The Shadow 
 
 of 
 
 John Wallace 
 
 A Novel 
 
 BY L. CLARKSON 
 
 New York 
 
 White, Stokes, & Allen 
 1884
 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1884, 
 BY L. C. WHITELOCK.
 
 DEDICATED TO 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 WHOSE MATCHLESS MASTER-PIECE, 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK, 
 
 GAVE ME COURAGE TO UNDERTAKE 
 
 THE READING OF THIS LESSER RIDDLE.
 
 THE KEYNOTE. 
 
 -" / raise a ghost- 
 
 Because man makes not man ; 
 
 Yet by a special gift, an art of arts, 
 More insight and more outsight and much more 
 Will to use both of these than boast my mates, 
 I can detach from me, commission forth 
 Half of my soul ; which in its pilgrimage 
 O er old unwandered wasteways of the world, 
 May chance upon some fragment of a whole, 
 Rag of flesh, scrap of bone in dim disuse, 
 Smoking flax that fed fire once ; prompt therein 
 I enter, spark-like, put old powers to play, 
 Push lines out to the limit, lead forth the last 
 (By a moonrise through a ruin of a crypf) 
 What shall be mistily seen, murmuringly heard, 
 Mistakenly felt." 
 
 From Robert Browning s 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK.
 
 PRELUDE. 
 
 Comprising a letter from " Artist-haven " written to a well- 
 known journal early in the summer of 1879, describing an 
 obscure hamlet by the sea. Signed Leslie Bracebridge. 
 
 A wail from Mount-Desert, crying that it is no 
 longer a wilderness, has doubtless found its echo in 
 many another remote region where one goes to be a 
 recluse, and finds the primeval soltitudes already over 
 crowded with the world s people. But there re 
 mains at least one happy hunting-ground which the 
 Philistines of fashion have not yet overwhelmed. 
 
 Somewhere on the eastern end of Long Island, is 
 a little settlement to which I shall presently give a 
 name. It was supposed to have been discovered in 
 the summer of 1878 by The New York Tile Club, and 
 is consequently but one year old to the knowledge 
 of the artistic world. That it was two hundred years 
 old before The New York Tile Club began to be, has 
 added somewhat to the artistic world s interest in its 
 existence. 
 
 It is a quaint and lovely town of one long street ; 
 a grassy avenue so broad, that over its green ex 
 panse meandered two or three unpremeditated road 
 ways, worn at different periods to suit so at least it 
 seems to the eye of the peregrinating stranger the
 
 6 PRELUDE. 
 
 varying convenience of the inhabitants. On either 
 side is a walk bordered by huge elms and sycamores 
 and horse-chestnuts ; and these same great trees 
 shelter the picturesque little houses that stand, in their 
 uncalculating simplicity, close upon the road. They 
 are two centuries and more old, some of these shingle 
 cottages, whose roofs take so steep a slant, and whose 
 color is so delicious a gray, that it is no wonder the 
 artists have settled down upon the place and claimed 
 it for their own. So, for the present, I shall call this 
 little hamlet "Artist-haven." 
 
 The flat country is full of a subtle interest. On 
 one hand are the farms and grass-lands by which the 
 simple folk live : upon the other, shut out by flats 
 and low hills of sand, forever rolls the sea. 
 
 There is a mellow haziness in the atmosphere, a 
 harmony in form and color, a wonderful prevailing 
 " tone," which makes the pensive painter fancy him 
 self once more among the sea-walls and dunes of 
 Holland ; while the happy colorist, who wanders in 
 land among the ancient farmlands and comes back 
 with sketches of gray wall flecked with the soft light 
 and shade that filter greenly through willow trees, de 
 clares the landscape to be a piece taken out of the 
 heart of Brittany. 
 
 The Holland man has the best of it, when at 
 twilight he stands gazing upon one of the antiquated 
 windmills that still lift their uneasy arms in grim 
 silhouette against the melancholy sky. But he of the 
 French school has his themes thrust upon him, when 
 into the simplicity of the uncrowded landscape comes
 
 PRELUDE. 7 
 
 a leisurely group of dun-colored cows ; or when a 
 clumsy hay-wagon, piled high with its luscious, ochre- 
 tinted load, crosses his point of view. Then they two 
 shake hands and gasp, each from his different outlook : 
 " What exquisite harmonies ! " " What marvellous 
 grays ! >: 
 
 A party of artists have taken up their abode in the 
 old academy, (the first place of learning in New 
 York State, it claims to be,) where they hold innocent 
 revels. There is a saying, somewhere, that " Provi 
 dence provides for poets and painters, as He provides 
 for the birds of the air." That may be true ; but the 
 poets and painters have, therefore, to be satisfied with 
 very much such food and lodging as is vouchsafed to 
 the birds. It may be true that, after all, it is but 
 a small penalty to pay for the luxury of taking no 
 thought for the morrow ! 
 
 The artists and their harmonies, however, are not 
 all of this blessed Arcadia. One sees, now and then, 
 faces that belong neither to the natives nor the ar 
 tists. They appear upon the beach, then vanish back 
 into the village and are lost in its hotel-less shelter. 
 
 Did it never strike you, dear reader, that sometimes 
 even the very best people may tire of going to a 
 few prescribed places, and may rejoice to hide them 
 selves from their oppressively inquiring friends, who 
 seek their names in that book of life the Hotel 
 Register ? (We might digress here to demand who 
 " the very best people are ? whether they must be 
 superlatively good, or great ? wise or wealthy ? But 
 as Thackeray himself has stumbled upon that very 
 inquiry, and failed to solve the problem to his satis-
 
 g PRELUDE. 
 
 faction, we may leave the qualification to stand at the 
 indisputable " best.") If you were down here in this 
 quaint town by the sea, you might meet a handful of 
 such, who have left their formalities and convention 
 alities behind them, and stolen hither in the footsteps 
 of the artists, to bask upon that serene plane forbidden 
 to American society a natural life. 
 
 If, in the course of time, all the world and his wife 
 should come down upon the peace of the place, to the 
 artists be the blame. But as yet, they have not all 
 come : and so precaution steps in and warns me to 
 throw a friendly veil over the mystic name of this 
 charming village whose atmosphere is still untainted 
 by those belligerents of style, who wrestle each year 
 with the discomfort of summer resorts 
 
 If we look back half a hundred years or more, even 
 then the little island settlement wears an untroubled 
 and time-forgotten aspect. From end to end its long 
 avenue is as tranquil as though no echoes of the nine 
 teenth century turmoil had yet reached its fair green 
 highway. The old Town Pond still lies far up in the bed 
 of " the street " and the geese and ducks are paddling 
 about in happy unconcern of the passer-by. For 
 now and then the foot of a stranger is led hither 
 by some freak of fancy. But, as yet, Artist-haven 
 has no existence on the map of the fashionable world. 
 Or if it has appeared, a tiny speck upon very domestic 
 copies of the social chart, the finger of the ordinary 
 place-hunter passes it over unnoticed. 
 
 Entering the village from the south, two busy wind 
 mills fling their arms about as if to say, " Here, at 
 least, steam is despised." Beside the restless shad-
 
 PRELUDE. 9 
 
 ows of these veteran mills, lies the venerable south- 
 end cemetery, where the villagers have laid their 
 dead for many generations beneath quaint inscrip 
 tions and rude sculpture. 
 
 Then comes a mile or more of rural street, with its 
 straggling farmhouses, some fashioned with a digni 
 fied, aristocratic air ; but for the most part framed in 
 shingle, with Puritan severity. Their doors open 
 confidingly upon the deeply shaded sidewalk ; while 
 their long acres stretch away behind them to meet 
 the flat, untenanted, but readily arable sands of the 
 interior. 
 
 At the north end of the hamlet stands another 
 time-mellowed windmill, with a still more ancient 
 burying-ground beneath its long gray shadows. These 
 little cities of the dead are situated in the broad bed 
 of the public road, where " two ways meet," after a 
 time-honored custom ; and the wagon-tracks clear the 
 low fences to right and to left. The sojourners, pass 
 ing over the decaying steps of either stile to examine 
 the blunt-edged dates carved upon those leaning and 
 moss-covered slabs, may well linger over the sugges 
 tions called up by those dim figures. They are 
 well-nigh obliterated by a crust of gentle lichens 
 which one may brush carefully away and, after some 
 puzzling manage to read the time-worn dates of 
 nearly two hundred years. 
 
 Hanging upon these records are many quaint stories 
 which portray the stern virtues of dead-and-gone Puri 
 tan settlers. For, be it known, Artist-haven is not 
 without its bit of historical pride, and can even show 
 some few points of revolutionary interest, besides gos-
 
 I0 PRELUDE. 
 
 sip told of the traditional forefathers. There is a 
 tiny, semi-dilapidated structure midway of the single 
 street which was the village Inn more than a hun 
 dred years ago, beneath whose long slanting eaves 
 Lord Percy, and young Lord Erskine, and hapless 
 Major Andre congregated sometimes, with a hand 
 ful of companions, when the close of the war had 
 left a few British ships in the harbor near Gardiner s 
 Island. It is gray, and weatherbeaten, and vine-covered 
 to-day, and occupied by the gentlest of gentle-folks 
 a sister and brother whose heads have slowly whitened 
 among their garden-flowers, in lovely innocence of 
 the new world beyond their sheltered village. 
 
 There are other memorable buildings in the village, 
 but, somehow, in Artist-haven, the fancy always 
 wanders back to the occupants of the old graveyards. 
 Moreover, if there should ever be a story written of 
 Artist-haven, and if it should chance to terminate 
 in the South End Cemetery what odds ? It would 
 not be the first history which has reached a terminus 
 in the grave. 
 
 The environment is blown over just now by the 
 winds of a damp and characteristically chilly evening. 
 A lively sound startles the air, just as it did upon 
 equally chilly and misty evenings in the past. Swing 
 ing around the corner of the old graveyard comes the 
 great rattling stage. As if in defiance of the peace 
 ful sleepers, the solemn references to the last trump 
 upon yon leaning headstones, the driver raises to his 
 lips, an ancient bugle upon which he blows thrilling 
 blasts. The shabby coach topples from side to side, 
 and its clumsy wheels groan beneath the weight of
 
 PRELUDE. U 
 
 the huge body. What a clatter it all makes, and how 
 the peaceful echoes start up affrighted, and die away 
 trembling ! The man on the box blows another 
 trumpet blast, cracks his long whip, and the machine 
 goes rumbling up the street. No wonder the fancy 
 is carried back half a hundred years ! " 
 
 N. B. It may be inferred from several vague allusions made 
 in the foregoing letter, that Mr. Leslie Bracebridge had nursed 
 some chimerical notion of writing a story of Rest-Hampton, 
 over which he threw the friendly veil of " Artist-haven." If 
 so, we crave pardon for taking the pen from his hand to trace 
 for him the history and mystery of the little village. 
 
 The Aitthor.
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 " A story I could body forth so well 
 By making speak, myself kept out of view, 
 The very man as he was wont to do, 
 And leaving you to say the rest for him. 
 Since tJwugh I might be proud to see the dim 
 Abysmal Past divide its hateful surge 
 Letting of all men this one man emerge 
 Because it pleased me ! Yet, that moment past, 
 I should delight in watching first to last 
 His progress as you watch it, not a whit 
 More in the secret than yourselves who sit 
 Fresh chapletcd to listen. " 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE ARRIVAL. 
 
 " A pretty piece of narrative enough, 
 Which scarce ought so to drop out, one would think, 
 From the more curious annals of our kind? 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 IT was on such a raw and misty evening, in April 1 840 
 when the sea-fog was rolling hard upon the little island 
 town that lay on the hither side of its primitive peace, 
 untroubled by the few strangers who came and went, 
 that there arrived in Rest-Hampton a gentleman. 
 Had there been any doubt about his claim to that title, 
 the reflected respectability cast upon him by a most 
 gentlemanly valet, would have decided the question in 
 his favor. But there could be no doubt. Tall, sparely 
 though vigorously made, with clear cut features and 
 a noble poise of head, the stranger s appearance was 
 the embodiment of the gentleman. 
 
 He stepped with a certain dignified alacrity from 
 the belated stage which had brought him at so late 
 an hour from Sag Harbor, at the door of the only 
 " Hotel " the place boasted a small, pitched-roof 
 affair scarcely big enough to be called an Inn, but 
 dignified by the larger name in the minds of the by 
 no means humble villagers. 
 
 And how, indeed, were they to compare their 
 " Hotel " with those enormous piles of architecture
 
 X 6 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 elsewhere which no man in Rest-Hampton had ever 
 beheld ? 
 
 As the stranger stepped from the rickety travelling 
 engine, the manner of the valet betokened great 
 solicitude, as for a personage of high degree, or for 
 an invalid. It could not be the latter: for when John 
 Wallace crossed the shaded sidewalk and passed under 
 the low-roofed " stoop," it was with the firm and 
 elastic step of perfect health. The care of the man 
 was then bestowed upon the luggage, while the master 
 stood, unwelcomed, on the threshold. 
 
 " I wonder where to gracious Ham Daggett s up 
 tor He s always gadding when he s wanted. But 
 tisn t often that smart wife o hisen s missin when 
 there s anything likely to be goin on. Look there, 
 Betsey ! he s got a arrival," this and more from the 
 neighbor opposite. 
 
 Mr Wallace glanced about him. 
 
 " Can you tell me," he asked, in a clear, well modu 
 lated voice, " where I may find Mr. Joshua Castle- 
 wood ? " 
 
 The person addressed was a rough-looking man 
 with smudges of his trade-suggesting black upon face 
 and hands, who had lounged up to take part in the 
 arrival of the stage. It was the one event that broke 
 the monotony of the days at Rest-Hampton for the 
 village folks ; but the old-world repose was still upon 
 them, and the innkeeper had not yet stirred forth to 
 look for anything so improbable as a guest. No 
 doubt his forefathers had taken the attacks of the 
 Indians, and later the visitation of the British troops 
 with much the same solidity.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 17 
 
 " Well, I reckon I kin," replies Ben Adams, after 
 eyeing the new comer for a few seconds, 
 
 " Be you come up to see him ? " he adds, taking a 
 pipe from his mouth to ask the question and then 
 returning it. His glance had fallen upon a letter in 
 the gentleman s hand and then wandered off to the 
 valet busy with trunks and portmanteaux. 
 
 " Yes, I should be obliged if you would direct me 
 to his house." 
 
 The tone had the same even and beautiful modula 
 tion which would have struck pleasantly upon a more 
 sensitive ear than Ben Adams . 
 
 " It s queer, now, he didn t send over for you to 
 the Harbor," Ben grunts, shifting his weight from 
 one foot to the other. 
 
 There is no reply ; the stranger half turns as if to 
 quit the doorway ; the valet looks up from his occupa 
 tion over the luggage. Seeing his master pausing as if 
 in uncertainty, he comes hastily forward. But Mr. 
 Adams gets in one more question, with his pipe in 
 his teeth, 
 
 " Be you a kin of hisen ? " 
 
 " Mr. Castlewood is not a relative." replied the 
 stranger, with a slight shade of coldness in his voice, 
 which might, but for his unfailing politeness, have 
 been silent. He took a step forward and joined the 
 man who carried his valises. 
 
 " I say, do you know where Mr. Castlewood lives 
 about here ? " demands that person abruptly of the 
 stage-driver. 
 
 The man grinned, 
 
 " I reckon you be a stranger hereabout, mister,
 
 T 8 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE, 
 
 or you d know the way up to Squire Castlewood s." 
 The remark is flung at the older gentleman, who 
 answers quietly, although the coldness is distinctly 
 audible in his exquisite voice this time, 
 
 " Yes, I have not been in Rest-Hampton before." 
 
 The valet drops his valises with a scowl at the two 
 lubbers. Then he turns to his master : 
 
 " If you will come this way, sir, I think we must 
 find some one to show us. These people seem to be 
 either vastly ignorant or horridly impertinent." 
 
 John Wallace turned his aristocratic face towards 
 Ben Adams. He evidently felt no personal offense, 
 but took the mode of his replies as the way of a block 
 head. 
 
 " If you will be kind enough to explain what direc 
 tion we take, I will not trouble you any further." 
 
 It was spoken in a decided way that had the air of a 
 command, while uttered in the tone of a request, 
 Moreover he crossed Ben s smutty palm with a 
 bright silver piece. Then he turned simply and left 
 the vine-shadowed doorway. Evidently, he was ac 
 customed to walking before. 
 
 " O no trouble to me, stranger, I ain t got nothing 
 to do I ll jest go along with with your friend 
 here." 
 
 In spite of Ben Adams unconsciousness of class 
 distinctions, something in the new comer s manner 
 distanced the rude countryman and caused him to 
 change the latter part of his sentence and his inten 
 tion at the same time. 
 
 Mr. Wallace bowed with a gentle " I thank you," 
 and walking towards the direction indicated by Adams,
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. Ig 
 
 that person fell behind with the valet. His curiosity, 
 which possibly had but little to do with the personal 
 appearance of its object, and would have been equally 
 bestowed upon any new arrival, did not long remain 
 quiescent. 
 
 " Who be your chum, yonder ? " 
 
 Now it happened that the circumspect Andrews was 
 furious at the incivility which had been shown Mr. 
 Wallace, and his faultless balance nearly deserted 
 him at this new indignity. However, he smothered 
 his wrath and replied shortly, 
 
 "That is my master." 
 
 " Be you his servant ? " cries honest Ben, aghast : 
 " Lord ! I thought you was a pair o town chaps." 
 
 If Andrews felt a sense of exultation, he repressed 
 it in his own bosom. He walked on in silence, keep 
 ing his careful eye upon the figure in front. It was 
 the figure of a student, with bent head and hands 
 such smooth white hands ! folded behind, betokening 
 a habit of revery. 
 
 " A preacher ? " 
 
 Ben Adams was growing laconic under the pres 
 sure of Andrews silent wrath. 
 
 " No," responded that individual, adding under his 
 breath. " I m dashed if it s any of your business." 
 
 " Well, in the Lord s name, who be he ? " 
 
 " A gentleman." 
 
 Ben stared. 
 
 " Well neow really so s every one, I reckon ; " 
 and he tried to laugh at the very poor joke. 
 
 (Silence.) Andrews thought otherwise. 
 
 " Lookeehere,mister !" cried the blacksmith angrily,
 
 20 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " You know how to answer a civil question, I 
 s pose. 
 
 " What do you want to know, then ? " demanded 
 the injured valet, wisely concluding not to quarrel 
 with his brawny inquisitor. 
 
 " What s the name o yon chap," 
 
 Andrews winced : 
 
 " Mr. Wallace." 
 
 " Got no first name, eh ? " 
 
 " John Wallace." 
 
 " Umph ! From New York, mebbe ? " 
 
 " London." 
 
 " Lord ! " ejaculated Ben Adams again : " I never 
 see a Englishman afore, leastways except a old sea- 
 clog now and then lyin at Sag Harbor. Be you a 
 Englishman, too ? " 
 
 Andrews may have heard the foreign imputation 
 that Yankees are the most inveterate questioners upon 
 God s earth ; but his habit being to reserve his 
 thoughts, he merely responded, 
 
 " Yes," adding, " which way do we take ? " 
 
 For the watchful eye had followed its master to 
 what appeared to be a branch road, but was in reality 
 only one of several straggling wagon-tracks travers 
 ing the grassy street. 
 
 " Oh, don t you bother," replied Mr. Adams : " no 
 one can t get out o this here street yet a while, we ve 
 only got two cross-roads and they re at each end o the 
 town. I say ! " elevating his voice to a shout " Mis 
 ter Wallis ! " 
 
 The gentleman addressed did not lift his head, but 
 kept on at the same even pace.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN" WALLACE. 2 l 
 
 It was Andrews turn to stare, which he did, seiz 
 ing mechanically the other s arm as if in trepidation. 
 " Be your man deaf ? " queries Adams, nothing 
 abashed. 
 
 " No no. For God s sake stop." 
 
 But Ben was not easily overawed, 
 
 " Hollo, there ! Mister Wallis ! " he shouted, still 
 louder ; and this time John Wallace paused, raised 
 his head, and slowly turned a somewhat puzzled and 
 exceedingly puzzling face upon the two men. 
 
 " Hold your dash d tongue, can t you," mutters 
 Andrews, beginning to hasten forward : " What sort 
 of a way is that to speak to a gentleman ? " 
 
 " Oh, I ain t pestered about your furrin ways o 
 speakin , growled Ben ; " one gen lman s as good as 
 another here," and he let his companion go on a few 
 paces. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," said Andrews, deeply 
 humiliated, and catching up with the hesitating figure : 
 " That low-bred fellow would have your name from 
 
 me, and now he shouts it after you in the street. 
 
 The valet s mortification was supreme. 
 
 " My name ? oh, yes," with a faint srnile, " It s all 
 one, Andrews. The town will soon have it by heart." 
 
 " But the blockhead was ill-mannered about you and 
 asked nasty questions and that !" Andrews was too 
 incensed to hold his peace. 
 
 " Never mind, Andrews," said the gentle voice. 
 " We must not quarrel with our new friends ; we are 
 to live among them, you know." 
 
 Andrews groaned. 
 
 " Do you think they are all like that, sir?"
 
 22 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " Please God no," murmured the elder man, a 
 blank, set look crossing his white face. Then he 
 brightened up with a visible effort, as though he were 
 struggling to come from under some cloud : the valet 
 watched him keenly with an expression that was al 
 most anguish. 
 
 " This is a quiet place, think you, Andrews ? " 
 
 The man started as if from a dream. 
 
 " A most quiet place my L - Mr. Wallace." 
 
 John Wallace let his searching gaze, that had 
 wandered off into space, fall for an instant upon the 
 valet s flushing face. 
 
 " Be careful, Andrews," he said in a low tone. 
 
 " Yes, sir. I shall be careful, sir. That clown 
 flustered me. It won t happen again, I assure you, 
 sir. It is the third place to the right Mr. Wallace." 
 
 There was a singular pause that preceded the 
 name. Perhaps it was homage ; perhaps it was the 
 unspoken gratitude of a trusted servant who is treated 
 by a much revered master as his confidant. Perhaps 
 it was sympathy with some mute thought that lay in 
 the gentle scholar s eyes. Whatever it was, the two 
 men recognized its significance : and after exchanging 
 another look a grave puzzle still in one face, a deep 
 and peculiarly apologetic deference in the other Mr. 
 Wallace resumed his former attitude and gait, while 
 Andrews again fell behind with Ben Adams. 
 
 That person who was good-natured enough when 
 not over full of liquor, as was too often the case, hav 
 ing ceased to nurse his wrath, began again : 
 
 " Be you come to bide with old Joshuay Castle- 
 wood ? "
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 23 
 
 Andrews was too oppressed to be angry. 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 " I d a thought he d druv over in his waggin an 
 saved your mister a joltin by the stage. He do ent 
 look over strong." 
 
 No reply. Andrews had still in his face, a common 
 place visage otherwise, which we need not describe, 
 the same look he had raised to meet the perplexity of 
 John Wallace. A mother might look so upon a child 
 whom she cannot save from sorrow. She, too, can 
 only sorrow. It was as though he and that other 
 were treading together a new path of life ; the sur 
 prise and doubt was upon them both, but most upon 
 that other, since Andrews himself had, by his calling, 
 only to follow in moods not his own. 
 
 Ben Adams could not be expected to penetrate into 
 this maze. He cast lowering looks at his silent com 
 panion, who presently roused himself and began to 
 speak, hoping thereby to forestall any probably pend 
 ing question. 
 
 " This is a quiet sort of town, isn t it ? " 
 
 " Depends on what you mean by quiet," grunts 
 Ben, ready to defend his native place from a possible 
 slur. 
 
 " Oh, I mean no offense. A pleasant kind of quiet, 
 you know." 
 
 " Well, as to that," said literal Ben, " folks may dif 
 fer. Now I should like the place a sight quieter. 
 We ve heaps o comin an goin here bout harvest 
 times, with the new reapin hands, and the buyers, and 
 the heavy teams that hauls the stuff to Sag Harbor 
 fur shippin ."
 
 24 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " Fine farm lands ? " Andrews tried to fill a gap. 
 
 " Well rather. You take a look at our hay and 
 you won t see purtier anywheres on the Island. Be 
 your mister a lookin fur a farm ? " 
 
 " No no," cried Andrews, inwardly cursing the 
 man s pertinacity of interrogation. " Is not that white 
 house in the trees Mr. Castlewood s ? " 
 
 Ben nodded, and again Andrews hastened his steps 
 until he was side by side with the thoughtful figure. 
 
 " Mr. Wallace," he said, so gently that the start 
 with which the person addressed came out of his 
 revery was scarcely perceptible, " this is the house. 
 Shall I knock ? " 
 
 He laid his hand upon the ponderous brass knocker, 
 a lion s head with a ring in the mouth. 
 
 John Wallace acquiesced and stood waiting with his 
 form erect and the strangely absent look banished 
 from his face, which gained thereby in beauty and 
 strength. 
 
 He became conscious for the first time of his sur 
 roundings, though they were obscured enough by the 
 late hour and the mist : and the aspect of the house 
 at which he waited gave him evident surprise and 
 pleasure. It was a great old farmhouse, or more 
 properly speaking, mansion, with gables, and porti 
 coes, and oriel windows, and a certain air of comfort 
 and good breeding. 
 
 A stranger who was acutely sensitive to impres 
 sions must instinctively have felt that only true re 
 finement and a quaint old-fashioned culture could 
 greet him from such a portal.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 25 
 
 A young girl who was passing through the well-lit 
 hall singing gaily, paused and opened the huge door. 
 
 " Oh, I thought it was Tom ! " she murmured 
 blushing and drew back on seeing strangers. 
 
 " May I ask if Mr. Joshua Castlewood is at home ? " 
 says Mr. Wallace, lifting his hat and exposing to the 
 maiden s wondering eyes a more nobly though deli 
 cately modeled head than she had ever beheld in her 
 brief, village bound life. 
 
 " Yes sir," she stammered, " If you will come in 
 I ll fetch him." 
 
 The stranger bowed his thanks and entered, leav 
 ing Andrews outside with the officious Ben, disap 
 pointed of his desire to follow. (The account which 
 poor Andrews subsequently gave of how he was be 
 deviled would be graphic if detailed.) 
 
 " Please to walk in and sit down, sir : " and the girl 
 designated, with a pretty gesture, a large and airy 
 parlor full of quaint but rich furniture, and rare though 
 old-fashioned ornaments. It was before the days 
 when old style bric-a-brac had become the rage, re 
 member, dear reader. These choice "antiques " were 
 inherited and made use of in the natural order of 
 things ; and not in that aristocratic old home beneath 
 the horse-chestnuts was there ever any incongruity or 
 any modern affectation. 
 
 " If you will hand your father this, Miss Castle- 
 wood," with a swift warm smile, " I think that he 
 will see me." 
 
 It was by one of those rare touches of discrimina 
 tion which are sometime, vouchsafed to mortals, that 
 the stranger s glance penetrated into this household
 
 26 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 and read the daughtership of the flushing maiden. 
 There have been people, wise physicians and scien 
 tists, who have named this power clairvoyance. 
 
 The pretty face vanished and left John Wallace 
 standing fair and firm as the marble image of a man. 
 Many shadows flickered in the lights of his peculiarly 
 transparent eyes. Perhaps that was their wont ; for 
 with it all he preserved a noble tranquility as beauti 
 ful as unusual.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE SQUIRE AND HIS GUEST. 
 
 " Thus far take the truth, 
 
 The untempered gold, the fact untampered with, 
 The mere ring-metal ere the ring be made / 
 And what has hitherto come of it 1 .... 
 
 Was this truth of force ? 
 
 Able to take its own part as truth should ? 
 Sufficient, self-sustaining 1 } Why, if so, 
 Yonder s afire, into it goes my book, 
 And who shall say me nay, and what the loss f 
 You know the tale already" 
 
 From THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 THE stranger s eyes brightened pleasantly as they 
 met the approaching form of a small but courtly-look 
 ing gentleman. He was of that old-school type so 
 nearly banished from our rapid, if n&t altogether pro 
 gressive, civilization. When we meet one such, we 
 wonder vaguely why he has abandoned the small 
 clothes and three-cornered hat that would have so 
 well become him. 
 
 The two men bowed and exchanged names. Mr. 
 Castlewood held in his hand the letter which his 
 visitor had given the pretty daughter of the house. 
 After the commonplaces of greeting, Mr. Wallace 
 observed,
 
 2 g THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " I presume the Rev. B H is not unknown 
 
 to you, Mr. Castlewood ? " 
 
 " Certainly not," replied the old-school gentleman, 
 with his obsolete bow, glancing dubiously, however, 
 at the letter. It was so brief that it can be trans 
 cribed, 
 
 NEW YORK CITY, April i, 1840. 
 To 
 
 JOSHUA CASTLEWOOD, ESQ., 
 
 Rest- Hampton, Long Island. 
 
 DEAR SIR, I take the liberty of introducing to your 
 courtesy, Mr. John Wallace, of London, who wishes to 
 make his home in your town. What he desires in America 
 is to find a place where he can live in the utmost retire 
 ment. If you could take him into your family for the 
 present, I think you would not regret it. He is able to 
 pay for whatever he wishes, and would, I am sure, be no 
 trouble to any one. I believe him to be in every sense of 
 the word a perfect gentleman. And yet I scarcely know 
 why I have undertaken to plead his cause with yourself, 
 both he and you being personal strangers to me. I pre 
 sume that his superiority has impressed itself upon me. 
 Hoping that I do not calculate too far upon your well- 
 known hospitality, 
 
 I remain very truly yours, 
 
 B H , D.D. 
 
 Jushua Castlewood paused an instant to glance 
 again at the letter and then held out his hand. 
 
 " I am j? lad to meet you, Mr. Wallace," he said 
 heartily, with another three-cornered hat bow. The 
 two men, who were much of the same age, were far 
 from alike in appearance, the country squire being
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 2 g 
 
 ruddy, with twinkling blue eyes and a shrewd mouth. 
 They shook hands somewhat formally, and drawing 
 chairs together, fell to talking as strangers must who 
 are thrust upon each other through a letter of intro 
 duction. 
 
 Any one watching keenly the sensitive face of the 
 new-comer, might have seen the look of relief which 
 passed over it at this reception. It was as though, 
 through some mysterious mischance, he had known 
 what it was to hunger to be taken by the hand. 
 
 " Have you been long in our part of the world, Mr. 
 Wallace ? " 
 
 " Only a fortnight. New York is a fine city, Squire 
 Castlewood." 
 
 " Yes, it s a busy place, I m told. I don t go about 
 much myself. They say it s not unlike London." 
 
 John Wallace gave gracious assent, and a pause 
 followed, broken by the Squire : 
 
 " May I ask if you have any special reason for 
 coming to live in our town ? " 
 
 The stranger seemed to search mutely for some 
 motive or object before he replied : 
 
 " I have no reason excepting that it is the only 
 place which has been suggested to me." 
 
 Squire Castlewood looked surprised, and the other 
 added : 
 
 " The clergyman who addressed that letter to you 
 referred me to the village as a quiet one, and to your 
 self as a gentleman of well-known benevolence. I 
 hope that I have not intruded myself upon your no 
 tice, Mr. Castlewood." 
 
 The visitor s dignity was apparent even to the good
 
 p THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 squire, who did not trouble himself about nice dis 
 tinctions. He made a faint movement as if to rise; 
 but his host detained him. 
 
 " Oh dear no not at all ! I beg of you not to be 
 disturbed. But pardon my curiosity, Mr. Wallace, if 
 I ask another question. You are a churchman, I sup 
 pose ? " 
 
 " I am." 
 
 " And you went to the Rev. B. H. as a cler 
 gyman of the Episcopal Church " 
 
 " I met him," answered John Wallace, " on the 
 steamer as I came over to the States." 
 
 " Ah, I see, and you had letters to him ? or an in 
 troduction, possibly ? " 
 
 " Neither : we met as strangers." 
 
 The guest rose this time, with a grave sort of 
 majesty although he held himself with a gentle cour 
 tesy very winning to see. 
 
 Squire Castlewood rose too, eyeing him keenly : 
 
 " I suppose you know the contents of this letter ?" 
 " I have not read it " answered John Wallace. " I 
 fancied there could be nothing personal to myself 
 
 since the Rev. B. H. had no means of knowing 
 
 me. I took it to be a friendly communication to your 
 self, Mr. Castlewood." 
 
 " I have never seen the Rev. B. H " 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 The delicate hauteur that was creeping over Mr. 
 Wallace s face gave place for an instant to surprise, 
 he then made a motion to leave. 
 
 " Will you just look at it ? " 
 
 The squire held out the letter, Mr. Wallace took it,
 
 THE SHA DOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 3 i 
 
 a singular light trembling in his eyes while he read. 
 
 Then he looked the other full in face. 
 
 " All that I can say," smiling gravely as he re 
 turned the letter, " is that our mutual acquaintance is 
 gifted with keen perceptions, and is not afraid to 
 judge a character intuitively." 
 
 " Am I to suppose, Mr. Wallace, that you saw but 
 little of him on ship-board ? " 
 
 " Very little. Only when entering the New York 
 Harbor." 
 
 The squire stood irresolute. Plainly this gentle 
 man was not going to smooth by any polite subter 
 fuge, the way to his better reception. There was a 
 chill in his manner which fully met the chill that 
 had overspread the squire s blunt cordiality. 
 
 He stood with his hand upon the door, and bowing, 
 said with perfect politeness : 
 
 " I apologize for the invitation which the Rev. B. 
 
 H. gives me in that letter to take up my abode with 
 
 you Mr. Castlewood, I had no idea he was so strongly 
 recommending me to your mercy. I wish you good- 
 day." 
 
 Was it the finished speech of a man of the world 
 who had perfectly mastered every art of suggestion 
 and modulation ? Or was it the genuine outcome of 
 a pure and undesigning mind, such as only belongs 
 to that highest and rarest of all types of gentleman 
 a polished Christian? Who could tell? For an in 
 stant Squire Castlewood had hesitated ; but at that 
 courteous " good-day " he started forward : 
 
 " Stop, Mr. Wallace, I entreat you. I am very glad 
 to take you, not so much for our friend s evidently
 
 3 2 THE SIIA DO W OF JOHN IV A LLA CE. 
 
 just appraisement, as for the estimate which I find 
 myself setting upon you if you ll excuse the scrutiny 
 which one is forced to give a stranger," and he held 
 out a second time a cordial hand to the visitor. 
 
 " At least, said Mr. Wallace, grasping it firmly 
 in his white palm, " we need make no great mystery 
 of my almost self-introduction. That is the way," with 
 one of his rare smiles u that our countrymen must 
 needs ask you people for a welcome. If I had brought 
 a letter from Her Majesty the Queen, it could not 
 have made any link between us, you know." 
 
 Squire Castlewood still studied his guest s face, hold 
 ing his hand meanwhile with a fascinated forgetful- 
 ness. This certainly was a strange man who deported 
 himself with such pride, and yet answered with such 
 humility. And wherein lay the majesty of his bear 
 ing ? John Wallace was smiling into his eyes, as 
 though he too read the unusualness of the acquaint 
 ance. 
 
 " I hope, Mr. Castlewood, that I may so far trouble 
 you as to ask to be directed to some hotel in the 
 place ? you will give me your guaranty ?" 
 
 What was that peculiar smile ? Did he mock the 
 honest squire ? or did this stately John Wallace 
 actually feel pleasure in the other s ingenuousness ? 
 
 Joshua Castlewood could not for the life of him 
 tell ; but a curious spell was upon him to keep hold 
 of the stranger. It was as though the soul of Jonathan 
 went out to the soul of David. Whatever the fasci 
 nation, it prevailed ; he spoke out abruptly : 
 
 " Mr. Wallace, we ve never had an inmate in our 
 family circle. It seems a strange thing for any one
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 33 
 
 to have suggested it to me. But, do you know, I like 
 it, and besides, the hotel " 
 
 He paused with a short laugh, the idea of this 
 majestic personage crowded into the little inn was 
 ridiculous. 
 
 "You would have to dine and room with your 
 servant, most likely," and they both smiled. 
 
 A look of conscious power shone in John Wallace s 
 face. He knew that this kind-hearted squire would 
 not resist him. 
 
 " Am I then at home ? " he asked pleasantly. 
 
 "Well," said the other, "I like the notion. I 
 should only be puzzling myself about a whim if I 
 tried to unravel any reason other than a chance which 
 
 caused the Rev. B H to address his letter to 
 
 me. But I m glad he did it, sir, glad he did it, I 
 believe I like you, myself : and the novelty of a mys 
 terious guest may not be unwelcome to my wife. If 
 you will wait a moment, I ll go and speak to her." 
 
 When his host had gone, John Wallace relapsed 
 into his meditative mood ; but his lips were pressed 
 together with a sad suppression that fell upon them 
 at the latter part of the squire s speech. 
 
 " Mystery mystery," he thought, but did not speak, 
 not being one of those who utter their meditations 
 sotto voce " why should that word have greeted me 
 on landing upon this desert region, and where I am 
 to abide so long as I shall be in the flesh." 
 
 He sighed heavily, and then the cloud was thrown 
 off as by a powerful effort of the will. Looking about 
 him with an active though composed assurance, he 
 took note of the large pleasant windows with their tiny
 
 34 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 panes and the moonlight streaming in, for the sea- 
 mist had given way to a brighter aspect. The cheerful 
 light from the open fire fell upon the rich old Turkey 
 carpet, the claw-foot tables, the high-backed chairs, and 
 tall corner cabinets tipped with brass, lingering upon 
 them with a friendly glow. But most of all it penetrated 
 his heart until it warmed responsively towards "the 
 sequestered world without, and the comfort within. 
 
 * At least," he mused that being his favorite 
 method of beginning a sentence, as though all things 
 uttered were but the desultory fragments of unspoken 
 thoughts " I myself belie the word. It is not to 
 be wondered at that this good squire calls me mys 
 terious since I have alighted upon his threshold as 
 from some unknown sphere. But my daily life shall 
 be clear and open before him, and if I am a reticent 
 man and not given to questioning nor to being ques 
 tioned why, what mystery is there in that, save that 
 the past and the forgotten are always mysterious." 
 
 He got up and stood looking out into the chec- 
 quered moonlit quiet of the orchard one of those 
 fragrant and beautiful old orchards that one sees no 
 where so tenderly kept to this day as in the little 
 Village of Peace where John Wallace found himself a 
 scjourncr. There was not a trace of leafage upon the 
 trees ; but still there was in the air a pensive joyous- 
 ness that means Spring. Long afterwards, that peace 
 ful outlook lingered in the wanderer s mind as a 
 promise of rest. 
 
 When Squire Castlewood returned, there came with 
 him a demure little woman in a mouse-colored gown, 
 with a mousey step, who gave a quick and rather
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 35 
 
 prudish look towards the tall figure by the window. 
 The figure came forward with grave courtesy, and 
 received the mention of his name with so courtly a 
 grace that it seemed at once to take the place of a 
 personal recommendation, 
 
 " Joshua tells me that thee wishes to make thy home 
 with us." 
 
 The Quaker speech fell consolingly upon the 
 traveler s ear. like an unconscious recognition of him 
 self as already one of the family. 
 
 "Wife is a Friend, and is disposed to cultivate good 
 will towards all men, hey mother ? " spoke the Squire 
 in his hearty way. " She has got to my thinking, a 
 hankering after the outside world and is therefore 
 
 about to bid you welcome as a hostage for some 
 
 new interest in life" he finished with a chuckle. 
 
 " I thank you, madam," said the guest, with his 
 princely manner and his humble words, which never 
 theless were in unquestionable harmony. 
 
 " I cannot deny the right of strangers to break 
 bread with us," said Mrs. Castlewood, looking with 
 veiled approbation upon the new comer. " If thee 
 will tarry with us for the present, we will try to make 
 thee at home. Is not thy servant without ? I will 
 bid him fetch thy luggage." 
 
 When the door was opened, Andrews stood revealed, 
 his face still flushed from his wrangling with Ben 
 Adams, who had gone grumbling away having failed 
 to elicit satisfaction from what he subsequently termed 
 that " tarnation airy chap." 
 
 And so it was all settled : and John Wallace began 
 then and there the thirty years which he spent in
 
 3 6 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 peace and shall we say happiness ? under the hos 
 pitable roof of Squire Castlewood the " big man " of 
 Rest-Hampton, who answered for county magnate 
 counsellor and judge, for the simple folk.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A DOUBT SETTLED. X 
 
 " TJiis self-possession to the uttermost 
 How docs it differ in aught save degree 
 From the Terrible patience of God" 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 THERE are groups of life-stories which come to us 
 as a symphony, full of concealed melody, which is re 
 pressed in the simple and bright Allegro of common 
 experience, the deep, full Larglictto of some high, 
 masterful passion ; the gravely rolling Andante of 
 placid years, or the mournful minor strains of those 
 sadder movements which come to every human lot. 
 
 Now and then the melody gushes forth in a happy 
 union of sympathies, but oftener, all is broken and 
 fragmentary as the lives jangle one upon another or 
 are attuned only in brief bursts of harmony. 
 
 The symphony which is written in the pages of this 
 book takes its name from him who is its moving 
 motive ; but there are mingled, here and there, the 
 fitful themes of many other and less marked destinies. 
 
 Moreover to every creature that exists, even those 
 who are flattened out between the pages of a romance, 
 must be given the privilege of an opinion, and the 
 opportunity to express it. * * * * 
 
 " Martha, what do you think of our Mr. Wallace by
 
 3 8 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 this time?" queried the squire, somewhere about 
 the second week after the stranger s arrival. For, in 
 spite of his wife s narrow experience of the world, the 
 chivalrous gentleman invariably appealed to her for 
 the solution of any little social problem which came 
 in his way. 
 
 Perhaps it is scarcely fair to represent Mrs. Castle- 
 wood as " wise in her own conceits ; " and yet she 
 possessed largely that very self-assurance which in 
 worldly people runs to vanity, but in pious souls 
 takes the form of extreme reliance upon scriptural 
 maxims and precepts. It was partly this, and partly 
 her Quaker bringing up, which made the staunch 
 Calvanists of Rest-Hampton look upon her somewhat 
 askance. 
 
 " I think him a godly man, Joshua," she answered, 
 without hesitation. Indeed she was always prompt 
 in her decisions, having a firm conviction that her 
 judgment was supernaturally guided. 
 
 " It is the spirit of truth which directs my counsel," 
 she was wont to say ; and took no account, openly, of 
 the frequent mistakes which being human, she made. 
 Her husband also overlooked the misjudgments, and 
 had, or let her believe that he had the profoundest 
 faith in her wisdom. " Always let on to a woman 
 that you think her right," was his chivalrous and 
 would-be-worldly wise policy. 
 
 This time, Squire Castlewood took the initiative : 
 
 " Don t you think it rather remarkable, my dear, 
 that he should have come in so mysterious a manner, 
 without something more like like a pledge, you know, 
 of his being a gentleman ? "
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 39 
 
 " He is a man, Joshua, who carries that in his face 
 and manner," promptly replied the oracle. 
 
 " Oh ! I know all that, my dear ; but, you see, it isn t 
 precisely the way of the world to go about unintro- 
 duced without a guarantee of some sort." 
 
 " A God-fearing man has no concern to follow the 
 way of the world." 
 
 The good squire, dubious for once in the face of 
 his wife s argument, ventured to expostulate : 
 
 " But Martha, even God-fearing men don t wander 
 about like the disciples of old, asking food and lodg 
 ing from strangers in these days, do they ? " 
 
 " They ought to," responded Mrs. Castlewood feel 
 ing the weakness of her side and shifting to a broader 
 basis. " It is scriptural." 
 
 " Yes it s scriptural, admitted the other, " and so 
 it is scriptural to sell all one s goods and give to the 
 poor, and a heap of other things nobody thinks about 
 doing." 
 
 " Because the world is falling away from grace, 
 Joshua, shall we misjudge a man when he is merely 
 acting as the disciples did." 
 
 " But, my love ! " cried the squire astounded, " Mr. 
 Wallace did not come among us as a disciple, that 
 is in any other way than his sudden appearance nor 
 even as a preacher. As far as I can judge, he is a 
 man of the world unmistakably a man of the world." 
 
 " He may have been in the world but never of it " 
 proclaimed Martha Castlewood, unconscious that she 
 was but adding another testimony to the silent accept 
 ance with which all people met this man s peculiar 
 fascination.
 
 40 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " How do you know, my dear ? " It was the 
 squire s one helpless resource when his wife grew ob 
 stinate as she always did whenever she had " taken a 
 stand." 
 
 " I know because my eyes are open to see the 
 things of the Spirit." Poor little Martha ! good, true 
 soul ! with thy contracted and untried views of the 
 world thou hast never seen, how far short of sufficiency 
 wouldst thou find thy unfounded assurance to cope 
 with the duplicity of men and women in that actual 
 world where the surface and the finish are ever para 
 mount ! 
 
 But the reply served as usual to silence the safer 
 common-sense of the squire. " There s no getting back 
 of the Spirit what ever that may be," he was wont to 
 say, relapsing into the contentment of a finished argu 
 ment. For to tell the truth, he was not disputatious, 
 and was oftenest glad to escape a discussion. So he 
 readily gave up that thread of the discourse and 
 turned to a new proposition. 
 
 " Don t you see how he evades all questions in refer 
 ence to his past life, his home, his occupation, his par 
 entage, everything in fact " with a despairing sweep 
 of the hand " which is in any way personal in any 
 way personal." 
 
 " I see, Joshua," replied his wife, with an access of 
 primness, " that thee has overstept the bounds of pro 
 priety in asking our guest many questions which do 
 not appear seemly or in good taste. John Wallace 
 has a perfect right to preserve his family history if 
 he chooses." 
 
 " Lord, Martha ! " cried the squire, half perplexed
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 41 
 
 half amused ; " suppose the man is some impostor 
 who has settled down upon us ! Just suppose it!" 
 
 " I thought thee had fancied him greatly when thee 
 first saw him, and came up to me, speaking of his de 
 sire to remain with us." Mrs. Castlewood always ex 
 perienced an influx of dignity at any suggestion of 
 temper on the part of her husband. Indeed it was 
 her way to receive icily any tendency to warmth of 
 comment which fell upon her ears. "Violence is a 
 self-indulgence," she often said. 
 
 " Why, so I did fancy him, confound it ! " ejacu 
 lated the perplexed squire, " and so I do ! But a man 
 must protect himself ! This mania for retirement is 
 so half suspicious. I hope," he continued lugubri 
 ously, " that we sha n t be placed in any awkward posi 
 tion. Suppose he has run away from his own country 
 for some crime or other ! " 
 
 Mrs. Castlewood rose in the climax of her virtuous 
 self-possession. 
 
 "Joshua, I must say that thy suspicions are most 
 unaccountable. Suppose I had looked upon thee as a 
 possible criminal when thee came over a stranger 
 from the Island ! " 
 
 " The folks in that Quaker community treated me as 
 if I was one, sure enough," muttered the injured gentle 
 man. But the feminine side of the argument, having 
 carried the battle over into the enemy s camp, 
 left the room in that sweet spirit of silence which is 
 often worn to cover alike a triumph or a discomfiture. 
 " Hang it ! it is a mystery though ! " grumbled the 
 squire, beginning to walk, man-fashion, up and down 
 the large low-ceiled room, nursing his doubt of John
 
 42 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 Wallace ; when looking from the window he beheld 
 the person in question, walking vigorously along be 
 neath the great overshadowing elms. Andrews was 
 beside him, both in animated talk. The two were 
 just returning from an exploring expedition down the 
 beach. For, in spite of his somewhat sedentary and 
 introspective life, it must not be supposed that Mr. 
 Wallace was a physically indolent or phlegmatic 
 man. He had a singularly athletic though slender 
 frame, which gave him the air of continual activity. 
 When at rest, his physique was full of strong repose, 
 such as one sees in the marble images of Greek 
 divinities ; but in motion, he had more the fire and 
 impetus of action which belonged to the heroes and 
 athletes of ancient days. His unbearded classic face 
 and whiteness of tint rather increased the resemblance, 
 and brought into marked prominence the half Greek, 
 half Roman outline of his feature. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Castlevvood ! I wish you had joined me 
 in my tramp. This is a lovely bit of country, and a 
 quaint, almost old-world civilization." He entered 
 the room with the ease of one quite at home ; and 
 that he would have carried that same fine air into the 
 palace of a king or the hut of a peasant, did not de 
 tract from its pleasantness. It reassured the puz 
 zled master of the house, who invariably felt all ques 
 tions they were too vague to be called doubts 
 vanish before the genial unconcern of his lodger s 
 manner. 
 
 " What have you found to-day to pay up for the 
 rain and mud ? " he asked cordially. 
 
 " I have found a most interesting little town some
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 43 
 
 five or six miles below here Amagansette, you call 
 it, I believe. Is it not charmingly situated in that 
 wide curve of the shore ? " 
 
 " Yes it s a pretty village ; not so aristocratic as 
 ours, maybe, but a fine place." 
 
 " It has," mused Mr. Wallace, after a pause, his 
 gaze wandering out of the window, and into nowhere, 
 after his spirit, " a look of home about it." 
 
 " Do you mean that it looks like your home ? " 
 queried the other, catching at an opportunity. 
 
 " I mean this," replied the guest, seeming to pleas 
 antly accept and reply to the question as he un 
 derstood it : " that it has an undefi nable aspect of be 
 ing dear to the people who live in it. It looks shel 
 tered, and breathes content, even in this nasty weather, 
 and upon the edge of a gray and joyless sea." 
 
 " Ah yes so it does, so it does ! " responded 
 Joshua Castlewood, wondering if he had been parried, 
 or simply misunderstood. And so it always went. Mr. 
 Wallace never left a question unanswered. His 
 courtesy endured all things. Indeed, he replied with 
 apparent willingness to every suggestion thrown in 
 the way of his notice. But there was always this 
 peculiarity : that they whose curiosity led them to 
 ask prying or even interested questions, never dis 
 covered aught that they would know from the answer. 
 There was always an evanescent reserve, a remoteness 
 of generalization in the turn he gave to the conver 
 sation whenever it bordered upon a personality. 
 
 At this present juncture, the good squire merely 
 rubbed his head, and eyed the handsome figure, cogita 
 ting: "I wonder what manner of man you are, any 
 way."
 
 44 THE SHA DOW OF JOHN IV ALL A CE. 
 
 Then it occurred to him in one of those sudden disclo 
 sures that come even to unimaginative people in per 
 plexity, that here was a way out of the doubt. He would 
 take this man s identity by the hand and say : " Let 
 me know you. I will be your confidant," and with 
 out second thought he broke the apprehensive silence 
 that had fallen like a pall upon the other, because of 
 a strange clairvoyance by which he seemed to read 
 the unspoken thoughts about him. 
 
 " Mr. Wallace you are a stranger to me to us 
 all. We like you, and are interested in you, but you 
 puzzle us. Now, I don t ask you to go on the house 
 top and tell the village your business. All I want is 
 that you should give me personally some rights in 
 your acquaintance." 
 
 The firm white face was a shade graver, more res 
 olute. Clearly, this was not a man to be questioned. 
 The squire s shaft had missed its aim. 
 
 " I cannot perceive that there are any rights which 
 I withhold from you Mr. Castlewood. There may 
 be privileges of intimacy which I have possibly been 
 slow to consider " 
 
 " It isn t that I want to be a familiar friend," hotly 
 interrupted the squire, his native pride rising, " only 
 that I should have liked more respect shown to my 
 good faith my good faith, sir." 
 
 John Wallace s gaze again wandered out into space, 
 and again came back bringing" the fugitive spirit cap 
 tive. In the long perspective of somewhere, perchance, 
 he saw once more a lonely and homeless shadow that 
 was himself. 
 
 " When I first came to you," he said slowly, " you
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 45 
 
 offered to accept me upon your own estimate of me. 
 Have I done anything to shake your confidence, 
 Squire Castlewood ? " 
 
 " No oh, no ! " cried the other, beginning to back 
 out of his assumed position, as he saw with real con 
 sternation the trouble in the face of his guest. " On 
 my honor, Mr. Wallace, I like you better every day. 
 I admire you I respect you. Only don t you see 
 how it is ? we have never got one step beyond that 
 first acquaintance. I can t grasp your your person 
 ality, I may say. All that I know of you is surface 
 surface." 
 
 " What do you wish to know ? " The look that 
 met the squire s honest gaze was as full of integrity 
 as his own. 
 
 "Your life your standing your reasons for com 
 ing here the retirement the mystery all of it." 
 
 For another instant the two men gazed at each 
 other. The word " mystery " had struck somewhere 
 near John Wallace s heart. Then he spoke : 
 
 " I am a reticent man, Squire Castlewood, but I have 
 no story that would interest you. An honest man s life 
 is his own as his soul is his own to give account 
 of to his God. I decline to discuss mine with any 
 human being. If this seems to you disingenuous ; 
 or a breach of candor ; or a cause for ambiguity, 
 I can only withdraw myself from your hospitality, 
 since it must perforce be but tolerant." 
 
 Never was mien more grandly tranquil ; never had 
 words seemed more to come from a superior disdain 
 of inquisition. Squire Castlewood looked and beheld 
 that the man before him was right ; he knew, there-
 
 46 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 fore, that he was wrong. A great self-condemnation 
 swelled up from his singleness of heart, and he hastened 
 to acknowledge his error. 
 
 " Mr. Wallace if I beg your pardon, I can scarcely 
 hope you will grant it. I don t know what came over 
 me that I should have so trespassed upon your prero 
 gatives. I seemed to have forgot that while I owe you 
 unquestioned liberty, you owe me nothing in the way 
 of confidence, nothing ! I ve made a great mis 
 take " 
 
 " Say no more about it, my dear sir," inter 
 rupted Mr. Wallace, his voice as gentle now as a 
 woman s, and his whole aspect changed to one of 
 graciousness and magnanimity ; "We all make blunders 
 in our dealings with our fellowmen, who may have 
 wounds just where we take hold of them. Suppose 
 we forget that you and I ever came to a place of 
 denial." 
 
 " Forget it, I beg you," cried the humble squire : 
 " and be sure, Mr. John Wallace, that I shall not only 
 remember this rebuke in leaving your motives and 
 actions uncriticised ; but in my own innermost mind 
 never again will I question your past, or present, or 
 future." 
 
 And Joshua Castlewood, keeping his word as only 
 Puritan stock can, from that day forward never once, 
 in his most secret consciousness, admitted that there 
 was anything equivocal about his lodger. From then 
 until their two lives had run out, side by side, there 
 grew and strengthened between the mild, city-bred 
 scholar and the hearty country gentleman, a beautiful
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 47 
 
 friendship such as only an unintentional offence per 
 fectly forgiven can create between unlike natures. 
 
 But " what manner of man " Mr. Wallace might be, 
 there were others than the Castlewoods to discuss. 
 The new resident was stitched into the neighborhood 
 quiltings, and knitted into family socks, and sewed 
 into half the garments of Rest-Hampton and its envir 
 ons. From Hardscrabble, and from Amagansette ; from 
 " Sag " and from Jericho ; even from Montauk, the 
 natives came forth to look upon the ram avis of the com 
 munity ; a fine English gentleman who was a scholar, 
 and who was rich. And this was their testimony ; 
 that he was a harmless man, who might have been 
 a lovable man to his own. 
 
 As the years rolled on, however, he took none of 
 all who watched him into his great heart. He hunted 
 up the poor and the wretched, giving to them his 
 time, his patience, his means. It was his one thought, 
 or rather, the one thought to which he gave outward 
 and unguarded expression. To give, was his only 
 utterance ; and it burst forth like the unconscious 
 melody of a song whose words were in an unknown 
 tongue ; but whose sweetness was apparent to all. 
 
 Annie Castlewood alone came near to comprehend 
 ing the words of the song. 
 
 What " new interest in life " the squire s wife found, 
 was not from the outside world, or any echo of it 
 which came through her guest s voice. It was from 
 the contact with a nature finer, broader, and, withal, 
 wiser than any it had been her fortune to encounter. 
 It was from that refreshing study which a wakeful 
 understanding must ever give to unaccustomed per-
 
 4 8 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 sonalties within reach. As time slipped away, there 
 never once occurred, even to her inquisitive mind, the 
 suspicion of a mystery. So evenly did the gentle 
 scholar live his life ; so rare was his refinement and so 
 just his estimate of men ; so full his knowledge, and 
 so deep his perception ; above all, so wide were his 
 charities, that the only consciousness which came to 
 the household, and the village that knew and loved 
 him, was a sense of the harmony of his character and 
 the beauty of his daily living.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE CASTLEWOODS GUEST. 
 
 " See it for yourselves, 
 
 This man s act, changeable because alive ! 
 Action now shrouds, now shows the informing thought" 
 From THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 JOHN WALLACE was a student ; but it appeared that 
 he did not follow any one class of subjects. He read 
 much Gospel and some Law. He kept abreast with 
 the new theories of the day, such as comparative 
 philology, the development of the species, and many 
 other thoughts just dawning upon the intelligence of 
 science lovers. He was of luxurious breeding, since 
 he knew no more than an infant how to wait upon 
 himself, and depended upon the constant Andrews for 
 every common service. 
 
 " That man," Dame Martha would ejaculate with 
 a sigh, " knows not enough of taking care of himself 
 to pull back from the fire if it scorches him ! " 
 
 Such helplessness was a heretofore unheard of phase 
 of life to the sturdy and self-reliant inhabitants of a 
 hard-working village, which had seen few changes 
 since its pioneer days. Self-indulgence was a weak 
 ness which the Pilgrim fathers had not brought with 
 them over the unknown ocean. 
 
 It was his breeding, not his habits, however, that
 
 5 o THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 had been luxurious, since he ate, and drank, and 
 slept sparingly, and was never idle for a moment. Each 
 day, through rain or snow, or cold or heat, he walked for 
 miles over the flats of dreary sand by the lonesome 
 and desolate sea ; or among the dismal marshes that 
 skirted the dunes ; or inland among the farmlands, 
 taking but little notice of the goodly crops and the 
 well-filled granaries. He made friends everywhere, 
 but these friendships took no hold upon him : conse 
 quently he was rarely accompanied by any one in 
 his long tramps. What thoughts filled the breast of 
 the solitary man, solitary even in the presence of his 
 faithful valet, or of any other human creature who 
 shall guess ? 
 
 After a few months, when he had thoroughly 
 familiarized himself with his surroundings, he fell into 
 the habit of a daily pilgrimage to and from Three- 
 Mile-Harbor a lonely spot where vessels of any kind 
 were seldom seen. It might have been merely habit, 
 or preference, or restlessness. If John Wallace had 
 a superstition that, one day, a ship would come to 
 him there, it never appeared. 
 
 Andrews failed not to bear him company to this 
 deserted Harbor. What long talks the two men held 
 together, only the valet knew. If Mr. Wallace had a 
 confidant on this side of the troubled sea, it was 
 Henry Andrews. It may be that he preserved to 
 wards this one friend who had come with him out of 
 the unmentioned yesterday, the same impenetrable 
 reticence as was his habit towards all whom he met. 
 Of this, Andrews never spoke. It was like master, 
 like man with regard to his rigid silence on whatever
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. ^ 
 
 touched the personal affairs of Mr. Wallace. For the 
 rest, Andrews loved him as his own soul, bestowing 
 upon him that purest of hero-worship, the sort that 
 looks for no recompense excepting the permission 
 to serve and to revere. 
 
 For a while the newcomer was, as we have hinted, 
 the lion of Rest-Hampton. The country-folks called 
 upon him, after the manner of friendly interchange 
 known only in rural places ; for the fame of his sus 
 pected learning had gone far and wide, and it was also 
 rumored that he was of a noble family and lived away 
 from his heritage because of some difficulty in decid 
 ing the heir-ship. A very pretty story, and quite 
 
 romantic to speculate upon ! though what gave rise 
 to it could not well be determined, since it was possibly 
 the offhand suggestion of some gossip whose imagina 
 tion was more daring than that of her neighbors. 
 
 What they saw who came to look at the lion, rarely 
 disappointed the innocent people, to whom a man of 
 the world was indeed a prodigy. He certainly looked 
 a prince to their admiring eyes. What they heard 
 was less edifying. There were no jovial stories of 
 old world cheer ; no marvellous anecdotes of life in 
 strange places ; no talk of court or of crown. 
 
 He even seemed shy of answering their blunt queries 
 about London and its attractions, or Paris and its 
 temptations ; and soon all mention of other scenes 
 dropped from their limited range of topics ; indeed John 
 Wallace spoke but little to the coming and going ele 
 ments of his new surroundings. When he did talk, it 
 was of haying and planting ; of sowing and reaping ; of 
 the price of crops and the value of cattle. Those of the
 
 52 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 population who were refined and cultivated, such as 
 the family who had given him their hospitality, 
 respected him as a man still more refined and culti 
 vated than themselves. The middle-class revered 
 him as a benevolent Christian gentleman, and the 
 embodiment of all dignity and wisdom. The lower- 
 class, that largest proportion of every community 
 adored him as their protector and benefactor : a half 
 celestial being whose only likeness to mortal folks 
 was in the cut and material of his trousers and waist 
 coats ; and even they were better and finer than any 
 thing of which Rest-Hampton wot. 
 
 After a while, however, he began to take a place 
 among them. He was in their world if not of it. He 
 gave freely to all of their little schemes for self-im 
 provement, and for moral benefit. By and by, from a 
 never apparent source, newer and larger schemes be 
 gan to evolve out of the old stupid routine of ineffi 
 cient means : and the little township grew in impor 
 tance in its own eyes and those of its neighbors. 
 Modifications and improvements began to be mani 
 fest here and there, and a general air of waking up 
 became apparent among the younger generation. 
 The fathers were not greatly impressed by this pend 
 ing evolution ; but the sons hailed it as an omen of 
 some future opening, not yet made plain. Old stay- 
 at-home traditions were somehow shaken ! and here 
 and there a lad left his plough and his scythe, to go 
 forth into some remote city a-seeking his fortune. 
 And John Wallace s purse was always open. It is 
 true that there were those who grumbled. They did 
 not want new notions, and liked the old ways best.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 53 
 
 They preferred to tell the same threadbare jokes their 
 fathers had told, over the same blazing firesides ; but 
 nevertheless, they let their boys go out to see a bit 
 of the world. 
 
 No one thought of blaming Mr. Wallace personally. 
 It seemed all in the natural and unavoidable order 
 of circumstance. But, strange to relate, the new 
 revolt began in Squire Castlewood s own family at 
 the very heart of his affections. Over his daughter 
 there came a change, and his two boys turned their 
 faces world- ward, after a few years. At first, the 
 waking-up was scarcely perceptible, so long and 
 soundly had the village slept. Even after the strange 
 power of John Wallace s life had passed away, the 
 little hamlet seemed still so primitive a place to the 
 denizens of the great Beyond, that its peace was 
 hailed as a discovery, we have seen, by the artists in 
 1878. 
 
 And so the influence of this man was, after all, but 
 a slow-working and possibly much exaggerated ele 
 ment in the history of Rest-Hampton. But what of 
 the family among whom he had come so unawares ? 
 In the pretty springtime of this story s commence 
 ment, when the heart of that family beat quietly in 
 the routine of its forefathers, the old farmhouse of 
 The Homestead glowed in the early sunshine, seeming 
 to embody in its cheerful exterior the contentment 
 within. There was something stately about it, which 
 caused strangers to stop and inquire who lived there. 
 The high portico with its white pillars, the wide por 
 tal with its great door nearly always hospitably open 
 gave it an air of repose most inviting to the beholder.
 
 54 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 And yet only those who passed over the friendly 
 threshold knew the real luxury of comfort which the 
 old house offered to all visitors, rich and poor alike. 
 For the handful of well-to-do families, known as " our 
 set," to the gentlefolks of Rest-Hampton, was very 
 limited ; and humbler friends came and went and 
 were made welcome with the easy cordiality of village 
 life. There was something richer and truer than the 
 style " the mod* " of city life in the quaint old- 
 school noblesse of these country gentry, who could 
 mildly encourage intercourse, without permitting 
 familiarity, from the hewers of wood and drawers of 
 water that make the background " the shade and 
 the real, " of every civilization. It was too small a 
 community for the narrow eiiquette of Gentility and 
 Obscurity. They came together upon the democratic 
 terms of the New World. But the aristocrats held 
 unbroken the traditions of their Old England : and 
 never was nobility more respected by commonalty, 
 than the gentlefolks of Rest-Hampton were respected 
 by the villagers. 
 
 As for the Castlewoods, their thoroughbred ac- 
 customedness to refinement felt itself in no way 
 abashed by the courtly manner and patrician aspect 
 of their new inmate. There was a simplicity about 
 him which fell in easily with their unaffected ways. 
 That heaviness of atmosphere which often hangs 
 about the advent of a stranger into the home-circle 
 did not settle upon the homestead. The first meal 
 is usually the test of probable restraints ; and upon 
 this occasion the family conversation went on as 
 naturally as ever, only turning aside now and then to
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 55 
 
 take cognizance of the newcomer. Squire Castle- 
 wood spread himself comfortably to relate his favorite 
 anecdotes, of which he soon found an answering 
 fund in his guest. The Quaker wife began to bring 
 forward certain themes and theories which she had 
 long ceased to harp upon, since their vagueness met 
 with but an opaque non-comprehension from her 
 matter-of-fact husband, and a frown from the some 
 what hard and narrow village mentors. 
 
 There were many new things of which she had 
 " heard tell " vaguely, and she wanted to inform herself 
 about them. For the Friend is usually both intelligent 
 and inquisitive, and when once let loose from the bonds 
 of the Society is apt to go wool-gathering after many 
 doctrines. John Wallace could answer all of these 
 questionings, she thought. Doubtless he had studied 
 them out : at least, he could discuss them learnedly 
 with her. 
 
 As for the strapping boys, they pronounced Mr. 
 Wallace " a brick," at once ; and fell easily into the en 
 chanting subterfuge of escaping their tasks under the 
 pretence of " studying mathametics " with their new 
 friend who, good man, allowed himself to become ab 
 sorbed in difficult problems while his play pupils caught 
 flies behind his back, or spun tops and pitched marbles 
 under his very nose. 
 
 Even Annie, the maiden whose smiling face had 
 first greeted him at the door, soon began to accept 
 Mr. Wallace as " one of themselves." Perhaps this 
 somewhat unexpected ease with a stranger was a reflec 
 tion from the demeanor of the mother, who never, in 
 her life before had felt so " at home " with any crea-
 
 56 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 ture outside of her own family. There was to her a 
 charm of discovery about this new acquaintance, which 
 was a perpetual inspiration to freedom of discourse : 
 and, as we have suspected, Dame Martha s wisdom pre 
 sided, Quaker-fashion over the family, with the counsel 
 of authority, none the less marked that it was the rule 
 of love.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ANNIE AND HER FRIEND. 
 
 " Not one flower of all he said and did 
 Might seem to flit unnoticed, fade unknown, 
 But dropped a seed has grown a balsam tree 
 Whereof the blossoming perfumes the place." 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 THERE never was a life-story that had not some 
 other life-story woven into it, like a silken thread run 
 ning through a pattern of wool. 
 
 When the pleasant shadow of John Wallace passed 
 under the roof-tree of The Homestead, the squire s 
 only daughter, Annie, was a baby in experience and 
 still a child in years. 
 
 Her days among the pastoral scenes of village life 
 had brought her only a fair education, a little knowl 
 edge of sewing and psalm-singing, an aptness for 
 housewifery such good things, in sooth, as were 
 deemed needful in that day and generation, to the 
 people of the village. 
 
 Strange to say, it was not the Quaker training of 
 her mother, but the Puritan prejudices of her father s 
 house, which made her rearing a limited though most 
 careful one. These old-school gentry had not risen 
 above the traditions of the town s-people who looked
 
 5 8 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 suspiciously upon what they called " forwardness " in 
 a girl. Annie had fallen under the secret condemna 
 tion of the deacons more than once, for her revolt in 
 the matter of reading and opinion ; for she had an 
 ever-increasing love for such books as she could find 
 in the scantily supplied farmhouse libraries. With 
 it, she possessed an inexplicable appreciation for all 
 things beautiful and new. The mentors had rarely 
 approached the household on the subject of " Nancy s 
 notions," for the mother was by no means a sub 
 scriber to their ways of thinking. The little Quaker 
 woman attended the village church, since it was all 
 that offered ; but having been cast out by her mar 
 riage from the narrowness of her childhood s faith, 
 she was loth to find herself confronted by an equally 
 stern and repellant form of belief. Her acceptance 
 of the mentors was tolerance ; but she possessed in a 
 large degree that woman s weapon, policy, with which 
 she led not only her honest spouse, but also a consid 
 erable portion of the village community, blindfold. 
 
 So it happened that Annie was left to herself, to 
 think out her own fancies, which ran riot in a world 
 beyond the narrow vicinity of a couple of rural town 
 ships. 
 
 Is there not a half pathos in this girl of high capa 
 bilities and wide desires being thus buried in the 
 obscurity of one little settlement, destined, it then 
 seemed, never to wake up to the roll-call of nineteenth 
 century civilization ? 
 
 It cut her off from those episodes which young 
 women of the world call " Experiences." It barred 
 from her eager eyes even a distant glimpse of that en-
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 59 
 
 chanted land of social successes, over which she had 
 brooded in many a romantic tale. Even the footsteps 
 of a coming lover a real lover, with wonderful eyes 
 and a thrilling voice, such as the novels pictured 
 was a remote possibility, only to be dreamed of and 
 wistfully forgone. 
 
 Ah ! when in that mysterious realm of unknown 
 lovers does not the fancy of a young girl revel ? And 
 so, was it strange that in the home-nest, surrounded by 
 the only earth and sea and sky she had ever known, 
 Annie Castlewood was often possessed of a homesick 
 longing she could neither define nor dispel ? a yearning 
 for another earth, another sea, another sky, which would 
 bring to her empty little heart a story such as came to 
 the happy heroines of her books and her fancies. The 
 modicum of sense and wit which was sufficient to amuse 
 and satisfy the village girls of her acquaintance left her 
 with a restless consciousness of something better, she 
 knew not of. And even among the few old aristocratic 
 families of the vicinity, she felt a want of originality and 
 of live interests, which brought her asense of dissatis 
 faction. What was vastly enjoyed by these com 
 panions was often a weariness to her ; and although 
 her fresh spirit kept her happy and gay in the midst 
 of the merest mediocrities of pleasuring, still the 
 young creature had a rare intelligence above her as 
 sociates and, indeed, above her age. Her father patted 
 her cheek, and called her a " sentimental Miss ; " her 
 friends wondered at her " airs" while they relished 
 her society, as being more piquant than their own. 
 More than that, the Castlewoods were of fine stock, 
 and stood high from end to end of the long Island.
 
 60 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 But the mother looked askance ; comprehending her 
 vague yearnings, and after the manner of her bring 
 ing up held her peace. She too had known indefi 
 nite longings which had made her look away from her 
 native village and spring out at the invitation of the 
 rich squire, then frowned on portentously by the 
 members of that society secretly irksome to her 
 spirit. 
 
 Her sons, like their father, she could manage, work 
 ing upon them with her cautious influence : her 
 daughter evaded her, with what had been her own 
 impulse to be free of conventional restraints. And 
 she saw in some trepidation, the eagerness with which 
 Annie, then but sixteen years old, welcomed the ad 
 vent of an outsider into the somewhat humdrum life 
 at The Homestead. 
 
 Was it not the reflex of her own eagerness in wel 
 coming the stranger who had come a courting twenty 
 years before ? 
 
 But John Wallace had not come a courting : 
 
 The mother, having a good substratum of Yankee 
 shrewdness, comprehended the difference, and the 
 danger. . . . 
 
 It was, for a time, all a story to Annie. Her young 
 soul was not yet awake, and the stranger came to her 
 this wise in a dream, 
 
 " John Wallace is a real gentleman. He is an 
 Englishman of high birth perhaps of title, since he 
 wears a seal ring upon which is a mysterious crest. 
 
 " He is a scholar ; for he reads books in every 
 tongue upon earth" little Annie thought. 
 
 " He wears the finest of linen and cambric, and has
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 6 1 
 
 a servant to wait upon him, who has far better manners 
 than Mary Harding s lover, or even" here Annie 
 colored " than Tom himself." 
 
 (Tom Hatherton was Annie s sometimes lover, 
 whom she encouraged or abused according to her 
 whim ; but who was gradually falling away in her 
 eyes from any approach to her ideal standard, since 
 Mr. Wallace had over-topped it unwittingly, and built 
 it up higher and higher to sustain his ever increasing 
 perfections.) 
 
 Gradually there crept into her heart a more 
 definite consciousness of the simplicity of her ex 
 istence, the obscurity of her surroundings, in that 
 world-forgotten hamlet by the sea. The want of ex 
 perience, the absence of originality in her friends 
 became more and more apparent to her. She began 
 to question about the enticing complexities of a more 
 world-wise sphere; and Annie grew not discontented 
 but sobered and quieted. Her little bursts of song 
 through the house were quenched, " because Mr. 
 Wallace might hear them and know she had never 
 been taught to sing." Her gushes of frank opinion 
 gave place to half-studied remarks, when he was 
 present. She was natural and sweet still, upon the 
 surface : but at her heart if there be what is senti 
 mentally called "a heart," at that tender age, was 
 an ever increasing disturbance that at times amounted 
 to trepidation in the presence of her divinity. 
 
 As for Mr. Wallace, he had liked the fresh young 
 voice and girlish enthusiasm. Sitting in his study, 
 day by day he learned to look for them when they 
 grew less frequent ; and finally, as he took notice of
 
 6 2 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 this budding girl, he found that she was not a mere 
 clod as were many of those he saw indeed the woman 
 of the great world is oftenest little more ! and that 
 Annie Castlewood possessed a soul. Then he began 
 to take an interest in her little plans and her thoughts ; 
 for he had that interest in very young girls which men 
 of fifty are apt to possess. The only way in which 
 this fatherly interest thought to manifest itself, was 
 in her studies. 
 
 One morning at breakfast he turned to Mrs. Castle- 
 wood, 
 
 " May I interest your daughter, madam, in some 
 of the studies which I used to love? with your per 
 mission, I think we might read a little French or 
 German together." 
 
 The color sped vividly to Annie s delicate face, and 
 lit her soft eyes with a flash like tears, 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Wallace ! would you ? " was all she could 
 ejaculate ; but she said it with her whole being on 
 her lips. It was a sequel to her story ; an exquisitely 
 romantic climax of which she had never even dreamed. 
 
 " Mother, may I ? " she cried, getting up and going 
 around to her mother s chair with a burning eagerness 
 in her face, and the pretty emphasis she invariably 
 used. Martha Castlewood looked up, surprised. Annie 
 never had any confidential talks with her mother : how 
 many daughters have? How many mothers know the 
 tritest secrets of those creatures they have brought 
 into the fitful fever of life ? She was therefore ignorant 
 that the beautiful web her little " Lady of Shalott " 
 had woven, was warp and woof, a romance about this 
 strange knight, this stately John Wallace, around
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 63 
 
 whose feet she herself had more than once cast the 
 shuttle of her faded fancy. 
 
 She thought her charge safely shut in that tower 
 called home, within range of her all-protecting eye. 
 But alas ! the little lady had looked towards Camelot ! 
 Long and intently she had looked, not with a 
 woman s passion, as yet, but with a maiden s inspira 
 tion of quest. 
 
 She did not mean to love her Launcelot. To so 
 bring him down to her own level had not entered her 
 bedazzled brain ; but already she worshipped him. 
 Ah ! little Annie ! where is the boat to bear thee 
 to Camelot to the death of thy maiden fancies and 
 of thy sweet unborn hopes ? 
 
 At a glance, Annie saw that her timid illusion 
 stood in danger of being surprised from her, and took 
 refuge in innocent stratagem, 
 
 "May I study French, mother? I do so long to 
 know French." 
 
 The little Quaker woman paused. It was opening 
 the door to the things of the world which had always 
 been unknown temptations to herself, and about which 
 she had heard untold warnings in her youth. Having 
 suffered too much restriction to value its wisdom, 
 however, she was not very narrow in her principles. 
 She prided herself, indeed, upon being a law unto 
 herself, and if this man from the world, who was, 
 withal, a Christian gentleman, chose to fancy her 
 daughter, well 
 
 If Mrs. Castlewood had read the story of Abelard 
 and Heloise, perchance she might have held out 
 against the questionable relationship of master and
 
 64 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 pupil which has so often found a surprised termination 
 in a tangle of tender emotions. But, having outlived 
 the period of her own romance, she had come to think, 
 as older people will, that after all sentiments are but 
 fleeting things, and can harm nobody. So she con 
 sented. Annie stood flushed with the coming triumph 
 of some vague achievement of which as yet she only 
 saw the glitter. Her hero had crossed her horizon 
 but a few months before, and yet already his silhou 
 ette loomed up giant-like and overshadowed all the 
 realities of her life. 
 
 " O Mr. Wallace ! " she cried, " when may I be- 
 gin?" 
 
 " To-day if you wish," he answered, smiling brightly 
 in the infection of her enthusiasm. Then to Mrs. 
 Castlewood. 
 
 " May we bring our books into your sewing-room 
 every morning for an hour or two, Mrs. Castlewood ? " 
 
 Annie s flutter experienced a faint chill. The 
 mysterious study, lined with books great and small, 
 which had come in boxes from out of her hero s past, 
 had formed a charming background to the picture 
 which flashed before her at the unexpected proposition. 
 But John Wallace had the unfailing savoirfaire which 
 comes alone from a knowledge of the world. The 
 story of Abelard and Heloise was not unknown to 
 him ; and he had no wish to reproduce among modern 
 commonplaces, the pretty pathos of that tale so lovely 
 in its mediaeval setting. Apparently he was not a 
 man to cause or care for the sentimental in woman. 
 Indeed, at this time and always during those years at
 
 THE SHADOW OF JO PIN WALLACE. 6$ 
 
 Rest- Hampton, he seemed to have but little capacity 
 to receive the magnetism of the other sex. 
 
 It might have been that a woman who would touch 
 his life must be made of finer stuff and rarer moods 
 than any creature whom Rest-Hampton could afford. 
 It might have been that some woman had once wrought 
 such a spell upon his high, strong nature, that ever 
 after he was blind and dumb to all feminine attraction. 
 Whatever was the cause, as a result, he was isolated 
 beyond the infatuation of woman s charms, and he 
 knew it. He knew also that early maidenhood, with 
 its budding sensibilities is over-susceptible in the 
 matter of masculine influence, and seeing the sudden 
 illuminating of little sixteen-year-old Annie Castle- 
 wood s eyes, he was aware that he must withdraw his 
 best self from an easy conquest. 
 
 Had Annie been a woman, he might have kept his 
 natural course, and taken little pains to avert a pos 
 sible evil. But this man s honor was of that tender 
 and beautiful texture which caused it to reach out and 
 protect all innocent things, not only from outward 
 harm, but from any disenchantment that might be 
 fall their own imaginations. Only a few months had 
 passed since his advent into Squire Castlewood s 
 family, and already he found himself the self-appointed 
 champion of a sweet and simple-minded girl against 
 herself. 
 
 Gradually his manner took that form of all others 
 the most prone to disenchant an impressionable mind, 
 the fatherly. He watched his words that they never 
 touched upon the ideal ; he was mindful of his voice, 
 beautiful in spite of the matter-of-fact tone, that it
 
 66 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 .never took a too personal sound ; he took note of his 
 movements, that no gesture might mislead his little 
 charge into presupposing a sentimental attitude. In 
 fact, he banished from their relationship all signifi 
 cance so as never to cause a self-conscious thought, 
 and thus became truly a help and a benefit to the 
 hungry-hearted girl, where he might otherwise have 
 proved a hindrance and a snare. 
 
 That he could control the power of his wonderful 
 gaze was a victory worthy of his pure endeavor, since 
 his eyes were of that " dark yet mild intensity," which, 
 says a great writer, " seemed to express a special in 
 terest in every one on whom he fixed them." 
 
 This "large-eyed gravity, innocent of any inten 
 tion " is a quality which is possessed by few men ; 
 and with it goes invariably the power to dominate their 
 fellow beings. But John Wallace s was a mellowed 
 nature. He had depths of memories to draw upon 
 which gave a rich generousness to his impulses: and 
 not for worlds would he have found Annie Castle- 
 wood s inexperience entangled with his conscious fas 
 cination. He had learned, no doubt, through lessons 
 taught in that world beyond the gates of Res/ -Hamp 
 ton, the measure of his "makedom and fairness," but 
 the sharpness of those lessons had quenched forever 
 all desire to make himself a necessity to the human 
 creatures about him. These more subtle points, how 
 ever, were lost upon the villagers in general 
 
 All that came to pass from the new bond of intimacy 
 between him and his young protege, was that it saved 
 Annie from falling in love deeply, romantically, 
 desperately in love.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 67 
 
 Gradually the demi-god descended from the pinnacle 
 where she had placed him, and came to be her watch 
 ful friend, her patient instructor, her trusted adviser. 
 From a dreamland, beset with many risks to the 
 unsophisticated heart of a woman-child, they passed 
 out into the open country of a wise and safe inter 
 course. And Annie was uplifted, mentally and 
 spiritually into a region above her own, while she was 
 strengthened for the realities of her daily life. 
 
 In all the after years of her life, the girl never forgot 
 the ripening influence of her wise friend s sympathy, 
 the restful self-reliance which grew out of his com 
 prehension of her character, as it broadened and 
 beautified beneath his moulding. 
 
 This friendship became also a chief resource to the 
 being who suddenly found himself buried in a to him 
 social grave : and perhaps it helped the grave 
 scholar to hear whatsoever things he had to endure, 
 through many hours of tedious lack-interest in his 
 narrow surroundings, the prison house of a master- 
 soul. 
 
 Sometimes, when he bent his penetrating gaze upon 
 her, as if by his superior will-power he would compel 
 her understanding to grasp and retain the more dif 
 ficult themes to which French and German soon led 
 the way, Annie would sit spellbound, drinking in 
 not so much the man s speech as his magnetism, and 
 through it a whole world of unspoken possibilities. 
 
 Then he would look at her curiously for a moment, 
 abruptly call her back to the question in hand, a far 
 away trouble in his own eyes at the resurrection,
 
 68 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 possibly, of some ghost of past fancies that Annie s 
 newly awakening imagination called up. 
 
 Often he thought but never said to her, 
 
 " Child, you are dear to me as a revelation of my 
 lost youth and hope." 
 
 Or " Annie, you are my one link to bind me to my 
 old interest in all things fresh and new." 
 
 Or " But for you, innocent child-heart, there would 
 not be a ray of sunshine upon my lonely track, where 
 I must forever wander in renunciation of what might 
 have been my happiness." 
 
 Surely John Wallace was not learning to love the 
 little country-girl he had lifted with so paternal a pity 
 out of the stagnation of her unfulfilled dreams ? If 
 he were, he taught himself at once that her untroubled 
 life was not for him. If, by degrees, his heart began 
 to yearn over her sweet and trusting face, no one ever 
 knew. It was put, with all things else, behind the 
 delicate mask of his habitual reticence, Annie Castle- 
 wood, like all the rest of the world, was kept on the 
 outside. 
 
 It is to be feared that, by the side of this supreme 
 intelligence, Annie s quondam lover Tom Hatherton 
 will figure as a somewhat coarse-grained personage. 
 To her own fastidiousness, which was growing acute, 
 he seemed indeed blunt in his perceptions and stupid 
 in his expressions. 
 
 Any approaches to love-making on his part, formerly 
 viewed askance with a shy dubiousness, suddenly 
 grew so distaseful to her, that it was not a difficult 
 matter to evade their recurrence. 
 
 While Mr. Wallace s intentions were keen-edged,
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN W ALL ACE. 69 
 
 gently opening to himself as with a wedge her inner 
 most reflections, Tom s comprehension had seemed 
 latterly rather like the blunt end of the same instru 
 ment. And yet who can tell which of those two 
 men was of pure stuff and which of base ! There 
 was the ring of the true metal in Tom Hatherton. 
 All Rest-Hampton could vouch for it ! As for Mr. 
 Wallace well, he was very fine, and very benevolent 
 and all that. But as to his devoting himself, at his 
 time of life to the Squire s Nancy ! 
 
 Rest-Hampton wondered how the mother could 
 allow it. Was he not, after all, a stranger, and made 
 of different material from themselves ? A foreigner, 
 too ! Something that Rest-Hampton questioned, in 
 spite of his fascination. 
 
 Whether he was good gold, or only fine brass, 
 Deacon Potts strongly doubted. Certain it was, he 
 said, the stranger was not of their faith. He never 
 attended their meetings, and took no part in their 
 Sabbath school. He went to the village church, it is 
 true : but, the Deacon averred, he sat abstracted and 
 aloof as though he heard nothing of the long discourses, 
 even the village choir, with Nancy Castlewood s voice 
 leading the treble, did not appear to impress him. 
 Clearly his heart was not in any of it. In the eyes 
 of Rest-Hampton, this was where John Wallace failed 
 and came short ; and he began unconsciously to bring 
 upon himself the antagonism of Deacon Potts and his 
 disciples.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A PHANTOM. 
 
 " Now begins 
 
 The tcnebrific passage of the tale : 
 
 How hold a light display the cavern s gorge? 
 
 How, in tJiis phase of the affair, show truth ?" 
 
 From THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 IT was a gentle afternoon in the first part of Sep 
 tember. That tender luminousness, which haunts 
 the early autumn in moist climates, was veiling the 
 land and the sea in a transparent loveliness difficult 
 to be imagined by those who dwell in a less humid 
 atmosphere. It is this soft and translucent vaporous- 
 ness which makes the purple and gold of Italy so far 
 transcend the clear blue and green and white of 
 Switzerland. 
 
 It lingers about the beholder like the caress of 
 nature in her most sympathetic mood ; while the crisp 
 brightness of outline makes the beauty of drier locali 
 ties stand remote from the observer, with but little 
 appeal to his affections. With all his sensitiveness 
 of temperament, John Wallace was not a sympathetic 
 lover of nature. Facts and not aspects made up the 
 interest of his life, dreamer though he was. Places 
 were but little to him : otherwise, how could he have 
 endured his thirty years in an alien land ? 
 
 I doubt if the mildness of the landscape around him,
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. ^ 
 
 contrasting and yet harmonizing with the restlessness 
 of the sea, ever occurred to him as constituting a 
 part of his satisfaction in life. Neither in speaking 
 nor in writing was he likely to refer to those mute 
 attractions from the outer creation which enter so 
 largely into the thoughts of nature s worshippers. The 
 greater and more vivid portion of his existence had 
 probably been spent among crowded scenes of intel 
 lectual and social activity ; and he had never felt a 
 need of affiliation with the infinite as expressed in the 
 animal and vegetable worlds. His natural surround 
 ings, like his mental confines of the little sea-side 
 village, were but a blank a " biding " : and the 
 characteristics of the place were but little reflected in 
 his fancy. Its people, its peculiarities, its progress, 
 became a study to him ; with these he could in a man 
 ner identify himself. 
 
 But on this September afternoon, he felt creep 
 over his senses a recognition of the charm of Earth 
 and sea and sky. The amber haze descended upon 
 him and wrapped him in a spell of delight almost child 
 like in its unconsciousness. He dismissed Andrews 
 and began walking alone upon the widespread sands, 
 watching the waves chase each other inland, and even 
 stooping now and then to pick up a shell or a shining 
 pebble. These he examined with a charming relish, 
 singular to behold in one who so seldom relaxed from 
 his introspective habit of mind. Thoughts and remi 
 niscences of his early youth swept over him and there 
 came into his face the care-free look of a boy. 
 
 Meanwhile, some distance back from the beach, 
 hovering about the nearest dunes, was a figure in a
 
 j2 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 gray robe, that seemed to appear and disappear, to 
 flit and to follow the figure of John Wallace. Any 
 one seeing it for the first time might have mistaken 
 it for a wraith so ghostly were its movements. But 
 any one that had seen a strange lady whose arrival had 
 aroused the passing curiosity of the little hotel, might 
 have recognized this gray shape as the same. 
 
 During the few days since her stay at Mr. Dag- 
 gett s, she had come and gone at her will, speaking 
 so little that the good man had several times pro 
 nounced her to the secrecy of his wife s bosom " a 
 harmless innocent." 
 
 " She don t know no one hereabout," he commented, 
 " and she don t come for no purpose, that I can make 
 out." 
 
 " Maybe she wants to get up a school of some sort, 
 suggested Mrs. Daggett, shrewdly. 
 
 " Well, why don t she begin then ? I ain t heerd 
 of her as applyin to nobody yet for their children." 
 
 " She s likely to pay her board, I reckon : and 
 nothink else don t matter, as I can see," was the prac 
 tical help-meet s rejoinder. 
 
 The only people about whom she had asked any 
 question were the Castlewoods ; and she had selected 
 for her inquiry a person who appeared to her as she 
 had appeared to Mr. Daggett * a harmless innocent." 
 It was none other than old Uncle Seth himself the 
 village postmaster whom she had accosted, and 
 whose gossiping propensities were well known to the 
 natives. Still, nothing had come of her inquiries be 
 yond a few repetitions of them at the u post-office," 
 as Uncle Seth thumbed over the mail.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 73 
 
 "Squire Castlewood seems to catch all the stran 
 gers a go en," commented Uncle Seth. 
 
 " Oh, as for that," cried the innkeeper scornfully, 
 " it ain t much of a catch for the squire, if the lady 
 pays her board here, and don t do nought but philan 
 der about the street, an ask questions about the family 
 up to The Homestead. Now that there Mr. Wallace 
 was a good fish to hook ! " 
 
 Well I reckon we re likely to make as good a haul 
 from him as if he d put up to your place, Ham Dag- 
 gett," said Uncle Seth with a wily smile ; for Mr. 
 Wallace had paid him liberally for looking after his 
 mail. This mail was the marvel of all the idlers at 
 the little stuffy shop of all work, where at one counter 
 was designated in staggering capitals on the broad 
 side of an old board, POST OFFICE. Such piles of 
 letters and papers and pamphlets as came to Mr. 
 Wallace swelled the sides of the hitherto attenuated 
 mail bag : while there went forth in return, enough 
 leretts to make Uncle Seth open his eyes in amaze 
 ment and wonder " to gracious " what a body could 
 find to write that would cover so many sheets of 
 paper. 
 
 " And all to one chap, tew ! " he was wont to ex 
 claim, for, sure enough, the envelopes were all alike, 
 for they bore the same address in the same rapid 
 literary hand : 
 
 To MR. RODERIC CLARKSON BANKER, 
 LOTHBURY, 
 
 LONDON, E. C., 
 
 ENGLAND.
 
 7 4 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 When the female stranger had arrived, the old 
 cronies had put their heads together over each mail 
 that came and went, to find some food for gossip in 
 any letter that had to do with Mrs. Williams, as Ham 
 Daggett announced her name to be. But they looked 
 in vain. She never appeared at the post office, nor 
 did her name pass under Uncle Seth s snuffy thumb. 
 Truly the strangers who came to Rest-Hampton gave 
 these old gentlemen a deal of trouble. It is well 
 there was no system of postal-cards in vogue, to make 
 their burden of inspection intolerable. 
 
 To leave the gossip of these interesting fossils, with 
 whom the village was replete, and follow the footsteps 
 of " The Lady " in question, brings us back to the 
 beach. After she had left the straggling houses be 
 hind, her quick walk became almost a flight. As she 
 approached the sea, the flight grew uncertain and 
 stealthy in its progress. Very likely she feared tramps 
 or stragglers, for she looked furtively around. Upon 
 perceiving the tall figure of a man upon the beach, 
 she quickly hid herself behind the dunes. 
 
 Now this figure was only Mr. Wallace, amusing 
 himself with the waves and the pebbles ; but it seemed 
 to inspire her with some sort of terror. As often as 
 she peered forth, which she frequently did, so often she 
 shrank back as if to conceal herself from possible dis 
 covery. 
 
 An hour or two had passed since the habitually 
 serious scholar had thrown off the burden of years 
 and cares to conceive himself once more a youth. 
 The shadow had lifted from his spirit. Any one 
 watching him casually would have called him light-
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 75 
 
 hearted. As he wandered towards the dunes, stoop 
 ing now and then to pick up a shell, white like a lily- 
 petal, or pink like a roseleaf, he suddenly seemed to 
 return to a consciousness of his entity. He passed 
 his hand over his forehead with a weary sigh, turning 
 his head slowly from side to side, as one looking for 
 he knows not what. 
 
 A cloud settled upon his face ; and his eyes were 
 fixed restlessly upon the dunes. He seemed like a 
 person slowly rousing to the suspicion that he is under 
 an evil spell, or in whom some miserable memories of 
 the spot had surged up. 
 
 " If I had any belief in the supernatural," he mut 
 tered to himself, " I should say that my spirit is at this 
 moment visited haunted by another spirit." 
 
 And he stood gazing into vacancy like one in a 
 trance. Presently he roused himself and shook off 
 the hallucination : 
 
 " As if," he thought, with a faint smile, " It were 
 possible for all the miles of space between us to be 
 traversed by an influence or an infatuation ! " 
 
 He turned himself resolutely around, and began, 
 solitary and thoughtful, his homeward walk. 
 
 As for the gray figure lurking among the sand 
 hills, when John Wallace had stopped and changed 
 countenance, lifting his hand to his head in bewilder 
 ment, she had fallen into a panic, leaning forward 
 in her hiding-place with parted lips and suspended 
 breath, watching him with an animal intensity, that 
 doubtless made itself felt in the mind of the uncon 
 scious object. 
 
 " Can it be," she whispered, with fierce exultation,
 
 j6 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " that he feels my presence ? That my magnetism 
 has even now a power over him ? " 
 
 She covered her eyes with her hands as if to shut 
 out the dangerous fire of their gaze, the blood bound 
 ing through her frame with frightful vehemence. 
 Presently she found herself again watching the mel 
 ancholy figure as a snake is said to transfix its prey. 
 
 " What did I risk it for, if not to see him- to have 
 him see me ? " she muttered. " Oh ! if I only dared 
 to follow him to speak to him ! " 
 
 It seemed for an instant that Mr. Wallace would 
 walk toward the dunes and discover her, so keen was 
 his look in that direction. The possibility struck 
 such terror to the woman that she cowered and 
 shrank, and covered her face and turned her back 
 upon the spell she had wrought*. Then it was that 
 the figure on the beach drew itself up majestically, as 
 if asserting its superiority over a fanciful illusion. 
 The next moment, as we have seen, John Wallace 
 had turned away, and was walking towards the vil 
 lage. Then the woman breathed freely once more, her 
 eyes still glittering with a baleful exultation. Fur 
 tively, like some escaped convict who believes that 
 he is pursued, she peered out and finally stole forth. 
 She stood, half hid by a jetting sand-bank, and 
 watched the unwitting man. She felt that she had 
 narrowly escaped detection, but her trepidation was 
 momentarily swallowed up in the evil triumph that 
 she had perceptibly dominated this creature by a 
 secret but undeniable power. The power had acted 
 like a flash of some electric current which she could 
 neither explain nor command.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 77 
 
 If there are those who will call John Wallace weak, 
 in that he was overwhelmed unawares by the force of 
 an unseen will, let them look closely into the psycho 
 logical facts of mind acting upon mind. There may, 
 however, be two opinions about the probability of a 
 nameless magnetic sympathy having the directness of 
 force to cover any considerable space. Possibly to 
 advocate the negative side of the question John 
 Wallace was not overwhelmed by the influence itself, 
 but by a sudden resurrection of would-be forgotten 
 things conj ured up by a subtle, and to him unaccounted- 
 for, reminder of a woman s existence in his past life. 
 It was the rush, then, of painful reminiscences which 
 made him pause, and press his hand to his head, 
 rather than any spiritual cognizance of an unseen 
 proximity. 
 
 It will be perceived, nevertheless, that Mr. Wal 
 lace possessed some singularly sensitive mental force 
 which both acted upon others, as in the case of Annie 
 Castlewood, and was susceptible of being acted upon, 
 as we have seen in the present instance. That he 
 did not more directly resist the influence, was be 
 cause he was unaware of it. 
 
 So ungovernable was this woman s mental excite 
 ment, that she was wholly unaware of the going out 
 again of the same violent force. All at once John 
 Wallace turned sharply, looked back, and even re 
 traced a few steps. The suddenness of the move 
 ment caused the watcher to catch her breath and 
 rendered her, for the space of a second, wholly unable 
 to dart out of the range of his vision. 
 
 A cold sweat broke over his brow, and he stood ir-
 
 7 3 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 resolute. Any other man would have acknowledged 
 to himself that he had seen a phantom ; for the amber 
 haze had melted into the violet mists of evening, 
 which rendered objects far from distinct. 
 
 He remained transfixed for a palpitating moment, 
 and then went calmly on his way, without again look 
 ing back. 
 
 " I should be a weak fool," he said within himself, 
 "to think of it again." 
 
 And, there being no taint of superstition in his 
 blood, which had doubtless been book-cultured for 
 generations, he did, in fact, let the circumstance slip 
 from his mind. He never again, however, on the 
 beach or off, had in his face that beautiful look of 
 youth. It was gone. Something had killed it. Or, 
 more likely, it had long since departed, and the sur 
 prise of that lovely September afternoon had only 
 called up a fleeting likeness in its image. 
 
 And what became of the creature whose passionate 
 insistence had conjured so fatal a spell ? She hung 
 about the dunes for an hour, in momentary fear of the 
 return of him she nevertheless sought. Even as 
 she called up the look of his clear and penetrating 
 eyes, with an inward fire in them which she probably 
 knew well, she trembled and clasped her hands over 
 her heart. Truly, she was in abject terror of John 
 Wallace. And he, during the next few days, felt, it 
 must be confessed, an unaccountably keen prescience 
 of some disturbing force at hand. 
 
 Probably if he had believed in all those soothsay 
 ing phenomena of the mind, the contemplation of 
 which gave Mrs. Castlewood such singular pleasure,
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 79 
 
 he might have made an excellent clairvoyant, or even 
 a so-called medium in expert hands. For his sen 
 sitive organism was easily played upon and responded 
 with painful acuteness to every influence. Had he 
 been disposed to play the impostor, he might readily 
 have claimed gifts of divination, or a foreknowledge 
 of events. Equally, he might have been made a dupe 
 of by those precious individuals who call themselves 
 mind-readers, thereby filching money from the igno 
 rant and the superstitious, had not his force of character 
 and principle been greater than his force of tempera 
 ment. The fact was, that a grey figure passed and 
 repassed the squire s peaceful house with untiring 
 persistence. There were nights when, unknown to 
 any living creature, she paid stolen visits beneath the 
 casements of those windows where Mr. Wallace, rest 
 less and sleepless, burned his midnight lamp in uneasy 
 thought or disturbed study. 
 
 Once he fancied he heard a sound of some creature 
 sobbing near the house. He opened his window and 
 gazed forth into the night. All was as still as the 
 grave, save the eternal rushing of the sea upon the 
 shore, and the sighing of the wind through the great 
 sheltering-trees. 
 
 " Sometimes I am weary to death of yonder moan 
 ing and restless ocean/ he murmured to his own 
 thoughts. " Sometimes I long to be land-locked by 
 those far away hills of purple heather "- 
 
 He sighed heavily, and then paused, listening. A 
 sigh seemed to answer him which was more human 
 than the wailing of the wind in the distant elm-trees. 
 Then he closed the casement and soon after lay down
 
 So THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 upon his solitary bed, wakeful and beset by a strange 
 phantasmagoria within. 
 
 Probably that is the only time when Squire Castle- 
 wood s house can be said to have been haunted. 
 
 Certain it was, that such a restlessness had come 
 over the spirit of the lonely man, as to cause him to 
 take a brief journey. This was not in any sense a 
 retreat, for no suspicion of the truth crossed his mind. 
 He went forth driven, as he thought, by the unquiet 
 of. his own heart ; and the shadow went with him.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 " I want your word now ; what do you say to this ? 
 And what did God say and the devil say ? 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 MR. WALLACE was going down to New York, to be 
 absent for a week " on business," he said ; though 
 what the " business " might be, none could have told, 
 since a more profound ignorance than his of busi 
 ness matters could not well be imagined. 
 
 It was the first time he had quitted the neighbor 
 hood of Rest-Hampton since his arrival eighteen 
 months before. His portmanteau was made ready, 
 and he started on his drive to Sag Harbor to take the 
 boat, not in the old rumbling stage by which he had 
 come, but behind a pair of the squire s best horses. 
 Andrews was in transports at the prospect of a change ; 
 and the family stood at the door to bid them God 
 speed. 
 
 " Bring us something first-rate when you come 
 back ! " called the graceless boys, and with a flour 
 ish of the whip and a profusion of farewells, he was 
 whirled away. 
 
 There was a lady in a gray dress passing by on the 
 other side of the wide green lane, or was it only the
 
 82 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 phantom of a lady in grey ? At least no one noticed 
 her. 
 
 Annie burst into tears : 
 
 " My dear." said the mother reprovingly ; for she 
 looked upon crying as an indulgence. 
 
 " I feel as if something dreadful were going to 
 happen ; as though he would never come back," 
 sobbed the girl. 
 
 No sooner had Mr. Wallace fairly gone, than Annie 
 Castlewood had a caller a rare event within the 
 village precincts. It was a tall and majestic lady, who 
 had superb eyes and an unquestionably high-toned 
 mien ; who wore a dress of some rich gray fabric 
 made in a stylish mode. 
 
 There was nothing more significant than " Mrs. 
 Williams" on her card; but Annie fell deeply 
 in love with her royal appearance and her gracious 
 manner. Moreover, there was something a little 
 odd or foreign in her intonation or was it only 
 an unusual perfection of pronunciation ? which de 
 lighted the girl s unsophisticated ear. 
 
 Mrs. Williams had come to see if Miss Castlewood 
 did not wish to take lessons on the piano-forte : she 
 was anxious she said, to form a music class in Rest- 
 Hampton. Annie had no instrument, so the idea was 
 out of the question. She was dazzled by it however, 
 and eagerly said she would beg her father for the 
 long promised piano " when he went to New York," 
 a thing he had always meant to do. 
 
 " Has he not just gone ?" questioned the lady. 
 
 " Oh, no ! " and Annie s blue eyes opened wonder- 
 in gly.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 83 
 
 " I thought I had seen a gentleman with a port 
 manteau start from here as I came up the street." 
 
 " That was Mr. Wallace," and foolish Annie felt 
 the scarcely dried tears spring to her eyes. She 
 could not understand why she was so sad about Mr. 
 Wallace s absence ; or why she would have minded if 
 he never returned ; but 
 
 Suddenly the young girl became conscious that her 
 visitor was looking with unpleasant keenness into her 
 face, and she recovered herself instantly with some 
 pride. 
 
 " Mr. Wallace is your foreign friend of whom I have 
 heard, I presume," she said sweetly, adding : " Has he 
 left you permanently ?" 
 
 " Oh, no," answered Annie ; " he will be back this 
 week." 
 
 Still the lady s questions annoyed her, and she said 
 with less warmth : 
 
 " Will you not allow me to fetch my mother ! She 
 will be glad to see you." 
 
 But the visitor had found out what she came to 
 know and she arose saying with cmprcssemcnt, 
 
 " No, my dear I will not trouble Mrs. Castlewood. 
 I am sorry about the piano. But at least I am glad 
 to have met you. You will come to see me some 
 times ? " 
 
 A most engaging smile beamed upon the unsophisti 
 cated maiden, who was quite enchanted with the lady s 
 beauty and grace ; and she promised readily. 
 
 The next day Mrs. Williams returned. A new sub 
 terfuge to gain some intimacy with the family at the 
 Homestead had struck her.
 
 84 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " Forgive me, my dear child, for coming after you 
 again. But, after I reached the hotel, I was haunted 
 by your sweet face you will forgive my saying it, 
 and I tried to think of some expedient that would 
 bring you to me. I am very lonely, my dear, a 
 widow and childless I had a little daughter once who 
 died. Don t you think you can care a little about 
 me ? " She paused gently, and Annie blushed, hold 
 ing her head down like the little country girl she was. 
 
 " It occurred to me," continued the lady, who had 
 not let go of her hand, but kept stroking the pretty 
 fingers with her own gloved ones " that you might 
 like to come and let me teach you how to draw and 
 paint in water-colors. I have done a great deal of 
 such work in my life, and found it a real pleasure. 
 Would you like it ? " 
 
 Annie assented eagerly, and Mrs. Williams went 
 on : 
 
 " I have a pleasant little sitting-room at the the 
 hotel, and you could come to me every morning for an 
 hour. She smiled with winning sweetness, and Annie 
 found herself gazing into the great dark eyes, en 
 tranced. 
 
 " I will speak to my mother, if you will excuse me," 
 she said, running out of the room and springing up 
 the stairs. While she was absent, the visitor made a 
 keen and rapid scrutiny of the apartment ; into every 
 crack and corner she peered, but found nothing of 
 what she sought. 
 
 " Pshaw," she muttered fiercely ; "there is no trace 
 of him here. That pink-and-white-faced chick has the 
 range of his apartments no doubt, I will get it all
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 85 
 
 out of her, though ! Great God," she cried, making 
 a passionate gesture with her hands, which were 
 locked nervously together ; "I would give ten twenty 
 years of my life to spend one hour there, wherever 
 his presence has been." 
 
 Annie returned with her mother, who met the 
 stranger rather chillingly, and was not disposed to 
 lend her sanction to the plan. She considered that 
 her daughter was too easily led away by an impulse. 
 
 But Annie warmed towards the notion, and urged 
 her long-standing desire to study painting and draw 
 ing. 
 
 " What are thy terms ? " asked the little Yankee 
 woman with characteristic watchfulness of being 
 taken in. 
 
 Mrs. Williams had evidently not considered that 
 phase of the matter ; but hers was a well-schooled face 
 that showed no surprise. She mentioned a very 
 modest sum, and it was finally arranged that Annie 
 should go each morning to the little village hotel. 
 
 " I should prefer that thee came here to instruct 
 my daughter," Mrs. Castlewood argued. 
 
 " I would, gladly, madam ; but I am unable to walk 
 any distance," the lady hastened to explain, and the 
 other consented, reluctantly. 
 
 Annie soon became charmed with her pursuit, and 
 found her instructor both talented and fascinating. 
 She told the village maiden many things which 
 delighted her and seemed not unlike the romantic 
 climaxes of a novel, while in reality they were or 
 professed to be pages from the handsome widow s 
 own experience. Annie wondered how one person
 
 86 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 could possibly be the heroine of so many romantic 
 situations. Moreover, she gave a good deal of in 
 formation, unbeknown to herself, which the dark-eyed 
 lady desired to obtain. 
 
 Usually, Annie had little to say about Mr. Wallace 
 to any one ; but this charming new friend had such a 
 frank way of claiming confidence in return for pro 
 fessions of ingenuousness, that the conversation 
 generally tended upon the perfections of the one wholly 
 interesting person whom the girl knew. With her 
 innocent face bent over her drawing, Annie Castle- 
 wood never saw the sinister looks of hatred, or some 
 other passion, dart from the black eyes, always drooped 
 when she lifted her head to meet them. 
 
 Mrs. Williams made a great pet of her pupil ; and 
 finally begged her sentimentally to wear, for her sake, 
 a little ring which she drew with some difficulty from 
 her own finger and placed upon Annie s. 
 
 It was a tiny serpent, coiled several times about 
 the finger, encrusted with diamonds, and having 
 emeralds for eyes. 
 
 That night Mr. Wallace returned. 
 
 The next morning, Annie did not carry her books 
 as usual to the sitting-room ; and when he looked up 
 from his writing to ask after her, the mother told him 
 briefly the story of Mrs. Williams and the drawing 
 lessons. 
 
 He listened politely, and then returned, without 
 comment, to his occupations. It is apart of " the irony 
 of fate," that we can listen calmly to something the 
 purport of which will presently go as a dagger to our 
 heart.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 87 
 
 When Annie came in, flushed from the pleasure of 
 her lesson and from the exercise of her walk, she was 
 told that Mr. Wallace had asked for her. 
 
 "Mother, may I go up and knock at his study- 
 door ? " she asked, and gained the rare permission. 
 Martha Castlewood was not sorry to encourage the 
 intimacy between her lodger and daughter, but she 
 was judicious. 
 
 Annie s timid knock was answered in the kind 
 friendly voice she loved so well. 
 
 " Come in Nancy." 
 
 He looked at her almost affectionately, and placed a 
 chair for her near his own. 
 
 " And now tell me about your drawing and painting. 
 
 " Oh, I have only just begun," she answered blushing, 
 and beginning to look through her drawing-book for 
 the little sketch she was at work upon. Her naive 
 emphasis always amused her friend. 
 
 " It isn t only the lessons," she added. " O Mr. 
 Wallace ! the lady who teaches me is so beautiful and 
 so noble ! " 
 
 " How do you know that she is noble ? " he was 
 smiling indulgently upon her sweet impulsiveness. 
 
 " Oh ! I know it ! The way she carries her head, 
 and turns her neck ! why, she is like a princess. " 
 
 " Have you ever seen a princess, Annie ? " Mr. 
 Wallace was laughing heartily. 
 
 " Of course not," said Annie, something abashed, 
 "but I know how a princess ougJit to look. She should 
 be tall, and stately, and imperious. She should have 
 a grand air, and a majestic walk like 
 
 " Like the heroine in a three-volume novel, eh ? "
 
 88 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " I was going to say like Mrs. Williams," Annie 
 answered, smiling merrily, and looking up with uncon 
 scious coquetry in her eyes ; " but the name struck 
 me as a little out of keeping." 
 
 " It is not very impressive, that is true; but majestic 
 people cannot always have magnificent names, any 
 more than the daughters of her majesty Queen 
 Victoria are likely to resemble your traditional 
 princess. Doubtless Mrs. William s husband is a pain 
 fully practical and commonplace individual." 
 
 " She hasn t any husband, she is a widow." 
 
 "Ah, indeed ! That is immensely interesting. To 
 be romantic a woman must always be a widow, both 
 young and beautiful." 
 
 " Now you are making fun of her," Annie said, 
 trying to look offended. 
 
 And so the banter, with which Mr. Wallace delighted 
 to indulge himself, at the expense of the pretty and 
 innocent young girls who came in his way, ran on, 
 until Annie drew her finger from the book where she 
 had placed it to mark her drawing. 
 
 Then he leaned forward with a look she did not 
 see, 
 
 " My child, what have you there ? " 
 
 There was nothing remarkable in the tone or 
 manner, and Annie did not perceive how ashy pale 
 he grew ; but at that instant, John Wallace s heart had 
 ceased to beat for an instant. 
 
 Annie began to chatter about her friend, her gentle 
 ness and goodness, and the friendship she had prof 
 fered in the pledge of the ring. Mr. Wallace paused 
 long enough for her to pass over the ring, and dilate
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 89 
 
 upon the lady s charming accent. Then he spoke 
 quietly. 
 
 " Would your mother wish you to accept a ring 
 from a stranger, Annie ? " 
 
 That was all he said. 
 
 Annie colored. Her mother had not seen the ring. 
 Somehow, she often felt beforehand her mother s dis 
 approval of certain things, and this intimacy did not 
 altogether recommend itself to her from the maternal 
 standpoint. There was nothing hypocritical about 
 the young girl ; but she simply delayed her confidences. 
 
 " I never thought of it being a gift" she stammered- 
 " It is only a token of regard, don t you see ? I do not 
 mean to keep it. I shall only wear it." 
 
 " If I were you, I should not wear it." 
 
 Annie looked distressed, 
 
 " What shall I say ! How shall I return it without 
 seeming to thrust her friendship back upon her ! " 
 
 Mr. Wallace could not suggest that the friendship 
 was a pretense. 
 
 " Suppose," said he, rising, " you say to Mrs. Will 
 iams that Mr. Wallace asked you to rettirn it. " 
 
 Annie wondered. She could not see her com 
 panion s face, and she was too much pre-occupied to 
 notice any peculiarity in his manner. But that her 
 hero should condescend to express an opinion about her 
 new friend s action was something unparallelled. 
 
 " How much longer will you take these lessons ; " 
 he inquired, after he had asked her to describe the 
 lady s appearance, listening attentively meanwhile. 
 
 " I do not know, sir. I thought you would be pleased 
 that I should learn all I can
 
 go THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 Annie paused : she felt aggrieved. Also, she was 
 disappointed ; for there is nothing so delightful to 
 the soul of a very young girl as the friendship of an 
 older woman who is beautiful and fascinating, espe 
 cially if that friendship is delicately perfumed with 
 fine flattery. 
 
 " Well well " said the other gently, seeing her 
 crestfallen look; "go on with your painting. Only 
 I should not wear the ring if I were in your place." 
 
 When the young girl had gone, and for an hour 
 or two after, the lonely man paced his rooms as 
 tounded, appalled, at the thoughts which threatened 
 him. Not many nights before, the woman who had 
 wellnigh bewitched him upon the beach, had spent 
 the hours just so, pacing like some wild creature, the 
 narrow limits of her rooms. The difference was, that 
 her step was stealthy and leopard-like, so that the un 
 conscious sleeper beneath heard not a sound of that 
 sinister rustle, while Mr. Wallace s tread was slow 
 and measured and steady. Then she had made her 
 resolve. 
 
 " Could it be possible ? " he muttered over and over. 
 Had the ghost of his past dared to pursue him ? was 
 the figure in gray that flitted across his disturbed 
 imagination on the sea shore a reality ? Had she 
 planned to tempt him anew, or did she come to 
 contaminate the pure creature who believed in him ? 
 to destroy Annie Castlewood s peace and innocence? 
 was the child to be doomed because her life touched 
 his ? But what had induced his tormentor to flaunt 
 that trinket his own once gift before his eyes ?
 
 THE SHADO W OF JOHN WALLA CE. 9 1 
 
 Doubtless she dared not seek him out ; but it was a 
 challenge that said to him, " Come, face me." 
 
 At least he would accept. John Wallace was not a 
 coward. 
 
 " I shall confront her. She shall not escape me," 
 he said with stern lips : " only first the child must re 
 turn that ring." 
 
 All that day and the next, Mr. Wallace kept the 
 house. The thought of meeting face to face a phan 
 tom, gave him a feeling of suffocation. But the idea 
 of being pursued, dogged, hounded in secret, was 
 worse. 
 
 The next morning Annie had gone again to her 
 painting. An unpleasant consciousness was upon 
 her, however, and the lesson was not very brilliant. 
 Mrs. Williams twitted her lovingly upon being distraite, 
 Finally, when she could postpone her departure no 
 longer, she offered the ring to its owner, having held 
 it for some minutes in her hand. 
 
 " What," said that lady reproachfully ; " you are 
 tired of my attachment so soon ? " 
 
 " Oh no? cried Annie distressed ; " but " she 
 hesitated : " Mr. Wallace asked me to return it to 
 you." 
 
 She was really startled at the lightning flash which 
 darted from her friend s brilliant eyes. Mrs. Williams 
 at that moment perceived that she was checkmated ; 
 moreover, she had a suspicion that she was also be 
 trayed. Still, she controlled herself instantly, being 
 well-used to dissimulation, and said calmly, 
 
 " And who is this Mr. Wallace ? " 
 
 " He is an English gentleman who lives with us,"
 
 92 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 said Annie. " I thought you knew ? " she added, 
 questioningly. 
 
 "Is he a relative?" still the sinister fire gleamed 
 beneath the lady s eyelids. She looked not unlike 
 an enraged wild beast, that is beautiful in spite of its 
 subtle fury. " You know all about him, I suppose," 
 she added sneeringly. 
 
 " No, he came to us a stranger, I think." 
 
 "That is curious. I wonder," mused the lady 
 as if to herself, " if he can be an impostor or a 
 criminal " 
 
 " Mrs. Williams ! " cried Annie starting forward 
 with her face ablaze, " you must not say such a thing 
 as that : Mr. Wallace is a friend of my father s." 
 
 " And yours ? Is it not so, Mignon ? " 
 
 There was something so insinuating in the speech 
 that Annie drew back uncomfortable : 
 
 " Yes of mine, also," she replied simply. 
 
 " You are a wonderful child, Annie," the lady mur 
 mured after watching her stealthily for a few seconds .- 
 
 " You ought to be very proud of the friendship of 
 such a man. Do you not know that he is a great in 
 tellectual light a person of high degree " 
 
 Annie was looking in undisguised amazement, and 
 the lady stopt abruptly. 
 
 " You know him then, Mrs. Williams ? " 
 
 " Only by what you have told me," she answered 
 calmly, changing, for some reason, her tactics : " He 
 is a Scotchman, I think you said ? " 
 
 " An Englishman," corrected Annie. 
 
 "Ah ? the name is quite Scotch ; you know that." 
 
 If all these suggestions were intended to convey
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 93 
 
 doubts to Annie Castlewood s mind, they were entirely 
 unheeded. Her trust in Mr. Wallace could not be shak 
 en. Moreover, Mrs. William s manner perplexed her. 
 She seemed to scintillate with a dangerous fire that 
 made her appearance nervous and her laugh hysterical. 
 
 Annie turned to leave. 
 
 " Good-by," she said, looking wistfully at the hand 
 some and imperious face, which was more dazzling 
 than usual with its suppressed passion. She was op 
 pressed with a thought that the new interest she had 
 found was closing against her. And to the proscribed 
 circle of village life, a new interest was a boon. 
 
 That afternoon, Mr. Wallace and Andrews resumed 
 their accustomed walk. 
 
 He was gravitating towards a, to him, tremendous 
 climax or denouement : and the calmness of the Rest- 
 Hampton routine smiled in his face with that mock 
 interest which only nature and the unconsciousness 
 of friends can oppose to the violence of our own con 
 cealed emotions. 
 
 All that came of the impression which Mrs. Wil 
 liams made upon Annie Castlewood was that the girl 
 asked suddenly one day, 
 
 "Aren t you an Englishman, Mr. Wallace?" and 
 he had answered simply, 
 
 " No I am Scotch-born." 
 
 She had wondered all day at Mrs. William s percep 
 tion, but, somehow, she never told it. Unconsciously, 
 she, too, was learning reticence.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IN A GRAVEYARD. 
 
 " // is a thorny question and a tale 
 Hard to believe, but not impossible 
 Here has a blot surprised the social blank, 
 Whether through favor, feebleness, or fault 
 No matter leprosy has touched our robe." 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 TRUTH is sometimes like fiction, in that a life often 
 pauses in its smooth career, coming into sudden col 
 lision with an object or a person totally unlocked for 
 and not to be accounted for in the ordinary run of 
 events. 
 
 Walking dreamily along the pleasant highway, that 
 evening towards dusk, Mr. Wallace raised his head 
 without an apparent cause ; unless those inexplicable 
 impulses called attractions may be named as reasons 
 for action. His eyes did not rove absently, as is 
 usually the way with a person in motion who looks up 
 without a motive. Clearly, whatever influence had 
 called outward his introspective gaze, the softness 
 of the landscape had nothing to do with it. 
 
 He was walking towards the south burying-ground, 
 and straight as an arrow to its mark his glance shot 
 on ahead, and fastened for an instant upon a scarcely 
 discernible shape at the far end of the street.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 95 
 
 It was a tall, slender figure that seemed to flit 
 rapidly along with a certain indefiniteness of purpose ; 
 for it had crossed several times from one side of the 
 road to the other, like a startled creature who was in 
 doubt of the way. It was making one of those sud 
 den changes of direction when the scholar s glance 
 marked its outline. Perhaps there was a backward 
 glance in response ; for the figure hesitated a moment, 
 and then seemed to plunge into the hollow from which 
 the hillside graveyard sloped gently up. 
 
 " Andrews," said Mr. Wallace, turning calmly to his 
 companion, who was absorbed in speculating about a 
 flock of birds, " you may return. I shall finish my walk 
 alone." 
 
 After taking a few steps forward h.e paused by the 
 roadside, looking off towards the unseen but never- 
 forgotten sea. It may be that, in spite of his grand 
 and silent mien, he was endeavoring to collect his 
 faculties for a strange encounter. 
 
 " Lord bless him," muttered Andrews to himself, 
 catching a last glimpse of him still standing there, as 
 he crossed to have a chat with Ben Adams, leaning 
 idly over his fence, the day s work at the forge being 
 over. 
 
 " Your pard s a mighty queer chap," volunteers that 
 direct individual, indicating with his smudgy thumb, 
 the thoughtful figure in the distance. 
 
 "D ye think so ? Perhaps he is, if mighty queer 
 means too good for this world," says Andrews. 
 
 " Heow be he better n most ? " grunts Ben, his 
 mind not capable of nice distinctions. 
 
 " Any fool but you could see how he s better than
 
 9 6 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 the people around here," cries the valet who is invari 
 ably riled by the blacksmith s obtuseness. 
 
 " Wall, now what wages do he pay ? " Ben s head 
 is on one side in an aggravating way. 
 
 " Dash your impudence," mutters Andrews sotto 
 voce. 
 
 He would have liked well enough to parade before 
 the lubber s eyes what he knew would have appeared 
 to him an enormous compensation ; but it bordered 
 too closely upon his master s own affairs to be safe in 
 Ben s dubious keeping. 
 
 " He pays me more than you ever got your fist 
 around," says he, then dropping suddenly to Ben s level, 
 " I say, though, who is that spirited-looking woman 
 that s come to the hotel ? She s powerful handsome, 
 but lonesome, like." 
 
 Ben shook his head. His curiosity was of that dull 
 description which needs to be actively appealed to by 
 a present demand, and like his other mental efforts, 
 never went out of its way for a job. Just here, Uncle 
 Seth came ambling up, and joined in the blindman s 
 holiday palaver. 
 
 " Here s un what knows," remarked Ben, taking 
 his pipe from between his teeth and grinning, " he 
 kin tell a sight more bout folks an they ever knowed 
 theirselves." 
 
 " What s to pay, now, gentlemen ? " asks the 
 sprightly octogenarian. He wore queer old breeches 
 and a long-tailed coat "all buttoned down before." 
 Moreover, he wore the old-school manner with his an 
 cient apparel, both of which he cultivated with great 
 assiduity.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 97 
 
 " I was asking," begins Andrews with an air of 
 patronage which he could not help bestowing upon 
 
 the fossils of the village "who that tall female 
 
 may be that s turned up lately at Daggett s." 
 
 " That ? " Uncle Seth produced with a flourish 
 his grandfather s snuff-box, and took a friendly pinch, 
 which he did not appear to relish, but practised to be 
 in keeping with his conception of a fine old-style 
 gentleman. 
 
 "That is another mysterious stranger, Mr. An 
 drews." 
 
 The emphasis was so marked, and the significance 
 of his nod at Andrews was so obvious, that the valet 
 reddened visibly, but made a pretence of unconscious 
 ness. Ben roared. It will be seen that Andrews 
 path had a thorn now and then. 
 
 " Dash them both," he thought, but only said : 
 
 " Mysterious, is she ? All strangers are mysterious 
 in this dead-and-gone-to-seed place, I should fancy. 
 You must get precious tired of the old ways, you see." 
 
 Ben glared, but left the defence of his people in the 
 hands of Uncle Seth s wisdom, which spoke, 
 
 " No I m not tired of em. The folks at Rest- 
 Hampton is considerable of a study. There s a great 
 deal in human nature, Mr. Andrews, besides mys 
 teries." 
 
 lie cocks one eye at the discomfited valet, who is 
 on his guard by this time. 
 
 " What brings em here, any way ? " grunts Ben un 
 compromisingly. " Nobody don t want em." 
 
 " Who ? strangers ? oh, ask Mr. Andrews, he may
 
 g8 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 know," and Uncle Seth gives Ben a sly wink, which 
 it is needless to say, is lost on that individual. 
 
 " They re no account, only to upset our ways," he 
 continues, for he has been drinking, and is therefore 
 very cross. 
 
 " What a lumbering idiot you are, Adams," cries 
 Andrews contemptuously. " If you had half a notion 
 about improvement and that, you d see that Mr. Wal 
 lace has done more to help this dead-and-rotten town 
 up a bit, than all your old dunderhead villagers put 
 together. Your ways, indeed ! " with terrible scorn. 
 " I d like to know what ways you ve got, except to 
 stand still and let the world get ahead of you." 
 
 Ben took his pipe slowly from his mouth, and spat 
 with great deliberation in dangerous proximity to An 
 drews dapper boots, which made that person skip to 
 one side with his favorite " dash you " under his 
 breath. 
 
 " That s just what we don t want improvin ." 
 
 " No, no, Mr. Ben," puts in the elderly oracle, who 
 feels that his opinion is law in the village, and of 
 weight even with persons of the surly smith s type ; 
 " Let us be just, Mr. Ben. I admit that this Mr. 
 Wallace has imparted many ideas which have been of 
 advantage to our society " 
 
 " Can he tell me a better way to shoe a horse or 
 draw on a tire ? " interrupts Ben angrily, " what I 
 want is to be let alone ;" and a blow from his sledge 
 hammer fist makes the rickety fence totter. 
 
 " There is no use talking to such a dashed, whiskey- 
 soaked old grampus," mutters Andrews, going off in 
 a rage, being joined by the wise man of the village.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. gg 
 
 " Don t mind Benjamin, Mr. Andrews," says the foS- 
 sil condescendingly, " he is a person of very limited 
 intelleck. Now / like the addition of strangers to our 
 more select circles " for Uncle Seth belonged to an 
 ancient family, (quite extinct excepting himself and 
 several dozens of gravestones), and was admitted with 
 the freedom of country tolerance, into the houses of 
 what Rest-Hampton called the best society. 
 
 " I consider," he proceeds, snuff-box in hand for 
 its effect, " that the presence of so fine a scholard 
 man among us is a genuine benefit ; and I hope," eye 
 ing his companion sidewise, " that he is going to re 
 main up to the squire s ultimously ? " 
 
 The rising inflexion at the end of this sentence was 
 lost upon Mr. Andrews, who returned to the original 
 topic of discussion. 
 
 " But the other stranger, Mr. Seth the lady. 
 Come now, a mysterious lady ought to interest a gay 
 bachelor, like yourself." Andrews looked prodi 
 giously knowing, and the old fogy smirked in a way 
 that nearly made the other explode with suppressed 
 laughter. 
 
 " O don t, now, Mr. Andrews ! My time for encour 
 aging the ladies is over. I used to fancy them, once. 
 There was Betsey Price, now, Josiah Hatherton s wife 
 as is she and I took a great shine to each other. 
 But Lud, sir, the girls always snapped so quick, I had 
 to hold back and Hatherton got ahead of me some 
 way. But it s just as well," pursued the old gentle 
 man airily. " Marriage is a vexin state, Mr. An 
 drews. A woman now, has no respeck for ancient 
 customs, and always wants a man to change the style
 
 I0 o THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 of his neckcloth." This was said to attract the valet s 
 attention to that superannuated article of attire. 
 He felt called upon to compliment the wearer on its 
 good form, which led to such a dissertation upon the 
 sanctity and inviolability of obsolete fashions, that 
 they had reached the door of the little post-office be 
 fore he had more than half got through. In parting, 
 Uncle Seth dropped his voice to a sepulchral whis 
 per, 
 
 " These garments, Mr. Andrews, is the secret of my 
 influence in this community. They impart to my 
 appearance the venerableness and dignity that I de 
 sire to cultiwate. This coat was my grandfather s, 
 likewise, these breeches. In the eyes of my fellow 
 citizens, Mr. Andrews, I represent my grandfather, 
 who was a great scholard." 
 
 By this time, Andrews, who felt himself consider 
 ably bored with the history of a man who aped his 
 grandfather, nodded a good-day, and disappeared in 
 search of livelier companionship at the little Inn. 
 His time hung rather heavily on his hands, and it 
 was a constant source of regret that his master had 
 no expensive luxuries such as horses, and hunting 
 gear for him to take pride in. 
 
 " What a pity that he doesn t hunt," he mused. 
 " Though what there is to find in this God-forsaken 
 place I couldn t say unless it is the natives ! " 
 
 Andrews, it will be seen, felt somewhat belligerent 
 towards the place and people about him. He mused 
 on : 
 
 " Or if he would race, for instance only it would 
 have to be with plough horses and meeting-house
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. IO i 
 
 hacks. Oh, dear ! " he groaned, " if people here 
 only knew enough to have a bit of running now 
 and then, one might stand the rest. Fine horses, too, 
 those of Squire Castlewood s. And the Ley s and 
 the Cruddle s ! To think of their dawdling along at 
 that churchyard gait! It s as bad as a funeral to see 
 them. Dash d, but I wish I had a couple of thorough 
 breds ! " and Andrews sighed heavily over his pot of 
 ale. 
 
 But what has become of Mr. Wallace, whom we 
 left pausing meditatively by the green roadway ? 
 
 The shadows of evening are gathering about him 
 as he stands with his noble head bared to the peace 
 fully falling twilight, and the gathering dew. Then 
 Andrews and the old postman having strolled up the 
 street, and Ben Adams lounged back to the shadow of 
 his doorway, he covers his head and walks steadily 
 forward. He has the suddenly aroused look of a man 
 alert for a purpose. Presently he reaches the South- 
 end burying-ground, and passes over the stile and 
 among the crumbling old tombstones. He does not 
 halt to mark the soft gloom of the spot, but with a 
 keen glance sweeps the enclosure, and then comes, 
 with a few rapid steps, face to face with the gray 
 shape that starts up, stretches out a trembling arm, 
 and then shrinks back. 
 
 The power which this woman seemed to have held 
 over his unconsciousness utterly forsakes her, when 
 confronted with the man himself. 
 
 The two figures face one another with a long, chill, 
 unrelenting gaze, like two Fates who have crossed 
 each others paths. Not a vestige of his accustomed
 
 I0 2 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 gentleness is in John Wallace s face or voice when he 
 speaks, which he does in a hard, dry tone : 
 
 " Why did you follow me ? " 
 
 " I was driven to do it," answered the other Fate, in 
 a voice of forced coldness that matched his own. 
 
 " What do you expect to gain ? " 
 
 " Nothing only to be near you." 
 
 " It was to be rid of you that I have given up my 
 home, my position, my kindred, my fortune." 
 
 The other bowed her head upon her hands and 
 moaned, rocking to and fro. 
 
 " I ask again, what do you expect to come of this 
 pursuit ? " 
 
 " Nothing nothing " moaned the shape. 
 
 " Then go back to where you came from. Go back 
 and hide in your unhappy bosom that you ever 
 tracked me here." He stood with his long arm out 
 stretched, and his thin hand pointing towards the sea, 
 an awful embodiment of the unrelenting destiny that 
 was to overwhelm that other destiny. She raised her 
 head, and once more confronted him. 
 
 " I cannot ! It has been a slow death ever since 
 
 I seem to have died and been buried and this is 
 my unlaid ghost that has followed you." 
 
 Her voice was choked and terrified, his was stern 
 and calm : 
 
 " Go back to your grave, then. Did you think you 
 could tempt me even if you came from the dead ? " 
 
 She moaned again, and wrung her hands, 
 
 " I do not wish to tempt you : only to see you." 
 
 " You shall not see me. I will escape from you. 
 Unless you give up this pursuit, we shall be wanderers
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 103 
 
 over the earth you seeking, I evading ; I, a phantom, 
 you, a shadow. It is decreed." 
 
 " Oh," she moaned, twisting her fingers together in 
 anguish, " you are hard still. Cold and hard the 
 same." 
 
 " The same," he echoed drearily. 
 
 " Are you still a maniac ! " she cried, a sharp terror 
 vibrating in her unearthly voice : " Is the same madness 
 still upon you, that you cast out happiness and me ? 
 What harm that I have done or could do is deserving 
 of an eternal retribution like this ? " 
 
 "Sin." 
 
 Only one word ; but it had a long muffled rever 
 beration, that seemed to arise from the deserted 
 graves at their feet and mock them. She covered her 
 face again and swayed like one in bodily torment. 
 
 " I never sinned ! " broke from the shuddering lips, 
 " Was it a sin to love to long "- 
 
 " It was a sin." 
 
 If a sound from the darkening heavens had smote 
 upon her, levelling her to the earth, the figure could 
 not have cowered to the ground in greater terror of 
 him who stood and accused her. 
 
 " What must I do ? " she wailed, stretching her 
 arms upward, and casting her terrified gaze upon his 
 face, its sternness fixed upon her like a marble mask. 
 All else seemed to fade and melt into obscurity but 
 that one cold, white face : " what must I do ? " 
 
 " Go and repent." 
 
 The woman sprang to her feet. A new passion 
 seemed to sweep over her terror and her abasement. 
 
 "Who arejtfft," she cried, "that you dare stand
 
 104 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 there like an avenging angel ! were you never hu 
 man ? had you no weakness." 
 
 " I have been tempted," came more gently from the 
 white set lips, " but I was kept from falling. And yet 
 I must shrive my soul from the memory of what has 
 been. Not for myself, it is for you that I must 
 repent ! I have not sinned, excepting that the accursed 
 tie which binds us has made me a beholder of your 
 sin. I could not betray you, and so my life is one 
 
 long penance ! It is I I who must forever 
 
 make atonement for the secrets of your life, woman ! 
 I have renounced all all. I must shrive my soul." 
 
 Something gurgled in the throat of the man, and a 
 faint red stain came upon his lips, and even tinged the 
 front of his garments. He caught hold of a tall slab, 
 as though he felt dizzy, and needed support. 
 
 The cadence of that broken sentence had been in 
 his own natural voice, its pathos making still lovelier 
 its mellow tone. It seemed to smite anew the broken 
 chords of the woman s heart ; for she flung herself 
 towards him, clasping his arm with her passionate 
 hands and sobbing, 
 
 " Be merciful to me, Love ! Don t drive me away ! 
 I will never speak to you or seem to see you ! Only 
 let me be near you "- 
 
 His grasp was like steel, as he unfastened her hands 
 and tore himself from her embrace. 
 
 " My God ! " burst from him, with an echo of the 
 terror that had possessed her. " After all my ex 
 piation, has it come to this ? " 
 
 She hung upon his accents, uncertain if he were 
 tempted, or if he scorned her.
 
 TH SHA DOW OF JOHN WALLA CE. 105 
 
 " Are you mad ? " he panted. " Do you think I 
 could live, and breathe the same air with you ? " 
 
 He seemed to totter, and fell rather than sat upon 
 one of the neighboring horizontal slabs, pressing his 
 hands to his head. The movement struck upon that 
 pity never wholly crushed in a woman s nature, how 
 ever distorted and torn. 
 
 " Oh," she moaned, " do you suffer you ? And 
 you are not hard ? You feel ? " 
 
 She fell upon her knees, and began stroking the 
 relaxed hands and the drawn face, over which she 
 could detect a deadly pallor, even at that late hour. 
 
 John Wallace struggled to his feet and cast her off ; 
 but not in anger ; for he stood gazing at her with an 
 infinite answering pity. They were no longer two 
 Fates, but two palpitating human beings who had 
 somehow fatally ruined each other s lives. Their as 
 pect, at this moment, was so startlingly similar, that 
 any one who saw would have named them brother and 
 sister. 
 
 " Yes, I, too, surfer. Can the past be undone or for 
 gotten ? When I cease to suffer, I shall have expiated- 
 I shall be lying asleep among these mossy stones 
 unless you drive me forth to be an exile, even from 
 this lonely corner of the world." 
 
 "Not here" she sobbed, though her eyes were 
 tearless, " not here ! not forever ! Some time you will 
 return ? " 
 
 " Never. This is my home, unless, I repeat, you 
 stay here to drive me again into the homeless world." 
 
 " No oh, no ! Only say you do not hate me ; and 
 I will <<o back <ro back."
 
 I0 6 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " When will you go ? 
 
 " To-morrow." 
 
 " Will you swear to me never to trouble me again ! 
 Never to seek for me ? Never to follow me with a 
 thought ? " 
 
 " I swear," she articulated, while for her the tomb 
 stones, the earth, the sky, seemed slowly to revolve 
 about her head. 
 
 "Then, I do not hate you, I " he broke off and 
 
 stood regarding her with a fixed intensity, which she re 
 turned with passionate fervor. It had grown so dark 
 that they felt rather than saw, each other s looks. 
 
 " One thing more," she implored, creeping nearer to 
 him, and groping to reach his hand, or his arm, any 
 thing in that slowly reeling world : " You must write 
 to me. I cannot keep my oath unless you write to 
 me." 
 
 " Then I will write." 
 
 A silence followed. The world was beginning to 
 reel faster, and only the woman s will kept her con 
 scious. Suddenly she started forward with a smoth 
 ered cry : for the other figure seemed to turn away 
 as though in that look he had taken his last farewell. 
 
 " Oh ! you are not going that way ! You will say 
 good-by to me ! " 
 
 He paused, but did not come towards her. In the 
 darkness, and with the earth reeling about her, she 
 could not find him with her groping hands. 
 
 " Good-by." 
 
 " Nothing more nothing tenderer ? Oh love ! " 
 
 She flung out her arms with a supplicating gesture. 
 
 Her utterance was agonized pleading. She stum-
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. xo; 
 
 bled over the graves, for he seemed to recede from 
 her. 
 
 " No " he answered solemnly : " nothing tenderer : " 
 and his voice came to her as from a great distance. 
 
 He receded more and more from her straining 
 gaze that sought to penetrate the uncertain gloaming, 
 and to steady the reeling earth. 
 
 " Love," she called again, " Love O Love ! " Her 
 voice was only a whisper ; but she did not know it- 
 She was staggering about like a besotted creature ; 
 but she did not know it. 
 
 All she knew was that he had gone. Had he van 
 ished into the mist ? Had he sunk into the ground ? 
 or had the darkness only covered him from her gaze ? 
 Then the rocking of the elements about her grew 
 palpable. Shefell prone upon a dew-drenched mound, 
 and lay for hours in the deepening night a crushed 
 and dishevelled creature. 
 
 At first she moaned, and moaned. 
 
 "Not that way! Come back for an instant, if 
 only to tell me that you live that you forgive me " 
 Then the sentences trailed off into incoherent frag 
 ments and moans. The rocking of the earth, the 
 reeling of the sky, had obliterated, at last, her strug 
 gling consciousness. 
 
 Once a warm breath upon her cheek, and a tender 
 touch partly roused her; she faintly articulated 
 " Come back speak to me once more ! " And all 
 fell into silence again. 
 
 The hours passed as serenely as though no creature 
 lay in that deserted spot, save only the long-ago dead 
 amid their dust.
 
 I0 8 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 Something rubbed her cheek again, and she started 
 up, shivering with cold, startled to find herself lying 
 in a flood of moonlight, bathed in dew. 
 
 It was a gentle ewe that had roused her, one of the 
 denizens of the place, and she threw her arms around 
 its woolly neck, sobbing upon its patient face. 
 
 She got up, shaking as with an ague, and hurried as 
 best her cramped limbs would carry her, back to the 
 little hotel. 
 
 It was barely half past ten o clock, and the door 
 was still open. She slipped unseen to her room, and 
 when she had somewhat composed her wild aspect, 
 she summoned her landlady, and said in answer to 
 her curious look, 
 
 " I find I must return to New York at once, Mrs. 
 Daggett. Will you see that the early stage stops for 
 me ! " and she shut her door upon the glib remarks 
 on the woman s tongue, who tossed her head outside, 
 and grumbled at so sharp a warning. 
 
 " Folks needn t be so snappish," she muttered ; 
 "and as for waitin till the middle of the night to tell 
 a body they re goin I ve got my opinion of such 
 manners ! " 
 
 The next morning, when Annie Castlewood came 
 slowly in for her lesson, she received with several 
 chapters of comment from Mrs. Daggett, a little note 
 faintly scented and daintily written. 
 
 Mrs. Williams was called home very suddenly. 
 She was sorry, indeed, not to see her little friend 
 again, and would not forget her, etc. 
 
 Annie walked thoughtfully away, in the midst, it 
 must be confessed, of Mrs. Daggett s tirade, thereby
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. IO g 
 
 increasing greatly that good woman s wrath against 
 " airy folks of all sorts. 
 
 She met Mr. Wallace on the threshold. 
 
 " Mrs Williams had gone home," she said, and 
 passed into the house. 
 
 Of the scene in the graveyard ; of the fact of a link 
 between the soon-forgotten " Lady " and John Wallace, 
 no creature, save himself, ever guessed. For to Rest- 
 Hampton, there was in him still no mystery. They 
 had not seen his shadow.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ANNIE AND HER LOVER. 
 
 tl He is ordained to call and I tc come" 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 As the tenor upon the operatic stage must needs, 
 for harmony, play love to the soprano, so should the 
 hero of a novel take the part of lover to the heroine. 
 But fate would have it that the village maiden s hero 
 was not her lover. The history of John Wallace is a 
 tale which had passed its mid-day climax before Time 
 had written the first word of the romance of Annie 
 
 Castlewood. Life is not always heedful of harmony. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Tom Hatherton, Rest-Hampton said, was in every 
 respect a most estimable fellow. If his late appear 
 ance upon the scene puts him in a somewhat un 
 impressive light, it is because he is necessarily placed 
 in contrast with Annie Castlewood s vague and im 
 possible ideals. 
 
 There is nothing, perhaps, more at variance with 
 the over-fine sentiments of a visionary young girl, 
 than the matter-of-fact sense of an unimaginative young 
 man, especially if he be country born and bred. For, 
 in spite of its town-meetings and its air of organization, 
 the atmosphere of Rest-Hampton was that of the
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. IIX 
 
 country. Life there was almost pastoral, and under 
 the touch of a transcendental novelist might have been 
 converted into an idyl. 
 
 But the purpose of this rather psychological study 
 being merely to set forth the outward workings of a 
 never-fathomed character that the reader may join 
 hands with those who loved but never quite com 
 prehended, John Wallace it moves like a quiet 
 
 brook through the pleasant fields, and old orchards, 
 beside the low roofs of the village. 
 
 If, here and there, it reflects a face beside that of 
 him for whom we trace it, let it be remembered that he 
 did not live apart as a misanthrope or a recluse, but 
 that he was warm of heart and dwelt after a fashion, 
 at least among his fellows, whose images must, there 
 fore, blend sometimes with his own, upon the surface 
 of the story. If, often, the way seem remote, or the 
 murmuring of the brook to grow tiresome, listen 
 awhile, dear reader, and you will hear again, above 
 its inarticulations, the voice of that good and pure 
 man, who stood before the world and so far as the 
 world could judge knew no guile. 
 
 Those who went down that human current, keeping 
 peace with the lovely and lofty character of the 
 stranger, were seldom puzzled with his intrinsic 
 qualities. It remained for those who never saw him 
 to question his motives, to suspect his integrity. Only 
 Annie Castlewood was given to analytics, in the fresh 
 and feeble fashion of one who has never been taught 
 in books or in society to say " I doubt." And the 
 mother, in a dry, dull way, wondered sometimes over 
 the hieroglyphics which she saw impressed upon the
 
 U2 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 man s life, and would have secretly deciphered them, 
 never thinking to evolve a plausible fiction out of the 
 barrenness of her knowledge of John Wallace, but 
 
 merely to read his riddle. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Three years have gone since the advent of the 
 stranger in Squire Castlewood s family, and Annie is 
 no longer a child, save to him. She has developed 
 into one of those " highly cultivated, intelligent, and 
 refined women " of whom, says Mrs. Stowe, " New 
 England possesses a great many." She was thought 
 ful and conscientious, kind and charitable ; delicate 
 in her feelings, but honest in her opinions. More 
 over, she was beautiful, with a beauty difficult to 
 sketch. 
 
 The strong yet delicate outlines of Mr. Wallace s 
 face come out sharply, like a profile in a cameo. 
 Squire Castlewood is not a difficult subject, with his 
 old-school manners and his jovial face. The little 
 Quaker woman s appearance could be described by a 
 kindly touch or two. But Annie s was one of those 
 characters called by a modern writer " irridescent " : 
 and this luminous quality was reflected in the varying 
 expressions of her brow and lips, and the changeful 
 color of her eyes. These latter were of a calm and 
 serene blue, as to actual tint ; but that described 
 them no more than the word " straight " suggested 
 the outline of her nose. 
 
 The dark yet delicate brows took what might 
 hyperbolically be called a straight curve across the 
 most expressive of foreheads ; and her mouth had 
 that exquisite sensitiveness which made you forget to
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. II3 
 
 complain that the red line of lips was scarcely full 
 enough for beauty. Her tint was like a pink pearl ; 
 you only knew it had any color when you compared 
 it with dead white complexions. For the rest, she 
 was of medium height and extreme slimness ; but 
 moved always with the peculiar springing motions 
 which belong to a few gifted creatures, and which 
 entirely preclude any notion of stiffness or bonyness. 
 
 To return to Tom Hatherton, since this chapter 
 must needs do penance in descriptions he was as I 
 have said, a fine fellow. You would have loved him 
 for a certain openness of countenance and frank boy 
 ishness of manner, which may not be of interest in 
 that artless animal, the boy, but have their fascination 
 in a man, suggesting a certain bloom and freshness 
 of life that go with good health and good will and 
 youth. 
 
 The village maidens thought Tom a splendid 
 creature, and admired the direct gaze of his merry 
 eyes far more than they fancied Mr. Wallace s dreamy 
 and middle-aged intensity. Indeed, if the two came 
 up for contrast at all, which happened sometimes, 
 when the squire s Nancy and her chances were under 
 discussion, Tom came out with flying colors as a youth 
 of good prospects and taking appearance ; while the 
 other well there were those, (silly young things of 
 course), who called the grave scholar a pedagogue 
 and a prig. That there could be any question of pref 
 erence between the two, seemed ridiculous : if, indeed, 
 either of them really wanted Nancy Castlewood. 
 There was much doubt about that. There always is 
 a doubt about the intention of gentlemen towards
 
 I 14 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE, 
 
 other ladies in the minds of young women, however 
 certain they may wish their own opportunities to 
 appear. 
 
 Tom s relationship towards Annie had grown of 
 late to justify the scepticism bestowed upon it. The 
 old intimacy which he had given with a very honest 
 purpose and she had accepted tacitly as the only 
 thing in her way, fell away first to a fitful friend 
 ship, then to a merely unsatisfactory acquaintance. 
 
 Tom had had stormy fits of remonstrance at times, 
 which did little to make the tie pleasanter ; for Annie 
 hotly resented any allusion to Mr. Wallace as the dis 
 turbing cause of their slackening friendship : or, in 
 fact, as the possible cause, however remote, of any 
 event in her probable outlook. 
 
 " It is only that I have out-grown him," she said 
 apologetically to herself ; but there were seasons in 
 which she regretted dimly that she was losing her 
 boyish lover, and not replacing his affection with any 
 thing definite. Still, it offended her for Tom to speak 
 his mind, which he had seldom done lately. 
 
 At last the time came when it appeared to the 
 honest fellow that he must talk plainly. Perhaps 
 this determination was precipitated by the echoes of 
 gossip which rang in his ears. They seldom reached 
 the hearing of Annie herself, who lived on the out 
 side of the village chatter. 
 
 " Look here, Nancy," he cried, blustering into the 
 old-fashioned sitting-room at the Homestead, with his 
 usual breeziness. " What s all this talk I hear about 
 you and Mr. Wallace ? " 
 
 " Indeed / cannot tell you," Annie replied with
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE, jjjj 
 
 dignity ; and her face did not change color as it might 
 have done in the first few months of her hero-wor 
 shipping. 
 
 " Oh, you can t, can t you ! " Mr. Tom ejaculated, 
 getting excited in a minute ; " well, I can ! They say 
 you are flirting with him." 
 
 " Do they ? " 
 
 " And what s more they say he makes love to you 
 on the sly." 
 
 " Then they lie ! " and Annie s eyes blazed upon 
 her mistaken swain. To vilify John Wallace was not 
 the way to win her favor. 
 
 Tom whistled. Annie rarely used strong expres 
 sions such as were common with the villagers, hav 
 ing "dropped all hearty talk when she took to 
 being a scholar," Tom had grumbled in great um 
 brage at the change in his sweetheart s habits after 
 the appearance of the new planet in her sky. He 
 was, therefore, somewhat mollified upon succeed 
 ing in arousing her to an old-fashioned expression of 
 disapproval. 
 
 " They say," he went on less fiercely, " that he 
 reads heathen love songs to you by the hour." 
 
 Annie laughed in spite of herself. 
 
 " Poor Goethe ! a heathen ; Oh my townsmen ! " 
 she cried softly. 
 
 " Well," demanded the other, " doesn t he ? Didn t 
 Deacon Potts come in and catch him at it, only the 
 other evening ? " 
 
 " And if he does what is that to Deacon Potts 
 or to yon ? 
 
 Tom winced ; but he was bent upon a disclosure,---
 
 n6 THE SHADOW OF JOHN IV ALL ACE. 
 
 " Just answer if he doesn t, Nancy." 
 
 " He happens to be reading German poetry to me 
 just now Goethe and Heine and reads it until I 
 think I am listening to one of Beethoven s Sonatas." 
 
 " Oh, you do ! " such expressions gave annoyance to 
 Tom s material soul at the best of times. 
 
 " Yes," Annie went on, her enthusiasm rising not 
 towards her hearer but her theme ; " and his voice is 
 a rapture, only so hushed, so tender." 
 
 "The devil it is!" and Tom jumped up angrily, 
 knocking over his chair ; " I should like to know 
 what right he s got to a tender voice. What does he 
 mean by it ? Does he mean business ? Or is he 
 fooling, as I ve heard city chaps are fond of doing when 
 they get hold of a country lass especially when 
 they re old enough to be her grandfather ! " 
 
 Annie s color burned uncomfortably, but she saw 
 it was best to explain matters : 
 
 " You should not be so violent, Tom," she said 
 drily. " The tender voice is not for me. It is for 
 the poetry ; and besides, whatever it means, or what 
 ever he means, it is not for you to question. / am 
 mistress of my own situations." 
 
 Tom was aghast. A final rupture seemed pending. 
 
 " Great Heavens ! Annie," he cried penitently, 
 " don t talk in that hard, cold way. Don t let that 
 man come between us any longer." 
 
 " He has not come between us, Tom; it is your 
 hatred of him that has come between us." 
 
 " I believe it is," cried the honest fellow, a sensa 
 tion rising in his throat which would have caused a 
 great burst of tears not many years before ; " Oh,
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLA CE. 117 
 
 Annie ; I believe I am jealous of him, and that it is 
 he and not I, who is worthy of you." 
 
 "There is no question of his worthiness," said 
 Annie, gently stifling an unborn sigh in the depths 
 of her heart. " It is I we who are not worthy of 
 him. I often think of the old Bible phrase ; whose 
 shoe-latchets I am not worthy to unlace ! Mr. Wallace 
 has no thought of us and our ways, Tom. I think 
 he sees us somehow as figures moving through 
 a play upon the stage, and a poor enough comedy, 
 too." 
 
 " Why do you think such things about him, Nancy, 
 as if he were a god ? " 
 
 " Because I see his life, and it is without fault." 
 
 " But surely he s not better than your own good, 
 kind father." 
 
 " He is of a higher and rarer type, Tom, than any 
 creature here." 
 
 " Tell me what you mean," said Tom humbly, " what 
 does he do ? " 
 
 Annie smiled, 
 
 " It is not so much what he does. There is nothing 
 awful or mysterious about that. Besides his long 
 walks, and his visits among the poor, and his teaching 
 the fishermen at Three-Mile-Harbor, and the sailors 
 once a week at Sag Harbor " 
 
 " And reading to you Annie," interpolates Tom, 
 reproachfully. 
 
 Yes and teaching me," said Annie quietly, " who 
 am as far still from his standard as those poor 
 ignorant fishermen ; besides the thousand and one 
 things you all see him do, and the heaps upon heaps of
 
 n8 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 letters he writes, he sits and ponders a great deal, as 
 though he weighed problems in his mind which he 
 could not quite solve." 
 
 "What s wonderful or useful in that? " asked Mr. 
 Tom, not impressed. 
 
 Annie went on, not noticing the interruption, 
 
 " He reads much in old books whose tongues are 
 unknown to me Sanskrit, I take them to be, but 
 most of all, he writes letters." 
 
 " Who does he write to, in Heaven s name ? " cried 
 Tom appalled. 
 
 " I do not know ? " 
 
 "Why don t you look? " 
 
 Annie s cheeks flushed, 
 
 " Do you mean why do I not look at the addresses ? " 
 
 " Of course. What else could I mean ? " 
 
 " I have seen some of them lying on his table when 
 I go into his study to dust of a morning. I have never 
 read the directions in full, for I think he prefers hav 
 ing his affairs to himself. But the name on them 
 seemed to be Mr. Roderic Clarkson." 
 
 " And does he get as many as he writes ? " 
 
 Tom was growing interested in the practical work 
 ings of such an eccentricity. 
 
 " I think he does. They come every mail, but 
 always in large outer envelopes addressed in the same 
 handwriting, as if they were forwarded from some one 
 point. And yet," added Annie thoughtfully, " they 
 seem to be the only threads that hold him to a past 
 world that would else slip from his grasp." 
 
 " How did you make it all out, Nancy ? " queried 
 Tom, not without admiration.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. ug 
 
 " It came to me from living near him, and seeing 
 things as they happen." 
 
 " Don t he talk about what he s studying over ? " 
 
 " Never. He speaks sometimes of the books he 
 reads ; but only when his suggestions seem likely to 
 benefit some one." 
 
 " Don t he ever tell you of the people that write to 
 him ? " 
 
 " Never a word. He burns the letters in his fire 
 as soon as he has read them." 
 
 " A waste of stationery, I should say. But don t he 
 speak of his home, or his folks ? " 
 
 " He has never mentioned them." 
 
 " Kind of aggravating, ain t it ? " 
 
 Tom s crude comment jarred visibly upon Annie s 
 sensitive nerves, which were growing more susceptible 
 every day. An observer, who did not count for much 
 the higher culture of the soul, and the finer possibil 
 ities which accompany such culture, might have 
 said that John Wallace s wisdom was unfitting his 
 young prote"g for her daily life in a work-a-day and 
 never very sympathetic community. 
 
 " I say though, Nancy ; you re a heap changed," 
 broke in Mr. Tom upon her revery, after having con 
 templated her sidewise with a lugubriously wistful 
 expression. 
 
 "Am I?" dreamily. 
 
 " Yes you are less like yourself, and more like your 
 Mr. Wallace, every day." 
 
 " Like Mr. Wallace ! " Annie was roused from her 
 dream and sat staring incredulously at Tom. 
 
 The girl looked at that moment too winning not to
 
 120 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 attract admiration. She sat with her hands lying 
 loosely, one upon the other, palms upward, in her lap. 
 Her head, with its smooth bands of golden brown 
 hair, finished with a heavy coil low upon the neck, 
 was a little to one side with that bird-like aspect a 
 modern writer describes as " half posed for rest, half 
 poised for flight." Her soft eyes, too, had looks like 
 birds flying to the light. It was her favorite attitude, 
 and very likely the one in which she sat and caught 
 eagerly at the rare thoughts of her instructor on many 
 a pleasant summer morning and long winter evening 
 in the pretty sewing-room of the Homestead. The 
 mother came and went in summer, through the always 
 open door that led into the song-filled orchard. And 
 in the winter nights, when the wind swept about the 
 farmhouse and the sound of the sea was heavy upon 
 the sands, the two students were often wrapped in 
 that oblivion of all else only known to boon spirits in 
 intercourse whether of the intellect, or of the affec 
 tions which prevented their even hearing the some 
 what dull prosing of the elder people, or the conten 
 tions of the boys. 
 
 She sat so now, distractingly pretty and uncon 
 scious, gazing upon Tom : 
 
 " How do you mean that I am like Mr. Wallace ? " 
 she questioned slowly, having a dim idea that whatso 
 ever this unimaginative intelligence perceived must 
 have an existence. 
 
 " I don t say how I mean, or that I mean anything 
 particular. I m not one of the fellows that s always 
 meaning something." Tom was aifrouted at Annie s 
 sparkling look.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 121 
 
 " Do you think I talk like him ? " Annie asked, 
 keenly interested in the pursuit of her theory. 
 
 " Well, yes, I don t know but I do," Mr. Tom as 
 sented, vernacularly. " You use big words, and always 
 seem to be having something on your mind besides 
 what a body s saying to you." Tom s tone had a per 
 sonal grievance in it. 
 
 Annie laughed merrily. 
 
 " If that is all, it s a very faint resemblance," she 
 said. 
 
 " Oh," persisted Tom, not liking his remarks to be 
 taken too lightly, " that s not all. You walk about 
 in a moony sort of way, and I declare to you, Nancy, 
 you actually look like him. And I m not the first to 
 say so ! so there ! " 
 
 " I ? " 
 
 Annie started up and stood on tiptoe, facing the 
 quaint old mirror that extended its two or three feet 
 of height along the mantel-shelf. Apparently, the 
 face she was comparing with her own eager one was 
 not difficult to conjure up. One might have supposed 
 it to be delineated upon the glass, to have heard her 
 accurate description of it. 
 
 " Straight brow ; straight nose ; wonderful dark 
 eyes ; complexion clear and pale ; mouth large and 
 firm ; jaw square but delicate mine is not at all like 
 that" she said disappointed. 
 
 " Oh don t now," cried Tom impatiently, " I didn t 
 say it was the color of your eyes, or the shape of your 
 nose. It s the way you look." 
 
 Annie relapsed into her old attitude, and pondered 
 with a lovely light in her eyes. Could it be that she
 
 I22 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE 
 
 had so absorbed what was granted her of this lofty 
 nature that she plain Annie Castlewood had caught 
 something of its aspect ? something of that ineffable 
 charm which shone from the face she knew so well ? 
 
 " But," thought Annie reprovingly : " even if it 
 were so, and Tom sees something he mistakes for a 
 likeness, it is only a reflection after all : the original 
 is a power." 
 
 Tom Hatherton, it seemed, was not the only 
 villager who had noticed, or fancied, the resemblance 
 between the squire s Nancy and his boarder. It 
 might be, they tattled among themselves, that this 
 Mr. Wallace, whose business nobody seemed to know 
 was some kin to the mother, (who being a stranger to 
 the place was frequently suspected of having mysteri 
 ous kin, either creditable or otherwise according to 
 the provocation of the moment). Suppose he should 
 turn out to be an uncle, or a rich cousin, come in dis 
 guise, to study the ways of his folks before he revealed 
 himself ! Of course if he were, he meant to make 
 Nancy his heiress, since it was with her he took such 
 pains. 
 
 And even if he were not any kin, mightn t he take 
 a notion to leave his money to Nancy anyway ? who 
 knows ! 
 
 Tom had kept these things in his heart, having 
 picked them up among the confidences of the neigh 
 bors daughters ; but neither Squire Castlewood nor 
 his family was made a party to the country gossip. 
 Indeed, they had never been very intimate in the 
 village, occupying as they did, the doubtful ground of 
 beins: " better than most."
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. ^3 
 
 "Well," said Tom, almost roughly, "you seem to 
 be mighty glad." 
 
 " I should be glad, if I thought it might ever be 
 possible," sighed Annie. 
 
 "I wouldn t," remarked Tom, still harshly. "It s 
 bad enough, as it is, and makes you hold yourself a 
 sight above a common-place fellow like me." 
 
 Poor Tom ! he had so good a heart ! and this time he 
 spoke the truth in so discriminating a way. 
 
 " I don t hold myself above you, Tom." 
 
 ( But Annie added to herself. " I am upheld.") 
 
 " O yes, you do, Nancy ! You used to be right 
 smart pleased when I came and fancied you. Now, 
 it s a bother for you to talk to me I see it is." 
 
 " No, indeed, it is not," she cried earnestly, her child 
 ish affection for the lad stirring in her warm and 
 thanks to John Wallace s wisdom unspoiled heart. 
 Indeed, I like you as much as ever, Tom, only I m so 
 preoccupied." 
 
 " What about, Nancy ? " 
 
 " Why, my studies, and my reading, and my music. 
 " Mr. Wallace is helping me with the science of har 
 mony." 
 
 " What are you going to do with the science of har 
 mony," queried Mr. Tom with pardonable contempt. 
 
 " I am going to study the theory of music. Father 
 says he will buy me a piano, soon. Oh Tom ! " 
 Annie cried, her sweet face flushing joyously, " why 
 are you not glad with me, if you want my friendship, 
 for this great benefit that has befallen my lot ? " 
 
 Tom Hatherton looked at her curiously. 
 
 " What benefit, Nancy ? "
 
 I2 4 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " Do you not see that the greatest good which could 
 have come to me, is that I have been able to open up 
 my life and to take some part in the wide culture out 
 side of this poor little village ? " 
 
 " No I don t," responded Mr. Tom decidedly, " not 
 when it makes you talk that way about the only place 
 you ve ever known, or are likely to know." 
 
 " It has made me enjoy even this place, which be 
 fore was a grave to me," said Annie hastily. 
 
 " If you mean that you were discontented before 
 your Mr. Wallace came and put notions into your 
 head, all I ve got to say is that you didn t talk about 
 it." 
 
 " I did not know how" she answered, after a pause. 
 " Myself was a sealed book. I was sad without 
 knowing why. It is Mr. Wallace who has opened my 
 eyes and my heart to a great world without and within. 
 He has taught me first to perceive, and then to ex 
 press. It is a revelation a gift." 
 
 "And what I want to know is," cried Tom desper 
 ately, " what you mean to do with all of this wisdom 
 and experience ? Can your father buy you something 
 to practise it on ? like the piano, for instance ? What s 
 to come after ? " 
 
 It was a supernatural gleam of perception on Tom s 
 part, and showed a dormant shrewdness which only 
 wanted waking into activity. 
 
 " There will be nothing more to come," Annie said, 
 half sadly, " except that I can study on, and im 
 prove" 
 
 Her sentence trailed off into a pause. 
 
 " It sounds rather like all work and no play, don t it,
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. ^5 
 
 Nancy ? " Tom spoke drily, his opportunity was not 
 lost upon him. 
 
 " Perhaps it does, but there is at least, no limit to 
 it." Then she added, trying to regain her late enthu 
 siasm. " I can acquire continually, I can broaden and 
 expand." 
 
 "Then what?" 
 
 The girl met her questioner s eyes with a half im 
 patient look. 
 
 " What nonsense, Tom ! As if one could always 
 look into the future and say what comes next ! As if 
 one wanted to ! " 
 
 " Nancy," said Tom, seeming somehow to have sud 
 denly developed into a superior creature who had the 
 advantage of her, " Nancy, do you believe that you 
 will always be satisfied to live as you are living now, 
 with nothing but books, and ambition and what you 
 call expanding ? " 
 
 Annie Castlewood sat mute, confronted for the first 
 time during many months, with a future in which the 
 heart and its affections had no part. 
 
 Tom crossed the room, and sat down beside 
 her, gaining every instant in that indescribable ad- 
 van age. 
 
 " Do you, Nancy ? Tell me true ? " 
 
 " I have not thought about tJiat for a long while, 
 Tom. I ve been absorbed," stammered poor Annie. 
 
 " How old are you ? " he asked abruptly. 
 
 " Why^w/ know, I am nineteen," replied the girl, 
 surprised. 
 
 " Suppose you should live to be ninety you might 
 you know do you think improvement, and progress,
 
 I2 6 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 and all the rest of it, would satisfy you for seventy 
 years ? " 
 
 Annie looked appalled, and Torn noted another point 
 gained. 
 
 " Why, no, of course it wouldn t ! " she said emphat 
 ically. 
 
 " What are you going to do when you get old ? " 
 
 " I hope," said Annie rallying, " to see something 
 of the world. I shall not live here all my days." 
 
 " Is your father going to buy New York for you ? " 
 
 Tom was growing magnificent, and Nancy smiled 
 through her doubts. 
 
 " He may take me to see New York some day," she 
 ventured. 
 
 " And then bring you back to Rest-Hampton. What 
 good would that do ? You re already unfitted enough 
 for living here. No no, Nancy, you can t look for 
 ward to that sort of thing either, to bring you satis 
 faction." 
 
 Annie was silent. 
 
 " Is it a good thing for a girl, dear, to be made dis 
 satisfied with the things about her, and unfitted to be 
 an honest country lass, unless there is some one to 
 make an honest great lady of her ? 
 
 " Yes," cried Annie, struggling hard against the 
 convictions so forced upon her : " it is a good thing for 
 any person to be elevated intellectually above the dis 
 advantages of birth and surroundings, and taught that 
 there arc things in the world besides baking and sew 
 ing, and keeping a house ! " 
 
 " But a woman, Annie, I mean a woman." 
 
 "Yes," she said with an attempt at bravado: "I
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. i 2 j 
 
 mean a woman also. I have no patience with the 
 notions of our people here that book-learning 
 is not safe for a woman. Would you have er igno 
 rant?" 
 
 " I would have her live, as God meant every woman 
 should live with a man who loves her." 
 
 There was another silence in which Tom still 
 gazed, and Annie still faltered their two hearts, so 
 long separated by diverse ways of thinking and living, 
 beating in unison at last over the same solemn 
 thought. 
 
 " Annie, do you believe that Mr. Wallace ever 
 intends to love you ! " 
 
 " Oh no never \ " 
 
 "Do you love Mr. Wallace ? " 
 
 " No, Tom of course I don t ; you should not ask 
 me such a question ! " 
 
 " Then it s not your heart that is absorbed in these 
 fine notions of yours ? " 
 
 " I think not." 
 
 " But you want to see the world, Nancy ? you are 
 sure of that ? Would you be willing to leave Mr. 
 Wallace?" 
 
 " Yes, I would be willing," after a painful pause. 
 
 " Do you recollect what you called him, last 
 week ? " 
 
 " No," said Annie, wondering. 
 
 " You called him your Inspiration. Would you 
 be happy to leave that behind ? " 
 
 " Yes, I could be happy ; for I should always 
 have with me the things which Mr. Wallace has in 
 spired."
 
 I2 8 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " Then, Annie, I am going to make a place for you 
 in the world." 
 
 " Oh Tom ! " began the girl deprecatingly ; but he 
 stopped her : 
 
 " Don t speak yet, Nancy. Don t be hasty. When 
 I came here, I had no idea of saying what I have. I 
 had meant to go and make the place for you first. 
 But it has all come about so that I couldn t keep 
 silence. You ll think well of it ? " 
 
 His voice shook a little; but he had the masterful 
 look still. When a man dares to ask an unwon woman 
 to marry him, he at least possesses courage. 
 
 " How can I think of it, Tom," she asked despair 
 ingly. " We have been estranged we have ceased 
 to be in sympathy " 
 
 " Don t say any more, Nancy. Jealousy in my own 
 heart has made war between us. The want of sym 
 pathy is only on top. Don t drive me away this time, 
 dear. For, as God is in Heaven, I will never come 
 back and ask you again, if you do." 
 
 Annie sat staring helplessly at her lover s agitated 
 face. He did not need to tell her that he loved her. 
 His life had proved it. But she what could she say ? 
 Surely, she had no love in her heart for Tom Hather- 
 ton. But the vision of him going away and never 
 coming back ! tliat appealed to her with a humilia 
 ting sense of her own dependence upon his only half 
 noted devotion. 
 
 " What shall I do ? " she cried, feeling herself in a 
 dire strait. 
 
 "I don t believe you can send me away for noth 
 ing, Nancy."
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. I2 g 
 
 " No," she said, " I cannot ; but why can t we live 
 on as we have been doing ? " 
 
 " Because," cried the young man hotly, " I am not 
 willing to be nothing more than a dog, to come and 
 go, and get noticed or not just as it suits you ! And 
 because, Annie," softening, " I love you dearly and 
 need your presence to make me happy." 
 
 " What can you do, in a great city, Tom ? " she 
 asked evading the question, temporarily. 
 
 " I can make my way as other men have done," he 
 answered determinedly ; " But Annie you have not 
 promised me anything. Suppose, when I come back, 
 things will have changed." 
 
 " How changed ? " 
 
 " Suppose Mr. Wallace should make up his mind 
 to marry you, what then ? " 
 
 " You need not question about that ! " said the girl 
 firmly. " It could never happen." 
 
 Tom looked at her and read her thoughts ; for his 
 own sincerity of purpose made her face very trans 
 parent to him. 
 
 " I see," he said sadly, " that there would be no 
 chance for me, if such a thing could happen." 
 
 Annie did not speak. She too felt the truth of 
 the statement. 
 
 " As it is sure never to occur, please don t let us 
 talk about it," she said finally. 
 
 Tom Hatherton looked reproachfully at the troubled 
 face of his companion. It was but a poor love- 
 making that he could do, with such a wide spiritual dis 
 tance between them. At that moment he would not 
 have dared to approach her with any of those tender
 
 !30 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 caresses which help so wonderfully in a wooing. 
 Still, he loved the girl and was bent upon winning at 
 least a partial consent. 
 
 He rose up and stood close beside her, looking 
 down upon her with a patient seriousness. 
 
 " Will you at least give me your promise, Nancy, 
 that you ll listen to no man until I come back to claim 
 you to be my wife ? " 
 
 Annie pondered. There was no man " but Tom," 
 it was not likely that another strange being would 
 come down like a god upon the village. So she ans 
 wered gravely : 
 
 " I will wait. That is, Tom, until I myself let you 
 know to the contrary, you may believe that I am 
 waiting." 
 
 It was a poor response to his whole-hearted desire. 
 Tom felt more sobered than triumphant. 
 
 " Did you know that I am going to New York this 
 afternoon, Nancy ? " 
 
 " No ! are you ? " She looked up quickly with a 
 sense of relief which Tom could not but see. 
 
 " Yes good-by, little woman." 
 
 He stooped and kissed her gently. 
 
 " You are a good scholar, Nancy. Won t you 
 write to me ? " 
 
 " Yes, Tom sometimes."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " Here are the voices presently shall sound 
 In due succession. First the world s outcry, 
 Around the rush and ripple of any fact 
 Fallen stonewise, plumb on the smooth face of things 
 The world s guess, as it crowds the bank d 1 the pool 
 At what were figure and substance, by their splash : 
 Then, by vibrations in the general mind 
 At depth of deep already out of reach." 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 IT will be seen that, as yet, the girl was not quite 
 spoiled ; for, having turned aside but a few moments 
 from her ambitions and from beholding John Wallace s 
 face, Annie Castlewood had pledged her boundless 
 fancies and her unwon desires to honest, unimagina 
 tive Tom Hatherton. Truly hers was, after all, but a 
 woman s heart, and she, like the weakest of her sex, 
 was most appealed to through that part of her nature 
 which craves the support and protection of the sterner 
 nature that, sooner or later, seeks her. 
 
 More than all, the accustomedness of years had 
 been at work : and when it came to the test, the 
 newer and keener motives failed. Still, it was likely 
 to prove a dangerous experiment. The girl was in 
 capable of ennui, since it presupposes satiety. But 
 she was an easy prey to that vague form of dissatisfac 
 tion which knows not for what it hungers. 
 
 Certainly, she had never hungered for Tom.
 
 132 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE, 
 
 When he left her, the new purpose that had sprung 
 up in his life lending as he went a manliness to his 
 gait, and a dignity to his figure, Annie was dazed and 
 bewildered. 
 
 Her gaze wandered first up and down the quiet 
 street to the front, and then from the side windows 
 far into the green and sheltered depths of the orchard. 
 She was thinking or was it only dreaming ? picturing 
 in a fantastic medley, her early childhood with its 
 joyous content, her girlhood with its uneventful and 
 almost hopeless calm, until the coming of John 
 Wallace. There, the whole scene was altered. Life 
 for three years, had been vivid in interest, intense in 
 aim. All this was real : but the future confronted her 
 like a dense mist in which all things were vague. 
 Even " the place in the world " Tom had talked of 
 making, seemed unsubstantial and remote. 
 
 She thought of the old farm-house without her, going 
 on with its monotonous succession of domestic com 
 forts and cares. What would Mr. Wallace say ? Would 
 he miss her from the placidly ordered routine of his 
 retirement ? It smote Annie s heart with an acute 
 pain that she was forced to answer herself in the 
 negative. 
 
 And Tom ; did she care anything about Tom 
 Hatherton ? She was not sure that there existed for 
 him a spark of feeling in her breast beyond that accus- 
 tomedness of years. 
 
 "However, I \\zvzpromiscd him nothing except 
 ing to wait," she sighed from the depths of her 
 bewildered dream. And looking up, she met the kind 
 and searching gaze of Mr. Wallace.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 13$ 
 
 " Child, why did you do it ? " 
 
 "I oh, I do not know!" she stammered, not 
 surprised that he should read her new secret, since it 
 always seemed to her Mr. Wallace knew all things 
 by a certain miraculous discernment of his own. 
 
 " Do you love that young man, Annie ? " 
 
 Annie shook her head dubiously, 
 
 " I do not know that either, Mr. Wallace." and her 
 birdlike glance flew straight to his with a troubled 
 flutter. 
 
 " Then why did you promise to marry him ?" 
 
 " I did not promise that" she protested. 
 
 " I met him in the lane, just now, and he burst upon 
 me with the news that he had got a promise from 
 you." 
 
 " Yes : a promise to zvatt." 
 
 Annie said it drearily, already, at the first sound of 
 her hero s voice, the prospect seemed to grow dull, 
 and the thing for which she was to wait, poor. A sense 
 of disenchantment, when some project is first held 
 up to the critical gaze of another, is no new thing in 
 the history of small events. 
 
 " What will you wait for ? " 
 
 " For Tom to make his fortune." 
 
 " Here?" the tone betrayed more amazement 
 than Mr. Wallace often permitted himself to bestow 
 upon the ways of the village. 
 
 " No, he will go to New York, and make a place 
 for me in the world," finished Annie, quoting uncon 
 sciously her lover s own words. 
 
 " And that is what you wish for, Annie ? To be in 
 the world."
 
 !34 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " I have always wished for it even more than now ; 
 I used to crave it. Oh, Mr. Wallace ! " cried the 
 girl, her sweet eyes shining with unshed tears, " life 
 is so narrow in this place ! Before you came, there was 
 nothing but to eat and sleep ; to wake and work ; and 
 then to eat and sleep again. You have broadened and 
 beautified my life ; but all that I can feel or do is in 
 spite of the place. There are no helps from without 
 only hindrances. There must be something better 
 than this ! " 
 
 " Something more varied yes. But the world is 
 not a good place, nor a kind place, nor a restful place. 
 You are happier here, child." 
 
 Annie looked blank. Mr. Wallace was using, in 
 different words, the same argument against Tom, that 
 Tom himself had used to further his cause. 
 
 Her companion saw that she misunderstood him, 
 
 " I mean to ask you, Annie, if you love Tom enough 
 to satisfy all the possible demands of your developing 
 nature ? " 
 
 She shook her head. Somehow, she could not 
 answer lightly those penetrating eyes. 
 
 "Are you not happy as you are, child ?" searching 
 her with that " mild intensity innocent of any inten 
 tion." He probed her also with the tones of his voice, 
 not so much like music, for it was witnout marked 
 cadence, as like the voice of a poet speaking a rapt 
 monody. 
 
 Annie s being was thrilled with a nameless emotion, 
 far echoes of which she had felt stirring in her bosom 
 when first she saw this man and worshipped him. 
 One of John Wallace s peculiarities, v/e have said, was
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. j^jj 
 
 his marvelous intuition. It was swift, keen, unerring, 
 like a woman s ; only unlike hers, it was speechless. 
 Looking, he beheld in Annie s eyes, something, at 
 which there came over his face and his demeanor that 
 fine thin veil of coldness which is but the silent with 
 drawal of the spirit. 
 
 The young girl felt it ; for her sympathy with this 
 singularly sensitive nature had made more acute her 
 own sensibilities. Mutely she accepted the withdrawal 
 as an uncomprehended rebuke for an uncomprehended 
 blunder of her own. So in dealing, however tenderly 
 with fine, high-strung natures, we are all apt to prick 
 our spiritual fingers. It was one of the penalties 
 which Joshua Castlewood s " sentimental " little 
 daughter had to pay for her privileged relationship 
 towards the honored guest. 
 
 Often, some look met hers, that seemed to come 
 from out the depths of Mr. Wallace s heart, and to 
 show her a still sunny region, not made quite desolate 
 by its untold memories. But if such a look drew from 
 her transparent eyes either surprise or pleased response 
 it would vanish like one of his own rare smiles, which 
 was so swift, one only knew it had been, by the still 
 gravity that followed. So Annie would be conscious, 
 only after the look had vanished, that something had 
 come and gone which it would have been sweet to 
 keep. 
 
 This man s tact, however, was no less than his in 
 sight : his sensitive responsiveness never failed. And 
 so, when he knew just now, by the voiceless power of 
 the spirit which telleth all things to him whose inner 
 ears are open, that he had chilled poor Annie, he
 
 I3 6 THE SHADOW OF JO JIN WALLACE. 
 
 gently resumed the fatherly affection which had led 
 him to take her hand as he said : " Annie, you are 
 much to me." 
 
 He held it still, and caressed kindly the pretty rosy 
 fingers. Then he went back to the momentous 
 question, but without the momentous look or purport. 
 
 " When I ask if you are not happy, Annie, I do not 
 mean in any transcendental sense ; this is not a world of 
 ideals. Happiness is, after all, a thing of temperament, 
 a condition of the mind and body, rather than a result 
 of circumstances. You are sound and well, and have 
 plenty of hope," smiling, " you ought to be radiant." 
 
 " I am happy," said Annie, answering his smile, 
 " when I live one day at a time, and allow myself to 
 think of nothing but my studies, and the beautiful 
 things you teach me. 
 
 And at other times ? " he questioned her with his 
 kind looks. 
 
 "Then I am restless I long" Annie paused, 
 even to this man, high-priest in her temple of fancy, 
 she could not reveal the secret yearnings of her 
 woman s nature. 
 
 "It is the old story," mused the other, more to him 
 self than to his companion " the restless dreams, the 
 nameless aspirations of the heart ; and you think it is 
 your ambition, child, that is crying to be fed ! " 
 
 Annie was disturbed. 
 
 " Why " cried some consciousness within her, " does 
 he trouble the waters of my soul, when he cannot 
 lead me to be healed ? " 
 
 After a silence, Mr. Wallace rose abruptly, 
 
 " Perhaps I am wrong, Annie. Experience after all
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 137 
 
 only teaches us of our own ways, not those of another. 
 All must pass through vales of tears to learn the 
 true relations of things. I have been trying to lay 
 the old burden of my knowledge of the world upon 
 young shoulders. Go, live for yourself, child, you may 
 find the happiness that somehow I have missed." 
 
 He walked from the room ; but Annie sat and 
 wept. 
 
 The waters were indeed troubled, and John Wal 
 lace had not proved an angel of healing. 
 
 After a while she got up, and went slowly to her 
 mother s presence. She felt doubtful about her ap 
 proval. The demure little woman was quick to see the 
 traces of tears, but it was not a way of hers to re 
 mark upon the emotions of her children. Above all, 
 she never encouraged weeping. 
 
 " They must learn to be self-contained," she said, 
 " Sympathy undermines self-control. The craving 
 for commiseration is a weakness, a selfishness." So 
 she had been taught in her own youth. 
 
 " Mother," said Annie abruptly, in a lifeless tone 
 that showed she spoke from a sense of duty and not 
 from impulse : " I have come to talk to you about 
 something ; Tom Hatherton is going to New York 
 to make his fortune." 
 
 " Indeed, I trust he may be successful. Has thee 
 seen him lately ? " 
 
 " He has just left. And mother, I have promised 
 to wait for him." 
 
 " To wait for him ? " echoed Mrs. Castlewood, 
 startled out of her poise : " And what does thee mean 
 by that ! "
 
 I3 8 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " To marry him, I suppose." 
 
 " To marry him : " the echo annoyed Annie, but she 
 made no response. 
 
 Her mother began to sew again vigorously, with a 
 nervous twitching of the fingers. She had always 
 managed her husband and the boys without their 
 knowing it. The girl seemed to see through every 
 thing, and had never been easily managed. She 
 sewed on as though nothing had interrupted the flow 
 of her spool-cotton. 
 
 "What do you say about it ? " asked Annie, at last, 
 watching intently the rapid movements of the needle. 
 
 "Is it not rather late for thee to ask me? " 
 
 " Not at all, mother. I have only promised to wait." 
 
 " Which means that thee has encouraged Thomas." 
 
 " I have listened to him yes." 
 
 " I did think, Annie, that thee would have looked 
 higher " 
 
 Mrs. Castlewood did not lift her eyes from her 
 work. She felt awkward about betraying to her 
 daughter her secret hopes and ambitions. 
 
 " Who is there to look to, mother, in this dead- 
 and-buried place ? " 
 
 Again Mrs. Castlewood went on sewing before she 
 answered cautiously, 
 
 " It has been made clear to me, Annie, that John 
 Wallace " 
 
 But Annie would hear no more. 
 
 " Mother," she cried, with a sudden flash of anger 
 in her cheeks and eyes, " never couple Mr. Wallace s 
 name with mine. You might as well plan to have me 
 wed the Angel Gabriel ! "
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 139 
 
 Mrs. Castlewood was shocked : 
 
 " If thee is going to blaspheme, Annie, we had 
 better drop the subject. I suppose, if Thomas Hath- 
 erton suits thee, it is no great concern to thy father 
 and myself." 
 
 " He doesnt suit me," almost screamed poor Annie, 
 with a hysterical burst of tears ; " only there is no 
 one else, and I mttst get out of this grave." 
 
 " If thee would control thy impetuous ways, we 
 might confer to some purpose in this matter." 
 
 Mrs. Castlewood s wounded dignity was immense, 
 and she sat prim and cold until Annie s sobs had sub 
 sided. To tell the truth, the coldness was the surface 
 training of her life. In her heart, the mother was 
 bitterly disappointed. She had had ambitions in her 
 youth which lifted her somewhat from the obscure 
 surroundings of the little Quaker settlement in Rhode 
 Island. But her married life had soon closed about 
 her, and she had accepted John Wallace as a late re. 
 compense, who was to atone to her, in still further 
 elevating her child, for her own only half-satisfied as 
 pirations. 
 
 When Annie grew quiet, she began cautiously : 
 
 " Is it possible that thee is proposing to marry a 
 man whom thee admits does not suit thee." 
 
 " It is what nine-tenths of women do," said Annie 
 obstinately ; " one must marry somebody." 
 
 (A sentiment, dear reader which nearly every girl is 
 brought up to have and to hold ; but which few will 
 utter. The rack could not extort from some single 
 women that they desire marriage.) 
 
 " It is <* godless thing to contemplate," said the
 
 I4 o THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 elder lady, genuinely shocked at her daughter s senti 
 ments : " there can no happiness come out of it." 
 
 " Everybody is prophesying against my happiness," 
 moaned poor Annie deeply aggrieved. 
 
 " Everybody ? who knows of this thing ? " 
 
 " Mr. Wallace." 
 
 " Then it is too late ! Thee has made the mistake 
 of thy life ! " cried the mother, with suppressed 
 anger. 
 
 " Did you suppose I would hide it from him ? " 
 
 " Thee might at least have consulted thy parents 
 first." 
 
 "Tom told Mr. Wallace, himself." 
 
 " Doubtless. He wished to prevent the undoing 
 of this piece of folly. Has thee seen thy father ? " 
 
 " No I will go and fetch him," said Annie starting 
 up, glad to escape from her mother s presence. 
 
 " Every thing is beclouded. Every thing points to 
 misery," she cried to herself as she passed out of 
 doors : " why cannot things come easily and pleasantly 
 to me ? This ought to be a time of congratulations and 
 proud joy. Oh clear, what Jiave I done that I should 
 be so miserable ? " 
 
 As no one was near, Annie asked the wind. If the 
 wind could have answered, it would have said : 
 
 " Poor child ! thou hast pledged thy hand where 
 thou hast never given thy heart. Thou art ask 
 ing for happiness to come out of a sharn a mock 
 ery." 
 
 She ran through the orchard to search for the kind 
 father who, if he did not quite understand her girlish 
 fancies, had still so tender a heart for them.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. I4I 
 
 At last she found him, in the garden, examining his 
 prospect for early potatoes. 
 
 " Oh, father ! " she cried, and flung herself upon 
 his breast ; Oh, father ! " 
 
 The good Squire was much astonished at this de 
 monstration in his staid and wise daughter, who be 
 cause of her self-command he often called his "little 
 Puritan," telling her she resembled her pretty grand 
 mother Prue, whose portrait in demure dress and cap 
 was greatly prized by the Castlewoods. 
 
 " Hoity toity ! what now ? " he exclaimed. " Is the 
 pony dead ? or have the boys drowned some kittens ? " 
 
 " No-o father ! but Tom wants me to w-w-ait for 
 him to c-come and ma marry me." 
 
 " Hey ! what ! Bless my soul ! Tom Hatherton 
 wants to marry you ? " 
 
 " Yes and I do-on t believe I w want to ? " 
 
 Annie s grief was excessive. 
 
 " You don t, hey ; well you needn t, you know, 
 Nancy." 
 
 " Oh but, I ve pro-o-mised" 
 
 "Well now, don t cry my lass, Tom s a fine fellow 
 and will make a capital husband. But bless my soul ! 
 this is all very sudden, isn t it ? very sudden." 
 
 " Awfully sud-sudden," sobbed Annie burying her 
 face deeper in his bosom. 
 
 " Well there, lassie, cheer up a bit ! You won t 
 have to marry him suddenly, you know. Bless me ! 
 you re a sight too young these many years. 
 
 " Ye-es father ! " 
 
 "And he s a first-rate fellow. He ll make a fine 
 farmer yet ; see if he don t."
 
 I4 2 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " No," cried Annie shaking her head and weeping : 
 " he is going to New Yo-ork to make his fortune. 
 
 " The devil he is ! " cried the dear old Squire, almost 
 upsetting Annie in the suddenness of the surprise 
 " Oh so, so ! And that s the reason you re breaking 
 your little heart ? " 
 
 " N-not altogether." 
 
 " And what does Mr. Tom propose to do with 
 you ? " 
 
 " I m to wait until he comes ba-ack ? " wept 
 Annie. 
 
 " With the fortune ? In about six weeks, I sup 
 pose ? " and the Squire laughed uproariously, glad to 
 have hit upon a comical side to the question. 
 
 His hilarity did not grate upon Annie s nerves as 
 her mother s poignant criticism and apparent want 
 of sympathy had done. It was a contagious sort of 
 mirth, and she began to smile through her tears. 
 
 "That s right, Lassie," cried the father, who never 
 could bear the distress of any woman, least of all his 
 petted daughter s ; " There s nothing to break your 
 heart about. But hold on ! It isn t your heart at all 
 It s Tom s, you know." And the kind old gentleman 
 laughed as heartily as before, giving Annie a sly 
 squeeze under the ribs to indicate where Tom s organ 
 was kept. 
 
 " What do you think of it, Father," Annie asked, 
 almost merry again. It was such a comfort to have 
 some one take it naturally : not ominously as Mr. 
 Wallace had done, nor mournfully, like her mother. 
 After all, the sunshine might break through the 
 cloud.
 
 THE SHA DOW OF JOHN WALLA CE. 1 43 
 
 " I think it couldn t be better, Nancy ; it couldn t 
 be better. I always said Tom would come out and 
 do something to scare us all. His father is such a 
 trump ! And you will make a first rate little farmer s 
 
 wife ah, no ! I forgot a first rate little fortune s 
 
 wife ; " and the great guffaws broke out afresh. 
 
 " Now you are making fun of me, father," cried 
 Annie, making believe to be hurt, but nestling close 
 to him meanwhile. 
 
 " Not a bit of it, my dear ; you re all right, and so 
 is Tom Hatherton. It s the fortune ! " The squire 
 had to prop himself against a tree-trunk to enjoy his 
 laugh. Whether this mirthfulness was altogether un 
 alloyed, may be questioned. 
 
 " But Father," said Annie, rubbing her soft cheek 
 against his whiskers, " people do make fortunes in 
 New York, don t they ? " 
 
 " Of course they do, my dear ! No doubt about it ! 
 And then you see, the other Governor and I can help 
 him out handsomely on it." 
 
 His eyes twinkled comically, and they began stroll 
 ing towards the house : 
 
 " Come Lass," he said presently ; " we ll go and 
 scare mother a bit." 
 
 Annie hung back. 
 
 " Mother knows," she said, briefly : "You go and 
 talk it over with her, father dear." And giving him 
 a kiss which he returned with a hearty embrace, she 
 vanished to her own upper chamber, and to who 
 knows what despondence and humiliation. 
 
 For she was certainly likely to commit that rash 
 act from which her own conscience recoiled no less
 
 I 4 4 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 than all her preconceived notions of sentiment and 
 bliss, she had promised to hold herself subject to a 
 man for whom, in searching her uttermost heart, she 
 found no passion. 
 
 And we ? what shall we say of Annie and her ac 
 quiescence to Tom Hatherton s wooing ? Doubtless, 
 we are disappointed, and disposed to view the matter 
 somewhat after the manner of Martha Castlewood. 
 
 Perhaps there is nothing more unfair in this world 
 of misconceptions, intentional, and unintentional, 
 than the quiet assurance with which we each and all 
 judge our neighbors actions. We have only the re 
 sults of their reasoning, to be sure, and cannot take 
 into account the motives which have influenced them, 
 or the amount of pressure that has been brought to 
 bear upon them. But that is no matter. They do an 
 unexpected thing ; or they leave undone an expected 
 one, and we forthwith pursue them with over criti 
 cisms, more or less scathing not according to the 
 merits of the case, but our own mood, or the state of 
 our own digestion. 
 
 These criticisms do not follow their actions afar 
 off, with a respectful sense of everybody s right to his 
 own conduct ; but we (not thou or I dear reader, 
 but friends on the other side of the street, whom let 
 us call " we," for courtesy) dog their heels with our 
 comments, and hound them up and down with our 
 opinions. 
 
 And so we must needs make up our minds about 
 the propriety of Annie Castlewood s acceptance of 
 her lover. Only do, in pity s name, let us take into 
 consideration the circumstances of her life. Let us
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 145 
 
 sit down calmly and ponder upon the dead level of 
 monotony to which destiny had doomed her. Let us 
 reflect upon the forever unsatisfied impulses of a na 
 ture which ardently craved those changes and chances 
 that make up the sum of most lives. 
 
 Moreover, recollect the influence over her of a man 
 whose wide experience had tried all things. His 
 campanionship had opened to her the door unto much 
 upon which he himself had turned his back. 
 
 Then, as Annie said ; there was no one else ! 
 
 After all, dear Reader, in whose eyes I somehow 
 seem to feel it necessary to vindicate Annie Castle- 
 wood from possible censure the child was not 
 
 selling her soul for gold, or for position, or for 
 spite. She was doing no violence to any prejudice ; 
 she was not even strangling another passion which 
 has been withheld from this quiet story. She was 
 merely taking the best that her life was likely to 
 offer her, thereby fulfilling in a most natural way 
 that inexorable law of " the commonplace," which is a 
 perpetual mockery upon the romance of youth and 
 the belated aspirations of middle life. It is a law 
 which over-rides all prejudices, and tramples down all 
 passions, compassing itself in the very lives of those 
 who scorn and deny it.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 A BRIEF CALM. 
 
 " What if he gained thus much, 
 
 Wrung out this sweet drop from the bitter Past, 
 
 Bore off this rosebud from the prickly brake 
 To justify such torn clothes and scratched hands ; 
 
 And, after all, brought something back from Rome." 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 PERCHANCE the meager supply of heroines a little 
 Quaker woman, a young country girl, a phantom, 
 may strike the critic as a strange paucity of very cheap 
 material. And yet it was characteristic of a man like 
 John Wallace if there was ever such another man, 
 whose spirit dwelt apart from other spirits as a recluse, 
 that he should live for thirty years in the little Island 
 town, and yet make no woman his heroine. 
 
 Indeed it may be seen that this story has throughout 
 but a slim corps of dramatis persona ; and that even 
 those few actors play but a subordinate role. The 
 hero looms up and overshadows with his majestic 
 presence any part left to less important players, how 
 ever simple he may wish his life to appear, and how 
 ever profoundly he would bury the secret locked in 
 his bosom. We cannot in any event fancy him sitting 
 unobserved at a side-scene, watching with interest the 
 actions of any inhabitant of Rest-Hampton. Still less
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. l ^ 
 
 can we imagine ourselves, the self-constituted audience 
 for the time-being, permitting him so to sit forgotten, 
 while we become absorbed in the convergence of 
 events which have no bearing upon our ultimate 
 decision regarding him. 
 
 Wherever a creature of this peculiar stamp may 
 abide, he unconsciously becomes a centre about whom 
 all approximating figures revolve, like shall we 
 ignore the old metaphor of a planet and its satellites 
 and say the puppets at a country show ? 
 
 Only Annie Castlewood was no puppet. One could 
 tell pretty well how the little Quaker woman would 
 move upon her narrow and self-absorbed base ; it is 
 not difficult to divine by what strings the good Squire 
 could be worked ; Tom Hatherton, too, was not a 
 person of deep designs and unaccountable proceedings. 
 There are others who come upon the stage with but a 
 clumsy mental mechanism to approach their ends. 
 But Annie s was a complex nature. You could not 
 calculate beforehand how a mind of such varied moods 
 was to be affected by even the ordinary wire-pulling 
 of village life. 
 
 Brought into contact with the overcharged forces 
 of John Wallace s character ; her whole being became 
 the medium for currents of attraction and repulsion 
 which swayed her quite involuntarily to herself, and 
 with a sense of some dissatisfaction to her friends. 
 She did not pretend to understand herself ; still less 
 did she undertake to comprehend Mr Wallace, whose 
 inner life was remote from her experience as the 
 smouldering crater of Mount Vesuvius. Indeed, he 
 affected her oftentimes this man of calm demeanor
 
 I4 8 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 and lovely silence, as one is affected by the lull of a 
 half extinct volcano beneath a peaceful sky. The 
 force of those upheavals, the law of those fires which 
 preceding the calm, are as uncomprehended by us as 
 though they had never belched forth their fury and 
 obliterated the summer peace. * * 
 
 Tom Hatherton, who has gained something in 
 effect by being withdrawn from contrast with Annie s 
 hero, has been for several months in New York ; and 
 life has gone on undisturbed at Rest-Hampton. The 
 small pebble of the lad s departure had made, at first, 
 a great ripple on its tranquil waters, Many were the 
 frowning looks flung upon " the Squire s lass " by the 
 village belles, who had each thought her own charms 
 might prevail against her as a final choice. For 
 Supervisor Hatherton was well-to-do ; and Tom was 
 regarded as a fine match in those parts. 
 
 By some unlucky combination of circumstances it 
 often happens that there are but few marriageable 
 
 young men in a small village, while the maidens 
 
 well, all maidens are marriageable ! 
 
 A great story of sudden wooing and hasty departure 
 was told and retold. There were new predictions set 
 afloat ; that Tom would come to no good in the great 
 wicked city ; or that if he got the fortune, he might 
 never come back to fetch Nancy Castlewood ; or that 
 if he came back at all, she would still be " fooling her 
 fancies away " upon Mr. Wallace. 
 
 Annie went calmly on her way, studying a little less 
 perhaps, (for since her talk with Tom she had let go 
 her vital hold upon self-culture as a hobby.) but work 
 ing now and then among what the whole village called
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. i^g 
 
 " Mr. Wallace s poor folks." If we could follow her 
 up and down these by-ways, the study of a crude and 
 honest and self-supporting race might form a strong 
 background to throw out the more delicate pencillings 
 of our plot. " Amphibious " has been applied to the 
 sturdy villagers ; and justly, since they farm and fish, 
 toiling on the land or on the sea, as the necessity 
 calls. 
 
 There came from time to time somewhat labored 
 epistles from the absent lad. Like most country-bred 
 youths, he had no great liking for such a sedentary oc 
 cupation as letter-writing : " I would rather break a 
 colt than write a letter, any time," he wrote. In fact, 
 in his hand, a pen was nearly as clumsy as a plough, 
 and its guidance was quite as warm work. 
 
 Every time he forwarded one of these performances, 
 he had "struck a new thing which was bound to come 
 to something." Each new " something " covered the 
 ignominious slip-up of the last. Poor Tom ! his was 
 a record that many an untried youth has kept since ! 
 
 Finally, after many mischances, he wrote in a hand 
 now considerably modified, by contact with new 
 demands, that he had " found something certain this 
 time, and it was all settled." 
 
 But after another six months, even Tom began to 
 despond, and just when the poor fellow was ready to 
 throw up his manly endeavor for he declined to accept 
 aid from his " folks," he did actually happen upon " a 
 sure thing." If this story had not its sails set in an 
 other direction, it would be both pleasant and pathetic 
 to follow the brave lad in the uncertain steering 
 through his sometimes stormy and sometimes becalmed
 
 150 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 voyage of discovering for himself the difficult haven 
 of a " fortune." 
 
 There were usual wanderings, blunderings and dis 
 appointments ; there were some impositions, too, from 
 which he suffered. Once he was swindled out of his 
 last dollar and left upon the mercy of picking up job- 
 work for a month. It was the next thing to being a 
 day-laborer. Still, the young fellow had plenty of 
 pluck, plenty of grit, and kept up his courage manfully. 
 He was not above day-laborer s hire, if the worst 
 came. Only Annie must not know. It might distress 
 her to follow his struggles towards self-support. For, 
 strange to say, Tom s jealousy about his sweetheart 
 had all vanished. He was such a trusting fellow, 
 that it was not possible for him to conceive of in 
 fidelity. He actually believed that she loved him. 
 
 Annie had promised. That was enough. She was 
 his, and he would have trusted her unhesitatingly to 
 the ends of the earth. 
 
 But there came a time when something very like 
 despair took hold of Tom Hatherton, struggling alone 
 against the overwhelming tides of the vast selfish, 
 money-making city. 
 
 He had spent a mentally starved perhaps a 
 physically hungry, who knows ? week, in dogging 
 faint hopes and poor chances from end to end of the 
 utmost limit his opportunities had offered him. 
 
 When Saturday night came around again, he shrank 
 back to his comfortless lodging (for which he had 
 owed his needy landlady many a week ; and it nearly 
 killed him to know that she was needy) the picture 
 of hopeless misery, the shadow of his buoyant self.
 
 THE SNA DO W OF JOHN WA LLA CE l $ T 
 
 He stood by his dirty window, looking over the dark 
 roofs into the faintly-lit street, wondering as many 
 another shipwrecked man has done, if ever the fates 
 would again turn friendly faces upon him. 
 
 " If I had a pistol, " he muttered," I believe I would 
 
 shoot myself and be done with it God forgive 
 
 me ! " 
 
 And John Wallace, sitting apart in far-away little 
 Rest-Hampton, had so withdrawn from the turmoil of 
 life that the ears of his spirit were open in some 
 mysterious fashion to that bitter cry. 
 
 He had been reflecting much of late upon Tom s 
 courageous endeavors to make a home for Annie 
 Castlewood ; and his possible hard luck was not unsus 
 pected. The young man was proving himself worthy 
 even of his little favorite. Besides, who was he that he 
 had dared choose for the girl ? She and her lover were 
 untried. Their desires were innocent. Their hearts 
 were fresh. They had hope still by the hand. He had 
 only memory. How then was he fit to choose ? 
 
 Gradually, the picture of a united destiny for these 
 two young creatures began to shape itself before his 
 gentle fancy. Then he grew solicitous for Tom. In 
 his wisdom he read between the boy s brave lines, and 
 saw an undercurrent of disappointment and humilia 
 tion. 
 
 " Perhaps," he said to himself, "if I go to him, I 
 can be of use. The lad may be in actual want. I am 
 
 J 
 
 an unknown man " he paused with a strange sad 
 smile flickering across his face " but money is a 
 power, and I may be able to buy with bank-notes 
 what I could not command with influence."
 
 ! 2 THE SNA DO W OF JOHN WA LLA CE. 
 
 And so, after the wretched empty Sunday had 
 dragged itself away, and Tom had gone back again 
 and again restlessly to the thought of the pistol until 
 he coveted one more than food all that dinnerless day, 
 on Monday morning, before the sun had fairly crept 
 above the dingy roofs, that other stood before him, a 
 very angel of light. 
 
 "I thought I would come down and bring you 
 Annie s love to cheer you up," was all that he said. 
 
 But by some inward perception, Tom understood. 
 Moreover he never forgot the relief of that instant, 
 when he felt at last his relaxing fingers, that had let 
 go one by one the straws of hope, clasped in a strong 
 and saving hand. 
 
 Mr. Wallace was not omnipotent ; but he had lived 
 in the business world once, and he knew the back 
 doors to its favor. He spent freely, and considered 
 wisely ; and at last the young man was carried within 
 the notice of one or two merchants who (even in great 
 wicked New York towards which remote little Rest- 
 Hampton looked in such horror and dread) could 
 value an uncontaminated mind and a genuine purpose. 
 They wanted integrity rather than ability, and soon 
 Mr. Thomas Hatherton had a little branch office for 
 a well-known firm, in the center of a crowded business 
 locality. It seemed to him, -what wonder ? the 
 very center of the world from which all purpose 
 gravitated. 
 
 Then, at long last, he wrote Annie proudly in a 
 fairly business-like hand, that he had " set up for 
 himself," and was beginning to make his way in the 
 world.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. IS3 
 
 " I shall soon come to fetch you, now, Nancy," he 
 added, his hand almost trembling with happiness. 
 
 Was Annie glad ? She tried to believe so ; for she 
 had a loyal heart, that never once, since that first tu 
 multuous day, had permitted her to question the policy 
 of the promise she had made. 
 
 As a result, there settled gradually upon her un 
 quiet soul, a sweet peace : or was it only a lull ? 
 
 She had said to herself in the beginning, 
 
 " I must steadfastly turn my heart away from ideals. 
 I must stand up and take my future in my two 
 hands and say for this alone, Hive? If once I should 
 sink into the depths of repining, I am lost." 
 
 And so she had passed safely over the shoals, hav 
 ing set her mind upon the haven. She wandered 
 about like one in a pleasant dream. Under the 
 deep shade of the familiar trees, among the pleasant 
 grasses and friendly field-flowers, she came and went. 
 If there was no dazzling radiance of new-born love 
 upon her path, at least there were no defined shadows. 
 Her daily life, as it pictured itself to her own fancy, 
 was all in quiet, restful tones that seemed to promise 
 a future undisturbed by violent lights or shades.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 JOHN WALLACE S RELIGION. 
 
 " But I, most privileged to see a saint 
 Of old when such walked earth with crown and palm, 
 If I call " saint"" what saints call something else 
 The Saints must bear with me," 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 MR. WALLACE S trip to New York was one of the 
 " flittings " he made of which no one knew the pur 
 port. Annie, in her new-found serenity, was as un 
 conscious of it as she was of her lover s day of peril. 
 
 The older man s consciousness seemed untouched 
 by any changes of her mood. So it was ordained. 
 For what had the child been to him ? A sunbeam 
 that had crossed his solitary shadowland. A singing 
 bird that had fluttered in upon his cage and tasted of 
 the food the inexorable gods had provided for him. 
 A stray blossom that had fallen upon his breast and 
 been plucked away, like all else, from his great need. 
 A cloud it may have been across the vision of his 
 snow-white soul. 
 
 His days went on, and it seemed as though he knew 
 no loss. His mind was busied with a plan that was 
 to work good in the island community. His reveries, 
 that had been but broken and intangible reflections,
 
 THE SHADO W OF JOHN WALLA CE. 155 
 
 began to take form and adapt themselves to the neces 
 sities about him. Whether he had come to transfer 
 to the little village of his adoption his real interests ; 
 or whether he had felt painfully in the unmitigated 
 Puritan settlement, the need of his own church, he now 
 began to contemplate the building of a chapel where 
 he might participate once more in that Service dear to 
 every English churchman s heart. The people of the 
 town were dissenters, to his way of thinking, and the 
 rigid outline of their inflexible faith was to him an 
 austere and forbidding form of worship. He was a 
 liberal man, and attended regularly the " preaching " 
 in the place, giving largely to its support. But, like 
 Martha Castlewood, he was not " at home " among 
 the Presbyterians. Many were the talks which these 
 two persons of diametrically opposite bringing-up held 
 on the subject of creeds, and schisms, and dogmas ; and 
 the narrow mind of the woman grew and expanded 
 beneath his broadening influence. It was to Annie, 
 however, that he first intimated his intention of build 
 ing a church. 
 
 One afternoon, a mild and peaceful day in the late 
 summer he came upon her as she sat beneath an old 
 riven tree in the orchard, over which a climbing rose 
 made splendid riot. She had been reading Tom s 
 last letter, and held it meditatively in her hand. 
 " Nancy," it said. " I am coming for you soon." 
 Tom was certainly improving, she admitted. But this 
 man who slowly approached her, with his courtly mien 
 and his saintly face how different he was ! how in 
 comparable ! 
 
 " Annie," he said, seating himself on the fallen
 
 156 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 trunk beside her, " have you ever thought of other 
 modes of worship than your own ? " 
 
 The question would have been abrupt to one less 
 in harmony with Mr. Wallace s thought. Annie, as 
 we have said, was never surprised. It at no time oc 
 curred to her that her friend was "peculiar ;" that 
 indefinable and often meaningless stigma which has 
 injured many an original thinker. 
 
 " Do you mean the heathen, who worship idols ? " 
 she asked naively. 
 
 Mr. Wallace laughed pleasantly. 
 
 " No ; only the differences of creed or rather of 
 creed-form, which divide the Protestant church into 
 a score or so of sects. You did not suppose the whole 
 Christian world lay in Presbyterianism, did you ? " 
 
 " I believe," said Annie, smiling, " that I have 
 never thought much about it. There is no other sect 
 here, you know." 
 
 " This is certainly a staunch community of loyal 
 Puritans," Mr. Wallace remarked. 
 
 "Tell me about the others, please." 
 
 And resting her elbow upon her knee, and her chin 
 upon her palm, Annie was composed for listening. 
 
 " You must ply me with questions. I don t want 
 to begin at the Reformation with Once upon a time 
 there was a golden epoch when sectarianism was un 
 known ! For, in fact, that was not a golden time at 
 all, but full of turmoil and controversy." 
 
 "What shall I ask?" The girl hesitated ; for the 
 tangled sophistries of scientific and all other sorts of 
 infidelity, were unknown to her 
 
 " Tell me the names of a lot of sects," Annie pur-
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 157 
 
 sued. " I know several to start with : the Presby 
 terian, of course ; and the Methodist church at Bridge- 
 Hampton ; of my mother s sect, I have some faint 
 notion ; and there are the Roman Catholics at Sag 
 Harbor. 1 
 
 " And what will you do with England ? " asked her 
 companion, amused at the girl s limited category. 
 
 " Oh ! the Church of England, of course ! How 
 could I be so stupid? Tell me about it, Mr. Wallace. 
 It was or no!" she broke off perplexed: "Is not 
 the Presbyterian church the Church of Scotland ? " 
 She colored as she referred to the difference of nation 
 ality, which still was to her a memorable piece of in 
 formation. 
 
 " Yes it is so called ; but what were you going to 
 ask ? " 
 
 " If the Church of England was \\Q\. your church." 
 
 " Yes, it is my church," with a scarcely perceptible 
 emphasis on the indicative present. "I am not a 
 bigoted Scotchman. I love the Anglican Church, and 
 have never been inside of one of those noble Protes 
 tant cathedrals, without the great glad thought going 
 up as an impulse from my heart. " Lord, I love t/ic 
 habitation of tJiy house" 
 
 "How you must have missed it!" cried Annie, 
 watching sympathizingly the lighting up of his sensi 
 tive eyes. 
 
 " I do miss it," he answered simply, again uncon 
 sciously correcting her mood and tense : " It is the 
 greatest of my deprivations." 
 
 Annie looked earnestly at the masterful face, sha 
 dowed with its forever unspoken grief : and a pang
 
 I 5 8 THE SHADOW OF JOILV WALLACE. 
 
 smote her heart that, while she had been with this 
 man, living upon his generous out-giving nature, she 
 had thought so little about the sorrow or trouble which 
 had driven him from his own. It did not, for the 
 moment, occur to her that John Wallace had so willed 
 it that she should forget to question. It seemed sel 
 fishness that had kept her brooding over her own 
 trivial affairs. So she spoke out impulsively, 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Wallace! How could you leave your 
 church, your home all of it to come here ? " 
 
 Instantly there was revulsion. Annie was frightened 
 at her own boldness. Never had she seen so in 
 scrutable a look upon the face that had showed her 
 many emotions. 
 
 After a brief pause, he said gently, 
 
 " That is a question, my dear child, which would 
 be most difficult to answer. There are many reasons 
 which cause a man to uproot his existence and trans 
 plant it in stranger places than this." 
 
 " Oh I know ! I did not mean to question you, sir. 
 I only meant to to sympathize with you ! " cried 
 the girl, in real consternation. 
 
 " I understood you perfectly," he answered, smiling 
 reassuringly upon her. 
 
 She hastened to revert to the former subject. 
 
 " I have never heard the service of your church. 
 Oh, Mr. Wallace ! it is dreadful never to have been 
 more than a dozen miles from this little town ! " 
 
 " How unrelenting you are, Nancy, to this pretty 
 little Village of Peace." (It was John Wallace who first 
 called it "the village of peace," let us hope that he 
 found peace there ! )
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. l $r) 
 
 " Where did you get the revolt that is in you against 
 the simplicity and sanctity of your birth-place." 
 
 " From my mother, I think," she answered briefly : 
 " but please tell me what they do in your church ? Or 
 what they believe, rather." 
 
 " They do many things in a devout spirit : they be 
 lieve much, with their hearts." 
 
 " They wear gowns ; and have candles and altars, 
 like the Catholics, don t they ?" Annie felt her way 
 vaguely back to what she had read of English 
 Churches. 
 
 " They do many of those things, which belong to 
 the symbolic side of worship, and which I should be 
 sorry to forego. They make the service of God at 
 once the most humbling and exalting act of the hu 
 man soul. They make religion not only necessary, 
 but beautiful. Listen, Annie," 
 
 He drew from an inner pocket an exquisite little 
 book, bound in ivory mounted with gold, upon which 
 was carved and inlaid the crest of the seal ring. In 
 side, there were brilliant and delicate decorations and 
 illuminations upon its parchment pages which made 
 the tiny volume resemble an old missal. 
 
 " How lovely ! " cried Annie taking it in her hand ; 
 " Can you buy books like that, Mr. Wallace ? " 
 
 " Not often : I had it illuminated myself, It is done 
 on vellum, and copied from the style of missal-painting 
 of the thirteenth or fourteenth century." 
 
 " Do you always carry it ?" 
 
 " Always. I am much attached to it. I should like 
 it buried with mf, Annie." 
 
 He did not look at her ; but at that moment the
 
 i6o THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 young girl felt that she had received a sacred com 
 mission. 
 
 " And what is the crest upon it ? " 
 
 " That," the scholar paused " is one of the things 
 which mean nothing, in America." 
 
 He was turning over the leaves, slowly, and presently 
 read in that wonderful voice which none ever forgot 
 who heard it : 
 
 "Almighty and most merciful Father ; we have erred, and 
 strayed from Ihy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too 
 much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offen 
 ded against Thy holy laws. We have left undone those things 
 which we ought to have done : and we have done those things 
 which we ought not to have done. And there is no health in 
 us." . . . 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Annie, enchanted, although perhaps 
 with the majestic voice as much as with the majestic 
 words ; " how beautiful it is ! Somehow I hear chant 
 ing, but the sounds are not like human voices." 
 
 " The chanting of the church is from two choirs of 
 young boys, with voices like angels, who call back and 
 forth to each other in strange old-world music, the 
 words of the Psalms. It is called singing anti- 
 phonally." 
 
 Then Mr. Wallace read on, turning the pages at 
 random : 
 
 " Remember not, Lord, our offenses, nor the offenses of our 
 forefathers : neither take Thou vengeance of our sins : spare us, 
 good Lord, spare Thy people, whom Thou hast redeemed with 
 Thy precious blood, and be not angry with us forever" 
 
 Then shall the people respond and cry with one 
 voice. 
 
 " Spare us, Good Lord 7"
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 161 
 
 " I can see," said Annie, her face becoming suffused 
 with a sudden glow, " a great, dim-lighted edifice, so 
 large and so dim that you cannot distinguish from one 
 end to the other. It twinkles all above with hundreds 
 of lights, like stars : and below a vast assembly of 
 people are waiting on their knees in breathless silence. 
 Upon an elevated platform, about which is a dividing 
 rail, there stands a minister of God, clothed in white, 
 in whose face is a great light ; he lifts up his hands 
 I cannot hear what he says and the whole multi 
 tude of human beings is bowed down, as if swept over 
 by a great wave of prayer : Oh, Mr. Wallace ! " cried 
 the girl excitedly, with a strange terrified look " it is 
 you that I see ! " 
 
 Had John Wallace raised his hands ? or was it only 
 in her vivid imagination that she saw his figure el 
 evated before the silently prostrate throng, his ex 
 quisite head bowed also, and the celestial light in his 
 face ? 
 
 She gazed at him breathlessly. No he was not 
 clothed inwhite: his hands were not raised. Only in 
 his face was the great light. 
 
 " Have you ever been in a Cathedral, child," he 
 asked looking curiously at her. 
 
 " No," said Annie, " never before. Did you not 
 describe it to me once ? " she was looking puzzled 
 and still somewhat terrified, with a clairvoyant gleam 
 scintillating in her eyes. 
 
 " It was before me very clearly when you spoke," 
 he quietly remarked. " Very likely the picture carried 
 its impression to your brain. Such things will hap 
 pen."
 
 l(, 2 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 Then John Wallace read on, through the all-cover 
 ing supplications of the grand old Litany, in the same 
 hushed tone that would have been tremulous, but for 
 its masterful steadying. 
 
 " Son of God, we beseech Thee to hear us ! 
 
 " O Lamb of God who takest away tJie sins of tlte 
 world ! 
 
 " Grant us Thy peace ! Have mercy upon us ! " 
 
 After a pause, in which Annie sat with wet eyes, 
 he read the passionate praises of the Tc Deum Lau- 
 damus. 
 
 " It is like voices crying in the wilderness," she 
 said. 
 
 " Yes ; Vox clamantis in deserto parate viam Domini ; 
 it is the Bible set to music, from first to last. There 
 are no theories of men in this little book, Annie. All 
 of its dogmas are pure, unadulterated gospel." And 
 the impressive voice took up, farther along, the won 
 derful thread of devotion that has swayed men and 
 women since Christ s kingdom was : 
 
 " O be joyful in the Lord, all ye lands : serve the 
 Lord with gladness, and come before His presence 
 with a song. . . . For tJie Lord is gracious. His mercy 
 is everlasting ; and His truth cndurethfrom generation 
 to generation" 
 
 " We all have the same creed, thank God ! " said 
 John Wallace devoutly. " Christians never differ 
 there." 
 
 "And what comes afterwards?" Annie asked, 
 still enraptured with the new revelation she was re 
 ceiving. 
 
 " Afterwards ? while the Ten Commandments are
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. ^3 
 
 uttered there is from some unseen place the low 
 monotone, or progressive harmony of a distant organ 
 you have never heard an organ, child. Some day, 
 when you go to New York, you will hear one. And 
 in response to each one of those commands so simple 
 to repeat, so difficult to keep, the people break forth 
 into a low chant, upon their knees : Lord have mercy 
 npon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law Is 
 not that the soul of worship ? " 
 
 Annie bowed her head. She could not speak for 
 tears. 
 
 John Wallace read on and on. Presently a still 
 stronger emotion seemed to sweep over the usually 
 calm and unmoved spirit ; he sank back against the 
 tree-trunk, as though some strain had been upon him, 
 and a physical reaction had set in. 
 
 He was so pale that Annie sprang up in alarm and 
 asked if he were ill. But he answered " no," and rose 
 from the place where he had sat. 
 
 " I will tell you more some other time, child." And 
 he passed through the orchard and out of her sight. 
 She never forgot that picture. It seemed to the girl s 
 excited fancy like the vanishing of a high, calm angel 
 into the obscurity of another sphere. 
 
 "I know! she cried breathlessly, clasping her 
 hands over her heart to press it into silence ; " I know ! 
 He was a clergyman of the church he loves so well ! 
 The glimpse I had of him was a revelation. Some 
 dark calamity has befallen him oh, great and good 
 
 j~-\ Q T"\ ^ ^ * ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 The next morning, Annie sat at work in the pleas 
 ant little sewing-room. The orchard door swims:
 
 !64 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 ajar, and a nutty, leafy perfume mingled with that of 
 ripening fruit stole persuasively in. The parlor gar 
 den was fragrant with the spices of cedar tree and 
 box ; while the tall lilies bowed, stately, in the breeze, 
 above beds of petunias and stock-gillies, and all man 
 ner of sweet old-fashioned flowers. 
 
 In the kitchen-garden, tricking out the gay rows of 
 beans and neat patches of homely vegetables, there 
 were crimson hollyhocks ; and the golden disk of sun 
 flowers looked over the box-hedge. Earlier jn the 
 season there had been a company of lilac bushes in 
 one corner, and in another the rosy luxuriance of the 
 wygelia ; while from the low-eaved porch had hung 
 masses of the grape-like wisteria. Now, the late- 
 blooming honeysuckle, and the summer-long sweet 
 ness of climbing roses made the quaint garden a 
 bower, and entered very largely into the calculations 
 of birds and bees and all sorts of harmless, honey- 
 loving things. 
 
 When Mr. Wallace joined the family, as he still 
 did towards the hour when Annie had been used to 
 bring him her book, there was a certain constraint 
 upon her manner ; for she felt guiltily that she had 
 perceived more than had been meant for her eye and 
 ear. 
 
 The studies that had drawn her so near to her be 
 loved friend, had given place to work with him 
 among the poor in itself a new bond between them. 
 For, whatever creed was the letter of this man s reli 
 gion, the spirit of it was to do good. 
 
 A universal compassion for his kind is the rarest of 
 all qualities in the heart of man. He may feel sorry
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. ^ 
 
 for a sick horse, a hungry dog, any wounded creature ; 
 but for him to give fully of unasked sympathy to the 
 mass of his fellow-beings, is uncommon enough to be 
 regarded as phenomenal. 
 
 To feel a passing pang of compassion for one in 
 acute, visible affliction, is one thing: to be permeated 
 with an unfailing readiness of commiseration for those 
 mortal ills which are invisible, is another and far less 
 frequent thing. The latter mission was Mr Wallace s. 
 He went about to save the bodies of men as his mas 
 ter had gone about to save their souls. And he was 
 not rejected ; for he came to the poor, and the poor 
 knew him. 
 
 As they sat together and talked, on this pleasant 
 August day, the girl gathered his words into her heart 
 for an endless recollection of him one of those sweet 
 and solemn reminiscences which, years after, she 
 would linger over tenderly. She was glad that he had 
 made plain to her the power and beauty of his knowl 
 edge of Christ. Reverently she always folded down 
 this purest page in the history of him who wished to 
 leave but the simple record that he lived and died. 
 
 " I am going to build a chapel in Rest-Hampton, 
 Annie," he said presently. 
 
 " I am so glad," she replied earnestly ; " for of 
 course you will be the clergyman " Annie stopped 
 suddenly. 
 
 " In the Church of England," said John Wallace, 
 looking steadily at her, "a man cannot even read the 
 service without orders. I shall probably go down to 
 the Bishop of the Island and seek the appointment of 
 lay reader, that I may conduct the service. I shall
 
 !66 ffE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 never preach. I fancy the Rev. B H will recom 
 mend me," he added musingly. 
 
 That was all. More, Annie never knew. It seemed 
 so natural presently, that she tried to put from her 
 mind the strange and sudden apparition of the white- 
 robed figure swaying the kneeling masses of people. 
 It had been one of her halucinations, she concluded. 
 
 But the talk of this summer afternoon was more an 
 expression of Mr. Wallace s faith than his creed. So 
 strong and beautiful was the light which shone from 
 this faith that it might have dazzled a more worldly 
 listener than Annie Castlewood. 
 
 " Oh Mr. Wallace ! " she cried in her eager way ; 
 " how you do believe ! " 
 
 " I do indeed, child. I must. My faith is all that 
 is left me out of a shipwreck." 
 
 " Do you believe everything in the Bible ? Just as 
 it is written ? " 
 
 " Every jot and tittle, Annie. If this is changed, 
 and that is excepted to, and the other is omitted, and 
 half of it is said to be merely typical, what is there for 
 the believer to stand upon ? Uncertainties, vague 
 half-beliefs, lead to denials. There are men who 
 preach from what they call Christian pulpits, that the 
 Atonement is a monstrous and bloody fable ; that 
 Christ s life alone has significance in the work of Re 
 demption : that Judaism was fatal to God s plan of 
 salvation. With mad distortions of the truth like that, 
 what is left to be the foundation of faith ? The cleft 
 Rock is taken away ; the pierced Side is forgot 
 ten. 
 
 " Thee reminds me, John Wallace," said Martha
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. ^7 
 
 Castlewood, who had entered the room a moment be 
 fore and paused to gather the thread of the discourse, 
 " of the old woman who was so wedded to the letter 
 of the Bible, that when she was asked if she believed 
 the whale had swallowed Jonah, replied promptly that 
 she would believe Jonah had swallowed the whale if 
 the Bible said so." 
 
 For Martha liked new doctrines much better than 
 old ones, and was disposed to take pride in her reason 
 rather than in her faith. 
 
 It was the first time she had ever used sarcasm 
 towards her guest, and doubtless she repented it, for 
 she presently left the room, having received only a 
 quiet smile for her pains. 
 
 From here and from there I have gathered words 
 and opinions which fell from the guarded lips of this 
 man, of whom it is said by those who knew him : 
 " He was tolerant to all. He knew i)i Whom he be 
 lieved, and yet he had a reverence for all men s faith. 
 He had pity, and not anger, even for those doctrines of 
 negation or denial which say " / reject " in place of 
 every " / believe " in orthodox creeds" Even the un 
 relenting antagonism of the Puritans could find no 
 fault in his religion, although the little chapel was to 
 them a bitter stumbling block. 
 
 When it was finished, and stood fronting the wide, 
 grassy, Rest-Hampton street, John Wallace s heart 
 went up in grateful thanksgiving. He had something 
 near him, at last, which was an expression of his own 
 innermost thought. 
 
 " I do not wish any man, woman, or child to leave 
 his own church and worship with me/ he said when
 
 T 68 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 ever the subject of the new congregation was referred 
 to. 
 
 " I have found a handful of people, here and there, 
 some of them many miles away, who crave what is 
 called here the Protestant Episcopal form of worship. 
 The church is for them and for me. I sincerely 
 hope that the sound of its bell will disturb no other 
 community of Christians who have a house of God and 
 a clergyman of their own." 
 
 But Martha Castlewood was the first to enter its 
 doors, leading in as usual, her " men folks," by her in 
 fluence. 
 
 There were a few among the sturdy villagers who 
 never forgave Mr. Wallace the existence of that chapel. 
 That the rich squire and his family should uphold 
 the hands of a new priest was a forever unappeased 
 grievance. Perhaps the man who carried this affront 
 farthest was deacon Potts, whose stern Pilgrim spirit, 
 together with a very decided hankering after the 
 squire s daughter, led him a crusade against the gentle 
 scholar. 
 
 " It is a question of my religion against John 
 Wallace s religion," he was given to saying pugna 
 ciously. 
 
 In his mistaken zeal, he vented some of his antag 
 onism upon the Castlewoods, about whom had crept 
 that unconscious reserve which surrounds one whose 
 identity is something unsolved. The deacon resented 
 hotly this withdrawal of the best family and the nicest 
 girl in the village. Moreover, a thing had come to 
 pass which demanded righteous intervention : a 
 " Romanish Cathedral " had been built under the
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. xGg 
 
 very eaves of the church which had held absolute 
 sway over Rest-Hampton ever since the settlement 
 was ! 
 
 Obadiah Potts was the sheep-dog of the fold. He 
 was one of those fierce disciples who forgot that their 
 dogma is not their gospel. While Mr. Wallace loved 
 his own form of worship, being strong in preference 
 but without prejudice, Obadiah hated all forms of 
 worship excepting his own. He made himself ex 
 ceedingly disagreeable to his adversary when they met, 
 and even took it upon himself to waylay him in his 
 walks, offering ill-timed remarks in the heat of his 
 wrath. 
 
 " What I want to know is, why one church isn t 
 enough in our place, and why," he added gruffly, " a 
 stranger should come along and fool our people with 
 a strange church, Mr. Wallace." 
 
 " It is my seed-sowing," replied Mr. Wallace mildly, 
 fixing the soft radiance of his eyes upon the deacon s 
 hard and florid face : (i Is not your community wide 
 enough for me to do my little alms in my own way, 
 Mr. Potts ? " 
 
 " Not if your way is to trample down our way, sir. 
 This is our town, and not yours ; and you hadn t ought 
 to meddle with the religion of our folks." 
 
 In his indignation, Obadiah fell into the vernacular. 
 John Wallace still looked at the man. It was a wholly 
 polite gaze ; for his good taste was too fastidious to 
 permit a stare. But Mr. Potts chafed and fumed under 
 it, as though it had been a sneer. 
 
 " My dear Sir," Mr. Wallace addressed all men 
 as though they were his equals " how can I convince
 
 1 70 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 you that I wish to meddle with no man s religion. 
 Yonder little church is only my way of saying I be 
 lieve ! Perhaps you will not understand me when I say 
 that if this community had been actually suffering for 
 a Presbyterian church or a Methodist church, I should 
 have built that." 
 
 " No, I dont understand ; " cried Mr. Potts, " and 
 what s more, I think that sort of talk is all cant. I m 
 not a talking man, myself, but I can see through pre 
 tended piety when I have to." (Potts had red hair and 
 a somewhat fiery disposition.) 
 
 Mr. Wallace s pale face took a faint tinge of color. 
 There was an aristocratic hauteur in it which some 
 times threatened to overcome the habitual expression 
 of spirituality that it had come through what tribula 
 tions? towear. " I cannot see, Mr. Potts, what you 
 expect to accomplish by personal abuse. It seems to 
 me an ignoble weapon, and an utterly useless one. 
 If I can say or do anything to prove to you that I 
 have no malice in my heart against your congregation 
 and it s prosperity, I will gladly do so." 
 
 (He did not add that there were few who gave more 
 to that very congregation than himself.) 
 
 " Then I want you shouldn t get Squire Castlewood 
 and his whole family up to your new church." 
 
 " I have spoken to them and endeavored to dis 
 suade them," Mr. Wallace replied simply ; " but I 
 rather think it has become a matter of real preference 
 with Mrs. Castlewood and her daughter." 
 
 " Oh no doubt ; " cried the other, his ire rising 
 higher ; " The old lady is half cracked after new things 
 anvwav, I am told. As for the girl, of course you
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. I7I 
 
 can play at love-making with her, and carry her with 
 you into perdition if you like." 
 
 Again Mr. Wallace looked at the enemy who so de 
 terminedly antagonized himself in so vulgar a way, 
 This time Obadiah Potts was thoroughly taken aback 
 at the keenness of the gaze. For even though a man 
 may be a saint nay, it sometimes happens so ! there 
 are still demoniac forces native within him which may 
 rise up and threaten to undo the gentler virtues of a life 
 time. 
 
 The scathing moment passed however. This man s 
 self-control was almost omnipotent. Mr. Potts has 
 tened to conciliate, in his clumsy way : "You see I 
 know Nancy Castlewood. She s a good girl, but easily 
 led, where her fancy is tickled. I don t blame you 
 for that. Nearly all young women are silly. But still 
 I can t make out the good of two churches to split up 
 a neighborhood." 
 
 " I think that there is good else I should not have 
 built the chapel, in two churches. There are then 
 many ways of calling human creatures to Christ. If 
 one way fails, with special souls, the other may suc 
 ceed. Are they not all one, Mr. Potts your creed and 
 mine ? Do we not both preach Christ and the atone 
 ment ? It is our duty to uphold each other, that we 
 may uplift men. " 
 
 This was a hard doctrine to Mr. Potts, who had 
 never thought about more than one straight and nar 
 row sectarianism. He did not like it ; but he could 
 not help seeing its charity. 
 
 " In these times of strange creeds, " began John 
 Wallace, as if to himself, " of wild theories, of many
 
 1 7 2 THE SHADO W OF JOHN WALLA CE. 
 
 gospels the gospel of science, the gospel of philos 
 ophy, the gospel of unbelief, and the thousand other 
 gospels of men s making that have no revelation for 
 the saving of men s souls, in these times of follow 
 ing things new, and despising things old, let us be 
 careful upon what we build. " 
 
 " Yes that is just it, " cried the deacon, only half 
 grasping the other s meaning : " that is why I don t 
 want to see our people led away and unsettled." 
 
 " No no ; " answered the other earnestly : " It is 
 against a too close conformation, a too strict dogma, 
 I would warn you. Tell your people not to build upon 
 their doctrines, but upon Christ. That is the spirit 
 of religion without which the letter is an empty 
 sham." 
 
 " And I would tell you, " cried Mr. Potts inspira- 
 tionally, 4 to beware of priestly teachings, and mum 
 meries that take possession of the imagination and 
 leave the heart unsatisfied." 
 
 " You are right, Mr. Potts. The soul does not 
 need a creed or a ritual. The story of Christ and 
 His atonement is so simple and plain in the Bible that 
 it needs no comments of man, no human theories 
 hung upon its divine sufficiency. It is the world not 
 the Bible that makes religion many-sided. Every 
 one has an own way of looking at things. He calls 
 that the right way. And so it is for him. His soul 
 does not heed it, but his body does. His senses, his 
 imagination, his daily life, demand a creed. I have 
 lifted up my creed in this little town, not because it 
 is better than your creed, but because it is told in 
 different words. Do not let us, in serving God, an-
 
 THE SHADO IV OF JOHN WALLA CE. 1 73 
 
 tagonize each other, but qualify and mitigate each 
 other. " 
 
 Mr. Potts was puzzled, and not at all certain that 
 he liked this compromising doctrine any more than 
 he had liked the other. There seemed, however, 
 nothing more to say in direct and personal opposition, 
 to Mr. Wallace himself. The only thing that re 
 mained was to see the Castlewood s themselves, and 
 lay before them their unmistakable duty in upholding 
 the church which all Mr. Wallace s eloquence could 
 not prevent him from believing to be the only safe 
 fold. Moreover, these lost sheep of the true faith 
 were well-to-do wanderers, who could not be spared.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A STORM AND ITS REVELATIONS. 
 
 " What lacks then of perfection fit for God 
 J3utjust the instance which this tale supplies 
 Of love without a limit? So is strength, 
 So is intelligence : Then love is so, 
 Unlimited in its self-sacrifice : 
 Then is the tale true and God shows complete. " 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 TOM was gradually very gradually rising in the 
 world. Some of the busy merchants among whom 
 he was thrown, recognizing his honesty, made capital 
 of it. His " setting up for himself " had languished ; 
 and when the outside manager of a large shipping 
 firm offered him a salary of eight or nine hundred 
 dollars, he was thankful. It seemed to him magnifi 
 cent. To Annie, also, ignorant as most women 
 blessedly are of the actual cost of living, it appeared 
 munificent. Her lover had been two years in the un 
 known city; and now that he began to talk of coming 
 back to fetch her, she found herself looking forward 
 to a new life of untried promises, with something 
 like expectation. 
 
 Tom had turned out to be the " fine fellow " her 
 father had predicted, and was indeed more of a sue-
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. I75 
 
 cess than even that sanguine gentleman had actually 
 expected. Still, the question of a speedy marriage 
 pended in uncertainty to the outspoken amazement 
 of the village maidens who avowed they would never 
 keep so prosperous and handsome a fellow dangling 
 in uncertainty upon their whims. But when Tom 
 arrived, Annie was completely won over by his manly 
 looks and his ardent devotion. She forgot all those 
 puzzling analytics in which she had been for so long 
 steeped. She forgot her comparisons between Tom s 
 unsentimental attitudes towards her pet subjects, and 
 Mr. Wallace s fastidious appreciation of the spiritual 
 side to every question. She even began to admire 
 the younger man s wholesome love of life and of the 
 world ; and to prefer it, critically, she thought, to Mr. 
 Wallace s unworldly and somewhat impractical renun 
 ciations. After all, it would be pleasant to live with 
 Tom, and participate in his fresh experiences and his 
 youthful impressions. Annie was on the rebound 
 from a somewhat over-done exclusiveness of prefer 
 ence. She had had, for the time being, enough of the 
 psychological side of life ; and the natural aspect of 
 things, as apparent to young Hatherton, was a relief. 
 Then she fancied herself in love with her robust lover, 
 and was content to be married. 
 
 Tom certainly was handsome, and had, moreover, 
 a fascination of his own, that was the result of good 
 spirits and good digestion, rather than of any actual 
 charm or palpable virtue. He was one of those lucky 
 individuals whom everybody likes, men as well as 
 women ; and yet I doubt if any reason could have 
 been given except to praise his frankness, his young
 
 176 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 good-looks, and his easy good-tempered way of meet 
 ing people and circumstances. 
 
 And so, one day, the engagement was formally an 
 nounced. The village congratulated Annie ; but her 
 mother was silent. 
 
 A few nights after, there came to Rest-Hampton, 
 one of those frightful storms of which the whole annals 
 of the coast town had scored but a half-dozen. When 
 ever one had come, it had left its mark in the little 
 burying grounds, where they laid the bodies of 
 wretched creatures who had perished near the shore. 
 
 The earth and sky were enveloped in a dense pall of 
 blackness, shredded each instant by terrifying shafts 
 of fatal lightning. The sea thundered back to the 
 thunder of the heavens ; and the bellowing winds 
 swept the sounds together in one hideous roar. 
 
 " God help the seamen to-night," sighed Mr. Wal 
 lace, as they sat together over the great glowing logs, 
 too appalled for conversation, and yet shrinking in 
 stinctively from scattering for the night. There was 
 some comfort in companionship ; for the blasts of wind 
 that wailed incessantly about the old house rose ever 
 and anon into a wild hurricane, and shook every case 
 ment as with frenzied hands of fear. 
 
 Annie Castlewood s face was white with a strange 
 dread, and she cowered over the fire listening to each 
 mad rush of the tempest, that seemed more furious 
 than the last. She was sick at heart and in body. 
 
 Tom, who had been spending the evening, and was 
 house-bound by the storm, made a few unsuccessful 
 attempts at banter ; but, failing to rally any of the 
 party, relapsed finally into silence. Even the boys
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. ^7 
 
 were quiet, as they hung about the windows as if alert 
 for some unknown development. 
 
 All at once, a sound reached the pleasant room 
 through a lull in the tempest, which made them 
 start to their feet and look, terrified, into each other s 
 faces. 
 
 Squire Castlewood, who had heard that signal of 
 despair before, rushed for his great-coat and cap, fol 
 lowed by the boys who upon certain occasions broke 
 from their mother s authority. 
 
 " Joshua," cried Martha Castlewood " thee is not 
 going out thee will not take the boys out on such 
 a night as this ! " 
 
 " I must go, Martha ! be quiet let the boys go 
 there is no danger on land." 
 
 He spoke in a low hurried way ; and then turned 
 and kissed his wife and Annie, who stood white and 
 still as a ghost. John Wallace rose, his clear eyes 
 penetrating through the purpose of the good Squire. 
 At first, he had not realized the meaning of the now 
 repeated sound. 
 
 " Can it be a ship, Mr. Castlewood ? " he asked 
 quickly. 
 
 " Yes Good God ! a ship to go down in such a 
 sea ! " 
 
 " I will go with you to the shore." 
 
 He spoke quietly, but Annie s strained ears detected 
 something in his voice which boded a sudden deter 
 mination. With that strange intuition which is akin 
 to fore-knowledge, and which is given alone to women, 
 she knew that if there was danger to be risked, John 
 Wallace meant to brave it. She looked at him wildly,
 
 I7 8 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 and as he turned to leave the room, from her over 
 strained nerves burst a stifled cry ; 
 
 " Oh Mr. Wallace, pray don t ! Oh Tom ! go with 
 Mr. Wallace ! Don t let him get in the boat" and 
 then she fell to sobbing with uncontrollable violence. 
 
 The three men looked at her, and exchanged mute 
 glances. Then the Squire spoke out, 
 
 " Yes, Tom, come along. Mr. Wallace is not used 
 to wild scenes like that yonder : and and it s a 
 rough night for a town-bred man, Mr. Wallace, a 
 rough night, sir." 
 
 Andrews was muffling his master in his heaviest 
 wrappings. Presently the latter said gently, 
 
 " I think, Annie, that Mr. Hatherton had better stay 
 with your mother and yourself. Andrews will take 
 care of us." 
 
 But Annie s panic burst out again. 
 
 " Don t go pray don t go," she cried hysterically, 
 breaking from her chair, and seizing Mr. Wallace s 
 arm " Take me if you go " 
 
 "Annie, I think that thee has forgotten thyself." 
 Her mother led her firmly back to her chair. In 
 spite of her enforced calm, she, too, was painfully ex 
 cited. 
 
 Tom who had not spoken or moved, excepting to 
 start up at Annie s first appeal, stood and looked, his 
 brow darkening every instant. Suddenly Annie 
 rushed from the room and upstairs. In her own 
 chamber, she dropped panting upon the floor. 
 
 " What have I done ! what have I done ? " she cried 
 over and over, staring with wide, wild eyes into 
 vacancy. " What have I clone ? what does it all mean ?
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. jyg 
 
 I was out of my senses ! Oh, what shall I do ? what 
 will become of me ? " 
 
 Over and over the same vacant sentences repeated 
 themselves in a wild monody of desolation. 
 
 Presently she heard the men depart. Were there 
 three or four ? Had Tom gone ? Perhaps he 
 would never come back. She cared nothing. It was 
 that other. Would any harm come to him ? He 
 would go to the life-saving station. The men would 
 let him in the boat. Every one let Mr. Wallace do 
 what he wished. They would push the boat into the 
 breakers. The waves would go over it. It would 
 be swamped again the frenzy seized Annie. She 
 fled downstairs and out of the house like a distracted 
 thing. The blackness was so intense, and the tumult 
 of the elements so overpowering, that she was blown 
 along she knew not whither. The rain drove in blind 
 ing sheets through the darkness. The lightning 
 rent the sky, revealing in instantaneous gleams, the 
 wind-swept and drenched and desolate road. She 
 stumbled upon fences and houses ; she fell against trees. 
 She saw, in the sharp and terrifying blazes of the light 
 ning, that there were here and there hurrying groups 
 of people stumbling like herself in the darkness. No 
 one else was alone. She tried to run. Suddenly, in 
 a wider blaze of lightning, she saw the figure of John 
 Wallace, struggling through the storm, with bent 
 head and firm steps. She did not know she spoke ; 
 but she shrieked again and again : 
 
 " Don t go Mr. Wallace ! " 
 
 The figure paused, turned : the group who struggled 
 beside him stumbled on. In another slare of green
 
 l8o THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 light, Annie saw that he was coming towards her. 
 The next instant she fell panting in his arms. 
 
 " Come back," she whispered through her chatter 
 ing teeth "Don t get into the boat." 
 
 " Annie," he said, speaking very distinctly and 
 calmly, " you are beside yourself with nervousness and 
 fright. Come home at once." 
 
 She shook her head, the power of speech having 
 deserted her. She was shaking as with an ague, and 
 Mr. Wallace placed his arm about her almost carrying 
 her back through the storm. 
 
 It would not have been possible for any touch to be 
 more impersonal than that with which he supported 
 her backward flight. She felt the coldness of his dis 
 approval even through the reelings of her own over 
 wrought condition, but he had too much discrimination 
 to upbraid her in her unreasonable state. He bore 
 her silently and swiftly over the road where she had 
 stumbled along in her blind frenzy. Perhaps his 
 heart throbbed compassionately in response to this 
 lamentable outbreak from the terrified girl, which had 
 said so palpably " I love you. I have never known 
 it, but I love you. Pity me ! " 
 
 John Wallace s self-control was not />f the sort to fail 
 in any emergency. He did not press with even a 
 hint of tenderness to his side, the young creature who 
 clung so piteously to him, but held her sternly aloof 
 from his heart. She was none of his. If he yearned to 
 have her so, who shall tell ? When they reached the 
 house, Tom Hatherton was standing at the door, 
 gloomy and silent. In the last half-hour, he had 
 taken a new estimate of Annie s probable conduct
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 181 
 
 during the two years of his absence. There was 
 nothing in Mr. Wallace s bringing her back to him 
 without a word, to cause him to alter his opinion. 
 He had thought the girl upstairs : that she had 
 actually followed the other was worse proof of her 
 perfidy than all. 
 
 He silently moved aside, without looking at Annie, 
 to let her pass. She crept into the house, tearless 
 and miserable, but temporarily restored to her sanity 
 by the calm control of a master spirit. 
 
 " Hatherton," said Mr. Wallace, looking him calmly 
 and clearly in the eyes, with his steady gaze : 
 " You will have to be very careful with that child, 
 I fear that she is on the verge of a brain-fever." 
 
 " Thank you," answered Tom curtly ! " you had 
 better look after her yourself. She is nothing to me," 
 and he strode away into the storm. 
 
 Mr. Wallace stood irresolute for a second. His pity 
 yearned over the poor young creature who had given 
 way so madly to an unsuspected emotion, 
 
 " I should only make matters worse if I tried to mend 
 them," he thought, " God forbid that she should come 
 to harm or sorrow, through me." 
 
 Then he too turned and hurried out into the fu 
 rious night, carrying a leaden heart in his blameless 
 bosom. 
 
 Annie stole upstairs feeling more like a culprit than 
 she had ever done in her life, Tom s gloomy and un 
 relenting face, which had turned from her when she 
 glanced at him, smote her with intermittent regrets. 
 But the kesn, the poignant, the incessant remorse, 
 was from a sense that she had dragged from his mas-
 
 182 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 terful height, the man who had never stooped to say 
 to her silly heart, "do you love me, Annie?" 
 
 The mother, busy about preparing blankets and 
 restoratives for possible demand, had not missed her. 
 Moreover, Martha Castlewood wished to think out, be 
 fore she met her daughter s eyes, the possible tending 
 of that painful scene. The older woman was, by nature, 
 something of a schemer, and even now. busied about 
 the melancholy details of such a preparation, she could 
 not repress a certain exhilaration of hope. Surely, 
 John Wallace would " speak," after that. 
 
 Annie was spared the misery of listening to this 
 sentiment. She crawled into bed without undressing, 
 and covered her head with the bed-clothes, that she 
 might not hear the raging of the elements and the 
 booming of the fatal sisrnal of distress. The cold had 
 
 o o 
 
 struck to her very marrow. The night wore on woe 
 fully. She did not hear her mother s authoritative 
 knock, or if she heard, it echoed past her concious- 
 ness in the rush and roar of that awful night. 
 
 The panorama along the beach swam continually be 
 fore her dizzy brain : but most of all there stood out 
 the face of John Wallace, too gentle to be angry with 
 her, too just not to be indignant at her folly. She 
 fancied him stepping bravely into the life boat, and 
 the frail craft plunging under the huge breakers. She 
 saw his steady gaze fixed upon some distant object ! 
 She watched a yawning wave rise up and envelope 
 the boat and its crew. She saw the water dash over 
 an uplifted head and wash across a serene white face. 
 Then the face seemed to disappear. The night and 
 the tempest had swallowed it.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. ^3 
 
 Annie screamed as only a wild thing screams. John 
 Wallace was right. It was brain-fever, the sudden de 
 velopment of which had caused the poor girl s un 
 accountable excitement, no doubt rather than been 
 produced by it. 
 
 But how was Tom Hatherton to know that ? For 
 the next morning, proud and disconsolate, wounded 
 to the quick, but unrelenting, Annie s lover with a 
 farewell to no one took the early stage to Sag Harbor, 
 whence the little steamer carried him back to New 
 York, alone, and with a great bitterness in his honest 
 heart. 
 
 What of the storm ? and the fated ship wrecked upon 
 that desolate coast in the night ? Ask the little 
 village burying-ground. It will tell of glad young 
 lives, and gray weather-beaten lives, and weary time- 
 worn 1/ves, that were blown out like sparks in the 
 fury of that blast. 
 
 There was a tempest in the brain of the squire s 
 little daughter which matched the terror of the tempest 
 without. But who shall know what late misery, what 
 new ship-wreck, had come to the once storm-swept 
 bosom of John Wallace ! Is there not something sinister 
 which gudes the blind drivings of afated life, which 
 casts it e T er and anon upon unknown reefs of misfor 
 tune ? Surely, only the unerring and pitiless eye of an 
 evil geniu; can so surely, so relentlessly hurl the hap 
 less human soul upon the rocks and quicksands ! 
 
 John Wallace had sought the shelter of a quiet 
 haven where he believed that the furies could not 
 pursue him. But the storm that drove the sinking 
 vessel upon the Island shore, cast once more at his
 
 r 84 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 fated feet the spectre of his life. Meanwhile the 
 melancholy gun boomed fitfully. 
 
 There were noble efforts made by the sturdy men 
 of the life-saving service. There were brave fisher 
 men, too who persisted in launching a boat of their 
 own into the boiling surf. There were half a hundred 
 villagers, full of courage, and ready to lend any aid 
 they might to the futile efforts. But all inexperience 
 was rejected as worse than useless. Only John Wal 
 lace prevailed. 
 
 " I have spent many a night at sea," he said vith 
 his masterful calm. " A storm like this is not un 
 known to me. In God s name let me go to those 
 perishing creatures." 
 
 At first they refused him. So their orders compelled 
 them to do. But when he heard that it was a Scotch 
 bark, he went to the Captain of the life-saving crew : 
 
 " I will give you five hundred dollars in aid cf your 
 coast service if you will take me to yonder ship." 
 
 The man looked at him, incredulously. 
 
 " Come sir," he said almost roughly, " th.s is no 
 time for trifling, Stand aside and let me give my 
 orders, will you ? " 
 
 John Wallace went over to where Squire Cistlewood 
 stood shivering in the rain and cold : 
 
 " Mr. Castlewood, I want you here, if you please," 
 " you will see that I mean what I say, Captaii Murphy. 
 Look I hand Squire Castlewood these five hundred 
 dollar notes for you. Will you take me ? 
 
 The signals from the ship had ceased. Doubtless 
 she was sinking. There was no time to be lost, now. 
 
 The Captain touched his dripping cap
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOffti WALLACE. ^5 
 
 " All right, sir : at your own risk. Mind, Squire 
 Castlewood, that s not a bribe for me, but a present 
 to the life-saving service. You will look out for it if 
 we never come back ? " 
 
 " But my dear sir," cried the dazed Squire to Mr. 
 Wallace, " You surely are not going into that toy 
 boat on this sea ! Do pray consider the danger 
 consider us all ! " 
 
 He was thinking of Annie, for whom his perplexed 
 heart bled. John Wallace was thinking of her too. 
 
 " It would be best," he said to himself, " if I never 
 went back: if she never saw me again." 
 
 Then he grasped Squire Castlewood s cold wet 
 hand and said in his clear penetrating voice. 
 
 " If I never come back, Joshua Castlewood, remem 
 ber that I shall be grateful to the storm and to God." 
 
 And he sprang among the handful of sea-faring 
 men. It took much shouting and many endeavors to 
 launch the boot. Andrews clung to Mr. Wallace, to 
 the gunwale of the boat, to anything he could seize 
 upon, crying like a child, and begging to be taken in 
 with his master. They pushed him roughly away, but 
 not until he had felt the kind pressure of a firm and 
 masterful hand he knew. He sobbed aloud. The 
 next moment the boat was hurtling into the black 
 abyss of waves. 
 
 After that it disappeared, and a great cry went up 
 from the watchers on the beach. It was at that in 
 stant that Annie Castlewood, shuddering in her bed, 
 a mile away, shrieked. Her spirit, it may be, watched 
 from the shore. For who knows whereabouts is the 
 spirit of a sleeper, or of one bereft of reason ? Poor
 
 i86 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 Squire Castlewood spent the remainder of the night 
 on the wild coast, battling in the darkness with min 
 gled emotions of alarm and perplexity. Andrews, 
 half mad with grief and anxiety, rushed about in fran 
 tic misery, hurling copious anathemas at the storm, at 
 the sea, and at the Squire who had let his master go. 
 Tom Hatherton went back and forth the long wild 
 tramp from the coast to the village, where a shadow- 
 as of death seemed brooding. 
 
 Martha watched terrified, by the bedside of her 
 daughter, who was plainly " wandering." 
 
 With dawn, came the abating of the storm, and the 
 return of the hardy little boat. John Wallace had net 
 gone down into the deep. He had come back to his 
 alien life. The wreckers, brave fellows, but supersti 
 tious as are all sea-men, used to tell afterwards over 
 many a pot of ale, and with many a mysterious shake 
 of the head, a story which grew greatly in the telling. 
 
 There was something supernatural, they declared, 
 the night that the Scotch brig went down. Their boat 
 was in the direst jeopardy and would have been 
 swamped every time, but for some strange power that 
 made her ride the waves. There was some one in 
 the company, they affirmed, who could not sink. 
 
 " It was so black you couldn t see your hand before 
 your eyes," a hardy fellow swore, " and yet there was a 
 queer sort o white light, like a halo, which made one 
 man s face as plain as daylight. That man, was Mr. 
 Wallace, sir," and he always finished with " I tell 
 you, / see it myself? 
 
 " T was too late, though," grumbled the sailors and 
 wreckers : " The old hulk d gawn to pieces afore we
 
 THE SHA DOW OF JOHN WALLA CE. j 8 7 
 
 reached her. It took us nigh onto an hour to come 
 up to the place. There wasn t but three live men an 
 one woman afloat. (We picked up the next few days, 
 a good dozen or more dead men about the coast.) 
 T was poor enough luck. There weren t no cargo 
 worth speaking of that came ashore. Couldn t ha 
 been worth much, that ship." 
 
 " And yet it must have been Mr. Wallace s ship." 
 supplemented the landsmen. For it was observed 
 that, after that day, John Wallace never again walked 
 to the old harbor.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 ANNIE S MARRIAGE. 
 
 " Why comes temptation but for man to meet 
 And master and make crouch beneath hisfeet^ 
 And so be pedestalled in triumph? Pray 
 
 1 Lead us into no such temptation, Lord! 1 
 Yea, but, O Thou whose servants are the bold, 
 Lead such temptations by the head and hair, 
 Reluctant dragons, up to who dare fight, 
 That so he may do battle and have praise. 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 ANNIE S feeling when she thought of Tom s depart 
 ure and his probable disappointment, was one of bit 
 terness. What could he know, she mused, of such 
 acute wretchedness as hers ? Only a being like Mr. 
 Wallace could comprehend so subtle a misery. In 
 deed, contemplating the complex nature of her own 
 grief produced a certain hardness towards her lover s 
 commonplace grievance, and she assured herself over 
 and over again that she should never regret him ; 
 in truth, that she could experience only a sense of re 
 lief at being rid of a devotion quite incapable of appre 
 ciating her finer moods. 
 
 " I had rather worship my hero afar off, all the 
 empty days of my life, than marry any other man upon
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 189 
 
 earth ! " she cried passionately in her tempestuous 
 heart. " And I shall be content to live alone in the 
 shadow of this secret love. It is nobler than to bask 
 in the every-day light of a half-hearted affection." 
 
 Poor Annie ! poor innocent child ! little did she 
 know of the nature of the terrible temptation she was 
 hugging to her breast, when she tried to cast aside 
 the pure love of an outspoken, true soul, and to gather 
 to her wounded heart instead the nameless and 
 irresistible fascinations of a secret and unsought 
 passion ! 
 
 Who knows what guilt, what degradation, might 
 not have followed in the train of such an abandon 
 ment of soul ? At least she did not realize ; nor 
 did John Wallace suspect. Only her evil genius 
 knew. 
 
 For a while, pride had triumphed. Then Tom, in his 
 unselfishness and unconsciousness prepared for that 
 pride a downfall. He had no thought of posing as mag 
 nanimous, or of heaping coals of fire. Nevertheless, the 
 coals fell upon Annie s head and humbled it to the dust. 
 Out of the humiliation of that dust she was saved. . . 
 
 Tom had gone back to New York, in a pardonably 
 wrathful frame of mind. He was such an honest fel 
 low, that the bare idea of duplicity on Annie s part 
 was intolerable to him. He thought that he meant 
 to throw over the engagement without another word. 
 But it was unnatural for any thing to rankle in his 
 generous heart, and by the time a week had elapsed, 
 he had shifted his point of view, and made up his 
 mind to overlook her strange behavior as a part of 
 the girl s illness. At least he would give Annie the
 
 I 
 
 190 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 opportunity to do so. It was more chivalrous, any 
 way, to let the girl break the engagement, if it had to 
 be broken. 
 
 That she had hurt him to the quick he neither 
 asserted nor denied. He simply put it aside as some 
 thing which, God willing, should be forgotten. 
 
 And here Tom Hatherton he that was simple of 
 thought and ordinary of action, and unpoetic of soul 
 rose to that height which is rarely attained among 
 mortal men : the height of self-renunciation from 
 which he could look down and say not only " I for 
 give/ but " I forget." 
 
 Such forgiveness is divine, not human. Our fel 
 low man says grudgingly, " I forgive you ; but the 
 memory of our offense is never wholly obliterated. 
 We feel it in the touch of his hand : we see it in the 
 coldness of his eye. God says, " As far as the east 
 is from the west, so far have I removed their trans 
 gressions from them : " and, " I will no more remem 
 ber their sin." 
 
 And so it happened, that one day, during Annie s 
 first convalescence. Squire Castlewood had put this 
 little note into his daughter s weak hand: and, after 
 reading it, she had flung herself sobbing upon his 
 bosom. 
 
 "Dear Annie ; I thought may be I had better go 
 off for a while, as I m afraid perhaps you are not quite 
 sure of yourself. I only heard yesterday, that you 
 have had a fever. It changes the look of some things. 
 I am sorry you have been ill. Don t worry about 
 me. I love you the same as ever, but I don t want
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. l g l 
 
 to force you into marrying me. We can wait awhile 
 longer before saying anything more about it, if you 
 
 like. 
 
 Yours devotedly, 
 
 Thos. Hatherton. 
 
 " O father ! " sobbed the girl, with her arms around 
 his neck : " read what Tom says. Oh, he is too no 
 ble for me ! I am not good enough for him." 
 
 " Yes you are, lass : and he will find it out some 
 day. It was all a mistake. You were ill, that night, 
 you can explain it " 
 
 " No," cried Annie, shivering, " I could never ex 
 plain that night. It is irrevocable. I never want to 
 speak of it." 
 
 " Well well ; perhaps it is just as well, Nancy. 
 But Tom has done the handsome thing. I always, 
 said he was a fine fellow. By and by, when you are 
 better, you can write him a letter, a nice letter you 
 know." 
 
 " I must write now. Dear noble Tom ! Oh, 
 father ! I do love Tom ! I must have been mad not 
 to have known it always. Prop me up, with pillows 
 please, and fetch me my desk. Oh father, Tom is too 
 generous, too unselfish for me ! I am not worthy of 
 him. I have been self-absorbed, and hypocritical, 
 fancied my self above him- Oh, how he has humbled 
 me ! " and Annie wept bitterly, clinging to her father s 
 arm. 
 
 " There there, Nancy," he cried patting her on 
 the back, as though she had a fit of choking rather 
 than of weeping : " It will all be right, soon. Only 
 get well fast, you can soon make it up to Tom. Won t
 
 1 9 2 THE SHA DOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 it tire you too much to write ? What would mother 
 say ? " 
 
 " I must write," she cried nervously ; with a bright 
 fever spot on each cheek ; " don t hinder me, dear 
 father. I must tell Tom oh ! what shall I tell him ? " 
 
 It was a difficult task, for Annie was pitifully weak, 
 her hand trembled so she could scarcely grasp the 
 pen. 
 
 Surely the storm had wrought good, but not that 
 which Martha Castlewood desired. Hitherto, Annie 
 had only said to herself : " I may as well marry Tom. 
 Why should I wait? If I wait a hundred years what 
 else will there be but Tom ! " 
 
 Now, her whole heart went out to him. Good, 
 honest, kind-hearted Tom ! How little had she 
 deserved his devoted faithfulness ! How little had 
 she given him credit for such delicacy of feeling, such 
 nobility of nature. She was overwhelmed, almost as 
 much by his magnanimity as she had been by her own 
 folly and selfishness. 
 
 Penitence is a good stepping-stone to affection. At 
 that moment, Annie Castlewood loved her boyish 
 lover with a genuine impulse of devotion. 
 
 If only she could keep her ideal from troubling 
 her life ! If only she could forget ! 
 
 This was her letter : 
 
 " Dear Tom." I wonder sometimes that you who 
 know me so well the worst side of the me, that is 
 capricious and exacting, can wish to make me your 
 wife. 
 
 " Are you not afraid to think of one day possessing
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 193 
 
 a creature so unreasonable and difficult to satisfy ? 
 Perhaps it is because we have grown up together 
 and known all each other s failings that you are ready 
 to forgive me all my wild fancies and unaccountable 
 whims. I shall have fewer fancies and whims, Tom, 
 when I am safe in the atmosphere of your unstimulat- 
 ing good-sense. Indeed, I am tired of them now. I 
 have a great disgust upon me for many things in my 
 past life. When I look back, I think that your warn 
 ing, two years ago, was a needful one, and that I have 
 been chasing shadows 
 
 " Something seems to have fallen from my eyes, 
 a veil, a mist, and I see my mistakes. I see you more 
 clearly, too, as I see myself more clearly. You seem 
 noble and good and true far, far better than I, with 
 all of my self-satisfaction and disapproval of the things 
 around me and I think I love you, Torn. 
 
 " Do not come for me now. I am too sick to think 
 of marrying for a long while. And besides, I ought 
 to expiate my folly, and atone for my last freak which 
 cost you the journey back without me. Wait a year, 
 and when you come if you are satisfied with your 
 bad bargain I shall be ready. 
 
 Annie." 
 
 Of course Tom did not wait the year. How in 
 human nature could he ? 
 
 When he read that letter, so tremblingly penned, 
 with the pathos of penitence added to the pathos of 
 illness, a few manly tears fell upon the irregular and 
 blotted writing, then he folded Annie, figuratively, to 
 his warm heart, and felt that, for the first time, he 
 possessed her. What he wrote the wonderful man-
 
 ! 94 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 ner in which his confidence in himself and in her 
 blossomed out in the sudden sunshine of her shy 
 affection can be imagined better than quoted. 
 
 By grace of his ready tact, Mr. Wallace spoke and 
 acted with a heaven-directed freedom from constraint. 
 Perhaps, after all, the events of that stormy night had 
 made but little impression upon the solid Scotch na 
 ture which underlay his sensitive temperament like 
 the solid rock beneath the twining beauty of moss 
 and vine. 
 
 Annie, finding nothing for a morbid state to feed 
 upon, felt comfort in this reflection. By degrees the 
 distance between them narrowed, and was finally 
 bridged over by the exquisite good taste of silence. 
 
 The reactionary mood which had dawned upon her 
 before that memorable episode, returned with re 
 doubled persistency. Annie s own individuality, 
 the Self that had so insistently made itself felt all her 
 life was in abeyance. She was beginning to dwell 
 upon a healthier plane ; and this state of mind was 
 tacitly recognized at the Homestead. 
 
 The mother wondered in silence ; for the fact of a 
 reconciliation between Tom and herself was a secret 
 which Annie and her father kept between them. 
 
 " Don t tell mother just yet," she had pleaded ; 
 " I think, somehow, that she may be disappointed." 
 
 For Annie s keen intuition had long ago led her to 
 penetrate her mother s satisfaction in the turn affairs 
 had taken ; and she was not slow to perceive that 
 Mr. Wallace s conduct towards herself was watched 
 with a stealthy eagerness which betrayed a certain 
 unspoken desire.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. I9S 
 
 In his own mind, Mr. Wallace had misgivings about 
 the condition of her love-affair. As once, he had 
 wished to deter her from the hasty engagement with 
 Tom Hatherton, he now perceived that it was possibly 
 the only future which would be offered to the girl. 
 Moreover, he had honestly liked Tom, on his last visit ; 
 and the thought that his own personality had pro 
 bably created a separation between the two, caused 
 him acute wretchedness. While Annie was con 
 cluding that he had forgotten all about the storm 
 and its unpleasant revelations, he was pointedly re 
 collecting the fact that Tom had walked away without 
 a word, and probably never meant to return. 
 
 His fine fastidiousness shrank from speaking to 
 Mrs. Castlewood about so personal a matter ; he 
 feared that it might distress the good Squire, whom 
 he had learned to love tenderly. There was no one 
 but Annie herself. 
 
 It came out as if quite unpremeditated, one Sabbath 
 morning as they walked together down the green lane 
 to the little church, through the twitter of birds and 
 the sea-blown air : 
 
 " Why is it, Nancy, that I never hear you speak 
 of your marriage ? Am I too old to be your confi 
 dant ? " 
 
 He smiled upon her ; but Annie felt, with a sud 
 den flash of her old intuitive perception of this man s 
 meaning, the trouble, the pain, of his thought. 
 
 Her soft eyes searched his face: then she answered 
 simply : 
 
 " Perhaps because it seems a long way off. And 
 yet it may happen at any time, Mr. Wallace."
 
 I9 6 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 (Tom s last letter having threatened an immediate 
 appearance.) 
 
 A sudden pure joy shone out upon John Wallace s 
 countenance, like the light from behind a cloud which 
 was so placid you did not recognize it for a cloud. 
 
 " I am very glad for you child. I am very thank 
 ful." 
 
 " You approve of it, then ? " 
 
 " With all my heart. I ought to apologize that 
 some time ago, my solicitude forbade my reading your 
 fortune aright. Tom is a noble man, Annie. He 
 will make you happy." 
 
 Somehow she did not know why the tears were 
 running down her cheeks. 
 
 " He is noble," she said earnestly. " Of his own 
 free will, he offered me forgiveness for many things. 
 I trust I may make him happy/ 
 
 " What a sweet, young story it is, after all," said the 
 other musingly. " The world is so old, Annie, and 
 yet your life and his are still a fresh and untold tale. 
 It is like the birds in the nest the flowers in the 
 meadow young young, each year. May you be 
 blest, child, with an ever young heart. 
 
 " Dear Mr. Wallace," cried the girl lifting her sweet 
 tear-weighted eyes to his face ; "all happiness is not 
 for youth. Surely you are happy in your beautiful, 
 and perfected life ! " 
 
 " Yes I am happy. Always think of me as happy 
 Annie." 
 
 Oh, great and self-sacrificing soul ! Oh, true and 
 tender heart ! In that moment of Annie s confessed 
 joy, thou couldst not bear, for very compassion and
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. I97 
 
 an almost heavenly sympathy, to let the mournfulness 
 of thy lot cast a shade upon the brightness of her 
 path. 
 
 He smiled so brightly that Annie was genuinely 
 deceived, and kneeled down in her place in the little 
 chapel, crying in her heart : 
 
 " Dear Lord ! I thank thee that he is glad, and that 
 his life is serene ; that he does not need me." 
 
 For, unbeknown to herself, Annie s roots were 
 wound about the feet of this man still. Still, she wor 
 shipped him. If he had stretched out "his hand to her 
 and said : " I am sad, stay and comfort me. When 
 you are gone I shall have nothing ; " all the new im 
 pulse towards Tom, and the upspringing of instinctive 
 longings for the woman s goal of wifehood, would 
 have fled as light mists fly before the strong sunlight. 
 She would have fallen before him and cried " I will 
 never leave thee nor forsake thee." 
 
 John Wallace understood. Gently he put away the 
 possibility. It could not even tempt him. His life 
 was a broken arc. Annie s might possibly be a shin 
 ing circle. At least, it was not for him to take it, and 
 there-with piece out the shattered round of his own 
 existence. 
 
 As he stood at the lectern that morning, Annie 
 watched his uplifted face and said to herself : 
 
 " I used to think that radiant look was all heavenly. 
 Now I know that he is happy on this earth." 
 
 And Annie, too, was radiant. She thought that the 
 lingering sense she had felt, of some hidden force 
 slumbering in her being, had been a feeling that Mr. 
 Wallace disapproved of her marriage.
 
 I 9 8 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 "Now," thought she, "all will be as placid as the 
 surface of the lake." 
 
 So it was on the surface. But even the lake has 
 unfelt possibilities for storm and terror hidden in its 
 placid bosom. 
 
 Of course Tom did not wait a year. Hoiv in human 
 nature could he f And Tom was decidedly human. 
 
 In six months from the night on which Annie 
 Castlewood had pitched through the darkness crying 
 for Mr. Wallace to come back, Tom Hatherton stood 
 up triumphantly by her side in the little chapel, and 
 Mr. Wallace was in the chancel while a clergyman who 
 came at his request, married them. She had begged 
 so, that he could not refuse her. Only a month be 
 fore she had told her mother that Tom was coming for 
 her ; that she was to marry him all the same. 
 
 At first Mrs. Castlewood was incredulous. 
 
 " Thomas Hatherton is going to marry thee after 
 all that has happened ? After what he could see with 
 his own eyes ? " 
 
 " What could he see, mother ? " 
 
 Annie s countenance was pale, and she stood look 
 ing directly into her mother s face. The latter 
 flinched, somewhat, but she made one last bold play 
 for her lost game. 
 
 " He could see that thee has never felt one atom of 
 love for him ; he could see that thy heart will never 
 be his ; he could see that thee has but one thought 
 John Wallace." 
 
 The two women stood looking at each other, one 
 with accusing eyes, the other with defiant ones.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 199 
 
 Presently Annie spoke slowly, determined to say 
 nothing which might bring her regrets. 
 
 " Whatever he saw, or thought he saw, he was 
 magnanimous enough to forget. I hope that my 
 mother will do the same." 
 
 It was so gentle a rebuke, so like the soft answer 
 which turneth away wrath, that Martha Castlewood 
 was touched and frankly begged her daughter s for 
 giveness for referring to what she said was, after all, 
 but a blunder of delirium. 
 
 " Only I have thought, all this while, that it might 
 have been " 
 
 She looked steadily at Annie. 
 
 " No," said the girl turning away, while the delicate 
 color came and went in her cheeks " it could never 
 have been." 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Castlewood took a step forward and 
 folded her daughter in her arms, with that dry sob 
 in her throat which comes to people who have outlived 
 the period of easy tears. It had rushed over her con 
 vincingly that John Wallace had never " spoken ; " that 
 Annie was marrying, not where she would, but where 
 she might. 
 
 " Never mind all that, mother, dear," said Annie 
 softly, stroking the elder woman s lightly silvered 
 hair. " Don t fret about me, or think that I am not 
 content. Indeed, I believe that I shall be happier 
 with Tom than I could have been with any other 
 person." 
 
 The dignity of her reserve was so nicely balanced, 
 that Annie could give a filial confidence to her parents 
 without ever naming the name of any hope she may
 
 200 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 have secretly treasured if, indeed, she knew that she 
 treasured it. 
 
 " You know, little mother," she went on half play 
 fully, " that Tom is not introspective or analytic, and 
 that is just what I need. I have thought too much 
 about my thoughts, and felt too much about my feel 
 ings, and got into a morbid state of self-contemplation 
 you know what I mean, don t you ? " 
 
 " Yes," with another dry sob, " I comprehend thee, 
 daughter ; but I have been helpless to avert this con 
 dition. It is my own wayward and discontented self 
 of long ago that has reappeared in thee, causing thee 
 nameless longings and undefined aspirations. I have 
 never been able to come near thee, barred out of thy 
 heart by a too close similitude of texture. There 
 must be some contrasts before there is true affin- 
 ity." 
 
 " I know that, mother : that is why I say Tom 
 will be good for me. He has never been troubled with 
 heart searchings or soul strivings. It is just such a 
 practical affinity that my unpractical nature requires." 
 
 " It is not that I have not understood thee," Martha 
 went on plaintively, taking no heed of Tom s reap 
 pearance in the conversation, but that I have under 
 stood thee too well to meddle with thy complex nature 
 which I knew must work out its own contentment or 
 misery. But I have suffered, Annie, in being thus 
 left upon the outside of thy life " 
 
 "Dear mother," cried Annie kissing her tenderly 
 " how sorry I am that you have wanted my confidence, 
 while I egotistically fancied myself misunderstood. 
 How strange it is that one heart born of another heart.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 2 OI 
 
 does not nestle to that other as to a home, but is ever 
 wandering in search of rest outside." 
 
 "That thought has often haunted me, daughter. I 
 have felt that it is in this subtle manner wherein the 
 sins of the parents are visited upon the children. I 
 was wilful, Annie, before thee was born; I did not want 
 thee ; I rebelled against thee as a burden. And I 
 have borne my punishment ever since, in having thy 
 restless nature, so fatally like my own, elude and 
 stand apart from me as though it said "I know thee not." 
 
 Annie sat and pondered a moment. This then was 
 truly the secret, not only of her want of perfect affilia 
 tion with her mother, but also of her own incompre 
 hensible variances with herself. She had suspected it 
 always, but, now her mother s words confirmed it. 
 Again, she felt glad that Tom s look upon life was 
 outward, and not inward. 
 
 " I have seen the friend who has been so long with 
 us monopolize thee, Annie, and penetrate thy inner 
 most consciousness, and leave his impression upon 
 every fibre of thy being, while I knew that I thy 
 mother had no part in thy spiritual vitality." 
 
 Martha Castlewood s voice sounded like a wail. An 
 nie sat, conscience smitten, only stroking her hair 
 with cool light fingers. 
 
 "And now," she mourned on, "when I had adjusted 
 myself to that monopoly, and believed that at least 
 I should have my ambition for thee satisfied, if not 
 my love for thee, thy whole career veers about, and 
 thee is going off on a new tack where I cannot 
 follow thee, even afar off." 
 
 " Yes you can, mother," Annie cried eagerly ; " you
 
 202 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 will see that this marriage will restore me to you, as 
 I was when a little child, before I fell into the mazes 
 of fanciful dreams. You will come and stay with me, 
 and we will live together upon a delightful new plane, 
 forgetting the unsatisfaction of the past." 
 
 " Is thee sure that thee does not love John Wallace, 
 Annie ? " 
 
 The mother lifted her head and looked appealingly 
 into the girl s eyes. They were clear and steady. In 
 the reaction from her long dreamy mood, Annie 
 thought that she spoke the truth when she said: 
 
 " Quite sure, mother. I revere him unspeakably. 
 It is Tom who has won my love." ****** 
 
 And so Annie was married. The village gossips 
 who are in no wise different from other gossips, dear 
 reader, only that the term gives the impression of a 
 distinctive class had to adjust their spectacles to a 
 new view of the case. Tom Hatherton had not jilted 
 Nancy Castlewood after all ; and they began to see 
 what a very good match it really was. 
 
 They had counted largely on being dumbfounded 
 at the splendor of Mr. Wallace s munificence in the 
 form of a wedding-gift. 
 
 " It was a lucky day up to Joshuay Castlewood s 
 when that rich man hap d upon them," said one. 
 
 "They ve held onto him ever since, and given no 
 body else a chance," grumbled another, retrospect 
 ively. 
 
 And now they waited for their crowning envy in 
 what the Squire s Nancy might reap from the chance. 
 
 But they were doomed to eternal disappointment, 
 since the substantial box which came up from New
 
 THE SIIA DOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 2 03 
 
 York, on the day before the wedding, was unopened 
 in public. Indeed the story ran that, " whatever it was, 
 Mr. Wallace must ha been ashamed of it, as he had 
 bid Nancy not to open it for folks to see! " 
 
 What was in the box touched Annie to the heart s 
 core : a complete set of silver (everything that could 
 be made in silver, the Castlewoods thought) of an 
 exceedingly plain design, as unwrought and simple as 
 the little old tea-spoons which Martha Castlewood 
 cherished as having belonged to her great-aunt. 
 Each spoon and fork and pitcher and pot had this 
 only for ornament in the most legible script : " Annie 
 Castlewood." It was backed by a substantial check 
 for Tom, which, Mr. Wallace said, would help them 
 line their nest. 
 
 It not only served to line the nest, but to secure a 
 very modest little one in a neighborhood distinctly 
 apart from the fashionable centres of the busy city. 
 
 Perhaps it did not occur even to Annie herself, after 
 the quiet ceremony was over, and the tearful good-byes 
 were said, that " the wedding " the greatest of all 
 events in the life of most girls, was to her a much less 
 marked occasion than the different periods she had 
 marked in her vivid acquaintance with John Wallace. 
 Each one of these stood out as a distinct episode in 
 her existence. 
 
 There was the day on which he had first stood in 
 the doorway, tall and stately and benign ; there was 
 the morning when he had offered to teach her French 
 and German ; there were several occasions during the 
 two following years, in which she had felt a thrill from 
 his magnetism, not easily forgotten. There was the
 
 204 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 day on which she had told him of her engagement, 
 and he had said in that low mesmeric voice of his : 
 " Child, are you not liappy as you are ? " 
 
 Then there was the evening when she had beheld 
 him, with that peculiar inner vision which he him 
 self seemed to have imparted to her, rise before her 
 in priest s robes, with uplifted hands of benediction, 
 and a great light in his face. That was the most 
 vivid impression of all, unless it was the next one, 
 when she saw something saw it ! the waves go 
 over his white face in the midst of a great storm at 
 sea. Truly, her mother had spoken aright, when 
 she said that John Wallace had marked her with his 
 personality ! That had been an absorbing friendship. 
 
 Her love for Tom was not at all absorbing. It was 
 her allotted portion. The other was a beatific gift. 
 
 And still Annie realized that Tom s love was more 
 wholesome. She fancied it would prove more satisfy 
 ing. She was still drifting with an under-current ; 
 but she did not know it ; for, as yet, her head was 
 above water. 
 
 In this sudden reaction against the influence of the 
 man she had idolized, or was it only idealized ? 
 Annie had begun to fancy the whole friendship 
 unnatural and therefore undesirable. The recoil 
 was born of that night when she had flung her 
 self upon him in a frenzy of incoherent emotions, and 
 he had held her aloof with so cool and measured an 
 impersonality. 
 
 Her pride had suffered a shock which had roused 
 her, and put her upon her mettle. In the first mor 
 tification of recollection she had said bifterlv :
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 205 
 
 " He has been a curse to me rather than a blessing. 
 He has nearly spoiled my life instead of helping it. 
 I have grown morbid, and my actual surrounding are 
 unreal to me, while he has fostered in me only the 
 imaginary and the unsatisfying. " 
 
 Then had come a great wave of repentance that 
 she should accuse this good man, who had not 
 thought at all to make or mar her insignificant for 
 tunes, but had merely stretched to her the helping 
 hand he stretched to all. 
 
 After that, the two ideas settled themselves quies 
 cently, and when John Wallace asked her about 
 her marriage, the whole subject rolled from her 
 mind. They stood, she thought, upon the old footing, 
 outwardly; while for herself, she was upon a secure 
 plane of honest purpose and sound good sense. Mr. 
 Wallace s influence had been stretched to the utter 
 most. She had let slip her end. Henceforth, she 
 was to be untramelled by any vestige of it.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A LONELY MAN. 
 
 " / am on earth as good as out of it : 
 A relegated priest : when exile ends 
 I mean to do my duty and live long. 
 She and I are mere strangers now ; but priests 
 Should study passion ; how else cure mankind 
 Who come for help in passionate extremes ! " 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 ANNIE had gone. If the shadows deepened around 
 John Wallace s life, he did not betray it. A part of 
 the dicipline of his lot had been "to sit aloof," as 
 Emerson hath it. Doubtless, through the self-denials 
 which made up his every-days, his character had 
 come to take its majestic proportions ; for the soul 
 grows by prunings not by indulgence. 
 
 His modesty, like his simplicity, was grand ; but 
 little by little he had impressed the Island township 
 with a sense of his force. True to the prophecy of 
 the poet, because he asserted himself, the world 
 learned to come and lean upon him. And still, he 
 felt in his heart a great want that was sometimes a 
 bitter need. Annie, looking towards him from her 
 new surroundings, with wistful eyes, comforted her-
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 207 
 
 self with the thought that he had renounced too much 
 from his life to be troubled by the disappearance of a 
 single girlish figure that had flitted across it s long 
 perspective. 
 
 " You must write me everything concerning Mr. 
 Wallace, mother, everything ; " she had said. 
 
 And Martha Hatherton, being no less glib of pen 
 than of tongue, wrote faithfully. 
 
 There was not much to impart, except that he kept 
 as usual his daily routine of walking ; of teaching the 
 poor ; of giving to all who asked, and of spending 
 long unseen hours over his books and papers. 
 
 At one time Martha wrote tenderly of the close 
 and ever-increasing friendship between her husband 
 and their guest. 
 
 " There are days," she said, " in which he follows 
 Joshua about like his shadow. I fear he is a lonely 
 man at best. Sometimes I am persuaded," she added 
 with that droll touch of worldliness that was in her, 
 " that he will make a will leaving to us his fortune. 
 Not that I desire to become possessed of greater 
 worldly goods, excepting as it would prove a means 
 of enlarging our narrow sphere, and enabling us to 
 take a wider view of such temporal things as are 
 seemly." 
 
 Later, she communicated to Annie a rumor that he 
 had commenced to preach to the sailors and fisher 
 men at Sag Harbor. 
 
 " It is without church, or prayer-book, or gown," 
 she afterwards explained ; " and is in truth only long 
 and earnest talks with that rough but impressionable 
 class."
 
 20 8 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 Twenty-five years later, among the papers in his 
 portfolio, side by side with the sermons he had 
 never uttered, and the Latin hymns he had translated, 
 and the scientific work he had done, and the literary 
 treatises he had written, were found a few verses 
 which doubtless grew out of this period. John Wal 
 lace s Scotch ruggedness and strength were much 
 more apparent in his writing than in his refined ap 
 pearance or fastidious manners. What he said with 
 the lip was guarded and smoothed, for hearing. What 
 he wrote was spontaneous and bold for himself. For 
 he rarely published any of his work, and then only 
 anonymously in some Scotch Review. 
 
 The rough lines, which cannot fail to touch the 
 heart, even though they may not please the ear, were 
 
 headed : 
 
 CHRIST S FISHERMEN. 
 
 " O Fishermen, beside my mighty sea 
 Know ye not that to men such as ye be 
 
 I came with my first call . 
 
 And in the midst of all 
 Your toil, I toiled out my humanity ? 
 How can ye spend your hard-earned lives upon 
 Such periled paths, and not remember One 
 Who, loving men, walked once a stormy sea 
 To save them in their faithless jeopardy ? " 
 ******** 
 " When seas are calm, and dangers out of sight, 
 
 And all the nets are full ; 
 Or when wild terrors crowd the blackest night 
 
 And you can only pull 
 
 The helpless oars and hold your shuddering breath 
 
 Across the waves, Jesus of Nazareth 
 
 May come, as He came over Gallilee. 
 
 Ye know not when He cometh. It may be 
 
 At eve, or midnight, or at dim cock-crow 
 
 Or in the morning : when the tide runs low,
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 209 
 
 Or when the breakers roar 
 
 Far up the beaten shore ; 
 
 When winds are wild, or when the breezes blow, 
 At any hour, and over any sea 
 The Lord may come and ask thy soul of thee. 
 
 " Perhaps, some fierce night, in a driving squall 
 
 When your frail fishing-yawl 
 Is plunging through the black and yawning graves 
 
 Between the thudding waves, 
 Still beaten back from the far home-lit shore 
 You say within your soul, Perchance to-night 
 The Lord will come ; and day shall find me white 
 
 And stiff in the white foam. 
 But when the sharp, cold morning light has come. 
 
 You shall scud chilly home 
 Forgetful even to be thankful for 
 The life you hold as careless as before. 
 
 " And then, perhaps, some morn when all is fair, 
 
 And scarcely with a care 
 
 You rock your thoughtless craft from the bright beach, 
 A sudden gale may catch your sail s spread wing, 
 Or in your boards a fatal leak may spring, 
 
 Lo ; ere your strength can reach 
 The smiling shore, you go down fierce and stark, 
 Bewildered that it grows so ghastly dark 
 All in the midst of sunshine, while your hand 
 Is nerved to pull, and with the flashing sand 
 
 Not half a league away ! 
 
 Oh, Fishermen ! I say 
 
 When the Lord calls, you cannot bluff your way 
 To a near safety ; while yet He calls not, 
 The maddest gust can never cast your lot 
 At the sad bottom of the restless sea. 
 And still lie tells you, Watch and wait for me 1 
 
 If so be it I come 
 
 And find you ready then be sure your home 
 Upon the distant shining heavenly shore 
 Is waiting stormless safe forever more. " 
 ******** 
 
 The gentle scholar s loneliness in the coming days
 
 2io THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 was made more poignant from the fact that Destiny 
 came and banished his faithful valet from him. 
 
 About four years after Annie s marriage, there 
 smote upon Mr. Wallace s ear the story that Andrews 
 the long-tried and trusty was falling into bad hab 
 its at the little inn, where Ben Adams and his crowd 
 held mild orgies. 
 
 What a blow this was to the solitary man, only those 
 who have endured exile can know. 
 
 One evening, he gathered all his forces together to 
 meet the certainty, went to the place of carousal, and 
 stood like Fate upon the doorway. 
 
 A hush fell upon the clownish fellows who were half 
 joking, half quarreling over their grog, but not before 
 Andrews, semi-intoxicated, had bawled out with a 
 great swagger and hiccough : 
 
 " So you think my master s a h ordinary gentleman 
 do you ? well if you could see a grand place of his 
 Yes, sirs, a palace over in " 
 
 Andrews never finished that sentence. He halted 
 suddenly, magnetized by the keen and angry eyes of 
 the figure in the doorway. Never had Rest-Hampton 
 beheld those eyes look so wrathful, so sorrowful, so 
 pitiful ! It made Uncle Seth, who was prosing near 
 by, think dimly of the Face that " turned and looked 
 on Peter." And never was man more instantly so 
 bered than the luckless valet. He picked up his hat 
 with what shame-facedness may well be imagined, and 
 slunk out by another door, not moving his fascinated 
 gaze from his master s stern face, until he was himself 
 out of sight. 
 
 Then Mr. Wallace with a brief bow to the subdued
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 2 II 
 
 company, turned and walked home, the sternness unre- 
 laxed and mixed with a pain difficult to realize save by 
 one who has learned to love a dog or some other humble 
 and faithful creature that, after years of devotion, turns 
 and rends him. 
 
 The next day, Andrews disappeared heart-broken 
 and penitent, but acquiescent. That he had got 
 drunk and begun to blurt Mr. Wallace s affairs was a 
 sufficient cause for his humiliation and his dismissal. 
 Indeed, it seemed, in the poor fellow s eyes, a capital 
 offense, that no punishment could expiate. 
 
 That they two, so long thrown upon each other s 
 companionship, did not part in anger, was Andrews 
 one consolation to which he passionately clung. 
 
 Perhaps Mr. Wallace felt an attachment for the 
 man greater than he felt for any creature in the vil 
 lage ; but it was inevitable. 
 
 For a long while it was the village opinion that the 
 valet had gone back to England, and he was greatly 
 missed by the boon companions of his fallen ways. 
 But, after awhile, Uncle Seth triumphantly announced 
 that the man had been sent West. It may be that 
 John Wallace, looking from the extreme edge of middle 
 life down the long declivity of old age, could not en 
 dure to be left alone upon the, to him, homeless side 
 of the melancholy sea. It may be that Andrews had 
 positively refused to so leave his beloved master. Cer 
 tain it is, every six months, old Seth handled a large 
 envelope addressed to " Henry Andrews, Loon-Creek, 
 Colorado." the then remote wild west. 
 
 The old post-man and his cronies had much diffi 
 culty in surmising the purport of these letters ; but it
 
 2 1 2 THE SHADO W OF JOHN WALLA C. 
 
 was satisfactorily decided, during the next five years 
 that the valet was pensioned : and much controversy was 
 held over the fabulous sum which could thus pay off 
 the devoted servant. The latter, Mr. Wallace re 
 placed by a youth from The Harbor : the faithful 
 friend, he never replaced, since the new waiting man 
 knew no more of his master s affairs than did Uncle 
 Seth himself. 
 
 The occurrence seemed to have a singular effect 
 upon him. How much Andrews had talked, what 
 revelations he had suggested, he never knew, but the 
 fact of his having talked at all seemed to arouse in Mr. 
 Wallace a long dormant uneasiness and suspicion. 
 
 There was that in his demeanor which startled Mrs. 
 Castlewood, who had taken upon herself gradually a 
 deep and lasting interest in her guest. Presently it 
 grew apparent to all in the household, spreading 
 stealthily (as all such things which we would cover do 
 spread) to the neighborhood. 
 
 John Wallace had become possessed of a hallucina 
 tion that he was concealing a secret, and that he was 
 watched. He fancied that there was something to 
 hide, which was growing to be a terrible nightmare 
 to him, making him nervous and fearful, even under 
 the friendly roof of the farmhouse. 
 
 He was filled with inarticulate apprehensions al 
 ways inarticulate ; always by starts and sudden 
 changes of the face, never betraying its cause by 
 words. He held himself by a perceptible grip of self- 
 control that was painful as it was unaccountable. 
 Withal, it was so intangible that no one could approach 
 him on the subject. For he never said, even in secret :
 
 THE SHADO W OF JOHN WALLA CE. 2 j 3 
 
 " I am in terror of some disclosure." Only his face 
 and his altered manner proclaimed it on the housetop. 
 
 The good squire took refuge in his usual method of 
 being helplessly puzzled : his wife went deeper and 
 was alarmed. 
 
 " It is a symptom of insanity," she said to herself ; 
 and she saw with consternation that John Wallace was 
 rousing nameless suspicions, where he had, in all the 
 former years of his abiding, only awakened curiosity. 
 
 " There s something behind it all," announced the 
 wise oracles of the town : " depend upon it, he isn t 
 afraid to look folks in the face* for nothing. He s 
 wronged somebody, most like-" 
 
 But Martha shielded him, as a lioness shields her 
 young. Every now and then some coarse-bred man 
 or woman spoke out openly and demanded the secret 
 of her hands. And she having no secret, and there 
 fore beaten about by questions of her own was de 
 fiantly impervious to their demands or their hints. 
 She would never, by a look or a word, betray that she, 
 too, doubted John Wallace. If she watched him, how 
 ever delicately, for his own protection, he became mis 
 trustful of her. 
 
 " It is only a nervous condition," she boldly averred, 
 
 "which I have encountered before in Rhode 
 
 Island," she hastened to add ; for Rest-Hampton knew 
 there had never been a like case of " nerves," within 
 its precincts. 
 
 " There is nothing nerves won t do when they are 
 unstrung. All that Mr. Wallace needs is a journey 
 somewhere for his health." 
 
 But to this proposition, Mr. Wallace gave such a
 
 214 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 startled and uneasy. protest, that no more was said 
 about it. They could only wait. 
 
 Annie, in her new home, heard of the change and 
 waited with a sort of fascinated terror for the denoue 
 ment. In a few months as though it had indeed been 
 but a mood, the change passed, and John Wallace s 
 powerful intellect and noble tranquility of nature again 
 asserted themselves over whatever delusion had had his 
 imagination in brief thrall. He was so plainly himself, 
 after that, that the Castlewoods drew a long breath of 
 relief, and Rest-Hampton subsided upon the theory of 
 the nervous condition. 1 And indeed, what else could it 
 have been ? 
 
 This was the way of the climax. During that un 
 happy and disordered time, when the soundest of 
 brains seemed in unaccountable chaos, Mr. Wallace 
 and Mr. Castlewood were sitting together one even 
 ing, in a somewhat uncomfortable silence into which 
 they had fallen after many ineffectual attempts at con 
 versation on the Squire s part. (It was a feature of 
 the former s peculiar malady, that he dreaded being 
 alone, and shunned the pleasant solitude of his study 
 as he might have shunned a haunted chamber. So 
 he sat, like an incubus, with the family.) All at once 
 he leaned forward in his chair, and gazed gloomily at 
 his companion s abstracted face. Some powerful im 
 pulse seemed to sweep over him, and he rose hurriedly 
 and began pacing the room. Then he stopped directly 
 in front of the Squire, trembling with some suppressed 
 emotion. 
 
 " Sorrow banishment suspicion," he wailed in a
 
 THE SHADOW Of JOHN WALLACE. 215 
 
 strained and unnatural voice that startled the other 
 from his revery. 
 
 He stretched out his hand as if to reach that 
 friendly clasp : " I can bear it no longer," he cried : 
 " Friend, I would tell you "- 
 
 He stood with his palm outstretched, like a man 
 transfixed by some sudden and horrible apparition : 
 as though he had slowly hardened into ice into stone. 
 
 Then he turned, his face, dreadful to behold in its 
 ashen unnaturalness, and spoke no other word. 
 
 " My dear sir," cried the agitated Squire, to whom 
 the other seemed like a spectre or a dead man, with 
 his passionate confession frozen, like curdled blood, 
 upon his lips " Why won t you speak out and say 
 what troubles you ? Surely surely you know you 
 have my sympathy my reticence 
 
 John Wallace or the speechless spectre of John 
 Wallace shook his head, and sank back into his chair. 
 Presently his arms fell heavily to his side. His head 
 was erect ; his eyes were wide open and fixed, but 
 they saw nothing. By the time a doctor could be pro 
 cured, he had recovered from the slight stroke which 
 had passed over his system. After that, the suspi- 
 ciousness seemed to vanish. The irritability, the 
 watchfulness, the unrest, slowly disappeared. He had 
 once more mastered himself : but his health began to 
 wane from that day. 
 
 The strain had been too great even for his wiry 
 constitution. Nature says to the floods and tempests 
 of the human heart: "Thus far and no farther." 
 
 By the time that John Wallace was fully restored to 
 his natural condition of mind, and apparently of body,
 
 2 1 6 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLA CE. 
 
 another calamity had fallen upon the rambling old 
 farmhouse under the chestnuts. It was mid-winter. 
 The once grassy village street, as well as the meadows 
 and old apple-orchards, were covered with a deep and 
 unbroken snow. White heaps were piled high upon 
 the carefully trimmed garden-box, upon the twisted 
 boughs, upon the gaunt and silent arms of the wind 
 mills, upon every available ledge, in fact, not forget 
 ting the village burying-grounds, whose mounds were 
 all levelled to the smooth slope of the hill-side. Only 
 the tops of head-stones jagged the even surface, and 
 gave a fantastic appearance to the new winding-sheet. 
 
 Indoors, too, there was a mid-winter sadness and 
 gloom ; for the dear old squire, whose hearty voice 
 and pleasant cheer had used to break the silences, 
 were gone. It had been very sudden. Dr. Josiah 
 Clump halted between apoplexy and heart-disease. It 
 was the custom of his patients to live to such a time 
 of life that they departed their accustomed ways by 
 the slow and gradual process called dying of old age: 
 which means if we, in the rapid and soon-over rush 
 of city-life, have not forgotten its meaning dropping 
 the faculties one by one, in so gentle a manner as to 
 do no violence to preconceived notions of soundness. 
 They frequently dispensed with any need of aught but 
 encouragement from the village doctor. 
 
 But Squire Castlewood had not only cheated old 
 age of a victim : he had also given the physician an 
 unfair chance at diagnosis. 
 
 His earthly career stopped short at seventy, which 
 was a departure from Rest-Hampton ways, and a blur 
 upon their traditional longevity.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 217 
 
 " Lord ! " cried Uncle Seth, (who had been for five 
 or six years known us an octogenarian), " I always 
 said the Squire d die young. I always knew he d 
 kill himself, some day, with his rash way, of rushin 
 into new things, oncalculated and onprepared. I 
 hope," he added fervently, " that they ll lay him out 
 in his father s military suit as he wore to fight the 
 British in. Now, wouldn t he make a fine colonial 
 corpse? It would be worth dying young for. Lord! 
 I hope, when they come to lay me out they won t for 
 get my great-uncle s buff waistcoat, that s in the 
 seventh drawer from the top, in the old chest of 
 drawers. I ve made a will on purpose to write it 
 down. Why really, though," finished the wise old 
 fossil, mournfully shaking his head, " I couldn t be 
 happy, walking about with Peter and Paul, if I hadn t 
 that waistcoat and my grandfather s snuff-box !" 
 
 The Squire s last moments had been peaceful. Mr. 
 Wallace sat beside him like one stunned. His eyes 
 were fixed sorrowfully upon the helpless figure of his 
 friend, the last pressure of whose hand was for him. 
 
 " John Wallace " whispered the dying man earnestly, 
 " you have taught me without a word, how a man 
 was meant to live. You have taught me faith charity." 
 
 " My clear and faithful friend," said the other bend 
 ing down and returning the fluttering hand-pressure 
 earnestly ; " This is a great blow to me. I had thought 
 to die beneath the kindly shelter of your noble friend 
 ship. I had thought that no one but you would be 
 near me when I came to the last. I have trusted you ; 
 I have been thankful that I might trust you. I should 
 have died trusting you, if in the last weak hours of
 
 2i8 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 the flesh it had been forced from me to utter things 
 which I had meant never to speak. I could have trusted 
 you with them." 
 
 No other words could have penetrated with such 
 satisfaction the Squire s dulling comprehension. A 
 smile of unutterable content broke over his face, and 
 in the glory of that smile, Joshua Castlevvood entered 
 the valley. His only grief had been at not seeingh is 
 daughter ; for Annie was ill and could not travel.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ANNIE S SPECTRE. 
 
 " Could we by a wish 
 
 Have what we 7m//, and get the future now 
 Would we wish aught done undone in the past ? 
 So let him wait God s instant men call years " 
 Meantime hold hard by truth and his great soul?" 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 AND how have these four years of wedded life gone 
 with Annie ? Variably, as wedded life goes with 
 most people. Now and then, we see a beautiful mar 
 riage, in which all is an even flow of more than ful 
 filment. To some happy women, thank God, it is given 
 to realize their ideals. 
 
 But we have seen that Annie consciously relin 
 quished hers at the brink of her marriage, and endeav 
 ored to take up with a new set of principles. The 
 mental habits of years, however, cannot be overturned 
 in a moment. The birth and death, even of opinions, 
 are attended with both suffering and patient enduring. 
 
 Annie had planned that her actual existence must 
 run, henceforth, in some ordered channel, while her 
 ideal life, if it could not be altogether dried up, might
 
 220 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 flow in another. Her future had begun to look fair to 
 her, because she had, in justice, forfeited it, and 
 through mercy recovered it. 
 
 Then came the test. Could she succeed in banish 
 ing all the dreams, the chimeras, of her lifetime, and 
 not find herself stranded upon a blank monotony of 
 weary commonplaces ? 
 
 Time would show. 
 
 At first, the young housekeeper had work to do, 
 and was glad to keep her hands busy. It would be an 
 untruth to represent the Hathertons as absolutely poor 
 in their new beginning. Poverty is a many-sided 
 word, sometimes with a flippant meaning, bandied 
 about by the avarice of those who live in wide houses, 
 and, having plenty, still grumble for more. The 
 other name for this sort of Poverty is Discontent. 
 
 It is ashamed of the sweet sacrifices which love is 
 glad to make for love. It looks upon those simple 
 self-denials which are so good for youth and happiness, 
 as hard and niggardly stintings. It stands, like the 
 skeleton at the feast, at many a modest family board 
 that would seem lavishly abundant in the eyes of ac 
 tual poverty. 
 
 This was not Annie s spectre. She was not afraid 
 to look her next-door-neighbor in the eyes, and say: 
 
 " We are young beginners : we only aspire to be 
 comfortable." 
 
 No Tom and Annie Hatherton were not poor. 
 
 They lived economically, but well enough for com 
 fort : Tom was kind and cheery and busy ; Annie was 
 bright and gentle and full of pretty domestic concerns. 
 He thought her a very model of sweetnees, and good-
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 2 2i 
 
 ness, and all housewifely industry ; she thought him the 
 best and cheeriestof husbands, and was content. 
 
 If it were not that John Wallace alone stands for the 
 hero of this history and of the mystery which shall 
 presently be shown, nothing could be more pleasant 
 than to follow the young couple into their checkered 
 career, and to find out from Annie s own lips whether 
 living in an obscure part of New York, as Tom 
 Hatherton s wife, was the experience in the great 
 world for which she had hungered. 
 
 Of the vagaries of her girlhood, of the many moods 
 of mind which had developed under the influence of Mr. 
 Wallace, we have seen that she took nothing with her. 
 Only her loyal heart, her loving nature, her large 
 sympathies, her natural deftness v/cnt with her from 
 the Island village, where she had, in dreams, planned, 
 and wished, and foregone so much. 
 
 She was happy and contented ; and for a while 
 lived above these buried fancies and went singing 
 blithely through her small pretty rooms as though at 
 the turning point between childhood and womanhood 
 she had never encountered a riddle. 
 
 Tom worked early and late, adding little by little 
 to Annie s home comforts, but leaving her necessarily 
 with but seldom companionship outside of her own 
 thoughts. This was the disaster which told against 
 her good resolutions, in the long run. 
 
 If it be thought that this story, like Annie Castle- 
 wood s girlhood, is too introspective, and over much 
 given to perplexing problems, let it be remembered 
 that it is in purport, not a novel with a tragedy, nor 
 a story with a moral, but simply a philosophic study
 
 222 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 of character such an one perchance as a modern 
 writer sarcastically terms a " psychological romance." 
 
 ******** 
 
 About the time that Andrews suffered banishment, 
 and his master suffered the last alienation of his life, 
 Annie fell into ill health. She had been more than 
 four years married, and as yet there were no children 
 to puzzle Tom with the vexing problem of multiplica 
 tion, in reference to what they should eat and where 
 withal they should be clothed. 
 
 But this summer, Annie was ill and depressed 
 She was given to nervous starts and sudden alarms 
 Her mental condition deteriorated with incredible 
 rapidity, relapsing into a strange and secretive mood- 
 iness, which had about it the air of mystery or of 
 suspicion. Her state of mind was like a reflection of 
 Mr. Wallace s mood. She greeted Tom with silent 
 tears or with perplexing accusations ; or she held her 
 self aloof from him in apprehensive unrest. Tom was 
 more tender and considerate than ever. He thought 
 he comprehended a reason for her unreasonable state, 
 and his gentleness and patience never failed. It is 
 upon such emergencies that the uses of a sunny na 
 ture and a somewhat unreflective texture of mind be 
 come most apparent. Tom was able, through his 
 good nature and his absence of imaginativeness, to 
 manage bravely. As for Annie, she struggled against 
 the terrible, and, even to herself, unaccountable cloud, 
 as she had never struggled in her life. It was dreadful 
 to her ; but yet it overwhelmed her. Her struggling 
 was of no avail.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 223 
 
 All this while, her mind ran steadily upon John 
 Wallace. She saw him sitting, moody and depressed 
 before the lire ; she pictured him pacing the floor 
 with irritable unrest ; she fancied him starting up and 
 turning an alarmed face to every one who entered the 
 room. Her mother had written her elaborately of his 
 unaccountable mental condition ; but these pictures 
 were all Annie s own, and they haunted her with -a 
 ghostly persistency that was incredible to her. More 
 over, their absolute truth of aspect, and precision of 
 detail made them terrifying. 
 
 " If he would only come here," she muttered over 
 and over ; " I might help him : If I could only sec 
 him "- 
 
 And one evening, he came. 
 
 Looking up suddenly from a book she had been try. 
 ing to read while she waited for Tom s return from 
 business, she beheld standing tall and erect in the 
 doorway, the form of John Wallace. He seemed to 
 tremble with some painful emotion, and the beautiful 
 serious light which had made his face divine was 
 blurred and gone. His hand was outstretched as 
 though in utmost appeal from an overwhelming calam 
 ity ; and in a voice that seemed to come from the 
 depths of some remote despair, he cried to her: 
 
 " Sorrow banishment suspicion ! I can bear it 
 no longer. Friend, I would tell you 
 
 The voice died away, as the wind dies away after a 
 sudden gust. 
 
 " O my God ! What is it ? what has happened to 
 you ? " burst from Annie s lips. She sprang forward
 
 224 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 and seized his outstretched hand in both her own. 
 There was nothing there. 
 
 When Tom came in, half an hour later, Annie was 
 lying upon the floor, face downward, in a dead faint. 
 He was much alarmed and rushed for a near doctor. 
 after placing her upon her back, and trying the ineffi- 
 cacy of cold water and sal volatile. 
 
 When the white lids finally unclosed from the soft 
 eyes, there was a certain blankness in Annie s vision 
 which suggested blindness, or an absence of con 
 sciousness that would have terrified a more imagina 
 tive person than Tom. They kept turning obstin 
 ately to the door, and had a sort of dazed astonish 
 ment in them for which the doctor could in no way 
 account. 
 
 " Talk to her, Mr. Hatherton," he said, as Annie 
 sat up and stared at the door : " I want to see if she 
 is quite conscious." 
 
 " Yes I am quite conscious," she answered quietly, 
 her eyes still fixed upon vacancy. 
 
 "Then why don t you look at me, Nancy, dear ?" 
 cried Tom, the perspiration standing upon his honest 
 forehead : " What ailed you, darling ; tell me." 
 
 But Annie shook her head, and answered " noth 
 ing." 
 
 " Could anything have frightened her," queried the 
 doctor who had good perceptions, and meant to know, 
 if he could, the reason of his patient s singular look. 
 
 " Did any one come in and startle you, Nancy ? " 
 
 Tom asked the question unhesitatingly. He was 
 sure there had been no one there. 
 
 " No no ! not any one ! There was no one there.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 225 
 
 Why do you ask such foolish questions, Tom ? " 
 Annie still looked terrified. 
 
 The physician watched her critically. 
 
 " If anything occurred, Mrs. Hatherton, to alarm 
 you," he said coldly, " you had much better tell me. 
 I could then know what to do for you." 
 
 Annie sprang up angrily. 
 
 " Who asked you to do anything for me ? " she 
 cried. " I am very well, only a little nervous. You 
 have seen women faint before, I suppose ? " 
 
 The doctor rose with dignity. He quietly asked 
 Tom to call and see him later, if his wife were able to 
 be left, then made his adieus, leaving some simple 
 prescription, which he thoughtfully came back to say 
 he would have put up, rightly supposing that they 
 had no one to send. 
 
 When he had gone, Annie turned fiercely upon her 
 husband. 
 
 " Never refer to this absurd swooning again. I do 
 not wish to hear about it, or to see that stupid doctor. 
 It was only a passing dizziness." And her restless 
 eyes sought the door once more. 
 
 The doctor was not "stupid." Nevertheless, when 
 Tom surreptitiously called upon him and explained 
 Annie s condition and her nervous alarms of the past 
 two or three months, he shook his head affirmatively 
 and told Tom that it was only physical, and that time 
 would soon cure it. 
 
 That was the evening on which Mr. Wallace had 
 the slight paralytic stroke. About a week afterwards, 
 came a voluminous letter from Martha Castlewood, 
 telling of the climax to his singular symptoms, and
 
 22 6 THE SHADO W OF JOHN WALLA CE. 
 
 that she no longer feared insanity. " He seems to 
 have found relief in some mysterious fashion, and is 
 now quite like himself," she finished. 
 
 But Annie brooded continually, thiswise: 
 
 " If it were possible that during the crisis of his 
 passing mental aberration, the spirit of John Wallace 
 had come to me, does it not argue upon my own part 
 a terrifying mental susceptibility ? and why during 
 those brief clairvoyant moods (she was becoming dimly 
 acquiescent to what her mother would have called 
 spiritual visitations ) did I only see the man as he 
 was, never as he had been. If I must endure the 
 misery of a secret divination, a clandestine spirit- 
 meeting I know not what to call it ! why could I 
 not penetrate the mystery which broods over his 
 past?" (She had never before acknowledged or 
 realized how she had desired to lift that veil.) 
 
 " Only once," she continued in her perplexity, 
 " was it given me to see him in that other sphere 
 from which he came. He was less a phantom to 
 me then than he must seem to himself in the shad 
 ow-life he leads in his exile. O great and good man ! 
 again I ask what calamity has befallen him ! " 
 
 Still she grew less nervous, by slow degrees and 
 finally the clammy horror, that had fastened, snake- 
 like, upon her brain, seemed to have glided away. 
 
 Mr. Wallace, too, had recovered his usual mental 
 vigor which never again deserted him. And Annie 
 never had another " visitation " as she scornfully 
 called it to herself. The result of that one, however, 
 was startling. 
 
 In the autumn, when the birds were flying south,
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 227 
 
 and a thin vapor was . clouding the sparkle of the 
 mornings and the glow of the evenings, a son was 
 born to Tom and Annie 
 
 During the illness incident to that event, another 
 revelation was given to the kind and devoted hus 
 band, which was a far keener blow than that which 
 had fallen upon his wooing. John Wallace, it ap 
 peared, had dogged their married life, very much as 
 he had tracked Annie s maiden affections, with what 
 strange power of infatuation he could not divine. 
 
 Annie was delirious : and in her ravings she called 
 only upon one name. This dominating master spirit 
 took every attitude towards her teacher, friend, 
 priest, guide, phantom : never, Tom acknowledged, as 
 lover. He believed the truth ; that the man was pure* 
 and had never sought to win the girl s heart. She had 
 cast it at John Wallace s feet unsought, from first to 
 last. And she was his wife. 
 
 The mystery of the swooning had betrayed itself- 
 Annie was continually starting forward and crying in 
 a voice of anguish. " O Mr. Wallace ! what is it ? 
 what has happened to you ? " 
 
 And then she would fall back nerveless relaxed,, 
 with the blank terror in her eyes, that pierced Tom to 
 the very soul. At first he was disposed to think that 
 Mr. Wallace (whom, he pathetically explained to the 
 physician and the nurse, was an old gentleman, his 
 wife s teacher, of whom she was very fond) had 
 actually been there. But Dr. Walton at once dis 
 abused his mind saying that it was no uncommon 
 thing for women in Annie s depressed nervous condi 
 tion to see and hear many things which had no sub-
 
 22 8 THE SHA DOW OF JOHN WALLA CE. 
 
 stance. After awhile the delirium passed, and Tom 
 sent for Mrs. Castlewood ; but, with an instinct of 
 silence which delicacy taught even him, to her he im 
 parted nothing. Whatever suffering the tender 
 hearted fellow endured, whatever disappointment 
 stung his generous soul, he meant to bear it 
 alone. After all, like that other time, it might 
 have been only the derangement of coming illness. 
 For he would not suffer himself to doubt his wife. 
 She had been good and true to him, and until the last 
 spring, light-hearted and loving. No Annie had 
 thought no wrong. She had been terribly nervous, 
 and then terribly ill. He meant to forget it. Above 
 all, Annie should never be reminded of it ; she, too, 
 should forget, 
 
 Only, when he came upon the little tea-table spread 
 with John Wallace s silver, the night that these pain 
 ful thoughts were first thrust upon him, he broke 
 down. It was more than he could bear. He sat down 
 with folded arms and his boyish head bent upon them, 
 in a stupor of hopeless dejection. Then he swept all 
 the silver together and put it, with the remainder, in 
 the strong box in which it had come, which stood con 
 fidingly, Rest-Hampton fashion, in the little dining- 
 room. The next day, he had it sent to a bank where 
 they promised to take care of it ; then he bought, ill 
 though he could afford it, a few necessary pieces 
 only spoons and forks, and a sugarbowl and cream- 
 pitcher, but of the best silver. On them he had en 
 graved ; " Annie Hatherton." It would serve as a 
 reminder of her married state, to negate the " Annie 
 Castlewood " on Mr. Wallace s silver.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 229 
 
 When Annie was able to eat a little, they came up 
 on the tray. " It is a birthday-present, Nancy," he 
 said, kissing her gently. 
 
 Tom was not of a jealous nature ; but he had had his 
 dark hour ; and he bore it nobly, unflinchingly, with 
 out the sentimental solace of adjusting cause and effect, 
 which enables many people to console themselves 
 with placing their troubles in a picturesque light. 
 
 To Tom, it was a hard, dry fact ; and he endured it. 
 What varnishing he did, was not to ameliorate his own 
 suffering, but to shield and excuse his wife. 
 
 If we have despised young Hatherton in the past 
 dear reader, let us now forever remember him as 
 capable of that rarest quality unconscious heroism. 
 
 The little boy throve finely. Annie, too, was grown 
 well and strong, without a shade upon her of those 
 previous months of mental wretchedness. If she re 
 called the details of that time, or any of her painful 
 hallucinations, she never referred to them. They sank 
 back into the recesses of her mind, with a power of 
 reserve which resembled Mr. Wallace s own. Martha 
 Castlewood never suspected, and was content. Tom 
 and Annie seemed so happy together -indeed they 
 were, in a sweet and chastened way that she was 
 ready to say in the language of her people, " My 
 daughter was led to choose according to the Spirit." 
 
 From this time, Annie clung to her husband with 
 a devotion which sometimes brought tears to the 
 mother s eyes. It was as though she had some atone 
 ment to make to him, some debt of love to pay, which 
 was greater than she could bear. Because it was 
 mute, it was none the less consoling to Tom s sore
 
 230 
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 heart, who now believed that however inexplicable 
 some things had been, and Tom never attempted to 
 unravel the mysterious his wife loved him. 
 
 That she loved him, had ceased to be a sentiment 
 or an assertion with Annie. It had become, from the 
 hour that she looked into her baby s face, the actual, 
 unquestionable and soul-satisfying certainty of her ex 
 istence, against which she felt that other sway, which 
 she had so long struggled with, could never again pre 
 vail. To be sure, it was the fifth year of their mar 
 riage, when Tom and Annie Hatherton entered finally 
 into their haven of rest an unalloyed and mutual 
 devotion, at which stories may as well finish, for 
 there are thereafter no questions, or uncertainties, 
 or changes possible. And unbroken peace of mind 
 does not make a good background to a romance. 
 
 The baby was a marvel to them, as is always the 
 case when one turns up, unexpectedly, after several 
 childless years. It is therefore a great step towards 
 insuring a welcome, for the first-born to delay its ap 
 pearance. Moreover, when two people have come, 
 through many misunderstandings, to love each other 
 restfully, there is an added peace of mind in " the 
 baby." 
 
 One day, bending over its crib, the proud and happy 
 father looked trustfully into his wife s face : 
 
 " Nancy, suppose we call the boy John Wallace ? " 
 
 Annie burst into tears the first she had shed in 
 the two happy months since the child s birth. 
 
 " Oh Tom ! " she cried, clinging to his neck, " why 
 are you so good and true and generous ! You would 
 break my heart if I did not love you !"
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE, 231 
 
 For, through that silent divination given her by 
 nature, Annie was aware that Tom " knew." 
 
 " But you do love me, my darling, and that is why 
 I want to call the boy John Wallace. " 
 
 " Tom isn t a pretty name," Annie said, smiling 
 through her tears, with her head nestled happily upon 
 his shoulder, and his strong arm pressing her to his 
 thankful heart, " Neither is Joshua. Only think of 
 giving such an old name to such a young creature. 
 I think John Wallace Hatherton would be nice." 
 
 And so it came about with no scene, or especial sig 
 nificance. " Mr. Wallace helped me once when I was 
 in great need of help," Tom had told Annie more than 
 once. 
 
 Now he added : 
 
 " We must try to persuade him to come and see 
 us. I ll wager he abominates babies ; but may be he 
 will like this one, he s such a splendid boy." 
 
 The splendid boy here rebelling against the personal 
 conversation in such close proximity to his dreams 
 opening his big eyes, lifted up his voice, and wept. 
 
 Tom picked him up and held him proudly to 
 view. 
 
 " Can t you guess how resigned Mr. Wallace would 
 look, if he heard those howls ! " 
 
 And they laughed merrily. They had come at that 
 moment for the first time to speak naturally and easily 
 of the man whose shadow had at last gone from be 
 tween their hearts. 
 
 John Wallace could not be persuaded to visit the 
 happy couple in New York ; but Tom and Annie went 
 up to Rest-Hampton for a holiday, carrying the boy
 
 232 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 with them. Whereupon there was a christening in 
 the chapel, and the neighbors remarked : 
 
 Now the Squire s Nancy s got an heir for all Mr. 
 Wallace s money." 
 
 The next time that Annie and her boy paid a visit 
 to the village of peace, for traveling was not so glib 
 a thing thirty years ago, as now, the little " John 
 Wallace " as the child was quaintly called, was five or 
 six years old ; and, to the amazement of every one, 
 resembled neither father nor mother, but the man for 
 whom he was named. For nearly five years before 
 his birth, Annie Hatherton had not beheld the face 
 of her " master " ; but the child who then came to 
 her had in miniature those self-same lineaments. 
 
 It had puzzled the good understanding of honest 
 Tom. The neighbors commented, and speculated, 
 and finally raked up the old theory that " Mr. Wallace 
 must be, unbeknown, some kin to Martha Castlewood." 
 There were no aspiringly philosophic minds among 
 them, else they might have discoursed sagely upon 
 pre-natal influence. 
 
 Annie and her mother discussed the resemblance 
 once or twice with some awe, and then dropped it as 
 inexplicable. Of the spectre in the doorway, no one 
 ever spoke. 
 
 But to Mr. Wallace the resemblance was a singular 
 happiness : 
 
 " I see myself when I was a little laddie," he 
 said tenderly ; " He is a bonnie bairn, Nancy, and 
 good favored. (As the man grew older, he occasion 
 ally resumed some of the Scotchisms of his youth, 
 but only in speaking to his god-son or about him.)
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 233 
 
 " I was innocent looking like that, myself," he 
 resumed thoughtfully : " Life is an ever-mindful 
 teacher. She never lets go of us. She begins to 
 alter our looks while we are wee bairnies. The longer 
 we stay in this world, the more unlike we grow to our 
 first selves. The boy will look as time-worn as I do, 
 some day." 
 
 Annie looked up at him with all the admiration of 
 her girlhood in her bird-like eyes : 
 
 " It is my greatest happiness that he should favor 
 you, dear Mr. Wallace. I hope the resemblance will 
 increase continually, not only physically, but mentally 
 morally spiritually " 
 
 "No, no, child," interrupted John Wallace gravely ; 
 " wish him like no man. Let him shape his own 
 identity." 
 
 It was in the early summer that Annie had come 
 to the Old Homestead. She wandered about in her 
 old haunts, and her boy s glad young voice woke 
 pleasant echoes in the quiet rooms. The solitary 
 man and the child became fast friends, and the patter 
 of small feet that followed his measured footsteps was 
 music that delighted his soul. 
 
 But Annie s heart was divided. She thought of 
 Tom dear unselfish Tom, who never thought what 
 might make himself happy, but only what would give 
 her pleasure brave Tom, working by himself at 
 nights over his accounts, in their little sitting-room. 
 How lonely the place must feel ! how dreary his soli 
 tary breakfasts ! Annie s wife-heart yearned over the
 
 2 3 4 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE, 
 
 picture, so she brought her visit to a close alas ! 
 not too soon. 
 
 The last evening had come, and a strange presenti 
 ment of sadness seemed to possess her imagination, 
 and fill her with forboding. Twilight had settled 
 upon the wide village street. The trees swung their 
 great arms about as if beckoning among their forsaken 
 shades for the ghosts of departed sunbeam and song 
 and cheer. From far away, the murmur of the sea 
 came plaintively, as though it, too, were grieving for 
 some sweetness that had gone with the daylight. 
 
 Annie sought the solitude of the South-End Ceme 
 tery, to take a wistful farewell of her father s grave. 
 Kneeling upon the soft grass beside the mound, she 
 pressed her cheek upon the new head-stone. 
 
 Here Mr. Wallace found her, later, and came to 
 remind her that the dampness was unsafe. He stood 
 looking down upon her in his calm way, and presently 
 spoke : 
 
 " You are kneeling on my grave, Annie." 
 
 She started violently, and a shiver went through 
 her heart. 
 
 " What a dreadful idea," she said, rising hurriedly. 
 
 "Your dear father promised that a bit of ground 
 on one side of his resting-place should be mine. If 
 I should never see you again, you will remember, 
 Annie ? " 
 
 She nodded her head, speechless. 
 
 " Your mother will lie there, one day," pointing 
 thoughtfully to the vacant place on the other side : 
 " and you will come here, with your husband and the 
 lad, to look at us."
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 235 
 
 "Who knows which one of us shall lie here next," 
 Annie broke in hastily. " It might be the youngest : 
 it might be our boy." 
 
 "The graves are mostly for the old," John Wallace 
 said, and paused. Then his twilight voice went on 
 dreamily, as though it were a part of the evening 
 gloom : 
 
 " It is a strange lot to crave, that one should be 
 buried in a foreign land among those who are strangers 
 to his people and to his past. And yet, I am content : 
 I desire it." 
 
 " Do you never care to sec them again your peo 
 ple ? " Annie questioned, awe-struck. 
 
 " If I did, it would be of no avail. There is a 
 mist a veil between their faces and mine. But 
 come, child," (to him she never ceased to be a child) 
 " the night-air is growing very chilly." 
 
 He led her gently from the hallowed spot, and 
 they walked home in silence.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 -" Thinking how my life 
 
 Had shaken under me, broke short indeed 
 And showed the gap twixtwhatis, what should be, 
 And into what abysm the soul may slip, 
 Leave aspiration here, achievement there, 
 Lacking omnipotence to connect extremes " 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 THE period of Annie s day-dreaming had passed. 
 Her whole thought was given, now, loyally and loving 
 ly, to her husband and her child. They were her com 
 pensation for lost ideals. 
 
 Hers was a healthy nature : one of those sweet and 
 vigorous souls which are forever young, and to whose 
 enthusiasm the perpetual jars and hard judgments 
 and mock-sympathies, of the world bring no chill. 
 And the content which had come, after the first years 
 of her married life, was none the less profound that it 
 had been denied to her in the days of her wooing and 
 her wedding. 
 
 She had come upon a plane whose joys and hopes 
 had no fear of disillusion. 
 
 While we are young and thoughtless, we look with 
 impatience and some contempt upon the melancholy 
 strain of the old, who insist upon telling us, whether
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 337 
 
 we will or no, that joy soon grows desolate, and our 
 brightest hopes must inevitably become mere ashes 
 of roses. We secretly think them morbid hypochon 
 driacs until, presently, mid-way up the slope of young 
 life, we stand face to face with the Eternal verities 
 Death and Sorrow. After that, it is easier to believe 
 the croakings of the old. By and by, we too shall 
 croak. 
 
 Tom Hatherton was among those forever happy and 
 unsubdued souls who are not left upon the life-road 
 long enough to learn the sombre lessons of its down 
 hill days. But Annie s feet came suddenly upon 
 the Verities. 
 
 It is in a darkened room where we find the brave 
 fellow stricken down by one of those fatal, mid-sum 
 mer plagues which sweep over great cities. 
 
 He is in the first vigor of his young manhood. He 
 has never in his lusty life known the meaning of sick 
 ness or bodily pain. But there he tosses, hot and 
 restless, the purple fever-flush contrasting painfully 
 with his wife s white and anxious face. 
 
 The boy is playing unheeded in the room. Some 
 flowers Annie had purchased at the street-corner be 
 cause they were country-flowers and might please poor 
 Tom, are lying wilting, where she threw them, when 
 she found her husband palpably worse. The doctor 
 whom she hastily summoned has come and gone, 
 leaving only the terrible message that there is noth 
 ing more to be done. 
 
 The wife knows that her husband has but a few 
 hours to live : and yet he is ignorant of his condition. 
 She cannot tell him. Death is taking him unawares.
 
 238 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 In the intervals, between the spells of delirium, he 
 talks perpetually about the annoyance of losing time 
 from his business, and how he will make it all up ; of 
 his intentions for the boy s future ; of his plans to give 
 her happiness ; of the better house they will have next 
 year. And all the while, Annie hears beneath his 
 talking as one hears the ticking of a clock beneath 
 the noises of a household : " He is dying : one hour ! 
 He is dying : two hours ! He is dying : three 
 hours " 
 
 The thought of death had never presented itself to 
 this cheerful and wholesome nature. Tom felt the icy 
 hand upon his brow and smiled, thinking it was 
 Annie s touch. 
 
 "What makes you look sad, Nancy ? has anything 
 happened ? There was no one in the doorway that 
 time, was there ? It was only a fainting fit. Some 
 one said it was Mr. Wallace : but I knew better. If 
 he had come you would have told me. Anyway, I 
 got the silver." 
 
 After a pause he went on almost incoherently : 
 
 " I seem to be dreaming, seeing things. Funny 
 for me, isn t it ? I ve always been such an unsenti 
 mental fellow. Too unsentimental for you, maybe. 
 
 But we ve been very happy, haven t we Look 
 
 there ! In the corner ? It is Mr. Wallace ! He 
 has cut his throat " 
 
 Tom sprang up with a shriek, in the very frenzy 
 of fever, his eyes rolling like a maniac and the 
 purple flush deepening every instant. Great God ! 
 was he to die like that? Annie shuddered. The 
 child ran terrified to his mother and clung to her
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 239 
 
 sobbing. She soothed him with his head in her lap, 
 that he might not see his father s face. 
 
 " Dear Love," cried Annie to him, beseechingly, 
 winding her arm about his neck, and laying him gently 
 back upon the pillow ; " Do not think. Try to lie 
 still and look at me. Try to remember how I love 
 you how I love you, Tom." 
 
 Her voice broke into a dreary sob. She drew his 
 burning head upon her breast and tried to bear the 
 coming blow quietly for his sake. 
 
 " He must not know," she thought. "It will be 
 easier for him, if he does not know It will all be 
 over soon and he will not have to suffer the pain of 
 parting." 
 
 Annie did not realize it ; but it was John Wal 
 lace s life of, self abnegation which had made that 
 courage possible to her 
 
 After a while, this delirium having passed, Tom 
 spoke naturally again, although still wandering. 
 
 " Poor little girl ! Poor Nancy," he whispered with 
 his head upon her breast ; " how sick you have 
 been. But the boy is such a fine little fellow you 
 will be so proud of him, when you are able," his 
 strength ebbed, but presently flowed back, and he went 
 on cheerfully : 
 
 " As soon as you are well enough, Nancy, you shall 
 have a change. We will go somewhere, you and baby 
 and I : you always wanted to see the world, didn t 
 you ? Have you been disappointed, Darling ? " 
 
 He raised his head slightly to look at her ; Annie 
 saw with terror that the fever fire had burnt out sud 
 denly leaving his face gray, like ashes.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 "No no, Tom ! I have been so happy, so contented, 
 She broke down in an agony of weeping. 
 
 " Don t cry Nancy, " he said gently," you are tired 
 out. What a sorry fellow I am to give you so much 
 trouble. But you needn t sit up with me to-night, 
 you know I m such a heap better, I feel quite com 
 fortable now." 
 
 " Yes, Love," was all she could articulate, as she 
 bathed his forehead and wet his lips. 
 
 " Let us have the boy," he went on, catching sight 
 of the curly head buried in Annie s lap. 
 
 She lifted the little fellow up, and after pressing his 
 rosy cheek to the wan and death-struck face, she coaxed 
 the child to lie down in her arms to go to sleep. 
 
 " He s a pretty boy, Nancy. It s curious, that look he 
 has of Mr. Wallace. He takes after you though : you 
 know I used to tell you that you favored Mr. Wallace." 
 
 Annie smiled in response. She was singing the boy 
 to sleep in a heartbroken voice, 
 
 "Jesus, loi er of my soul, 
 Let me to thy bosom fly" 
 
 but the words were for Tom. She wanted them to 
 take hold upon his consciousness. 
 
 He seemed to be listening ; but presently his 
 thoughts came back to earth : life was such a strong 
 good thing to him : 
 
 "Last night I dreamed I was at Rest- Hampton, 
 Nancy, wasn t it queer ? There was a storm and con 
 fusion : you were out in the rain. I couldn t find you 
 I ran all about in the dark. At last Mr, Wallace 
 found you and brought you back. But you hurried
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 341 
 
 away from him and came to me. We were in the 
 South-End Cemetery. And you preferred me." 
 
 He smiled so trimphantly, that Annie tried hard to 
 force a smile in return. The boy had fallen asleep, and 
 she laid him in his crib in the adjoining room first 
 holding him out mutely for Tom to kiss. 
 
 Then she sat down and took her husband s hands in 
 hers. Even in that instant of absence " the change " had 
 deepened. " Tom," she whispered in a choking voice ? 
 I love you so dearly ; do you hear me, Love ?" 
 
 His bonny blue eyes were filmy, and his hand groped 
 piteously when he tried to pass it over her face. But 
 he did not suspect. Still, Annie could not tell him. 
 She seized the groping hand and kissed it passionately, 
 over, and over, which brought a faint puzzled look to 
 the glazing eyes. 
 
 " Yes," he articulated more and more brokenly, the 
 pauses growing longer between the words that came 
 in gasps : " We will go together on a journey, where 
 shall we go Nancy ? Perhaps your father will 
 go with us the snow is not over him now. It 
 is summer time. He could go we will all go 
 on a journey,"- 
 
 Poor Tom s hand relaxed. The last glimmer of 
 light and life left his sunny eyes. He had gone on 
 a journey. 
 
 Annie wept, and could not be comforted ***** 
 
 When her mother and Mr. Wallace arrived, in a few 
 hours, they were too late to save her that first utter 
 desolation of loneliness. 
 
 It seemed so unnatural that Tom, the strongest 
 gayest, busiest of them all ! should have died : Tom
 
 242 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 who was always young and happy ! Tom, who had 
 never thought of death however remotely, as coming to 
 himself ; who had a long fair future before him, and a 
 son who would need his manly encouragement. 
 
 At her father s grave, Annie had gathered peace. 
 He had fought his good fight ; he had finished his 
 course. But Tom had just begun his battle in the 
 world for her sake. 
 
 " Oh, if I had only known, long ago ! If I had only 
 never pined to come away from that peaceful place ; 
 The fever would not have found him there ! It is cruel 
 cruel ! " 
 
 And so she moaned on with incessant upbraidings 
 and self reproaches. 
 
 "My child," aaid John Wallace gravely, "you do 
 wrong to grieve in that hard bitter way as one with 
 out hope ; never let sorrow make you bitter, Annie. 
 Pray to be delivered from unsanctified affliction." 
 
 "But he was so young so full of life and cour 
 age! "she sobbed, still rebelling. "And it was so 
 long so long, before I loved him ! " 
 
 The other did not notice her last wail. 
 
 " Yes he was young ; but that is good, Annie to 
 die young. To be spared the long struggle and down 
 fall of life. To live to grow old ; to lose the fresh 
 ness of hope, the firmness of courage that is the 
 hard thing. Tell me, child, which is better, to be 
 lying there with his soul at home in the bosom of 
 God ; or to be standing here as I stand a stranger 
 in a strange land, with my soul pent hindered 
 
 He broke off in emotion, looking at the silent figure, 
 as one who coveted its repose.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 243 
 
 " Oh Mr. Wallace ! " cried the bereaved wife : 
 " Do you think it is best for Tom ? will lie be satis 
 fied with his brief life ? " 
 
 " When I shall awake in His likeness, I shall be 
 satisfied. Do you think any earthly content can com 
 pare with that, Annie ? Be sure that your husband s 
 life is perfected. After a while, it might have been 
 marred." 
 
 " But he died," poor Annie spoke brokenly "with 
 his mind full of this world. I tried to tell him, but 
 it was all over so soon ! " 
 
 " He died as he lived ; a pure and innocent 
 boy in spite of his four-and-thirty years. There was 
 upon his soul no stain of having wronged or injured 
 a single human being. Come here, laddie," to the 
 boy, who had come into the room, rosy and happy 
 from a visit to some kind neighbor s house. " Once 
 your mother said she wanted you to be like me. She 
 was wrong there. You must be what your father was ; 
 kind, sunny, tender to all." 
 
 " Uncle John," said the child with the artlessness 
 of six years : " I love Papa very much, and I m sorry 
 he s going to be put in the ground Benny Ball says 
 so. But I m to be like you when I m a man. Papa 
 said so, and Mamma, too." 
 
 And so had closed the sixteenth year of John Wal 
 lace s sojourn at Rest- Hampton. 
 
 Wherever he went there was comfort and healing in 
 his words ; but he himself was not comforted, not 
 healed ; else would have closed that long exile. 
 
 When the little nest which he had " lined " for the 
 young couple had been despoiled and made desolate
 
 244 THE S HAD W OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 for the departure, Annie returned to her native vil 
 lage, almost as much a stranger to her towns-people 
 as Mr. Wallace had been. They hung aloof from her 
 sombre mourning gowns and her pale, sad face, not 
 because " buryins " were unpleasant episodes to 
 them ; but because she who had never quite assimi 
 lated with them, now seemed to go less than ever in 
 their way of thinking. She escaped from their ex 
 pressions of sympathy like one who can endure, but 
 who cannot yet say, " I endure." When the Squire 
 had died a half year before, the " chorus" questioned 
 ironically : 
 
 " Hadn t Mr. Wallace ought to marry the widow ? " 
 But now, although he had well nigh reached histhree- 
 score-and-ten, they said in good faith : 
 
 " I reckon he will take \.}\Q young widow now." 
 
 But the two bereaved women lived quietly on with 
 their pretty lad, among the large cool rooms and the 
 orchard bloom and fruitage of the Homestead. And 
 John Wallace was never nearer to either of them than 
 an angel in the house. 
 
 The boys came home on visits ; but they had struck 
 root elsewhere. Martha grew old rapidly, and found 
 true rest for her chafing spirit in "John Wallace s 
 religion." 
 
 Annie : s face looked deplorably youthful in her 
 widow s cap. She was but thirty-two, and might well 
 have been just beginning with happiness. 
 
 "Mamma," said the little boy to his mother, one 
 day : " They say, down in the village that you are to 
 marry uncle John. Is it true?" 
 
 " No, my son," answered the widow gravely ; " the
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 245 
 
 people who say such things are very foolish, and do 
 not know your uncle John. Marrying and giving in 
 marriage " she continued dreamily to herself, " are 
 as far from him as from the saints in heaven." 
 
 " But they say," persisted the child, " that you 
 loved him very much, and were going to marry him, 
 only papa came and took you away. Is nt that true 
 either ? " 
 
 " It is true that I have always loved him just as 
 you love him, my son ask him if I have not," she 
 added smiling, as Mr. Wallace came into the room. 
 To be with Annie and the boy was his greatest pleas 
 ure. 
 
 k It is well that I am old, and that time is therefore 
 not very precious tome, Nancy," he said ; " for I waste 
 it all upon the laddie, here." 
 
 " Uncle John," cried the little fellow, still bent 
 upon the pursuit of his question ; for children arc per 
 sistent creatures ; " why didn t you marry my mamma? 
 she says she loved you when she was a little boy like 
 me." 
 
 Mr. Wallace and Annie both laughed at the child s 
 oddity ; but the latter hastened to add that he had 
 picked up some remarks in the village about which he 
 was very curious. 
 
 " They ivasnt remarks," said the boy, offended. 
 " Phoebe Milford said so." 
 
 Mr. Wallace laughed again, and lifted his little 
 namesake upon his knee. 
 
 "What did Phoebe Milford say, laddie?" 
 
 " Suppose," Annie broke in quickly, " that Uncle 
 John tells little boys they must not repeat everything
 
 246 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 they hear. People are so very injudicious, Mr. Wal 
 lace. I sometimes think that the class of mischief- 
 makers is larger than any other unless it is news 
 mongers." 
 
 Annie s " old fire " still broke out at times, in spite 
 of the nun s face in the widow s cap. 
 
 " Well, if you marry my mamma, you must marry 
 me, too," cried the boy, not perceiving quite the drift 
 of his mother s reproof. 
 
 The scholar s arms were about the child, whose 
 pretty curly head nestled against his lonely bosom. 
 He looked across its restless gold, long and earnestly 
 into the sweet face of the mother, whose eyes were 
 steadily bent upon her work, and whose color came 
 and went as it had been wont at sixteen. 
 
 " Annie," he said ; and his voice had all the pene 
 trating power which marked its mellow cadence. 
 
 " Mamma," cried the child, when the pause had 
 seemed to him long enough ; " Don t you hear ? 
 Uncle John wants you." 
 
 At last she lifted her eyes and confronted his, 
 gravely and wisely, and withal, questioningly. 
 
 What she read was a long beseeching, yearning 
 passion, that was somehow mastered guarded con 
 quered, while it yet spoke. 
 
 " Uncle John does not want me, my son," she an 
 swered, firmly and clearly. 
 
 " He called you," said the child, perplexed. 
 
 " I spoke your mother s name, laddie, said John 
 Wallace, with slow effort, " because it is very dear to 
 me." 
 
 " Then you are going to marry her ! and it s true
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 247 
 
 after all?" The little fellow jumped up and down 
 upon the arm of the chair. Marrying was but a vague 
 term to him, that had somehow caught his fancy. 
 
 Suddenly John Wallace rose and put the boy from 
 him. He walked unsteadily over to where Annie sat, 
 white and crimson by turns. 
 
 "Child hovV low and altered was his voice! 
 " Do you know how I have longed " 
 
 He stopped, gazing into her trembling face with a 
 look of anguish ; then he turned and went away. 
 
 For some reason, taught him by the irony of Fate, 
 Annie Hatherton s gentleness and tenderness were as 
 unattainable to him as Annie Castlewood e youth and 
 beauty had been. If she had not known it before, she 
 realized it fully then, that she was doomed to be but 
 an episode in the life of a many-sided man. It was 
 inevitable.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 " / have done with being judged, 
 I stand here guiltless in thought, word and deed. 
 To the point that I apprise you, in contempt 
 For all misapprehending ignorance 
 O 1 the human heart, much more the mind of Christ." 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 WE pass mutely over a space of nearly fifteen years. 
 What was there in all that passive existence of John 
 Wallace at Rest-Hampton to record ? That he ate and 
 slept ; that he thought and dreamed, that he walked 
 and wrote ; that he served the poor ; that he amused 
 himself sometimes but was more often serious ; that 
 he was always reticent. And now has come the last 
 of the thirty years during which he dwelt in the vil 
 lage of Peace. 
 
 The little Quaker woman, who had tacitly welcomed 
 him upon her threshold as belonging to a wider world 
 about which her stunted fancy lingered ; who had 
 later recognized the lofty soul of the man himself 
 had long since been bowed with infirmities, and 
 passed away, having received from him, during her 
 last illness, much consolation from a far better world
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 249 
 
 than the one for which she had so long hungered. 
 
 : " The boys " had married and made homes for them 
 selves elsewhere ; thence, every now and then, there 
 
 ; was an inundation of young life let loose for a summer 
 holiday in the sweet and silent rooms of the old 
 Homestead, where the widow and her son did loving 
 homage to the failing years of the gentle scholar. 
 
 To keep the young man with them, Mr. Wallace, 
 to the consternation of prudent Rest-Hampton, had 
 hired a tutor, and he was about ready for college. 
 After that, he was to go to attend the Divinity school 
 of a famous university ; for the boy had looked ear 
 nestly upon the life of his benefactor, who was giving 
 him so liberal an education, and said, knowing that it 
 would please him so well : " I shall be a clergyman. 
 I shall preach to men the firm and beautiful faith I 
 have learned from Uncle John. " 
 
 In his gentle decline, this purpose of the young man 
 who bore his name, was the greatest interest Mr. Wal 
 lace possessed. 
 
 He had grown to be an old man ; and yet to Annie, 
 his looks seemed the same that had greeted her 
 as a merry child singing through the great hall on that 
 far-away, misty April evening. She perceived the 
 dimness of age gathering in her hero s wonderful 
 eyes, with the whiteness of Time upon his head ; but 
 to her, he seemed still to bear himself with the same 
 uplifted aspect, as though the mutability of life could 
 not touch him. She could make out as she made 
 out the approach of her own wrinkles and gray hairs 
 that at eighty he had not the unbowed figure, full 
 of elegance and grace, and symmetry, which she had
 
 250 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 admired at fifty ; but the spirit that which looks 
 from the windows of the intellect was unaltered. 
 
 And indeed he was comely yet. His snow-white 
 hair lent a placidness to his still keen and clear-cut 
 features ; and the intensity of his gaze was subdued, 
 not quenched. But there was a mortal change at work. 
 It was not an apparent decay in the health : his 
 habits seemed unimpaired ; but little by little, it be 
 came evident that John Wallace had eked out his 
 peaceful days at Rest-Hampton. At last, he betook 
 himself to his bed, and without a murmur, prepared to 
 yield up his long and silent life. 
 
 One day, he called Annie to him and said gently : 
 
 " You have been so good to me, Annie so good. 
 Almost it has seemed as if you knew all and forgave." 
 
 He paused dreamily. Perhaps it was in his mind 
 that he wished Annie to know why he could not have 
 loved her, and to forgive it. Then, after a silence 
 which the widow respected, he went on : 
 
 " I wish that I could leave a fortune to your boy. 
 He is the only thing in the world that has this name 
 of mine this wandering name, that is but a waif. 
 Your boy, and the little church, yonder ! I should 
 like to make them both rich. But Annie now that 
 I come to die, I have nothing ; my wealth is not mine 
 to bequeath " she turned her head away that she 
 might not see the struggle in his face : " With my 
 death my claim ceases. I have apprised my solici 
 tor. No more money will come. It will go to those 
 
 who have ceased to know me I am no more 
 
 than a beggar who has abundant alms while he lives, 
 and then dies and is forgotten."
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 2 ^\ 
 
 His voice, clear to the last, and firm with that 
 strange grip of consciousness, faltered for a moment, 
 and then rang out with a sort of self-scorn. 
 
 At times his mind wandered, but never beyond his 
 control, never into the regions of the past What 
 ever was untold in his life, he meant to guard it to the 
 end. 
 
 Once he said : 
 
 " I want to be buried in the South-End Ceme 
 tery, child, close to your father and mother ; and 
 close to the church. Let it seem as if the little spire 
 
 rose from my grave, reaching up to God Put 
 
 nothing on my tombstone, but that I was born and 
 died give me a pencil, Annie." 
 
 She brought him what he asked, weeping. That 
 John Wallace was to die seemed to her like the end of 
 the world. 
 
 As he took the pencil in his hand, she noticed that 
 it trembled and had lost its power. 
 
 He wrote : 
 
 "JOHN WALLACE, 
 
 Born in Edinburg, Scotland, Dec. 31, 1789. 
 Died " - 
 
 " You will fill out the rest for me in a few days," he 
 
 remarked, smiling 
 
 On the eve of his death, he fell into a child-like 
 sleep. Annie wandered restlessly about the house. 
 Since her mother had died, seven years before, she 
 had not looked upon death. But now that John Wal 
 lace was passing from life " dying of old age," as 
 Rest-Hampton said, it seemed to her that all the death-
 
 252 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 beds she had known her father s sudden and easy 
 one ; Tom s strangely unconscious one ; her mother s 
 prolonged and peaceful one culminated and acted 
 themselves over and over before her eyes. Only now 
 she felt an unspeakable awe, knowing that death was 
 to come this time in a new form ; that John Wallace s 
 last battle with the flesh would be something more 
 triumphant, more near to the uncalculated possibilities 
 of human supremacy, than anything she had yet 
 known. 
 
 She had sent for her brothers, who were tenderly at 
 tached to the household friend, and who were in the 
 house ready to give what assistance they could to the 
 sick man. 
 
 The next day, the last of John Wallace s life, he be 
 gan again about the boy, showing how near he was to 
 his heart. 
 
 " I wish to tell you, Annie, that since I could not 
 leave a fortune to your son, my money has been 
 mine by tolerance, not to will away I have saved 
 something for him from my income. I hope that it 
 will keep him in his studies to bring him to a high 
 place in the church." 
 
 He reached out and drew slowly a small box from 
 the drawer of a little secretary beside him. 
 
 Taking from the box several papers, he handed 
 them to Annie. 
 
 " There are the bonds and securities : it is only a 
 few thousands ; but it will help him to start in his 
 career." 
 
 But the widow, for weeping, or some other reason, 
 hesitated.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 253 
 
 " Will you not have them, Annie as a token of 
 our long friendship? almost your life-long ? " 
 
 Still she held back. How could they live and 
 possess something of Mr. Wallace, with himself 
 gone ? 
 
 " Our boy will be here, presently," she said at last ; 
 " they have gone to the Harbor to fetch him. He 
 came up on the boat last night." 
 
 And at this moment the young man entered. He 
 had grown to be a tall and manly youth with the open 
 smile of his father, and the sensitive mouth of his 
 mother. Over all was still that firm look and singular 
 magnetism which gave him the likeness to John Wal 
 lace. As they looked up, it startled them both. 
 
 "My son" Mr. Wallace spoke with tremulous 
 tenderness, and stretched out his hand which the 
 young man took lovingly " I am glad you are here. 
 It does me good to look upon your face once more. I 
 am proud that you have my name and somewhat of my 
 look. Surely God was merciful to one who had 
 nought to call his own." 
 
 His voice faltered : then he went on steadily : 
 " Your mother has been a true friend to me. Your 
 people have been my people, and their God, my God. 
 It is because of the love of this household that I have 
 not been a homeless man " 
 
 It seemed to Annie, then, that her heart broke. 
 Harry Castlewood, who was in the room, sobbed a 
 sob from his very soul. 
 
 The young John Wallace stood white and grief- 
 stricken, but mastered his emotion as his namesake 
 himself might have done.
 
 254 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 After a while, the clear penetrating voice went 
 on : 
 
 " I have saved a little money for you, John Wallace. 
 Will you take it from an old man, as his parting re 
 membrance ? " 
 
 The physician entering here, the sick man endeav 
 ored to prop himself up on his elbow, and spoke with 
 distinct emphasis : 
 
 " Dr. Clump, will you witness that I now give this 
 lad who is called for me these bonds and securities. 
 There are reasons which prevent my making a will. 
 This money I have saved from the income of past 
 years. There are only a few thousand dollars I owe 
 these friends much more " he sank back exhausted 
 upon his pillow, while the young man turned away, the 
 tears rolling unheeded down his cheeks. 
 
 After that Mr. Wallace sank rapidly. There was 
 nothing more to be accomplished : he was entering 
 into rest. 
 
 In the afternoon, the mail brought him a number 
 of letters ; but he was too far gone to open them. 
 
 " Shall I read them to you, Mr. Wallace ? " Annie 
 asked, bending close to his ear. 
 
 He started, and a strange dart of suspicion crossed 
 his face. 
 
 " Read them ? no, child what are you thinking 
 of ? Take off the outer envelopes and give them to 
 me." 
 
 She brought them and laid them on the coverlet by 
 his hand. He lifted one and scanned the large, bold 
 writing : then handing it to her, said feebly, 
 
 " Burn it."
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 255 
 
 As it disappeared to ashes in the glow of the open 
 wood-fire, he watched it musing, 
 
 " Why should I care now ? Of what avail is their 
 friendship, or enmity. To-morrow, I shall see all, 
 know all. Some day, they, too, will know." 
 
 He raised another, and studied the address : it was 
 in a crabbed and difficult hand enough. He smiled 
 in a faint sort of scorn and signalled to her to burn 
 that also. 
 
 The third envelope was directed in small, delicate 
 writing. 
 
 " Ah ! " he murmured to himself, a quick flush 
 passing over his calm face "from her. She will 
 not believe, then, that I am dying. When I wrote last 
 I warned her to write nothing more If she should 
 betray me ! " 
 
 He half started up, and laid his hand upon Annie s 
 arm. 
 
 " This is what you must do burn them if any 
 letters should come. But most of all, burn hers ! 
 no eyes must see even the envelopes of my lady cor- 
 respondent." 
 
 "I will do just as you wish," Annie said soothingly, 
 taking the letter he held towards her, writing down 
 wards. She reverently laid it upon the fire. Per 
 haps some woman had written it who would have 
 given her life for John Wallace s love. 
 
 Just as the flames touched it, he made a gesture 
 as though he would recall it : but when Annie moved 
 
 o * 
 
 as if to do his last bidding, he waved her back, and 
 the delicate paper, flashing up for a brief second, fell 
 to ashes.
 
 256 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 He lay for a long while as if asleep. Once, rousing 
 himself, he turned to the sad watcher beside him, and 
 stretching out his gentle hand laid it upon hers. 
 
 " You must not let this grieve you, Annie. Think 
 only that I am thankful that the last day of my life 
 is the happiest day. I have lost all consciousness of 
 grief, all memory of regret. Is not that a triumph ? 
 And yet 
 
 One cannot judge 
 
 Of what has been the ill or well of life 
 The day that one is dying sorrows change 
 Into not altogether sorrow-like ; 
 I do see strangeness but scarce misery, 
 Now it is over and no danger more. " 
 
 The last words were uttered with a sort of linger 
 ing loving chant, as though they were precious to the 
 spirit of him who quoted them. So he had been 
 used to quote from his well-stored memory, in his 
 long talks with the girl who had loved him. That he 
 should fall into this fond old habit, on this day, 
 was a sweet and bitter drop in the widow s cup of 
 grief. 
 
 It was a frigid day, that thirtieth of December 
 and the eve of John Wallace s birthday. To 
 wards evening a wild wind arose. On just such a 
 night, Mr. Wallace had gone down upon the icy beach 
 and into the stinging fury of the black sea for the 
 love of unknown souls in peril. 
 
 But on this night, it was his own soul that must 
 venture forth into the deepening darkness of coming 
 dissolution and there was no boat that would breast 
 the bitter waters to carry human protection or solace 
 to him.
 
 257 
 
 He was not afraid. He knew his haven : the Lord 
 Christ was walking upon the sea of death. 
 
 " I know my God. I know tJiat my Redeemer livcth," 
 he had cried exultantly, only a few hours before. 
 
 But now, the mortal shuddered in its utter lone- 
 someness, hurled upon the desolation of that parting 
 which severs the spirit from the body it has so long 
 known. He moved uneasily, and watched the figures 
 of friends and neighbors as they came and went, with 
 ever increasing disquietude. At last his struggling 
 utterance broke forth : 
 
 " Annie send them away all of them. I want to 
 die alone " 
 
 " Some one must remain", said the doctor authori 
 tatively. 
 
 " May / not stay with you ? " Annie entreated. 
 
 " Yes you. I would die alone with you ! " he 
 cried with feeble frenzy. 
 
 The widow quietly compelled them all, the loving, 
 the anxious, the curious, to withdraw ; which they 
 did with some reluctance those good people who, 
 like unlovely birds, always flock to prey upon the 
 sanctity of death. 
 
 " Promise me," he gasped clinging to her hand in 
 the darkness that was deepening about him, " That if 
 I should falter if I should lose myself, if I should 
 say aught that is strange you will not remember it 
 you will not hear it." 
 
 " Dear Mr. Wallace ! " Annie cried, kneeling by 
 his bedside, and clasping her arms around his trem 
 bling frame. "Trust me as you would have trusted 
 my father. Do you not know how sacred you are to
 
 2 5 8 THE SHADOW OF JO PIN WALLACE. 
 
 me ? How, more than my life, I guard your wishes 
 and would guard your words if they were such as you 
 say ? Do not do not fear me ! Think of me only 
 as a soothing presence that would go with you to the 
 brink of eternity, and never carry back to the world 
 the faintest glimpse of what is there." 
 
 She strained her senses for some response, some 
 word or look that might show whether or not he 
 heard and was comforted. 
 
 If that revered and beloved one had had aught 
 upon his mind which he would have left upon the 
 hither side of immortality, she would have taken it 
 upon herself and borne it silently to her grave if so 
 his spirit might bound upward relieved by a confi 
 dence, or a confession. 
 
 But it was not to be. After that one outbreak, 
 John Wallace possessed his soul to the last, never re 
 laxing for an instant the stern composure which had, 
 through so many years, been his check and his power- 
 
 Those who had gathered for the solemn occasion, 
 hung about the door, complaining bitterly among them 
 selves that they were thrust outside. At last the 
 most of them went grumbling away. 
 
 The wind rose wilder and wilder. Annie gazed 
 upon the broad, thinking brow which betokened the 
 conscious power of a calm intellect, and marvelled at 
 its peace. 
 
 The servants at the Homestead and the few neigh, 
 bors who remained, paced restlessly outside the room 
 of the dying man, whispering that it was an awful 
 thing to leave Nancy alone at such a time, and in 
 such a storm. But whenever any one unfastened the
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 259 
 
 door, ever so stealthily, Annie would raise her hand 
 with a forbidding gesture. 
 
 " My mother is not afraid/ John Wallace Hather- 
 ton said proudly, turning from the hall-window, where 
 he had stood watching the storm. They had seen 
 that ; and also that the dying man needed nothing. 
 
 It was a fit night, the village Pastor said, for 
 John Wallace s self-reliant and indomitable soul, un 
 tamable as the elements, to go forth alone and battle 
 with the blustering forces in space. 
 
 The Parson did not mean that literally ; but his el 
 oquence rose to the occasion. 
 
 " He s not having a struggle," remarked the more 
 practical doctor. " He seems to be sleeping, and will 
 most likely go off without word or sign." 
 
 But John Wallace was not sleeping. 
 
 Ever and anon when the riot without was fitfully 
 vehement, he would say a few wandering words which 
 Annie could not catch. Once, it was something about 
 " the ship," and " the poor fellows who were going 
 out into the Great Perhaps without a God or a human 
 hand. " Once he said : 
 
 " The days of the years of my pilgrimage are a hun 
 dred and thirty years : few and evil have the days of 
 the years of my life been. " 
 
 And, still later, when the fury of the storm had died 
 away into a low moaning sound, he looked peacefully 
 into Annie s eyes and smiled his rare, exquisite 
 smile, that seemed to bring before her a thought of 
 the angels of God : the smile that she would soon 
 never see again, though she lived to be ninety. 
 
 " Annie," the smile was in his eyes still ; " Read to
 
 260 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 me. Read the cummunion service. I would partake 
 of the Last Supper in spirit." 
 
 Annie drew the little inlaid book, with its gorgeous 
 illuminations and its mysterious devices, from under 
 his pillow. As she found the place, he said, gather 
 ing his powers for a last effort : 
 
 " Put it in my hands afterwards. 
 
 Annie kissed the dear hands that had done no man 
 harm : and the two knew that it was understood . 
 
 Then she began to read, finding strength not from 
 her own breaking heart, but from the calm, brave 
 heart beating its last pulsations beside her. 
 
 "For in the night in which he was betrayed, he took 
 Bread, and when he had given thanks he brake, and gave 
 it to his disciples, saying Take, eat, this is my body 
 which is given for you : Do this in remembrance of me. " 
 
 Oh, the comfort of the sacrament ! sole supporter 
 that can bear up in everlasting arms the departing 
 soul ! 
 
 The face was lit up now with a luminousness from 
 heaven, which made Annie, upon the earth, tremble. 
 But she read on steadily, bending over and putting 
 her lips so close to the dying man s ear that the 
 words were breathings rather than utterances. Her 
 son and the two Castlewoods, had entered quietly and 
 were kneeling near the bed. 
 
 "The body of our Lord Jesus Christ which was given 
 for thee -preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting 
 lifer 
 
 He still smiled, and his voice came back from the 
 other world to finish those significant words : 
 
 " Feed on him in thy heart by faith with t /tanks- 
 giving" he uttered distinctly.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 2 6l 
 
 " The blood of our Lord Jesus Christ which was 
 shed for tkee, preserve tJiy body and soul unto everlast 
 ing life" read Annie, with unutterable solemnity, and 
 paused, to look again at the radiant face. 
 
 There was no sign or token left. John Wallace 
 had fallen asleep. 
 
 If he finished that solemn sentence, it was heard by 
 the Sons of God.
 
 INTERLUDE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Comprising the Subsequent Meditations and Determinations 
 of Leslie Bracebridge, Poet. 
 
 IN the course of this narrative, has just come and 
 passed a chapter which we called perforce The End, 
 because therein was written the end of John Wallace s 
 life ; or rather, the end of that portion of his life which 
 was in itself but the finale of something not yet made 
 apparent. * 
 
 It is the Summer of 1879. Close upon the heels 
 of the Tile Club, there came among the first 
 summer guests to Rest-Hampton, an artist. He 
 was an artist in the widest sense of the word, 
 which does not imply a Painter, or a Musician, or an 
 artisan among the fanciful things of fashion. 
 
 It may mean often only a Thinker. We shall call 
 him this time a Poet. And surely this young man 
 was not a Painter : he did not " do " the windmills 
 in black-and-white ; nor make " a harmony in gray " 
 of the graveyard. On the contrary, the two burying- 
 grounds appeared to him particularly bright and sunny 
 places, and entirely free from those lugubrious associa-
 
 264 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 tions usually attached to cemeteries. Even at twilight, 
 when the painters who preceded him had sat in rows 
 upon the flat tombs "laying in" sombre effects of 
 gloom and grayness, our Poet would stroll about in one 
 or the other of those hallowed acres, in company with a 
 few inquisitive sheep, that seemed to live contentedly 
 enough among the daisies and the dead. 
 
 He thought that the mild light of evening hovered 
 longest among the still warm stones that had been 
 bathed all day in the rich summer sunshine. And if 
 the sea-fog, too, seemed to creep in soonest there, why 
 that was only natural in so sequestered a spot. 
 
 But then he was not a Painter ; he could not take 
 a truly impressionable view of things. He was only 
 an artist at soul. Moreover, he wrote letters to jour 
 nals those great hungry, fact-devouring organs, which 
 demanded a constant supply of things more substan 
 tial than impressions. He had just despatched the 
 letter which, somewhat flippantly, opens this story. 
 Something in the old, South-End burying ground had 
 taken hold of his fancy ; but he had not yet been able 
 to utilize it very definitely. 
 
 It was a white slab, not yet greatly mellowed by 
 the disintegrating effects of sea-air, which any visitor 
 to Rest-Hampton may see, upon which is carved be 
 neath a simple design of cross and crown : John Wal 
 lace, Born In Edinburgh, Scotland, Dec. 31, 1789 ; Died 
 In (here there is a mossy blur } Hampton Dec. So 
 
 1879." 
 
 He cogitated a good deal upon the simplicity which 
 distinguished it from the elaborate eulogies on every 
 side.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 265 
 
 " Perhaps," he ruminated, " the man was lost in 
 some wreck upon the coast, and they never could 
 find out anything about him." 
 
 At length he began to be curious : somehow, the 
 unknown man took the proportions of a hero to his 
 idle imagination. 
 
 It is a marvelous thing upon what the human mind 
 can seize hold to create an ideal. A tombstone is enough 
 to hang a history upon ; a name may be magnified 
 into the substance out of which to make a mystery, 
 For there is hero-worship, more or less dormant, in 
 each of us ; and it needs only an illusion to set at 
 work all of the intricate mental and spiritual machin 
 ery necessary to the making of a hero. 
 
 Our Poet began to look up the material out of which 
 his phantom hero had been made. Very likely it would 
 turn out to be but poor clay, after all, he thought 
 cynically, But looking over an old file of the local 
 newspaper to see if any mention of a ship-wreck tal 
 lied with the date on the tombstone, he came across 
 this notice : 
 
 JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 The death of John Wallace is an event which will be long remem 
 bered in Rest-Hampton. It has deprived that community of a highly 
 valued citizen and a venerated and beloved friend. Although a foreign 
 er by birth, a native of a land whose inhabitants are noted for the 
 strength and persistance of their national prejudices, Mr. Wallace 
 was a dear lover of his adopted country, and that, too, tho he had 
 attained the mature age of fifty-four, when he reached our shores. 
 ** ##*# * * 
 
 Mr Wallace was a gentleman of polished and refined manners, of 
 extensive information, of cultivated taste and possessed of a very keen 
 sense of the humorous. He was an incessant reader and in his read-
 
 2 66 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 ing kept pace with the progress of the busy, active age in which we 
 live. 
 
 Although nearly eighty five years old at the time of his death, he never 
 had thought himself " too old to learn," and the writer has often been 
 struck by observations of his indicating his readiness to receive and ac 
 knowledge newly discovered truths from whatever source they might 
 be made known. 
 
 A firm maintainer of the old fashioned High Church principles in 
 which he had been educated, he was too large-hearted as well as too 
 wide-minded to be capable of bigotry or exclusiveness ; of cant, 
 whether religious or political he was a hearty hater, if any one so kind 
 and gentle could experience such an emotion. 
 
 Concerning his deep unaffected, simple, childlike piety, we will not 
 undertake to speak. But such a man has little need of newspaper 
 eulogy. His Christian life and peaceful end are his best testimonials. 
 
 We have but a few more words to say. He came to Rest-Hamp 
 ton a stranger, He died among affectionate friends who will ever 
 cherish his memory." 
 
 But he had already gathered facts which suggested 
 a lovely life. The man, then, had really lived in 
 Rest-Hampton, and to some purpose,it seemed. 
 
 He began to make inquires about " this John Wal 
 lace >: among the villagers, and learned, what other 
 idlers have learned since of the simple old town, the 
 plain story of a man who lived peaceably in the place 
 and conferred the benefits of great wealth upon its 
 inhabitants. His name is a well beloved one in the 
 hamlet, and those who speak of him do it with re 
 verence and honor. 
 
 " A good man," they say, " and a gentleman ; 
 but strange, strange ; " with significant head shak 
 ings. 
 
 " What was strange ? " asked the Poet curiously. 
 
 And then he would receive in a mysterious under 
 tone, with perchance a solemn forefinger tapped upon
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 267 
 
 the forehead, or other rustic pantomime, some such 
 vague response : 
 
 " Well now, stranger, that s just what nobody 
 knows," or, " Well, you see, he lived here for thirty 
 years, and nobody ever saw or heard of any kin," or, 
 " Indeed, sir, but that is the mystery." 
 
 " But what did John Wallace do that was odd ? " 
 persists the inquisitor, aware of some injustice in such 
 vagaries. 
 
 "Nothing; leastways except to build a church; 
 and to give all of his money to the poor." 
 
 Then the villager brightens up and a happy inspira 
 tion strikes him : 
 
 " P raps you never see the new window we put up to 
 him in his church yonder, no ? Then come along 
 
 with me Now, jest look at that ! Its a 
 
 beautiful window, and cost a heap of money ; least 
 ways for the folks here to pay." 
 
 The memorial window, like the tomb-stone, how 
 ever, bore no hieroglyphics out of which could be 
 deciphered the old, old truth of the man s finished 
 story. 
 
 At last, rummaging again over the musty, eight- 
 years-old newspapers, he came upon one more clew 
 to the buried life. 
 
 THE MYSTERY (?) OF THIRTY YEARS, EXPLAINED. 
 
 Why talk of mystery, and seek to throw 
 Around the grave of that old man 
 A cloud of wonder, and of blind surmise ? 
 Of mystery forsooth, in him who knew 
 
 * For the use of these verses, and the preceding fragment of obituary, I have kind 
 farmission of the ivriter.
 
 2 68 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 No artfulness, or cunning craft of men, 
 Whose heart was open as the day itself, 
 And whose pure life (as pure as man s could be,; 
 Forbade suspicion, or a thought of wrong 
 
 *#*******# 
 
 To us he brought a simple, loving heart, 
 
 A mind stored richly with scholastic love, 
 
 An open hand to all the lowly poor 
 
 He spake but little of the distant land, 
 
 Of home and friends, few were the words he said, 
 
 Because he chose to live from all apart 
 
 (// is not true that never from his lips 
 
 The names of loved ones were allowed to fall, 
 
 for he who writes hath sometimes heard the name 
 
 Of Father, Mother, Sister, and of all,) 
 
 T was only that he did not deem it wise 
 
 To publish all his history abroad ; 
 
 And tell to all who e er might seek to know, 
 
 Affairs that only to himself belonged. 
 
 No further mystery than that was there ; 
 
 No other than to every heart belongs; 
 
 No other Mystery about his life 
 
 Than unto many, who shall read, doth cling. 
 His life 
 
 To God, and acts of Charity was given, 
 
 (Yet not in penance for some former deed) 
 
 But simply and alone because his heart 
 
 Was full of Sympathy and Christlike love 
 
 ******* * 
 
 Then speak no more of Mystery to them 
 
 Who knew and loved him for those thirty years. 
 ******* ** 
 
 So Lived ! so Died he ! with a heart all free 
 
 From sordid baseness or corroding sin, 
 
 The only Mystery about him thrown, 
 
 The Mystery of Godliness alone. 
 
 New York, Feb. I7th 1871. A. H. 
 
 " That was evidently written by some one who 
 knew the man well, and who nevertheless indignantly
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 269 
 
 repudiated the idea of a vulgar mystery," mused the 
 Poet. 
 
 And he went back to the graveyard to look again 
 at the tombstone, and to question the possibility 
 of getting light upon the subject. Had he been a 
 lawyer, dear reader, he would doubtless have devised 
 a direct method of attaining a surer result. But as 
 we have said, he was only an artistic soul ; and 
 he was dazzled with the possibilities of the case. 
 He liked this story of John Wallace, which seemed to 
 have no beginning, only a faultless ending. He 
 thought he perceived through its transparent form, a 
 moving source, such as is the essence of light in the 
 diamond ; and he wondered if this clear gem of human 
 kind had not known a dark imprisonment of trial in 
 some remote, deep place. How else could it have 
 caught a sparkle which was pure and serene, and yet 
 was fashioned of the dull carbon of experience. 
 
 For this much the young man had learned of the 
 ways of mankind ; that there is nothing which savors 
 of expiation, nothing which comes to be a self-purifi 
 cation, which has not behind it the thing for which it 
 atones. 
 
 He wandered about here and there ; he asked much 
 and learned little, always returning to the graveyard, 
 as if, by any means the silent marble could testify of 
 the diamond which is akin to it. 
 
 All that he gathered was this : that John Wallace 
 who had lived and died in the little sea-side town, had 
 had a previous history a mystery, most likely. Think 
 ing further, he added this on his own part : " and some 
 woman must have been in if."
 
 270 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 It is a dangerous thing to add to a detective procli 
 vity a preconceived belief. Searching about for this 
 inevitable woman and missing her the Poet came, 
 naturally enough, upon the widow Hatherton. 
 
 Is it a blunder to fall upon sweet Annie Castle- 
 wood, old, faded, wrinkled, perhaps (since she was now 
 past fifty-five years of age), and force her to give up 
 the tender and secret sentiments of her dreamy youth ? 
 
 It is the sad blunder from which we shall all suffer, 
 one day, unless we stumble first, without the premo 
 nition of old age, upon that other blunder death. 
 
 Let those at least, who are women, protest that they 
 love the fading widow s whitening hair more than the 
 flickering sunshine of the girlish head. For so they 
 would like the world to do unto them. 
 
 Still, I hear the world say that it will not be enter 
 tained, life-fashion, with the spectre of a woman who 
 has outlived her romance. Why should it, when 
 there are fresh hearts and unwritten stories perpetually 
 crowding to the front, and trampling into oblivion the 
 finished destinies and silvered locks of the last gener 
 ation. 
 
 It is true that the widow Hatherton was long past 
 fifty-five, and had outlived her dreams or at least the 
 possibility of their realization. But if Annie Castle- 
 wood at sixteen was pretty and winning, Annie 
 Hatherton at fifty-six was majestic. 
 
 She had the rich color in her cheeks which Rest- 
 Hampton salt air preserves for its matrons ; and the 
 lustre of her lovely eyes was in no way dimmed by 
 tears, but seemed rather to be heightened by the con 
 trasted luxuriance of her silver hair.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 371 
 
 " Nancy Hatherton s tJiat handsome," ejaculated 
 the younger women about her, somewhat enviously ; 
 " It s a wonder her looks never fetched her another 
 husband together with John Wallace s money ; " 
 which the village persisted in believing he had sown 
 broad-cast over the goodly acres of the Homestead. 
 
 Perhaps Deacon Potts, still a morose and uncom 
 promising bachelor, might have enlightened them 
 somewhat upon the handsome widow s opportunities. 
 
 She had continued to spend her summers peace 
 fully with her son at the old farmhouse, their winters 
 having been passed for some years in the neighbor 
 hood of his university. 
 
 But Wallace Hatherton had a charge now, and the 
 long pleasant summers were cut down to a month or 
 six weeks during each year. It was in the midst of 
 one of these uneventful seasons that the Poet came 
 upon them unawares.
 
 PART II. 
 
 Containing the Observations and the Reservations of 
 the Widow Hatlicrton. 
 
 "THERE is nothing to do but to hunt up this Mrs 
 Hatherton," the young man had concluded to him 
 self, with a magnificent indifference to the person and 
 qualities of the lady. This youthful scorn for the in 
 dividual was rather surprised from its poise when, in 
 answer to his card whereon he wrote confidently 
 "Leslie Bracebridge," there came into the room a tall 
 and stately woman, whose white hair above her bril 
 liant eyes and fresh cheeks, gave him a startling sen 
 sation of contrast and possible force. 
 
 He had sought her out with his anticipation in full 
 swing, as a self-appointed spectator of a long finished 
 drama, which she was to rehearse for his sole benefit. 
 It experienced something of a back-set, when in reply 
 to his eager and confused demands upon her knowl 
 edge of the person whose identity he sought, the 
 widow answered coldly. 
 
 " I scarcely comprehend tvJiat you wish to ask me, 
 Mr. Bracebridge." (Annie still accentuated sometimes.) 
 
 " I want," he cried excitedly, " to find out this 
 mystery, this romance, which has been buried here."
 
 THE SHADO W OF JOHN WALLA CE. 273 
 
 " I think you will scarcely find any materials out of 
 which to weave a romance," she said, gravely. " Mr 
 Wallace s life with us had always been among common 
 places, and I see no reason to suppose that there is 
 anything enigmatical in his having lived here." 
 
 Mr. Bracebridge stared. In rushing headlong to 
 wards what had taken hold upon his fancy, it had not 
 occurred to him that he was to come plumb against a 
 wall of unresponsiveness, just where he had reason 
 to look for the gate of inspiration. 
 
 " Do you mean to say that it never occurred to you 
 to suspect the man of masquerading ? " 
 
 " I never for a moment suspected Mr. Wallace of 
 doing, or of having done anything that he could 
 not explain, if he had cared to." 
 
 The widow s handsome face held a certain defiance 
 that baffled the young man, while it piqued his further 
 interest. 
 
 " There has been a wheel within a wheel here," he 
 mused somewhat sententiously : " doubtless this Mr. 
 Wallace was not altogether guiltless of a love-affair, 
 even in his mysterious retirement." 
 
 " Can you describe the gentleman to me, Mrs. 
 Hatherton ? " 
 
 She paused. The man she had known and loved 
 so well stood before her as in the flesh ; but how was 
 she to describe those lineaments ? 
 
 Presently she said : 
 
 " I fancy no one has ever yet seen a portrait through 
 the eyes and lips of another, Mr. Bracebridge. If I 
 tell you that Mr. Wallace was tall and muscular ; that 
 he was pale and classic ; that he was grave and
 
 274 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 majestic ; would it convey to you any notion of an in 
 dividual ? " 
 
 She smiled. The Poet thought he had never seen 
 so lovely a smile, and began to wonder if even in 
 this out-of-the-way corner of earth there might not 
 be more than one individual worth studying. More 
 over, where had she picked up such English ? Surely 
 not upon Eastern Long Island. 
 
 " Can you think of nothing a a little more dis 
 tinctive, in manner or appearance ? " he asked, smiling 
 back. 
 
 " There was," said Annie Hatherton slowly, " a pe 
 culiar luminousness in his look. I have never seen a 
 face that could at times so radiate the spirit. Also, 
 he was a man who possessed great personal magnetism. 
 Wherever he went, he was master, in a quiet and 
 unobtrusive way of his own." 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Hatherton. The personality of 
 your friend begins to dawn upon me. You have 
 given me a substance to grasp. But where," he added, 
 puzzled, " did a man who was a Scotchman born and 
 bred, get a pale complexion and classic features ? " 
 
 " I think we never were impressed with the fact of 
 his being Scotch until the last. He had probably 
 spent most of his previous life in London, since his 
 speech and ways were English." 
 
 " Did he profess to be an Englishman?" asked the 
 other, eagerly. 
 
 " He made no professions of any sort," answered the 
 widow, coloring. 
 
 " Nevertheless," said Leslie Bracebridge after a 
 pause, speaking meditatively, " his nationality asserted
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 275 
 
 itself in the stolid strength of his resolution, and in 
 an astounding ability to keep his own counsel. No 
 body but a Scotchman could have persisted in so de 
 termined a disguise." 
 
 " May I ask what reason you have for adopting the 
 supposition of a disguise ? " 
 
 " Your towns-people have told me many things which 
 point both to exile and to disguise." 
 
 " My towns-people talk a great deal, for want of 
 better occupation," Annie said, scornfully. " Mr. 
 Wallace did not choose to discuss his family history 
 with them why should he ? and they retaliate in 
 slander." 
 
 " No," cried the young man earnestly, not wishing 
 to quarrel with his only chance of enlightenment ; 
 " I have heard only good of Mr. Wallace. It is on 
 this account that my interest is enlisted. Pray, Mrs. 
 Hatherton, do not think I would unravel the enigma 
 to find out a crime. Mysteries are not necessarily 
 evil." 
 
 Annie looked searchingly into his face : 
 
 " I do not know you, Mr. Bracebridge, but I take 
 it for granted you will agree with me that if a man , 
 who is pure and good and true, has behind him years 
 of which he never speaks, there is some reason which 
 every gentleman should respect why they should not 
 be raked over, and discussed and published. This 
 man lived and died without revealing any extraordi 
 nary thing which may have been in his experience. I 
 think it was his motive so to live and die. I, for one, 
 shall never lift the veil to pry into a reserve which 
 went unbroken to the grave."
 
 276 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 The Poet was a sensitive creature enough, and he 
 winced under the mild rebuke of this woman, who by 
 right of her seniority, could thus address him. He 
 sat twirling in his hand a small gold pencil which he 
 had ingenuously taken from his pocket with the in 
 tention of making notes of the conversation. 
 
 " Pshaw ! " he cried to himself, rallying with an 
 effort, " I did not come to this out-of-the-way place, 
 and stumble upon an interesting secret, to be baffled 
 by the scruples of a fastidious old woman who knows 
 nothing but proprieties." 
 
 Then he returned to his former tone of humble 
 politeness, rather ashamed of his secret anger : 
 
 " Perhaps you would not mind giving me a few 
 corrected statements about this Mr. Wallace." 
 
 " What are the statements you wish me to cor 
 rect?" 
 
 " At least the woman is no fool," meditated Mr. 
 Bracebridge ; and spoke cautiously : 
 
 " I have gathered perhaps unjustly from what I 
 have heard, that John Wallace was supposed by many 
 to be a semi-lunatic or a monomaniac." 
 
 " A sounder mind, a clearer judgment, a better 
 balanced character never was ! " cried the widow indig 
 nantly. " He was absolutely without eccentricity. 
 They are poor fools who told you that ! Having no 
 better mystery to feed upon, they have invented a 
 groundless lie." 
 
 " Was there not some supposition that he came 
 over to America in company with a gentleman who 
 was connected with lunatic asylums ? " 
 
 " I never heard any such supposition, Mr. Brace-
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 277 
 
 bridge," Annie Hatherton s eyes were still flashing. 
 Who was this young upstart, that he should come 
 and lay before her who was John Wallace s friend 
 all sorts of silly stories in reference to a man whose 
 only peculiarity had been that he loved his fellow 
 man, and that he dealt justly with all ? 
 
 " Well," said the visitor, apologetically, reading some 
 thing of her thoughts, I see that I have allowed my im 
 agination to be ridiculously worked upon. I wish," he 
 added appealingly, after a pause, " that I could right 
 myself and my motive in your eyes, and that you 
 would allow me to ask you a few questions which do 
 not presuppose any information on my part. 
 
 The widow relented and let one of her own smiles 
 Annie Castlewood s smiles break over her face 
 After all, why should she blame this young man who 
 had only believed what he was told ? 
 
 "If you are unprejudiced, and really interested in 
 Mr. Wallace, as I knew him, I shall be glad to answer 
 you." 
 
 " May I propound questions like a Yankee ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ! I am used to that. It is the way, here." 
 
 "Well then," brightening up, "the valet the per 
 son who came over with Mr. Wallace has nothing 
 been heard of him since his master s death ? " 
 
 " I myself wrote to Andrews to an address in 
 Colorado which Mr. Wallace had used, thinking per 
 haps there were those with whom he might commun 
 icate. There never was any reply." 
 
 " And yet," suggested the Poet, " he is the only per 
 son from whom one might get absolute certainties." 
 
 " I fancy he has left the place in Colorado where
 
 2-j& THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 we supposed him to be. There is much drifting about 
 in the far west." 
 
 Leslie Bracebridge glanced surreptitiously at a list 
 of notes and queries he had sketched out for use 
 upon this occasion. He wished to forget nothing in 
 this his opportunity. These notes and suggestions 
 were not in good legal form, but jotted down piece 
 meal, as he would have noted the wandering ideas for 
 a yet unthought-out poem ; or had he been a painter 
 as he might have made the color-notes for a picture 
 not yet matured in composition. It suggested simply 
 that the material for an artistic study had fallen into 
 his hands, and he meant to secure what outlines he 
 could. 
 
 " Do you think," he commenced again very mod 
 estly, " that his name was in reality John Wallace ? " 
 
 " I certainly shall never think otherwise. You ask 
 me singular questions, Mr. Bracebridge. They are 
 somewhat offensive, since they savor of accusations." 
 
 The thought of an assumed name, a false position, 
 was like a living lie to the half-Puritan, half-Quaker 
 and wholly conscientious and upright soul of Mrs. 
 Hatherton. She revolted from the thought in con 
 nexion with a being at once so high-toned and so 
 simple-minded as the hero of her girlhood, the friend, 
 of her womanhood. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said the young man hastily, 
 " I meant no accusation. I only repeat the things 
 I have heard. Was there no mark upon Mr. Wal 
 lace s clothing, or in his books ? " 
 
 "There was only his name upon his clothing ; the 
 widow looked defiantly at her interlocutor :
 
 THE SHADO W OF JOHN V/ALLA CE. 079 
 
 " His books had no mark upon them ; you can see 
 for yourself if you wish ; will you come with me into 
 the study he occupied? " 
 
 Mr. Bracebridge was delighted. He was now ap 
 proaching his facts his outlines. 
 
 " What I want is Facts, not sentiments," he mused. 
 " I can supply the color and the harmony for myself. 
 
 When they were seated in the old room, where to 
 Annie s sensitive mind the spirit of John Wallace 
 still brooded, the young man took a rapid survey of the 
 quiet but elegant appointments, the well-filled book 
 cases, until a portfolio caught his quick eye, and he 
 asked leave to glance at its contents. 
 
 The widow hesitated : 
 
 " I doubt if he would have wished them disturbed, 
 since he showed them to no one in his lifetime. I 
 have kept them all these years, untouched ; for as he 
 destroyed his other papers, doubtless he intended 
 also to destroy these." 
 
 " But if I could only have one, Mrs. Hatherton ! as 
 a loan a souvenir ! I have so fallen in love with this 
 man, that I should like to posess something which he 
 had done." 
 
 He looked so eager, so pleading, that Annie re 
 luctantly drew from the portfolio a sheet of thin yel 
 low paper, on which was transcribed in a fine, literary 
 hand, the translation of a Latin hymn ; Francis 
 Xavier s. 
 
 It seemed to the widow that the shadow of John 
 Wallace, which had followed her nearly her whole life, 
 stretched out a misty hand as she gave up the paper. 
 
 " A thousand thanks, madam, you are very good.
 
 280 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 But what is this cypher ? " The Poet s eyes sparkled. 
 
 " I presume that the letter Z is the signature it 
 pleased Mr. Wallace to use in writing. 
 
 Leslie Bracebridge dared no further upon that 
 ground. He felt it quake beneath him. 
 
 " And may I ask pardon me, it often has to be 
 be done in case of sudden death were there no 
 letters which came afterwards ? which required to be 
 opened ? which demanded attention ? " 
 
 The widow looked at him coldly. 
 
 " Mr. Wallace s death was not sudden. He was 
 fully prepared for it, as doubtless were his friends. 
 There was nothing zv/iich came after his death. 
 
 The Poet sat and thought. Presently he looked up. 
 
 " Have you never written has no one ever written 
 to his friends ? Of course you knew their names 
 and addresses from the letters he sent." 
 
 " Mr. Wallace sent all of his letters to one person 
 his banker, or solicitor, I do not know which, in 
 London." 
 
 Bracebridge fell back, it being upon his lips to ex 
 claim, 
 
 "And you do not call that a mystery ! " But he 
 read a certain fine warning in the widow s eye, and 
 held his tongue. 
 
 " I believe it is the custom," she said calmly, " for 
 Americans travelling in Europe to have their 
 letters forwarded through a banker. Undoubtedly 
 Mr. Wallace supposed that strangers here do the 
 same." 
 
 " Yes of course," murmured the other, abashed by 
 the ready wit of the reply, " only travellers do not
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 2 8l 
 
 of course you perceive the difference address the en 
 velopes to their banker, merely in his care." 
 
 " That is immaterial. There are many ways of con 
 ducting business." 
 
 The widow spoke grandly. Bracebridge hurried on 
 to the next point, fearful of another blunder. This 
 fiery woman affected him somewhat as the threaten- 
 ings of an earthquake in his vicinity. He wished to 
 accomplish his purpose and get away. 
 
 "Can you recall the name of that gentleman, 
 Mrs. Hatherton ? " 
 
 " Certainly. Mr. Roderic Clarkson, Lothbury, 
 London, E.C." 
 
 It was modestly noted with the gold pencil, which 
 was then consigned to the pocket of Mr. Arthur 
 Bracebridge, who remarked that, as he was not a re 
 porter, he need not take notes. 
 
 " Did it never occur to you to write to this gentle 
 man and inform him of Mr. Wallace s death ? " 
 
 " I did so," the widow replied, " and received a 
 courteous reply. His client had warned him that his 
 days were numbered, and that he had left ample pro 
 vision for his burial. Mr. Clarkson did not invite my 
 confidence, I assure you," 
 
 Here Mrs. Hatherton rose and crossing the room 
 returned with a volume in her hand which she handed 
 to her visitor, having first found and hastily turned 
 a page. 
 
 " I take the liberty, Mr. Bracebridge, of giving you 
 this book, which belonged to Mr. Wallace, and of 
 which he was very fond the last year of his life. Per 
 haps you will be able to take some hints from it es-
 
 282 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 pecially from the paragraph I have marked that will 
 suggest to you the fallibility of human judgment, the 
 unworthiness of unjust suspicion." 
 
 It was The Ring and tJic Book. The Poet s eyes fell 
 upon the page, and as he read, the color mounted high 
 into his cheeks : 
 
 " So are we made, such difference in minds, 
 Such difference too in eyes that see the minds 1 
 That man, you misinterpret and misprize 
 The glory of his nature, I had thought, 
 Shot itself out in white light, blazed the truth 
 Through every atom. ****** 
 Yes, my last breath shall wholly spend itself 
 In one attempt more to dispose the stain, 
 The mist from other breath foul mouths have made 
 About a lustrous and pellucid soul ; 
 So that, when I am gone, but sorrow stays, 
 And people need assurance in their doubt, 
 If God have yet a servant, man a friend, 
 The weak a savior and the vile a foe, 
 Let him be present by the name invoked" 
 
 " You will accept a warning or call it a rebuke if 
 you choose from an old woman, Mr. Bracebridge ? " 
 
 Annie smiled gravely, and the young man seized 
 her hand. 
 
 " I thank you, madam," he said : " you have opened 
 my eyes to the truth of this man s character. I shall 
 look now, not for a mystery, but a heroism." 
 
 And still these two were destined not to part with 
 out one more misunderstanding so different were 
 their outlooks. 
 
 " Did Mr. Wallace never speak of any correspon 
 dent by name ? " 
 
 There was a pause. The figure of the dying man,
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 283 
 
 so weak in the failing flesh so strong in the 
 triumphing spirit, rose before Annie s eyes. She 
 saw herself kneeling by the bedside, and burning 
 those unread letters which had come too late. 
 
 " If there are any more and I am not here you 
 will burn them like that, Annie ? " 
 
 And she had promised, sobbing. 
 
 A sob rose now, and checked her utterance. In a 
 few moments, during which her visitor had thought 
 her busy searching her memory, she said gently, 
 
 " Never by name. Once, he spoke of a lady corre 
 spondent." 
 
 " If one could find her ! " half articulated Mr. Brace- 
 bridge. He had not acquired much courage as yet, 
 since he had found the widow somewhat difficult to 
 deal with. Moreover, his purpose had not yet ma 
 tured. It gathered as he went on. 
 
 " I wrote a letter," volunteered Mrs. Hatherton, in 
 terested in spite of herself, " after Mr. Wallace s 
 death, giving the details of his sickness, and offering 
 to attend to the removing of his remains, if his 
 friends wished it. There must be some one, I thought, 
 who would wish it. I sent the letter to The Lady 
 Correspondent of John Wallace ; in care of the London 
 solicitor." 
 
 " In due time there came a letter in response a 
 most finished and refined letter, with a certain literary 
 flavor about it, thanking us for all our kindness, of 
 which the writer said Mr. Wallace had spoken much. 
 She thanked me, also, for the details I had given her, 
 which she said were most comforting to many people. 
 As for his body, they would not disturb it. Doubt-
 
 284 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 less he would prefer to rest in the seclusion of that 
 spot, and that good name, which he had chosen for 
 himself." 
 
 " That good name ! " echoed the Poet. "My dear 
 Mrs. Hatherton do you not perceive that the name 
 was not his own ? " 
 
 " I do not perceive it," she replied flushing with 
 the suddenness of the thought : " I suppose the words 
 to refer merely to the lovely reputation he had won 
 among us, of which I wrote." 
 
 The Poet thought differently, but was too eager 
 now in the pursuit of a possible clew to dispute the 
 fact ? 
 
 " And what was the signature ? " he demanded 
 naturally enough. 
 
 " It was signed," Annie spoke in a low voice, look 
 ing away from her interrogator in some embarrass 
 ment, " The Lady Correspondent of John Wallace " 
 
 Leslie Bracebridge sat staring at his companion in 
 unmitigated astonishment, and presently her fine eyes 
 turned courageously upon his own : 
 
 " There was no reason," remarked she distinctly, 
 " why the lady should not sign her letter precisely as 
 I addressed it. I did not ask any disclosure in return." 
 
 Her companion did not seem to hear her defence 
 of the dead man s position. He muttered, half to 
 himself. 
 
 " Wonderful, wonderful ! Do you not think so, 
 Mrs. Hatherton ? that this man s singular reserve 
 should communicate itself to all with whom he came 
 in contact. The valet the Solicitor the Lady 
 Correspondent ( yourself, he mentally added ;) It
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 285 
 
 seemed like a scheme of silence, a many-sided plot to 
 mystify " he stopped suddenly : 
 
 " I believe I was to confine myself to interrogations. 
 Pardon me if I was led into a comment." 
 
 " I think we had better deal with the facts only," 
 Annie said calmly. 
 
 " Facts ? oh yes ! But I should so like to see that 
 letter if it were not for troubling you," his sentence 
 trailed off apologetically. 
 
 " It is not the trouble] Annie said, with her old 
 emphasis ; " it is that I have no right to make the 
 letter public." 
 
 " I am not a very large public," murmured the Poet, 
 meaningly ; but the other let the matter quietly rest, 
 and Bracebridge had to glance at his notes for a new 
 suggestion. 
 
 " Was there no seal no crest anywhere ? " 
 
 The widow winced, as though the question pierced 
 her self-command with a sting of disclosure : 
 
 " Yes : Mr. Wallace wore a ring with a crest, or 
 cypher, upon it." 
 
 " May I see that ? as a matter of interest, you 
 know." 
 
 It was never taken from his finger, Mr. Brace- 
 bridge." 
 
 " Oh true ! of course ! but was there no duplicate ? " 
 
 " There was a duplicate ; but I think that neither 
 of them was the family crest. It was a sort of mitre 
 and cross design I have fancied it might be a Bish 
 op s crest " 
 
 Annie stopt abruptly. Why should she cast her 
 secret and sacred imaginations before this stranger.
 
 286 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 He was intent on the crest. " You say there was a 
 duplicate of the cypher on the ring; " 
 
 " Yes, answered the widow in a still voice ; for it 
 pained her to touch thus openly the thing which had 
 gone from her life : " It was cut upon the ivory cover 
 of a little prayer-book." 
 
 " And you have that ? 
 
 " No, I have not. I wished to keep it ; but Mr. 
 Bracebridge, can you not comprehend that I felt I had 
 no claim upon anything which belonged to Mr. Wal 
 lace s past to what you are pleased to call his mys 
 tery ? He loved that little book, and always carried 
 it in his breast pocket. I left it with him." 
 
 In her vivid imagination, the woman who had been 
 his friend saw him as he had lain at peace, his hands 
 folded restfully over the little book that might have 
 told his secret, and his grand face looking more than 
 kingly in its statuesque repose. The tears she had 
 repressed gathered in her eyes at last. 
 
 Bracebridge bowed his head in silence. He could 
 not but acknowledge that there was a certain gran 
 deur of renunciation in this woman s having put away 
 from her all possibility of solving a question which 
 he could perceive had lain somewhere near her 
 heart. 
 
 " In this narrow community, and among these nar 
 row people," he mused philosophically, " such a re- 
 linquishment could only have been reflected from the 
 man s own life of abjuration." 
 
 " Then you have nothing at all as a souvenir ? " 
 
 " Nothing, excepting these few papers and books," 
 with a wave of her hand.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 287 
 
 " And they do not appear to refer backward in the 
 least." 
 
 The young man felt his energies flag, but presently 
 he roused them to ask : 
 
 " Could you make that crest ? trace it, you know, 
 or something like it." 
 
 " No," said Annie firmly ; " I do not recollect it 
 with sufficient distinctness. It was, as I have said, a 
 cypher, rather than a crest." 
 
 Leslie Bracebridge sighed restlessly. " This wo 
 man," he thought, " is trying to baffle me." And 
 having no further suggestions upon his list, and no 
 further excuse for remaining, he arose as if to go. 
 Suddenly he turned and asked : 
 
 " Did you never, Mrs. Hatherton, form any sur 
 mise as to Mr. Wallace s former position or occupa 
 tion ?" 
 
 It was a direct question, and Annie answered sim 
 ply, with her old candor of speech : 
 
 " I have not been without curiosity, Mr. Brace- 
 bridge. Sometimes I find myself putting together 
 little items to make a situation. In the letter which 
 I received from Edinburgh, I gathered that the posi 
 tion which Mr. Wallace had held was a high one, 
 judicial or clerical. It has occured to me, personally " 
 Annie paused, the haunting figure in the white robe 
 rising once more before her " that he might have 
 been a clergyman a dignitary of some sort, in the 
 church of England." 
 
 " A Scotchman and yet a churchman. It is odd." 
 The Poet hesitated : " If you were asked, Mrs. 
 Hatherton you who surely must have known him well
 
 2 88 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 in his thirty was it not ? years residence with your 
 family, what would you say were his leading traits ? 
 his chief characteristics ? " 
 
 The widow thought a while before she answered 
 slowly : 
 
 " I should say that the thing which entered most 
 largely into his composition was self-denial, self-re 
 nunciation. For the rest," her eyes filled with tears : 
 it was nearly ten years since she had seen John Wal 
 lace laid away, and yet she sorrowed silently for him 
 whose life had been to her both uplifting and satisfy 
 ing ; " For the rest, he was a cultivated, refined, be 
 nevolent, Christian Gentleman in all tJie associations 
 and actions of Jiis life. We always ridiculed the occa 
 sionally suggested idea that there was any mystery in 
 his previous life. If you are going to follow this 
 matter, I entreat you not to make use of my name or 
 my words in any way. I could not rest if I thought 
 that he whom I revered as John Wallace were about 
 to be paraded before the world as a questionable 
 person." 
 
 "Certainly, certainly," responded the other warmly. 
 " Be sure that your wish shall be respected, even 
 if I should endeavor to follow so dubious a trail. But 
 have you not just betrayed to me that you yourself 
 question the identity of the man ? " 
 
 " I tell you I have never had the ghost of a reason to 
 suspect his identity," she said almost angrily : and 
 the visitor, bowing, withdrew. As he left the sha 
 dow of the vine-covered stoop, the widow s voice de 
 tained him. 
 
 " Mr. Bracebridge," she said coming out and stand-
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 289 
 
 ing; proudly beside him, yet with a certain feminine 
 yielding in her face and gesture : 
 
 " I am a woman and therefore contradictory. Al 
 though I do not wish my name used in this matter 
 which you may follow out, if sometime, you should 
 chance to pick up the thread of Mr. Wallace s life, I 
 should like to see how it unravels." . ... v"- f ; 
 
 The twilight of Annie Hatherton s life closed again 
 about her, to be no more disturbed by word from the 
 living or voice from the dead. 
 
 How much of tender fiction she nursed in her 
 heart for reality, how much of questioning incredulity 
 she banished from it as a whim, who shall know ? 
 Only those who have likewise journeyed in their ex 
 perience after the never-to-be-explained ignis-fatuus 
 of some illusion, some haunting soul-myth that is not 
 their own. It was John Wallace s shadow she had 
 pursued. 
 
 Poor human creatures ! The half of our lavish 
 natures we waste in twining about an object, an 
 ambition, an idol ; the other half we spend in un 
 winding their poor clingings. . . 
 
 " My life," she mused, standing wistfully that same 
 evening in the melancholy mist which crept over 
 John Wallace s grave, " is like a broken shaft, without 
 meaning or finish ; while his is perfected in form, 
 polished in outline, complete in expression. He died 
 having achieved his silent purpose of some unknown 
 vicarious suffering, not spelled upon his tomb. I live : 
 and having aimed at many poor ends, have achieved 
 nothing." 
 
 And the Poet, as he strode away from the wistaria,
 
 2 9 o THE SNA DOW OF JOHN WA LLA CE. 
 
 and jessamine, and honeysuckle-ladened doorway 
 that had known for so many years the coming and 
 going shadow of John Wallace, he, too, mused this 
 wise : 
 
 "Force and gentleness; justice and self-renuncia 
 tion ; these then seem to have been the chief com 
 ponents of the creature I am to handle. Rather 
 lofty traits, and delicate to manage, Hum hum ! 
 Let me see, 
 
 " The Ring and the Book / It must have been a 
 new book when the Great Unknown was fond of it. 
 A metaphysical, ruminating, analytical sort of man, 
 no doubt. Well, well! I shall read the volume for 
 his sake as well as for Robert Browning s, bearing in 
 mind what that widow with fine eyes had the courage 
 to say to me. Then I shall go forth and find the 
 man himself."
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 THE SHADOW. 
 
 " Well now ; there s nothing in nor out o 1 the world 
 Good except truth ; yet this, the something else, 
 What s this then, which proves good yet seems untrue ? 
 This that I mixed with truth, motions of mine 
 That quickened, made the inertness malleolable 
 O the gold was not -mine, whafs your name for this ? 
 A re means to the end, themselves in part the end f 
 Is fiction which makes fact alive, fact too ? 
 The somehow may be this how" 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A LONDON SOLICITOR. 
 
 " God who sent me to judge thee meted out 
 So much of judging faculty, no more. 
 Ask Him if I was slack i?i use thereof." 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 A SELF-APPOINTED task has often all the glamour of 
 a mission about it. We are frequently so possessed 
 with the intensity of our own imaginations, that to 
 fulfil them becomes a sacred duty. Perhaps there is 
 a truth in this fancy. The Fates may hold us respon 
 sible for our inspirations. 
 
 Leslie Bracebridge had a few hundred dollars and 
 the remainder of the summer at his disposal. More 
 over, he had always meant to hunt up his Scotch rela 
 tives and introduce himself to them. 
 
 " My mother was a Leslie," he said. " She used to 
 hear from cousins in the south of Scotland. Here is 
 an opportunity to find my own kin and to stumble 
 upon John Wallace s romance." 
 
 For he was aware that the thread upon which he 
 had strung his odd fancy for finding the story of an 
 unknown man was but a slender one. 
 
 He made a few hasty arrangements, and in a weeks
 
 294 THE SHADO W OF JOHN WALLA CE. 
 
 time found himself aboard one of the ships of an inex 
 pensive line, bound for London. 
 
 " I shall call upon Mr. Roderic Clarkson first. 
 After that, I start for Edinburgh with very likely a 
 handful of addresses. I may make my fortune in two 
 ways. First socially ; that is not to be despised. I shall 
 fall among John Wallace s relations, and be entertained 
 and introduced by them into the aristocracy. Sec 
 ondly, I shall obtain facts why not ? for which the 
 American public will pay handsomely. Our peo 
 ple are greedy for any undiscovered thing. They shall 
 have a new romance. I will call it The Lady Cor 
 respondent of John Wallace. Why ! " he cried stamp 
 ing furiously about the deck, " the very name has a 
 thrill about it ! A publisher would pay for that with 
 out reading the MS. It is unique." 
 
 Still, the young man was not distinctly mercenary. 
 His determination to follow up the story he had hap 
 pened upon may very justly be ascribed to one of 
 those relentless infatuations which seize upon the ar 
 tistic temperament, and, taking possession of it, lead 
 many a man into unaccountable ways. * * * 
 
 Who that has crossed the sea under the pressure of 
 some haste, does not know the feverish anxiety with 
 which the voyage is beset ? Especially those few last 
 days on shipboard when the profound risks of the deep 
 are passed, and you sail along the desired shore with 
 the haven still ahead. 
 
 All this was over for Leslie Bracebridge, however, 
 and he leaped ashore into the bustle and crowd of the 
 Great City, with a bounding sense in his blood of 
 something to be achieved without delay.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 295 
 
 But there was delay, after all. There were lodgings 
 to secure, and the " square meal " on terra firma to 
 partake of, by which time it was towards dusk. The 
 exclusive looking buildings which displayed Mr. Rod- 
 eric Clarkson s name, as Solicitor in Chancery, among 
 other equally aristocratic and imposing ones, were 
 closed. Round about and in and out, among the bar 
 rister s offices and the banks, wandered the poet in a 
 maze of curiosity and appreciative enjoyment ; he was 
 feasting in anticipation upon the charm of a discovery. 
 
 The next day, he was on the spot betimes, eager to 
 grasp his pet dilemma by the horns. The offices were 
 not yet open to the public ; and small boys, assisted 
 by cuffs and commands from very young and very 
 pompous clerks, were sweeping out and generally put 
 ting to rights for the day. Our poet thought he had 
 never known places of business to open so late, and to 
 wear such a distant air of reserve. It was very unin 
 viting ; and depressingly unlike the familiar courtesy 
 of the American professional man s den. His ardor 
 of the night before cooled a little, and he began to ex 
 perience twinges of that uncomfortable quality called 
 nervousness ; and to wonder if he were not about to 
 perpetrate a very rash thing. 
 
 It was too late for qualms of conscience, however. 
 He had already presented his card to the least super 
 cilious-looking of the dozen supercilious clerks, and 
 informed him that he would return at midday. The 
 clerk stared at him, politely but coldly ; which gave 
 him an impression that the solicitor was something of 
 a Personage, and was accustomed to serving other 
 Personages of unquestionable position. That he felt
 
 296 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 himself to be merely an atom in the great nameless 
 mass of nobodies, did not add to his ebbing courage. 
 He was sure the clerks knew he had come on doubt 
 ful business, and were despising him for his humility. 
 At last, there was nothing to do but to face the inter 
 view. He felt himself shrink and dwindle incredibly 
 as he was ushered through a suite of preliminary 
 apartments, after an interminable waiting time spent 
 in a gradually filling ante-room. 
 
 He heard his consciously unknown name pro 
 nounced from room to room by dignified and middle- 
 aged and majestic gentlemen, each of whom he mo 
 mentarily fancied to be the great solicitor himself. 
 To his sensitive ear, there was a tone of scorn in the 
 several utterances of his name, as who should say 
 " What does this young man want f Who is this ob 
 scure individual called Bracebridge ? " Then he came 
 into the presence of an elderly man, who was physi 
 cally, and to all appearances mentally a giant. Now 
 the poet was modest in his inches, and he felt him 
 self acutely to be a pigmy by the side of this the 
 awful Personage. 
 
 The Personage was by rights Sir Roderic Clarkson ; 
 but he kept the dignity of his baronetcy forsocial life, 
 preferring for his professional renown, that greater 
 dignity which is of personal power and ability. He 
 scrutinized through his single-barreled glass the tim 
 orous intruder, as a sceptical biologist might scruti 
 nize, through his miscroscope, a new specimen of an 
 imalcule. Still there was nothing affronting in his 
 manner. Without doubt, Sir Roderic was near 
 sighted
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 297 
 
 " Good morning-, Mr. Leslie Bracebridge," he said 
 stiffly, English fashion. 
 
 If ever that young gentleman devoutly wished to 
 back out from an inevitable situation, it was then 
 and there. All his glib speeches forsook him and 
 fled. 
 
 " I am from America from the States," he began 
 feebly. He felt a wild desire to blurt out : 
 
 " I am supernaturally commissioned from John 
 Wallace s ghost." 
 
 Actually, he could think of nothing else to say a 
 chaotic state which wiser minds than his often fall 
 into, in an emergency. 
 
 Mr. Roderic Clarkson moved his neatly gaitered 
 feet with a slightly ominous suggestion of impatience. 
 
 " What can I do for you, Mr. Bracebridge ? " he 
 asked politely. 
 
 " I have come to you " (it was the only modification 
 of the absurd speech which the poet could think of) 
 " from the friends of John Wallace." 
 
 " Yes ? " The monosyllable was distinctly interroga 
 tive. Clearly the great man s composure was not 
 stirred. He did not propose to help his victim out. 
 
 " John Wallace means nothing to him ! Doubtless 
 he is used to mysterious correspondents," thought 
 poor Bracebridge, wondering what on earth he had 
 planned to say next. He thought of the ease with 
 which he had plied the widow with questions, and 
 smiled bitterly at his own temerity. 
 
 " I am very anxious they are very anxious to 
 learn something of Mr. Wallace s past life," he said 
 desperately. He could read in the solicitor s coldly
 
 2 g8 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 penetrating eye, that he had anticipated some such 
 indirect and poverty-stricken announcement. 
 
 " I believe I had some correspondence with the 
 people whom you refer to. Some years ago. At the 
 time of Mr. Wallace s death. That was sufficiently 
 satisfactory, I presume." 
 
 The solicitor spoke in distinct periods with a 
 majestic sort of measure. 
 
 "No not quite," stammered the young man blush 
 ing furiously ; " There are those who were bound to 
 Mr. Wallace by ties " what was he saying in his 
 desperation ? 
 
 " Ah, indeed ! Perhaps I do not comprehend. What 
 do you mean by ties ? " said the other measurcdly. 
 
 " Ties of friendship and all that ! " cried the poet, 
 a cold sweat breaking out upon his forehead ; " there 
 is a young man who is called for him to whom he 
 left considerable money " 
 
 " No doubt." Sir Roderic spoke stiffly : " there 
 may be a whole village named for him. But what 
 have I to do with all this ? The young man received 
 the money, I suppose ? " 
 
 " He did ; but you have, sir, information which 
 would be of great service to those people and to me." 
 
 " Excuse me : who are you, Mr. Bracebridge ? The 
 young man himself possibly?" 
 
 " No," cried Bracebridge, wishing devoutly that he 
 was; " I am a writer, sir. I have become possessed 
 of this idea: to follow backward through what clew I 
 may find, the life of John Wallace to its source." 
 
 He was becoming more tranquil and confident. 
 
 " Ah yes. A reporter. I have heard of such
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 299 
 
 methods. In America. And you wish me to help you. 
 In your laudable enterprise ? " with an ironical 
 smile. 
 
 " I should be greatly indebted to you, Mr. Clarkson, 
 for a few addresses merely that." 
 
 " That, Mr. Bracebridge, I cannot do. It is need 
 less to remind you, I fancy, that the affairs of my 
 client, are not mine to dispose of." 
 
 " Then you are bound to secrecy ? And there is a 
 mystery ? " ejaculated the young man, unguardedly. 
 
 " I did not say so. A lawyer never discusses his 
 clients matters, I merely declined giving you the 
 addresses of Mr. Wallace s relatives. Is there any 
 thing more you wish to ask ? " 
 
 The Personage moved his gaitered feet again ; young 
 Bracebridge started forward in consternation. 
 
 " I beg you, sir, to give me i some inkling some 
 hint to direct me ; I have crossed the ocean to fol 
 low this trail. It will go very hard with me if I have 
 
 to give it up. I am pledged as it were," he did 
 
 not finish. 
 
 The solicitor looked sharply at him. There must 
 have been some charm about his boyish face, which, 
 having won upon the widow Hatherton s heart, now 
 appeared to touch the stone which lay in the great 
 man s breast. 
 
 " Perhaps you have some claim of relationship," he 
 said gently. 
 
 " No I have not. But I ve got this thing on my 
 mind to that extent, that I cannot rest day or 
 night, until I see through it." 
 
 " May I ask what you have to gain ? "
 
 300 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " Literally nothing," cried the Poet, his notion of a 
 warm reception among John Wallace s people having 
 vanished into space. 
 
 " I have taken it up as a sort of mission a hobby, 
 if you will. It could do no harm, and and I am wil 
 ling to pay for my information." 
 
 Sir Roderic Clarkson waved his hand, with a ges 
 ture of dismissal : 
 
 "I cannot countenance any liberty. With my clients, 
 Even after their decease. I am sorry, Mr. Brace- 
 bridge. But it is impossible to assist you. 1 
 
 He laid his hand upon a bell. This air of finality 
 gave his visitor a sudden courage. 
 
 " Only tell me this, Mr. Clarkson and I will not 
 trouble you further. Was his name in reality John 
 Wallace ? " 
 
 " It was not : " Sir Roderic rang the bell. 
 
 " Was Edinburgh or London, the scene of his 
 life, up to his leaving for America ? " 
 
 "Both. Thomson! "(to the brass-buttoned boy 
 who entered,) " I am ready to see Sir Harvey " 
 
 " Just give me this grain of satisfaction," entreated 
 the baffled Poet, clasping his hat fervently to his 
 heart ; " was there a crime of any sort ? was he ban 
 ished ? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Bracebridge. I have said 
 I could not help you in the matter." 
 
 " But if I find him ! if I identify him ! you will 
 at least tell me ? " 
 
 The young man s persistence seemed to please the 
 older nature which had doubtless known its eager 
 nesses also, else it would not have found success :
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 301 
 
 " If you find him yes. But don t come to me, 
 with all sorts of people. I warn you that I am not 
 patient." 
 
 " Thank you and good-day," murmured Leslie 
 Bracebridge, humbly, backing towards the door by 
 which brass buttons was admitting another anxious 
 visitor. 
 
 " I couldn t well have got less out of him," he mut 
 tered : "And yet it is something that promise! For 
 / shall find the man who called himself John Wallace? 
 ****** 
 
 It was the height of the season in London ; but 
 the festivites of shop and theater, of street and park, 
 could not detain young Bracebridge. He had an ob 
 ject before him ; and that was Edinburgh. * * * * 
 
 A quaint old city, built eccentrically up and down 
 an abrupt declivity of rocks. Steep and narrow 
 streets, queer shops; a crowd a jumble of roofs ; a 
 great mass of rock-like castle overhanging all : that is 
 Edinburgh. That is where our Poet found himself, 
 blown about, without thread of direction, to his pur 
 pose. Drifting about without a sail upon this un 
 known current had the excitement of hazard, how 
 ever. Suppose his intention drove on to wreck ! At 
 least he would have passed a summer of novelty. 
 
 He began to consider the feasibility of searching 
 tKe city directories and birth records, until he re 
 flected that he had no clew, no name to look for. 
 Perhaps if he presented himself to the American 
 
 Consul Pshaw ! Very likely that individual had 
 
 never heard of John Wallace ; how should he ? Brace- 
 bridge smiled cynically. He thought of the Bishop
 
 302 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 of Edinburgh, remembering that the man he sought 
 for was a churchman. But what should he say ? The 
 absurd sentence that had presented itself about John 
 Wallace s ghost occurred to him again. This time 
 Bracebridge laughed aloud ; clearly, he must look 
 among circumstances for some extraordinary event 
 which he could fit upon his man. It was the motive 
 he must seek, not the man. " It is like constructing 
 an antediluvian creature from a single bone," he 
 thought : " I shall not hunt for my bone ; I must hap 
 pen on that." 
 
 And so it was that, wandering about the intricacies 
 of the rare old Capital, he came upon the dark and 
 dreadful shadow of the Edinburgh Prison. 
 
 One of those queer sensations called presentiments 
 swept across the Poet s brain, and he found himself 
 haunting the prison with a persistency which he could 
 not account for, since his mind was not set upon the 
 fact that John Wallace s mystery had been a crime. 
 And still the place fascinated him. He wandered 
 about its precincts, using every opportunity allowed to 
 visitors to enter ; and questioning every one with whom 
 he came in contact. 
 
 But prison officials are a Surly set ; and it was not 
 until he heard of the existence of an old minister of 
 the Scottish Kirk, who had taken charge of the chapel 
 services in jail and prison for thirty years previous to 
 the last decade, that he got any insight into Peniten 
 tiary affairs. 
 
 This old man had become superannuated and was re 
 tired from office and pensioned ; all of which fed his 
 garrulity to an incredible degree. Indeed auld Parson
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 303 
 
 McCairn lived upon his prolonged versions and remi, 
 niscences of past labors and experiences, with a 
 tenacity of which only the Scotch composition is ca 
 pable. 
 
 What pangs of penance the young man was bring 
 ing upon himself in his voluntary seeking of the old 
 parson, he little knew. Nor is it probable that he 
 would have shrunk from the ordeal, since it held for 
 him a faint and shadowy hope that somewhere, in the 
 misty mazes of the old man s memory there might 
 linger a motive for his Mystery, which began to as 
 sume the look of a Martyrdom.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE STORY OF A PRISON. 
 
 " The act, over and ended, falls and fades ; 
 
 What once was seen grows what is now described, 
 Then talked of, told about, a tinge the less 
 In every fresh transmission, till it melts, 
 Trickles in silent orange or wan grey 
 Across our memory, dies and leaves all dark, 
 And presently we find the stars again" 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 LESLIE BRACEBRIDGE cultivated this old creature, 
 with a nice homage that delighted the ex-parson s soul. 
 It was difficult to keep him to prison stories ; for he 
 had had more than one flock in his life-time ; and his 
 reminiscences wandered over an immense field 
 mostly among the poorer classes. 
 
 At last, however, it was impressed upon his somewhat 
 thickening wits that his new friend was particularly 
 interested in the prison-work he had so faithfully done. 
 Then he preached over again the long dry sermons he 
 had thundered at the convicts. He spun tedious 
 yarns of refractory criminals whose punishments he 
 sighed to relate. He harped upon mysterious criminals 
 about whom nobody ever discovered anything; and 
 pious criminals who tried to convert the jailor and the
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 305 
 
 turnkeys ; and slippery criminals who had a genius 
 for escaping and a corresponding fatality for being 
 recaptured. 
 
 These prolonged recitals, the Poet endured, partly 
 as a means of studying a, to him, unknown side of hu 
 man nature, but mostly because of the growing im 
 pression lurking in his bosom, that John Wallace had 
 somehow at some time chosen to cast his lot in 
 that dismal place. Moreover, the old Parson had a 
 decided way of his own, and was not to be stopped, or 
 deviated from the course of any narrative upon which 
 his garrulousness set out. 
 
 Unconsciously, Bracebridge was looking for his 
 "bone." And moreover that lurking impression! 
 If, in the course of events a presentiment seems to 
 fulfil itself, how powerful, how wonderful, does not 
 the recollection of it grow ? But how about the my 
 riads of presentiments which, in spite of nourishing 
 and cherishing, come to nought. They are forgotten. 
 
 Finally, however, the Poet got hold of the prison 
 record, and studying it carefully came upon this entry : 
 
 Jan. 10, 1840. John Wallace Monteith, gentleman > 
 sentenced for twenty years imprisonment for forgery of 
 unit of Sir Randolph MonteitJi Bart, wider circum 
 stance of trust" 
 
 Written below was : 
 
 "Escaped, March 2 is/ 1840. Left country. Never 
 been heard of since. " 
 
 Over this slim record, Leslie Bracebridge pondered 
 and thought. Then he armed himself with a bottle of 
 fine old Port, a pouch of excellent tobacco, a fresh 
 reinforcement of patience, and went toseeauld Parson
 
 306 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 McCairn. The old man was sunning himself in the 
 soft drowsy August shine that brought into full relief 
 the myriad wrinkles of his more than four score years. 
 His rough and weatherbeaten face belied what was in 
 reality a kindly nature ; and this contrast came out in 
 a certain mildness of speech-form which was pleasant 
 enough to hear. He belonged to that class of Scotch 
 people who have sluffed off their brogue, through a 
 certain sort of education ; but not being either of the 
 fashionable, or literary, or business world, have retain 
 ed the quaintness of expression so eminently Scottish. 
 
 " John Monteith, is it ? " he began in his old-fashion 
 ed way, which was at once rambling and precise ; " It s 
 a troublous story, I doubt not, and I scarce mind 
 whether or no I can do the telling. It may come to 
 me betimes, however, seeing that I can mostly recall 
 what came to pass in those forty-five years of prison- 
 teaching, when the Lord was gude eneuch to abide 
 my puir efforts. Na I cannot call to mind the man 
 all at once : a gentlemen, you say he is written down ? 
 There s nought bye-ordinary in that. I mind well 
 many a gentleman that s come to abide in Edinbro 
 Prison. It s no always the low and hard-working class 
 that fills such-like places. There s been a power o* 
 book learned men, and high tradesmen, with a 
 sprinkling of better folks men and women that s 
 come upon yon dark place in my time. But John 
 Monteith ! I mind not anything past the common 
 that chanced with him." 
 
 " He escaped in a few months," suggested Brace- 
 bridge, warily. 
 
 " Escaped ? Truly I have gotten into years that it
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 307 
 
 should sliy me when any came loose from their 
 bonds." 
 
 He sat and puffed meditatively at his pipe, until 
 presentlp a gleam of recollection lit up his little shrewd 
 eyes. 
 
 " Aye Aye ! John Monteith. I mind him well, 
 now. He abode in the prison but a brief season, 
 though he were a long whiles in the jail ; for the 
 reason that the trial was uncommon slow of action. 
 I mind how quiet he would bide at the service of a 
 Sabbath ; and how great a liking for him the wardens 
 and jailors had betimes. Doubtless they helped him 
 out of his captivity ; for there was none of them that 
 did not secretly name John Monteith innocent. And 
 truly he had the air of one that knew the Lord. Like 
 wise, I was oft-times mindful that he had about him 
 the look and the ways of one who suffers for the sake 
 of shielding another. 
 
 " Weel, weel ! It a comes back to me now. There 
 was a bonny bit lass that used to come day after day, 
 and tarry with him in the jail : a ward of his, or his 
 father s I mind not which a gold haired creature, 
 wi big dancing blue een that had a soft, scared look. 
 She was aye there of a Sabbath when I went ben ; 
 and her een looked mirthful like, in spite of the tears 
 Tallin silent all the whiles." 
 
 The old man paused as though he could, even at 
 that late day, conjure up the sweet picture : then he 
 went on musingly ; 
 
 " She was the lassie that John Monteith was to 
 marry upon ; but the folk of the bonny leddy were 
 stiffneckcd and unrighteous, she being an heiress, in
 
 308 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 her ain right, and John Monteith being a poor second 
 son, without a penny to call his ain. 
 
 " For albeit the elder brother was imbecile, and no 
 fit to inherit a fine property, it was feared by them 
 that the auld baronet, who was testy eneuch for any 
 thing, would make him his sole devisee and legatee. 
 
 " Now the inheritance of Sir Randolph Monteith s 
 properties by the imbecile son would have been so 
 grievous a calamity, that John Monteith and his friends 
 persuaded the people of the lass that it could not come 
 to pass, and it came to be hoped that the will would 
 be made upon the second son, who was aye good and 
 well-beloved by the kin and by the community. Sure 
 eneuch, at lang last the auld baronet died ; and when 
 the will came to be opened there was the name of 
 John Monteith and none other. But the lawyers, who 
 it was apparent thought to make much of the job, 
 stirred up a great to-do, crying that there had been a 
 wrong done, and the will was a forgery. 
 
 "I mind not if it were so or no ; but if it were, the 
 Lord who knows his ain made it clear to me and to 
 many, that John Monteith was nae the man to do sic 
 a deed. 
 
 "Ye see Mister Bracebridge," continued the auld 
 parson, after meditatively replenishing his pipe," the 
 young leddy was a ward of the Monteiths and lived wi 
 them, though she had kin of her ain. They were 
 given to seeking the things of this warld and were set 
 upon giving her to another ; and seek it to aye hinder 
 her marrying upon John Monteith, who was puir in 
 this warld s goods, to their thinking. 
 
 " Weel there was a power o testimony, and more
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 309 
 
 witnesses than is common, mostly among st the peo 
 ple of the bairn ; for John Monteith never raised his 
 voice nor his hand to rightly defend himself. But I 
 mind there was a sight of plain evidence that went 
 for nought when the prisoner were pronounced guilty. 
 It is no common for great folk hereabouts to attend 
 the trials ; howsomever, the court was full to over 
 flowing, seeing the best people in the land knew 
 
 John Monteith and liked him well and for the 
 
 matter o that, sae did the lowly. But as I was say 
 ing, there were more evidence in his favor than 
 against him : only that the lawyers and such have aye 
 a way o turning things to some body s weel or woe." 
 
 * Did John Monteith have no lawyers ? " questioned 
 Braccbridge eagerly. 
 
 " Na, na ; leastways, I mind not any of account. 
 He was a sort of lawyer himself, and made as though 
 he would conduct his ain case. I call to mind the up 
 roar there was in court the day the sentence fell ; for 
 indeed it was made apparent to all that the deed was 
 putten upon a harmless creature. But he sat there 
 John Monteith I see him now, as it all comes back 
 upon me, how grand and still and stately he lookit ; 
 and how serene he bore it a , refusin to defend him 
 self by so much as a word. His silence was like that 
 of a man who, being guilty, has naething to say ; but 
 his look was like that o a man who, being innocent, 
 yet is desirous to suffer. He carried ever that look, 
 in jail, in the prison, at the service, at his wark like 
 as of some superior being who endured for anithcr 
 body. I mind weel the Lord marked that look and 
 kent it a ."
 
 3 to THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 Here the old man fell a-dreaming ; and when the 
 Poet roused him, his thoughts had rambled away from 
 the story, and it was not without effort that his mind 
 was brought back. At last he fell again into the train 
 of recital. 
 
 " There was one thing which I aye marvelled at, 
 and that was, though her folk had prevented the lass 
 from marrying upon John Monteith when he was an 
 unblamed man, and stood high in the eyes of the 
 world, yet when he fell under the condemnation of a 
 great crime, and was disgraced, with the prison walls 
 closing about him, they let the lass visit him in jail. 
 (Later, when he had escaped, the lass, I am told, had 
 gone likewise.) It aye came over me that her kin 
 knew mair nor they would let be proven o that will. 
 Howsomever, I have heard that the bonny bairn came 
 back heart-broken and alane." 
 
 " But who was accused of the forgery besides John 
 Monteith ? " burst in Leslie Bracebridge, his imagina 
 tion having failed to supply a direct course to the 
 rambling narrative. 
 
 " Woe s me ! " cried Parson McCairn ; " Did I not 
 tell ye that ; of a truth, that is the marvel of the 
 whole thing. Nae body was what you may say, ac 
 cused. The ither story was suppressed, kept back, 
 covered over : ye ken a way there is in court o doing 
 that, when the rich and great are threatened. But it 
 was as plain as day to them that barkened at the trial 
 to the much speaking of the lawyers and judges that 
 the lass hersel, Jennie Stewart she was ca d had 
 done the foul thing. Aye, ye may weel stare. You 
 see, in spite of the ill will of the connexions who
 
 THE SHADO W OF JOHN WALLA CE. 3 j i 
 
 wanted the lass to marry upon a wealthy laird she 
 lent no unwilling ear to John Monteith and was liken 
 to elope with him, when the brother came and brought 
 about a quarrel. After that came the old baronet s 
 death, and the will in John Monteith s favor, and the 
 accusations made by the kin." 
 
 " Did John Monteith never deny the charges against 
 him ? " A swift undercurrent a sudden theory of 
 John Wallace had sprung up in the listener s mind. 
 
 " Na, I tell ye, mon. He neither affirmed nor de 
 nied. He sat there with his bonny head aye raised 
 proud and calm, and his clear een fastened upon the 
 young thing that had brought all the misery upon him. 
 If he had but once lifted his voice, he could have 
 turned the world in his favor. 
 
 " And what did she do ? How did she behave ? " 
 
 " That is the curious part, though I am no one to 
 blame the courts, but after the first few days, when 
 she began crying upon the judge to bear her witness 
 that the prisoner was an innocent man, and saying 
 daft-like things, they carried her out of court and 
 gave it out after that, how she had lost her wits, and 
 had no more the right use of her senses. I was in a 
 manner taken by surprise the first Sabbath after the 
 prisoner John Monteith was brought into confinement, 
 to see the bairn in her ain senses. I was at no hand 
 adapted to read out plain the meaning o tangled 
 things ; but it was clear to my een that the lass knew 
 mair o that will than any ither boddy, save John Mon 
 teith ; and that she had threatened her kin wi the 
 telling, if they did not leave her to gang her ain gate 
 and go ben with her lover in the jail.
 
 3 i2 THE SHADO W OF JOHN WALLA CE. 
 
 " Later, when it was a over, the trial and the sen 
 tence ; and he came to abide in the prison, the pri 
 soner carried with him that air of innocence which 
 made it easy for him to win out again. I had aye my 
 am thoughts that the lass was in a manner privy to 
 his escape, and mayhap had helpen it on wi siller 
 though I was never one to blame the wardens with 
 deceitfulness." 
 
 " And what became of John Monteith ? " 
 " Aye what ? " Parson McCairn puffed vigor 
 ously at his pipe. " There was wark enough made 
 about it ; but I doubt not every boddy was glad to 
 give him the slippit. It s all been lang syne, an nae- 
 boddy has heard tell o the prisoner, John Monteith 
 since/ 
 
 " But the girl ; did she disappear finally ? " 
 " That now I canna call to mind, being no hand 
 for curiosity myself, no that its an ill quality in the 
 main but I was about the Lord s work in the jails 
 and prisons, and couldna follow the misguided out 
 into the world itself. I mind that she went and came 
 back, however, though it s a lang syne." 
 " Do you think I could find her, Parson ? " 
 "Wae s me, mon ! What for will you find her? 
 Belike she s an auld body now, and has nae wish to 
 upturn the darksome place of her bit youth." 
 
 " But I think," began Bracebridge cautiously, 
 " that I know something of John Monteith, after he 
 left here. I think that I have found his footprints 
 in America." 
 
 " Aye aye. Verra like. America s an awfu 
 place, and is ever gettin the ill o ither countries. I m
 
 THE SHADO W OF JOHN WALLA CE. 3 T 3 
 
 told they send over paupers, and convicts, and the 
 like, to build up their society. It ll be a sad world, 
 there." 
 
 " Where did these people, these Stewarts, live ? " 
 queried the Poet, modestly, declining to enter into a 
 defense of his native place. 
 
 "Deed an I canna tell you that. The whole o 
 Scotland reeks wi Stewarts, I mind nothing more o 
 the people than the lass bit story." 
 
 The old parson had grown testy, and was plainly 
 proof against further questioning. He had told out 
 his tale, to his own thinking. 
 
 It was a frail thread for the youth to fasten upon 
 for his clew ; but he continued to haunt the prison 
 precincts, asking fruitless questions about John 
 Monteith, the Stewarts, whom he could in no way 
 extricate from the mass of their name. He became 
 more and more convinced that the man who could 
 grandly sacrifice himself in the face of evidence so 
 easy to turn in his favor, was like to that other man, 
 who, unknown and untracked, bore himself with the 
 self-same mien, across the sea. 
 
 To listen to the half-forgotten fragments of a once 
 thrilling story, mumbled over by a prosy and dull- 
 souled narrator, was but a poor substitute, to his ar 
 dent nature, for a full knowledge of the thing he 
 sought. For he knew that such dull and stale repeti 
 tions can rob of their pathos the darkest tragedies. 
 Pondering it over, he followed out the trail suggested 
 by Parson McCairn, and came to believe : 
 
 ist. That John Monteith, (or John Wallace) had 
 not committed the crime:
 
 3 1 4 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 2nd. That Jenny Stewart was the guilty person : 
 
 3rd. That the just and pure soul of the man had 
 recoiled from the creature who could do a dark deed 
 and then be forced to permit another one whom 
 she loved to suffer the penalty ; and that in escap 
 ing, he had refused to take her and her guilty secret 
 with him. 
 
 " It all falls in with John Wallace s solitary life 
 his lack of interest in the women about him that 
 majestic widow, for instance, who," Bracebridge re 
 flected, " must have been young and pretty thirty, 
 or forty years ago." 
 
 Yes : it was altogether a likely story. In fact, 
 during several weeks, in which he had come and gone 
 and waited and watched and pried and questioned, 
 and found nothing that bore any resemblance to the 
 dead scholar, the probability grew strong upon him 
 and he determined to pay Mr. Roderie Clarkson 
 a visit. 
 
 Nevertheless, when he found himself once more 
 beneath the searching eyes of that august person, 
 the probabilty began to tremble in the balance. 
 
 " Well ? " queried the Solicitor in Chancery, who 
 recognized himself and his business, lawyer-fashion, 
 at once : " I presume you stumbled upon John Wal 
 lace. Immediately, Mr. Bracebridge." 
 
 " Not immediately ; nevertheless, I think that I 
 have found him Mr. Clarkson." 
 
 " Ah ? " with his cynical, superior smile. 
 
 " Yes ; I have found a great and good and generous 
 man who took upon himself voluntarily the sin of an 
 other."
 
 . THE SHAD O W OF JOHN WALLACE. 3 x 5 
 
 The Solicitor s face changed slightly ; a look of sur 
 prise reddened with a flush of annoyance crossing it. 
 
 " Go on," he said briefly. 
 
 " He was a man who could sacrifice himself ; for 
 he renounced everything rather than let the shadow 
 of a crime fall upon one he loved. Am I right so 
 far, Mr. Clarkson ? " 
 
 " Go on," impatience mingling with the brevity. 
 
 The man of letters regarded the man of law with a 
 suddenly waxing triumph. The probable John Wal 
 lace was assuming magnificent proportions, and al- 
 ready s young Bracebridge s heart was thumping 
 audibly. 
 
 " He never lifted his voice to defend himself from 
 base imputation, because it would have been so 
 aeasy to prove who had done the deed." 
 
 " May I now interrupt your eloquence to inquire, 
 Mr. Bracebridge, Where you discovered this individual. 
 Who showed such a vast capacity. For self abnega 
 tion ? " 
 
 The solicitor s irony roused the other s spirit, and 
 he answered firmly : 
 
 " I found him, or the trace of him, in the Edin 
 burgh Prison." 
 
 Mr Roderic Clarkson s face brightened perceptibly: 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " I found him," continued his antagonist still confi 
 dently, " in the person of John Wallace Monteith, who 
 was sentenced-unjustly I am persuaded, for twenty 
 years imprisonment for the forgery of a will ; but 
 who escaped to America in 1840 " 
 
 The old lawyer rose with genuine dignity :
 
 3 ! 6 THE SHAD OW OF JOHN WALLA CE. 
 
 " Mr. Leslie Bracebridge, you have been at great 
 pains, I do not doubt, to discover the wrong man." 
 
 " Can it be possible ? " cried the other excitedly. 
 
 " And I may as well tell you this," pursued the so 
 licitor, " That you will never find John Wallace. 
 Among convicts or felons. " 
 
 The poet was crushed, and proceeded to bow him 
 self hastily out of the presence of that cynical smile, 
 which had returned as soon as its owner heard the 
 mention of the Edinburgh Prison. 
 
 " Perhaps it will not make your search any too 
 easy," the great man added, relenting as he had done 
 before towards the youth and enthusiasm of his vis 
 itor, " to suggest that if you look here. In London. 
 You will come nearer to the history you are seek 
 ing." 
 
 Again the young man cried " Thank you," and 
 made his dazed way into the street. 
 
 " Here in London ! " he echoed : " Great heavens ! 
 And London is twenty times the size of Edinburgh ! 
 I shall never find a clue ! " 
 
 And he walked disconsolately about the never silent 
 streets, until the mists of evening had aided the smoke 
 of the day to obliterate the Great City
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE STORY OF A MADHOUSE. 
 
 " So did this old woe fade from memory 
 Till offer, in the fullness of the days, 
 I needs must find an ember yet unquenehed, 
 And, breathing, blow the spark to flame. It lives 
 If precious be the soul of man to man" 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 DOES not every one know what it is to wake, some 
 dreary morning and find through loss, or disappoint 
 ment, or absence of that vital interest in things out 
 side of ourselves which we call happiness, that life 
 has turned a blank side towards us ? That we no 
 longer realize the acuteness of either joy or pain ; but 
 go monotonously about our humdrum duties with a 
 benumbed sense of spiritual remoteness which makes 
 the world seem hollow enough, and even our own 
 selves unreal. 
 
 There was a touch of this bitterness of disappoint 
 ment which mingled with Leslie Bracebridge s uncer 
 tain experiences during the next week or two of un 
 directed wanderings. 
 
 He went among scenes of squalor, as though they 
 knew any secret but their own wretchedness. He 
 plunged into places of vice, as if they could tell of
 
 3 i8 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 aught but their own ruin. Here and there, Shadows 
 mocked at him, saying. " We are what you seek. We 
 are the lost who are found." 
 
 For what had at first been but a freak of fancy had 
 now grown to be a mania with the poet, who relapsed 
 by rapid mental stages into that one-idead state which 
 is but little removed from insanity. Possibly it was 
 this melancholy condition of the mind which drew 
 him sympathetically to a great Asylum for the Insane 
 which shall here be nameless, since the tragedies once 
 told there are best forgotten. Moreover, he remem 
 bered the idle Rest-Hampton tale ; that Mr. Wallace 
 had " come over " with the physician of an Insane 
 Asylum. Unfortunately, Bracebridge was not a pro 
 found student of the psychological. He noted more 
 the obvious actions of men and women than the drift 
 of their unfulfilled intentions. Of this he was con 
 scious. 
 
 " If I succeed in evolving John Wallace s ghost 
 from the secrets of a myriad of lives, it will be by 
 grace rather than by natural acuteness," he mused 
 thankful that his search was a hallucination and not 
 a mission. And still the ghost tempted him on. 
 
 The London world was enveloped in a cloud of per 
 sistent rain when he first made his acquaintance with 
 the doomed House of Misery, where the immured, 
 who are but unfortunates are treated as criminals. 
 The chief supervisor displayed the annals of the mad 
 house with pride, as a hotel keeper might gloat over a 
 full and flourishing establishment. Often he chanced 
 upon a name or a suggestion which struck him as 
 tempting an investigation. Pie was therefore at pains to
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 gather up much worthless information, and several dire 
 tragedies of which his pen took secret cognizance. But 
 none of all these spectres of the past answered John 
 Wallace to the roll-call of his spiritual perception. 
 Then he went to other scenes. At last, when he had 
 searched London over in an aimless fashion, and was 
 about giving up the effort in sheer disgust at his fail 
 ures, it occurred to him that he had made no notes of 
 the women s department in the great asylum he had 
 first looked into. Undoubtedly the women had stories 
 which would add palpably to the article he meant to 
 prepare for tickling the public palate. And so it hap 
 pened that he gravitated back to the gray walls of the 
 House of Suffering. 
 
 About midway through the female wards, Leslie 
 Bracebridge and his guide came upon a hideous old 
 woman of seventy or over, who had wildly disordered 
 white hair, and fierce tiger eyes. She was the solitary 
 inmate of one of those little cage-like rooms with 
 out windows, and with iron-grated doors, where are 
 thrust those hapless wretches who are deemed " vio 
 lent," and doomed like murderers, to solitary con 
 finement. She was talking and gesticulating wildly ; 
 and when she caught sight of Bracebridge, stretched 
 out a claw-like and skinny hand crying : <; You, there, 
 whoever you are ! I tell you it was I that did it ! 
 they won t believe me, but it was ! " 
 
 " What does she mean ? " queried the young man 
 gazing compassionately upon the miserable wreck of 
 womanhood. 
 
 " H it don t mean nothing, really sir. She s h al- 
 ways going on like that," said the attendant who was
 
 3 20 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE, 
 
 "showing him through," it being visiting day at the 
 Institution. 
 
 " I should like to talk to her," said Bracebridge, be 
 ginning to take out his note-book. Doubtless this 
 hag would fit admirably into his " Tragedies of a 
 MadliouscT 
 
 The guide then unlocked the grated door, remark 
 ing that Meg was " armless, but troublesome. " The 
 half furious creature was out of her cell at a bound. 
 
 " She is horribly active for so old a person," re 
 marked Bracebridge drawing back in acute distaste 
 of her sudden proximity. 
 
 " Oh ! she s h active h enough," said the keeper. 
 " We h only keep er shut h up for fear she ll do er- 
 self some arm. She d like to kill erself she would, 
 eh, Meg ? " 
 
 " You ll never believe me, so where s the use of an 
 swering," said the mad woman, sulkily : I killed 
 some one, once. That s enough, I don t want to kill 
 myself. I ve expiated ever since. He told me to re 
 pent repent repent ! what good has it done ? I 
 shall be mad all the same, always ! I knoiv I m mad. 
 Those yonder " pointing scornfully to a couple of 
 hideous creatures in straight-jackets, with short hair, 
 who laughed and sang ribald songs " They don t 
 know they are mad. I am mad ; but not as mad as 
 they think. They don t believe my story and call it 
 mad talk. If I weren t mad, I shouldn t tell it ; but 
 it s true. 
 
 "Why, this old creature talks rationally enough," 
 said Bracebridge : " and moreover, she talks well. 
 She is a good specimen." And the note-book was
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 321 
 
 opened. The young man did not mean to be heart 
 less ; but youth and good luck are always callous to 
 wards age and misfortune. It is an inevitable law of 
 unregenerate human nature. 
 
 " H oh ! " laughed the attendant ; " you re not 
 much h used to lunatics, sir, h if you take their talk 
 for rational. The worst of them makes h it sound quite 
 sane like mostly h at least the visitors thinks so," 
 she added with a chuckle. 
 
 " At any rate, I should like to hear this story of 
 hers : " and Bracebridge motioned to the old creature 
 to sit on one of the iron benches in the corridor 
 while he cautiously took the next. 
 
 " No," she muttered sulkily ; why should I sit 
 down ? 1 don t get my liberty often ; I had rather walk 
 about. Besides, you ll not believe me. Nobody does." 
 
 " What do you want me to believe ? " 
 
 "That I killed him." 
 
 " Whom ? " 
 
 "My husband." 
 
 " Great heavens ! " muttered the Poet nervously ; 
 what a singular avowal." 
 
 " There ! " cried the jade : " I knew you d not be 
 lieve me." She had been watching him furtively. 
 
 " Perhaps I shall believe when I hear." 
 
 " No, you won t. But I ll tell you. It was too 
 long ago to prove. They won t take it up in court. 
 I write to the judge whenever they ll give me a scrap 
 of paper. I ve written stacks of evidence. But they 
 never send it. Do you think I m fool enough to be 
 lieve it s sent ? " She laughed harshly ; and then 
 went on : " If they would let me out, I d go before a
 
 3 22 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 judge and accuse myself, and take an oath upon the 
 Book that I killed Alan Forbes." 
 
 " How did you kill him ? " 
 
 "Take me before a judge and let me be sworn " 
 she cried, her eyes and cheeks beginning to burn 
 more fiercely: "Then, if I confess, he may come 
 back." 
 
 Who? Alan Forbes?" 
 
 The woman laughed, her eyes rolling and glar 
 ing. " As if I wanted him back ! and how could 
 he, when I killed him ? They ll lockjaw up for mad, 
 if you talk like that. Oh ! " she cried, with a sud 
 den pathetic change of tone and look, " I ve con 
 fessed and confessed to everyone that comes; and 
 none will believe me ! Go find Judge Keith for 
 me ! " She burst out with a wild and terrible an 
 guish " Go out into the world across the sea any 
 where and find him. Go bring him back and tell 
 him that I have expiated." 
 
 She was sobbing in a frenzied way, and wringing 
 her wretched hands. Bracebridge felt his compas 
 sion stirred to the quick, but his curiosity was still 
 unappeased. 
 
 "Who is Judge Keith?" 
 
 " He is my lover," she cried, in a stealthy whisper ; 
 her sudden anguish changed in a flash into fierce 
 and cunning secrecy: "He saw me do it, and he 
 could not live in the same world with me, and not 
 accuse me for he was the soul of justice and 
 honor " She broke off, glaring with dreadful ani 
 mosity at the keeper who here returned and paused, 
 grinning at the pair.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 323 
 
 " She s got that far as she ? There s a lot yet. I 
 ope you h aint tired, sir. She s got herself somehow 
 mixed h up with Judge Keith, who, I m told, really did 
 disappear years ago." 
 
 " Hold your tongue devil ! " cried the mad woman 
 with a menace in her voice. " Don t you speak his 
 name ! Send her away," she cried, appealingly to the 
 stranger whose ear she had got. " She is a fool. She 
 thinks she knows. I alone know why Robert Keith left 
 his home, his friends, his fortune, his position, his good 
 name" 
 
 Her words died off in a wail ; but there was a 
 majesty of truth about the wretched creature s whole 
 mien that transformed her in the Poet s eyes. The 
 attendant laughed coarsely and passed on. Meg 
 watched her with hatred in her eyes. 
 
 " They are all fools," she whispered contemptuously 
 in one of those swift startling changes only possible 
 to the deranged. " They call my talk mad. Hear me 
 you. Will you or will you not believe me ? " Her 
 tone was so menacing, she looked so threatening that 
 Bracebridge hastened to assure her of his entire cred 
 ulity. 
 
 " Are you a lawyer ? " 
 
 " No, but I can fetch you one," he said soothingly. 
 
 " Pshaw ! I know what that is worth ! nobody keeps 
 a promise to a lunatic. Get out your book, there, 
 you shall at least take my testimony." 
 
 " I will take it, and publish it," said Bracebridge 
 earnestly. 
 
 " Yes," she cried in sudden excitement. " Pub 
 lish it far and wide. Send it across the sea, that
 
 324 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 it may reach Robert Keith. He doesn t call him 
 self that. He has some other name I forget. Write." 
 
 Her tone was so commanding, and her bearing at 
 odd moments so majestic, that the young man was 
 puzzled what manner of woman this lost being had 
 been. He began to write nervously. Then she spoke 
 calmly, distinctly, and with a singular elegance of 
 intonations : 
 
 " My name is Margaret Blair. That is my maid 
 en name the one Robert Keith knew me by. I 
 was but sixteen when Alan Forbes married me. 
 He was a drunkard and a devil. Here, in the presence 
 of witnesses and the open court, I swear that he was 
 a fiend incarnate." 
 
 (Then followed some terrible denunciations which 
 the Poet omitted.) 
 
 " I left him after three years and came to London, 
 and lived quietly under my maiden name, I was not 
 afraid of Alan Forbes following me, for he was never 
 sober, and was moreover afraid of the Penitentiary. 
 
 " I had money of my own, and I took a pretty place 
 out of town, where I lived with only my old governess 
 for protection. I had but few relatives, and I made 
 out to them that I had gone to India with a cousin 
 who received and forwarded all my letters. Tell me, 
 does this sound like mad talk ? " 
 
 " No oh, no ! " cried Bracebridge, amazed and sub 
 dued. 
 
 " Write : Judge Keith had the next place. If 
 an angel ever trod the earth, it was Robert Keith. 
 Only he was an angel of justice as well as of love. 
 He was forty-five years old when I first met him,
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 325 
 
 and had a grand face like the angel Gabriel. He 
 had never looked upon a woman to love her : but he 
 loved me. I could not have had wickedness in my 
 heart, or that god-like man would not have loved me. 
 But he did love me ! for five years. We were to be 
 married and / never told him about Alan Forbes! I 
 could not. It seemed too terrible to have been true. 
 I could not believe that I had ever been scorched by 
 such fires. Then," she sat down suddenly and 
 clutched Bracebridge s hand in her claw-like fingers. 
 He could feel the sharp nails upon his flesh : 
 
 " Then that devil came to light and found 
 me O2it." She gasped the words slowly, and sat pant 
 ing for a few seconds. In the house there was a bustle 
 somewhere down the corridor, and two keepers carried 
 off a rebellious wretch, shrieking. It brought her 
 back to her recital with terrified haste. 
 
 " Go on. Write. They will come for me next 
 and then my mind goes ! oh, write ! He came more 
 drunken, more bestial then ever. I concealed his 
 existence from the great and good man that loved me 
 and meant to marry me. I knew he would never for 
 give my deception how could he ? I grew anxious 
 and ill. He questioned me tenderly. I lied to him. 
 Say, do you believe me ?" 
 
 " I do indeed. What you say bears the evidence of 
 truth. I have put it all down." 
 
 " You are good," cried the poor creature piteously. 
 " No one else has let me get so far that wicked, 
 coarse woman is always near. Go on ! Write it clown 
 that I have confessed, and that I repent," she cried 
 wildly.
 
 3 26 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " You must first tell me what you did, and how 
 Robert Keith found you out," said Bracebridge sooth 
 ingly. 
 
 "Yes, he found me out. The fiend who had been 
 the curse of my youth hung about, debauched, sly, de 
 graded, malicious. He suspected something, I think. 
 A dozen times his vile presence barely escaped de 
 tection. But I loved Robert Keith and "was determined 
 to marry him in spite of that other. You think it 
 absurd, perhaps, for a hideous creature like me to 
 talk of love and marriage. I was not hideous then. 
 Robert Keith said that I was beautiful. Now I can t 
 see myself, but I see the others. I look like that " 
 she pointed to a miserable and filthy creature with 
 disheveled gray hair, and then went on, almost inco 
 herently, the words stumbling hotly one upon another, 
 in her haste to tell her woe : 
 
 "Twice I paid him to keep away, but he always 
 came back. One day, after a week s respite, when I 
 had all my belongings packed to go away to the 
 hills professedly for my health he stumbled into 
 my morning room, intoxicated, brutal, and in a raging 
 fever. Before I could have him removed, he had fal 
 len into a sort of fit a convulsion something of the 
 sort. I was forced to send for a physician, who 
 pronounced it the worst form of delirium tremens, 
 and said that the man must die. 
 
 " When ? I questioned feverishly ; for I was half 
 mad with the thought that Robert Keith might dis 
 cover him. Soon, he said : In a week any time : 
 another fit will kill him. 
 
 " I covered my face in terror. If he should live a
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 327 
 
 week ! How could I keep it all from Robert ! I 
 wanted to tell the physician not to help him, but I 
 dared not. / was not mad then. 
 
 " That night the convulsion came back. Now he 
 will die ! I thought, and trembled for joy. But he 
 grew better. The night wore on. By mid-day the 
 next day, after the doctor had come, and given me 
 hope hope ? It was the anguish of despair ! and 
 gone, I could not bear it. He must die. I ran and 
 fetched a phial of laudanum and forced it between his 
 teeth. 1 said to myself : It will put him to sleep ! 
 But all the while that I was pouring the liquid down 
 his throat, I knew that I meant to kill him. Are you 
 writing every word ? " 
 
 " Every syllable," said the other, showing his short 
 hand notes. 
 
 The woman sprang at him like a wild beast : 
 
 " You have been trifling with me," she hissed in 
 his ear. " That is nothing mere scratches. You 
 too have deceived me ! " 
 
 " On my word of honor it is genuine," cried Brace- 
 bridge, retreating hastily : " It is a new method of 
 writing. I can read every word : " and he read several 
 sentences at random. 
 
 " It is very curious," she said slowly ; " but I will 
 believe you. Write : Suddenly, as I stood with the 
 empty phial in my hand, I looked up. There was 
 Robert Keith with a terrible look in his grand and 
 luminous face. 
 
 " I was paralyzed with terror, and a sudden horror 
 of what I had done. He held out his hand for the 
 phial. I can see him now," she moaned shivering,
 
 3 28 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE, 
 
 " as he stood there, tall and firm and terrible like an 
 accusing angel holding out his hand. 
 
 " Who is that man you have murdered ? he asked. 
 
 " My husband ! I cried passionately and in desper 
 ation ; but I was afraid of the dreadful look in his 
 face. Have mercy upon me ! I begged ; but all 
 the same I knew that he would not have mercy, but 
 justice." The ill-starred creature fell back, panting. 
 
 " And did he betray you ? " 
 
 " Betray me ! He ! " a fiery glance of intense 
 scorn darted from her blood-shot eyes. "If he only 
 had I might have died in the prison or on the gal 
 lows what matter, so it was not here and after years 
 and years of torture. He would have been spared 
 the fate he took upon himself, and I should have es 
 caped this hell-house. Do you think death is worse 
 than this do you ? " 
 
 She laughed frightfully. A chill went through the 
 Poet s sensitive frame, but he mastered himself and 
 went on steadily : 
 
 " But you have not told me what happened after 
 wards after he had discovered what you had done. 
 I cannot write your testimony if you leave that out." 
 
 " Afterwards ! " she cried wildly. " How can I tell ? 
 I never saw him again I never saw his face after 
 that look, when he stood like the avenging angel or 
 wait ; I did see him once ; in another country, 
 America or India, but I forget. It pains my head to 
 talk of that. When I came to myself, after weeks 
 of fever, he had gone no one knew where. That 
 was his way of administering justice. Some one must 
 expiate. Jesus of Nazareth suffered that way."
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 339 
 
 " Did no one else, suspect ? " 
 
 " No no one. When the doctor came, he found Alan 
 Forbes dead, and I was lying on the floor in a swoon. 
 He thought it was grief. Afterwards, he told me I 
 had done well to rub the patient with spirits, to 
 pour some down his throat ; but that nothing could 
 have saved him. Then I knew that Robert Keith had 
 tried to resuscitate the man ; or tried to cover up my 
 guilt." 
 
 The poor wretch sat gazing into the ink-pool 
 of her lot, relapsing fast into her usual stupor or in 
 coherence. 
 
 At last Bracebridge succeeded in rousing her once 
 more." 
 
 " I sought him all over England. Then I went to 
 Scotland and searched for his people ; for I knew he 
 was of Scotch birth," 
 
 Here the Poet started up, and then sat down again 
 without speaking. 
 
 " At last I found them and heard from them that 
 he had left the country given up his position on the 
 bench, his fortune everything and gone, no one 
 knew where, or why. They thought that his mind 
 had suddenly become deranged, and that if he recov 
 ered he would return. But they had not been able 
 to discover any trace of his whereabouts. They were 
 not very near of kin : his parents were dead and he 
 had neither brother nor sister. That was why they 
 did not discover him. But I discovered him. I left 
 no stone unturned, no method untried. But it was 
 such a great way off oh ! " cried the poor creature
 
 33 THE SHAD OW OF JOHN WALLA CE. 
 
 " my head my head ! " and she pressed her hands 
 to her forehead as if in bodily pain. 
 
 Bracebridge looked at her compassionately ; but he 
 had another story to fathom besides the tragedy of 
 her wretchedness. 
 
 " And you followed him ? " he asked distinctly. 
 
 " Yes ! oh, yes ! but he sent me back. Don t ask 
 me of that ; you are not assembled in the court-room 
 to ask me of that, before these witnesses. They are 
 here to listen when I accuse my own hand of the mur 
 der of Alan Forbes. They are not here to listen 
 when I accuse Robert Keith of cruelty and injustice 
 he who was a very God of justice ? I tell you, I 
 will not answer one question more. No man shall 
 ask me of my secret : it is my crime that is your 
 business, my Lord and gentlemen of the Jury not 
 my humiliation." 
 
 " But where was he, when you followed him ? " per 
 sisted the other, reaching with such eagerness for the 
 broken threads, that he could not for the moment 
 accept the sudden cloud of lunacy that had returned 
 over the wretched woman s hitherto direct narra 
 tive. 
 
 " How dare you seek to follow me on that journey ? " 
 cried she, springing up with a threatening gesture, but 
 at once fell back with her hands upon her head, rock 
 ing and moaning. 
 
 " How shall I find him you want me to find him," 
 persisted the baffled Poet, regarding her with a deep 
 ening sense of despair. 
 
 " Go and find him as I found him. Seek for him 
 over the world as I sought. Find him a man en-
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 331 
 
 tombed among the graves of his hopes. There was a 
 mist about him : and he was carried up in it, like an 
 angel. There was a storm at sea, and he walked up 
 on the waters, like a Christ. Oh ! you will know him, 
 if you find him. There is no other creature upon this 
 earth with that awful, God-like look in his face oh ! 
 my head, my head ! " 
 
 The woman seemed to swoon away, and in his 
 fright Bracebridge beckoned to the attendant who 
 hovered near, suspicious of the climax. 
 
 " She h always gits a spell when she s h excited 
 with talk," remarked that female gruffly, and she 
 pushed the half insensible creature into her cell : " I 
 can t see why folks wants lunatics to talk. Old your 
 tongue, Meg, or h I ll sleeve you." 
 
 " I wonder if she was crazy when she followed that 
 man to America or India or wherever it was," 
 mused Bracebridge aloud. 
 
 The attendant paused in locking the heavy grated 
 door to stare at him : 
 
 " La, sir. You don t mean to say you believe a 
 word of that story ! " 
 
 " I do indeed ; and I think I know Robert Keith." 
 
 " H as to Judge Keith Vs well h enough. HTvc 
 card there were such a person ; but that Meg should 
 mix erself h up with im that s the joke. Like 
 enough, she s h always been crazy." 
 
 The frenzied creature, who had partly roused up on 
 being thus rudely thrust into her cell, here flashed 
 out with a final effort of departing reason and strength. 
 But why follow to its hideous climax that revolting 
 tragedy. Let us draw a veil rather upon the awful
 
 332 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 spectacle which can be presented by one who is in 
 spite of all a human being. 
 
 "Great Heavens! what a dispensation!" cried 
 the Poet, as he stood outside the gloomy gates of 
 that Inferno, and seemed to read over its grated en 
 trance the old, old sentence of woe : 
 
 " Lasciate ogni spetanza voi ch entrate." 
 
 Could it be that while he was planning to entertain 
 the public with other and lesser misfortunes, the mys 
 tery of John Wallace had risen up and confronted 
 him in so hideous a guise, thrusting its cruel secret 
 upon his flippant intention ? 
 
 The young man tried to imagine a conscience so 
 acute that it " could not breath the same air" with 
 one whom it felt called upon by the sacredness of the 
 highest judicial position to condemn, and by the 
 tenderness of personal feeling to acquit. So this poor 
 criminal herself had viewed the matter. 
 
 He recalled the conscious look upon Mr. Roderic 
 Clarkson s stone mask, when he had spoken of John 
 Wallace as a man who had suffered for the sin of an 
 other. The perplexity was such that Bracebridge de 
 termined to see the great solicitor at once. 
 
 All the way to Lothbury, in the quick darting little 
 hansom, which sent the crowds of London skimming 
 by like the figures upon a magic-lantern slide, the 
 young man wrestled with his problem. It almost 
 seemed as though the questions were not "Is this 
 John Wallace ? " but " /;/ doing this thing was 
 he right, or wrong?" And he came upon the 
 large brass plate, " Mr. Roderic Clarkson, Solicitor in
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 333 
 
 Chancery," before he had made up his mind about 
 the calamitous tale. 
 
 It was more than a month since he had been there 
 last ; for time had not stood still while he dragged the 
 great city for the dregs of its miseries. 
 
 Mr. Clarkson, he was informed, was ill, and had 
 gone to Brighton. He might not return before late 
 in the Autumn ; if quite recovered he might possibly 
 be back in a fortnight or two. 
 
 All this in the monotonous tone of oft-repetition 
 which is unmoved by the anxieties it aggravates, and 
 the chagrins it crushes. It was a fiat. 
 
 When Bracebridge returned to the asylum, he was 
 informed that no one would be allowed to see Meg 
 Blair, in future, as the excitement of speech had been 
 proved most injurious to her. In vain he pleaded 
 that he had reasons which were of importance for 
 seeing her once more. It was impossible. The laws 
 and restrictions of an insane asylum are absolute. 
 The mad woman, and her possible revelations, were 
 gone from him forever, but there remained with 
 him an assurance that his search was ended. This 
 belief filled him with a restless impatience to wring 
 from Sir Roderic Clarkson s reluctance the affirma 
 tion he desired. He lingered in London until it be 
 came evident that the solicitor s visit to Brighton 
 was likely to prolong itself through the Autumn, and 
 then the stir of the huge metropolis became unbear 
 able. Moreover, he was haunted by the spectre of 
 Margaret Blair s misery, which he felt somehow was 
 owing to his encouragement of her passionate recital.
 
 334 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 Very likely the poor wretch would henceforth be 
 consigned to perpetual incarceration in the loneliness 
 of her cell ; or at best would be debarred from ever 
 again finding the relief of telling her wild story.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE STORY OF A RUIN. 
 
 " This grey place was famous once, said he 
 And he began that legend of the place, 
 As if in answer to the unspoken fears, 
 And told me all about a brave man dead; 
 Which lifted me and let my soul go on. " 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 THE restlessness which had come upon Leslie 
 Bracebridge since his failure to see the London so 
 licitor, had driven him forth to take a journey among 
 the seldom explored wastes of border country. 
 
 There are miles of moorland which it seems truly 
 a desecration for steam to traverse ; and running in a 
 low and distant line are the Cheviot Hills. 
 
 Ah ! Jean Gordon ! It must be that thy mighty 
 shade, which once inspired a Meg Merrilies, haunts 
 this region yet ; for the Poet presently came upon a 
 scene that carried his fancy back to the border gyp 
 sies of a hundred years ago. 
 
 The farther from London he felt himself trans 
 ported the more there came over him a spirit of peace 
 which enabled him to " bide a wee, " as the Scotch
 
 336 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 folks say. What haste was there to set the seal of 
 certainty upon the denouement he had found, and 
 thereby to end the purpose of his summer s quest? 
 Now that the time had well-nigh come when he was 
 to hold in his hand the lost links of the dead man s 
 career, he suddenly came to a regretful pause upon 
 the brink of thefina/e. 
 
 Some of the staunch Scotch closeness gathered 
 about his interest in the " old woe, " and he won 
 dered, at last, by what right he had made it his. 
 
 He spent days in wandering among the unvisited 
 regions that he had chosen unawares. The loveliness 
 of the moors, the serenity of the hills, the mournful- 
 ness of the brackens, all spoke to him of silence ; 
 and he became a veritable dreamer among the wastes. 
 
 ****** jj. was a me n ow evening, and he 
 
 found himself creeping about in the gloaming as 
 though the spirits he had sought to disturb were beck 
 oning towards a vast and remote solitude. Just beyond 
 lay a decayed and poverty-stricken little village, which 
 was half concealed beyond a group of hills in a deso 
 late region he had not yet traversed. He was tempt 
 ed onward until he found himself among the sicken 
 ing sights and odors of squalor, filth, and pestilence, 
 quite unusual in thrifty Scotland. 
 
 The people whom he saw dawdling about in the 
 filthy yards and lanes had a look of gypsies or va 
 grants ; and the Poet soon found himself in a state of 
 wonderment as to how they managed to subsist, since 
 he saw nothing that suggested industry of any sort, 
 or even tilling of the fields which were wide wastes 
 of bog or heather.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 337 
 
 Yet it was plain to be seen that the ruinous habita 
 tions had been by no means built to be the hovels of 
 the poor. They were of a large and stately appear 
 ance, which, in spite of their filthy and dilapidated 
 condition, still bespoke past grandeur. 
 
 Vice and wretchedness stared from every shattered 
 window and gaping door-way, crawled over every 
 broken sill, and ran riot about the neglected gardens. 
 
 Half-starved pigs and sickly children swarmed in 
 unlovely picturesqueness over the whole festering 
 village ; while the men and women glowered at the 
 new-comer with the surly looks of those who regard 
 a stranger as an intruder. 
 
 " What is the name of your village ? " Bracebridge 
 asked politely of a surly looking fellow who lounged 
 against a bit of broken wall, pieced out by a long since 
 overgrown hedge. 
 
 " Deed an I dinna ken that," growled the man. 
 
 " Don t you live here, my friend ? " 
 
 " We bide in t. whiles." 
 
 " Has it got no name ? " persisted the visitor, who it 
 may be seen was not without determination. 
 
 " Na its got nae name, the day." 
 
 " May I ask, what did it used to be called ? " 
 
 The man muttered an oath and blurted out: 
 
 " It were ca wd Cammerden Manor," and shuffling 
 around presented the broad of his tattered back to 
 any further conversation. 
 
 Bracebridge laughed quietly to himself, but went on, 
 quite sure that he would encounter yet the Scotch 
 garrulity which is fairly interspersed with its gruffer 
 characteristics.
 
 338 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 A brawny, red-haired woman called out to the man 
 in a harsh voice like the scream of a pea-fowl : 
 
 " Yer muckle daft, Tarn Binnie ! Did ye nae mind 
 the braw claes an gentle havins o him as speered at 
 ye ? Canna ye open yer mouth for siller ? " 
 
 The man repeated his sullen oath in reply, and the 
 visitor passed on, unmolested, through the stench of 
 the long straggling village street. 
 
 The next day he was drawn thither again by what 
 magnetism he knew not. This time he held converse 
 with one or two creatures of more likely appearance 
 than the man first addressed. As well as he could 
 decipher from the broad Scotch speech, (which was 
 perchance eased to his ears somewhat, as he had been 
 used in his childhood to the dialect of a Scotch nurse) 
 he made out that the Manor had been, fifty years ago, 
 a settlement of great and wealthy people, who came 
 down from Edinburgh, and some from London, for 
 half the year to live at their ease upon the fine hunt 
 ing and fishing lands, where they had built "shooting 
 boxes" and country mansions that were rival palaces 
 in their beauty and completeness. 
 
 The Earl of Earnshope had cwned the village and 
 the country round about, and a great castle not far 
 away, across the moor. 
 
 There were Melton Brae, and Ellerslie, and Bryn 
 Gowen, and many more fine places that had belonged 
 to the gentry, but were long ago gone to ruin. 
 
 Bracebridge was filled with curiosity about the pas- 
 ing from the soil of its land-owners in so few years, 
 knowing that not to be the way of the old world. But 
 all the information he could get was that the region was
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 339 
 
 haunted ; and that the great folks had been scared 
 away by a curse which had fallen upon them. Even the 
 present occupants seemed to hold some superstition 
 about dwelling there, affirming that they did but 
 "bidein t." 
 
 " What became of the fine houses ? he asked of the 
 dirty crowd that his shillings had drawn about him. 
 A slipshod woman replied promptly : 
 
 " Deed an they say it was the deil s fire." 
 
 " What became of the former inhabitants of the 
 village ? " 
 
 She shook her head : " There might be some as 
 kent ; but maistly we be puir ignorant boddies that hae 
 com frae ilka parts an squatted upo the Ian ." 
 
 " Is there nobody left of all the former inhabitants ?" 
 Bracebridge demanded in amazement. 
 
 " Na naebody at a ." 
 
 And forthwith, he began to frequent the place, sure 
 of finding something poetic back of this ignorance 
 and squalor, and desertion. 
 
 One afternoon in the afterglow of the wide sunset, 
 he wandered deep into a little wood, and came 
 suddenly upon the wild beauty of a noble ruin. It 
 was the remains of a small but majestic structure 
 which had once been a Gothic church, one could see, 
 by the fragments of majestic windows, and the shat 
 tered portion of a tall belfry that was still standing. 
 
 Enchanted with his luck in stumbling upon so rare 
 a bit of sequestered loveliness, he tramped about in 
 artistic content among the ivy-mantled turrets and 
 into the long desolated sanctum of the chancel, where 
 the stone pavement was weather-stained and displaced.
 
 340 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 The yltar stairs were broken by the harshness of the 
 elements, and mended again by many colored mosses 
 and all manner of creeping things, that nature sends 
 to repair the ravages of her stormier moods. The 
 pulpit, the railing, the pews, every fragment of wood 
 about the edifice, had been burned away, or carried 
 off by the wild villagers of whom Bracebridge had had 
 a glimpse. 
 
 The Poet felt himself transported into a region of 
 speculation and wonderment that caused him to take 
 no note of time. And the gloaming had crept stealth 
 ily upon him : the bats and owlets and such like 
 denizens of solitary and melancholy places, were 
 stirring before he could tear himself away. When 
 he did, it was to meditate resting for the night among 
 the doubtful shades of the village, hoping that he 
 might thereby chance upon some one who could tell 
 him the tale of Cammerden Manor and its downfall. 
 
 Making his way through the growing darkness, 
 towards a light that gleamed faintly from a patched 
 window upon the edge of the settlement, beyond which 
 was the wild moor, he presently knocked at a hinge- 
 less and broken door. 
 
 " Whist ye what s wanted ? " cried a piping voice 
 like that of a very old man. 
 
 " It s a stranger that is benighted and wants shel 
 ter," cried Leslie Bracebridge in return. 
 
 " Eh, but its puir shelter I ve got the nicht. Ye d 
 best gang up the town to Jeems Leckits. He ll hae 
 ye a heartsomer welcome than a lane body like me/ 
 
 " But it rains, and I want shelter very much. It 
 matters not what sort."
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 34.! 
 
 Here the visitor ventured to push the door a little, 
 and squeezed himself through the crevice into a low 
 and miserable room where an old man lay upon a pal 
 let of straw, such as the Scotch people call a " shake 
 down." 
 
 " Come ben if yer maun," piped the poor old crea 
 ture ; " There s nought but the cobble for ye to gang 
 ower." 
 
 " The cobbles are far better than the morass I should 
 fall into, unless you will let me in from the night and 
 the storm," answered Bracebridge pleasantly. "But 
 are you sick, friend ? " 
 
 " Aye, aye," muttered the other ; " Its an ill place 
 en no ticht frae the winds and rains, an my puir auld 
 body s unco fu o pain. I doubt but I ll be in the 
 deed-thraw erewhiles." 
 
 " Are you alone ? " 
 
 * Aye, sir, lane syne the morn. The leelang day 
 there s nor wife nor bairn to threep at me. I m 
 maistly driven to gang clean daft wi the lonesome- 
 ness o t." 
 
 " I am glad I came in, then," said the young man, 
 in genuine compassion. " You will let me wait on 
 you I hope." 
 
 " Na na," cried the other fretfully : "There s but 
 a wheen mair to bide gen the bairn comes ben. She 
 wad mak the bit parritch." 
 
 Leslie Bracebridge sat silent upon the broken chair, 
 and looked around the wretched place. It was utterly 
 barren of comforts, stript of necessities. 
 
 " After what are ye speerin i the place, mister, 
 said the Scot suspiciously, turning his disheveled head
 
 342 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 and staying for a moment the roving of his restless 
 eyes ; " Be ye a tax man come to luke after the goods 
 folks ha na getten ? " 
 
 " Indeed no," said the Poet reassuringly : " I have 
 come to look for the story of Cammerden Manor ? " 
 
 " Eh ? what ? " cries the other, starting up on his 
 emaciated elbow, which presently gave out and let 
 him down heavily upon the straw, from which his 
 foxy eyes gleamed fiercely : 
 
 " Who towd ye o Cammerden Manor ? " 
 
 " A woman down the street, but she did not know 
 much more than the name." 
 
 " Na," snarled the old man. " She did na ken 
 muckle, truly. Yon puir sackless boddies o squatters 
 hae got naething to do wi Cammerden Manor." 
 
 "Somebody must know something about it," began 
 the visitor, feeling his way gingerly along : " Perhaps 
 you can tell me, my friend, more than the people 
 yonder." 
 
 " Na, na, I tell ye I dinna threep at Cammerden 
 Manor. Waes me, but my heart is sair to hear telt o 
 that name!" 
 
 Bracebridge produced a handful of small coin from 
 his pocket, and deposited it upon the table, which, with 
 two broken chairs was all that the hovel contained. 
 
 " That is to pay for my lodging," he remarked ; 
 " and my supper if you will give me some. And now if 
 you will tell me your name, we can have a cosy talk." 
 
 The old creature stared hungrily at the money. 
 Death was indeed upon him ; the cold sweat stood 
 already upon his forehead ; but the greed of the mortal 
 was still unquenched.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 343 
 
 " Aweel, aweel," he muttered ; " I m unco fu o 
 years ; an its been mony a day syne I hae seen the 
 like o sae, muckle siller. But wae s me : It winna 
 heal my greetin for the likes o Cammerden Manor. 
 An it canna keepit the deed-thraw awa." 
 
 " Are you one of those who lived there, then ? " 
 
 " Aind," he cried : " Is it ain ye ca t ? I m the lane, 
 mister. The ithers hae a been flitted this twa score 
 year." 
 
 " Then you can tell me what I want to know." 
 
 Bracebridge leaned forward and looked eagerly at 
 the restless eyes that gleamed so keenly at him. 
 
 " I want to know about yonder church that has 
 fallen to decay." 
 
 " Yon kirk ! " He sat up now, and beat about the 
 wretched bed with his bony hands : " Gude Lord 
 gude Lord ! Is t the tale o the kirk ye maun be get- 
 ten for siller ? Na, then, mister, tak it awa ! I 
 
 warrant I winna tell that the noe, as nanekens but my 
 ain single sel. I hae not telt that these thirty year 
 an mair." 
 
 " I do not wish to buy your confidence," said Leslie 
 Bracebridge quickly, seeing that the old man was 
 angry, and fearing he would spend his still remaining 
 strength ; " But you will tell me your name? " 
 
 " Auld Sandy, they ca me," he answered, briefly. 
 
 " And who is the bairn that will soon come home ? " 
 
 "It s my bit grand-dauchter Bel." His thin face 
 brightened ; " She makes odd shillins nae an then 
 at wark amang ither folks as is no fit to latchet her 
 shoon." 
 
 The face fell again.
 
 344 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 Soon there was a patter of small quick feet on the 
 door-sill, and presently a tidy little lass of twelve, or 
 thereabouts, came quickly into the room, her tattered 
 shawl and hood dripping with rain, and a pretty 
 smile on her rather wan face. 
 
 " That child has never had enough to eat in her 
 life," was the visitor s inward comment. 
 
 The old man reached towards her feverishly. 
 
 " Eh, Bel, puir bairn, here s a gentle as is come to 
 bide the nicht, an 1 has getten a that siller for ye, no 
 to be owin naething the whiles." 
 
 The meager little face flushed quickly. 
 
 " Grandfather," she said, " We hae na got a place 
 to putten folks in as pays siller for their keep. 
 
 " Never mind, Bel," interrupted the young man, 
 stifling a queer choking sensation in his throat. " I 
 like your grandfather, and would rather be here than 
 at the best house in the village." 
 
 " Eh," she said, quaintly tossing her pretty head, 
 " There s nae ither house sae muckle better redd than 
 ours. Howsoever, sir, I doubt if ye wad like to eaten 
 the parritch an oat-cake which is all a we hae the 
 nicht. Happen I had better tak your siller to the 
 shop an fetch ye sommat ither." 
 
 Bracebridge assured her that he was most fond of 
 porridge ; and while she was busy putting the two or 
 three cups and platters upon the rickety table, and 
 stirring the mess over a heap of smouldering moss she 
 was coaxing to burn, the grandfather watched her 
 with pride, muttering as if to himself. 
 
 " She were aye douce an deftlike. Her mither
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 345 
 
 deed when she were a wee bit lassie o twa year. Puir, 
 wee, bonny Bel ! " 
 
 The little thing turned her eyes affectionately upon 
 the old man. Even in that poor hovel, love was not 
 unknown. 
 
 " Hang me if I wouldn t like to go out and buy 
 them a supper of meats and other viands that very 
 likely they ve never even seen," muttered Bracebridge, 
 " But I doubt if there is a shop where anything decent 
 can be got in the neighborhood." 
 
 After they had eaten the frugal meal, the old man 
 with a tolerably good relish, the child with a womanly 
 sparingness which again brought a lump to the 
 visitor s throat, the dip candle spluttered in its socket, 
 and he began to fear there would be no story that 
 night, even if his singular host could be induced to 
 part with his choice secret. Presently when the child 
 had set things to rights, she said simply : 
 
 " If tha pleases, sir, its but a puir bed I hae getten 
 to offer ye, savin its tidy." 
 
 And so it was tidy the child s own straw heap which 
 she had spread with a clean linen. 
 
 She crept away into a hole in the wall, which had 
 served as a " next room" in better times; and soon 
 her fresh young voice was heard singing softly to 
 herself, while the old man dozed fitfully, and the vis 
 itor still sat watching the carefully smothered moss 
 fire: 
 
 " lamfarfrae my hame, an 1 I m weary often whiles 
 For the langed-for hame-coming, a/i my father s welcome 
 smiles^
 
 346 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 I ll ne er befit 1 contented until mine een do see 
 The King in his beauty in my ain countrie. 
 The earth is flecked w? flowers many tinted bright and gay ; 
 The birdies warble blithely for my father made them sac ; 
 But these sights an 1 these sounds will as naething be to me 
 When I hear the ransomed singing in my ain countrie." 
 
 The old man joined in the next verse without seem 
 ing to rouse up. The words of the quaint sweet hymn 
 fell upon the Poet s ear with a pathos he had never 
 known in the whole course of his life ; while the tune 
 had all of that Scotch plaintiveness in it which makes 
 their songs so dear to those serious people. 
 
 " Ii^e his gude word of promise that some gladsome day the 
 
 King 
 
 To his ain royal palace, his banished bairn will bring ; 
 Wi eyes an wi 1 heart rinning ower we shall see 
 TJie King in his beauty in his ain countrie. 
 My sins hae been many an my sorrows hoe been sair, 
 But there they 1 II never vex me, nor be remembered there ; 
 For his bluid hath made me white, an* his hands shall dry 
 
 mine ee, 
 When he brings me hame at last to my ain countrie." 
 
 " It is their evening hymn," thought Bracebridge ; 
 " They sing it together from habit, out of all this 
 poverty and misery." 
 
 Presently the old man started from his doze, and 
 struggled to prop himself upon the straw pillow. He 
 gazed wildly around upon the flickering light of the 
 candle, and the dying ebb of the fire, and then seemed 
 to listen, his cracked voice silent this time :
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 347 
 
 " Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest 
 Ifatn wad be ganging noo unto my Saviour s breast 
 For he gathers in his bosom witless lambs like me 
 An carries them himscF to his airi? countrie. 
 He 1 s faith/if that has promised an" 1 he 1 II surely come again 
 To keep his tryst wf me, at what hour / dinna ken, 
 But he bids me still to wait an* ready aye to be 
 To gang at ony moment to my ain countrie? 
 
 " Puir Bel," he muttered ; " puir, witless lamb. Aye 
 but it s gude that he s faithfu as has promised." 
 
 Then his glance fell upon the young man who sat 
 with bowed head and something like a sob in his 
 throat. It seemed to turn the current of his thoughts. 
 
 " Whist ye," he whispered. " Has the bairn gone 
 the noo ? eh, Bel ? " 
 
 He elevated his feeble voice to a shrill call, and the 
 child came instantly from her den, having thrown her 
 ragged coverlet about the single garment she wore. 
 Her bare feet were clean-washed and rosy on the 
 cobble floor. 
 
 " Hand me a dip, Bel. The maister and me will be 
 liken to speer a bit," 
 
 The little one hesitated. Very likely she had but one 
 poor candle left, and her thrifty wisdom rebelled 
 against such unseemly extravagance. 
 
 " Aye aye ! I ken it wilfu waste an woefu want. 
 We ve plenty o the last, an nae muckle chance at 
 the ither. But the gentle boddy s siller behooves to 
 pay for a dip aye, an for the story likewise. I mind 
 not he bides in our bit hut for the likes o the parritch. 
 It ll no be mony licht that I burn mair," he added 
 to himself.
 
 348 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 Bracebridge plucked up courage, and when the little 
 maiden had fetched a fresh candle, he waited patiently 
 for the dying man to speak. 
 
 The rain fell heavily, the wind moaned drearily. 
 The elements seemed to saturate the wretched hut 
 with their woe. Even the darkness of the night 
 seemed to gather and thicken with nameless terrors 
 within the room. The Poet watched the feeble light 
 with a chilly fascination ; he feared every instant that 
 it might be obliterated by the palpable gloom settling 
 heavier and heavier upon everything. Outside, upon 
 the wild and solitary moor, he could not have felt 
 more alone. 
 
 A sickly hue of death had crept over the old man s 
 features. The place was full of the signs of coming 
 dissolution. It seemed to the appalled watcher that 
 the very atmosphere reeked with death. 
 
 At last the poor soul came back to consciousness. 
 
 " Well noe," he began presently ; " It s lang syne 
 word or breath o auld acquaintance passed my lips. 
 But what wad ye hear about, mister mister " 
 
 " Bracebridge," finished the other, then added : 
 
 " I should like to learn how the rich and aristocratic 
 Cammerden Manor came to be transformed into this 
 mean and squalid settlement without a name?" 
 
 " Hist, Mister Bracebridge, an what for d ye want 
 a name for a parcel o squatters as kens naebody an 
 nabody winna be liken to ken. They re an ill-favored 
 set, the scum o the country side, belike. We re no 
 in that lot, Bel an me, praise God." 
 
 " You have no friends here then ? " 
 
 " Nane, I tell ye though mebbe that ll be waur
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 349 
 
 for the bairn when I m gane hame" he clutched the 
 fragments of coverlet with his pitiful hands, and went 
 on with an effort : 
 
 " After the dire calamities that befell Cammerden 
 Manor mair than forty year agone, I was left alain 
 here upo the moors savin the deserted houses, an 
 the smoking ruins o Ellerslie, an Bryngowen, an Mel 
 ton Brae, an waur nor a the bonny kirk. After 
 that, they cam from ilka side, yon fuil boddies as tuck 
 free holt o the empty neuks deserted by the bonny 
 birds that had flitted." 
 
 " But what happened ? " cried the listener, observing 
 in alarm the filming eyes of the old man, and his 
 wandering manner. 
 
 " Its a lang story maist like an auld wife s tale. I 
 doubt me ye ll think the threepin worth the measure 
 o your siller. But I maun mak it up to ye in some 
 gate. Weel weel ! Cammerden Manor were rightly 
 a weel-to-do place and unco fair to look upon. The 
 earl war a fine gentle an lived like ony prince wi his 
 great leddy an their sons an dochters. 
 
 " Ane son Lord Percy I mind not if he were the 
 second or third, for I was but a lad mysel sixty year 
 agone he had tuck to the Church no the Scottish 
 Kirk but that they call the Anglican. For they had 
 na bided muckle in Scotland, but had their learnin 
 in Lunnon which I am persuaded is a place fu o a 
 evil. 
 
 " When he Lord Percy that I speak of came 
 back, a weel-learnt mon, an sae religious, naethingwad 
 do but the Earl maun build him a kirk no that they 
 ca d it a kirk, but I canna bide to name strange
 
 35 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 names the noo nigh upo the Castie. The Castle s 
 gone the noo, nae stane left upo the ither ; aye an 
 sae is maist o the kirk. " 
 
 The old man heaved a sob. Outside, the wind and 
 rain made melancholy moan. Then he went on, not 
 without physical effort : 
 
 " The rich an great families that dwelt round 
 about, they made unco rejoicings ower the new kirk ; 
 an likewise the peasantry that lived upo the Earl s 
 lands made plain to want Lord Percy for their pastor. 
 I mind the gude Lord winna hae his people fall 
 into priestly ways, an may-happen it were that deed 
 that brought the calamities upo the place. Never 
 theless, aside frae this doubty teachin , Lord Percy 
 were a godly man, an sae also were the Earl. I got 
 ten a this frae my father, who fell himsel into the 
 snare o the new thing, an war chosen to be clerk o 
 the bonny, braw kirk. I had my upbringin in these 
 ways ; but when confusion came upo the place, I saw 
 that it war a judgment against them. My father 
 were calt Sandy Meer, like myseP ; an he were a gude 
 honest man wha ne er telt a lee, Mister Bracebridge, 
 nor take t a bit siller frae ony mon i charity." 
 
 He halted for breath, and his listener nodded 
 gravely in acceptance of the introduction. He knew 
 that the innate Scotch pride rankled even here to re 
 ceive an unearned penny. 
 
 41 Was Cammerden Manor an old place ? " he asked 
 puzzled to trace its apparently recent origin. 
 
 " Na. na. It were a new settlement, putten up like 
 a toy-village to please the fancy o the Earl an his 
 friends. They dwelt maist o the year in Lunnon, or
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 351 
 
 Em bro, an came to the manor for their pleasuring 
 wae s me ! I canna bide to ca it a back. It s sair 
 sair ! An bonny Bel she s no my ain. But Lord, 
 Lord ! I canna tell that ! " 
 
 The old man seemed to relapse into a wandering 
 mood from which he fell into a stupor. His face 
 was so ashen, and his fallen jaw so ghastly, that 
 Leslie Bracebridge felt for his flask of brandy and 
 hastened to force some down the gurgling throat. 
 
 He revived a little and began to talk in a rambling 
 fashion about the Earl and bonny Bel. At last he 
 seemed to collect his wandering wits, and fastening 
 his fading faculties upon his guest for an instant, 
 tried to rally his forces : 
 
 " I were not done wi the tellin , maister, but I fear 
 me death hae grippit me hard. Ye maun getten the 
 rest frae anither than me how that the bairn is no 
 my grand-dauchter at a " 
 
 " What other who is there, Sandy ? " 
 
 The Poet felt the egotism of his position : that 
 with a something in the room he dared not name, he 
 should cling to his base curiosity, and trouble the 
 worn-out spirit for its last vestige of mortal memory. 
 
 " He were a gude mon Lord Percy an prechit 
 mony a year, wi a luke i his een like his maister. 
 But the deil cam an sowed tares in his bonny field. 
 It war waur for him it war waur for his leddy it 
 war waur for a ! But he s gang he s gang lang 
 syne." The voice trailed feebly off into incoherent 
 mutterings. 
 
 " Is Lord Percy dead ? " 
 
 " Deed ? na, na. That war better if he had deed.
 
 352 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 He s wrang, they say, in his head. He s tarryin , 
 they say, ower the sea wae s me ! " 
 
 The old man flung his gaunt arms about, and pres 
 ently lay gasping in what seemed indeed the " deed- 
 thraw. " Bracebridge made a desperate effort to re 
 vive him, calling meanwhile for little Bel, who ran 
 sobbing out into the rain and the darkness to fetch 
 help. 
 
 He came to for a moment and asked for the bairn. 
 
 " She will come presently with help. " 
 
 Auld Sandy fixed his glazing eyes on the strange 
 face above him, and said with his struggling breath : 
 
 " It s too late the noo for help. Ye maun speer at 
 the Earl he that was the auld Earl s son. He knows 
 a, belike." 
 
 " Where shall I find him, Sandy ? Who is he ? " 
 
 For in the chaos of the old man s story, the Poet 
 had beheld an apparition ! and the face mocked him 
 with a smile that said : " I am the wraith you would 
 discover ! Follow me. " 
 
 There was a sickening rattle in the dying man s 
 throat: at last he articulated: 
 
 " I the auld Buke o the kirk Bel maun fetch it 
 puir, wee Bel " and he spoke no more. 
 
 All that night and the next day he lay in a stupor. 
 Death fought hard for the hulk of Auld Sandy ; and 
 the Scotch tenacity of life made the struggle a terri 
 ble one. 
 
 Bracebridge made every effort to find aid among 
 the wretched villagers ; but they hung back and said 
 he was " nane o theirs. 
 
 " There s nae docther, nae preacher, nae siller for
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 a buryin , " sobbed poor little Bel, her womanly cour 
 age forsaking her. 
 
 Once the laboring soul came back to the hither 
 edge of that " sad, obscure, sequestered state " upon 
 which it was emerging, and sighed brokenly : 
 
 " Dinna greet, bairn. There ll be summon to tak 
 thee by the hond. " 
 
 A sudden impulse overcame Leslie Bracebridge s 
 ordinary self, and spoke for him like an inspiration : 
 
 " Don t fret for Bel, Sandy. I will take her and 
 care for her. She shall not be left here." 
 
 It was wrung from him by the old man s death 
 agony. A sudden light flickered over the ghastly 
 face. 
 
 " May happen the Earl s better nor I thoucht 
 May happen he ll be just. God guide thee, Bel gang 
 wi the gentle to Em bro ; gang to the Earl, an teU 
 him"- 
 
 But death hindered the rest. 
 
 Some queer spell was surely upon the young man, 
 that he could not have let auld Sandy die with a heart 
 ache for his helpless little charge. Unconsciously 
 and without a moment s warning, he realized that he 
 had brought upon himself an incalculable responsibility. 
 Whnt was he to do with it ? In the midst of his ro 
 mantic vagaries, his seeking after misty and inexplic 
 able things, he had suddenly come face to face with a 
 fact that he might find difficulty in. ridding himself of. 
 Perhaps he had a semi-heroic fancy that he was making 
 mute atonement for his forced desertion of the woman, 
 Margaret Blair, whom he had left to eke out her misery 
 in unmitigated neglect.
 
 254 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 True it is that our lives are like circles, forever 
 touching, crossing, interlaced with other lives. We 
 cannot handle one misery without a consciousness of 
 the terrible magnetism which draws other miseries to 
 it. Leslie Bracebridge had hardened his heart and 
 walked away from the mad-woman s degradation. He 
 reassured himself that he had come to seek the mysteri 
 ous, and not to save the lost. And lo ! in his path, 
 like the " witless lamb " straying at dark upon the brink 
 of an abyss, he had stumbled upon little Bel. What 
 could he do but snatch her in his arms away from the 
 gaunt wolf standing in the doorway, and from that 
 other beast which goeth about like a roaring lion to 
 prey upon helplessness and innocence. 
 
 What he meant to do with the child, he did not 
 know. All that he realized was this ; she had fallen 
 Jipon his mercy, and he accepted her meekly from 
 Providence as one of those inexplicable dispensations 
 which do not seem to follow any particular misdeed of 
 our own, but evolve themselves from the circum 
 stances about us, very much as our irresponsible birth 
 js evolved from the chances of our day and generation.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 THE SECRETARY S STORY. 
 
 " Undoubtedly it is the end ; 
 Yet thence comes such confusion of what was 
 With what will be, that late seems long ago, 
 And what years should bring round, already 
 Till even he withdraws into a dream 
 As the rest do. " 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 " SHOULD you like me to take you to the Earl, Bel ? " 
 She looked up with that hopeless air so pathetic in 
 a child, and said with a half sob: 
 
 " Ony place. I hae got na hame, the noo." 
 For in the old prayer-book, containing the Church 
 Service, which little Bel had found for Leslie Brace- 
 bridge, he had deciphered these words : " Sandy Mcer, 
 Clerk of the CJiurch. Of the houseJiold of the Earl of 
 
 Earnshope, shire, Scotland" 
 
 In another hand beneath, and in fresher ink was 
 scrawled : " 16 Tweed Court, Dumfries Street : Edin- 
 boro, Old Town." 
 
 As unaware as Bel herself what this last address 
 might lead to, the Poet took the homeless bairn by 
 the hand and brought her to Edinburgh. If no shelter
 
 356 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 was offered the child, he meant to find a safe home for 
 her in some asylum. 
 
 When they reached the quaint city, the lights were 
 twinkling up and down the steep streets and dirty 
 lanes of the Old Town. It was a rainy night, and the 
 rock-like castle was obliterated from the murky sky. 
 
 Bracebridge left his little charge, whom he had 
 fitted into decent clothing at the first town where they 
 had stopped, in care of a motherly looking landlady, 
 the proprietress of a genteel inn he had struck upon 
 the borders of the ancient quarter he sought. 
 
 " It will be best for the child if I can find her kin at 
 once," he thought, never doubting that the address 
 would unearth somebody willing to take the waif from 
 his hands. After some difficulty he found the place 
 in Dumfries Street an obscure and filthy tavern, 
 where two or three burly fellows were making merry 
 over their grog. He was glad he had not brought Bel 
 along. 
 
 The tavern-keeper was a great brawny Scotchman, 
 whose speech the poet could not understand, and who 
 failed likewise to comprehend him, being somwhat 
 addled with whiskey. At last some faint inkling of 
 the stranger s meaning dawned upon him. 
 
 He " knew nawt o auld San ny, " and roared in 
 Bracebridge s face, when he persisted in mentioning 
 the homeless child, that, he had " weans enouch o his 
 ain." 
 
 At last, in desperation, the young man fell back 
 upon the name of the Earl of Earnshope, saying he 
 had been commissioned by the dying man to bring 
 the little girl to his lordship. The man stared :
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 357 
 
 " Weel noe what for dinnaye hae that ower, mon ? 
 The Earl, is t ? Gude be wi us ! Ye maunna tell it s 
 Sandy Meer as is deed ! An the Earl s grandson as 
 were spirited awa is come to licht after a . Bring the 
 bairn here, the nicht Ther ll be siller to getten for 
 her find. Puir Sandy ! he were a brither o my ain 
 mither. May hap the auld body 11 kent sommat 
 as ll thraw licht upo the matter o yer claverin." 
 
 But the old woman, when she was fetched, could 
 only shake her palsied head as she hobbled about on 
 her staff, and mumble : 
 
 " Na na : I winna tell t I winna tell t San ny 
 wad grupple me deed ! It were an awesome secret. 
 An he hae kepit the secret an the child a these 
 years. He were unco full, I tell t him, an daft like 
 to hae a finger in sic a foul thing. An noe he s 
 deed a together. But ye maunna bring the wean here 
 We ll be putten i the jail if we getten the wean" 
 But the man interrupted her harshly, berating her in 
 unintelligible Scotch for her stupidity in not seeing 
 that they could make a fortune out of the matter. 
 
 " In coorse it s nae the lad hissel " Mister, for that 
 were a matter o forty year ago; but its a wean o the 
 Earl s grandson as auld Sandy hid awa , I ll wager me 
 wits on t. Sandy Meer s been in hiding these forty year 
 wi that guilty secret, an ye ve been diggin him out 
 the day ! Fetch the wean here, an we ll look to her 
 Na, howld yer tongue there, will ye ? " and he menaced 
 the old crone into inarticulate mumblings ; for she had 
 broken out afresh, warning him not to lay a finger 
 upon the bairn. 
 
 Leslie Bracebridge listened and reflected. One
 
 358 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 thing was clear : these people should never see the 
 child : another that the man must not know of his re 
 solve ; a third the whereabouts of the Earl s family 
 must be ascertained. It was not into the hands of a 
 superstitious old crone and a brutal lubber that he 
 meant to trust the strange destiny cast upon his 
 care. 
 
 " Very likely the child is asleep by this time," he 
 said cautiously : " I cannot bring her to you to-night. 
 To-morrow morning, look for me. 
 
 " But I should like to see the Earl s place," he added, 
 paying lavishly for the grog he had not touched : " is 
 it hereabouts ? I might pass it, to-night." 
 
 " Na na. Its nae i the old town, mon. Its 
 ower by all that s rich an great. It s a canny place, 
 baith gude an gran ; but I m tel t there s nae chick 
 nor childer to keep it i the family. Gude Lard ! " 
 he cried, starting up and over-turning a chair noisily 
 " ef the wean thee threeps on were a lad Gude 
 Lard ! but its a wench tha says ? " 
 
 " Yes a girl ; but I fancy she will not turn out to 
 be the Earl s great-granddaughter after all. You ve 
 got no proof, you know." 
 
 Bracebridge spoke carelessly, and sought to with 
 draw without more parley. What he wished was to 
 escape these people. The Scotchman, now throughly 
 sobered, detained him by the button-hole and gave 
 him a shrewd wink. 
 
 " Eh, mon ! When I m getten the siller, I ll be after 
 droppin thee a bit," and he winked again, chuckling 
 inwardly. " I ve got proofs eneouch, never fear." 
 
 Bracebridge assented. He must feign to accept
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 359 
 
 the man s cunning as he accepted his sudden thee- 
 and-thou familiarity. 
 
 " I must hurry back now," he explained, " so as to 
 have the child ready early to-morrow. What time are 
 you open here ?" 
 
 The man laughed a coarse laugh and added, with 
 a coarser oath, that he would be up betimes. After 
 some more suggestions and arrangements, the Poet 
 broke away, mentally thanking his lucky stars that he 
 had so easily eluded the grip of the crafty Scotchman. 
 In his own mind, he doubted the fragmentary testi 
 mony in reference to little Bel s origin. It was prob 
 ably a coarse wile, suddenly hit upon by the low cun 
 ning of a rascal in whose memory there lingered 
 some foundation for his fabrication. 
 
 " I must throw him off the track. He must not 
 go to the Earl until I have settled the question one 
 way or the other," thought the young man, conscious 
 that his limited capacity for artifice might fare badly 
 if matched against the probable trickiness of the 
 other. 
 
 " I never could be diplomatic," he sighed, realiz 
 ing that here might be a necessity for astuteness. 
 
 " It s ower against the new town. They ll tak you 
 the way ony gate, " the man had said, and the next 
 morning found Bracebridge and the child driving 
 under a huge stone gateway that led to a massive and 
 somewhat forbidding pile of granite architecture that 
 had many towers and turrets, with small windows 
 and high battlements. 
 
 Carved in stone upon the gateway, and also over 
 the massive porte-coclitre where the coach stopped.
 
 3 6o THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 was a coat-of-arms of which the writer took careful 
 note. It was the original of which a rough scrawl 
 had been made in the prayer-book he carried in his 
 pocket. 
 
 Before leaving the Inn he had despatched a mes 
 senger to No. 1 6, Tweed Court, saying that the child 
 seemed ill, and he had carried her into the country 
 hoping to restore her health before bringing her to 
 Dumfries street. He had then taken the one cab 
 that the neighborhood boasted, and driven to the rail 
 road depot ; from which, after ostentatiously purchas 
 ing two tickets, and passing with a handful of passen 
 gers into the back of the station, he had wheeled 
 around and jumped into a coach which drove them 
 out by the way of the rear entrance. 
 
 Priding himself greatly upon having thus circum 
 vented for a time a shrewder creature than himself, 
 he awaited complacently the next emergency. The 
 affair was beginning to smack of a romance, and he 
 was quite pleased to have given rein to a rash impulse 
 in adopting the misfortunes of an unknown child. 
 
 When the great door swung back upon its hinges 
 he bethought himself to ask for the Earl s private 
 secretary, making a bold move towards the appear 
 ance of business. He had left the child in the gate 
 keeper s lodge, with orders that she was upon no ac 
 count to quit the place, and was himself shown into a 
 small but richly fitted-up office on the left of the great 
 hall. He had barely time in crossing this bit of the 
 hall to notice that it was magnificently adorned with 
 pieces of sculpture, figures in bronze, and suits of 
 rare old armor, when upon the threshold of the small
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 361 
 
 apartment he was met by a florid, middle-aged man 
 with the conventional sandy hair of Scotland, who 
 bowed awkwardly, and after seating his guest, waited 
 with national imperturbableness to learn his business. 
 
 " I wish to make some inquiries, " began Brace- 
 bridge, triumphing over the secretary s awkwardness, 
 " in reference to the old estate, which belonged to the 
 father of the present Earl of Earnshope, and was 
 called Cammerden Manor. " 
 
 The secretary stared as well he might : 
 
 " And what may be your business with my lord s 
 possessions ?" 
 
 " My business is chiefly with his family, " replied 
 the Poet with significant emphasis. He was deter 
 mined to carry out this matter with a high hand, and 
 not suffer the abasement he had endured at the hands 
 of Sir Roderic Clarkson. 
 
 The secretary stared on. 
 
 " I have come from the death-bed ot an old man, 
 one Sandy Meer who was a retainer of the late 
 Earl s, in his youth ; whose father was clerk of the 
 Church built by my Lord of Earnshope for his son > 
 Lord Percy Cammerden." 
 
 "Well? " 
 
 The interrogation was barely removed in pronuncia 
 tion, and not at all in intonation, from the broad Scotch 
 " weel, " but it had a particularly insolent sound to 
 the young man s acute ears. He reflected that there 
 was nothing which could aid him but sheer boldness, 
 and the utmost stretch of the imagination upon points 
 hinted at by the inhabitants of No. 16, Tweed Court. 
 
 "It is from what I gathered from this old man,
 
 362 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 and others, that I have been able to trace out a 
 singular clew to a half-forgotten mystery in the Earl s 
 family. " 
 
 " Well. " 
 
 " Are you aware of any such mystery ? " 
 
 A pig-headed look came into the secretary s face : 
 
 "Those are matters we never speak of in the 
 household of the present Earl. " 
 
 Leslie Bracebridge s heart gave a bound. The 
 stupidity of the other was making admissions that 
 could never have been wrung from his obstinacy. 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you have never heard 
 reference made to a grandson of my lord of Earns- 
 hope the late Earl who was living in exile in ob 
 scurity ? " 
 
 I said nothing about it. It s not my business, " 
 answered the man stolidly. 
 
 Bracebridge made a still wilder dash at the coveted 
 discovery. 
 
 " I am possessed of facts which would be of great 
 interest to the present Earl of Earnshope. I have 
 discovered traces of a child who is probably the only 
 heir to this great name. " 
 
 " What do you want for them ?" asked the other 
 with a grim sneer. 
 
 "I want justice restitution! 
 
 The Poet brought his hand down heavily upon the 
 mahogany desk at which the other sat ; and the two 
 men contemplated each other in a certain cat-on-the- 
 roof fashion. 
 
 " Where s the child ? " 
 
 " Safe."
 
 THE SHADO W OF JOHN WALLA CE. 363 
 
 " What do you know about him." 
 
 " I know the child to be the direct descendant of 
 Lord Percy Cammerden." 
 
 " Prove it." 
 
 The secretary s color had risen ; and he himself rose 
 and confronted his visitor menacingly. 
 
 " I will ; provided you verify certain statements 
 which I shall proceed to make in reference to Cam 
 merden Manor. 
 
 " Well." 
 
 " After Lord Percy, second son of the then Earl of 
 Earnshope, took orders in the Anglican church, his 
 father built him a church and gave him a living upon 
 certain estates of his which were in the border 
 country, and which went by the name of Cammerden 
 Manor." 
 
 "Well." 
 
 " You are to affirm or deny my statements, if you 
 please." 
 
 " Na I ll do nought o the kind," cried the other 
 dropping into the Scotch as his ire rose ; "you ve not 
 proved that you are a man with a right to make a claim 
 like that." 
 
 "Oh very well," said Bracebridge, feigning to 
 rise : 
 
 " There are others who will not mind profiting by 
 the information I was willing to give you gratis. I 
 shall see a solicitor in town." 
 
 And he made a movement as if to depart. He had 
 studied human nature to some effect, lately. 
 
 The Scotchman wrestled with his devil a moment, 
 and the latter prevailed :
 
 364 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " If it s no offense to my Lord or my Lady," he 
 began cautiously, " there ll be no harm I fancy in 
 my giving the yea or nay to your story. But it s little 
 I know of Cammerden Manor. I ve not heard the 
 name, only remotely, this many a year." 
 
 " Cammerden Manor was destroyed principally by 
 fire forty years ago," said the Poet impressively. 
 He knew so little, (if he may be said to have known 
 anything absolutely) that he had to make the most of 
 each point. Presently, when he had secured the 
 stealthy interest of the secretary, he meant to make 
 him finish the story. 
 
 At this moment, Leslie Bracebridge had entirely 
 lost sight of John Wallace. The man and his "old 
 woe " had faded before the present perplexity which 
 enveloped the " witless lamb " he had found upon the 
 waste. 
 
 " Yes it was destroyed principally by fire," as 
 sented the Scotchman cautiously. 
 
 " But there was another misfortune which befell the 
 
 family," Bracebridge was feeling his dangerous 
 
 way "about the same time." 
 
 "Well," relapsing into something of the former 
 stolidity. 
 
 " It was the disgrace which came upon Lord Percy, 
 and caused his disappearance from Scotland." 
 
 Here the visitor s ground grew unsafe. The next 
 step might betray his ignorance. He paused ; but the 
 Scotchman showed no signs of taking up the thread 
 of the narrative. At last he leaned forward and laying 
 his hand upon the elder man s arm, whispered with 
 slow emphasis :
 
 777,5 SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 365 
 
 " What became of the child ? " 
 
 The secretary started, for the portentous manner of 
 the other was not lost upon him. The present Earl, 
 he knew was the youngest son by many years. The 
 Lord Percy who had disappeared was the second son, 
 and the rightful successor, when the oldest son died 
 childless, to the title and estates of Earnshope. His 
 disappearance had for so long a period been accepted 
 as final, that the present Earl had come through a suc 
 cession of deaths, to his possessions without a question. 
 
 The two men regarded each other fixedly the one 
 with a startled endeavor to learn how much his oppo 
 nent knew the other with a keen resolve to abstract 
 something more. 
 
 " Of course," hazarded the Poet, " you know that 
 this child was a boy ? " 
 
 The secretary nodded. 
 
 " And that he was consigned to oblivion, and kept 
 in ignorance of his birth and ancestry ?" 
 
 The secretary nodded again. 
 
 (" Lord, I thank thee that I am not as stupid as this 
 clown," mentally apostrophized Leslie Bracebridge, 
 figuratively casting up his eyes. The man had com 
 mitted himself. The ground grew safer.) 
 
 " Can you explain to me any just reason why that 
 child should have been disinherited, robbed of his 
 name and position, defrauded "- 
 
 " Hold, man ! " cried the secretary, in a hoarse 
 whisper : " I will tell you why that child had no 
 claim upon the estates of Earnshope, and why he was 
 best kept in ignorance of his antecedents. He was not 
 the son of Lord Percy Cammerden"
 
 366 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 The Poet s eyes sparkled. He leaned back in his 
 chair breathing a devout " at last ! " in the depths of 
 his soul. After all his floundering, something had 
 floated to the surface of the murky waters he had 
 dragged, and he grasped it. 
 
 All that the secretary perceived was that his visitor 
 assumed a confident, almost aggressive bearing, and 
 that he said defiantly : 
 
 " I beg your pardon ; that fact was never proved." 
 
 " Proved proved ! " cried the other excitedly " was 
 it not proved to Lord Percy s misery that his wife was 
 faithless, that she was no better than an adultress 
 and him on the verge of being raised to the Episco 
 pacy ? Do you suppose it was not proved to him 
 before he threw up everything and disappeared " 
 
 "To America." 
 
 Bracebridge spoke in a suppressed tone. The dis 
 coveries that were pouring upon him had an over 
 whelming effect ; but he preserved his acuteness. 
 
 " To America ? Yes, and no. How should I know ? 
 A man who wishes to be dead to all the world doesn t 
 usually leave his address behind him." 
 
 " The man is dead." 
 
 The Scotchman jumped up and began pacing the 
 little office. Then he paused in front of his guest 
 whe sat calm and unmoved, waiting for further develop 
 ments. 
 
 " How in the name of did you get hold of all this 
 
 information ? " 
 
 "Partly through your imbecility," replied the Poet 
 within : 
 
 " From several sources," answered the Poet without-
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 367 
 
 " Of course, of course," said the secretary impatient 
 ly, somewhat recovering himself : " Lord Percy must 
 have long since died. He was not a young man when 
 it all happened." 
 
 " He was fifty years of age when he went to the 
 States. He lived to be upwards of eighty," remarked 
 Bracebridge oracularly. 
 
 " And you are an American, I fancy ? " 
 
 Bracebridge assented. 
 
 " And you know that this illegitimate son is living ? " 
 
 " He is not living. He died in obscurity and 
 poverty. But please recollect that I do not endorse 
 the illegitimacy." 
 
 " What are you going to do about it, after all 
 these years when everybody concerned is gone to 
 dust ? " The secretary spoke with a sneer. 
 
 "Everybody is not gone to dust. The son, who 
 was robbed of his heritage has left a child who is to 
 be righted." 
 
 " Good God," cried the Scotchman, a pallor forcing 
 itself over his ribicund complexion : " Is t a boy ? " 
 
 But Bracebridge had no idea of weakening the effect 
 of his revelations by admitting the sex of his protege*. 
 
 " The child," he answered with dignity, " is here in 
 Edinburgh in my custody. The old man who suc 
 ceeded his father in concealing the child as the father 
 had concealed Lord Percy s son, is dead. He died 
 leaving the child to me. I have come here to con 
 front the family with this wronged creature." 
 
 Something very like a shiver went through the 
 Scotchman s frame : 
 
 iCr 1 will never recognize him ; my Lord will
 
 368 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 be able to prove it all a fraud," he began feebly. Then 
 he broke off, and sat drumming upon the table with 
 nervous ringers. Presently he recommenced, speak 
 ing hurriedly, with a furtive glance at the door : 
 
 " You had better leave this matter tome. You had 
 best not anger my Lord with thrusting an ugly 
 possibility upon him, when it is too late to do any 
 thing to rectify any mistakes " 
 
 " Pardon me. There was no mistake. It was a 
 terrible wrong. Lord Percy went into voluntary exile 
 because he felt himself to be a disgraced man. That 
 did not disinherit his son." 
 
 Bracebridge actually began to assume the role of a 
 philanthropist who only desires disinterestedly to 
 right the evils within his reach. 
 
 " But but " stammered the bewildered secretary, 
 " don t you see that if it had been Lord Percy s son 
 that was to be born, he wouldn t have been disgraced, 
 he wouldn t have left his wife he wouldn t have 
 given up the honors offered him he " 
 
 " Allow me to interrupt you," the Poet said calmly, 
 "what honors do you refer to ?" 
 
 " Why the honors offered by the Anglican church, 
 man ! They would have made a Lord Bishop of him 
 the very day he disappeared. It nearly broke the old 
 Earl s heart. He had had a fine ring made, with the 
 Bishop s seal upon it, and was proud enough when he 
 gave it to Lord Percy that very week. I m told that 
 the ring was the only article of value the unhappy man 
 took with him." 
 
 Leslie Bracebridge drew a quick breath or two. 
 He saw John Wallace rise once more before him,
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 369 
 
 He remembered the seal ring, and the widow s 
 hesitating remark that the design resembled a cipher 
 of some sort rather than a coat-of-arms. 
 
 " What became of Lord Percy s wife ? " 
 
 " Gude God, man ! As if I knew ! All I have 
 gathered is that he married when he was about forty 
 a young girl of seventeen, and that they had no 
 children. My Lady was not a daughter of one of the 
 noble families, not even a lady of the aristocracy, but 
 was from some unknown parts, and had, I ve heard 
 the old servants say, a wild and headstrong look. They 
 even chatter," here the Scotchman s voice fell still 
 lower "about gipsy blood, and say that my Lord 
 got her from the border country : that he was be 
 witched, in fact ; but that s only the talk o the ignor 
 ant." 
 
 " That has nothing to do with the point. The lady 
 was Lord Percy s wedded wife, and the son when he 
 came, was their lawful child." 
 
 " Wait," cried the other feverishly. " Let me prove 
 the contrary to you. For God s sake don t go to the 
 Earl with that old story. Let me tell you how it all 
 came about. After they had been married some years 
 there came to Cammerden Manor, which I have heard 
 was a wonderful place for learning and intellect, and 
 had the finest society in all Scotland and yet was a 
 frivolous place, new and showy, and full of gay doings 
 without knowledge of the stern virtue of the kirk" 
 ( The secretary evidently disapproved of rank Angli 
 cans) " but," he added, " tempered by the pure good 
 ness and kind works of Lord Percy himself, who was 
 a God-fearing man, there came to Cammerden Manor
 
 370 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 a young man who said he had a new gospel of some 
 sort ; a new revelation, he called it, abounding in 
 strange sounding phrases, and marvelously deep ex 
 planations of very simple Bible truths." 
 
 The Scotchman paused for breath. His taciturnity 
 had died hard, and he was palpably not given to talk 
 ing in paragraphs. 
 
 " WeH," he went on reluctantly, as his visitor still 
 preserved the demeanor of one unconvinced ; " Well, 
 Lord Percy s young wife was dazzled. I ve heard it 
 said that she had a fine mind and was much pleased 
 to hear the profound and difficult meanings that were 
 put upon the gospel truth you know the rest ? " 
 
 " I know what is alleged, but I contend that Lord 
 Percy was deceived duped by those who wished to 
 rid themselves of him." 
 
 It was a daring assertion, intended to tempt a 
 longer recital. 
 
 The other jumped up, and began fuming about the 
 room in desperation. 
 
 " Deceived Duped ! Good God ! Lord Percy had 
 not an enemy in the world. His family worshipped 
 him ; his people made an idol of him, it broke the old 
 Earl s heart when he went away. It broke his brother s 
 heart, who was feeble and set a great store by him ; 
 it broke up the community, the rich people left the 
 place ; the church, they said was haunted and fell to 
 ruin ; the people who lived there upon his bounty, 
 scattered and fled, and some, they say, went mad and 
 set fire to the town 
 
 " Stop," commanded the Poet, " There was one thing 
 they failed to do. W/iy did they not find Lord Percy ? "
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 37 r 
 
 " Find Lord Percy," echoed the brow-beaten man 
 " find him ? Do you suppose they didn t ransack 
 England, and Scotland, and Ireland, and the Conti 
 nent, too, for the matter o that? Do you suppose 
 they didn t send to India, and to your America? But 
 what could they do ? he was gone. I believe, for 
 my part, that he jumped into the sea. I will not be 
 lieve that he lived to be upwards of eighty." 
 
 " That is neither here nor there," said Bracebridge 
 with a gesture of disdain. " Go on and prove to me 
 that the child was illegitimate." 
 
 " My lady told it herself" cried the other, warming 
 to his subject. " She was led away more and more 
 by the young preacher, who presently began to say to 
 her that her husband was not enlightened as to the 
 new revelations which had been given to the world J 
 that he was old in his way of thinking, and narrow in 
 his way of preaching ; that he could not comprehend 
 the things of the spirit ; but that somehow, they My 
 Lady and the young adventurer could form a mys 
 terious sort of union which made two people one in 
 spite of their earthly estate in a spiritual fashion 
 you understand, only I do not recollect all the argu 
 ments which were used. 
 
 " My Lady it seems, had never rightly loved her 
 husband, who nevertheless adored her with his whole 
 strength. She was weak, and easily persuaded that 
 she owed it to some new light within her to leave Lord 
 Percy and join herself to the other man. It made a 
 great scandal, but Lord Percy would not believe it. 
 He declared that she was partly deranged, and brought 
 her back, and treated her like a little child who has
 
 372 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 wished to do wrong, but whom he loved too well to 
 punish. And as no man in the country stood higher 
 than Lord Percy, or was more beloved, the world made 
 out to believe as he believed. 
 
 " It went on for a matter of three years, after which 
 she seemed to be reconciled to her husband, and 
 finally to have forgotten all about the tempter whom the 
 Earl caused to be removed from Cammerden Manor. 
 During this time they were preparing to make Lord 
 Percy the Bishop of Edinburgh : for he was known 
 throughout all Scotland and England, too, for his 
 great wisdom and piety. But he had refused, saying 
 there could be no questions such as had disturbed 
 his fireside brought into the family of a Vicar of the 
 Church. When, however, my Lady seemed changed, 
 he who could think ill of no creature, least of all the 
 wife he loved, never dreaming that she was deceiving 
 him and undermining him he accepted, and the day 
 for the consecration was fixed." 
 
 The Poet was watching the speaker intently, and 
 as he paused for breath, made a slight movement 
 with his hand to bid him continue. 
 
 " It may be that her conscience smote her so sorely 
 that she could no longer deceive so good and noble a 
 man. At any rate, when the time drew near my 
 Lady had fled from Cammerden Manor with the 
 wicked creature who had tempted her to her ruin. 
 She left a confession, saying that the child about to 
 be born was not the child of Lord Percy, and that she 
 could no longer conceal from him that she had been 
 visited often and secretly by the young man whose 
 name I forget and that she could not endure to give
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 373 
 
 birth under her husband s roof to a child not his own. 
 She was wild, she wrote, with grief and remorse ; but 
 it was irrevocable. 
 
 " From the hour she left, Lord Percy never lifted 
 his head. He had borne her infatuation like a hero 
 like a martyr ; only seeking gently to open her eyes 
 to her wanderings, not believing, pure and innocent 
 man, where they would lead her. But when he knew 
 all, when he realized the perfidy of his wife, it seemed 
 that his world had come to an end. They could not 
 rouse him ; he went about with his eyes to the ground, 
 taking a last farewell of everything and making what 
 arrangements he could for the good of his parish and 
 the poor of his flock. Then he disappeared to 
 India, the old Earl always believed ; but it was to 
 America, you say ? " 
 
 "Yes to America," answered the Poet, from a 
 strong inward conviction that he had laid his hand, 
 unwittingly, upon the substance whose Shadow he had 
 so long and vainly chased. For the moment, all the 
 researches of the past looked like vain imaginations. 
 John Wallace stood confessed, with bent head and 
 eyes to the ground. This time ths apparition had a 
 personality that was like veritable flesh and blood. 
 He was clothed in the vestments of the Church ; 
 upon his finger was the ring Annie Hatherton had 
 known ; his hand held thoughtfully a little ivory- 
 covered prayer-book. Leslie Bracebridge wondered 
 in swift contempt how the misty figure of Robert 
 Keith, in his judicial robe and wig, could have allured 
 him : and still more, what there had been in the bare
 
 374 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 outline of John Wallace Monteith, beyond the name, 
 to tempt his foolish fancy. 
 
 A sentence of the widow Hatherton, about " a high 
 dignitary in the Church," came back to him, as for 
 gotten things will, in an emergency. Across the 
 gulf of time and well-nigh oblivion, the phantom sud 
 denly became a luminous presence, not unlike the 
 glorified vision once manifested to Annie Castlewood.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 LOW LIFE AND HIGH LIFE. 
 
 ** Airs a clear rede and no more riddle now. 
 Truth nowhere lies yet everywhere in these 
 Not absolutely in a portion, yet 
 tivolvable from the whole : evolved at last 
 Painfully, held tenaciously by me. 
 Therefore there is not any doubt to clear 
 When I shall write the brief word presently. " 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 THE Poet rose and paced the floor meditatively- 
 He was exalted, exuberant, but most of all, he was 
 overwhelmed. Now that he had found the man he 
 sought, he feared him. He feared too, the entangle 
 ment into which he had walked blindly. 
 
 " I suppose you are convinced now that the child 
 was illegitimate, " sneered the secretary, eyeing him 
 nervously. 
 
 " What became of Lord Percy s wife ultimately ?" 
 queried Bracebridge for response. 
 
 " She came back after a year or two I believe, 
 penitent, wretched, more like a wild woman than a 
 sane lady. When she learned his fate, she went mad 
 for a spell ; then for they bore with her for Lord 
 Percy s sake she went away, declaring that she
 
 376 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 would seek him over the earth until she found him 
 and got his forgiveness. Poor wretch ! She had 
 that all along; but my lord was dazed, like, and many 
 thought he had lost his senses : to go away and hide 
 his shame like any common man. " 
 
 "And what did she do with the child ? 
 
 " The preacher s brat ? What matters it ? Could 
 a bastard be anything to the Earl of Earnshope ? " 
 
 " The child was never proved a bastard," insisted 
 the Poet obstinately : " The woman was very likely 
 out of her head when she made that declaration. " 
 
 " Mad or not, they say she turned witch, and 
 haunts the neighborhood of Cammerden Manor. None 
 of the Earl s family has ever gone back to look at the 
 place. All the rich and great people fled from it 
 as from a plague. They say " 
 
 " I know I know," interrupted Bracebridge impa 
 tiently ; he could now take up the thread of the story, 
 and hastened to do so. " It is a haunt for beggars 
 and thieves. Some one ought to reclaim the property. 
 It belongs as everything else does to the child who 
 has been defrauded and degraded. " 
 
 " You still adhere to that fiction ? " The secretary s 
 face was flushed and angry. He had soared above 
 his usual plane to tell the narrative and had done it 
 well. 
 
 I shall do so until I get more convincing proofs 
 to the contrary than any you have given me. " 
 
 " What right have you what interest ? " cried the 
 wretched man. 
 
 "The interest of humanity." The Poet actually 
 believed himself. The secretary leaned forward and
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 377 
 
 touched his arm, with a furtive glance to right and 
 left : 
 
 " Let me beg you not to anger my lord by interfer 
 ing as a stranger in his affairs. Leave me to hint a 
 thing or two to him, and then then if there s 
 money to pay for silence, and all that, why I ll see 
 that you get your share. " 
 
 Bracebridge recoiled. The low greed of the tavern- 
 keeper in Tweed Court had seemed a natural out 
 growth of his breeding and surroundings. But that 
 this middle-aged and respectable man, the trusted in 
 strument of a probably high-toned and noble master, 
 should make to him a proposition so utterly devoid of 
 ingenuousness and good-faith, staggered him. 
 
 He had contemplated the cause in the light of a 
 discovery, and undertaken to follow it up experiment 
 ally, as one might follow out the plot of an unwritten 
 story. Mercenary motives had never occurred to 
 him ; still less had he considered that he might be in 
 volving himself in a matter more delicate than 
 straight-forward. Even his note-book was forgotten. 
 
 " It serves me right for my double-faced way of as 
 suming to know what I subsequently wrung from 
 this unwise steward, " he muttered. 
 
 Clearly the man was not to be trusted. 
 
 " I will throw him off, as I threw off Tweed Court. 
 Whatever comes of it I will take the child to the 
 Earl myself, and then wash my hands of the whole 
 business. They may right her or wrong her as they 
 choose. Certainly they will not ill-treat her : But 
 first first I must ascertain if this banished lord be 
 indeed the melancholy ghost who sat aloof from the
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 stir of actual life in a far, alien town, beholding and 
 not participating in the ways of men. " 
 
 Then he offered the secretary his hand in parting. 
 
 " I am glad we have come to an understanding, 
 Mr. Mr. " 
 
 " Hotchkiss, " supplied the other eagerly, produc 
 ing a card ; " and by the way, sir, you have not men 
 tioned your name." 
 
 " So I have not allow me. " and the visitor wrote 
 Henry Smith glibly upon the card, appending the 
 address of the modest Inn where he had put up with 
 the child, on his arrival at Edinburgh. 
 
 " If you will call at this place to-morrow morning, 
 Mr. Hotchkiss, we can talk over the matter more 
 fully. " 
 
 " I must get him out of the way when I come here, 
 to-morrow, " Bracebridge had concluded rapidly. 
 
 " Thank you ; at what hour shall I come ? " 
 
 " Early : at eleven o clock. " 
 
 And after more thanks and adieus, the two parted, 
 the secretary politely escorting his guest to the door 
 and handing him a card upon which he had written a 
 line which he said would admit him without words. 
 
 Leslie Bracebridge trod on air. 
 
 " It is John Wallace himself," he cried in breathless 
 exultation : and yet the story of Robert Keith came 
 surging back upon him while he said it " I will go 
 at once to Mr. Roderic Clarkson. I will follow him 
 to Brighton," he mentally vowed. In the meanwhile, 
 the present side-issue must be settled. When they 
 had driven away from the narrow and noisy streets 
 of the Old Town, Bracebridge had felt that he was
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 379 
 
 escaping from the designs of Tweed Court. Now, his 
 sensation was of hastening from the entanglements of 
 Earnshope : and he drove towards the open country. 
 " I must take lodgings in the suburbs for to-night. 
 And by the way ! " 
 
 He brought his hands together with a sounding 
 clap that startled little Bel and made her lift her blue 
 eyes questioningly to his face. " I ll play both rascals 
 a trick at once. They deserve it. Let them fight it 
 out between them." 
 
 He burst out laughing, and Bel smiled up at him 
 confidently. 
 
 " Little one," he said sententiously, " do you know 
 that great issues hang upon your identity?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered the child obediently, and 
 smiled again. Bel s smile was wonderful. 
 
 He looked upon her, presently, with a feeling akin 
 to awe. The miserable waif, who but for him might 
 have been starving upon a desolate heath, had she 
 indeed the blood of that high and pure man in her 
 veins ? That she might have been born of John 
 Wallace s race, seemed to swallow up the other proba 
 bility of her noble antecedents. As Leslie Brace- 
 bridge had come to dwell upon his hero s character, 
 there was no dignity, no honor, which all the peers of 
 the realm could add unto him. The man s own 
 nobility of soul and beautiful life were the grandest 
 inheritance of which he could conceive, although he 
 could not possibly tell whence he got this belief. He 
 was sure the widow had not meant to give him the 
 impression of anything remarkable about the per 
 son she had simply vindicated from false charges.
 
 380 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 Whence, then, could the Being have arisen, whose 
 giant-like proportions overshadowed everything he 
 had formerly considered lofty ? It was a mystery. 
 The man s own spirit must have hovered still about 
 his mortal dust, and assumed by degrees an immortal 
 shape in the highest form of human power and dignity. 
 When the new lodgings were found, after Mr- 
 Henry Smith had taken precautions to dismiss the 
 cab at a small park, and walk about for a half-hour ( 
 the first thing he did was to despatch a note by mail 
 to Tweed Court. Then he set himself to amuse the 
 
 child : and at last the day of waiting wore itself out. 
 
 ******** 
 
 The next morning, a stout florid man walked punct 
 ually up to the little Inn and inquired of the motherly- 
 looking landlady for Mr. Henry Smith. 
 
 The woman didn t know any such name. She had 
 " only three lodgers at that time, an elderly gentle 
 man who was called Robson, and two commercial 
 travelers by the names of Scragget and Forbes. The 
 elderly gentleman had been with her for some months, 
 and was a sufferer from gout. The young men had 
 but just arrived, and" 
 
 Here the portly gentleman cut her short. He didn t 
 care anything about Scragget and Forbes. What he 
 wanted was to see a Mr. Smith a gentleman with a 
 little boy, who was stopping there. 
 
 "A little boy, sir ?" echoed the landlady, puzzled. 
 
 " Yes, yes, woman," fumed the other ; for he was im 
 patient to find his game. " He hasn t gone, I suppose." 
 
 " Why, sir," said the good woman apologetically, 
 " he asn t what you might say, gone, for he asn t
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. ^ 
 
 never come. But there s another person here as is 
 looking for the gentleman likewise. Only it s a little 
 girl." 
 
 The secretary eyed her doubtfully. She had so 
 mixed her personages that he was at a loss to compre 
 hend her. 
 
 " Blow the stupidity of these English," he mut 
 tered. 
 
 " Ow very h irritable Scotchmen be," was the in 
 ward comment of Mrs. Bowles. 
 
 Of course the person she referred to was none 
 other than Mr. Henry Smith, thought Mr. Hotchkiss. 
 
 " Well, show me to him, if you please," he managed 
 to say courteously. 
 
 She led the way into a stuffy little parlor, where 
 stamping about in undisguised wrath was an irascible 
 and groggy individual, who was none other than the 
 representative of No 16 Tweed Court. 
 
 He looked up hastily, but failing to recognize the 
 intruder, stuffed his hands into his waistcoat, and 
 went on with his stamping. 
 
 " Is your name Henry Smith ? " demanded Mr. 
 Hotchkiss unable to control his impatience. 
 
 " Na is t yours ? " retorted the other, roughly. 
 
 The secretary did not deign a reply. He picked 
 up a seedy annual of some twenty years back, and 
 tried to content himself, pulling out his watch from 
 its fob every few moments and consulting it with 
 smothered denunciations upon the delay. 
 
 At last, Tweed Court could no longer endure the 
 situation. He rang the bell lustily which brought 
 the landlady hurriedly to the room.
 
 382 THE SHADO W OF JOHN WALLA CE. 
 
 " Ye telt that the gentleman wi the child has na 
 been here sen yester morn ? " 
 
 " He drove away from ere in a cab, the first thing 
 after breakfast yesterday." 
 
 " An ye ha na getten his whereabouts ? " 
 
 " Ow could I h ask a gentleman where e s goin to 
 when e s paid is bill ?" asked the injured Mrs. Bowles. 
 
 The other inmate had been listening intently, as 
 a terrier listens when some-one says " Rats! " 
 
 " Where did he get the cab ? " he demanded quickly 
 and without preface. 
 
 The tavern keeper turned and glared at him : 
 
 " What is t to you ? What be ye spyin afther, ony, 
 way ? What s Mr. Henry Smith to ye, the day ? " 
 
 Mr. Hotchkiss rose with dignity : 
 
 " I am here by appointment, to meet him. Pray 
 have you any business with him ?" 
 
 " D n it," cried the other 4< he s letteii it out ! 
 
 It ll be all up wi us if the fuil s letten it out. . Be 
 you a lawyer, sir ? " he added with crest-fallen anxiety. 
 
 " I am to all intents and purposes," replied the 
 secretary, angry also that there should be any other 
 participant in the secret which had tempted him. 
 Doubtless, however, this clown was a necessary evil 
 brought from Cammerden Manor, as the only individ 
 ual who could swear to the child s identity. 
 
 He sat drumming upon the table for a few mo 
 ments, and then said with magnificent condescen 
 sion : 
 
 " Perhaps, ah if you could find the cab that Mr. 
 Smith drove away in, we could make something out 
 of this mistake."
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 383 
 
 He still believed that the Mr. Henry Smith of his 
 yesterday s acquaintance meant to deal fairly by him ; 
 and he wished the other party safe out of the way. 
 
 " Na," snarled the burly Scotchman," I ll no be 
 putten out o what s my ain business, mister. It s 
 nae lawyer I m wantin i the matter. Ye maun better 
 be lookin afther the cab yoursel ." 
 
 The atmosphere of the stuffy little parlor grew hot 
 with suppressed contention. The landlady came and 
 went anxiously, at one time trying the effect of 
 diverting conversation, at another offering the per 
 suasion of a mild semi-temperance concoction of which 
 the secretary partook stiffly ; but Tweed Court (who 
 seemed to have some acute reason for concealing his 
 name) growled out that he " had nae muckle taste for 
 mither s milk, but wad hae a good grog or naething." 
 
 As the lumbering old clock in the corner hitched 
 itself towards one o clock, Mr. Hotchkiss rose and 
 rang the bell with dignity : 
 
 " Mrs. Bowles," he said impressively, " I cannot be 
 detained any longer waiting for Mr. Smith. There 
 has doubtless been some just cause for this delay. 
 When he arrives, will you say to him that I will look 
 for him to bring the boy to " 
 
 " The what? " cried the tavern keeper bounding in 
 between Mrs. Bowles and the secretary : " A b y 
 d ye ca t ? an he telt me it were a lass. Gude Lord, 
 gude Lord! That wad be better n a ! An it s 
 given me the slippit he s done afther a ! " 
 
 " So this fellow is not a necessary evil, and knows 
 nothing definite. He is merely an interloper," thought 
 the secretary.
 
 384 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " Girl or boy, it s nothing to you, my man, and if 
 you don t get away from this place pretty soon, you 
 and I will have a settlement." 
 
 Mr. Hotchkiss did not actually mean fight. He 
 merely thought to intimidate a man who was doubt 
 less a swaggering coward. But Tweed Court was 
 keen to scent battle ; it was his native air. 
 
 " Come on, then, " he whooped ; and before the 
 secretary could face about, had him by the nape of 
 his neck. 
 
 Mrs. Bowles screamed, and rushing from the room 
 used a womanly precaution towards self preservation : 
 She double-locked the door upon the combatants. 
 
 The two men by this time, had rolled upon the 
 floor in fierce embrace. When the constable, wisely 
 summoned by the same cautious female, arrived, 
 Tweed Court sat victorious upon his fallen foe, whose 
 face was ignominiously flattened in a pool of blood 
 that came, however, from no more serious a wound 
 than a bloody nose. 
 
 The victor, against whom Mrs. Bowles readily tes 
 tified that he had made the attack was marched off 
 to the lock-up ; while the injured secretary, having 
 paid heavily in good shillings for his release, limped 
 sadly into the identical cab which had borne Brace- 
 bridge and little Bel away from their pursuers. * * 
 
 And what befell Leslie Bracebridge meanwile in 
 his difficult undertaking ? He had played sharp with 
 two sharpers ; and now it behooved him to show him 
 self a gentleman. 
 
 The secretary s card had passed him easily by the
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 385 
 
 lodge, but was carried suspiciously up the broad pol 
 ished-oak stairway by a magnificent lackey. 
 
 " It is the Earl himself that I wish to see, " he had 
 said, grandly, and with the card had sent his own, on 
 which he wrote confidently : 
 
 " Upon hurried and private business wJiich it would 
 be against the Earl s interest to confide to his secretary ." 
 
 Presently the magnificent lackey returned : 
 
 " My Lord was not in, but my Lady would speak 
 with the gentleman." 
 
 The man spoke grudgingly, Bracebridge thought. 
 Very likely he despised the hired coach which stood 
 at the door, with a small and wistful face looking from 
 its dingy window. 
 
 The Poet followed his discontented guide up the 
 grand sweep of the stairway, and was bowed into 
 a tiny reception room, a jewel of a room, set in the 
 rich casket of the castle. 
 
 " Received by the aristocracy at last ! " he cried 
 mentally; "but I am not sure that I owe it to John 
 Wallace s ghost, after all ! " For his reverence was 
 somewhat threadbare, and he could even joke, at times, 
 over his quest. 
 
 Then the door opened, and with a stately sweep of 
 draperies, there confronted Leslie Bracebridge a crea 
 ture of so grand a mien and so lofty a countenance, 
 that he was overwhelmed with admiration. 
 
 She held herself with cold pride, as if she ques 
 tioned the stranger s privilege to gaze upon her lovely 
 face. But something he saw there spoke of a. noble 
 nature and a true soul. 
 
 "You have business with his Lordship which can-
 
 386 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 not wait, I believe?" she said, with that low musical 
 utterance which is not of any country nor clime, but 
 belongs only to those who have reigned in the sphere 
 called " high life. Unquestionably, this woman was 
 a queen there. 
 
 " I think that I have, Lady Earnshope," answered 
 Bracebridge gently : " I have stumbled unawares upon 
 some singular facts which I will give your Ladyship, 
 with your permission. You may, or may not, find 
 them serviceable." 
 
 She motioned him to a chair at some distance from 
 the one upon which she seated herself, and from which 
 he could see, in an adjoining room, an aged and 
 beautiful woman who reclined upon a divan, with the 
 air of an invalid. 
 
 " Perhaps I had best be brief, and your Ladyship 
 will pardon me if I seem abrupt ? " 
 
 Lady Earnshope bowed her stately head, and the 
 young man began : 
 
 " Some little time ago, in travelling through the 
 Border Country, I came upon the remains of Camer- 
 den Manor, which I believe belonged to the Earls of 
 Earnshope ? " (No response.) 
 
 " I found there, an old man, who called himself 
 Sandy Meer, and who was dying of old age and 
 starvation, I presume." 
 
 The lady was listening carefully. She had been 
 toying with the long, silky ears of a Scotch-terrier 
 that had followed her into the room and curled himself 
 upon her lap when she seated herself. But now she 
 ceased, and sat quite still. 
 
 " The old man was in such a dire strait, that I could
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 387 
 
 not conscientiously leave him ; for there was no one 
 who came near him excepting a little girl who was 
 too young to know what to do in the emergency. It 
 appeared to me that for some reason this old creature 
 was cut off isolated from all about him. There 
 seemed to be some fear or superstition concerning 
 him." 
 
 Bracebridge watched the proud face closely, and he 
 thought he saw it s expression waver. 
 
 " Does your Ladyship know of such an old man, and 
 such a child, hiding in secret among the forsaken ruins 
 of Camerden Manor ? " 
 
 " I know nothing of what you speak," she answered 
 coldly and calmly, and began stroking again the silky 
 ears. 
 
 " Perhaps then, I have made a mistake, and that 
 there is nothing, after all, to tell your Ladyship." 
 
 " You may continue your story, if you wish. I 
 know nothing to object to in the old man." 
 
 " From what he said, though inarticulately I confess, 
 I gathered that the child who was with him was the 
 daughter of a man whose existence your Ladyship has 
 very likely forgotten. I refer to the son of the present 
 Earl s older brother, Lord Percy Cammerden." 
 
 Distinctly, this time, Leslie Bracebridge saw the 
 beautiful countenance change. A sound, too, was 
 heard in the adjoining room, and the white haired in 
 valid had sat up on her divan, leaning forward like 
 one who is startled. 
 
 " I am not aware that Lord Percy Cammerden left 
 a son." 
 
 " I understand that the fact is a disputed one.
 
 3 88 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 Believe me, Lady Earnshope, I have no wish to pry 
 into affairs which do not concern any one but the Earl 
 of Earnshope. Only, I have taken the liberty of 
 bringing the child to his notice, that he may decide 
 the question for himself." 
 
 " You are exceedingly courteous," said the Lady of 
 Earnshope, brushing the dog from her lap with the 
 wave of her white hand that seemed to carry dismis 
 sal to the young man also : " Undoubtedly the Earl 
 will look into the matter. Will you be kind enough 
 to leave the child s address with my husband s secre 
 tary." 
 
 "Lady Earnshope, said Leslie Bracebridge rising 
 with a flush of color on his brow, " the child has no 
 address, because she has no home. If I had left her 
 in the wretched hovel where I found her, she would 
 have starved to death also. She is waiting your de 
 cision, in a cab below." 
 
 The Lady of Earnshope rose also. She seemed to 
 tower above her visitor, in the cold dignity of her 
 scorn : 
 
 " You have taken an uncalled-for liberty, Mr. 
 Bracebridge. I must request you either to take the 
 child away with you and not trouble the Earl further 
 about the matter, or to leave her at the Lodge 
 until he shall conclude whether there is anything in 
 your statement. In the latter case, I must beg that 
 you will consider you have sufficiently done your 
 duty, and leave the affair once for all to his Lordship s 
 option." 
 
 Leslie Bracebridge bowed low: 
 
 " Certainly, Lady Earnshope. The child is nothing
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 389 
 
 to me but an object of humane consideration. I can 
 conscientiously consign her to your hands." 
 
 "And whatever compensation you wish for your 
 trouble you will be kind enough to mention to Mr. 
 Hotchkiss who is doubtless in his office," continued the 
 Lady of Earnshope, loftily. 
 
 " Pardon me," said the Poet proudly, " I desire no 
 compensation whatever for doing my duty : but " 
 
 Here the clesperateness of his determination to 
 strike one more blow for his main chance nearly 
 overcame him, in the presence of so proud and beauti 
 ful a creature. 
 
 " What do you desire, if not compensation ? " asked 
 my Lady distinctly. 
 
 " I desire to know if I am not speaking with one 
 who can give me some clew to The Lady Correspon 
 dent of John Wallace" 
 
 The beautiful eyes looked full into his with an ex 
 pression of amazement not unmixed with alarm : 
 
 " If I have not questioned your sanity hitherto, Mr. 
 Bracebridge, I cannot help doing so at so remarkable 
 a digression " 
 
 Here, as she stretched out her faultless hand to 
 touch a silken bell-rope, they both caught sight of an 
 apparition in the doorway. It was the pale invalid, 
 who had noiselessly crossed the adjoining room, and 
 stood with white face and unearthly eyes fixed upon 
 the disconcerted young man. She seemed to pant 
 for breath, and clutched the door-frame for support. 
 
 Lady Earnshope stepped forward, but not until she 
 had pulled the crimson cord. 
 
 " Madam," she said with gentle firmness, " you are
 
 3 9 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 too ill to rise alone. You should not have crossed 
 the room without Lettice." 
 
 " What did he say ? " muttered the other between 
 shaking lips : " What is he talking about ? I could 
 not hear distinctly ? " 
 
 " He is saying some exceedingly foolish things," 
 retorted my Lady, leading the older woman with 
 gentle compulsion to a chair. 
 
 " But what about the Lady Correspondent " 
 
 " Really, Madam," interrupted the calm, musical 
 voice, " I could not comprehend this gentleman s 
 vagaries. Falconer, " to the lackey who appeared 
 " you will show this gentleman to his carriage. And 
 Falconer " looking grandly over her shoulder as the 
 humbled Poet withdrew behind the liveried coat 
 " Send word to the Lodge, that his business at the 
 Castle is concluded." 
 
 The liveried back which Bracebridge meekly 
 followed seemed to expand with triumph. 
 
 " Rejected by the aristocracy," he muttered, all the 
 exultation faded from his face : " And really " he 
 added with a hopelessly puzzled air, li I don t know 
 yet whether I owe it to John Wallace or not." 
 
 At this precise moment the tavern keeper was be 
 ing marched off by the constable, while the belabored 
 secretary limped away. Perhaps of the three, the 
 Poet was the most crestfallen.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 "UNDOUBTEDLY IT is THE END." 
 
 " One poor pleading more and I have done 
 But shall I ply my papers, play my proofs, 
 Parade my studies, fifty in a row, 
 As though the court were yet in pupilage, 
 And not the artisfs ultimate appeal f 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 " I AM going to leave you here, Bel," remarked the 
 young man, as he descended from the cab at the door 
 of the Lodge. A servant was following on foot to 
 verify this statement to the inmates of the Lodge. 
 
 The blue eyes opened wide with a deprecating 
 surprise. 
 
 " You are to go and live at the Castle, little one. 
 They will be very kind to you," he continued, seeing 
 the startled look. 
 
 " I dinna want to le ye, sir," broke from the child 
 who clung to his hand ; " I wad reyther go ben to 
 your hame." And she burst into tears. 
 
 " But I have no home nor any wife nor children, 
 Bel, and I live on the other side of a great sea," the 
 Poet answered somewhat staggered at this new con 
 sideration. He had no idea that his little protege 
 had attached herself to him in her quaint, demure 
 fashion.
 
 392 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " It is a fine place there, and you will be very 
 happy," he hazarded, smothering an honest doubt. 
 
 " But they winna luve me, sir," she sobbed." An 
 Grandfather telt the folks as lives i gran places is 
 hard and cauld as stane. O please dinna sen me 
 there ! Le me stay here." 
 
 Leslie Bracebridge had a soft heart. He was a 
 poet, remember, and somewhat out of his element as 
 detective and newspaper reporter. " Wait, Bel," he 
 said, lifting her from the cab, and kissing her gently 
 on the forehead. 
 
 Then he went into the Lodge, and began to talk 
 with the woman, who eyed them wistfully from the 
 door. She had lost her only child not long before, 
 and little Bel s bonny face had won upon her heart 
 the previous day. 
 
 " She is an orphan, and is thrown upon the Earl s 
 charity," he explained. " Perhaps his lordship would 
 be glad if you would keep her. He would of course 
 pay you 
 
 " O Sir," cried the woman, her eyes brimming over 
 " It s not the pay I d be wantin . It s the bonnie lass. 
 She s that like my ain lost Bessie, as it breaks me 
 hairt wi luve to see her. Couldn a ye manage to 
 leave the bairn wi me a togither ? " 
 
 " I fear I can do nothing definite about it," Brace- 
 bridge said, perplexed. In his effort to do the best 
 for the little creature he had, it seemed, overstepped 
 what would have been a safer and simpler plan. Go 
 ing to the cab where he had left the sobbing child, he 
 led her tenderly to the woman.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 393 
 
 " Would you like to live here, little one, and have a 
 mother of your own ? " 
 
 For answer, wee Bel lifted her head to the kind face 
 above her. Then, without a word, she ran to the 
 arms outstretched to her. The woman folded her to 
 her heart, sobbing. 
 
 " O Sir," she said, " my gude mon wi be unco happy 
 the day. He said, yester e en, that the lass was so 
 like our ain, he couldn a bear to luik at her. But if 
 she could belong to us, he wad luve her the same." 
 
 " I am sure that the Earl will make no objections to 
 your keeping this child : " and Bracebridge wrote 
 hastily upon a card to the effect that as his suspicions 
 were very likely unfounded, he hoped the child might 
 find a home with the kind people who wanted her. 
 
 This he addressed to Mr. Hotchkiss. / The fellow 
 will never dare intimate that he had any secret under 
 standing with me," he concluded. Then he bethought 
 himself of the tavern keeper. 
 
 " If a man should come here, and talk about one 
 Sandy Meer ; or want to meddle with the child in any 
 way, do not admit him : He is a worthless rascal," he 
 said to the woman, who promised readily. 
 
 Then he turned, and lifting the little Scotch maiden 
 in his arms, kissed her for the last time. 
 
 " God bless thee Little Bel. Thou art sheltered, 
 poor wee lamb." 
 
 "Tha sbeen sae gude tome, Sir," murmured the 
 child, shyly, looking with sweet confidence into his 
 eyes, and smiling through her tears. 
 
 " Thank heaven I ve accomplished some good, in 
 cidentally, in all this business, the Poet thought as
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 he drove at last to a hotel, somewhat relieved, it must 
 be confessed, to be no longer encumbered with the 
 friendless child. 
 
 When he had lunched and consulted the railway 
 time-table, he found that he had barely time to make 
 the express train for London. 
 
 Once on board, he had leisure to think. The ap 
 parition of the invalid woman s pale and scared face 
 in the doorway of Lady Earnshope s boudoir, impressed 
 him more and more. There was something in that 
 terrified look which the younger woman had compre 
 hended, and desired to cover. 
 
 " What if that white and stricken creature were 
 The Lady Correspondent of John Wallace and " 
 here the blood gave a tingling leap through the young 
 man s veins: " his wife ! " 
 #**#*##**# 
 
 When Leslie Bracebridge came upon the now 
 familiar offices in Lothbury, and read the impressive 
 name "Roderic Clarkson, Solicitor in Chancery" for 
 the last time, he was nearly as agitated as upon his 
 first visit. But this time it was hope which stirred 
 his bosom triumph, rather than trepidation. 
 
 He had made bold strokes, and played what seemed 
 now to have been a marvelous game. 
 
 " I m a lucky dog, after all," he thought, " to have 
 things turn up in my path as they have done. It 
 isn t every fellow who picks up a denouement for the 
 hunting." 
 
 Then he began to map out the pending interview. 
 
 He had, on consideration, decided to march up to
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 395 
 
 Mr. Roderic Clarkson and say, not timorously, but 
 boldly and with authority : 
 
 " I am undecided, Mr. Clarkson, whether to name 
 your client, whose history I have been tracing back 
 to its mystery, Robert Keith, formerly Judge on the 
 bench in this city, or more probably Lord Percy 
 Cammerden, second son of the Earl of Earnshope." 
 
 He went over this speech many times, familiariz 
 ing himself with its conciseness, and with the expres 
 sion of the solicitor s face when coldness should give 
 way to unavoidable amazement and interest. 
 
 He even felt the grip of the august hand, and re 
 ceived serenely the congratulations sure to reward 
 his extraordinary success. Perhaps Mr. Clarkson 
 might go so far as to hint that he would find a young 
 man of his caution and discretion valuable in such 
 matters of extreme delicacy as frequently fall to the 
 care of solicitors who have the affairs of great families 
 in their control. He might, peradventure, make an 
 offer. 
 
 " Such an office would have its uses, its fascina 
 tions for a while. On the whole, I might be in 
 duced to accept should the terms be generous. It 
 would give me a certain prestige " 
 
 When Bracebridge s cogitations had reached this 
 point, he was standing in the outer vestibule of the 
 sombre rooms which seemed from some cause to have 
 attained an accession of dignity and gloom. 
 
 There was no smile or other recognition upon the 
 face of the person who opened the door to usher him 
 into the writing-room, although he had several times
 
 396 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 performed that office, and the Poet distinctly identified 
 his countenance. 
 
 Bracebridge received his duty-bow quite airily, and 
 remarked, taking a confident step forwards : 
 
 "I wish to see Mr. Roderic Clarkson. Is he re 
 turned from Brighton ?" 
 
 The fellow looked at him, he thought, superciliously. 
 
 " Sir," he said in an incomprehensible tone. 
 
 Bracebridge repeated his demand with great force 
 of dignity. 
 
 " Mr. Roderic Clarkson Sir ? " echoed the other 
 with what seemed like insolence. 
 
 "Yes," cried Bracebridge impatiently; "can t you 
 tell me if he has returned ? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon " said the clerk, not offer 
 ing to let the visitor pass " Sir Roderic Clarkson is 
 dead." 
 
 " Dead ! " gasped the Poet, and for an instant was 
 ready to fall down; this had in no way occurred to 
 his remotest calculations : " Dead ! when how 
 where ? " 
 
 " A fortnight since. Of overwork. At Brighton," 
 responded the clerk monotonously. 
 
 " Who carries on his affairs ? " 
 
 " The gentlemen of the Firm." 
 
 " And who are they ? " 
 
 " Mr. Giles Wilberforce and Mr. Henry Morton." 
 
 " I wish to see one or the other of them." 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Which gentleman did you 
 say ? " 
 
 " Mr. Morton," cried the excited visitor, hap-hazard. 
 The name sounded less awful.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 397 
 
 " He is at present in court." 
 
 " Mr. Wilberforce, then," (impatiently.) "Now I ve 
 got to begin at the beginning again." (despairingly, 
 sotto voce.) 
 
 After the usual routine of ceremonious delay, which 
 now seemed absurdly irksome to the young man who 
 had achieved so much, and felt therefore that he had 
 a right to despatch, he was ushered into the presence 
 of a wiry little man with mutton chop whiskers, the pre 
 cise complement of the courtly Sir Roderic. The 
 well-laid scheme of commencement ; the speedy 
 triumph ; the final hand-shake and congratulations 
 had all faded. 
 
 Leslie Bracebridge s mood was scarcely equal to the 
 unexpected effort before him. The sudden fall from 
 exultation had thrown him into chaos. 
 
 " My business has been with Mr. Clarkson." he 
 began half apologetically, despising himself for his hu 
 mility. 
 
 The new senior barely lifted his eyebrows in token 
 of assent. 
 
 " He is a typical Englishman," thought the Poet, 
 shivering as though an ice-bath had descended upon 
 him. " More impatient and less polite than his prede 
 cessor." 
 
 " I regret extremely his decease" 
 
 (The eyebrows were again stirred.) 
 
 " But I do not doubt that you can conclude the 
 matter for me." 
 
 He bowed, and the Poet proceeded nervously : 
 
 "My business was in reference to John Wallace" 
 (a pause : no sign of recognition in the icy face)
 
 3 g8 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " who was a former client of Mr. Clarkson s ; " 
 (another pause : still no show of interest) " who 
 lived for many years in exile in the United States " 
 (third pause) " and who died some ten years since " 
 (final pause). 
 
 Bracebridge had come to the end of his recital, and 
 had elicited no sign of response from the owner of the 
 mutton-chop whiskers. 
 
 He cleared his throat and commenced again, with 
 very much the helpless feeling of battering his head 
 against a stone wall : 
 
 " Possibly you know of the affairs of this gentle 
 man or can ascertain for me ? " 
 
 " What is the precise business you were transacting 
 with Sir Roderic ? What had he undertaken to ac 
 complish ? " 
 
 The young man winced. 
 
 " I had undertaken to accomplish the business for 
 myself. Sir Roderic merely promised to confirm my 
 efforts." 
 
 " Then I am to understand that he was not engaged 
 in making any investigation for you, Mr. Brace- 
 bridge." 
 
 " N no." 
 
 " Was there any estate in trust ? " 
 
 " I think not, since Mr. Wallace s death." 
 
 " Nor any heirs who were minors ? " 
 
 " None that were acknowledged as such." 
 
 " What, then, was the business you were transact- 
 ing?" 
 
 " With the identity of the man himself," answered 
 Bracebridge recovering his wits : " I was empowered
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 399 
 
 by Mr. Clarkson to discover his former client s actual 
 position his name." 
 
 " Do you mean that you were employed by my 
 late partner for that purpose ? " 
 
 " Not precisely ; the search was my own. But he 
 lent me his interest his sanction " 
 
 "Then this was not a business matter, Mr. Brace- 
 bridge ? " with cold inquiry. 
 
 " To Mr. Clarkson it was not." 
 
 " But merely some personal affair of your own, which 
 Sir Roderic was pleased to amuse himself with." 
 
 " I presume that is how you would regard it." 
 
 " And had nothing whatever to do with any case or 
 present client of his ? " 
 
 " None that I am positive about." 
 
 Mr. Giles Wilberforce was a good inquisitor, and 
 had reduced all the Poet s resources to atoms. 
 
 " Then, sir, all I can say is that no such personal 
 interests were left in the hands of the present firm at 
 the late Sir Roderic Clarkson s demise." 
 
 " But, Mr. Wilberforce, this is a very serious matter 
 to me and to others. It may possibly affect the 
 Earl of Earnshope. Do you not know of this affair 
 this man who called himself John Wallace ? " 
 
 " I am sorry to be obliged to reply that I do not. 
 We have each retained exclusively our own clients. 
 Only such were transferred to me, or my partner, per 
 sonally, during the late Sir Roderic s last illness, as 
 signified their desire to be so transferred. I believe 
 that I have never heard of the name of John Wallace." 
 
 " Could not you look up some papers anything 
 which would throw light upon the subject ? *
 
 4 oo THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 " If there were such papers, you would have to prove 
 your right to ask questions in regard to them." 
 
 " My right is the permission of Sir Roderic Clark- 
 son," cried Bracebridge eagerly " and the possible 
 interests of the Earl of Earnshope." 
 
 " We have the honor of representing the Cammer- 
 den family in London," remarked Mr. Wilberforce 
 quietly. 
 
 " Then cannot you glance at the the affairs of the 
 late Earl, say some forty years back, and see if that 
 name occurs. It would be a great favor." 
 
 The cold stare vouchsafed in reply put the Poet s 
 courage to final flight. Evidently it was an unheard-of 
 offense to ask a solicitor to glance at anything which 
 did not belong to the present issue and to the person 
 making the demand. Moreover, the law shows no 
 favors. Mr. Wilberforce waited for some explana 
 tion to be offered as a guaranty of his interlocutor s 
 right in the matter. None coining, he answered 
 abruptly : 
 
 " I cannot possibly do anything of the sort." 
 
 " I have already seen Lady Earnshope and dis 
 cussed this thing with her," hazarded Bracebridge > 
 not intending, however, to quote that conversation in 
 detail. 
 
 This last was not without effect. Mr. Giles Wil 
 berforce rang a bell. 
 
 " I will at least make inquiries," he said. 
 
 A clerk appeared, to whom the solicitor stated 
 briefly that the papers of a certain client called John 
 Wallace, who had died ten years before, were required. 
 
 The clerk disappeared, and the owner of the frigid
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 401 
 
 visage resumed his writing as though no one were 
 present. 
 
 After what seemed an intolerable delay, the clerk 
 re-appeared, saying that the papers had all been 
 destroyed, among those of many other deceased 
 clients, at Mr. Clarkson s written order, a week prev 
 ious to his death. 
 
 This Mr. Wilberforce communicated formally to 
 the Poet, as though he had not heard every word of 
 the statement, which sank like lead in his bosom. 
 
 He could not take it all in at first. 
 
 " What does it all mean ? " he stammered. 
 
 " It means that we can give you no information 
 whatever in reference to the person about whom you 
 have made inquiries." 
 
 " But the other partner Mr. Morton." 
 
 " Mr. Henry Morton is the junior partner of our 
 firm. He attends to an entirely different line of 
 practice. I may affirm, without hesitation, that the 
 matters of trust are mine." 
 
 " You don t you can t mean," cried the baffled 
 man, " that this is the end ? " 
 
 " Undoubtedly it is the end," replied the chilly 
 solicitor, unconsciously quoting from The Ring and 
 the Book, whose forever unsolved problem had run, 
 like a perplexing thread, all through Bracebridge s 
 tangled endeavor ; " unless you have interests or claims 
 of sufficient weight to warrant your engaging in 
 serious litigation." 
 
 " O dear no ! I am sure of nothing ! I am baffled 
 beaten." 
 
 Bracebridge rose with a dazed and weary air. The
 
 402 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 fruit of all his effort crumbled away, like an apple of 
 Sodom, in his hand. 
 
 As the lawyer touched the bell that summoned the 
 next client, he turned to stammer something about 
 the "value of services" always an appalling problem 
 to the uninitiated. But Mr. Wilberforce replied 
 curtly that he had found no memoranda of his affairs ; 
 doubtless Sir Roderic had been humoring himself 
 with an entirely personal fancy. 
 
 The Poet stumbled out, muttering over and over to 
 himself, " Undoubtedly it is the end." 
 
 He wandered back to his lodging-house, where he 
 was for some days prostrated with a bad fever, not 
 so much from physical derangement as from disap 
 pointment and the reaction after severe mental ex 
 citement. So said the apothecary. 
 
 When he first recovered from the stupor of his 
 fever, it was to hear the landlady say to this gentle 
 man : 
 
 " He s a gay young fellow, and of good blood, for 
 all his plain looks. He s done nothing but chatter 
 about Lord Percy Cammerden, whoever he be, an 
 the Earl of Earnshope. He has fine friends, happen." 
 
 And so an exorbitant bill from the honest woman, 
 as well as a considerable one from the apothecary, 
 was added to Bracebridge s mortification and misery. 
 
 His pocket-book was hopelessly reduced ; he had 
 met none of the enchanting people or agreeable epi 
 sodes that were to welcome him. On the contrary, he 
 felt that he had been abused by many indifferent and 
 disagreeable persons, and all that he could say of cer 
 tainty was this: " Undoubtedly, it is the end."
 
 FINALE. 
 
 COMPRISING LESLIE BRACEBRIDGE S FINAL MYSTIFICA 
 TION AND MORTIFICATION. 
 
 " O why, why was it not ordained just so ? 
 Why fell not things out so nor otherwise? 
 Ask that particular devil whose task it is 
 To trip the all-but-at-perfection, slur 
 The line o the fainter Just where paint leaves ojff 
 And life begins, -puts ice into the ode 
 O the poet while he cries " next stanza fire !" 
 Inscribes all human effort with one word, 
 Artistry s haunting curse the incomplete ! 
 Being incomplete, the act escaped success ***** 
 What was there wanting to a master-piece 
 Except the luck that lies beyond a man ? 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK. 
 
 THE Play is played out. The puppets that have 
 moved upon the village stage ; the later, would-be 
 actors that have crossed and re- crossed wider and 
 less clearly defined boards, are all swept away, while 
 the veil of obscurity descends, like a curtain, upon 
 the whole. But is the Drama complete ? Some 
 where, the misc-cn-scene was at fault. 
 
 During many acts, the hero has not been visible 
 before the uncertain foot-lights, or among the shifting 
 side-scenes, though his spectre has perpetually haunt-
 
 404 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 ed the shadowed background. Even the magnificent 
 Prologue which the Poet was preparing, failed of ut 
 terance. He has in his hands, all written out the ac 
 tion of his tragedy ; but the dramatis persona ha* T e 
 eluded him. 
 
 He comes back to the little village of peace, and 
 sits down thoughtfully before the white slab that bears 
 this still unsolved mystery, 
 
 " John Wallace." 
 
 But nearly two years have elapsed, since he came 
 disconsolately to the end of his endeavor. The Au 
 tumn was then so far advanced that he made up his 
 mind to finish the year in Scotland, " among his kin," 
 he modestly decided. 
 
 After some delay, he found a near branch of the 
 Leslies living in great comfort in Edinburgh ; and 
 these hospitable people made him so warmly welcome 
 that the winter stole away, and spring followed it be 
 fore he could tear himself from the pleasant associa 
 tions. 
 
 His uncle, a physician of some standing, took a 
 great fancy to the rather impractical young man ; 
 who in return, attached himself warmly to his cousin 
 Grace. 
 
 At first his heart was so sore about his disappoint 
 ments, that the occasion of his visit to Scotland was 
 never referred to. By little and little however, 
 through the softening influence of his cousin s sym 
 pathy, the whole story came out, and was, strange to 
 say, tolerated by the good doctor, much to the sur 
 prise and delight of Grace Leslie. She was not with 
 out romance ; and the unsolved riddle caused her
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 405 
 
 endless surmises and wonderment. One day, she was 
 sure that Robert Keith was the missing man ; the 
 next, she felt assured that Lord Percy Cammerden 
 and none other was the spectre who had posed as 
 John Wallace. They went together to the Lodge of 
 Earnshope, and always found little Bel safe and con 
 tent. 
 
 " His Lordship has na troubled us aboon the 
 bairn," the woman said. " It s Mr. Hotchkiss as wad 
 speer at me ower muckle. But I telt him the lass 
 were my ain niece, an he ha letten it go, I ween. " 
 
 " Has not anybody from outside come to question ? 
 Bracebridge asked. 
 
 Na savin once, when a great sweerin gomeral 
 cam an wad hae a blink o the bairn, ony gate. 
 I telt him that I had na seen chick nor childer 
 save my ain i the place this twelve-month. He was 
 unco wroth, an my gudemon was liken to pouther 
 his pow wi a watering can." 
 
 Bracebridge was content. Things seemed to have 
 come to a joyous end for wee Bel. 
 
 " Are you happy, little one," he asked the child, 
 who already began to take on the fresh sweet roses 
 of childhood. 
 
 " Aye ! I m that happy Mister Bracebridge. It s 
 unco lang syne Iv e wanted bit or broth. If only 
 and tears glistened in her pretty eyes "grandfather 
 were na lyin where the cauld blasts o the winter 
 wind will blaw ower his head, when the summer s 
 done. Grandfather feared the snaw," she added with 
 a sob. 
 
 " The wind and snow cannot hurt him now, Bel,"
 
 406 
 
 said Grace Leslie, gently : " It is always spring-time 
 in the country where he has gone." 
 
 " She s a gude bairnie," interrupted the foster- 
 mother apologetically, " an makes ilka things look 
 braw aboon the bit house. But she will greet for the 
 grandfather, whiles. Eh, mister," she added in a 
 whisper, " It s a wonder the Earl does na covet her 
 gowden head glinting i the sunlicht. I m afeared 
 mony a time when I see him take note o the bonnie 
 lassie. Waes me ! I winna grudge my Leddy her 
 braws, nor a her gear, savin she leaves me the 
 bairn." 
 
 Bracebridge bethought himself, and was able to re 
 assure the woman that the child was safe. 
 
 Doctor Leslie, having heard the whole many-sided 
 story, made what inquiries he could upon the out 
 skirts of the Earl s family history ; but John Wallace 
 still sat in the Great Dark, like some remote being 
 inscrutable to the curiosity of the common herd. Or, 
 shall we say, rather, in the Great Light, lived 
 
 The snow-white soul that angels fear to take untenderly." 
 
 And beside him was the shadow of little Bel. 
 
 At last the parting came. The Poet s disappoint 
 ments had settled into a quiet forgetfulness, and he 
 felt that his winter of satisfaction had more than com 
 pensated for the summer of chagrin. But another 
 year had passed before he had courage to seek the 
 primitive shades of Rest-Hampton. 
 
 It was the middle of July, 1882, when he reached 
 the familiar precincts of the little village that John 
 Wallace had named Peace.
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 407 
 
 Here he found a change. Could it be ? * * 
 
 Witness his testimony given in a letter published 
 by the same journal which had printed that other 
 letter from what he was pleased to name " Artist- 
 haven," which made up the preliminary chapter of 
 this book. * * 
 
 "Yes, there is a change. Something has happened 
 to Artist-haven, since the Tile Club came down upon 
 it and disturbed its sequestered content. 
 
 "It is seen in the new buildings rising jauntily here 
 and there, crowding out the shingle cottages and 
 great trees that once made such a picturesque vista 
 of the long, green street. It is felt in the altera 
 tions that are beginning to crop out upon the meek 
 faces of the old houses themselves. It is heard 
 in the bustle and stir about the new railroad that is 
 soon to desecrate the sweet silence of the hamlet, 
 whose broad and daisied highway may be ripped up 
 with a gash of iron tracks before these sheets are 
 dry from press. 
 
 " Let us see where comes the difference. 
 
 " It is not so much in the outward aspect of the 
 town itself, as in the altered appearance of the beach. 
 Once, the sea beat in lonely majesty upon the long 
 stretch of sands, heaving now and then into those 
 great breakers that roared up and down the coast like 
 the storm waves upon far northern rocks. 
 
 " Now, it is transformed into the sporting ground of 
 a noisy and merry crowd whose voices drown the 
 chanting of the surf, and fill the wanderer s soul with 
 loathing. They have spread a fancy-bazaar effect of 
 gay-colored tents abroad upon the peaceful sands,
 
 408 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 where they dart in and out as much at home as a 
 flock of pigeons upon a painted dove-cote. 
 
 " Nor do they desport themselves only upon the 
 beach. All about the low-pitched farmhouses ; over 
 the broad expanse of green still traversed by mean 
 dering roadways ; by way of the disjointed old stage- 
 coarhes which once carried the semi-occasional visitor, 
 or the almost as episodical mail ; even among the 
 mouldering graves of their progenitors, the villagers 
 have at last welcomed that nomad of fashion the 
 summer boarder. 
 
 " What their great-grandfathers beneath the sod 
 what, indeed, the fathers themselves only a few inno 
 cent years back would have said to such an invasion, 
 remains an awful mystery to be meditated upon in 
 the bosom of each family. 
 
 " Not the ravages of the Indians themselves among 
 the homes of those early settlers could have carried 
 greater dismay to their Puritan bosoms than this 
 oncome of the world and the flesh accompanied, in 
 their eyes at least, by that other power of evil called 
 the devil. 
 
 " Their prayers and their prowess might deliver 
 them from the terror of the savage ; but who could 
 deliver them from the insidious snares of the wicked 
 one ? 
 
 " However it happened, who first began it, can never 
 be told. But all at once as if one of those great 
 breakers had reared up and overwhelmed the land 
 beyond the dunes a current of modern innovations 
 has swept over these out-of-the-world farmers and the 
 well-to-do gentry, who had hitherto led equally seclu-
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 409 
 
 ded lives. Now they find themselves the beholders of, 
 and in one sense the participants in, all the fascina 
 tions and some of the follies of fashionable life. 
 
 " They are precipitated for a few months of each 
 year into the bewilderments of a resort, the unac- 
 customednesses of which serve them as food for com 
 ment during the remainder of the twelve months. 
 Their dearest customs are knocked from under them ; 
 their oldest prejudices are shocked out of them ; but 
 the never-to-be-resisted passion for penny turning 
 has seized upon them. The traditions of peaceful 
 and untempted generations of the past are forgotten 
 they retire to their kitchens and garrets, while the 
 heretofore unviolated parlors and chambers of their 
 ancestors are given over to the enemy. 
 
 " And such parlors ! and such chambers ! who 
 that has not seen them can be initiated through un 
 sympathetic print into the mysteries of those great 
 old chimney-places, the prim unconsciousness of tall 
 mantel-shelves, and the unaffected simplicity of old 
 mahogany, that does not know it as a priceless boon ! 
 
 " Look at that stately old house, yonder, with its 
 wainscoted walls, its aristocratic "stoop" and quaint 
 stairway ! Peer into some secret corner if you can, 
 you Summer Boarder, and see if your heart for 
 even you must have a heart does not stir and leap 
 with a thrill of more than curiosity at the relics which 
 lie crumbling away piece-meal, leaving, of all their 
 shredded histories, only the must and dust of forget- 
 fulness. 
 
 " Here is an old gold and ivory cane, its head inlaid 
 with gems ; who brought that costly bit from over the
 
 4 io THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 sea? and what long-buried aristocrat leaned his lace- 
 frilled hand upon it through a proud and stately old 
 age? 
 
 "And there is a porcelain jar with its handful of 
 ages-ago-dried rose leaves : Austin Dobson might 
 have written a rare pot-pourri upon such as that. 
 
 " Yonder are fragments of rich India china bespeak 
 ing forgotten wealth ; bits of obsolete English ware, 
 telling of the ancestors who " came over " from the 
 green hills and rich homes of the Mother-land. But 
 there are only occasional surprises. The plainest of 
 Puritans are suggested by the austerity of these 
 " salt-box cottages " that make up the bulk of old 
 Artist-haven, betokening more the rigors of self-denial, 
 than the luxuries of wealth in those early settlers who 
 bought their land from the Montauk Indians in six- 
 teen-hundred-and-I-forget. 
 
 " But the fragments of those difficult days, whether 
 of Puritan plainness or of patrician condescension, 
 are alike dear to the simple-minded inhabitant. 
 
 "Ah ! blessed Angel of the Resurrection ! what canst 
 thou do with the broken hopes and forgotten dreams 
 of which came these shattered facts? 
 
 "The Summer Boarder cannot answer that. 
 
 " As for the change, they like the new life right well, 
 these semi-sophisticated people, who seem, to us of the 
 busy world, to have lingered out of another time. 
 Their horizon has widened until they, too, have 
 glimpses of a society to them as vague, hitherto, as 
 were traditions of the courts of the Bourbons to their 
 great-great-grandfathers. 
 
 " Their field of interests has suddenly become so en-
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 4II 
 
 larged, that they no longer must needs confine their 
 familiar gossip to the limited and prosaic recitals of 
 neighborhood births and christenings, marriages and 
 deaths, with an occasional treat-to-topic of a vessel 
 wrecked upon the beach. 
 
 " Their ambitions, too, have expanded out of all pro 
 portion with their lowly shingle roofs, and new ideas 
 are beginning to dawn beneath the great horse-chestnut 
 trees. The picturesque farmhouses, for so many 
 generations en naturel and guiltless of even whitewash, 
 are here and there beginning to glow with a new 
 adaptation of Pompeian red paint upon their shingled 
 sides ; while a settlement of cottages, in the Queen- 
 Anne-gone-mad style of to-day, has sprung up by the 
 sea. 
 
 " Probably the villagers of Artist-haven had never 
 considered their proximity to the ocean in any other 
 than a utilitarian light. Surf bathing, en masse, was 
 a remotely-conceived-of vulgarism. But now, those 
 who descend to see it, behold their beach transformed 
 each morning into a veritable encampment of Philis 
 tines ; while town vehicles, and elaborate toilettes, and 
 all the embarras de richcssc, have put to open shame 
 their rude and cheap ways and means. 
 
 " The butterflies that alight upon them through July 
 and August, in their wide quest of novelty and pleas 
 ure, leave behind them with every flutter, a whole trail 
 of dazzling perplexities and glittering allurements. 
 Even before the days of the Tile Club, there had come 
 a few of such, who sowed seeds for our story. But 
 now, the flutter is universal the new notions are far 
 spread. Whether or not the inhabitants are happier
 
 4 i2 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 for their new gains, and the losses by which they are 
 purchased, who shall say ? 
 
 " It is but the inexorable law of social progress and 
 change, which sooner or later is coming to fulfil itself 
 in every remote corner of earth. If it is better or 
 worse for them, perhaps even themselves cannot 
 tell, as they begin that struggle after the never-to-be- 
 attained possibilities of society life. 
 
 " After all, the question comes which, it may be, the 
 venerable sleepers under the lichens had to settle in 
 their own less worldly way, whether it is wiser for 
 a man to rest contented with whatsoever things he 
 hath ; or whether he may, without detriment to his 
 good conscience, press forward to reach after the 
 worldly things which are continually beyond his 
 grasp. 
 
 " Had they found the answer to this human problem, 
 and carved it, the sons upon the fathers tomb-stones, 
 better were those fallen slabs for our study than all 
 
 the wisdom of Egypt s pyramids." 
 
 ******** 
 
 So it will be seen that Leslie Bracebridge had re 
 ceived his sorrow s crown of sorrow. As in his first 
 letter to the press he had not referred to John 
 Wallace, so in this last, he left his disappointed quest 
 untold. He wandered about disconsolately before 
 he could make up his mind to hunt up the widow 
 Hatherton. The only thing he had to show for his 
 long effort was the drawing he- had made of the 
 Cammerden coat-of-arms, which Mrs. Hatherton might 
 identify as the same that John Wallace had worn 
 upon his ring:
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 4^ 
 
 " Only, if he was Lord Percy, that was a Bishop s 
 crest," he sighed. 
 
 Then he wandered back into the South-End bury 
 ing ground, and sat thinking his own pensive 
 thoughts. Here at least there was no change. The 
 spot was cheerful with summer sunlight, and barren 
 of even the suggestion of a ghost at that prosaic hour 
 of the forenoon, but he recognized all the sweet and 
 sympathetic features which had won him to the 
 spot. 
 
 At last he concluded to seek the one creature in 
 the place who had probably not welcomed the sum 
 mer-boarder with matter-of-fact thrift. Mrs. Hather- 
 ton had doubtless withdrawn in scorn from even a 
 contemplation of new departures. 
 
 He strolled listlessly up the village street, until he 
 
 came to What ? The great chestnuts that had 
 
 formerly sheltered the home of the Castlewoods, 
 without a doubt. But the Homestead was no longer 
 there. .Or rather, its shell might have been there; 
 but it was so bedaubed with paint, so bedizened with 
 ornamentation that the Poet stood aghast. 
 
 " Who would have believed that such a fine sort of 
 woman could condescend to truckle to fool notions ! " 
 he exclaimed angrily, and gave the knocker a sound 
 ing rap. 
 
 " It s a wonder she hasn t a front door-bell, " he re 
 marked contemptuously : " only that would not be 
 aesthetic. To think of such a senseless craze having 
 
 invaded this out-of-the world " Bracebridge 
 
 paused in the midst of his mental harangue ; for the 
 door was flung open with a flourish by a jaunty color-
 
 4I4 Th E SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 
 
 ed servant with " New York style " stamped all over 
 his smart livery. 
 
 " Beg yo pardon, sir," he said airily, when the vis 
 itor mentioned the widow s name. 
 
 " Mrs. Hatherton," repeated Bracebridge tartly. 
 
 " No sir ; she don t live here, sir. Mrs. Vander- 
 Voort occupies this house for the summer." 
 
 And Leslie Bracebridge found himself bewildered 
 upon the sidewalk. 
 
 " I have changed the name of my prospective 
 novel," he muttered cynically : " It shall be called 
 A Book of Disillusions. TJie Lady Correspondent 
 of John Wallace refused to become my heroine, and 
 even the man s one surety has deserted me. Rest- 
 Hampton itself is a myth." 
 
 Here a troop of over-dressed little girls flaunted by 
 with their miniature babies and toy perambulators. 
 They were decked out, like their probable mammas, 
 after the fashion of the demi-monde. 
 
 Out in the street a flashy village cart dashed past, 
 driven by a bold girl with black eyes. A pattern lackey 
 sat motionless, face outward, behind, and a great jin 
 gle of chains went with the heavily caparisoned horse. 
 There was a shoddy vulgarity in every jingle. 
 
 While the Poet stood musing, the familiar figure 
 of a villager came stalking along. It was Obadiah 
 Potts, now grown wrinkled and white, but still upright 
 and severe in his demeanor. 
 
 In answer to the young man s polite inquiry re 
 specting the whereabouts of the widow, Mr. Potts 
 answered stiffly : 
 
 " She s gone to England, with her son, to live. She
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 415 
 
 rented the old house last Fall to some fashionable 
 people from New York. They ve made a fine place 
 of it already." 
 
 " Et tit Brute? thought Bracebridge with a sigh. 
 Even this austere looking native had gone over to 
 the enemy. Clearly, the inhabitants did not echo 
 the wail that had gone up from his poet s pen. 
 
 " I wonder how the artists feel," he murmured: 
 
 And then it occurred to him that he had as yet 
 had no glimpse of those white umbrellas clotted upon 
 the landscape. Very likely the artists had migrated 
 from the place in a body. 
 
 Obadiah Potts was saying something boastful of 
 the popularity " our town" had attained, which Brace- 
 bridge did not catch, until he was roused from his 
 revery by an exclamation of pride and satisfaction : 
 
 " Look there now ! Airit that purty ? " 
 
 The young man turned and beheld a high drag, 
 drawn tandem, and filled with ladies, coming along 
 at a flying pace. 
 
 " I tell you, sir, we didn t used to see such sights, 
 here-abouts. It ll be the making of Rest-Hamp 
 ton." 
 
 The great chestnuts rustled their dark green shad 
 ows ; the old elms, just beyond, bent and swayed 
 their long arms in a soft sea-wind that stole across 
 the fields and flats ; while the scent of ripening fruit 
 came coaxingly from the deep-hearted retirement of 
 the ancient orchard. Even a sunflower nodded fa 
 miliarly over the garden wall, and a tall lily bent its 
 head graciously beneath. In vain nature exerted her 
 sweetest influences. The Poet felt that all was out
 
 4 1 6 THE SHADO W OF JOHN IV A LLA CE. 
 
 of harmony, and his heart was unresponsive to the 
 old sweet strain. 
 
 " Pshaw," he cried angrily, making his way to the 
 hotel to take the next stage that would carry him 
 from the disenchanted village, " I don t believe that 
 there is any mystery : and what is more, I don t believe 
 there ever was such an ideal place as Artist-haven. " 
 
 Later, as he sat trifling with the mid-day dinner 
 offered him, he soliloquized this wise : 
 
 " I have made a silly attempt to dramatize the life 
 of a man whose heroism was above my comprehen 
 sion. I had better have taken the advice of that 
 handsome woman, the widow (who, by the way, I 
 absolve from the curse I put upon her when I thought 
 she had spoiled her house.) I had better have 
 acknowledged the proportions of the man to be 
 beyond my scope, than have got up all the parapher 
 nalia for a tragedy, and then failed to grasp my 
 hero. 
 
 " It was like playing with gods and angels ; only 
 the Greek poets could do that, and classic old 
 Milton. The Titanic outlines of my psychological 
 researches only show up the puny weakness of my 
 results. John Wallace, standing alone in his power 
 and his gentleness, with his motives unknown, and 
 his mystery unsolved, is a grander character than any 
 mock hero I could produce, with all my side-lights 
 and stage properties. I shall now take to writing 
 epics ; or, at least, my coming romance shall not aim 
 to be a metaphysical study." 
 
 And taking out "The Ring and the Book," which 
 had borne him the silent company of its comment,
 
 THE SHADOW OF JOHN WALLACE. 417 
 
 he opened it at random and read these words of 
 startling significance . 
 
 " And so an end of all i the story. Strain 
 Never so much my eyes, I miss the mark. 
 
 Learn one lesson hence 
 
 Of many which whatever lives should teach; 
 This lessson, that our human speech is naught, 
 Our human testimony false, our fame 
 And human estimation, words and wind."
 
 AFTER-CHORD. 
 
 " But if you rather be disposed to sec 
 In the result of the long trial here, 
 This dealing doom to guilt, and doling praise 
 To innoccncy, any proof that truth 
 JITay look for vindication from the world, 
 Mucli will you have misread the signs, I say. 
 God, who seems acquiescent in the main 
 WitJi those who add S0 will He ever sleep 
 Flutters their foolishness from time to time, 
 Puts forth His right Jiand recognizably ; 
 Rvcn as to fools who deem He needs must right 
 Wrong on the instant, as if earth were heaven, 
 He wakes remonstrance Passive, Lord, how long? 
 
 THE RING AND THE BOOK.
 
 
 
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