silly propelled his net through the darkening 
 water, catching nothing. 
 
 A visitor to the village inn passed on his homeward 
 way. He knew the boy was a simpleton, and the 
 simpletons of this world are fair game, always. 
 
 " What are you doing there ? " he questioned. 
 
 " Catching shrimps," came the answer. 
 
 " How many have you caught ? " 
 
 " None." 
 
 The stranger laughted. " You don't know how to 
 catch 'em," he said, and then an idea struck him. " You 
 don't know what to say." 
 
 " Say ? " 
 
 259
 
 " SILLY " 
 
 " Say, of course. The shrimps won't come unless 
 
 you call 'em. Every fisherman knows that. You 
 
 must sing, so that they hear you 
 
 " ' Shrimp, shrimp, come and feed, 
 God grant me all my need ! ' " 
 
 " Old Kobus never told me ! " 
 
 " Then old Kobus, whoever he is, is a fool." 
 
 " But there isn't any food in the net." 
 
 " Never mind ; do you know your song ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 And the stranger had to repeat it several times 
 before Silly pretended to have learnt it. Then the 
 stranger, in the twilight, laughed his way home. 
 
 Silly went on, pushing his net, and singing. What 
 he sang was — 
 
 " Shrimp — shrimp — all my need ! " 
 
 for that was all he remembered. It grew slowly dark, 
 and the water was very cold. He got sick of the weary 
 labour, and pushed his way towards the shore. 
 
 Then, suddenly, the Countess Hilda's words of that 
 morning blazed up in his mind. They were the only 
 kind words that had ever been spoken to him by a 
 stranger. He must always obey his mother, and his 
 mother — or Jan in his mother's name — had ordered 
 him to stay. He must obey Jan. He went back into 
 the chilling water. He was very unwilling to do it, 
 but again he remembered the Countess' words, and 
 he said, " God, make me want ! " The stars came out. 
 The long line of coast grew dim. The rippling waves 
 crept forward as the tide began to turn. He pushed 
 his net in front of him, the unwieldy oilskins clinging 
 in lumps about his limbs. And he sang, in a weary, 
 hesitating chant, " Shrimp — shrimp — all I need." 
 
 260
 
 " SILLY " 
 
 At the Chateau, in the cheerful dinmg-room, all 
 lights and laughter, the young Countess Hilda smiled 
 upon the grave philanthropist. "I am so thankful 
 to you," she said, with sparkling eyes. " You have 
 done a good work to-day. I feel very happy whenever 
 I think of that poor boy : after all, you are right ; 
 there is nobody good for nothing." 
 
 In the rising water, deadly cold, with blackness all 
 around him, but for half a dozen watching, stars, so 
 high above. Silly pushed his empty net and sang 
 his empty song. Sometimes he sang it low, for 
 weariness; sometimes, when the thought of the 
 Countess came upon him, he sang it loud, for hope. 
 He was doing what she wished him to do. The 
 water was all about him : it was very cold and dark 
 and horrible — he was very frightened. But then he 
 was only silly, and couldn't manage things — or under- 
 stand. He must wait till Jan came back, and do as 
 he was told — obey. 
 
 The water was at his throat. He stopped pushing 
 and singing. 
 
 " Shrimp — shrimp — all I need ! " And a great 
 wave from God arose on the breast of the waters and 
 swept over them, into stillness and peace. 
 
 For He heareth prayer. 
 
 261
 
 The Minister's Dog 
 
 THE minister stood alone beneath the falling sha- 
 dows, a black speck on the long white length of 
 lonely dyke. Before him, where the wide water had 
 swelled bravely to greet him on his first coming to this 
 his first charge three months ago — before him now lay 
 the dead ice-crust, grey and still, with the still grey pall 
 spread motionless above it, grey on grey, stillness on 
 stillness, by the long gleam of the snow-stilled dyke. 
 
 The minister sighed, and then coughed hastily, 
 ashamed, to himself, of the sigh. Earth and sky were 
 very big and very empty. The minister was very 
 young. 
 
 He was returning, with laggard step, from the steam- 
 boat station, whither he had just escorted his mother. 
 The mother is a pastor's widow, away in Amsterdam, 
 vainly striving, amid the claims of five young children, 
 to join two inelastic ends. After a Christmas-tree at 
 home, sparsely hung, but love-lit and love-laden, she 
 had hurried across to spend the last day of the festival 
 with her wistful eldest. She had brought a cake and 
 compound affection, compressed — like Liebig. 
 
 He was a three-months' minister. He had ideals. 
 She had listened patiently to all his complainings, and 
 she had not told him more than once that he was young 
 
 262
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 and must learn. But she had resolutely steered his 
 thoughts towards the sunshine, and had dilated on the 
 lights and shadows of the other children's complicated 
 existence, especially the lights. 
 
 The minister's brothers and sisters are of no interest 
 to any one, excepting to themselves, and their mother, 
 and the minister. 
 
 " I have brought you a present from the children," 
 said the colourless little woman, rapidly passing in re- 
 view the minister's scanty wardrobe. " It will come 
 up this evening from the boat station to comfort you 
 when I am gone." 
 
 The minister muttered the word " extravagance," 
 and began to inquire all over again concerning Adrian, 
 the youngest, who had hip disease, and whose Christmas 
 present, of late years, had been an expensive visit to a 
 Leyden professor, the painful probing of a wound. 
 
 " But this time he says it is doing splendidly," ex- 
 plained the little mother, beaming. " In a year or two, 
 he says, there will only be a little lameness left." 
 
 " He will never be able to run with Nero," said the 
 minister. 
 
 Nero was a black retriever, saved from drowning, as 
 a pup, by the minister's sudden leap into the water — he 
 was a student in those days — and given by him to the 
 invalid, whom everybody petted. 
 
 " He doesn't want to run with Nero," replied the 
 mother shortly. 
 
 The minister turned along the dyke. That morning 
 he had preached his first Christmas sermon. It had 
 been all about peace and goodwill. 
 
 He was thinking, as he walked, of the squabbles and 
 263
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 struggles that j&lled the httle fishing village from end to 
 end. Three months ago he would have deemed it im- 
 possible that so much envy, jealousy, and mahce could 
 be contained in a community of twelve hundred souls, 
 including women and children. 
 
 Oh, undoubtedly, including the women ! 
 
 He reflected, as his black leet went crunching the calm 
 snow. There were the two Doyerfeld faraiUes, well-to- 
 do, important, all-pervading, who had never exchanged 
 a word since, five and twenty years ago, John Doyerfeld 
 had struck his nephew for some boyish freak. They 
 were religious people, all of them, communicants. 
 White-haired Pete Doyerfeld glowered at white-haired 
 John Doyerfeld across the holy table. The quarrel was 
 the interest and the pride of their lives. 
 
 There was the baker, Jan Blass, whose weights had 
 been found wanting, and who, therefore, made unresting 
 war on the assizer ; there were the Hockmans, who only 
 hated their neighbours (four deep), and the Bartels, who 
 hated everybody indiscriminately. There were aU the 
 members of the parish council, at daggers' ends about a 
 question of tenpenny perquisites ; there was the excise- 
 man, near the church, who restricted his animosity to 
 church-goers, because of a vainly-contested right of way. 
 
 Amongst all these dissentients the minister had 
 stumbled blindly. At first he had foolishly beheved 
 himself merely a spectator, till suddenly he discovered 
 that he was exchanging blows with the whole lot of 
 them. 
 
 Jan Blass had refused to attend church again, after 
 the very first Sunday, because the new minister had 
 " spoken slightingly of The Blood " ; TeerHng, the great 
 smuggling contractor, had withdrawn his subscription 
 
 264
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 to the Poor Fund because one of the Doyerfelds, and 
 not Teerhng's son, had been elected deacon ; and the 
 old widow of Claus Hockman, that most evil-tongued 
 of old widows, had publicly rated the " Dominie " for 
 declaring from the pulpit that " all men may obtain 
 salvation," thereby " making God Almighty a puppet 
 at every sinner's beck and call," 
 
 The Dominie sighed again, and this time he forgot to 
 cough. He was passing a trim little green-shuttered 
 house on the outskirts of the straggling village. He 
 hesitated. 
 
 " I shall venture this very day ! " he said, half aloud. 
 " What a coward I am ! And they can't make me feel 
 more miserable than I do." 
 
 He walked up the narrow path, between some brown 
 rhododendron bushes, and rang the bell — an inhospitable, 
 irresponsively shrill little ting. It was answered im- 
 mediately by a female, all angles, like a vinegar cruet 
 well filled. 
 
 " Miss Kezia Vandonderboom ? " said the Dominie. 
 
 " That is my name," replied the spinster sharply, 
 " unless you have some serious objection. It seems to 
 me as good as any other." 
 
 Long ago the then youthful Miss Kezia had sought 
 refuge in defiance from incessant ridicule. 
 
 The naming of his daughters had been the one stroke 
 of humour in Jaap Vandonderboom's long hen-pecked 
 existence. After seven years of married life twin girls 
 had been born to this patient Job. He came back from 
 the registrar's to his wife's bedside. 
 
 " Well ? " said the wife. 
 
 " Well ? " said Jaap. " I haven't given 'em the 
 265
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 names we agreed on. I told 'im to call 'em Jemima and 
 Kezia — I told 'im." 
 
 The wife sat up. 
 
 " Well, of all the fools ! " she cried in a faint fury. 
 " But, fool as you are, I don't, for the Hfe o' me, under- 
 stand." 
 
 The long-suffering husband grinned. 
 
 "No more do I," he responded, " but the registrar 
 did." 
 
 " May I come in ? " asked the Dominie. 
 
 " Oh, if you want to," said Miss Kezia, " of course." 
 
 In the parlour, by a close stove, sat Miss Jemima. She 
 was exactly like Miss Kezia, except that, being para- 
 lysed, she always sat, while Miss Kezia, being energetic, 
 mostly stood. 
 
 " I wanted to speak about that pew," began the young 
 minister, after the perfunctory preliminaries. 
 
 Miss Kezia stopped him with uplifted finger by her 
 sister's chair. 
 
 " Then you needn't," she said, " for it's no use, young 
 man. We shall keep those two sittings till we die." 
 
 " But you know how matters stand," pleaded the 
 Dominie. " Isaac Bartel and his wife have stayed away 
 from service since last Easter, because their two children, 
 that were then confirmed, can't sit in the same pew with 
 them. There's not another vacant in the building, and 
 your two seats adjoining theirs have not been occupied 
 for years." 
 
 The Dominie paused ; it sounded so simple, so logi- 
 cal. 
 
 " We shall keep those sittings till we die," said Miss 
 Kezia. Miss Jemima nodded. 
 
 266
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 " And never come to church again ? " questioned the 
 Dominie, losing strength. 
 
 " My sister Jemima can't come, for she's paralysed,"' 
 responded Miss Kezia, with asperity. " And I can't 
 come because you preach Arminianism. Jemima 'd 
 come fast enough if she could. She's Arminian." 
 
 " It sounds very contrary," said the Dominie plain- 
 tively. 
 
 Miss Jemima intervened. " A body can't help that," 
 said Miss Jemima. " God Almighty's ways aren't our 
 ways. We've always been ' contraried ' about our 
 church sittings. At Wyk, where we lived before we 
 came here, there were two ministers that preached 
 alternate, and one was Arminian, and one was pretty 
 well orthodox. We could only afford one sitting then, 
 and we took it in turns. The very first Sunday we drew 
 lots, and Kezia got first turn, and — would you believe 
 it ? — bless me if the Arminian didn't get up and preach ! " 
 
 " How did you manage ? " asked the Dominie, with 
 sudden interest, his eyes a-twinkle. 
 
 " Never went to church, of course, for seven months 
 and more, till the orthodox man had a cold in his head 
 one Sunday, and so the turns came right." 
 
 " But surely you might have exchanged," expostu- 
 lated the Dominie. 
 
 " A turn's a turn," interposed Kezia ; " and hadn't 
 we drawn lots ? God Almighty's ways aren't our ways. 
 But you won't get those two sittings from us, not if 
 you talk till doomsday. We keep those two sittings, 
 Jemima and I, till we exchange them for seats up 
 above ! " She pointed with corkscrew finger. 
 
 " I do believe you think there's some connexion ! " 
 cried the Dominie, aghast. 
 
 267
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 " I don't say that. You can make a dumb book say 
 what it don't, Dominie, but you can't a Hving woman. 
 We keep our seats in church, Jemima and I ; we're not 
 heathens nor Jews, but baptized and church-member 
 Christians, and as much as that we can say, with the 
 sittings to prove it, when our day of reckoning comes ! " 
 
 The Dominie rose, rather violently. 
 
 " Three florins per sitting," chimed in Miss Jemima. 
 " Six florins per annum, paid punctually for seventeen 
 years come next January. One hundred and two 
 florins, and nothing to show for it. That's all I say 
 about it. I don't go no further. What a mint of money, 
 and nothing to show for it — on earth ! " 
 
 " Isaac Bartel's empty seats to show for it ! " cried 
 the minister. " I'm not defending Bartel's behaviour. 
 All I say is : It is impossible but that occasions of 
 stumbhng should come. But woe unto him through 
 whom they come ! " 
 
 " Yes ; but that was addressed to the shepherds, not 
 to the sheep," cried Miss Kezia, as she followed her pastor 
 out into the hall. " And a very solemn warning it is 
 to all ministers. Dominie. You're exceedingly young ; 
 but one day you'll say to yourself with tears (God grant 
 it !) : ' Woe unto him through whom offences come ! ' " 
 
 The Dominie hurried homewards. Over the darken- 
 ing landscape damp mists feU cold. He shivered as he 
 passed the hovel of Bram Stap, the cobbler, the village 
 terror, from which echoed the shouts and oaths of a 
 drunken brawl. And as he passed the respectable white 
 house of respectable white-haired John Doyerfeld he 
 shivered again. 
 
 In this village, according to immemorial custom, the 
 church bell was rung at intervals throughout the Feast 
 
 268
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 of the Nativity. He listened to it now. " Peace and 
 goodwill," he said ; " Peace and goodwill. Well, I 
 can't help it." From the distance the parsonage 
 twinkled across the snow. It was utterly, miserably 
 empty. 
 
 At the door his one servant stood peering anxiously 
 out. His mother had recently procured this person for 
 him. It was the person's duty to be old, unattractive, 
 self-willed, and absolutely trustworthy. She did her 
 duty. 
 
 " Dominie ! Dominie ! " she cried shrilly from the 
 step. " There's the most terrible creature arrived for 
 you, done up in a basket ! And if it's your mother that 
 sent it, as the boatman was saying — Lord, one can't 
 understand such goings on of so sensible-seeming a 
 creature ! " 
 
 The Dominie pushed past. 
 
 " I've been out a-perishing with cold for the last hour 
 and a half ! " continued the old lady behind him. " I 
 couldn't 'a' ventured to stay in the house with it, for 
 fear it should break loose. And to hsten to its bowlings 
 and moanings is enough to make a body's blood turn 
 black." 
 
 " The drugget looks strong enough," said the Do- 
 minie calmly. " You must be unusually nervous about 
 animals, Mina." He stood in the passage, under the 
 oil lamp, looking down upon the big basket securely 
 covered with cloth. Scarcely had he begun to speak 
 when the bowlings ceased, and the basket heaved to 
 and fro in a series of ungainly jumps and tossings. 
 
 " Get me a knife, please," said the Dominie. He took 
 up an envelope addressed in his brother Adrian's boyish 
 sprawl, and broke the seal. 
 
 269
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 " Dear brother," said the letter, " we send you 
 ' Nero.' We don't want him, for we're plenty company 
 among ourselves. Besides, we couldn't keep him any- 
 way, for there's a new dog tax to be levied next year of 
 five florins, so mother says we should have to sell him 
 anyway." 
 
 The letter, in the lame boy's writing, was signed by 
 the whole family. 
 
 " Wait, Dominie, please, till I've locked myself into 
 the kitchen," expostulated Mina, as her master began to 
 cut the string. 
 
 He obediently hesitated, but a moment later, in the 
 expectant silence of the narrow passage, as the drugget 
 fell aside, the great silken mass of the black retriever 
 poured forth in a sudden leap, all over the Dominie, up- 
 setting him on to the floor and overflowing him, neck 
 and shoulders, under a torrent of embraces and the 
 constantly recurring flashes of a bright red tongue. 
 
 " Nero ! " said the Dominie, " Nero ! Nero ! Nero ! " 
 
 That was all he said. 
 
 II 
 
 The New Year was four months old already. Its snowy 
 coverlet had long ago melted away from it. Already it 
 sat up in bed and smiled. 
 
 In the pastor's study, with its red curtains and rud- 
 dier firelight, all looked warm and cosy. On the rug 
 lay Nero, his nose between his fore-paws, his whole soft 
 figure shapeless with slothful repose. By the writing- 
 table sat the Dominie, his face upon his hands, 
 thinking. 
 
 Life was easier now for the Dominie in many ways. 
 270
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 Not that his people had grown easier to handle, or that 
 he had grown wiser in the handling, but he thought he 
 had grown wiser, and that is a great thing. In all 
 humility he did his best. 
 
 And Nero kept him company. 
 
 He had resolved some weeks ago, with youthful con- 
 fidence, to desist from his earlier platitudes regarding 
 evil in general, and to preach to his own congregation 
 about their own besetting sins. He did not expect them 
 to like it, but he expected it to do them good. He was 
 mistaken. They liked it. Each of them liked hearing 
 about his neighbour's sins. 
 
 To mitigate somewhat the appearance of personal 
 allusion, he had hit on a plan which he considered in- 
 genious. He had announced from the pulpit that a box 
 would be placed at the church door to receive any 
 suggestions of imperfectly comprehended texts that any 
 member of the congregation might care to make. 
 
 The plan did not work very successfully. The 
 minister might have taken warning from an old friend 
 of his own grandfather's, who had laid a wager that he 
 would preach a good impromptu sermon from any text 
 he found upon his pulpit cushion. When the day came 
 a scrap of paper awaited him. He took it up, saw no- 
 thing written on the one side, turned it round, saw 
 nothing written on the other. He faced the grinning 
 congregation with folded arms. " Nothing ? " he said. 
 " Nothing ? ' Behold, thou sayest, I have need of 
 
 nothing, and knowest not ' You wall find my text 
 
 in Revelation iii. 17 " ; and he poured down upon them 
 such a stream of denunciation as singed their callosity 
 with the very flames of hell. 
 
 On three several occasions of late, when going to un- 
 271
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 lock his box, the Dominie had found it to contain the 
 selfsame verse in varied handwriting : " Woe unto him 
 through whom offences come." 
 
 One of the papers he knew to be Miss Kezia's ; but, 
 then, he was not acquainted with Miss Jemima's cali- 
 graphy, nor with the pothooks and hangers of the 
 sisters' rheumatic old maid. 
 
 " I cannot imagine what it means," said the minister 
 to himself for the twentieth time. He gazed down on 
 the little paper he had brought home with him that 
 afternoon. He could not make it out at all. He knew 
 not what to do. 
 
 So he threw himself down on the carpet and romped 
 with Nero. 
 
 A knock at the door disturbed him. The minister 
 disentangled himself from the canine confusion all over 
 him, and shook out his rumpled black clothes. He 
 wondered what his hair looked like as he called, " Come 
 in!" 
 
 " John Doyerfeld is asking to see you," announced 
 Mina, who never spoke of any one as " Mynheer," " but 
 he won't cross the threshold, he declares, till he's assured 
 that there dog's locked up." And Mina cast a mur- 
 derous glance, like a blow, at Nero, which she hated. 
 The dog winced. 
 
 " Go into the bedroom, Nero, and shut the door after 
 you," said his master. 
 
 The dog obeyed. 
 
 " What I want to know is this," said John Doyerfeld, 
 standing in the middle of the room. He was very spare 
 and neat and respectable, black-coated, white-tied, and 
 white-haired. " What I want to know is just merely 
 this — and, as an elder of the church, I have a claim to 
 
 272
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 be answered. When you preached last Sacrament 
 Sunday about leaving one's gift before the altar, did you 
 mean me ? " 
 
 " I meant every one who has not forgiven his brother. 
 So did Christ. All the worse for you, John Doyerfeld, 
 if you are one of those Christ meant." 
 
 " Dominie, you are insolent ! " 
 
 " So, then, was my Lord and Master," cried the young 
 minister, white to the lips. 
 
 " Hold your tongue ! " 
 
 " And an elder in Israel bade them smite Him on the 
 mouth." 
 
 John Doyerfeld grasped his hat tight. 
 
 " That ever I should live," he said, turning away, 
 " to hear blasphemy in this house from a minister of the 
 Gospel ! Well, well, truly hath our Saviour spoken : 
 * It is impossible but that offences should come ! ' " 
 He hesitated by the door. " Is that villanous dog of 
 yours safely out of the way ? " he asked. 
 
 The Dominie nodded, unable to speak. 
 
 The oft-repeated text, striking him once again from 
 John Doyerfeld' s lips, seemed to weigh down his soul 
 with a sudden blast of approaching misfortune. 
 
 He went back to the dog, but his attention was dis- 
 tracted. Till now he had found refuge in the supposi- 
 tion that all the papers in the box might be traceable 
 to Miss Kezia, for was it not to her that he had unwarily 
 quoted the fatal words ? but others, evidently, applied 
 them to him. Who ? Why ? The air seemed full of 
 indefinite menace. 
 
 " Nero, old boy, I do believe they dislike you as much 
 as they do me !" he said, shaking his head to his com- 
 panion's uplifted gaze. " I suppose it's a case of ' love 
 18 27:>
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 me, love my dog,' inverted. ' The opposites of equals are 
 equals.' That's Euclid, or ought to be. You've a very 
 bad name, Nero ; mind you don't live up to it." He 
 went to get the dog some supper, for Nero had of late 
 grown dissatisfied with regular meals. Now again he 
 sniffed at the food, but left it untasted. He whined, 
 before a familiar cupboard, for rusks. 
 
 Suddenly the minister grew anxious about his dog. 
 Suddenly he realized that he had been anxious for some 
 time. Nero was not his old self ; he was dejected, even 
 occasionally morose, though he would always repent, 
 with overwhelming display of affection, whenever he 
 seemed temporarily to hold aloof. The minister scru- 
 tinized his despondent expression where he sat with 
 drooping lids, his eyes drawn back to his ears. " I 
 wonder whether he is lonely and misses all the others," 
 thought the minister. " It certainly wouldn't be sur- 
 prising if he did." He knew that the dog could never 
 be sent back to Adrian. The new dog tax had indeed 
 made it impossible for the widow to retain him. 
 
 He waved his hands away from his face as one who 
 gasps for breath. " Come ! " he cried, and, rushing 
 from the house, raced with the dog to the village through 
 the breezy spring night, till he saw the lights drawing 
 nearer, and remembered he was a minister. 
 
 He turned down a side lane, to the doctor's little 
 yellow house. The doctor was a jovial, Bur- 
 gundy-nosed bachelor, a sceptic, and the one man 
 with whom the minister could enjoy an honest, open 
 dispute. 
 
 " Dear me, is it only you ? " said the doctor, turning 
 lazily, in his shabby dressing-gown, from his grog, as the 
 parson burst in upon him, " I thought it was some grand 
 
 274
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 case of over-eating among the Doyerfelds, good for ten 
 florins, at least." 
 
 " Doctor, can you see if a dog is ill ? " replied the 
 Dominie abruptly. 
 
 " No, of course not. We doctors know nothing about 
 animals ; animals have nothing in common with ' the 
 human form divine.' Oh, of course not ! All you 
 theologians know that." 
 
 " What is the matter with Nero, then ? " 
 
 Immediately the doctor became serious, and, with the 
 Dominie's assistance, he felt the patient's pulse, and 
 examined the whites of his eyes and his tongue. 
 
 " There's nothing much the matter with the brute," 
 said the doctor. " He's a little out of sorts, and I'll 
 give you a draught to clear the system. But, I'll tell 
 you what's the trouble, if you really want to know. Like 
 most of us, he's growing old and cantankerous. That's 
 a disease no medicine can cure." 
 
 " He isn't in the least cantankerous," replied the 
 Dominie vehemently. " His temper's that of an angel. 
 He's never even bitten Mina.'' 
 
 The doctor eyed him curiously. " Have you never 
 heard that this kind of big dog is apt to turn crusty with 
 time ? " he said. " You haven't, have you ? Well, 
 better look out. If / might recommend a remedy, it 
 would be a drastic one. I should say, ' Change of air ! ' " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " cried the minister, growing 
 hot. 
 
 " Change of air — you know. I don't fancy this sea- 
 board agrees with him. Send him somewhere else." 
 
 The Dominie stared for a moment, then found that 
 he was too angry to reply, and rushed away. 
 
 The doctor settled down to his glass. " Never give 
 
 275
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 advice," he soliloquized. " But what's the use of say- 
 ing that to a medical man ? Poor Dominie, he'll hear 
 it on all sides to-morrow." 
 
 The Dominie went to bed in a huff, and woke up in 
 a bad temper. 
 
 He was pottering about in his httle vegetable garden, 
 when suddenly a dark shadow intervened between him 
 and the feeble April sun. Looking up, he saw Miss 
 Kezia Vandonderboom. 
 
 " I want the price of those chickens, please," said Miss 
 Kezia in a voice hke a whiplash. 
 
 " My housekeeper pays for things," replied the young 
 minister loftily. " But I haven't had any fowl since I 
 came." 
 
 Miss Kezia turned green. " Do you take me for your 
 butterwoman, Dominie ? " she said. " I don't need to 
 sell anything, thank Heaven. But I'm not going to have 
 my and my sister's chickens chased by your brute of a 
 dog without getting paid for the damage." 
 
 " Nero ? " cried the Dominie, white and sick. " Does 
 Nero chase your chickens ? " 
 
 " Your dog does, whatever his evil name may be ! 
 And you a Christian pastor, calling your dog after the 
 Babylonish tyrant ! I dare say he's going mad, hke that 
 monster went : howsoever, he don't eat grass, but 
 chickens ! " 
 
 " I will pay for the damage. How much is it ? " said 
 the Dominie, hoping it was not much. He went in, to 
 his desk. 
 
 The sight of silver softened Miss Kezia. " Ah ! 
 Dominie," she exclaimed, shaking her head, " how truly 
 I warned you, more truly than I could have ventured to 
 think, that you would come to mourn the causing of 
 
 276
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 offences ! Take my advice, Dominie : shoot that dog ! " 
 
 He turned on her. " It was you that put that text 
 into the box," he said. " How often, I should Uke to 
 know ? " 
 
 " Three times," replied Miss Kezia promptly. " I, 
 and Jemima, and Jane." 
 
 He bowed her out ceremoniously, and then summoned 
 Nero to his presence. He stood looking down on the 
 dog, and the dog sat looking down on the floor. 
 
 " Nero, Nero ! " said the Dominie, " I wonder how 
 much more you have on your conscience. Would it be 
 any use, I wonder, changing your evil name ? Sup- 
 posing I were to give you a fresh start as ' Paul ' ? " 
 
 Nero guiltily wagged his tail. Then, like the lonely 
 young fool he was, the young minister stooped and 
 kissed the culprit's smooth black head. 
 
 There was thunder in the air. An irresistible disquiet 
 impelled him to go out into the village, down to the 
 church, and the text-box. He took the dog with him, 
 being resolved never in the future to let the animal out 
 of his sight, unless he locked it up. 
 
 " No, we shall not part, Nero," he said. " If it be 
 true that your high-day is over, all the more reason for 
 me to stick to you in your decay. Besides, to whom 
 could I dispose of you ? No, we shall not part." 
 
 It seemed to him, as he passed along the village street, 
 that the people eyed him with malevolence. He re- 
 membered having noticed this before of late. He told 
 himself that it did not matter much. He could never 
 hope, anyhow, to conciliate the Doyerfelds, and the 
 Hockmans, and all the numerous saints of his congrega- 
 tion. He yearned for a downright sinner like himself. 
 
 277 
 
 9
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 The dog slunk behind him. People whispered and 
 pointed to the dog. A mother drew away her toddling 
 baby with frightened face. A little boy, safe behind a 
 railing, threw stones. 
 
 The minister unlocked the text-box. There were two 
 papers in it with the accusatory words. One of these 
 was in John Doyerfeld's handwriting. 
 
 The minister walked back reflectively, speculating 
 as to who could have written the other. He resolved to 
 take down the box, which was becoming an obsession. 
 And he abused himself for a coward. 
 
 He was roused from his reverie by an outburst of 
 shrieks and revilings. He looked back hastily ; he had 
 jast turned a corner ; the dog had disappeared. 
 
 He ran back. An excited crowd was forming by one 
 of the cottages. The Dominie plunged into the midst 
 of it. An unkempt creature, the tears coursing white 
 down her dirty cheeks, knelt by the roadside, straining 
 to her ragged breast an equally dirty, howling child. A 
 chorus of ragged, loud-voiced sympathy went up all 
 around them. 
 
 The Dominie recognized Mie Stap the drunken cobbler's 
 wife, just as her husband, the bully, burst in among the 
 rapidly receding spectators. 
 
 " Bitten the child, has he ? " shouted the cobbler. 
 " Let me get at him, the great hulking brute, or his 
 sneak of a master ! Ah, there you are, are you ? " 
 he continued in a lower tone, suddenly espying the 
 Dominie's black coat. " Your dog's bitten my child 
 and nearly killed it, and I'll shoot him — I swear I will — 
 the first time he comes my way." 
 
 " No, you will not," replied the Dominie. " Let me 
 see what I can do for the child." 
 
 278
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 The child was undeniably wounded, though not 
 severely. At sight of the blood across its arm a shriek 
 went up on all sides. It had chased the dog, flinging 
 stones, and the dog had bitten it. 
 
 The Dominie's calm words infuriated his antagonist. 
 " I shall shoot him and thrash you first, you yellow- 
 faced parson ! " shouted the cobbler, all the early drink 
 in him mounting to his own purple visage. " What d'ye 
 mean, coming here, preaching peace in the pulpit o' 
 Sundays, and prowling about the place all the rest o' the 
 week with that murderous brute, like a beast of prey ? 
 The whole village wishes it were rid of you and your dog, 
 that it does ! And no chickens nor children safe in the 
 streets for fear of the parson's little pet ! I'm a better 
 friend to the village than the parson, and, by G — , I'll 
 make you kill that dog yourself ! " 
 
 They had drawn back into the yard by the cobbler's 
 hovel. The curious crowd clustered, at a respectful 
 distance, round the entry. 
 
 " Peace, drunkard ! " said the Dominie, standing 
 motionless : "I dare you to touch the dog or me." He 
 folded his arms. 
 
 " Ah, you've easy daring," replied the cobbler, " with 
 that ravening dog behind you to help you to speak 
 bold ! " And, indeed, the minister felt Nero, at that 
 moment, timidly rubbing against his legs. He dragged 
 the dog into an outhouse and bolted him in. 
 
 " Now ! " he said, coming back. " I'm very, very 
 sorry for what's happened, but I'm not afraid of you, 
 Bram Stap, and so I tell you. You won't get anything 
 out of me by bluster. I shall do with my own dog what 
 I choose." 
 
 The cobbler calmed down before the other's quiet 
 279
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 tones. " No offence," he said, slouchingly, " no offence, 
 Doiminie, but when a man loves his children as I do 
 
 " He spends all his earnings in drink," interrupted the 
 Domnie. He deliberated a full minute. The crowd 
 outside wondered what would happen next. " If I 
 send the dog away," said the Dominie at last, cautiously 
 reading the man he had to deal with, " it shall be of my 
 own free will ; and to prove that it is, I make my con- 
 ditions. If I send the dog away this week, you, Bram 
 Stap, shall come to church next Sunday, sober. Do 
 you agree ? " 
 
 " Oh, I agree," replied the cobbler roughly. " Send 
 the dog away, and how do you know I'll keep my 
 share ? " 
 
 " Because a man may be a drunkard and a bully, and 
 yet not altogether a blackguard," replied the Dominie ; 
 " because I think you'd like to prove you're not." 
 
 " This, at least, is a sinner," thought the Dominie 
 bitterly. " He doesn't quote texts." 
 
 He turned on his heel and went to release the dog. 
 When they reached the parsonage together, he locked 
 his study door, and sat long into the afternoon, heedless 
 of the old woman's calls to luncheon, his hand against 
 Nero's glossy neck. 
 
 In the evening, as the shadows began to lengthen 
 across the wastes of water, the Dominie and his dog 
 passed slowly down the village, on their way to the 
 landing-place. 
 
 The villagers gathered at their doors and along the 
 street, and watched. The Dominie looked neither to 
 right nor left, avoiding cdl salutations. The dog drooped, 
 head and tail. 
 
 280
 
 THE MINISTER'S DOG 
 
 " Well, it's a mercy you spoke up as you did, Bram 
 Stap," said one of the cobbler's boon companions ; "I 
 could see he saw you meant what you said. And a 
 precious funk he's in — no wonder ! " 
 
 The cobbler turned upon the speaker with an oath, 
 " Hold your tongue," he said, " or I'll knock your ugly 
 eyes out." 
 
 The minister went on along the dyke, where the broad 
 estuary once more swelled and glittered — away from 
 the village — into the loneliness. By the landing-place 
 the little steamer lay puffing. The minister had tele- 
 graphed to a friend in Friesland who, living on a lonely 
 moor, had lately been in search of a watch-dog. He led 
 Nero on to the deck. He did not dare to take leave 
 of him. He knew that the dog understood. 
 
 Away, into the unending distance the steamer, turning 
 slowly, steered its course. The grey heaven sank lower 
 and lower, leaden-coloured, leaden-weighted, upon the 
 leaden water. The Dominie stood on the dyke. 
 
 Suddenly a long, long-drawn howl arose upon the 
 evening air. 
 
 281
 
 Tom Potter's Pilgrimage 
 
 FAR astray on the desolute moor, far beyond the last 
 faint indications of human sociabiUty, beyond 
 the farthest pubhc-house that stands, an outpost, to 
 catch the distant wanderer, far beyond, with miles of 
 loneliness all around it, Tom Potter's cottage sleeps, turf- 
 covered, among the motionless waves of turf. Nobody 
 ever comes near it, except the rabbits or, once in a way, 
 the Baron's officious gamekeeper — to see if old Tom 
 Potter be not yet dead. 
 
 But he isn't dead. He has no intention of dying. 
 He has talked about the thing so often, these last twenty 
 years, he was forgotten to do it. 
 
 He is past eighty — ten years past, he says, but that 
 is an old man's haste to attain a hundred. He never 
 had any relations or connexions of any kind. The 
 villagers say he has always lived out on the moor. 
 
 On a silver summer evening, a night so soft and silent 
 that even a snuffy old gaffer sees the stars and the glow- 
 worms, Tom Potter sat in front of his hovel, smoking. 
 That afternoon, on the dusty high-road, he had picked 
 up an untouched cigar, just dropped by a passing cyclist ; 
 with reckless honesty he had shouted to stop the tourist, 
 who, suspecting mendicancy, had swiftly sailed away. 
 Such an event had never occurred before, and was most 
 
 282
 
 TOM POTTER'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 unlikely to occur again ; yet, henceforth, on his daily 
 trudge, Tom Potter would dream, eyes downward, of 
 wealthy swells and noblemen sowing tobacco along an 
 old man's cheerless path. Not noblemen. Tom Potter 
 belonged to the past : the gentleman cyclist, paddling 
 his own legs for pleasure, was a thing you heard of, 
 and disbelieved. 
 
 But from Tom Potter's modest standpoint almost all 
 men are moderately wealthy. The men, for instance, 
 who owns two pigs. As he sat, laboriously reflective, 
 he wondered at the thought of countless numbers who 
 could lightly lose a whole cigar. There was no in- 
 vidiousness about the wonder. Providence had willed 
 these natural inequalities. Tom Potter belonged to the 
 past. 
 
 During the last fifty years he had asked for nothing 
 but daily work for daily food. The work had decreased 
 with failing strength, but so had the need of nourishment. 
 In youth the gates of all the senses swing open to enjoy- 
 ment ; Tom Potter, in his day, had seen the riotous train 
 sweep, loud, across his soul. But that was more than 
 fifty years ago, miles away, almost in another life ; 
 nobody know anything about it. 
 
 The one thing he dreaded was cold. A little hunger 
 had its compensations ; it is the best of sauces, until 
 you let it burn ; it is also the best of restoratives when 
 the muscles refuse to work. A little thirst cannot do 
 much worse than disturb your temperate potations. 
 But cold — cold — with infirmities increasing and inade- 
 quate peat, and shivers even in the aimless summer 
 breezes — cold, that was what he dreaded, the poor man's 
 silent foe. The hovel was a ruin ; a hundred draughts 
 swept through its many cracks. He, too, was a ruin, 
 
 283
 
 TOM POTTER'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 its aged occupant, and the draughts pierced now where 
 they had never pierced before. 
 
 But this night, at any rate, no chill would strike upon 
 the mellow air. And yet, in spite of comfort, of content- 
 ment, in spite of treasure trove, Tom Potter's meditations 
 were the saddest he had known through all these fifty 
 uneventful years. 
 
 For, that very morning the village doctor had answered 
 a question become inevitable. The old man was right. 
 The trouble at his heart — the sudden catch, the spasm 
 — was the slow beginning of the end. Tom Potter must 
 abandon the little jobs which still kept body and soul 
 together. It wasn't a matter of life and death ; he 
 simply couldn't do them, the miserable odds and ends. 
 He must apply, at last, for outdoor relief. 
 
 " And long may you enjoy it ! " said the doctor, with 
 rough good-nature. 
 
 " Ay, I shall live to be a hundred," answered Tom. 
 That was his standing, oft-repeated joke ; for the first 
 time it seemed to have lost its laugh. 
 
 Like all men of his class, he had the smallest opinion 
 of the doctor. If the poor believe in anything, it is 
 quacks. Expensive quacks. But he knew that the 
 doctor spoke truth, because he had known it before the 
 doctor spoke. He couldn't work any more. He would 
 never be able to work again. Well, he was past eighty, 
 and last year he had owed no man anything, not even 
 the Burgomaster's Christmas present of tobacco, for had 
 he not done an errand for the Burgomaster's wife ? 
 
 He rebelled fiercely against the idea of parish relief. 
 He felt that this was absurd of him ; so few people mind 
 it. The doctor would have thought the fancy most 
 extravagant ; the doctor had no experience — outside 
 
 284
 
 TOM POTTER'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 romance, for he closed his eyes — of beggars who didn't 
 choose — to be helped. But here was the last relic of 
 Tom Potter's handsome, stalwart, tempestuous youth. 
 He was strong in himself, headstrong, strong of arm, 
 all-sufficient. He owed no man anything — no, nor 
 God. 
 
 He set his toothless gums hard, mumbling the delicacy 
 his quick eye had gained for him — a quick eye at eighty- 
 five ! — many a young fellow of twenty was not half as 
 fit for work as he — Pah ! A wicked look settled on his 
 face. He was thinking, very sluggishly, of his own long- 
 buried youth, of the climax, away yonder, in the noisy 
 seaport, the sudden end of the beginning, as he called 
 it, he who had now come to the slow beginnnng of the 
 end. 
 
 He had been a first-rate seaman, able-bodied, stout 
 of heart, but wild. Before he ran away to sea, he had 
 deserved his mother's thrashings ; she was always 
 drunk, however, when she thrashed him, and that pre- 
 cludes discipline. He had not been drunk, now, for 
 more than fifty years. His drunkenest fit had been the 
 last, on that day when his wife ran away from him, back 
 to the man he had stolen her from, her bridegroom, his 
 messmate, ten years his junior. She was a bad lot, his 
 wife, and a lady too, a doctor's daughter, sunk to be a 
 barmaid. She had run from Piet Jansen before she 
 died — quite a girl, poor thing ! But the child was safe 
 enough, little Anthony, taken by respectable relations 
 of the mother's, properly cared for. The father, burrow- 
 ing into oblivion away on the moor, had never lost sight 
 of the child. He had looked on his whole career from the 
 outset, watching it vaguely, as well as he could. When- 
 ever Anthony rose a step higher on the ladder he climbed 
 
 285
 
 TOM POTTER'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 so securely, Piet Jansen would write from Amsterdam. 
 Piet Jansen, poor fool ! Tom was supposed to have gone 
 to sea, immediately on his wife's desertion, with a ship 
 that foundered. Only his rival, happily married to a 
 fairly thriving rag-shop, knew of his existence " in the 
 desert, like a baboon." Sometimes Tom Potter won- 
 dered why this man, who hated him, wrote of Anthony's 
 continuous success, but he was shrewd enough to hazard 
 an explanation : Piet Jansen believed every letter to be 
 a stab. Tom Potter would gladly have paid for each, if 
 necessary, in blood. 
 
 There came a time when the newspapers supple- 
 mented these epistles, then a time when they supplanted 
 them. The villagers knew little of the wild man of the 
 moors ; they were amused to find him suddenly fre- 
 quenting public-houses, amazed to see him sitting there, 
 and not even getting drunk. You went to a tavern 
 for the business of drinking or the pleasure of discourse ; 
 the wild man came to read the paper ! His eagerness 
 about it became a constant source of fun, but behind 
 his back, which was broad and resulute, like the eagle- 
 featured, sunburnt face, people asked each other 
 with a wink, what Tom expected to find there — an 
 unknown legacy, or a nomination as Minister ? 
 
 When Anthony was struck down by swift disease 
 in the midst of his prosperity, Tom Potter made no 
 sign. He left off going to the public-house. He wasted 
 a whole evening shaping a little black rosette out of a bit 
 of old black ribbon ; wasted, for when the rosette was 
 ready he took it off his cap again, and flung it into the 
 fire. Why should he mourn for a son he had never seen ? 
 Yls, once, in a comic cartoon he had found his portrait 
 and fancied a strong resemblance to himself. He had 
 
 286
 
 TOM POTTER'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 resisted the yearning to buy the picture. Well, now 
 the whole thing was over. There were children, he knew 
 — the rich wife's children : they were no farther, no 
 nearer, than the dead man, his son. 
 
 He mustn't have parish relief — not parish relief ! 
 He had never owed any man anything. He got up 
 and faced the darkly-glowing heavens. He was eighty- 
 five years old, and his son had died at fifty ! The self- 
 same stars looked down on a mansion many miles away — 
 in another province, several hours off by train — he had 
 never seen it, knew nothing of it. To old men death is 
 easiest ; to them it doesn't come. 
 
 Parish relief means inquiries. His shrivelled cheek 
 burned a dusky red. No, that doesn't matter ; he 
 was safe enough there. Pride had driven him from the 
 child of his shame and had kept him from the child of his 
 glory. It was false to say that he disgraced his descend- 
 ants by the acceptance of parish relief. He owed nothing 
 to any man. Not even to his son's children an honour- 
 able past. 
 
 His son's children. The beginning of the end. He 
 could think of nothing else. His eyes turned southwards, 
 as they had so often turned, for fifty years, by night and 
 day. Not parish relief ! 
 
 The cigar dropped from between his lips. He stooped 
 
 down, and dusted it carefully against his shabby sleeve, 
 
 and stuck it back again. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Through the beautiful beechwoods of Varenslo their 
 
 fortunate owner, Everard Plas Potter, strolled home in 
 
 the summer twilight. He was tranquilly contented 
 
 with himself and his surroundings, modestly conscious of 
 
 his position, a man under thirty, enjoying excellent 
 
 287
 
 TOM POTTER'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 health, possessed of a beautiful place in the country, and 
 already a Member of the States-Provincial. He had 
 raarried wealth, like his father, and, unlike his father, 
 love ; for the father by doing as much as he could had 
 enabled the son to do more. On the pedestal of the 
 father's strenuous erecting the son stood serene. The 
 father had never seen the scaffolding down ; the son 
 wished the pedestal higher. But he was very well 
 satisfied with it, all the same. 
 
 He had been down to the village himself, to send a 
 telegram. To-morrow was his only sister's birthday ; he 
 had telegraphed acceptance of an invitation to dinner ; 
 it was the first birthday since her marriage to an officer 
 of rank in the neighbouring garrison town. The post- 
 master had been obsequiously regretful that Mynheer's 
 letters should just have gone up to the house. Mynheer 
 dawdled at the side-gate, waiting to catch the postman. 
 He would like to see Marian to-morrow at the head of 
 her table. Hers was just the kind of match that would 
 have pleased papa. 
 
 The postman stood before him, cap in hand. Mynheer 
 took the Httle packet and walked towards the house. 
 There was a note from a friend about an appointment, 
 which he scanned in the dusk ; and, furthermore, there 
 were the newspapers, a couple of letters for the servants, 
 a bill, a begging letter. These he thrust into his 
 pocket ; he hesitated about the begging letter — should 
 he tear it up unopened ? The lamp was lighted in 
 the back drawing-room ; he went in. 
 
 His wife was busy at the tea-table. 
 
 " Is Anthony asleep ? " he asked, speaking of their 
 only child, a boy of five. Anthony was safe asleep, well, 
 as always ; he had gone to bed amid roars of laughter.
 
 TOM POTTER'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 Three dogs lay under the tea-table ; one of them yawned 
 and stretched his legs. 
 
 " How fat Tub grows ! " said Everard ; " he gets too 
 much to eat." 
 
 His wife looked across at him, laughing. 
 
 " That is a common complaint in this house," she 
 replied. " Just look at cook, and John ! And you 
 and I oughtn't to throw stones." 
 
 " I don't eat too much," he said, throwing himself into 
 a chair. " Unless you mean sauces ? I must admit I 
 do like a good French sauce. And your mother's 
 receipts are excellent." 
 
 " Mamma got them from her uncle, the Consul," 
 said the lady, arranging her little blue cups, " and his 
 was a lifelong experience." 
 
 " I know, I know," he answered. He lay back, con- 
 sciously enjoying the comfort around him, and there- 
 fore began talking of their little household troubles. A 
 good servant leaving, the gardener's wife again ailing 
 — that mysterious breakage of a vase in the boudoir. It 
 was pleasant to reflect you had nothing worse to fret 
 over. Nor did they fret unreasonably, pleasantly occu- 
 pied with themselves, their lives, the welfare of those 
 around them. 
 
 " Another begging letter — evidently," he said 
 daintily poising the dirty missive between finger and 
 thumb. " Well, it can't be helped. I may as well 
 open it, and see if it's worth attending to." 
 
 " The poor must beg, and the rich must give," she 
 answered, gently. " That seems quite natural." 
 
 He smiled, opening the envelope. " A good woman's 
 social economy ! " he said. " And a good woman's social 
 economy is always all wrong." He began reading, with 
 19 28q
 
 TOM POTTER'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 the smile on his face, but the first words of the letter 
 swept it away. 
 
 " High and Nobly Born Sir," said the letter. " Your 
 High Nobleness is a very fine gentleman, and you live 
 very grandly, as your father did before you. But 
 did your father ever tell you — or did he not ? — that his 
 father, a common sailor, that married a bad woman, who 
 left him, lives in a miserable hovel in want of daily bread 
 — lives there still, without food or clothing, though he's 
 ninety years old ? Does your Mighty Nobleness know 
 that or not ? I see your name in all sorts of charity 
 lists (your father was more in the political line), but how 
 about your own flesh and blood, as the Bible says — 
 and it's bitter cold of nights, and not having enough to 
 eat ! — Your friend, " X." 
 
 " Well ? " said his wife. 
 
 " Oh, it's nothing," he replied hastily, and, crumpling 
 the letter in his hand, he walked out on to the verandah. 
 
 He knew nothing of this. Before God, he knew 
 nothing. His father, the early orphaned son of a sea- 
 captain, had been brought up by relations on the mother's 
 side, who had always abused the dead sailor, perhaps 
 because he had really been as bad as they loved to paint 
 him, perhaps because his naval captaincy had been in the 
 merchant service. But the relations themselves had 
 been essentially middle-class : such people make subtle 
 divisions, so Anthony Potter had always argued to himself 
 and to his son. He, Anthony, had worked himself up 
 with a will, studying, as a notary clerk, to take his 
 University degree ; he had married the rich notary's ugly 
 daughter — married young, for the daughter was old — 
 had pushed himself forward in the town he lived in, had 
 talked himself into Parliament, had become a power 
 
 290
 
 TOM POTTER'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 in council because he could talk more fluently than most 
 men about things he didn't understand, had talked much 
 about most things, but little of his family history. What 
 he knew he had told. Of course their origin was humble. 
 Everard, luxuriously educated, thoroughly accomplished 
 married to a charming wife, was aware of that fact, and 
 content to let it rest. He believed his father's parents — 
 a merchant captain, and a doctor's daughter — to have 
 been dead for something like fifty years. He had always 
 been told so. 
 
 And now — a common sailor, and alive ! Hunger, and 
 thirst, and cold ! He looked up at the stars above him, 
 and wondered if they, at this moment, were calmly 
 shining down on the hovel and the old man. A common 
 sailor — oh, never mind that just now ! Hunger and 
 cold ! Well, at any rate, the nights were not cold in 
 August. He smiled, bitterly. 
 
 He believed the whole story at once, in spite of the 
 stupid pihng up the agony. To his lips it tasted true. 
 Nobody had ever told him ; that was his great feeUng 
 of injury. He was willing to believe his father had not 
 known, and therein he j udged rightly. Nor had Anthony 
 willingly spoken of his mother, from a vague dread of 
 something wrong. 
 
 Who, then, had written this letter, and why ? Not 
 any one desirous of benefiting the old man, or further 
 particulars would have been given. Some meaningless 
 enemy, therefore, secret and spiteful. Why should he 
 have enemies ? And why should these hold a secret un- 
 known to himself ? 
 
 A shivery discomfort seized on him. He despaired of 
 discovering where the attack came from. But one thing 
 he was resolved to do. He must consult the family 
 
 291
 
 TOM POTTER'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 solicitor — must attempt, by all means in his power, to 
 find out his grandfather. But then, why, again, did the 
 old man remain in hiding ? What secret shame hung 
 over their heads ? He would never know. The name 
 was no unusual one. He had not a scrap of information 
 to start with. He foresaw, rightly, that he would never 
 be able to trace the old man against his will. 
 
 " What a beautiful night ! " said his wife, coming out 
 on the verandah. 
 
 " Yes," he answered ; and after a long silence — 
 
 " How happy we are," she murmured. " How good 
 God is ! I am so glad to think that Marianne, also, is 
 happy now." 
 
 " Yes," he answered ; then, suddenly — 
 
 " I can't go to Marianne to-morrow," he said. " I 
 must go to Amsterdam on business. I couldn't be back 
 in time." 
 
 " To Amsterdam ? " she repeated, with only surprise 
 in her voice. " You never go to Amsterdam — such a 
 horrible, noisy place ! And I didn't think you ever 
 had any business ! " 
 
 He laughed irritably, " Oh, it's some charity business," 
 he said. 
 
 " In connexion with that begging letter ? Dear me, 
 what an important letter ! You get so many." 
 
 He did not answer. He had never had a secret from 
 her. He hated secrets and all unpleasantness. How 
 could he disgrace her ? And his sister ? A pauper 
 grandfather ! A common sailor ! Pooh, what a coward 
 he was ! 
 
 " I've got a headache and am going to bed," he said ; 
 but he repented the words, though they were true. A 
 headache was a catastrophe in that comfortable house- 
 
 292
 
 TOM POTTER'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 hold, and all ordinary means were available for making 
 a sick man worse. 
 
 When he awoke from restless morning slumber, the 
 night's resolution remained unchanged. Though he 
 felt that the search was a hopeless one, it must be under- 
 taken at all costs. 
 
 He drove off to the station in his dogcart, the boy, 
 Anthony, accompanying him so far. The mother half 
 reproachful, half quizzical, kissed her hand to them be- 
 tween the laurels and rhododendrons of the drive. 
 
 " Talk to me, papa," said Anthony twice, accustomed 
 to a flow of merry unmeaning chatter. But the father 
 only answered in monosyllables. 
 
 Before the little country station, white and red against 
 the sun-filled road and sky, the usual knot of country 
 people stood. They all touched their caps as the carriage 
 drove up, and remained courteously contemplative, 
 closely watching every movement of " the gentry " 
 in various attitudes of respect. Usually the Lord of the 
 Manor enjoyed this constant atmosphere of deference ; 
 to-day he hurried past the bowing station-master, then 
 turned back to send a telegram to his sister explaining 
 his desertion. 
 
 An old man, sitting on a bench, half rose, laboriously 
 and with instinctive submission stood cap in hand. 
 
 " What a poor-looking old man ! " whispered the child, 
 early trained to easy pity. " How tired and poor he 
 looks, papa ! " The child was yellow-haired and chubby, 
 in bare legs and a sailor suit. 
 
 " Does he ? So he does." said the father, carelessly. 
 " Is the telegram right ? Thank you. Here, Tony, you 
 can give the old man the change." Then a sudden pang 
 struck his heart ; he called the child back. His thought 
 
 293
 
 TOM POTTER'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 was of another old man, lost for ever in the seething 
 mass of the world's misery, out yonder, in the hovel some- 
 where on the desolate moor. 
 
 " Here, give him this," he said, and put a gold piece in 
 the child's hand. 
 
 The old man on the bench looked up in amazement. 
 He made as if he would have rejected the proffered coin ; 
 he held it on his worn palm for a moment, gazed at the 
 bright face opposite, gazed down on the gold piece. For 
 once his pride gave way ; he could not affront the innocent 
 child. 
 
 " Thank you, little master," he said, humbly, closing 
 his fingers. 
 
 The boy ran after his father, across to another plat- 
 form : the Amsterdam train was just coming in. 
 
 " Who are they ? " asked the old man, eagerly, of 
 a porter lounging near. 
 
 " They ? " repeated the porter, with the usual local 
 wonderment at the stranger's ignorance. " That's Mr. 
 Plas Potter, of Varenslo. The Lord of the Manor." 
 
 The old man let him move off to ring a bell and come 
 back again. Then he said, " Great people, I suppose ? " 
 
 " I believe you. The greatest people in these parts. 
 Very wealthy. And charitable, as you saw." 
 
 The old man winced. 
 
 " And the lady," continued the porter, " a real great 
 lady, as ever you saw. Affable to the poor, and conde- 
 scending, not like your upstarts of yesterday." 
 
 " They've been here long ? " questioned the old man, 
 wistfully. 
 
 " I believe you," said the porter again. " Been here 
 as long as I can remember. And his father before him, 
 I've heard. The old Lord was a Member of Parliament." 
 
 294
 
 TOM POTTER'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 The stranger put no more questions. Presently the 
 porter said — 
 
 " You look regular done up." 
 
 " Yes, I came a long way. I tramped two-thirds." 
 
 " What did you come for ? " 
 
 " I had business. It's done. I'm going back by 
 railway, though." 
 
 The Amsterdam train had steamed away. The boy 
 was coming back, beside the station-master. 
 
 " Going north, then, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes ; this' 11 take me, won't it ? " He opened his 
 hand and showed the gold piece. 
 
 " Deary, yes ; take you all over the country. Whew ! 
 did they give you that ? " 
 
 The old man's sallow cheek turned brown. 
 
 " No," he stammered. " Yes — yes — they're generous 
 people, as you say. Good people. A real gentleman 
 born and bred. You're lucky to have such people at 
 Varenslo. Good day, little master. God bless you ! 
 good day." 
 
 He sat watching the child get into the dogcart ; 
 sat watching the carriage glide slowly down the dusty 
 sunlit road. 
 
 " That old man said ' God bless you,' " remarked Tony 
 gravely, to the groom who was driving him. " That 
 was because papa gave him a gold piece, you know." 
 
 295
 
 " The Trick " 
 
 THEY were making love, under the great black 
 shadow of the broad-beamed fishing-smack. 
 The twilight hung around them in ashen folds ; the air 
 lay still, but their love-making, as that of sea folk 
 should be, was stormy, like a winter sky. 
 
 " 'Tis no manner of use," he said at last, with a gasp. 
 " Your father'll never consent while your Cousin Govert 
 lives." 
 
 " Your Cousin Govert," fiercely retorted the girl. 
 
 " Well, yes. My cousin, and yours. He's the only 
 bond between us." 
 
 " The only bond ! " angrily repeated the girl. 
 
 He kissed her as a storm-wind strikes, too suddenly, 
 across the branches. 
 
 " The only relation we have in common, I mean." 
 
 " And, pray, am I to remain a spinster," she asked 
 proudly, " until Govert chooses to marry — or die ? " 
 
 " I suppose so, for unless he marries you, he will die 
 unmarried." 
 
 " We have talked of these things before, Simon ; we 
 have got into a way of believing them. I wonder how 
 much of them is true ? " 
 
 " More than you would wish — or I. Hush ! 
 Everything is true. Since yesterday night I know 
 everything." 
 
 296
 
 THE TRICK 
 
 " What, in the name of goodness, do you mean ? " 
 
 " In the name of goodness, Httle. Listen, Put your 
 head down here. Last night I stopped Govert suddenly 
 on the sands, in the dark, and asked him. He told me 
 at once. It is just as we have always fancied. His aunt 
 left him all her money — the two smacks, the four 
 cottages, for the property came from his family — but 
 she made him promise to make a will bequeathing it all 
 to me, her sister's son, in case he should die un- 
 married." 
 
 " And, of course, he has kept the promise." 
 
 " Why ' of course ' ? " 
 
 " Because that is just like Govert, And it's just like 
 you to question why. Never mind. Simon, I love you ; 
 I don't care twopence for Govert. And so he will die 
 unmarried, and you will be rich some day." 
 
 " No, he will marry you. Put down your head." 
 
 " Thank you, I prefer to hold it up. Simon, I under- 
 stand my father ; I should act as he does. I pity him 
 deeply. And " 
 
 " Yes ? " 
 
 " And I disobey him." 
 
 Again he caught her in his arms, and kissed her 
 furiously. 
 
 " It is madness," he said, " delightful, celestial mad- 
 ness ! You are only nineteen. The law forbids you to 
 marry without his consent before you are thirty ; you 
 can't wait eleven years ! " 
 
 " What is eleven years ? A moment." 
 
 " Nor I." 
 
 The air struck cold. She shivered. " If you were 
 Govert," she said in a low voice, " he would give his 
 consent to-night." 
 
 297
 
 THE TRICK 
 
 " I not being Govert, but only Govert's heir, he will 
 give his consent — to Govert — to-morrow." 
 
 " I will refuse ! " she cried vehemently. 
 
 He smiled. " All girls say that," he ansv/ered. " It's 
 a very old story. But when it comes to the point — the 
 beating and bullying and turning out of doors — they do 
 as they are bid." 
 
 " Simon, you know too much ; you talk too well for a 
 common sailor." 
 
 " I am not a common sailor ; I was second mate, as 
 you know. It's a manlier occupation than taking out 
 excursionists at so much an hour. Sometimes I think 
 I'll start fishing, Hke Govert." 
 
 " Govert's got a smack." 
 
 The words stung him. " Two smacks," he said. 
 
 She made no direct rejoinder. 
 
 " If you were Govert," she said at length in a whisper, 
 " he would give his consent to-night." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 She faced round at him, where they lay, interlaced, 
 under the looming hull. 
 
 " I don't know. Do you ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then let's talk of something else." She shook herself 
 free. " Let's try that binding business again, Simon. 
 You didn't give me time the other night. Why, it's only 
 a sort of puzzle ! If you only leave me alone for a bit, 
 I know I shall be able to get loose." 
 
 He laughed, and rising to his feet, a stalwart figure, 
 he went along the vessel's side, looking for a bit of 
 rope. The other day he had amused and annoyed her 
 with this trick of binding your hands and bidding you 
 undo them — quite an easy matter, if only you saw how 
 
 298
 
 THE TRICK 
 
 " An English sailor taught it me," he said, " out in 
 Demerary ; it's as simple as anything. There, J anna, 
 I've got you now." He slij^ped the noose over her strong 
 young wrists. " Look, I could do what I liked with 
 you ! " And he made as if he would have slapped her 
 cheek. 
 
 " I don't mind that," she said, but she struggled to 
 free herself. " I like feeling that I'm in your power and 
 that you've bound me." But she struggled all the more 
 to free herself. " Now, at this moment, Simon, if you 
 was wanting to kill me, I could only close my eyes — so." 
 She suited the action to the words, sinking back, a faint 
 smile on her lips. 
 
 " Good-even ! " said a man's voice in front of them. 
 Govert Stendal stood beyond the shadow of the boat. 
 " What's the joke ? " he asked, and his voice was 
 bright, unlike their tones, which had been soft and 
 bitter. 
 
 " Simon has chained me," said J anna defiantly, " and 
 see, he holds me chained." 
 
 " I will release you ! " cried Simon's rival, with 
 assurance : he knelt in the sand ; he tugged fiercely at 
 the rope. 
 
 " You are hurting me. That is all," said the girl 
 C00U57. 
 
 Simon smiled. Govert set his teeth, and blood 
 sprang here and there from his fingers. 
 
 " Don't you think you had better give it up ? " asked 
 Simon. 
 
 The other leapt from the sand and struck his tor- 
 mentor a full blow across the face. 
 
 " Hit him back ! " cried the girl, also springing to her 
 feet, and swaying in the uncertainty of her balance. 
 
 299
 
 THE TRICK 
 
 " Hit him instantly, Simon, you coward ! Unloose me ! 
 let me get at him ! I'll hit him. Oh, Govert, I love you 
 for doing that ! " 
 
 " For that only ? " he asked mournfully. 
 
 She turned on him at once. " Did you want me to 
 love you for your money ? " she said. 
 
 " You do not love me at all," he made answer. 
 
 She would have retorted, but her father's sudden 
 appearance prevented her. 
 
 " Get you home, Janna," commanded her father. 
 " What means this unseemly exhibition ? Oh, Govert 
 is with you, I see. Your sister spoke only of Simon." 
 
 " The little spy ! " said Janna between her teeth. 
 
 " You know what I told you I should do to you if ever 
 I found you alone with Simon. You hear me, Simon 
 Parr, you pauper ! " 
 
 " Hush, father ! " 
 
 " What ! Is my own daughter to bid me hush ? I'm 
 the biggest smack-owner in Hoist. Do you hear me, 
 Simon Parr ? And my daughters are not for the likes 
 of you. What's the nonsense about this string ? Undo 
 it!" 
 
 " Let Govert undo it/' said Simon sullenly. 
 
 " I can't." muttered Govert. 
 
 " Do, and you shall marry me," taunted Janna. 
 " Father, you wouldn't make me marry a man that 
 couldn't even untie another's lover's knot ? " 
 
 Old Roskam had been eyeing his daughter's bound 
 hands in the half-light. " Pooh ! " he said. " Govert '11 
 tie you a faster knot than that, girl." She stepped away 
 from under his extended fingers. " I'll marry the man 
 who unties my knot," she cried. " I'll marry the man 
 who unties my knot ! " 
 
 300
 
 THE TRICK 
 
 A smile which she could not see crept over her father's 
 face. " So you shall," he answered smoothly. " But, 
 mind you, no tricks ! Keep with me. You shall go out 
 with us in the smack to-night. Tis glorious weather for 
 fishing. And, by-and-bye, before you go to sleep, Govert 
 shall have another try at Simon's knot." 
 
 "I'll keep it till then ! " exclaimed the girl. " No one 
 shall touch it except the man who unties it. Promise 
 me, father — all fair ! — I may marry the man that unties 
 my knot ? " 
 
 Old Roskam laughed aloud. " You may," he said. 
 " The matter shall be decided to-night ; but, by Jove ! 
 you're too partial to Simon." He drew the scared 
 Govert aside. " Keep silent," he whispered hurriedly. 
 " I know that trick. I learnt it years ago in Demerary." 
 
 Janna gazed triumphantly at Simon. " Well," he 
 said, " you told me nobody could possibly discover how 
 to do it. Oh, Simon, you heard father ! He's passionate 
 and unreasonable, but — but, Simon — he keeps his word." 
 
 " I don't believe it. I don't trust your father. And, 
 besides, Janna, what's the use ? Govert's got the money 
 anyhow." 
 
 " Was it the money you was thinking of ? " 
 
 " No, not the money. But your father '11 never allow 
 me to marry you — and me a pauper ; you heard him say 
 it. He's fooling you ! " 
 
 " Father 's unreasonable, but father keeps his 
 word." 
 
 " He's playing you a trick of some kind. He's playing 
 you a trick." 
 
 " It's you that plays tricks ! " she cried, laughing 
 happily, and held up her twisted hands. 
 
 " Janna, if Govert were dead— supposing he died to- 
 
 301
 
 THE TRICK 
 
 night, I should have the smacks, and the houses, and 
 everything." 
 
 " Yes, but he isn't dead, nor likely to die." 
 Janna, he's made the will he promised to. I know 
 he has." 
 
 " He's a stronger man than you, Simon. I wished 
 you'd hit him back." 
 
 " I'll hit him back, Janna, never you fear. If a man's 
 hands were bound like yours are, Janna, another man 
 could do with him what he liked." 
 
 " Fie ! You wouldn't hit a man whose hands were 
 bound ! " said Janna. 
 
 " I didn't say that. Janna, if Govert were dead " 
 
 She turned on him furiously. 
 
 " Kill him," she cried, " if you want to ; but leave off 
 talking about it." She hesitated a moment. " And 
 kill him fair," she said, walking away. 
 
 Her father came round the prow of the boat, on whose 
 other side he had been engaged in close confabulation 
 with Govert. He saw the two lovers, a few steps apart, 
 on the sand in the golden moonlight. 
 
 " Come along with me," he cried to the girl. " They're 
 about starting. Govert's got to go home first and say 
 he'll be away all night. He'll pull out to us in his 
 boat later on. He can bring you along with him, 
 Simon." 
 
 " I could come with you now. I'm ready." 
 
 " No, no. Let the two suitors come together ; and 
 the one that liberates the maiden shall wed her. But 
 Govert must have first chance. Ha, ha ! you're not fair 
 to Govert. 'Tis like laying a wager when one party 
 knows the result." He went off, laughing, and calling 
 to his daughter to follow him. 
 
 302
 
 THE TRICK 
 
 " I don't believe you," said Simon, between his teeth. 
 " You'd never give up your daughter to— a pauper." 
 
 And the sea came up with sullen and sleepy roar. 
 
 An hour later Govert and Simon stood in the moon- 
 light, by Govert's rowing-boat. 
 
 " Are you ready ? " questioned Govert. 
 
 " I've never not been ready," was the ungracious 
 reply. 
 
 " Well, my uncle wanted to go on ahead and have a 
 talk, I suppose, with his daughter. Look here, Simon 
 Parr, we can't both marry J anna." 
 
 " Nobody said we could." 
 
 " But we can both love her, more's the pity. I 
 promise you one thing, I won't marry her against her 
 will. Not expressly against her will. I can't do more." 
 
 " Oh, a girl's will ! And, then, ' expressly.' Govert 
 Stendal, you're safe enough." 
 
 " It's more than you would do for me ; I know it. 
 And, besides, there's this great difference between us : 
 if I don't marry my Cousin J anna, I die a bachelor, and 
 you " 
 
 " Will be your heir." 
 
 The other started. " It's true," he said, " but nothing 
 was further from my thoughts than that. And you, I 
 was going to say, if you cannot marry J anna, will — 
 marry somebody else, in time." 
 
 " 'Tis a lie," said Simon coldly. " Let's get into the 
 boat and be gone." 
 
 Govert paused, with one foot on the bow. " Shake 
 hands before starting," he said. " I'm sorry I hit out 
 this evening. You provoked me beyond endurance." 
 
 " Shake hands with yourself," replied Simon. " Why, 
 pray, should you and I shake hands ? " 
 
 303
 
 THE TRICK 
 
 " Because we're to put out to sea together. Every 
 trip on the ocean means a possible mishap, I can't bear 
 to be in a boat with a man that's not my friend." 
 
 Simon laughed harshly. " Oh, I'm your friend," he 
 said, " the best friend you ever had, perhaps. Get in." 
 
 They glided across the shmy water. The placid moon 
 looked down upon the cadence of their oars. 
 
 Far out to sea the fishing- smack, with Roskam and 
 J anna on board, lay silently calling the smaller boat 
 towards her. 
 
 The two men were weU away from the shore before 
 either spoke. Their skiff was lost in the moonlit dark, 
 on the swelling expanse of the waters. 
 
 " Yes," said Simon gloomily, as if following out his 
 own gloomy thoughts. " To-morrow, unless something 
 stops you, you'll be publicly engaged to the girl." 
 
 " If I untie her," replied Govert, laughing. 
 
 " Don't try to fool me. Untied or not, 'tis to you 
 they'll tie her. Poor thing ! Poor honest, happy 
 thing ! " 
 
 " Simon ! " The other's blood boiled. " Best hold 
 your tongue, Simon. So '11 I. Don't forget we're 
 cousins." 
 
 " Oh, curse your cousinship ! " cried Simon. 
 
 Then they both rowed on in silence across the slimy 
 water. The moonlight played about the cadence of their 
 oars. 
 
 Presently Simon spoke again, with an effort, as one 
 who is eager to say what he would rather leave unsaid. 
 
 " You were talking about dying a bachelor — sup- 
 posing you mean it." 
 
 " I do. 'Tis a stupid sort of thing to speak aloud. 
 But 'tis true." 
 
 304
 
 THE TRICK 
 
 " Well— supposing— then, all the more reason for me 
 to keep you from marrying — her." 
 
 " To— keep— me— from ? " repeated Govert proudly. 
 
 " Anyhow," persisted the other, his voice gaining in 
 assurance, " if I can't keep you from marrying her, I can 
 teach you how to win her fair." 
 
 Govert did not answer, pulling steadily. 
 
 " Nobody'U find out about that knot unless he's 
 shown, I never knew anybody to do it." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " I might show you — for a consideration." 
 
 " You offer to sell me your sweetheart ? " said Govert, 
 pulling steadily. 
 
 " I offer to sell you what'll never be mine. I put the 
 best face I can on a bad business. In another twenty 
 minutes — " he turned towards the vessel looming 
 ahead — " you'll be making a fool of yourself before the 
 lot of us, Govert Stendal. You'll get Janna, in any case : 
 best win her honest. Give me a thousand florins, and 
 I'll show you how to unfasten her hands." 
 
 " You speak plainly," said Govert, pulling still. But 
 his eyes were interested ; the other observed his look. 
 
 " Here's a bit of rope," continued Simon, producing 
 one from under his jacket. " Shall I show you how it's 
 done ? " 
 
 Govert rested on his oars, and fixed a keen gaze on his 
 companion. Simon looked away. 
 
 " Is it a bargain ? " said Simon, with a catch in his 
 voice. 
 
 " Yes, and no. If I succeed in freeing myself I pay 
 you nothing." 
 
 " Of course." Simon laughed with the confidence of 
 achieved success. " If you succeed in that, I'll pay 
 20 305
 
 THE TRICK 
 
 you a thousand florins, though I don't possess a thousand 
 pence." 
 
 " I don't want your thousand florins. Here ! " 
 Bending forward, Govert stretched out both arms. 
 Simon, with frowning brow and trembhng hps, held the 
 noose. His hands shook so violently at first he could 
 hardly steady them. He looked down into the bottom 
 of the boat. " Come," he said in a very low voice. 
 The oars plashed beside them. They lay on the water 
 almost at rest. 
 
 " Tie it tight," said Govert cheerfully. "As tight as 
 you tied Janna, mind, or you won't be able to show me 
 properly. Don't you think it's rather a mean thing, 
 Simon, this thing that you're doing just now ? " 
 
 " No, I don't think it's a mean thing," replied Simon 
 with sullen voice. 
 
 " Don't you ? Well, opinions differ. Heavens, man ! 
 what makes your fingers tremble so ? " 
 
 " Drink ! " answered Simon wildly. His companion 
 looked incredulous, but only questioned 
 
 " Did you hurt Janna's wrists as much as you are 
 hurting mine ? " 
 
 " Janna didn't cry out," retorted Simon, still with 
 sulky accents and sunken eyes. " And, besides, you 
 told me to bind you tight." 
 
 " Janna's a good plucked one. Have you done ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Simon, sitting back. He wiped the 
 perspiration from his forehead. Govert, too, shoved 
 back on his seat, and let his fettered hands lie in his lap. 
 
 " Well, aren't you going to try ? " cried Simon im- 
 patiently. 
 
 " What's the use of trying ? Don't you say it can't 
 be done ? " 
 
 306
 
 THE TRICK 
 
 Simon glanced up for a moment ; exultation flashed 
 from his eyes. But he only answered quietly — 
 
 " True, it can't be done. You're in my power, 
 Go vert." 
 
 " Yes," said Govert, with dangerous tranquilUty. 
 " A thousand florins is too much." 
 
 The man opposite barked at him with suppressed 
 rage. " You'll be sorry you said that," cried Simon. 
 " I'm going to ask for two thousand, or I won't unloose 
 you." 
 
 " Two thousand ? When ? " said Govert. 
 
 " Will you give me two thousand ? " 
 
 " Supposing I say no ? " 
 
 " You'll say yes," replied Simon, gently paddling 
 forward. A cloud had come across the moon. It was 
 dark. 
 
 " If you unloose me I will give you two thousand." 
 
 Simon returned no immediate answer. The water 
 slashed against the keel. " You may well say ' if,' " he 
 replied at length. " Govert Stendal, you're in my 
 power." 
 
 " You remarked that before," said Govert coolly. 
 
 " Give me one of your two smacks also, and I'll untie 
 you." 
 
 Govert looked across in swiftly indignant astonish- 
 ment, but neither man could now discern the other's 
 face. " What the devil do you mean ? " cried Govert. 
 
 " I'll take the oldest and worst of the two — that's the 
 Mary Louisa, isn't she ? You see I'm not exacting." 
 All the sneer had come into every word again : there 
 never, in all the village, had been a sneerer like Simon 
 Parr. " You must give me two thousand florins and the 
 
 Mary Louisa, or " 
 
 307
 
 THE TRICK 
 
 " Or ? " 
 
 " Or we go up the side together, and J anna and all the 
 rest can see what condition I've reduced you to. Oh, 
 never fear ; I'll help you up." 
 
 Govert looked down at his powerless hands, and seemed 
 to reflect. Presently he lifted his head with a movement 
 of definite resolve. The clouds had lightened along the 
 moon : great rifts of yellow were piercing the slaty 
 grey. Across the slate of the waters the fishing-smack 
 loomed large, no longer distant, dark against the slaty 
 sky. 
 
 " That's once too often," said Govert calmly. " I 
 wouldn't have minded giving you the thousand florins — 
 to make up for losing J anna : I suppose that isn't too 
 much for them as reckons money could make up. I'd 
 have let you unfasten my hands and show me the trick, 
 if so being that was any satisfaction. I'd have let you 
 do all that for losing J anna — for you are to lose her. 
 But, dang it, Simon, you're a scoundrel. You want to 
 rob me. I Wcis sorry I struck you. I owed you a 
 reparation. But, dang it, I'm almost glad." 
 
 The other, instead of listening quietly, had sprung to 
 his feet. The light boat swayed to and fro. 
 
 " Sit down ! " cried Govert. 
 
 " Oh, I'll sit down," replied Simon scornfully, rocking 
 the boat with extended feet. " You — you — refuse to 
 give me the money, do you ? " 
 
 " Yes, I refuse." 
 
 " Fool, you forget — though I told you once too often 
 for your liking " 
 
 " Twice too often," interrupted Govert. 
 
 " Forget that I have you entirely in my power ! 
 
 You, whose life alone stands between me, a poor devil, 
 
 308
 
 THE TRICK 
 
 and the money that'd gain me the sweetheart who wants 
 
 to be — not yours, but mine. By G ! it was you that 
 
 have provoked another man once too often ! I was 
 wondering all the time on the water — should I do it ? 
 undecided. You've decided, not I." 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 Simon vouchsafed no answer. The moonbeams were 
 once again rippling across the water in a broadening band 
 of light. Govert watched his rival sit down in silence, 
 deliberately divest himself of his jacket, draw forth a 
 hfe-belt from under the seat, and lay it ready for use. 
 The boat swelled and sank in the water, floating near to 
 the ship, 
 
 " I'm going to upset us," said Simon hoarsely. " Save 
 yourself if you can. You can't ! " 
 
 He sprang to his feet again ; the boat swung aside 
 with the motion. The life-belt was in his hands ; he 
 was endeavouring to adjust it, recklessly flung forward, 
 ready to drag the whole thing down with his weight 
 towards the water. In that moment he saw, with eyes 
 dilated in horror, the man opposite him slip both hands 
 out of their bindings, saw him leap up and upon him, 
 felt the life-belt wrenched out of his grasp, felt the boat 
 surge aloft and turn sideways and upwards and over, 
 felt something strike him on the brow as the great rush 
 of waters closed in around him, sweeping him away, 
 'neath its weight, into darkness and stillness and un- 
 utterable void. 
 
 Govert, fighting for hfe, in the first fear and thought 
 of preservation, struck out from the suck of the boat. 
 The next moment he paused, getting the life-belt under 
 his armpits with an effort, and swam back a few yards, 
 carefully watching. The boat lay bottom up, in the 
 
 309
 
 THE TRICK 
 
 glitter of the moonlight. There was no sign of the missing 
 man. Govert, sick at heart, waited in vain, with one 
 arm against the hull. He never saw the face of his 
 would-be murderer again. 
 
 " The life-belt struck him ; it must have stunned him," 
 reflected Govert. With some effort, he set himself to 
 right the boat, and, in the perfect calm of the radiant sea, 
 succeeded. He got into her, dripping wet, alone, and, 
 after protracted hesitation, sadly shaped his course 
 towards the ship. 
 
 In another moment he hailed her and went on 
 board. 
 
 " Where is Simon ? " asked Janna's voice, as he set 
 his foot on deck. He could not answer. She stood 
 before him, her wrists still encircled by the string. 
 
 " Did you forget to bring him ? " she asked tauntingly. 
 " You're late enough." 
 
 " I didn't forget to bring him," Govert stammered 
 awkwardly. " We came together." 
 
 " Then what's he waiting for down there ? " she cried. 
 She looked over the side ; she could see clearly enough 
 in the moonlight that the skiff was empty. There was 
 no one " waiting down there." 
 
 " Janna, I can't help it ! " exclaimed Govert madly. 
 He broke loose, hardly knowing what he said. " I can't 
 help it ! It's no fault of mine ! I don't know how it 
 happened. I don't think, Janna, it was any fault of 
 mine." 
 
 " Fault of yours ? What has happened ? " Her 
 face was white. 
 
 Then he told her hurriedly, confusedly — told her, at 
 first, only that the boat had upset. 
 
 " And you had the life-belt on ! " she screamed, 
 310
 
 THE TRICK 
 
 pointing. " You could swim better than he — ^brute ! 
 Did you hit him in the water ? " 
 
 He would have answered, but she heeded nothing, 
 hanging over the ship's side, fiercely weeping, for the 
 truth had dawned upon her that Simon was dead. At 
 last she Ufted her face, violently checking the storm, 
 becalmed. 
 
 " Murderer ! " she said. 
 
 And he tried to tell a little more, to tell how the thing 
 had happened, strugghng to leave the dead man un- 
 accused, yet to exculpate himself. 
 
 " Murderer ! " was all she said, with her fettered arms 
 against the gunwale. 
 
 His cheeks burned ; he grew more explicit. Simon, 
 he said, had upset the boat. 
 
 " Why ? " she asked, still looking away in the moonlit 
 darkness. " And you had the life-belt ? Murderer ! " 
 
 " / am not the murderer," he burst out. " Before 
 Simon upset the boat he had bound my hands like yours. 
 I was willing to pay him for showing me the trick, though 
 I knew it : your father had just taught me ; but while 
 my hands were still bound, as he thought, Simon upset 
 the boat ! " 
 
 " I do not understand," she said, still looking away. 
 " I do not believe a word ; there seems no sense in your 
 story. Bound your hands — ah ! " She turned to him, 
 her face aflame. " Ah, I understand ! He wanted to 
 kiU you ! " 
 
 " He was my heir," said Govert. 
 
 " Liar ! He was not thinking of that. You had 
 struck him — you had insulted him— he wanted to kill 
 
 you ! " 
 
 " And so he tied my hands ! " said Govert bitterly. 
 3it
 
 THE TRICK 
 
 " It was I he was thinking of — I ! He wanted me. 
 He wanted me. Coward ! by your own confession you 
 hit him — in the boat, in the water, at some time, you 
 maimed him. And you saved yourself ! " 
 
 " Listen to me," he cried desperately. " It is not like 
 that — honestly, it isn't. I don't think — oh, don't make 
 it worse for me — I don't think, I'm not sure — no, I can'i 
 be to blame ! By the God above us, that listens, I had 
 no thought of hurting him. A man naturally endeavours 
 to save himself — he'd attempted to murder me — it was 
 murder — I — I seized hold of the life-belt — I waited " 
 
 " Cease," she said. " You can spare yourself the 
 trouble. Leave me alone." 
 
 " Janna, don't take on so. I can't bear it. He wasn't 
 worthy of you, Janna ; he really wasn't. He would 
 readily have sold his claim for a couple of thousand 
 florins " 
 
 " He was very poor," she said, more to herself than to 
 Govert. 
 
 " I love you a thousand times more, Janna. Let me 
 make up for him. Janna, you will marry me and make 
 me happy, and be happy yourself some day, in time. 
 Janna ! " — his voice grew faint with pleading — " Janna ! ' 
 
 She drew herself up and faced him. 
 
 " You told me," she said, " that Simon was a coward." 
 
 " I did not say it." 
 
 " But you think it ? " 
 
 " It is true." 
 
 " That he was a scoundrel ? " 
 
 " Janna, what is the use of all this ? I only tell you 
 that he is dead, and that I love you ! " 
 
 " That he sold his claim on my heart for money ? " 
 
 " So be it." 
 
 312
 
 THE TRICK 
 
 " That he tried to kill you by treachery ? " 
 
 " Even so." 
 
 " Fool ! All these things you tell me, and I love him. 
 And you ask me to forget him, and become your wife ? " 
 
 " Not to-night." 
 
 " Ay, to-night. I must wed to-night." 
 
 " Let me untie your wrists. If one but knows, it is 
 very simple." 
 
 She pushed him back. " Only my husband," she 
 said, " shall untie my wrists to-night." 
 
 " But we cannot be married to-night," he pleaded. 
 
 Again she checked him. She had drawn towards a 
 heavy weight which lay beside her. She now lifted it 
 in her tight-bound hands. 
 
 " Who says not ? " she answered, 
 
 " J anna, you know as well as I " 
 
 Again she stopped him with an imperious gesture ; 
 and, holding the weight aloft. " You have told me 
 much to-night," she said, " and this is my one reply." 
 
 She had steadied herself against the gunwale. With 
 the deadly weight grasped tight between her fingers, she 
 flung herself over the side. 
 
 313
 
 Why He Loved Her 
 
 " "\^ES," said Hans Golding to his companion in the 
 
 A " trekschuit," " I love her for her father's 
 sake." He puffed once or twice at his cigar with an air 
 of great decision, and his eyes rested thoughtfully on 
 the passing landscape. 
 
 The skipper of the barge made no reply. Hans 
 Golding was his only passenger on this dull September 
 evening, and so the skipper felt aggrieved. Besides, 
 this stranger was a townsman from a distance, and the 
 skipper was wary of what he called " foreigners," 
 especially when these foreigners laid claim to an older 
 acquaintance than his with a corner of the skipper's 
 small world. 
 
 The boat crept onward through the falling shadows. 
 Very slowly the water oozed around its ample bosom ; 
 very slowly the prim-cut trees slipped past along the 
 straight line of dull canal. The sky sank leaden, like 
 a coverlet of coming sleep. One or two ducks floated 
 silently, too lazy to quack. 
 
 " Yes," began Hans Golding, " it was eighteen years 
 ago, as I was telling you. Well, you don't remember 
 me, and no wonder, seeing you wasn't here. My mother, 
 she used to sell brooms along the highways — that was 
 what my mother did — she was what you'd call a tramp. 
 
 314
 
 WHY HE LOVED HER 
 
 Oh, I'm not proud ; I don't mind telling. I've got on 
 in the world, I have. Try a cigar ? " 
 
 " Thank ye kindly," said the skipper, " you'll excuse 
 me not smoking it at once." And he shifted the plug 
 of tobacco he was chewing while he stowed away the 
 precious present in a pocket of his brown woollen jersey. 
 
 " She'd been ill for a long time before she died," 
 continued the stranger, " but die she did, all of a sudden, 
 one night in Baas Bultman's cowshed ; died as a dog 
 might die, on just such a still dull evening as this ; and 
 she wasn't a bad mother either. No, she was a good 
 mother, say I, as mothers go nowadays." 
 
 He looked up at the skipper for confirmation, and the 
 skipper nodded grave assent. 
 
 " They'd have thrown me on the parish but for Baas 
 Bultman. I should never have come to nothing then. 
 No, I should never have come to nothing. Did you ever 
 know any one thrown on the parish as came to any 
 good ? " 
 
 The skipper took so long delving into all his experi- 
 ences and memories of so vast a subject that his passen- 
 ger lost patience. 
 
 " Well, I never did. Nor did any one I ever heard 
 on," said Golding in the tone a man assumes when he 
 starts on his favourite theory. " Baas Bultman comes 
 in to me where I sat crying by the body — I was only 
 seven, you see, and hungry to boot — and ' My lad,' 
 says he, ' you shall stay with me. But you'll have to 
 work hard,' he says." 
 
 " Didn't he say d d hard ? " asked the skipper 
 
 earnestly. 
 
 " Maybe he did and maybe he didn't ; but when I 
 tells the story I always tells it without."
 
 WHY HE LOVED HER 
 
 " Well," said the skipper, " it don't sound natural 
 for a man to talk about hard work without damning it. 
 Howsoever, Ben Bultman was always pious, and I can't 
 say as I've ever heard him swear much." 
 
 " Pious he is," affirmed Golding, " for he saved me 
 from the workhouse, and if that ain't piety, show me 
 what is ! " He held his cigar aloft interrogatively at 
 the skipper. But the skipper was not prepared to 
 show what piety was. 
 
 " I lived with him," continued Hans triumphantly, 
 " and he brought me up — I won't say as it wasn't hard 
 — but he looked after me. And when I was fourteen, 
 and he saw that I wasn't the sort for the farm work, he 
 prenticed me to a carpenter at Overstad, and " 
 
 " Said he was glad to get rid of you," suddenly 
 interrupted the skipper. 
 
 " Did he say that ? " inquired Hans anxiously. 
 
 " So I've always heard," replied the skipper, a little 
 ashamed as he fingered the cigar against his breast. 
 
 " Well, I dare say he was right. Howsoever, I've 
 made my way. I've the smartest little shop in my part 
 of the country. I settled over yonder, in the north, 
 you know, at a small place called Dorkum — and look 
 at me now ! " He spread himself out in his dark check 
 suit, and the dim evening light caught the glint of his 
 watch-chain. 
 
 " You've been luckier than Bultman has," said the 
 skipper, reflectively watching two pigs by the water- 
 side. 
 
 The carpenter gave vent to an exclamation of regret. 
 " When they told me," he said, " at our place the other 
 day — 'twas at market — that Baas Bultman was bank- 
 rupt, I said, ' 'Tis a lie ! 'Tis a he,' I said : I was that 
 
 316
 
 WHY HE LOVED HER 
 
 sure. And when J oris Piets, as is my own neighbour 
 and church clerk, told me as the thing was true, for he'd 
 heard it from his sister's daughters that lives in these 
 parts, why, you might have knocked me down with a 
 broken reed, you might. I knew that J oris Piets 
 wouldn't willingly tell a lie, and I said, ' I'll find out for 
 myself,' I said, and as soon as I could I took the railway 
 this blessed morning and come straight away ! " 
 
 " How long did you do over it ? " asked the skipper, 
 naturally interested in distances. 
 
 " And now you tell me it's true," continued the 
 carpenter, unheeding. 
 
 " Ay, it's true enough : he's going to be sold up next 
 week." 
 
 " To think of it ! " cried Hans, studying the handle 
 of his tiny umbrella. 
 
 " They do say that he speculated," remarked the 
 skipper, his eyes on more pigs farther down. 
 
 " Sold up ! " repeated Hans. " And what '11 become 
 of his daughter ? " 
 
 " Dina 's to go into service : that's sure and certain," 
 replied the skipper, glad in his own dull way to be the 
 purveyor of such important news. 
 
 Hans Golding sat chewing his cigar in silence. At 
 last he said — " Who'd 'a' thought it ? " which remark 
 struck him as so exceedingly apposite that he made it 
 over again. 
 
 " It's what you never think that always happens," 
 said the philosophic skipper. 
 
 The carpenter slapped down his right hand on his 
 knee. " I've always loved that child for her father's 
 sake," he said ; " she was a quiet Uttle feeble thing, not 
 much to look at, that timid and startled, afraid of a 
 
 317
 
 WHY HE LOVED HER 
 
 dead mouse. She never took much notice of me, going 
 about in her own half-frightened way. Do you know, 
 I used to think she looked down on me all the same — 
 a charity boy, as you might say." He stared at the 
 skipper, but the skipper saw no reason to commit 
 himself. 
 
 " Well, it wouldn't 'a' been unnatural," reasoned 
 Hans. " I've often thought it out. She'd pass by me 
 that proud, as you might say, and not give me a look. 
 Some people say it was shyness, but it isn't natural her 
 being shy with a charity boy like me." He nodded his 
 head. " She was a little lady, she was," he said. 
 
 " She'll have to climb down," remarked the skipper, 
 who did not approve of these sentiments. 
 
 " I ask you," continued Hans, rising with outstretched 
 hands, " is that sort of frightened little nervous haughty 
 creature the sort that you'd send into service ? No ! " 
 
 " P'raps not," said the skipper, with a grin. 
 
 " P'raps not ! I tell you, no ! Can you see her in 
 a big loud kitchen with a lot o' servants ? No ! Can 
 you see her in a crowded drawing-room a-answering 
 the bell ? No ! Can you see her listening in the hall 
 to the talk of a young footman as is pinching her round 
 the waist ? No ! " 
 
 " You needn't shout so," replied the skipper, " I 
 don't want to see her in none o' them places." 
 
 The carpenter struck his umbrella on the deck and 
 sat down again, looking wise. 
 
 " She ain't a beauty," continued the skipper. " Least- 
 ways, not what we call a beauty in these parts. She's 
 too thin and pale, and what people in the town call 
 ' delicate,' with them big eyes of hers. She won't find 
 a husband here." 
 
 318
 
 WHY HE LOVED HER 
 
 The carpenter nodded his head vigorously. " That's 
 what I said to myself," he remarked. 
 
 " A husband ! " repeated the skipper. " No, God 
 bless your soul ! And she with a bankrupt father ! " 
 
 " I'm glad you've give me all the facts," said the 
 carpenter. " You never hear 'em right at a distance 
 — at least, not so as to make sure. And it's five years 
 since I came near this place." 
 
 " Then why did you come now ? " queried the 
 skipper. 
 
 " I thought I'd hke to look up the old man in his 
 trouble." 
 
 " My ! you are a rum 'un," said the skipper. " Well, 
 Ben Bultman may be glad of the only good action as I 
 can hear he did in his life. Oh, he's a pious man, I 
 know, but that hard. I never heard as he gave away 
 a halfpenny to a beggar. But there ! Some men are 
 good-natured all their lives and never meet with nought 
 but ingratitude," said the skipper ruefully. " Well, 
 gratitude ain't much good, that's a comfort." And 
 the skipper pushed his fur cap aside to scratch his head. 
 " No," said the skipper, " what Ben Bultman wants, 
 and won't get, is cash ! " 
 
 " I can't give him cash," replied the carpenter, 
 glumly. " It's all true what you say. I've thought 
 it all out afore I come." He got up and stretched his 
 legs. " There's the house ! My ! how the pear trees 
 have grown. Let me out. I'm going up straight." 
 
 " Going up straight, are you ? " echoed the skipper. 
 " My ! you are a mm 'un. Well, good luck to you. 
 Good-night ! " 
 
 Hans Golding strolled thoughtfully along the bit of 
 path that leads up to the long white farmhouse. First 
 
 319
 
 WHY HE LOVED HER 
 
 he whistled a popular street song to hide his embarrass- 
 ment ; presently he dropped into a very slow low Psalm 
 tune, just enough to keep up his courage. He stood 
 still at a little distance from the house, and his mur- 
 mured whistle sounded like a sad and solemn dirge. 
 There it lay before him, the small group of long familiar 
 buildings, nestling in a clump of beech and poplar — the 
 beeches were losing colour, the poplars trembled slightly 
 in the heavy air. And over the shiny walls of home- 
 stead and outhouses the lengthening shadows fell. He 
 shivered, for he suddenly thought that the wind was 
 cold. Thus, as it now lay before him, he had never 
 beheld the old place during all the years of his town life. 
 He had often seen it, especially of winter nights, as it 
 shone in the prosperous splendour of a sunny summer 
 day. 
 
 Ben Bultman came out of the barn, and turned to 
 look at the stranger. 
 
 " Why, it's you ! " he said. Not another word of 
 greeting. 
 
 " Yes, it's me. Baas," answered Hans, clinging hard 
 to his umbrella. 
 
 " Well, and what have you come for ? I can't say 
 we want you here." 
 
 To this apostrophe Hans in vain sought a fit reply. 
 
 " You've got better friends in the village ; go on to 
 them." 
 
 " No, I haven't ! " said Hans. He said it with such 
 a burst that he coughed to hide his confusion. 
 
 " Well, I can't stand dawdling here. They haven't 
 left me a herd to help me. I've got to look after the 
 cows myself." 
 
 " I'll help you," cried Hans, pulling off his Sunday coat. 
 320
 
 WHY HE LOVED HER 
 
 " You ! " said the old man with undisguised contempt. 
 " You never were much of a hand at farm work. More 
 of a hindrance than a help." 
 
 " Well, I'll do my best," said Golding, following his 
 old master into the shed. 
 
 " It don't matter much anyhow," remarked Bultman, 
 busy with the fodder ; " the whole thing's to be sold up 
 next week." 
 
 " 'Tis hard lines," replied Hans, up to his elbows in 
 hay. 
 
 " No, it ain't hard lines ! " cried the farmer, " for 
 isn't it all my fault ? Why don't you say it's all my 
 fault ? " 
 
 " How do I know whose fault it is ? " said Hans 
 Golding. 
 
 " They all say it's mine, if they know or not," replied 
 Bultman. 
 
 " Well, I shouldn't have said it even if I'd known. 
 It isn't a pleasing thing to say to any man. Baas, and it 
 wouldn't be my place to say it, anyhow." 
 
 Ben Bultman stopped for a moment, his arms full of 
 hay, and stared at his former farm-boy. 
 
 " Well, you are a rum 'un ! " he said ; " but it was not 
 my fault — though that don't make it no easier. I've 
 been hanging on by the teeth for years." 
 
 They worked on in silence till everything was ready 
 for the night. 
 
 " Well," said Hans as he wiped the perspiration from 
 his forehead, " it comes natural like to be doing this 
 sort of thing again." 
 
 " No, it never came natural to you," replied the old 
 man, but not ungraciously. " You v,'as town-bred, and 
 you never took to farming. You're no better and no 
 21 321
 
 WHY HE LOVED HER 
 
 worse at it — that I can see — than ten years ago, when 
 you left it. A good thing for you, Hans, that you went 
 to the town : you've made your way. Others have got 
 to begin theirs that are too old at the start to go far." 
 
 " I wish I could help you," said Hans timidly. 
 
 " Nobody asked you," came the gruff reply. 
 
 " Baas, may I say something ? I haven't got any 
 money, as you know, or I'd gladly give it you." 
 
 " You haven't got any to give, so you may say it," 
 responded Bultman. 
 
 " But everything that I am I owe to you," continued 
 Golding, standing with his coat still off in the gathering 
 twilight of the shed. 
 
 " Well ? " said Bultman. 
 
 " It was in this very shed that my mother died," 
 spake the other, dropping his voice, " at just such a 
 twilight hour as this. It was here you found me and 
 took me to live with you. And if I can honestly earn 
 my bread this day, I owe it to you, Baas." 
 
 " Get away," said Bultman. 
 
 " Baas, it is true that Dina is goin' out to service ? " 
 
 " It's no business of yours," said Bultman. 
 
 " P'raps not. But, Baas, she ain't fit to go." 
 
 " D you ! " said Bultman. 
 
 Hans Golding waited. " I," he stuttered at last. 
 " I — look here, Baas : I've always loved you for what 
 you did for me, and she's your daughter. I should never 
 have thought of such a thing, of course, but, if you was 
 thinking of an honest home for her — as they say you're 
 off by yourself to work for your bread in foreign parts 
 — you know what I've got, I could support her decent 
 — and it might be better than service for such as she." 
 
 Baas Bultman stood facing his visitor in silence. 
 322
 
 WHY HE LOVED HER 
 
 " I— I beg your pardon," gasped the other, very red 
 and miserable, " I know that it's a great presumption 
 on my part. But I couldn't bear to think of your 
 fretting your heart out with your daughter in service 
 here." 
 
 " My what ? " cried Bultman. " You idiot ! Nobody 
 has ever talked to me for twenty years of my heart ! " 
 Then he added, in a matter-of-fact tone, " I never knew 
 you wanted to marry my daughter." 
 
 " I never did," replied Hans. 
 
 " Humph ! Well, let us talk business. You think 
 that you owe me a debt, and so you want to pay it. 
 Have I understood you aright ? " 
 
 " Yes, I owe you a debt," answered Hans. 
 
 " Well, make your mind easy ; you don't." 
 
 " But you " 
 
 " Hist ! You are a fool, Hans. Do you think a 
 man like me does a kind action for nothing ? You owe 
 me nothing. Go home and be content. Marry the girl 
 you told us about when you were here five years ago." 
 
 " I don't want to marry her," said Hans. 
 
 " Did you love Dina ten years ago — five years ago ? " 
 
 " No," replied Hans, " I shouldn't have presumed." 
 
 " Tut, tut ! love presumes. I know that it did in 
 my day. And do you think I'd let you marry my 
 daughter out o' gratitude to me ? I don't want grati- 
 tude, you fool ; I've no right to it, I tell you. Listen 
 well ! " 
 
 " What is it ? " said Hans. 
 
 " When I took you it wasn't for any desire of mine. 
 I swore that I wouldn't touch you, a workhouse brat ! 
 If it had been left to tne you'd not have spent a night in 
 my house. You'd be a charity boy to-day." 
 
 323
 
 WHY HE LOVED HER 
 
 " Is that true ? " stammered Hans. 
 
 " True as Gospel truth." 
 
 " A charity boy to-day," gasped Hans. " I should 
 have come to nothing. A charity boy to-day." Then 
 his face cleared. " But what made you take me ? " he 
 said. 
 
 " A — a relative of mine," answered Bultman promptly. 
 " She came to me and offered to pay for you. ' He's a 
 charity child,' she says ; ' God has sent him,' she says. 
 She called me a wicked name ; I didn't care for that — 
 every one has always called me a hard 'un. So I am. 
 But she offered to pay for you : that was different, and 
 I took you. Pay for you ? I made you work." 
 
 " Pay for me ? " repeated Hans stupidly. " Yes, 
 you made me work." But again a bright thought 
 struck him : "It was you that 'prenticed me to the 
 carpenter at Overstad ? " he cried. 
 
 " Not I. She paid every penny she had to do it. I 
 should have kept you at the farm. ' He can't do the 
 work,' says my relation. ' He must,' says I. ' I'll 
 pay for him to learn a trade,' says she. * More fool 
 you,' says I. And she did." 
 
 Hans Gelding heaved an immense sigh and stood 
 silent. 
 
 " So, you see, you owe me nothing. I got plenty of 
 work out of you while it lasted, my lad." 
 
 " But — this relation ? " exclaimed Hans. 
 
 " Do you want to marry her ? " responded the other, 
 with a laugh. 
 
 " No ; but I would like to thank her," answered 
 Hans. 
 
 " You can't," replied Bultman shortly. " Go home 
 in peace, you zany, and marry the girl you want to 
 
 324
 
 WHY HE LOVED HER 
 
 marry. Marry a girl for her own sake, not her father's, 
 and leave me and my daughter in peace." 
 
 " Father, aren't you coming ? " said a voice behind 
 him. Dina stood in the door with a lamp. The lamp 
 shone on her deUcate features and light-brown eyes. 
 Truly she would never have done for a farmer's wife, 
 thought Golding. They all went across to the farm- 
 house, and soon sat down to the evening meal. It was 
 a silent repast. Dina spoke once or twice of old friends, 
 of old times, of the city ; but the cloud of a great sadness 
 hung over them all. 
 
 Towards the end the farmer went out of the kitchen 
 to fetch a bottle of brandy, and Hans and Dina re- 
 mained together. She began to speak at once of the 
 great trouble, of her grief for her father, soon to fare 
 out into the wide world alone. 
 
 " And you ? " said Hans. 
 
 " I don't mind," she answered quickly. 
 
 " Don't mind ? Oh, Dina ! Don't mind going out 
 to service ? You're not fit for it." 
 
 She looked at him, trying to say something, but her 
 eyes filled with tears ; she broke down and fled. 
 
 " Baas," said Hans, when the old man came back 
 with his bottle, " I've been thinking it all over during 
 supper, and I find I was mistaken— I'm sorry, very 
 sorry, you didn't— I mean, I'm sorry I don't know who 
 did— and— but, it needn't make any difference about 
 Dina— if you'd let me ask her— if you don't think I'm 
 presuming— I could support her easy— I— I wish you'd 
 let me ask her— just ask her— to marry me anyhow." 
 
 " You owe me nothing," grumbled Bultman ; "I 
 never had any money to spare." 
 
 " Please, I should hke to marry her all the same." 
 
 325
 
 WHY HE LOVED HER 
 
 " Then you love her, do you ? " 
 
 " Yes, I love her." 
 
 " And why, pray ? " 
 
 " I don't care a d ," answered Hans, who had 
 
 never been known to swear. 
 
 At that moment Dina came in with two glasses. 
 
 " Well," said old Bultman grimly, " don't you want 
 to thank the person who insisted on my keeping you, 
 and who paid for your apprenticeship out of her own 
 money in the bank ? " 
 
 Dina dropped both glasses. 
 
 "Oh, father, have you told him ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied the father, " and he insists on marry- 
 ing you out of gratitude." 
 
 " Gratitude be hanged ! " said Hans. And he got 
 up and ran round the table to snatch her hand. " I 
 want to marry you because I love you. And I love 
 you — because I love you," he said. 
 
 326
 
 In Extremis 
 
 GOOD-BYE, doctor ! " 
 " Good-bye, child ! " 
 
 " And thank you kindly." 
 
 He did not answer, but went down the garden-path, 
 between the hollyhocks and sunflowers, an old man, 
 bent with gazing deep into other people's sorrows, yet 
 the tears swam in his kindly eyes as he shambled on 
 through the sunset summer shadows. 
 
 Roosje turned by the dairy door ; she went back 
 among the blue and white tiles, the sweet smell of milk 
 all around her. She was comely with the freshness 
 of eighteen years' up-growing in Dutch pastures ; her 
 arms and neck stood out, perhaps a shade too delicately 
 veined, against the tight-fitting black of her peasant 
 costume and against her gold-pinned muslin cap. 
 
 " Dawdling ! " said her stepmother's angry voice. 
 
 Roosje started. " I was thinking," she answered 
 confusedly. 
 
 " Of the cows ? " 
 
 " No, mother, not of the cows." 
 
 " Of sweethearts, then ? " 
 
 Roosje hesitated. " No, not exactly of sweet- 
 hearts," she answered slowly. 
 
 " Psha ! what should a farmer's daughter think 
 of but one of them two ? You ought to be ashamed 
 
 327
 
 IN EXTREMIS 
 
 of yourself, Roosje, and that's what I've been wanting 
 to say to you. If it was an honest young man of your 
 own sort as came courting you, well, so much the 
 better, says I : there's mouths enough, anyway, to 
 feed in this family. But no decent girl 'd allow a young 
 Squire to say he was sweet on her." 
 
 " He's never said a word like it ! " cried the girl, 
 her cheeks flaming, " never said a word all the world 
 couldn't hear. We was friends ever since we was 
 little children. We've always played " 
 
 " I know what I know," replied the big farm dame 
 sententiously, and moved towards the door; but her 
 step-daughter intercepted her. 
 
 " What do you know ? " exclaimed Roosje : " you're 
 new to these parts, and you don't understand our 
 ways. It's different up in the North from what 
 we do here. We've always played, all our lives, 
 with the Squire's children." 
 
 " Have you ? Stop now, then," replied the step- 
 mother viciously. She pushed through the door, but 
 pausing to aim straight her final shot : " Madame's 
 maid from the Chateau told me they all know he says 
 that he's sweet on you," she added ; " but he don't 
 intend to marry you, he says." 
 
 Roosje remained standing in the golden shadows, 
 among the shiny tiles ; and the sweet smell of the 
 milk was all around her. 
 
 The Squire's son came across the dreamy fields, in 
 a haze of deep-blue evening, the lazy cattle lifted their 
 heads to see him pass. He stopped by the dairy door : 
 a little dog leapt about him and licked his hand. 
 
 " I join my ship to-morrow," he said. 
 
 " I know," answered Roosje. 
 328
 
 IN EXTREMIS 
 
 " I have been here just a month," he continued. 
 " It has been a very happy time." 
 
 She did not reply. 
 
 " Seeing my mother again, and my father, and all 
 the others. What a lot of us there seem to be." 
 
 " Not more than here," she said. 
 
 " And where many pigs are, the wash gets thin," 
 he said, quoting a common proverb. 
 
 " Gentlefolks always have enough to eat," replied 
 Roosje. 
 
 " Have they indeed ? Much you know about it ! 
 You know nothing about it. You know nothing 
 about gentlefolks, Roosje." 
 
 " No indeed," she said humbly. 
 
 " I mean, about their necessities. Now, look at me, 
 a poor sailor man with half a dozen brothers and 
 sisters. Obhged to sail alway to the Indies for a liveli- 
 hood," he laughed, "in the service of Her Majesty the 
 Queen." 
 
 " How long will you be away ? " she asked quickly. 
 
 " Two years, at the very least." 
 
 " The poor men's wives ! " she said thoughtfully. 
 " What a tune it is ! " 
 
 " Oh, I dare say the wives don't mind. No, I won't 
 say that ! 'Tis a hard lot, that of a sailor's wife. I 
 should never dare to offer it to any woman." 
 
 She looked at him curiously. " Never intend to 
 marry at all ? " she said. 
 
 " Oh, some day, I suppose, when my seafaring days 
 are over, I shall settle down somewhere with a bald 
 brow, a middle-aged spouse, and money-bags." 
 
 She shook her head. " That doesn't sound nice," 
 she said. 
 
 329
 
 IN EXTREMIS 
 
 " Well, what can I do ? For the next ten or fifteen 
 years I can't be anything but a sailor. And so I can't 
 marry if I would, and I wouldn't if I could." He 
 spoke with inward heat, as if arguing more against 
 himself than to her. 
 
 She rattled the milkpans, moving them, looking 
 away. 
 
 "See here: don't let us spoil these last moments 
 talking about a dismal future. You see, I have come 
 to say good-bye. I shall often think of the Farm- 
 house, Roosje ; think of the times when we all played 
 together in the orchard and the haylofts. What a 
 jolly round dozen we were ! And now one of us is 
 dead." 
 
 " Yes, one of us is dead," she assented ; for he had 
 lost a brother a year ago from typhoid. She repeated 
 the words once or twice among her milkpans : " Only 
 one of us is dead." 
 
 " Only ? Surely that is enough ! " he exclaimed, 
 surprised. 
 
 " There might be more," she answered, and spilt a 
 great splash on the floor. 
 
 "Lord, what '11 your stepmother say! You a milk- 
 maid ! " 
 
 " I wasn't attending. I don't think I ever did it 
 before. Now, Jonker Dirk, I think you had better go.' 
 
 " Go ? What nonsense ! I've only just come." 
 
 " Mother doesn't like it," said Roosje, blushing. 
 
 " Like what ? Me ? Well, she won't be troubled 
 by my presence for the next two years. Your father 
 was a fool to marry that woman, Roosje." 
 
 " Oh, Jonker, hush ! " 
 
 " Sailors speak their mind. And besides, you know 
 
 330
 
 IN EXTREMIS 
 
 it, without my saying anything. She makes you 
 unhappy, Roosje : I hate to think of that while I'm 
 away." With his foot he pushed the splash of milk 
 towards the little farm dog, who began lapping with 
 great wags of his tail. 
 
 " She means weU," said Roosje. " Good-bye, Jonker. 
 God bless you. Good-bye." 
 
 " No, in thunder ! What has the woman been 
 saying to you, Roosje ? Come, we have never had 
 any secrets from each other, never, since I told you 
 all my scrapes, and you — I don't think you ever got 
 into any scrapes, not into real bad ones, at least, like 
 me. Have you got into a scrape now ? " He looked 
 at her good-naturedly, smiling. Then suddenly, with 
 an angry change of face and voice — " Don't listen 
 to her ! Don't believe her. Whatever she says, I've 
 no doubt it's a lie ! " 
 
 Roosje was silent for full ten seconds. Then she 
 answered, still looking away — " She don't think I ought 
 to have talked with you : that's all." 
 
 The great veins rose up on his neck. " Now answer 
 me honestly : have I ever said a word — one word — 
 to make me deserve that ? " 
 
 " No, oh, no ! Not one word. But people will talk." 
 
 " Talk ! Who talks ? Why, I am going away. I 
 have had a very happy month here. Who talks ? " 
 
 " They — they — oh, it doesn't matter one bit." 
 - " It matters. I will know." His voice rang low, so 
 strong she could not have disobeyed it. 
 
 " It's only stupid servants' talk," she said, the words 
 coming as if they were being dragged forth slowly 
 through a loophole. " Your mother's maid has told 
 my mother lies." 
 
 331
 
 IN EXTREMIS 
 
 He started so violently, she could not but see it. 
 " Tell me exactly what she said." 
 
 " I couldn't, Jonker." 
 
 " You must. At once. In an hour I shall be gone, 
 perhaps for good." 
 
 " I couldn't." She hid her face in her hands. " She 
 said you had said things you never could have said, 
 and everybody had heard them." 
 
 " Well, it is true," he said simply. " See what 
 parents we have, you and I ! I told my mother, for 
 she asked me, and my mother told her maid ! Well, 
 what does it matter ? I am going away." 
 
 She took her hands from her burning face. "Tell 
 it me," she whispered. The shadows fell so heavily, 
 he could barely see her outline against the pewter 
 cans. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Tell it me," Her voice grew softer still. 
 
 *' Good-bye, good-bye." 
 
 " Tell it me ! Tell it me ! " The words barely 
 sank on her breath. 
 
 " God in heaven ! I love you, but I cannot marry 
 you, so I oughtn't to have spoken at all." 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes. You love me. Of course you 
 cannot marry me." 
 
 " I never should have spoken, but for my mother's 
 misdoing ! What can I do ? I don't want you to 
 beheve lies about me. That would be too bad ! " 
 
 " You love me. Of course you can't marry me. I 
 don't want you to marry me. But, just for a Uttle, 
 you have loved me all the same," 
 
 " How can I marry ? I cannot marry any one." 
 
 " In time, when you come back bald-headed and 
 
 332
 
 IN EXTREMIS 
 
 with medals — medals, please ! — you will marry a 
 woman in your own rank of life." 
 
 " Confound my rank of life ! When I come back, 
 Roosje, I shall visit you in your own farm-kitchen, 
 and wish some brave fellow joy." 
 
 She smiled, but he could not see that. He bent 
 forward. 
 
 " Well, then, must it really be good-bye ? " 
 
 " Wait a moment ! One moment longer ! You 
 love me. You really love me ? Say it again." 
 
 " Oh, what is the use of saying it ? It cuts me like 
 a knife." 
 
 " Dear Jonker, it needn't do that. Listen just one 
 moment. One moment longer. Mother will be coming 
 to look for me. I also have got something to say, 
 Jonker. I — I also have got something to say." 
 
 " That you don't care for me ? Better leave it 
 unsaid." 
 
 " Not that— oh, not that ! " 
 
 " That you are going to marry some one else ? So 
 much the better. I know something about that. My 
 mother told me. I should never — no, not even now 
 — have spoken, else." 
 
 "It is a he ! " She cried out the words. 
 
 Alarmed, he hushed her. 
 
 "It is a lie ! What I want to say — what I must 
 say at once — is not that, oh, not that ! Oh, so different ! 
 Jonker, when you come back again I shan't be here. 
 Listen! — don't interrupt me. Oh, Jonker, do you 
 think I should have let you say as much as you did — 
 should have led you on to say it — yes, yes, a woman 
 can stop a man or lead him on — if, if-— unless " 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 333
 
 IN EXTREMIS 
 
 " Jonker, you know I'm sometimes ill. Didn't you 
 ever think it might be mother's illness ? All her family 
 die of it. I asked doctor on purpose this evening. I 
 asked him to come and see me on purpose. I wanted 
 to ask him before you came to say good-bye." 
 
 " You ill ! " he cried. " Nonsense ! you — all pink 
 and white ? " 
 
 She shook her head in the darkness. 
 
 " I made him tell me," she said. " I told him besides 
 that I knew abready, and that was true, though, of 
 course, it does sound different. I can't last beyond 
 the winter, he says. It doesn't really much matter. 
 Tell me you love me, Jonker Dirk." 
 
 " It isn't true. It isn't true." 
 
 " Yes, it is true. Nobody '11 care, when you're 
 away. And see here, Jonker: it has brought me the 
 great big happiness of all my Hfe — nothing more, any- 
 how, could come after that." 
 
 " It isn't true. It isn't true." 
 
 " Say again that you love me before mother comes. 
 Say it again." 
 
 He threw his arms around her, he drew her towards 
 him. " I love you ; I love you ; I love you ! " He 
 rained kisses on her upturned face. 
 
 " Say it again. Oh, say it again. You see, it is 
 the last time, Jonker ! " 
 
 " I love you, I love you, I have never loved 
 any one before, dear : I shall never love any one 
 again ! " 
 
 " Ah, yes, you will ! You will love the woman you 
 marry. Promise me, for my sake, you will marry a 
 woman whom you love. Money-bags or no money-bags, 
 Jonker, you will marry a woman you love ? " 
 
 334
 
 IN EXTREMIS 
 
 He kissed her and drew her towards him and kissed 
 her again and again. 
 
 "This is my wedding day, you see," she whispered, 
 ' but it isn't yours, Jonker — not yours. You will 
 marry later on — and be happy — very happy — some 
 day." 
 
 The pitch-dark night was about them in the dairy. 
 A bell tolled in the distance. The little dog scrambled 
 up against his mistress, yelping, jealous, distressed. 
 
 " Oh, I love you, I love you ! " she murmured. Then 
 " good-bye," she said, and was gone. 
 
 335
 
 A Bit of To-day 
 
 " T TE wdll recover," said the half a dozen doctors 
 
 J- JL assembled in solemn conclave around his bed. 
 So he died. 
 
 The wisest of them, putting on his admirable chastened 
 expression, went to tell the widow. The dead man, as 
 all will remember, was close upon eighty, the widow not 
 twenty-five. 
 
 " Dear me !" she said nervously, squeezing the two 
 bull-pups that had sat up in her lap to scowl at the 
 doctor. " How very dreadful ! How very dreadful 
 and sad ! Black doesn't suit me at all ! " This last 
 sentence she spoke to her maid when the doctor had 
 gone away. 
 
 She was Mrs. Peter van Dobben, one of the wealthiest 
 women in New York City. Three years ago she had 
 been the struggling daughter of a Baptist minister in 
 that same place. Frocks were her struggle, and gloves, 
 and especially boots. Nine brothers and sisters grew 
 up underneath her, whom she hated because they 
 seemed to be pushing her out of what home she had. 
 She was like a sweet flaxen doll, all pink and fluffy. Old 
 Peter van Dobben, the millionaire rubber merchant, 
 fetched her away one fine morning out of her disdainful 
 drudgery, and planted her in a big bay window, with a 
 
 336
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 fine view of other bay windows peopled by lesser mil- 
 lionaires. 
 
 Now, three short years later, he was dead. The 
 childless widow, with much bejewelled hand, settled her 
 pretty back hair and talked to her maid of fashions in 
 mourning. Occasionally she wondered about the will. 
 A will is an important consideration to the childless 
 young widow of the richest old corpse in New York. 
 
 The next thing to happen was that she knew about 
 the will. A great many things, of course, happened 
 before — the arrival of the " casket " among others — 
 but all seemed to have faded away into forgetfulness in 
 the face of the enormous fact of the will. It had been 
 made just six months ago, and it left every penny old 
 Peter possessed to '" my nearest relation in Holland." 
 
 Mrs. van Dobben put her black-bordered pocket- 
 handkerchief into her pocket at once. She had stopped 
 crying, even in public, the day before the funeral. The 
 papers said her self-command was wonderful. 
 
 " Who, pray, is this nearest relation ? " she demanded. 
 
 The solicitor could not tell. 
 
 " Find out ! " said the widow. Her tone, he thought, 
 was distinctly unfitting, considering her altered circum- 
 stances. He began to talk of difficulties, possible 
 delays. She stopped him. 
 
 " Telegraph to Consuls," she said. " What are 
 Consuls for ? " 
 
 " Well, yes," replied the lawyer, with meditative 
 noddings. " I can book that, of course, as legitimate 
 expenditure." 
 
 She looked at him ; suddenly she realized that she 
 was poor. She rose with a not ungraceful movement, 
 and went to her jewel-box that stood upon a side 
 22 337
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 table. She unlocked it, extracted a string ol pearls, 
 and almost flung them in the lawyer's face. 
 
 " My dear madam ! My dear madam ! " he pro- 
 tested, bobbing back from the table. 
 
 " There can be no difficulty about the matter," she 
 said, with dignity. " Mr. van Dobben came of a very 
 important Dutch family. He hardly ever spoke of his 
 relations, but he always gave me to understand that they 
 were highly conected. He ran away from school in his 
 youth as a cabin-boy. There is no particular hurry, 
 now I come to think of it. Have the goodness, Mr. 
 Parsimmons, to make the necessary inquiries." 
 
 The lawyer, thus dismissed, went away and did a lot 
 of cabling. Not with immediate success. When he 
 called at " the van Dobben mansion " next morning, 
 he was informed that the widow had sailed at daybreak 
 for Europe. She had left a little letter for the lawyer. 
 He found it to contain the torn half of a thousand- 
 dollar note, and the curt information that the other 
 half would be his if he stopped his inquiries for a fort- 
 night. 
 
 Meanwhile the lady lay groaning and gurgling in her 
 state room. She never could endure the sea, at its 
 smoothest ; a ripple made her cry out for death. But 
 death came not, though she cried for him very often. 
 Whereby he showed that he knew women, and, of course, 
 his experience of their weaknesses is large. She arrived 
 safely in Liverpool, and she pointed out to the waiter 
 that very evening, gently but firmly, that really the 
 steak he had brought her was a trifle overdone. 
 
 She scolded, and even bullied, the maid she had 
 brought with her in much more explicit tones. If no 
 man be a hero to his valet, no woman is an angel to her 
 
 338
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 maid. The maid almost forgave her. " Something 
 wrong about the will," said the maid. 
 
 In the solitude of boat cabin and hotel bedroom, 
 Gladys van Dobben — her father, the Baptist minister, 
 had named her Hannah — would draw a scrap of paper 
 from an innermost recess of her silver-gilt dressing-case, 
 and sit staring at it for ten minutes at a stretch. Im- 
 mediately after the reading of the will she had gone 
 straight to her dead husband's desk and looked over all 
 she could find of his private belongings. In a drawer, 
 put away by itself, she had found the letter she held in 
 her hand. 
 
 It was a Dutch letter ; she could not make out a 
 sentence of it. But it began, " Dierbare broeder," and 
 that, she felt, must stand for " Dear brother " ; it was 
 signed "Jacobus" — i.e. Jacob — and it was directed from 
 Slapsloot, a place, as revealed by the postage stamp, in 
 Holland. The date of the letter was barely a fortnight 
 previous to that of the will. Now, old Peter, never 
 loquacious, had rarely referred to his pre- American days. 
 Once he had spoken, with energy, of an only brother 
 who, wiser than he, had resisted the temptation to marry. 
 The occasion was a recent one — the night, as she remem- 
 bered too distinctly, preceding the making of the will For 
 the date of this unknown will had come as a revelation. 
 
 On June 8 he had made it. On the yth they had had 
 that stupid tiff about Charlie. It was absurd of old 
 Peter to be jealous of Charlie. She had always been so 
 careful about Charlie. But these rich old curmudgeons 
 were all hke that. He had laughed away the quarrel, 
 with the words, " Let us say no more about it " ; and 
 the next day he, who had sworn a hundred times that she 
 was his only relative and should inherit all his property, 
 
 339
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 had gone and made a will leaving everything to this 
 unmarried, unknown brother. She had understood the 
 brother to be long since dead. She had always behaved 
 decently to Peter. Poor Charlie ! 
 
 She had started immediately for Europe, without any 
 definite purpose, perhaps, but with several indefinite 
 ones, in search of " Jacobus." Who was Jacobus ? 
 She pictured him to herself as a sort of younger Peter, 
 but with probably more of that old-world refinement 
 which American money-making is apt to rub off. She 
 had once met a couple of Dutch gentlemen in society. 
 They spoke English with ease. She had thought them 
 singularly delightful — " Knickerbocker," you know — 
 Washington Irving. 
 
 All that she cared about in life, except Charlie, now 
 belonged to " Jacobus." She thought it out constantly 
 during the voyage : her boudoir in the New York house, 
 with the genuine French tapestry (wonderful imita- 
 tion), belonged to Jacobus ; the two iron-grey ponies at 
 " The Grange " belonged to Jacobus ; the cottage at 
 Newport was his. The idea became an obsession. 
 She counted up a dozen lesser items — her pretty round 
 lips cursed Jacobus. 
 
 " Well, I guess we're there ! " said the maid, with a 
 swoop ; and commenced unlocking a trunk in the bed- 
 room at the Eusion Hotel. 
 
 Her mistress sat up. " Don't unpack. We go on 
 this evening, by the night boat, to Holland." 
 
 " What place, please ? " cried the maid. 
 
 " Slapsloot," said the widow van Dobben. 
 
 " And Where's that ? " cried the maid. 
 
 " I haven't the faintest idea ; but we shall be there 
 to-morrow." 
 
 340 
 
 I 
 
 1
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 It is superfluous to add that they were. 
 
 Not, however, without some sUght complications, con- 
 sequent upon their being compelled to quit paths along 
 which the English language still possesses a more or less 
 uncertain value. 
 
 On arriving at " The Hook," Mrs. van Dobben had 
 inquired for the city of Slapsloot. It had been rather 
 disconcerting to discover that the place in any form, 
 big or little, was unknown at the Hook. A time-table 
 proved inefficacious. She had gone on to Amsterdam — 
 and everything was most delightfully quaint and unlike 
 anything — and the hotel porter found Slapsloot for her 
 ultimately in the " Postal Guide." 
 
 " I am greatly worried, and very badly treated, and 
 it's all very sad and a great shame," said Gladys, lying 
 back on a couch and surveying the canals, " but, dear 
 me! I wonder what's going to happen. I feel very 
 curious and interested. It's all so exciting, especially 
 Jacobus." 
 
 In the biggest room of the biggest hotel of the very 
 small town nearest Slapsloot she prosecuted her inves- 
 tigations as to the best methods of " getting there." 
 She had taken a guide with her. It was a great satis- 
 faction to reflect that here, at least, she was miles away, 
 literally and figuratively, from the inquisitive New York 
 lawyer. She had nearly a week left — quite enough for 
 her projects, whatever these might turn out to be. 
 
 " Inquire," she said with bold grandiloquence, " about 
 the mansion of Mynheer Jacobus van Dobben ! " 
 
 Mine host shook his head ; but he was a heavy man, 
 caring for nothing outside his immediate ken. 
 
 " We shall find out when we get there " ; and she got 
 into what they call " the conveyance." She thought 
 
 341
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 it most cunning. A sort of mediaeval fly. But as soon 
 as it began to tilt across the cobbles she clung on to the 
 seat, with a face that jerked and worked like — well, like 
 molten lead, for instance, when suddenly cooled. She 
 had brought an EngUsh-speaking guide with her from 
 Amsterdam, but she left him behind at the hotel. For 
 she thought it would be a nuisance at her brother-in- 
 law's house ; he would talk about her hunting for Slap- 
 sloot, her inquiries and uncertainties. That was not at 
 all her idea. She intended to inform Jacobus that she 
 had talked so constantly of him with Peter, it seemed to 
 her as if she had known and appreciated him all her life. 
 Yes, she would say " appreciated." All at once, as she 
 hung there, quivering, opposite her frightened and dis- 
 gusted servant, she realized distinctly what she had 
 come for and what she intended to do. 
 
 She intended to marry Jacobus, seeing that she knew 
 him to be unmarried. She had not understood this 
 clearly before, but she felt sure of it now. There were 
 difficulties in the way, but she was an American, a beauty 
 — she smiled to herself — had she not married that in- 
 veterate old bachelor, Peter, as soon as she wanted to ? 
 The idea of legal disablement, such as exists in England, 
 of course lay entirely outside her sphere of thought. 
 She was going to marry Jacobus ; she simply must. 
 In the shaking wagonette she reflected on her ponies, the 
 tapestry in the New York boudoir, the cottage at New- 
 port — she simply must. And why not ? She had 
 married Peter. She pictured to herself this younger 
 brother, a sort of Washington Irving Peter, as has been 
 suggested before. 
 
 She drove on for hours through bleakest country ; 
 getting nervous, she probed the driver, but he only shook 
 
 342
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 his head. When houses appeared in sight, she vainly 
 questioned : Slapsloot ? The answer took the form of 
 another mile or two across the moor. 
 
 At last there came a turning to the longest road on 
 record. A white mansion stood among gardens ; a 
 small village lay some distance beyond. The driver 
 lifted his whip and pointed. 
 
 " Aha ! " said Mrs. van Dobben. " Drive up to the 
 house, if you please ! " 
 
 When he understood, the lethargic, lubberly lad 
 obeyed her. 
 
 It was a handsome place, beautifully kept ; Gladys 
 nodded approval. 
 
 " Just like Peter ! " she said, in passing a big notice- 
 board : " Trespassers beware ! " An old gentleman was 
 walking in front of the house with a little brown dog. 
 The dog yelped. An old lady sat on a bright green seat, 
 knitting. The widow at once noticed the old gentle- 
 man's resemblance to Peter. The old lady disconcerted 
 her with violent heart-bumpings. For she, the old lady, 
 seemed so palpably the old gentleman's wife. 
 
 The vehicle, with its unwonted contents, stopped in a 
 final rattle. For the old gentleman had posted himself 
 in front of it ; the little dog barked very loud. 
 
 The beautiful American had recovered her self- 
 possession. " Mynheer van Dobben ? " she said. 
 
 "By no means, madam," came the prompt Dutch 
 reply. 
 
 The stolid boy took no notice. 
 
 " I — I beg your pardon," faltered Gladys. 
 
 The old gentleman answered testily in English that 
 his name was Pock. 
 
 " Perhaps," continued the fair widow, annoyed by his 
 
 343
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 manner, " it would not be too much to ask you to direct 
 the driver to the house of Mynheer Jacobus van Dobben 
 at Slapsloot ? " 
 
 " I never heard the name ; there's no such person," 
 replied the old gentleman. 
 
 " Indeed, there doesn't seem to be any other house of 
 importance in sight," said Gladys, desperately, to the 
 maid. 
 
 The dog never ceased barking ; the surly old gentle- 
 man had walked away to the house ; the old lady sat 
 watching. 
 
 " Drive on to the village," said Gladys in disgust. 
 The village proved a very small one ; a sudden shower, 
 long expected, broke across it with a violence that sent 
 the very hens skeltering for cover ; the wagonette 
 dripped. In the deserted street a rather nice-looking 
 dwelling revived Gladys' spirits ; it turned out to be 
 the parsonage ; the minister and his wife were both out; 
 
 " I am certain Jacobus hves at Slapsloot,' said 
 Gladys, half crying. " I must see him ; I must speak 
 to him. I cannot make it out at all." 
 
 " Please let us go back before we're murdered," said 
 the maid. 
 
 " I won't," replied the mistress, with acerbity. " Do 
 you think I've come across from New York without 
 reason ? My whole future depends on my speaking with 
 my dead husband's brother at once." 
 
 " You might inquire," began the maid, " in a day or 
 two " 
 
 " If I could employ others — if I could wait a day or 
 two," interrupted Gladys, " I should have been utterly 
 crazy to have come at all." And, indeed, already her 
 whole simple plan of campaign had taken shape. Of 
 
 344
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 course, she intended to present herself as the owner of 
 Peter's many millions. Jacobus must have engaged 
 himself to marry her — must have married her — before 
 he learnt the truth. 
 
 She had already got to hate most thoroughly the 
 slow, suspicious Dutch peasantry before the driver had 
 succeeded, amid the rainy wretchedness and desolation, 
 in unearthing an individual who shook favourable 
 response to her weary iteration of inquiry. 
 
 " Jaap Dobbe ? Why didn't you say Jaap Dobbe ? " 
 remonstrated the individual. Gladys' face suddenly 
 beamed. " He knows ? " she exclaimed excitedly. 
 " Eh, driver ? Mynheer van Dobben, eh ? " Animated 
 confabulation followed between the two Dutchmen — 
 then came another drive through brushwood and over 
 moorland. At last a wide white building appeared amid 
 loneliness. Before this the driver drew up with a bump. 
 
 " What now ? " demanded Peter's widow. 
 
 " Jaap Dobbe," said the driver. 
 
 " Absurd," replied the widow. 
 
 The place was a small farmhouse. The green door 
 opened slowly ; a ponderous figure solemnly framed 
 itself in the doorway. 
 
 " Jaap Dobbe ? " cried the driver. 
 
 The figure nodded assent. 
 
 A moment of terrible hesitation — then Mrs. van 
 Dobben flung herself out of the wagonette, and hurried 
 through the pouring wet into the cottage. 
 
 The fat man, amazed beyond power of protest, had 
 stood aside to let her pass. She sank down on a straw- 
 bottomed chair — in her ultra-fashionable mourning — 
 and covered, for a moment, her face with one hand. 
 
 Then she straightened herself, and looked at the man. 
 
 345
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 He was enormous — purple-faced, quite common — a 
 peasant, and in peasant dress. 
 
 Some absurd mistake, of course — not a bit like thin, 
 rarefied Peter. 
 
 She hesitated, uncertain how best to end this ridi- 
 culous episode. 
 
 Then, feeling she must say something, she remarked — 
 
 " Slapsloot ? " 
 
 The fat man gave a voluble affirmative reply. 
 
 " Van Dobben ? " she continued desperately. 
 
 " Jaap Dobbe," said the man, and a lot more. 
 
 Again she hesitated. She realized that one thing 
 must be done at once, and she did it. Closing her eyes, 
 with sickening tension, she drew a paper from under her 
 corsage and laid it on the table. 
 
 When she opened her eyes the man was grinning pain- 
 fully and nodding. 
 
 She knew that this was Jacobus. 
 
 Awful as that moment was she did not lose her pre- 
 sence of mind. In a flash of lightning that seemed to 
 burn across her brain she saw all the things over yonder 
 in America, all the things that made life life : she walked 
 away to the window ; she looked out and came back 
 again. " Peter dead," she said, and swept her hand 
 down the crape of her skirt. 
 
 " Ja — ja," replied Peter's brother. 
 
 They stood facing each other for some minutes, inevit- 
 ably inarticulate. Outside, the dreary wagonette waited 
 with the maid, in the rain. Gladys went and closed the 
 door. At last, the sheer impossibility of all prelimin- 
 aries driving her to desperation — 
 
 " Much money," she said. 
 
 He stared at her. 
 
 346
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 " Money mine," she continued, and in spite of herself 
 she blushed crimson. 
 
 When she lifted her eyes to his face she saw he had 
 not understood ! 
 
 A few drops of spite gathered in her lovely blue eyes ; 
 then she knitted her brows and pondered. 
 
 Presently she drew a silver florin from her purse and 
 laid it on the table ; he watched her. She put her finger 
 on the coin and then rapidly waved her arms in a circle. 
 He understood — he understood — much money ! 
 
 She pointed her finger to her breast. 
 
 He took off his cap. Thank Heaven ! he had under- 
 stood. 
 
 He stood bowing before her. Yes, certainly he had 
 understood. 
 
 She turned to the window and sat down deliberately, 
 with her back to him, feeling that, in the first place, she 
 must resolutely collect her thoughts. 
 
 Her husband had, of course, lied to her from the first 
 about his relations. She could feel annoyed but not 
 angry with him for that ; she would have done it herself. 
 
 The most natural thing now looked to leave the house 
 immediately and go back again. Where ? To what ? 
 Penniless. To New York. The wealthy widow van 
 Dobben. Back to father and mother. One idea had 
 dominated her, as she now wondered, from the moment 
 of the reading of Peter's will. 
 
 She was pretty, but how many people were pretty ! 
 And she would be a great deal less pretty than the rich 
 Mrs. van Dobben had been. She remembered how old 
 Peter's offer had come to her as a windfall, incredible, 
 too good to be true. Her own mother had exclaimed. Is 
 it possible ? Her father had said it was the Lord's doing ; 
 
 347
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 she herself had trembled daily lest old Peter should die 
 before they had been to the church. Such things did 
 not happen twice in a woman's lifetime. No second 
 millionaire — the ponies — the boudoir with the hangings ! 
 
 She had taken Peter. She stole a cautious side- 
 glance at Jacobus. He was the owner of Peter's millions, 
 and that, as she well knew, in our day is all-sufficient. 
 
 She would start him in London ; New York would 
 follow. It is easy to make up your mind when no 
 choice is left you. In a few days he would hear about 
 his inheritance, and then, certainly, he wouldn't marry 
 her. 
 
 At the thought of this she gave a gasp. Rising from 
 her chair, she went and took the letter he had written, 
 and held it under his nose. Her little white jewelled 
 fingers moved under the two opening words. 
 
 " Dierbare broeder." She goggled up at him with 
 her innocent blue eyes. 
 
 " Dierbare broeder " ? She tried to pronounce the 
 words. He roared with laughter ; but when he saw the 
 sentimental tears gathering in the lovely eyes he stopped 
 abruptly, and, looking thoroughly ashamed of himself, 
 stroked with one red paw the little white hand. 
 
 She looked out into the pouring rain. Could she stay 
 here that night ? With signs she explained her dilemma. 
 He caught at her meaning. Fortunately, the small 
 farmhouse, like so many others, had two tiny rooms, 
 unlet, for summer lodgers. He threw open a door, and 
 exhibited them, scrupulously neat. 
 
 " At least he is clean," she thought. " How clean 
 all these people are ! Peter was right about that." She 
 went to the entrance and called " Bridget ! " The maid 
 arrived, sour-faced. Jacobus, stumbling awkwardly, 
 
 348
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 fetched the bags and wraps. Gladys wrote a note to the 
 guide, bidding him come next morning to the village inn 
 at Slapsloot (" Is there one, I wonder ? " she reflected), 
 and sent it off by the driver. As the wagonette rumbled 
 away into the rain-mist across the heath, she felt like the 
 leader of men when the smoke hid his burning ships. 
 
 Braced by this consciousness of a great emergency, 
 she began to play her little part. She opened her big 
 dressing-bag and extracted its gilt-stoppered blandish- 
 ments. Soft perfumes, soft lawns, and laces ; an atmos- 
 phere of refinement and feminine attraction spread 
 about her. But this sort of thing, as she well under- 
 stood, is repellent to a rustic, unless, by being mixed 
 with simplicity, it becomes irresistible. In the midst of 
 her inevitable luxury, therefore, she was most natural 
 and charming. She thoroughly enjoyed the humble fare 
 he set before her ; she helped scornful Bridget to lay the 
 table. Constant misunderstandings gave rise to un- 
 ceasing merriment. They " supped," with beer and 
 steel forks, amid much gesticulation and roars of laughter. 
 Suddenly Gladys sobered. A tear lay on her cheek. 
 " Poor Peter ! " she said. And she showed Jacobus 
 Peter's portrait in her locket. It took a long time and 
 much motion for Jacobus to explain that Peter had been 
 better-looking in his youth. 
 
 " More like Jacobus ? " Well, yes, more like Jacobus. 
 Conversation, however, languished after supper. The 
 success of the evening was certainly the widow's fearful 
 faces over a drop of Jacobus' best Dutch gin. But, 
 after that, all three were glad to get to bed. As Jacobus 
 lighted the candle, he asked his new sister-in-law's 
 name — " Naam ? Naam ? " 
 
 When he had understood it — not before it was written 
 
 349
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 down — he shook his head over the bit of paper. For 
 " Gladys " in Dutch means " slippery ice," and there 
 are proverbs about not venturing near it. 
 
 Happily unconscious of this unlucky coincidence, the 
 pretty widow retired to rest in her cupboard of a room. 
 The poverty of her surroundings strengthened and 
 encouraged her. After a period of preliminary wake- 
 fulness she slept soundly, and awoke to the chirruping 
 of birds behind a sunlit window-blind. 
 
 She lay revolving her immediate future. She must 
 marry Jacobus without delay — any moment failure over- 
 whelming might befall her — he would learn some sort 
 of English, and have the best London tailor ; in her 
 three years of millionaire society she had met dozens of 
 brutes no better than he. After all, she lived in the 
 twentieth century, which knows but one class distinc- 
 tion — gold. 
 
 She was aroused from these not unpleasant reflections 
 by the muffled music of gigglings and scufflings aloud. 
 Little feminine squeaks of excitement mingled with 
 lower guffaws. She leapt from her bed and peered be- 
 hind the blind. 
 
 What she saw was Bridget romping round the cow 
 with Jacobus. Bridget, it appeared — in sudden reminis- 
 cence of her Irish home — was attempting to milk that 
 quadruped, and Jacobus was doing his best to prevent her. 
 
 When Gladys got back into bed again, she pulled the 
 sheet over her ears, and furiously bit a hole in it. 
 
 The next moment she rang her hand-bell, peal upon 
 peal, for her maid. She was as sharp as she dared to 
 be with this menial, for American domestics are not 
 European. " How common the common people are ! " 
 she said to herself. She sent a message to Jacobus 
 
 350
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 that she would have breakfast in her room. Jaoobus, 
 Bridget informed her, had gone to the village. 
 
 When she made her appearance in the kitchen a 
 couple of hours later, she found her brother-in-law 
 waiting there in company with a half -grown youth. The 
 latter informed her in broken but intelligible English 
 that he was the son of the local pastor, studying for a 
 schoolmaster, and that Jacobus had fetched him to act 
 as interpreter. She hesitated for a moment ; then she 
 boldly put Jacobus's letter in the lad's hands. Jacobus 
 turned purple. " Nay, nay," he exclaimed. Then he 
 seemed to think better of it, and drew back the hand he 
 had extended. 
 
 With amazement the widow van Dobben heard the 
 contents of the letter. It was a confession, after close 
 on a quarter of a century. The younger brother wrote 
 to tell the other that he, the younger, on the father's 
 death, had kept the entire inheritance of more than two 
 hundred pounds. He had done so because a partition 
 would signify the sale of the cottage, ruin. But his 
 horrible secret of wrong- doing left him no rest by night 
 or day. So he wrote now at last, entreating pardon, 
 promising restitution. What would become of him 
 he knew not. The letter was addressed to Mr. Peter van 
 Dobben, in America. Of course it had at once reached 
 the Peter van Dobben. For all Jacobus could guess, the 
 runaway was long since dead. Perhaps he hoped so. 
 
 Receiving no answer, he had accepted this view, not 
 ungratefully. Peter, on his part, had stuck to his ori- 
 ginal opinion, that all his Dutch connexions were best 
 left untraced. 
 
 And now Peter's widow had brought him the letter. 
 Probably with a message from Peter, for she was a rich 
 
 351
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 lady, a great lady : he could not believe that his brother, 
 in dying, would have turned him out of his humble 
 house and home. Tortured by uncertainty, he had 
 gone to fetch the scholar. He now asked humbly what 
 the message was. 
 
 Gladys saw her chance at once. " I have no message," 
 she said. 
 
 His face fell ; the great, good-natured red face turned 
 almost pale. 
 
 " Of course he will have to refund the money," she 
 added. She even said " principal and interest," for 
 in business matters a woman rarely knows where to stop ; 
 but the schoolboy's English did not stretch the length of 
 " principal." 
 
 " Ja — ja," said Jacobus, and his fat body shook. 
 She eyed him contemptuously, this ridiculous Dutch 
 peasant, with his conscience and his comic misfortune, 
 one of the wealthiest magnates, had he but known 
 it, of New York. He might know it — to-morrow. 
 She resolved not to go too far. 
 
 She sat down by the kitchen table, and her mourning 
 fell about her in very becoming folds. She was delight- 
 ful to look at, and she knew it. She ought to have been 
 enjoying a period of dignified seclusion at " The Grange." 
 Her heart cried out in hate of Peter. 
 
 " Tell Mr. Jacobus van Dobben," she said, " that his 
 brother died enormously wealthy." 
 
 " /« — /«." said Jacobus. 
 
 " His wish was that all his money should pass to 
 Mr. Jacobus " 
 
 " Eh ? " said the latter. 
 
 " On condition of his marrying me." 
 
 " I — I — I would rather not," said Jacobus. 
 352
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 The boy checked a grin, and translated a more courteous 
 rejection of the offer. 
 
 " Is the man mad ? " cried the enraged widow. But 
 a little later she condescended to more rational parley 
 
 " And ruin ? " she said, staring at Jacobus. " Ruin ? " 
 
 " Heaven help me ! " he replied ; but a lot of little 
 beads stood out on his forehead. 
 
 She rose ; she sailed up the rough kitchen once or 
 twice ; then she stopped in front of the man. 
 
 " You refuse to marry me ? Refuse ? " 
 
 " I — I — would rather not," said Jacobus. 
 
 She looked long at his distracted yet dogged counte- 
 nance. Then she sank down by the table and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 " It is I who am ruined," she sobbed, her face in her 
 hands, " for Peter has left Jacobus all his money, and 
 trusted his honour to marry me." 
 
 Jacobus needed no translation of the tears, which most 
 greatly distressed him. The words, when he under- 
 stood them, seemed to trouble him even more. 
 
 " My — my, what ? " he stammered. 
 
 " Honour," repeated the youth, in huge enjoyment of 
 the scene. 
 
 Jacobus waited a long time — and the widow wept a 
 great deal — before he said huskily, " I'll do it." 
 
 The widow stopped crying, sat up, and bade the boy 
 go for his father. Her idea of European marriage laws 
 was built up on Mr. Jingle's special licence, Wilkie 
 Collins' " Man and Wife," and a recent Scotch scandal 
 in New York society. In Dakota you could be married 
 in five minutes ; Europe was slow, aristocratic ; you 
 would probably need twelve. 
 
 But it took an hour and a half to fetch the parson. 
 23 353
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 Meanwhile Jacobus withdrew to the yard, with a promise 
 to return which she did not apprehend. She took a 
 novel from her bag and tried to read it. 
 
 " Madam," said the minister, standing in the middle 
 of the kitchen. He was a long-necked individual, with 
 a look skywards, and every word that he uttered was 
 important. " Madam ! " — he looked from Gladys to 
 Jacobus and back again — " I understand you wish to 
 marry this worthy person. Well, what have I to do 
 with that ? " 
 
 " You speak very good English," replied Gladys, 
 smiling more sweetly than she need have done had the 
 remark been truer. 
 
 The minister bowed stately approval and waited for 
 more. 
 
 The widow van Dobben laid down her yellow-back 
 novel. 
 
 " Marry us," she said. 
 
 " It shall be very pleasant to do so," replied the 
 minister, " if spared." 
 
 " At once," said the widow van Dobben. 
 
 " It cannot ! " exclaimed the minister ; " the banns 
 " He had looked out this word in his son's diction- 
 ary before starting. 
 
 " A special licence ! " cried Gladys. 
 
 " Will want a fourteen night." 
 
 " A fortnight ! Why not say three months ? " 
 
 " And now I am coming to consider him, madam, 
 when did your husband retire ? " 
 
 " Some weeks ago," answered Gladys, blushing crim- 
 son. 
 
 " You cannot in our country, then, remarry for nearly 
 a year." 
 
 354 
 
 I
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 The widow van Dobben put her black-bordered bit 
 of cambric in front of her face, and burst into very real 
 tears. 
 
 " Nay ! nay ! " remonstrated Jacobus, who, of course, 
 had not understood a word. The minister rapidly en- 
 lightened him. 
 
 Meanwhile Gladys sobbed on, disconsolate, crushed. 
 Good-bye to the ponies and the tapestry. 
 
 Her distressful beauty much exercised the minister. 
 He began to speak in tenderest tones. 
 
 " I am thinking," he said, " a friend is coming. He 
 will help you. The vehicle is arrived from the town, 
 and your guide ; and it has brought a gentleman, a 
 compatriot, inquiring. I see them at the inn. I am 
 thinking I hear rumblings." 
 
 Jacobus was thinking so too, for he went to the door. 
 A moment later he moved his portly body aside, letting 
 pass Mr. Parsimmons, the American lawyer. 
 
 " Mrs. Peter van Dobben, I am glad to have found 
 you," said the lawyer. 
 
 " But you've lost your thousand dollars," replied the 
 widow with animus. 
 
 " I am not so certain of that." The lawyer smiled. 
 
 " It wants three days to your fortnight " 
 
 " Even though it wanted four ! I came after you as 
 quickly as I could, for on the day of your departure 
 I received a sealed envelope from a friend of your late 
 husband, inscribed to be sent to Mr. Parsimmons twenty- 
 four hours after the reading of the will." 
 
 " Well ? well ? " stuttered the widow, tearing holes 
 in her handkerchief. 
 
 " It contained a second will, madarn, made a couple 
 of hours after the first. In it he left you, with the excep- 
 
 355
 
 A BIT OF TO-DAY 
 
 tion of a considerable legacy to his brothei " — Mr. 
 Parismmons made a provoking pause — " all his property." 
 
 " The villain ! " shrieked Gladys. 
 
 " A strange comment," said the lawyer coolly. " You 
 shall pay me, mistress," he added to himself, " for 
 this journey." Aloud, he continued — " For reasons I 
 am unable to appreciate, your lamented husband wished 
 to create, during a brief period, an erroneous impression 
 in your mind." 
 
 " The mean, spiteful villain ! " wept Gladys. 
 
 " You are left entirely free to marry whom you like." 
 The lawyer stole a look at Jacobus. " There is only 
 one exception. A Mr. Charles " 
 
 " Hold your tongue ! " exclaimed Gladys, rising. 
 She was the richest widow of New York ; she could 
 afford to bully a solicitor. She walked with stately 
 step to the door. 
 
 " And what is the end of it all ? " questioned the 
 puzzled Jacobus. 
 
 " Your brother has left all his money to his wife," 
 replied the minister, " but it seems there is a legacy for 
 you." 
 
 Jacobus gave a " shoof " of triumph. 
 
 " Then I shall marry Brigitta," he said. 
 
 1 
 
 356
 
 A Comedy of Crime 
 
 IN the placid summer sunset the village smithy rested. 
 Surely there is nothing more suggestive of repose 
 from labour than a village smithy with a fire that is 
 turning grey. 
 
 Under that great beech the brawny smith sat thought- 
 ful. His big arms, in the sleeves they seldom wore ere 
 nightful, hung idle across his bigger knees. The hard 
 toil of the day — of the week — was over. On the fields, 
 and the neighbouring cottages, and the silent road, lay 
 a drowse of gathering darkness. It was all very peace- 
 ful and tender, with an occasional murmur or tinkle; 
 night was approaching, the happy summer night, in 
 which even slow men's senses are stirred by the thought 
 of the fairies' awakening ; the kine lowed from the dis- 
 tance, full of the day's calm memories, in buttercup 
 content. 
 
 The smith sat, his black brows frowning heavily, 
 thinking of nothing at all. 
 
 From the homestead over the way, a shiny white 
 building, uncomfortably spruce, there issued a long thin 
 figure, in sombre clothing, which figure, majestically 
 crossing a hundred yards of field and garden-plot, 
 advanced toward the sleeping smithy. The smith sat 
 well back, his round eyes a-goggle, and snorted. 
 
 357
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 " Neighbour Blufkin, I wish you a good-evening," 
 said the lanky old person in the black tail-coat. 
 
 " Good-evening, Neighbour Boll," grumped the smith. 
 
 The first speaker blinked his eyes. " To-morrow is 
 the blessed Sabbath," he said. 
 
 " Damn the blessed Sabbath ! " was the unexpected 
 reply. 
 
 Elder Boll uplifted his lean hands to the listening 
 skies. An awful silence spread down from them upon 
 the little group — the smithy, the beech, the two men. 
 
 " I beg its pardon," presently began the smith, his 
 cheerful face ashamed, " I'm sure I beg the blessed 
 Sabbath's humble pardon. I didn't mean to say as 
 much as that. It's blasphemy. But you make me do 
 it. Neighbour Boll." 
 
 " I forgive you with all my heart," said Elder Boll. 
 " But, I hope, neighbour, that you now have duly 
 considered my warning and exhortation of the night — 
 let me see — the night before last." He cautiously let 
 himself down on the seat beside his burly victim, a 
 proceeding of considerable difficulty, as the victim did 
 not budge. 
 
 " The night before last and every other night," 
 spitefully retorted the smith. " It's just jaw — jaw — 
 jaw. Well, you may jaw till Doomsday. I can't run 
 away." 
 
 " Doomsday, indeed ! " echoed the elder, and dread- 
 ful thunder rolled with relish through his tones. ' ' Doom ! 
 Doom ! Doom ! " 
 
 " Now it's you that's swearing," said the smith, 
 reproachfully, and wedged the tobacco down into his 
 pipe. 
 
 " I shan't get tired ! Don't fear," continued Boll, 
 
 358
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 wagging his cadaverous face to and fro. " No, I'll 
 warn you, neighbour ; I'll reprove you ! I'll exhort you 
 — there's no escaping me, Blufkin. ' Sarah,' says I 
 to my wife every night, ' I'll never rest till I've brought 
 that man, like a penitent, into the sacred edifice again.' " 
 
 " I'd have gone back a month ago, if it hadn't been 
 for you," snorted the smith. 
 
 " Ah, there speaks the voice of the scorner. But 
 you needn't try to escape me, neighbour. No peace shaU 
 I know — nor you — till I've saved John Blufkin from 
 his reprobate, hardened, impenitent condition, saved 
 him Uke a — like a " 
 
 " Don't you burn your fingers," interposed the smith, 
 threateningly. 
 
 " Brand from the burning ! " triumphantly exclaimed 
 the elder, catching at the simile. He sat up, or rather 
 " clung up," as well as he could, on his end of the 
 seat, and eyed, with calm certitude, the big mass 
 beside him. 
 
 " Now, look ye here ! " bellowed the smith. " See 
 what happens. Last Kermesse-time — and damn all 
 Kermesses, says I — that's not blasphemy, but religion — 
 last Kermesse-time — there never was a little misfortune 
 befell in a village or Kermesse was to blame for it — 
 [" Amen ! " said the elder] — last Kermesse-time I 
 finds a young fool a-trying to kiss my girl Suzie against 
 her wiU. In the booth it was, where the five-legged 
 calf was — my girl ! " He started up with a roar, and 
 shook his mighty fist in the frightened elder's face. 
 
 The latter, shrinking back precipitately, lost his un- 
 certain balance off the seat's edge, and subsided upon 
 a heap of rusty barrel-hoops that lay handy by the 
 smith's door. He was up again in a moment, with a 
 
 359
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 squeak. As he hurriedly and anxiously began rubbing 
 himself, the rude blacksmith's laughter rang loud and 
 long. 
 
 " Why the devil can't j^ou sit when you sit ? " said the 
 smith. " WTiat's the use of seating yourself like that 
 beside as good a bench as ever bore a weight like mine 
 on to nothing at all ? " 
 
 " On to barrel-hoops," corrected the old man, 
 savagely. " Untidy heaps of rubbish lying about a 
 respectable man'shouse, and on Saturday evening, too ! " 
 
 " I'm not a respectable man," retorted the smith, with 
 vigour, "and nobody knows it better 'n you. \Mien 
 I hears my girl cry out I goes for that young fellow, and 
 I gives him what for. I don't say I didn't give him 
 more than what I intended " 
 
 " You half killed him," interrupted the elder, viciously. 
 " You'd had too much, and he'd had too much, and you 
 forgot that vengeance is Mine " 
 
 " Yours ? " cried the indignant smith. " You think 
 you can put your finger " 
 
 " Blufkin, you are a heathen ! I pity you ! " piped 
 the shriU old man, with immeasurable scorn. " Surely 
 you know that vengeance wasn't yours, but " 
 
 " Yes, that's what the magistrate said," continued 
 Blufkin, suUenly, " ' Don't you know,' says he, ' that 
 the police are there to repress misconduct ? ' Police ! 
 Repress ! Damn the police ! I wouldn't apologize, not 
 on a red-hot gridiron, for swearing at them ! " 
 
 " I am an old man," said Elder Boll, with admirable 
 precaution, " and I teU you, you are a profane brawler. 
 And what did you get for your pains ? Eight days' 
 imprisonment. For the rest of your life you stand 
 
 marked a " 
 
 360
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 " Don't say the word again ! " burst in the enraged 
 Blufkin. 
 
 " Well, I'll only think it," retorted the elder. " All 
 the village thinks it, and always will." 
 
 The other ground his teeth, and the veins stood out 
 black upon his forehead. 
 
 " And therefore I say unto you repent," continued 
 the elder, sweetly gazing at the pale-blue sky. " You 
 just come back to church ; we'll all see that means you're 
 sorry. Henk, that you half killed, '11 see you're sorry. 
 He won't mind. You just come. We'll see you're 
 sorry. That '11 be repentance, atonement, remorse, a 
 begging of everybody's pardons for the public offence ; 
 a humbling of yourself in the day of your abasement." 
 He rose up, in all his rusty lankiness, and projected his 
 piercing finger at Blufkin' s chest. 
 
 " You go home," gurgled Blufkin. 
 
 The elder carefully surveyed his companion's counte- 
 nance, and then suddenly walked off without saying 
 good-night. 
 
 It was almost dark now. In the softly shaded night, 
 all balm and tranquil happiness, the blacksmith's pretty 
 daughter that the Kermesse row had been about, 
 sweet, simple Suzie, the apple of her father's eye, came 
 down the quiet country road on her return from the 
 weekly mission meeting. Beside her walked Peter Boll, 
 the elder's son, that was learning for lay evangelist, a sort 
 of electro-plated parson. 
 
 " How sweet the air is ! " said Peter. 
 
 " It is," said Suzie. 
 
 " But not as sweet as you," suggested Peter. 
 
 " How silly ! " answered Suzie. 
 
 * It's the truth ! " cried the lovesick swain. 
 361
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 " Gospel truth ? " demanded Suzie, thereby catching 
 the future theologian on the horns of a dilemma. 
 
 " Well, it's true enough for you and me," he made 
 cautious reply. " Don't you like to hear me say it, 
 Suzie ? " he continued. 
 
 " Of course I like it in a way," frankly answered the 
 girl. " Leastwise I suppose I shall when you've spoken 
 to father." 
 
 " I'll speak to your father as soon as I can. You don't 
 think, Suzie, there's any chance to-morrow ? " 
 
 But Suzie shook her head. 
 
 " If father 'd been a-going to church to-morrow, he 'd 
 have got himself shaved at the barber's to-night." 
 
 The young man sighed. " Still, there's no knowing for 
 certain," he ventured. "If the spirit was to move him — " 
 
 Suzie shook her head all the harder. " The spirit 
 couldn't move him unshaved," she said. 
 
 " Father is that set on it ! " groaned Peter. " He 
 hasn't a good word for the smith. ' Jailbird,' he calls 
 him. ' Jailbird.' I get sick of the word " — Suzie 
 stamped one pretty foot — " don't you get angry, Suzie: 
 he is an unrighteous unbeliever. Father's only thinking 
 of his soul." 
 
 " You leave my father's soul alone," said Suzie. 
 
 " I'm not meddling with it, but, you see, I ain't an 
 elder. When I've been ordained a preacher — I shall 
 have to meddle with it then ! " He lifted a complacent 
 smile to the lofty vault of heaven. A solitary star 
 returned the smile. 
 
 " My own father-in-law ! " he added. " I shall have 
 to convert him then." 
 
 " You'll find it pretty hard work," replied Suzie, with 
 a shrug of her shapely shoulders. 
 
 362
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 " Pooh ! I tell you I'm bound to convert him, A pretty 
 name I should get as a preacher, if I couldn't convert 
 my own father-in-law." 
 
 " Well, you try," exclaimed Suzie, in a pet. " He's 
 not your father-in-law yet, and I'm not at all sure he 
 ever will be. Father 's worth two of you, Peter. He 
 licked Henk for making me cry out. You'll never lick 
 Henk ! " 
 
 " He's stronger 'n me," replied Peter ; " I must 
 think of my good-conduct test. If anybody was to show 
 impediment ' ' 
 
 " Oh, there's nothing wrong about your good-con- 
 duct test, I'll be bound. Poor father ! You wouldn't 
 have licked Henk." 
 
 " Licking's sinful : the Bible says we should turn the 
 other cheek." 
 
 " Yes, that's what I ought to have done to Henk," 
 remarked Suzie, complacently. " It was silly of me to 
 cry out like that, and at Kermesse-time too. He meant 
 no harm, but he'd drunk too much." 
 
 " Suzan, for shame ! " The aspirant preacher fell 
 back. 
 
 " Henk isn't half a bad fellow ! I like him," cried 
 Suzie, wilfully. They stood still by the fence round the 
 smith's garden, where the side-road curves into the 
 laurel bushes. 
 
 " Say another word, and I will thrash him ! " cried 
 the infatuated lover. 
 
 " Do," said a hearty voice, and a figure, stepping forth 
 from the shade of the bushes, brushed the candidate aside 
 as a broom might sweep away a cobweb. " You'll have 
 to, if you stop another minute, for I'm going to kiss 
 Suzie again." 
 
 363
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 " Don't. Go away," said Suzie. She almost let the 
 two sentences run into one. 
 
 " There's two things I want to tell you, Suzie, before 
 I do," continued Henk. " First, I'm sorry I was a brute 
 to frighten you. Secondly, your father didn't hurt me 
 much. AH the talk about death's door was malicious 
 slander, set about by some people — they best know why." 
 He shot the last sentence at Peter. 
 
 " Don't shout so, for Heaven's sake ! " gasped Suzie. 
 
 But her warning came too late. A big head appeared 
 over the tall fence, and the smith's loud bass demanded : 
 
 " Suzie, who's with you there ? Come in." 
 
 "Father's standing on that horrid rain-barrel," 
 whispered Suzie. " It's all right, father. Only Peter 
 Boll, walking home." 
 
 " You come in at once ! " The smith stumbled off 
 his rain-barrel. 
 
 " Now you mark this," declared Blufkin, as soon as 
 his rosy-faced daughter made her innocent entry into 
 the kitchen. " I'll have no flirtation with Peter Boll." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Suzie. " Mother ! " 
 
 The cheeriest, healthiest, handsomest old cluck in the 
 village immediately responded to the cry of her chick. 
 
 " Now, don't you talk foolishness, Blufkin," inter- 
 posed the fat vrouw, laughing, because she always 
 laughed when she spoke, unless there were cause for tears. 
 " I suppose you don't want the prettiest girl in the 
 country to marry at aU ? " 
 
 " I don't say that." 
 
 " Well, it looks as if you meant it. One young fellow 
 comes courting her, and you give him a black eye ; 
 another " 
 
 " He's a wild 'un," interrupted the smith. 
 
 364
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 " Granted that he be a bit wild before marriage. You 
 was wild after. And Peter Boll. Too good, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes," thundered the smith. " You've hit it, old 
 lady. Peter 's too good. No son-in-law of mine shall 
 turn up the whites of his eyes at his wife's father. I've 
 enough of the old man's preaching ; I won't stand the 
 son's." He banged his fist on the table at " won't," 
 and Suzie screamed. " ' Jailbird ! ' says the old 
 hypocrite. ' Jailbird ! ' pipes the young one. I'm a 
 jailbird, am I ? " He threw out his chest and faced 
 the two women. 
 
 " Well, you are, after a way," repHed the wife, thinking 
 to soften him. 
 
 " I'm a jailbird, am I ? " he repeated quietly, turning 
 to his daughter. 
 
 " Oh, father, I don't know." 
 
 " Yes, you do. Am I a jailbird ? " 
 
 " Of course you are, in a way," stammered Suzie, 
 beginning to cry. 
 
 " Of course I am. Now, mark my words. Your 
 mother says I make difficulties about your marrying 
 whom you like or she likes ! No, I don't, none but one. 
 The man that you marry must have been in 
 prison, Suzie. That's all that I ask." He turned on 
 his heel. 
 
 " What on earth does the creature mean ? " exclaimed 
 the mother. 
 
 Blufkin paused by the door. " What he says," was 
 his stern reply. " You want no better son-in-law than 
 your husband, mistress. There's dozens of honest 
 young fellows have got into scrapes about poaching or 
 fighting or larking, a hundred times better than the 
 sneaks that have kept out. And Suzie shall have a 
 
 365
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 jailbird for a husband, or she shan't bring the man into 
 this house ! " He waited in the doorway as if half 
 irresolute. " I swear it by all that's sacred," he said, 
 and disappeared into the smithy. 
 
 All the colour had gone from the mother's ruddy 
 cheeks. " Oh, if only he hadn't said them last words ! " 
 she sobbed, and sank down on a chair. 
 
 " He don't mean 'em," exclaimed Suzie, scared ; 
 " he often says *em." 
 
 " Never, child. Mean 'em or not, he'll stick to them 
 now. When father says ' by all that's solemn ', he 
 don't count that for much. But, Suzie, when I married 
 the good man, he swore to me ' by all that's sacred ' 
 he'd never get drunk again except at Kermesse-time. 
 He'd broke his oath before " — the poor woman's tones 
 went shaky — " but 'I'll swear to you by all that's 
 sacred,' he says with a frightened face, and, Suzie, he's 
 kept to it ; he wouldn't dare not." 
 
 Suzie lifted up her voice and wailed. 
 
 " During all these twenty years he's never got drunk, 
 except at Kermesse, regular. And when he came back 
 from — jaO last month, he walks into this kitchen here 
 with a face as white as yon tablecloth, and ' I'll stick 
 to my two drams a day,' he says, ' Kermesse or not,' 
 he says ; ' I swear it by all that's sacred.' I've never 
 heard him say it but just that twice and now. Oh, 
 Suzie, you'll never be able to marry Peter now ! Are 
 you really sure you want to ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Suzie, rebelliously. 
 
 " Well, there's no accounting for tastes," groaned 
 the mother. " And it's very sudden, Suzie. You 
 never used to think much of him, the canting — h'm. 
 It was always Henk I thought you hked." 
 
 366 
 
 I
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 ** Never ! " exclaimed Suzie, with quite superfluous 
 vehemence, turning very red. 
 
 Her mother stole a glance at her, 
 
 " There'd be some chance for Henk," said the vrouw, 
 with a httle ripple of humour, " though I never heard 
 of his poaching. Well, a girl must have her own way 
 about a husband. I had mine. Though if you was 
 to ask me, Suzie, I think you're acting like the squire's 
 daughter I was a lady's-maid to, who married the wrong 
 man, and that's why they called it ' pick.' " 
 
 " Father's drove away Henk," murmured Suzie. 
 
 " Well, child, you needn't have screamed so loud. 
 And at Kermesse-time, too, and your father so hasty. 
 Your father's like a lord about his womanfolk ; I will 
 say that. There, call him in to supper. Hear him 
 knocking bits of cold iron about ! " 
 
 The meal was a gloomy one, but a few hours later 
 Suzie' s rather sulky slumbers were disturbed by the well- 
 known sound of her mother's laugh. She opened her 
 eyes to the glare of a candle and the shaking of a loose 
 white mass. The ponderous vrouw sank into a chair 
 by the bedside. 
 
 " What is it, mother ? " asked Suzie, not over gra- 
 ciously. 
 
 " Suzie — hi ! hi ! hi ! — now tell me, Suzie, you're 
 quite sure you want to marry Parson Peter Boll ? " 
 
 " I don't know. Let me sleep," answered the poor 
 girl, closing her eyes. 
 
 " Well, you shall have your choice. A girl seldom 
 changes her mind when it's set on the wrong 'un. If 
 you want Peter you shall have him, child. I had to come 
 and tell you that. I've got an idea." 
 
 She rose heavily, still shaking her sides, and moved 
 
 367
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 towards the door. " It come to me as I was undoing 
 my back hair," she said. 
 
 " What idea ? " cried Suzie, suddenly bolt upright 
 in the bed. 
 
 " I'll tell you all about it in the morning. I must 
 work it out." 
 
 " Well, I can afford to wait." 
 
 " That's a bad sign for Peter," replied the vrouw, 
 closing the door behind her. 
 
 Next morning being the Sabbath, everybody went 
 to church, except Blufkin. He stood, uncomfortable, 
 behind his window, and watched the people go. 
 
 And he stood defiant before his door and saw them 
 aU come back. His wife and daughter walked slowly 
 beside Peter. Before they separated, the vrouw's idea 
 had taken more definite shape. 
 
 " Who wills the end must will the means." The 
 smith's wife quoted this bit of well-born wisdom several 
 times to Peter before she could get him to see how true 
 it is. Her plan, in half a dozen words, was this : The 
 smith, whose honest self-respect had been unduly 
 humiliated, must he humoured in this crotchet of his 
 about having a son-in-law no better than himself. To 
 put the matter plainly, Peter must be helped to commit 
 a crime. The vrouw herself felt that Peter, unabashed, 
 would be a trial beyond endurance. 
 
 " But I can't sin," pleaded Peter. 
 
 " Nor you needn't," replied the ready vrouw. " You 
 can take the money — won't it be yours when you marry 
 Suzan ? — besides, you'll return the box to me an hour 
 later." 
 
 " I can't do it," said Peter. 
 
 " And I'll show you what's inside." 
 368
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 Peter pricked up his ears. " I can't," he repeated, 
 with the decision of weakness. " If I was to be found 
 out " 
 
 " Where'd your good-conduct test be ? " interjected 
 Suzie, slyly. 
 
 " Well, then, do the other thing — what I said first. 
 It's the better," cried the vrouw, her face all ripples of 
 laughter. " Go for Henk." 
 
 " I cue — cue — can't," gasped the wretched youth. 
 
 " Or you might try a bit of honest poaching," 
 
 " Lord ! I might get shot ! " cried Peter. " That's 
 worse than a fight." 
 
 " Well, that's what I thought," said the vrouw, 
 decidedly. " I thought you'd mind prigging something 
 least. I promise you I'll make things right enough. I'll 
 explain to the smith, and he'll be glad to get quit of his 
 foolish oath. The box with the money that Suzie's great- 
 aunt left her is in the wardrobe in my bedroom. I'll 
 leave the door unlocked. The good man sleeps in the 
 parlour all Sunday evening. You'll put the ladder to 
 the window at the back — hi ! hi ! You'll bring me the 
 box at once, and before I tell the smith a word I'll make 
 him swear by all that's sacred that Suzie shall marry 
 you, if she wants to, as soon as you've done something 
 which could get you into prison ! " The jolly vrouw 
 laughed on, as Peter thought, beyond rational cause for 
 laughter. 
 
 " But he'll call me a thief," expostulated Peter. 
 
 " Only between ourselves ; he'd never shame his daugh- 
 ter's husband in public. And the pleasure of calling 
 Elder Boll's son a thief — he'd take you for that alone." 
 
 " But not if he thinks I aw a thief ! " 
 
 " Docs your father think my man a ' jailbird ' ? " 
 24 369
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 She turned on him triumphantly. " Do you want to 
 marry Suzie or don't you ? Well, nothing'll prove your 
 love to him like you doing all this for her sake. And 
 he'll have his gibe ready to fling at you when you start 
 preaching righteousness — as you will." 
 
 " There's no sin, as I can see," said Peter, reflectively ; 
 " but there's a risk." 
 
 " Yes, the box is heavy," continued the smith's wife. 
 " There's a good deal in the box ; you'll it know by its 
 weight. You're sure you want to marry Suzie ? " She 
 stole an ugly look at him from out her cheerful eyes. 
 
 " You needn't ask him again, please, mother," said 
 Suzie, with uplifted nose. 
 
 Peter gazed at the pretty tilted feature, but, alas ! 
 his thoughts were of the box. Suzie was known to have 
 inherited money ; the wildest rumours circulated as to 
 the amount. Had ever mercenary lover a better 
 opportunity before marriage of finding out exactly what 
 he loved ? 
 
 " You'll show me what's inside ? " he said. 
 
 " I keep my promises," answered the vrouw, shortly. 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And you'll lock the parlour door ? " 
 
 " Don't I tell you he's asleep all Sunday evening ? 
 A-sitting looking up the road with his eyes shut ! " 
 
 " And you'll stop with him all the time and keep him 
 from coming after me ? " 
 
 " He won't come after you," replied the smith's wife., 
 with much meaning. 
 
 " I'll do it," said Peter. " It's a capital way." 
 
 " It is," declared Suzie's mother. But she again 
 laughed inordinately, as she watched Peter cross to his 
 home. " Suzie," she said, " you're a fool, girl, but 
 
 370
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 I pity you. It's your father's doing. And what can 
 we do ? Henk " 
 
 " Oh, mother, please don't talk of Henk ! It is 
 father's doing. I never want to hear his name again." 
 
 " I was only thinking that if Henk were to do some- 
 thing that got him into prison, it wouldn't be stealing a 
 money-box." She repeated these words with many fur- 
 tive glances and head-shakings at her daughter. She 
 slipped out in the afternoon, and went, as she said, to see 
 her sister ; but when she came back she laughed so much 
 that the smith was annoyed at her untimely gaiety. He 
 felt very cross himself, weighed down by his silly oath 
 of the night before. He had a great opinion of his wife's 
 judgment and a poor one of his own, but he knew that 
 even she could not release him from the bonds of "all 
 that's sacred." A terrible power indeed. 
 
 " Don't be a silly featherhead ! " he said ; so she knew 
 he was longing for her guidance. 
 
 When the still Sabbath even had fallen, Elder Boll 
 came round to the smith's door for a little friendly chat. 
 The vrouw met him with her finger on her lips. " Hush, 
 he's asleep," she said. 
 
 -' He is," replied the elder ; " in trespasses and sin. 
 Stand aside, vrouw ; 'tis my mission to wake him ! " 
 And he banged a loud bang with his stick on the parlour 
 door. 
 
 The vrouw shrugged her shoulders, and grinned an 
 expressive gin. " Oh, of course," she said, " if it's your 
 mission to wake him ! " And she flung wide the door. 
 
 " Giggle not, woman ! " said the elder, sternly, as he 
 took his seat beside the smith and began to expound the 
 beauty of repentance in the manifestly fallen, the value 
 of public humiliation after patent shame 
 
 371
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 Meanwhile Peter, having assured himself, by repeated 
 peeping, of the smith's sleepy presence at the parlour 
 window, having even waited until he could distinctly 
 hear a continuous snore, crept round to the unlocked 
 gate at the back of the garden, found the ladder, as 
 advised, in the outhouse, and softly stole up through the 
 grateful darkness to the open window on the second 
 floor. His heart went pit-a-pat, but whether with fear 
 or expectation he could hardly have told himself. His 
 hands trembled as he seized the box in the cupboard, 
 and felt its enormous weight. He knew that this 
 trembling of the hands was a tribute of nature to gratitude 
 awakened and to hope that soared beyond hope ! 
 
 He hurried with his pleasing burden to the window 
 and rapidly felt along the sill. The ladder was gone. 
 
 " O Lord ! " he said, and he was such a hypocrite that 
 really one cannot be sure whether the words were not a 
 prayer. 
 
 He looked hastily to right and left ; there was no escape. 
 But at that very moment he needs must fancy that he 
 heard a sound on the stairs. 
 
 He looked down the wall, trying to measure its height 
 in the darkness. It was not so very high, and the water- 
 butt stood close beside it. The ladder must have fallen 
 among the bushes. There was nothing for it but to 
 slip down and get a footing on the water-butt. 
 
 He placed the box on the window-sill, and let himself 
 down by both hands. Clinging tight, he took the handle 
 of the box between his heavy jaws, and felt, dangling 
 with both legs, for the top of the water-but* 
 
 Alas ! at that moment, in the very gasp of success, a 
 violent pain shot across his body and changed the gasp 
 to a howl. He twisted under it, with a wrench, that 
 
 372
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 caught his flapping coat-tail in an iron hook against the 
 wall, and the money-box dropped clanging to the ground. 
 For a terrible moment he hung there, shrieking with 
 agony, as blow after blow descended, lustily dealt, half- 
 way down his long wrigghng frame. Several people had 
 come running out of the house with a lamp. His screams, 
 objurgations, and curses rose on the calm air, alternately 
 threatful and pitiable — in a minute it was all over, and 
 Peter lay spluttering in the water-butt. They pulled 
 him out quickly, and propped him up against the wall. 
 
 Then he saw all their faces at once, in a circle, Suzie's 
 and her mother's, and the smith's Henk's — and his 
 father's ! 
 
 " Peter ! " screamed the horrified elder. 
 
 That was almost the worst of all. The dishevelled and 
 dripping lover saw, as his rapid glances travelled round 
 the company, amazement and amusement written on 
 every brow. Only the stolid, handsome yeoman, whose 
 hand held a goodly switch, fresh cut from the bushes, 
 wore an air of calm content. 
 
 ■' Peter ! " cried the elder, wringmg his hands. *" Oh, 
 what a fall was there ! " 
 
 " There was indeed ! " said the smith ; " into the 
 water-butt." 
 
 But Peter's eyes now rested on the money-box. It 
 had struck against a rail and burst open. A great brick 
 had fallen out, leaving it empty. " Why, there's 
 nought but a lump of brick in it ! " he said. 
 
 " What ! a thief ! " exclaimed Blufkin, finding speech. 
 
 " A thief ! " repeated Henk. " And I thought he 
 came after Suzie." 
 
 The vrouw began to laugh and laugh. 
 
 ^' Get away ! " she cried, winking to Henk. " What 
 
 373
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 do you mean, you young rogue, by prowling about this 
 house when nobody knows you're near ? " 
 
 " Well," rephed Henk, and hung his head before the 
 smith's uncertain gaze, " you see, I — am after Suzie." 
 He straightened himself. " Yes, dang it all," he said, 
 " and in spite of all, I'm after Suzie." 
 
 " Where's Suzie's money ? " suddenly shouted the 
 smith, and ran toward the prostrate figure with menace 
 in face and gesture. Peter doubled up and shrieked. 
 
 " Keep cool, smith ! " called his consort. " Suzie's 
 money is safe enough. It'll never be Peter Boll's ! " 
 
 Peter Boll lifted his angry eyes to her face, and a look 
 of intelligence stole across them. " I don't want the 
 money," he said, " but I'll have my revenge of that 
 howling brute." 
 
 " Who did you say was ' howling ' ? " asked Henk. 
 
 " Assault and battery," responded Peter. 
 
 " O Lord, yes, assault and battery ! " chimed in 
 Elder Ball. " Peter, my boy, never you mind. I know 
 you meant no harm. Imprisoned for assault and 
 battery ! " 
 
 " Like father," said Suzie amazed at her boldness. 
 
 " Shall I make it worth your while ? " asked Henk, 
 switching the air as he spoke. 
 
 The smith interposed with ouststretched hand. 
 
 " It's Peter must go to jail for stealing my bricks," 
 he said, cheerfully. " Shake hands, Henk, and let by- 
 gones be bygones. I love you for licking the skulking 
 cad." 
 
 " We'll have the law on him, never you fear ! " cried 
 the elder. 
 
 " You're sure you will ? " interposed Vrouw Blufkin, 
 suddenly pushing to the front. 
 
 374
 
 A COMEDY OF CRIME 
 
 " Sure ! " 
 
 " Certain ? " 
 
 " What does the woman mean ? I never swore in 
 my Hfe, but I'll swear to Henk's going to prison for 
 assault and battery." 
 
 " Then in that case he'll be a jailbird like me " 
 
 began the smith, as a grin broke slowly across his awk- 
 ward features. 
 
 " The pair of you, indeed, in a Christian parish." 
 
 " And your clerical son," concluded the smith. 
 
 *' So Suzie can take her choice," suggested Suzie's 
 mother, as the elder fell back, disconcerted. 
 
 " Tush, tush ! " said the smith, " we'll all go to church 
 together before anybody goes to prison ! " 
 
 (1) 
 
 375
 
 ** A beautiful romance of the days of Robert Bums/^ 
 
 Nancy Stair. 
 
 A Novel. By Elinor Macartney Lane, author 
 of " Mills of God." Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 " With very much the grace and charm of Robert Louis 
 Stevenson, the author of * The Life of Nancy Stair * com- 
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 rare gift — historic imagination. 
 
 " ' The Life of Nancy Stair ' is interesting from the first 
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 and picturesque and cleverly led up to from one of the 
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 hitch. Robert Burns is neither idealized nor caricatured ; 
 Sandy, Jock, Pitcairn, Danvers Carmichael, and the Duke 
 of Borthewicke are admirably relieved against each other, 
 and Nancy herself as irresistible as she is natural. To be 
 sure, she is a wonderful child, but then she manages to 
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 reaches the heart and engages the mind, and which can 
 scarcely fail to make for itself a large audience. A great 
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 for its literary quality cannot escape the interest of a love- 
 story full of incident and atmosphere." 
 
 " Powerfully and attractively written." — Pittsburg Post. 
 
 " A story best described with the word ' charming.' " 
 
 — Washington Post, 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
 
 ** Daring in conception and fulfilment.'' 
 
 — Boston Herald* 
 
 Mills of God. 
 
 By Elinor Macartney Lane. Illustrated. i2mo. 
 
 Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 " It is a good novel in comparison to even the best in current Amer- 
 ican fiction." — TAe New York Herald. 
 
 " The reader will not willingly lay aside the book till the end is 
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 " The story shows maturity, resource, and distinction. It combines 
 the dash and valor of the favorite school of fiction with the poise, acute- 
 ness, and refinement of the reflective type. It is compact of fresh, 
 generous character creation, appealing and exquisite." — Boston Times. 
 
 " Her theme is daring and delicate. Notwithstanding, the final 
 product more than justifies the choice, the story is strong and fearlessly 
 told, the novel exceptional in finish and the careful balance of its parts." 
 
 — The Washington Star. 
 
 " ' Mills of God ' is said to be a woman's first novel, and if this be 
 true the writer, Elinor Macartney Lane, has much to be proud of. She 
 has studied her art and has a serious view of it. It is a well-written, 
 interesting, and readable novel." — New York Times Saturday Review. 
 
 " She certainly will be heard from again and more insistently. Not 
 only for the pleasure it gives, but still more for the intellectual delight 
 of watching from the first the development of a new writer, ' Mills of 
 God ' deserves wide attention. Its writer is a coming author." 
 
 — New York Alail and Express. 
 
 " A romance of extraordinary charm and carries its absorbing story 
 along with triumphant decision. The ideals of the book are high, and 
 the romance is too gallant to leave the mind of the reader in a depressed 
 condition." — Chicago Tribune. 
 
 " A brilliant romance of Virginia ; a deftly woven tale, with passion's 
 power for good and evil as its theme. Mrs. Lane has a vivacious, spir- , 
 ited, graphic way of telling a story and portraying character. Her 
 dialogue has an air of life, and is even-pointed and piquant. She has 
 pictured with power, yet with delicacy and reserve, the dawn of a great 
 passion, the futile struggle against it, and the surrender." 
 
 — Chicago Record-Herald. 
 
 "A mighty good romance. The characters are complex human 
 beings, instead of lay-figures for the display of ready-made chivalry, 
 and one remembers both them and their history after laying down the 
 book." — Life. 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
 
 THE MASTERPIECE OF A MASTER MIND. 
 
 The Prodigal Son. 
 
 By Hall Caine. i2mo, Ornamental Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 " The Prodigal Son " follows the lines of the Bible para- 
 ble in the principal incidents, but in certain important 
 particulars it departs from them. In a most convincing 
 way, and with rare beauty, the story shows that Christ's 
 parable is a picture of heavenly mercy, and not of human 
 justice, and if it were used as an example of conduct among 
 men it would destroy all social conditions and disturb ac- 
 cepted laws of justice. The book is full of movement and 
 incident, and must appeal to the public by its dramatic 
 story alone. The Prodigal Son at the close of the book 
 has learned this great lesson, and the meaning of the parable 
 is revealed to him. Neither success nor fame can ever wipe 
 out the evil of the past. It is not from the unalterable laws 
 of nature and life that forgiveness can be hoped for. 
 
 " Since ' The Manxman ' Hall Caine has written nothing so moving 
 in its elements of pathos and tragedy, so plainly marked with the power 
 to search the human heart and reveal its secret springs of strength and 
 weakness, its passion and strife, so sincere and satisfying as ' The Prodi- 
 gal Son.' " — Nezv York Times. 
 
 " It is done with supreme self-confidence, and the result is a work 
 of genius." — New York Evening Post. 
 
 " ' The Prodigal Son ' will hold the reader's attention from cover to 
 cover." — Philadelphia Record. 
 
 " This is one of Hall Caine's best novels — one that a large portion 
 of the fiction-reading public will thoroughly enjoy." 
 
 — Chicago Record-Herald. 
 
 " It is a notable piece of fiction." — Philadelphia Inquirer. 
 " In 'The Prodigal Son' Hall Caine has produced his greatest work." 
 
 — Boston Herald. 
 
 " Mr. Caine has achieved a work of extraordinary merit, a fiction as 
 finely conceived, as deftly constructed, as some of the best work of our 
 living novelists." — London Daily Mail. 
 
 " ' The Prodigal Son ' is indeed a notable novel ; and a work that 
 may certainly rank with the best of recent fiction. ..." 
 
 — Westminster Gazette. 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
 
 NOVELS BY HALL CAINE. 
 
 Uniform Edition. Each, 12mo, cloth. 
 
 The Prodigal Son. $1.50. 
 
 " It is done with supreme self-confidence, and the result is a work of genius." 
 
 — Ne-w York Evening Post. 
 " In ' The Prodigal Son ' Hall Caine has produced his greatest work." 
 
 — Boston Herald. 
 
 " Since ' The Manxman ' Hall Caine has written nothing so moving in its elements 
 
 of pathos and tragedy, so plainly marked with the power to search the human heart 
 
 and reveal its secret springs of strength and weakness, its passion and strife, so sincere 
 
 and satisfying as 'The Prodigal Son.' " — Neiu York Times. 
 
 The Eternal City. $1.50. 
 
 "One of the verj' strongest productions in fiction that the present age has been 
 privileged to cii]oy ."—Philadelphia Item. 
 
 " The novel is wonderful in its power, its wealth of dramatic incident, and its rich- 
 ness of diction." — Rochester Detnocrat and Chronicle. 
 
 The Christian. $1.50. 
 
 "A book of wonderful power and force." — Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 "Its strength grasps you at the beginning and holds you to the end. There is in 
 t something of the fervor of true prophecy." — Chicago Journal. 
 
 The Manxman. $1.50. 
 
 " Hall Caine has the art of being human and humane, and his characters have the 
 strength of elemental things. In ' The Manxman ' he handles large human questions 
 — the questions of lawful and lawless love." — New York Commercial Advertiser. 
 
 The Deemster. $1.50. 
 
 Ne'du copyright edition, revised by the author. 
 
 "Hall Caine has already given us some very strong and fine work, and 'The 
 Deemster ' is a story of unusual power. . . . Certain passages and chapters have an 
 intensely dramatic grasp and hold the fascinated reader with a force rarely excited 
 nowadays in literature." — The Critic. 
 
 The Bondman. $1.50. 
 
 Nevj copyright edition., revised by the author. 
 
 The Scapegoat. $1.50. 
 
 New copyright edition, revised by the author. 
 
 Capt'n Davy's Honeymoon. Si. 00. 
 The Little Manx Nation. $1.00. 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
 
 Wrr, SPARKUNG, SCINTILLATING WIT, 
 IS THE ESSENCE OF 
 
 Kate of Kate Hall, 
 
 By Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler, 
 
 whose reputation was made by her first book, 
 " Concerning Isabel Carnaby," and enhanced by her 
 last success, " Place and Power." 
 
 "In 'Kate of Kate Hall,* by Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler, the ques- 
 tion of imminent concern is the marriage of super-dainty, peppery. 
 tempered Lady Katherine Clare, whose wealthy godmother, erstwhile 
 deceased, has left her a vast fortune, on condition that she shall be 
 wedded within six calendar months from date of the testator's death. 
 
 "An easy matter, it would seem, for bonny Kate, notwithstanding 
 her aptness at sharp repartee, is a morsel fit for the gods. 
 
 " The accepted suitor appears in due time ; but comes to grief at the 
 last moment in a quarrel with Lady Kate over a kiss bestowed by her 
 upon her godmother's former man of affairs and secretary. This inci- 
 dent she haughtily refuses to explain. Moreover, she shatters the bond 
 of engagement, although but three weeks remain of the fatal six months. 
 She would rather break stones on the road all day and sleep in a 
 pauper's grave all night, than marry a man who, while professing to love 
 her, would listen to mean and malicious gossips picked up by tell-tales 
 in the servants' hall. 
 
 " So the great estate is likely to be lost to Kate and her debt-ridden 
 father, Lord Claverley. How it is conserved at last, and gloomy appre- 
 hension chased away by dazzling visions of material splendor — that is 
 the author's well-kept secret, not to be shared here with a careless and 
 indolent public." — Philadelphia North American. 
 
 " The long-standing reproach that women are seldom [humorists 
 seems in a fair way of passing out of existence. Several contemporary 
 feminine writers have at least sufficient sense of humor to produce char- 
 acters as deliciously humorous as delightful. Of such order is the 
 Countess Claverley, made whimsically real and lovable in the recent 
 book by Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler and A. L. Felkin, ' Kate of Kate 
 Hall.' " — Chicago Record-Herald. 
 
 " ' Kate of Kate Hall ' is a novel in which Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler 
 displays her brilliant abilities at their best. The story is well constructed, 
 the plot develops beautifully, the incidents are varied and brisk, and the 
 dialogue is deliciously clever." — Rochester Democrat and Chronicle. 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
 
 A NEW BOOK BY MISS FOWLER. 
 
 " For months to come the story will be talked about by 
 some millions of the population of the British Islands." 
 
 — Literary World, Londork 
 
 Place and Power. 
 
 By Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler, Author 
 of " Concerning Isabel Carnaby," " The Farring- 
 dons," etc. Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 The story of an ambitious young man whose most 
 cherished aims are frustrated through retributive justice. 
 The story is full of interest and attractive characterization, 
 the main action of the plot is skilfully hidden until the 
 right moment, and the dialogue is entertaining and clever. 
 
 "A story as brilliant as it is wholesome. Wit and satire flash in the 
 dialogue, and the love scenes are delightful." — Evening Sun, New York. 
 
 " A better book in some respects than the much read ' Isabel 
 Carnaby.' " — Evening Post, Louisville, Ky. 
 
 " Keeps up her reputation for epigram, brilliant delineation of char- 
 acter, and social climaxes." — Courier-Journal^ Louisville, Ky. 
 
 "Full of intellect and brightness." — Globe-Democrat, St. Louis. 
 
 " Miss Fowler's old lightness and cleverness of touch show through- 
 out the book." — The World, New York. 
 
 " The same ring of keen insight, understanding of types of human 
 nature, and ability to create brilliant conversations — the faint, whimsical 
 describing of the hearts of her characters, which gives so vivid and last- 
 ing a conception of their personalities." — Pioneer Press, St. Paul. 
 
 D. APPLETON and company, new YORK
 
 By ELLEN THORNEYCROFT FOWLER. 
 
 Each, ilmof cloth, $1.50. 
 Place and Power. With 8 full-page Illustrations. 
 
 The story of an ambitious young man whose most cherished aims are 
 frustrated through retributive justice. The story is full of interest and 
 attractive characterization, the main action of the plot is skilfully hidden 
 until the right moment, and the dialogue is entertaining and clever. 
 
 Sirius. A Volume of Fiction. 
 
 " Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler's latest production has richer sources of 
 entertainment than any one book she has yet written, inasmuch as it has 
 more characters, more conversation, and more epigrams." — Chicago Tribune. 
 
 Cupid's Garden. With new Portrait of the Author. 
 
 " Whatever this author sends out has freshness and originality, and her 
 sketches of people are so deftly drawn that one wonders at the versatility. 
 ' Cupid's Garden ' is a collection of stories of love, not all of which run 
 smooth, but which all exhibit some noble trait of the tender passion." — 
 Indianapolis News. 
 
 The Farringdons. 
 
 " 'The Farringdons' is a serious and a sound piece of work, and there 
 is about it a note of thoroughly genuine piety which is very far from bemg 
 religiosity. ... It is bright, it is interesting, and the denouement is just 
 what we all would wish it to be." — London Chronicle. 
 
 Concerning Isabel Carnaby. New edition, with Por- 
 trait and Biographical Sketch of the Author. 
 
 " Rarely does one find such a charming combination of wit and tender- 
 ness, of brilliancy, and reverence for the things that matter. ... It is 
 bright without being flippant, tender without bemg mawkish, and as joyous 
 and as wholesome as sunshine The characters are closely studied and 
 clearly limned, and they are created by one who knows human nature. . . . 
 It would be hard to find its superior for all-around excellence. . . . No one 
 who reads it will regret it or forget it." — Chicago Tribune. 
 
 A Double Thread. 
 
 " Brilliant and witty. Shows fine insight into character." — Minneapolis 
 Journal. 
 
 "Crowded with interesting people. One of the most enjoyable stories 
 of the season." — Philadelphia Inquirer. 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. NEW YORK
 
 MAARTEN MAARTENS'S LATEST BOOK. 
 
 JUST PUBLISHED, 
 Dorothea. A Story of the Pure in Heart. 
 
 i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 " The book is not one to be read hastily or superficially. There are 
 a great number of characters, and they are all living, breathing, thinking 
 men and women, stimulating in their contrast to the sawdust puppets 
 of so much of our contemporary fiction. Mr. Maartens writes from the 
 viewpoint at once of humorist, philosopher, and man of the world. He 
 does not pelt us with laboriously prepared epigrams, but a quietly whole- 
 some humor sparkles in all his dialogue. His, in short, is a story to 
 enjoy in leisurely fashion and be grateful for." — New York Sun. 
 
 " The movement is swift and sure, the wit keen, the worldly wisdom 
 ripe and rich. In a word, it is the work of a master, done to its smallest 
 detail in masterly fashion." — JVew York Times. 
 
 " Put before us with such truth and such fine feeling that it awakens 
 ideas, touches the imagination, and altogether gives us something to add 
 to our conception of life." — jVeza York Tribune. 
 
 " It is full of humor and charm, touched with a strong dramatic in- 
 stinct and replete with life. ' Dorothea ' is a book to be read ; those 
 who neglect to do so will miss much enjoyment. Life seen through the 
 glasses of Mr. Maartens is an absorbingly interesting and delightful 
 thing." — TAe Academy and Literature, London. 
 
 OTHER BOOKS BY MAARTEN MAARTENS. 
 Each, i2mo, cloth, $1.50. In Uniform Binding. 
 
 Some Women I Have Known. With Frontispiece. 
 
 " These stories indicate character, relations, environments, the deveU 
 opment of incidents with the lightness and grace of a true artist." 
 
 Her Memory. With Photogravure Portrait. 
 
 The Greater Glory. A story of High Life. 
 
 God's Fool. 
 
 Joost Avelingh. 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
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