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 COLLECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 BEITISII AUTIIOES 
 
 TAUCHNITZ EDITION. 
 
 VOL. 1873. 
 DA CAPO AND OTHER TALES 
 
 BY 
 
 MISS THACKERAY. 
 IN ONE VOLUME.
 
 TAUCHNITZ EDITION. 
 
 By tbe same AutLoi-, 
 
 TUE STOltV OF KLIZABETU .... 1 vol. 
 
 TIIK VILLAGE ON THE CLIFF ... 1 vol. 
 
 OLD KENSINGTON 2 vols. 
 
 liLUEBEAKu's KEYS 1 Vol. 
 
 FIVE OLD FRILNDS 1 vol. 
 
 MISS ANGEL 1 vol. 
 
 OUT OF THE WOULD & (il'lIEK 'lALKS 1 vol. 
 
 FULHAM LAWN AND OTIIEU TALES . 1 vol. 
 
 FUOM AN ISLAND 1 vol.
 
 DA CAPO 
 
 AND OTHER TALES 
 
 MISS THACKERAY, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "the STORY OF ELIZABETH," ETC. 
 
 COPYRIGHT EDITION. 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 
 BERN HARD TAUCHNITZ 
 1880. 
 
 The Right of Translation is rcscn'cd.

 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 DA CAPO 7 
 
 FINA 117 
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS 135 
 
 MISS MORIER'S VISIONS 259
 
 DA CAPO 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 COLONEL Baxter's retrospections. 
 
 It is a curious experience to come back in after 
 years to an old mood and to find it all changed and 
 swept and garnished; emotionless, orderly now; — 
 are the devils of indifference and selfish preoccupa- 
 tion those against which we are warned in the par- 
 able? Perhaps it is some old once-read and re-read 
 letter which has brought it all back to you; perhaps 
 it is some person quietly walking in, followed by a 
 whole train of associations. Who has not answered to 
 the call of an old tune breaking the dream of to- 
 day? Is the past, past, if such trifles can recall it 
 all vividly again, or only not-present? 
 
 One day Colonel Baxter, an officer lately returned 
 from abroad, came up to the door of an old house 
 in Sussex, and stO]:>ped for an instant before he
 
 8 DA CAPO. 
 
 rang the bell. The not-present suddenly swept away 
 all the fabric of the last few years. He stopped, 
 looking for a little phantom of five years before that 
 he could still conjure up, coming flitting along the 
 terrace, gentle, capricious, lovely Felicia Marlow, as 
 he remembered her at eighteen, and not so happy 
 as eighteen should be. The little phantom had once 
 appealed to him for help, and it had needed all 
 Colonel Baxter's years of service, all his standing in 
 the army, all the courage of a self-reliant man, and 
 all the energies of his Victoria Cross and many 
 clasjis to help him to withstand the innocent entreaty 
 of those two wild grey eyes which had said "Help 
 me, help me!" The story was simple enough, and 
 one which has been told before, of a foolish little 
 creature who had scarcely been beyond the iron 
 scrolls of the gates of Harpington Court, who had 
 been promised to her cousin, the only man she had 
 ever seen , and who suddenly finding a world beyond 
 her own, had realised the possibility of a love that 
 was not her cousin James's old familiar everyday, 
 evcr-since-she-could-remember, mood. 
 
 Colonel Baxter had seen the world and travelled 
 far beyond Harpington, but nevertheless he, too, 
 had been carried away by the touching vehemence 
 of this poor little victim to circumstances, and felt 
 that he could give his whole life to make her more
 
 DA CAPO. 9 
 
 happy. Only somehow it was not for him to make 
 her happy. That right then belonged to James 
 Marlow, who was Baxter's friend, and one of the 
 best and most loyal of men. 
 
 Baxter walked up to the gates and stopped to 
 look round, as I have said, before he rang. The 
 place was changed. A new spirit seemed to have 
 come over the periwinkle avenue. There were bright 
 flowers in tubs at intervals along the road; a couple 
 of gardeners were at work in the sunshine, chipping, 
 chopping, binding up all the drifts and wreaths, 
 carefully nipping away all the desolate sweetness 
 and carrying it off in wheelbarrows. Gay striped 
 blinds were sprouting from the old diamond win- 
 dows; Minton china twinkled on the terrace; the stone 
 steps had been repaired and smartened up some- 
 how; a green trellis had been nailed against the 
 Avails. It was scarcely possible to see in which of 
 these trifling signs the difference lay, but it was un- 
 mistakable. Once more an old feeling seemed to 
 come over the man as he tramped along the gravel 
 walks with long even strides; a feeling of hopeless 
 separation, of utter and insurmountable distance: 
 all this orderly comfort seemed to come only to divide 
 them. In the old days of her forlorn negligence and 
 trouble Felicia had seemed nearer, far nearer than 
 now. When he had come back after James's death,
 
 lO DA CAPO. 
 
 he had thought it wrong to obtrude his personal 
 feehngs. He was then under orders to rejoin his 
 regiment. Before he went to India, he had written 
 an ambiguous httle message to FeHcia Marlow, to 
 which no answer had come; he had been too proud 
 to write again; and now that he was home once 
 more, an impulse had brought him back to her door. 
 And he had listened to the advice of a woman whom 
 he had always trusted, and who told him that he 
 had been wrong and proud, and that he had almost 
 deserved to lose the woman he loved. 
 
 A very pert housemaid with a mob-caj) opened 
 the door; and to Colonel Baxter's enquiry replied 
 tliat Miss Marlow was abroad, travelling with friends, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bracy and Mr. Jasper Bracy from Bray- 
 field. She was not expected? O dear no; all letters 
 were to be sent on to the hotel at Berne. "Here is 
 the foreign address," says the housemaid, going to a 
 table and coming back with a piece of paper. 
 
 A minute ago it had been on Baxter's lips to ask 
 lier to give him back a letter which he had posted 
 himself only the day before, addressed to Miss Mar- 
 low, at Harpington, not to the Falcon Hotel, at Berne, 
 But the sight of her writing, of a little flourish to 
 the F, touched him oddly. When the lively house- 
 maid went on to say that a packet was just a-going, 
 and Baxter saw his own letter lying on the hall
 
 DA CAPO. II 
 
 table, he gave the maid a card and asked her to 
 put it in as well, and thoughtfully turned on his 
 heel and walked away. Then he stopped, walked 
 back a few steps once more along the terrace to a 
 side window that he remembered, and he stood for 
 an instant trying to recall a vision of that starry dim 
 evening when the iron gates were first closed and 
 he had waited, while Felicia flitted in through that 
 shuttered window. He still heard her childish sweet 
 voice; he could remember the pain with which he 
 left her then; and now — what was there between 
 them? Nothing. Baxter thought as he walked away 
 that Felicia had been more really present this time 
 in remembrance than the last time when he had 
 really seen her, touched her hand, and found her at 
 home indeed, but preoccupied, surrounded by adu- 
 lating sympathisers, dressed in crape, excited, unlike 
 herself, and passionately sobbing for James's death. 
 Yes, she had once loved him better than that. It 
 was not Felicia whom he had really seen that last 
 time. He must see her again, her herself. She would 
 get his letter; but what good was a letter? It had a 
 voice perhaps, but no eyes, no ears. The Hotel 
 du Faucon at Berne was not a very long way off. 
 Before he left the ten-ace, Baxter had made up his 
 mind to go there. 
 
 I wrote this little story down many years ago
 
 12 DA CAPO. 
 
 HOW. The people interested me at the time, for 
 they were all well-meaning folks, moving in a some- 
 what morbid atmosphere, but doing the best they 
 could under difficult circumstances. There was the 
 young couple, who had been engaged from child- 
 hood without, as I have said, much knowledge of 
 anything outside the dreary old home in which Fate 
 had enclosed their lives. There was an old couple, 
 whose experience might have taught them better 
 than to try and twine hymeneal garlands out of dead 
 men's shoes, strips of parchment, twigs and dried 
 leaves off their genealogical tree, witli a little gold 
 tinsel for sunshine. The saving clause in it all was 
 that James Marlow truly loved his cousin Felicia; 
 but this the old folks scarcely took into account; 
 and it was for quite different reasons that they de- 
 creed the two should be one. And then came human 
 nature in the shape of a very inoffending and un- 
 conscious soldier, a widower with one child, a soldier 
 of fortune witliout a fortune, as he called himself, 
 whereas James Marlow, the hero of this little tragedy 
 (for it was a tragedy of some sort), was the heir to 
 the estate, and a good man, and tenderly attached 
 to his cousin. But, nevertheless, the little heroine's 
 heart went away from mousy old Harpington, and 
 flashed something for itself which neither grandmo- 
 ther nor grandfather had intended, and which Felicia
 
 DA CAPO. 13 
 
 herself did not quite understand. James Marlovv, 
 perhaps, of them all was the person who most clearly 
 realised the facts which concerned these complicated 
 experiences. 
 
 Felicia found out her own secret in time, in 
 shame and remorse; and James, who had found it 
 out, kept silence, for he too had a secret, and knew 
 that for him a very short time must break the so- 
 lemnest engagements. He did full justice to Feli- 
 cia's impulsive, vivid-hearted nature; to the honesty 
 of the man she preferred to himself. 
 
 The three had parted under peculiar circum- 
 stances. James had been sent abroad by the doctors 
 as his last chance for life, and before he went he 
 had said something to Felicia, and Baxter not one 
 word. The Captain, as he was then, was faithfully 
 attached to James; he went abroad with his friend, and 
 remained with him while he lived and tended him 
 in those journeys, and administered those delusive 
 prescriptions which were to have cUred him. The 
 air was so life-giving, the doctors spoke so confidently, 
 James himself was almost deceived at one time. 
 
 His was a wise heart, and a just one, conse- 
 quently; if he had lived he would have done his 
 part to make those he loved happy, even though 
 their own dream of happiness should not include 
 his own. But he had no chance from the first, ex-
 
 14 DA CAPO. 
 
 cept, indeed, thai of being a good man, and know- 
 ing tlie meaning of a few commoni)lace words, such 
 as duty, love, friendship. From a child he was al- 
 ways ailing and sensitive. When he found that his 
 happiness (it had been christened Felicia some eigh- 
 teen years before) was gone from him, it made him 
 languid, indifferent, his pulse ebbed away, not even 
 African sun could warm him, he would have lived 
 if he could, but he was not sorry to die; and when 
 he found he was dying, he sent a message home to 
 "his sweet happiness," so he spoke of her. 
 
 Baxter had come back to England, with his heart 
 sore for his friend's loss, and neither he nor Felicia, 
 who had been wearying and pining to see him again, 
 could find one word, except words of grief. In 
 those days it had seemed to them both that it would 
 be wronging James's memory to speak of their own 
 preoccupations at such a time; so little do people 
 with the best hearts and intentions trust each other, 
 or those who have loved them most. Baxter had 
 not come to Harpington, but to London, where Fe- 
 licia was staying with her aunt in Queen's Square. 
 The old butler showed him up the old staircase, 
 looked round, and then went to the window and 
 said, "Miss Felicia, you are wanted. Here is Co- 
 lonel Baxter." 
 
 She had come into the room to sj^eak to him,
 
 DA CAPO. 15 
 
 Stepping across the window-sill from the balcony, 
 where she had been sitting. How well he remem- 
 bered it, and the last time they had been there to- 
 gether. That was in the evening, and Jem had been 
 alive. Now it was morning, and Felicia wore her 
 black dress; a burning autumn morning, striking 
 across the withered parks in broad lines of dusky 
 light. They flooded through the awnings, making 
 the very crape and blackness twinkle. But Felicia's 
 face somehow put out the light; it was pale, and 
 set, and wan. There was no appeal in it now. She 
 frightened Baxter for a moment; then, when he saw 
 her hands tremble, a great longing came to him to 
 hold them fast, to be her help and comforter once 
 more and to befriend this forlorn though much-loved 
 woman. He talked on quickly to hide his emotion. 
 He gave her the few details she wanted. 
 
 "Jem told me to come and see you," he con- 
 cluded. "He thought I might perhaps be your 
 friend, Felicia," said Baxter, "and he sent you his 
 love." 
 
 Baxter turned pale, and his voice faltered; he 
 hardly knew how to give the remainder of James's 
 message, which was to tell Felicia that she must let 
 Baxter take care of her now. James sent them both 
 his blessing. Perhaps he might have said the words, 
 but the door opened, and another Miss Marlow
 
 1 6 DA CAPO. 
 
 came bustling in; Aunt Mary Anne, a stout, beam- 
 ing, good-natured, and fussy lady, with many bugles 
 and ornaments and earrings, and a jet-bespangled 
 bonnet rather awry, and two fat black kid hands 
 put out. 
 
 "Here he is! Here is our Captain. How is he? 
 Tliey told me you were here; how glad I am to see 
 you. You two poor dears have been having a sad 
 talk, I daresay. Well, it is a good thing got over. 
 It's no use dwelling on what can't be helped. You 
 don't look well, Baxter; you must come and let us 
 nurse you up." And then, as she grasped Colonel 
 Baxter's hands, "We must make the best of what is 
 left us. Eh, Felicia?" said the fat lady, who hated 
 anything in the shape of grief, and only tolerated 
 its bugles and lighter ornaments. "No, we won't 
 speak of the past — better not — but tell us how long 
 you can stay." And the old aunt, who took things 
 so easy, began to wink and nod at the poor little 
 passionate-hearted girl, to whom all this seemed 
 like some horrible mockery — like ribald talk in a 
 sacred place. Felicia and Baxter both began to 
 shrink before the old lady's incantations. Felicia 
 had wiped her tears, and stood silent and dull. 
 Baxter was cold, vexed, and ajar. He saw Felicia's 
 averted looks; his own face grew dark. He could 
 not remain in London; he s;iid he had not yet been
 
 DA CAPO. 17 
 
 to his own home. His little girl was at Brighton, 
 with his cousin Emily. And while Miss Marlow the 
 elder, disappointed in her well-meant efforts to cheer 
 up the young people, was remonstrating, and scold- 
 ing, and threatening to appeal to Flora Bracy, who- 
 ever she might be, Baxter stood, looking abstractedly 
 at Felicia, and Felicia drew herself away farther and 
 farther. 
 
 "Perhaps you will let me hear from you, when 
 you can see me again," said Baxter, taking leave 
 with some sudden change of manner. 
 
 "Yes, yes; you shall hear from us," cried Miss 
 Marlow the elder, giving him a friendly tap on the 
 shoulder; young Miss Marlow dropped her eyes, 
 with a sigh, and did not speak. And so he had 
 walked away and out into the street, disappointed. 
 It had not been the meeting he had hoped; it had 
 not been the meeting Felicia hoped. They had 
 neither of them made a sign to the other. Baxter 
 thought of Felicia day after day, Felicia thought of 
 Baxter. "You sly thing; I know you will write to 
 him as soon as you get back, though you won't let 
 me write now," her aunt used to say; and Felicia 
 would shake her head. 
 
 " It seems to me that, for dear James's sake, 
 you ought to show him some attention," persists the 
 old lady. 
 
 Da Capo, etc. 8
 
 1 8 DA CAPO. 
 
 Was it indeed for James's sake only, or for her 
 own, that Felicia wished to see Baxter? This was 
 a question she could never answer. She went back 
 to Harpington, and day after day Felicia put off 
 writing; and Baxter was too proud to go unsum- 
 nioned. And then a thousand chances and less 
 generous feelings intervened, and time went on, and 
 on, and on; and James might have never lived for 
 all the good his self-sacrifice had brought about to 
 the two people he held most dear.
 
 DA CAPO. 19 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Felicia's retrospections. 
 
 In the first part of my story I have described 
 how Felicia lived at Harpington with her grand- 
 mother, old Mrs. Marlow, the original match-maker 
 — a strange and somewhat stony-faced old lady, who 
 did not seem always quite in her right mind. Her 
 presence frightened people away. She seemed to 
 have been years before frozen by some sudden 
 catastrophe, and to be utterly indifferent to every- 
 thing that happened now. She had no love for 
 Felicia. It was almost as if she resented the poor 
 child's very existence. Felicia's betters were gone; 
 her grandfather, her father, her mother, her young 
 aunts and uncles, a whole blooming company had 
 passed away. What business had Felicia to live on, 
 to gather in her one little hand all the possessions 
 which for years past had been amassed for others? 
 
 Sonrow for the dead seemed to take the shape 
 of some dull resentment against the living in this 
 bitter woman's mind. All Felicia's grace and loving 
 readiness failed to touch her. Fay did her best 
 
 2*
 
 20 DA CAPO. 
 
 and kept to her duty, as well as she knew how. It 
 was a silent duty, monotonous, ungrateful; it seemed 
 like gathering figs off thorns, or grapes off thistles, 
 to try and brighten up this gloomy woman. Felicia 
 knew there was one person who would gladly, at a 
 sign from her, respond to the faintest call; but, as I 
 have said, some not unnatural scruple withheld her 
 from sending for him. She hoped he would come 
 to her, but she would move no finger, say no word, 
 to bring him. She kept the thought of him as she 
 had done all these years, shyly in the secret re- 
 cesses of her heart. She was so young that the 
 future was still everything — the present mattered 
 little. Young people seem to have some curious 
 trust in their future consciences, as older ones look 
 back with sympathy to their past selves. 
 
 After all, it was not very long before Felicia saw 
 Aurelius again; but not in the way she had hoped 
 
 to see him. She had ridden into L on some 
 
 commission for her grandmother — I think it was a 
 sleeping draught that the old lady fancied. It was 
 a lovely autumn afternoon; old Caspar snuffed the 
 fresh air; young Felicia sprang into her saddle with 
 more life and spirit than she had felt since their 
 trouble had fallen upon them. Old George was 
 there to follow in his battered blue livery. He 
 opened the gates when Felicia had not jumped down
 
 DA CAPO. 21 
 
 before him. The two jogged along the country lanes 
 together, old George's blear eyes faithfully fixed on 
 Caspar's ragged tail. The road was delightful, white 
 drifting wreaths of briony seemed to lie like foam 
 upon the branches, ivies crept green along the 
 ditches, where the very weeds were turning into 
 gold and silver, while the branches of the trees over- 
 head were also aglow in the autumnal lights. It 
 was a sweet triumphant way. The girl's spirit rose 
 as she cantered along between the garlands that 
 spread on either side of it. There is one place 
 where the road from Harpington crosses the road to 
 
 L , just where an old mill stands by a stream 
 
 with its garden and farm buildings. The fence was 
 low, and as Felicia peeped over she could see a 
 garden full of sweet clustering things mingling with 
 vegetables, white feathery bushes, and bowers of 
 purple clematis, and here and there crimson fiery 
 tongues, darting from their stems along the box- 
 lined paths and yellow roses against the walls. The 
 place was well cared for, and seemed full of life 
 and rest too. She could hear a sound of horses, 
 and of voices calling and dogs barking in the mill- 
 yard beyond the garden. The flowers seemed all 
 the sweeter for the busy people at work. Felicia 
 began to build up one of her old fancy-pieces as she ' 
 lingered for a moment by the hedge; perhaps some
 
 22 DA CAPO. 
 
 day they mighl walk there together, and he would look 
 down into her face and say the time has come, the time 
 has come. Then she started, blushed up, tightened 
 old Caspar's rein again, and set off once more rid- 
 ing quickly past the old sign-post that pointed to 
 Harpington with one weather-beaten finger, and to 
 
 L , whither she was going. There was a third 
 
 road leading to the downs — it was only a continua- 
 tion of the Harpington lane. 
 
 The mill was near an hour's ride from L , 
 
 that pretty old country town, with its bustle of new 
 things cheerfully mixing up with the old — its many 
 children at play and its many busy people stirring 
 among the old gables and archways, and its flocks 
 making confusion in the market. 
 
 Felicia left old ('aspar to be cared for at the 
 inn, while she went off upon her shopping, being, 
 girl-like, delighted with the life and bustle of the 
 place. She herself was perhaps not the least plea- 
 sant sight there, as she darted in and out of the 
 old doorways and corners, holding up her long skirt, 
 and looking out beneath the broad brim of her dark 
 beaver hat. It was late before she had done. The 
 town clocks were striking six as they turned their 
 horses' heads towards Harpington. There is a long 
 level stretch of road at the foot of the hill, with 
 poplars growing on cither side, and tranquil horizons
 
 DA CAPO. 23 
 
 between the poplar stems. Felicia trotted on ahead; 
 old George jogged after her, pondering upon his crops 
 and the price of wheat, which he had been discuss- 
 ing in the bar of the Red Lion. 
 
 Evening was falling: the oxen looked purple in 
 the light, as they stood staring across the fences at 
 the road and the horses, and slowly tossing their 
 white horns. The shadows under the trees were 
 turning blue, the evening birds were flying across 
 the sky — a tranquil dappled sky, with clouds passing 
 in fleecy banks, while the west spread its crimson 
 wings. All the people were crossing and recrossing 
 the paths to the villages beyond the fields; in one 
 place Felicia could see the boats gliding along the 
 narrow river. Then they came to the old mill at 
 the cross-roads. The garden was resplendent with 
 clear evening light: the great cabbages seemed dilat- 
 ing and showing every vein; each tendril of the 
 vines, wreathed along the wooden palings, stood out 
 vivid and defined. As Felicia advanced, urging old 
 Caspar along, she saw a figure also on horseback 
 coming along the road from Harpington. It was 
 but for a moment, but in that moment Felicia 
 seemed to recognise the rider: his square shoulders, 
 the slouch of his broad hat. He crossed the high- 
 way, and took the lane leading to the downs: he 
 did not look to the right or to the left. Felicia's
 
 24 DA CAPO. 
 
 heart gave a throb. She suddenly slashed old 
 Caspar into a canter, and reached the corner where 
 she thought she had just seen Baxter pass. She 
 looked up and down. "Did not somebody go by, 
 George?" Felicia said, turning round to the old gar- 
 dener. "I can see no one in the lane. It must a' 
 been a goast," said old George, staring, "or maybe 
 it wer* a man that leapt the fence onto yon field: 
 there'll be a short cut along by that thar way," says 
 George, who had followed his master, the late Squire, 
 along many a short cut and long road. Felicia said 
 no more; she turned Caspar's head towards home, 
 and the old horse stepped out, knowing his way 
 back. To Felicia the way seemed suddenly very 
 long. The road was dusty and bare; the garlands 
 seemed to have lost their fragrant bloom. Her 
 grandmother was up when she got back. Tea was 
 laid in the parlour, and the windows were open on 
 to the terrace. 
 
 "There has been someone to see us," said Mrs. 
 Marlow. "That Baxter was here. He is going 
 away again to India. Have you got me my sleep- 
 ing draught." 
 
 "Did he leave no message for me; nothing?" 
 said Felicia. 
 
 "He left his card," said the old lady. "Take 
 care, don't shake the bottle; what are you about! I
 
 DA CAPO. 25 
 
 want a good night's rest. That man talked about 
 James, he upset me, I had to send him away. He 
 would have kept me awake at night if I had let 
 him talk on any longer." And then Mrs. Marlow 
 hobbled off to her old four-post bed, crumpling up 
 Baxter's card in her fingers. "I must see you once 
 more," he had written upon it; "send me one line." 
 Mrs. Marlow threw the card into her fire-place. 
 Felicia never saw the pencil words. She was left 
 alone — quite alone she said to herself bitterly. He 
 had left her no word, he was gone without a thought 
 of her, and everything seemed forlorn once more. 
 
 Old Mrs. Marlow survived her grandson for a 
 year; half imbecile, never quite relenting to the 
 poor little granddaughter, and then she too passed 
 away, and Felicia inherited the old house and the 
 broad stubble-fields and the farm-yards and hay- 
 cocks, among which she and her cousin James had 
 both grown up together. And now Felicia belonged 
 to that sad company of heiresses, with friends and 
 a banker's account, and consideration and liberty, in 
 place of home and loving interest and life multiplied 
 by others. 
 
 She came; she went; she travelled abroad. She 
 was abroad when Baxter came to Harpington for the 
 second time in vain. He had been in India hard* 
 at work, and little Felicia had been leading her own
 
 26 DA CAPO. 
 
 life for the last three years. Everything seemed to 
 be hers except the things which might have made 
 everything dear to her. She had scarcely been con- 
 scious of any want; she was never alone — never 
 neglected. Events came by every post, twopenny 
 pleasures, sixpenny friendships, small favours asked 
 and cheap thanks returned. All this had not im- 
 proved her, and yet she was the same Felicia after 
 all that Baxter remembered so fondly, as he walked 
 away from the door.
 
 DA CAPO. 27 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 ON THE TERRACE AT BERNE. 
 
 There is a stone basin full of water in an old 
 city in Switzerland, over which a shady stream of 
 foliage waves against the sun. The city arms are 
 emblazoned upon the stone, and the flood of green 
 overflows its margin. In the autumn the leaves glow, 
 gleam, change into flame or ashes, tendrils hang 
 illumined over the brimming fountain, which reflects 
 the saffron and the crimson overhead. The towns- 
 women come and fill their brazen pans and walk 
 away leisurely, swinging their load and splashing the 
 footway. The sloping street leads to a cathedral, 
 of which the bells come at stated hours, suddenly 
 breaking the habitual silence, and echoing from 
 gable to gable. 
 
 A young English lady passing by one autumn 
 day went and stood for an instant by the fountain, 
 leaning over its side. The naiads, in their Sunday 
 boddices and well-starched linen, who were already 
 there filling their brazen cans, watched her with* 
 some interest, and looked curiously at the stranger's
 
 28 DA CAPO. 
 
 bright startled eyes, her soft grey felts and feathers, 
 and her quick all-pervading looks. They themselves 
 were of the placid broad-faced, broad-shouldered 
 race of naiads who people Switzerland, who haunt 
 the fountains; who emerge from chalets and caves 
 with sparkling cups in their hands; who invite you 
 to admire their fresh water-courses through kaleido- 
 scopes of various tints. 
 
 There is a certain sameness, but an undeniable 
 charm about Swiss maidens, especially on Sundays, 
 when they put on their pretty silver ornaments, plait 
 their shining tails of hair, while their fresh and 
 blooming faces certainly do credit to their waters. 
 Felicia had been standing interested and absorbed 
 for some minutes. She was watching the stream 
 flow on; wondering whether life hard won in the 
 Bernese valleys would not be more satisfying on the 
 whole than it seemed to her day by day, flowing, 
 unheeded, in her own lonely and luxurious home. 
 Presently she caught a whispered comment from one 
 nymph to another, "She is not alone; here is the 
 company coming from the Falcon to find her." Then 
 Miss Marlow started, looked up, hastily turned away, 
 and began walking determinedly away along the 
 street. She had come out to avoid her company, 
 that was the truth. For a week she had been 
 travelling with them and glad to be in their society,
 
 DA CAPO. 29 
 
 but that morning a letter had reached her from 
 home which had strung her to some other key, and 
 which made her want to be alone for a little to 
 realise her own mind, to hear her own voice, and to 
 listen to that of an old friend speaking across five 
 years. Was Baxter right when he thought that a 
 letter was nothing? his letter certainly had a voice 
 for Felicia, They had never had one word of ex- 
 planation before or since they parted. There had 
 been no promise given on either side; and yet she 
 had considered herself in some implied way bound 
 to this absent person whom she had not seen twenty 
 times before James Marlow died, and who had not 
 come back to her, except once with a shy, cruel, 
 stiff message. 
 
 Felicia flitted away, as preoccupied as Baxter 
 himself had been with certain events of former years. 
 The houses on either side of the street stood upon 
 their arches, the broad roofs cast their shadows, the 
 quaint turrets turned to daily domestic use protruded 
 from the corners, pigeons flew whirring across her 
 footsteps. The street was called the Street of the 
 Preachers. Felicia spelt it out, written high against 
 a gable, and as she read the words all the cathedral 
 chimes began preaching overhead, sounding, vibrat- 
 ing, swinging through the air; the sunlight broke 
 out more brightly, doors opened and figures passed
 
 30 DA CAPO. 
 
 out on their way to the Cathedral, from whence a 
 little procession came slowly to meet her. It was 
 headed by a sleeping baby lying peacefully frilled 
 and pinned on to a huge lace pillow, with a wreath 
 of silver flowers round its little head. On its placid 
 little breast a paper was laid with a newly bestowed 
 name carefully written out, with many simple-minded 
 flourishes. . . . 
 
 A little farther on a closed house opened, and a 
 tall and solemn-looking personage issued forth, some 
 quaint ghost of a past century, with a short Geneva 
 gown, and a huge starched ruffle round his chin, 
 walking with a deliberate step. The apparition 
 crossed the piazza, passed under the statue (it seemed 
 to be brandishing a bronze sword in its country's 
 defence, against the scattered and mutilated wreaths 
 that lay on the steps at the horse's feet); then the 
 cathedral doors opened wide to receive this quaint 
 ghost of another time and faith. It passed on with 
 one or two people who had been standing round about. 
 The bells gave a last leap of welcome, and then were 
 silent, and the doors closed with a solemn bang. . . . 
 Felicia noted it all, interested in spite of herself, and 
 her own abstractions. Sometimes in our perplexities 
 the lives of other people seem to come to reassure us. 
 Have they not too been anxious, happy, died, lived, 
 walked from house to house, stood outside and in-
 
 DA CAPO. 31 
 
 side cathedral porches, as little Felicia stood now, 
 staring at the saints over the doonvay? It was a 
 whole generation of ornamental sanctities, all in 
 beatitude no doubt, and independent of circum- 
 stances: some were placidly holding their heads in 
 their hands, some contemplating their racks, others 
 kneeling on perilous ledges. Felicia was no saintly 
 character, but she had gone through a certain gentle 
 martyrdom in her life, short as it was. Now she 
 took a letter out of her pocket, and looked at it 
 thoughtfully, and read it once again. It had been 
 sent on to her from her own house, and had been 
 waiting for her at the hotel when she arrived that 
 morning, with a pile of bills, invitations, demisemi- 
 quavers of notes, in the midst of all of which this 
 chord suddenly sounded: — 
 
 "My dear Miss Marlow — I have thought it pos- 
 sible that you have understood the reason which has 
 prevented me from troubling you all this long time, 
 and which made me wish for some sign from you, 
 before I again asked to see you. Before I left Eng- 
 land it seemed to me more and more difficult to see 
 you or to come unasked to Harpington without pro- 
 bable misconstruction. In India one report reached 
 me after another; and some not unnatural feeling 
 prevented a proud man from wishing to appear to
 
 ^2 DA CAPO. 
 
 j)Ul lilnisclf inlo competillon with a crowd of others, 
 wliosc personal advantages seemed undeniable — and 
 I remained sorry and disappointed, and knowing 
 that it was my own fault that 1 had not seen you 
 onee more. I now tliink that for many reasons, my 
 own peace of mind being one of them, this indefinite 
 estrangement between two old friends should not 
 continue. I am at home again for six months, and 
 staying at The Cottage with Lucy and my cousin 
 Emily Flower. I shall come to-morrow to see 
 you, and to hear from your own lips upon what 
 terms you would wish henceforward that we should 
 meet. 
 
 "IJelieve me always 
 "The Cottage, Faithfully yours, 
 
 "llarpington. A. H. Bax'jkr." 
 
 It was a difficult letter to read; was it very 
 dirfi(ult to answer? l"'elicia was both hurt and 
 touched; liuil l)y tlie long mistrust and doubt wiiich 
 was implied by this delay, touched by tiiis long- 
 delayed confidence. If the writer had only come to 
 her as James had no doubt intended him to do, 
 helped her in her hours of loneliness and sorrow, 
 ])roved liimself the stay and comfort for whicli she 
 had loiij^cd, how Iiappy they might have been all 
 lliis lime; if instead of speculating anxiously, com-
 
 DA CAPO. 33 
 
 paring his advantages with those of others who were 
 nothing to her, he had but forgotten himself for her, 
 how different tliese List few years would have seemed 
 to her, how much less sad, less drearily gay, less 
 noisy, less confused. She had had a right to be 
 hurt, to give no sign. — Did he deserve forgiveness 
 now? — If he had really loved her would he have 
 treated her so cruelly? or did he only think that she 
 loved him. Her eyes filled with tears, tender angry 
 drops that she impatiently dashed away. 
 
 Felicia walked on beyond the cathedral gates to 
 the terrace close by; a delightful autumn garden for 
 children and old people, with a wide valley and a 
 line of distant hills beyond the walls. All the leaves 
 were falling from the trees, and the brown chestnuts 
 were dropping with the sudden swift gusts of wind; 
 the country flushed with a bright tumult of sunshine 
 and clouds: the river rolled with a full silver rush; 
 the streets below were piled up against the very foot 
 of the dizzy terrace walls; as seen from the high 
 cliff the Bernese men and women seemed like toys 
 for children to play with, tiny figures that passed 
 and repassed, intent upon their liliput affairs, upon 
 rolling a barrel or turning a wheel, or upon piling 
 a stack of wood; in windows and garrets, upon ter- 
 races and outstanding balconies ^ everywhere people 
 were occupied, passing and repassing. The whole 
 
 Da Cafo, etc. 3
 
 34 DA CAPO. 
 
 business of their microscopic life seemed scarcely so 
 important as the children's game on the cathedral 
 terrace — they were shouting as they ran, and picking 
 up dry leaves and bro-\vn shining chestnuts that fell 
 from the trees. 
 
 Felicia was standing against the terrace wall, 
 still reading her letter, still thinking over the mean- 
 ing of its somewhat abrupt sentences. They were 
 not unlike Baxter's own way of speaking, stiff, ab- 
 rupt, melting now and then for an instant, and then 
 repelling again. The girl covered her eyes with her 
 hand, trying to recall the vivid past more vividly. 
 She was changed, this she knew, since those child- 
 ish days when her whole heart's emotion had over- 
 powered her so easily, and she had appealed in 
 vain against her cruel condemning fate; she wanted 
 something more now than she had wanted then; 
 she had learned to mistrust her o^vn impulses as 
 well as those of the people she lived with. She 
 wanted to trust, as well as to feel; she wanted proof 
 as well as the expression of good-will. Poor little 
 Felicia, it was not for nothing that she had been an 
 heiress all this while, warned, flattered, surrounded, 
 educated by cruel experience. All that was past 
 now in her short life seemed suddenly in existence 
 again, came as a wave in between her and the man 
 she had loved; it seemed to float them asunder as
 
 DA CAPO. 35 
 
 she conjured up his image; and so it happened, by 
 some curious chance, that they met. As she wiped 
 her eyes, her heart seemed to cease beating for an 
 instant. What extraordinary reaHsation was this? — 
 who was this coming across the shadow of the 
 chestnut tree? Felicia, looking up with a start, 
 found herself face to face with a tall man who had 
 slowly followed her all this time; the hand that had 
 written the letter was held out to her, and the letter 
 seemed to take voice and life, and to say, "It is I; 
 don't look frightened." The strangest things cease to be 
 strange after a moment. Miss Marlow was accustomed 
 to face possibilities, and as for Colonel Baxter, had 
 he not followed her all the way from the fountain? 
 
 "It is really you!" she said, looking more lovely 
 than he had ever seen her look before. 
 
 Colonel Baxter smiled admiringly, and held out 
 his hand. Miss Marlow flushed crimson, and looked 
 up into his face an instant before she took it. He 
 was altogether unaltered; he did not look older, he 
 did not look gladder. He was moved, but less so 
 than she was; his dark face seemed pale somehow, 
 and thin; she could not see very clearly, she was 
 too much troubled and excited. 
 
 First meetings are curious things, all the long 
 habit of separation seems still to be there; all the 
 long days that have come to divide, the very anxie- 
 
 3*
 
 36 t)A CAPO. 
 
 ties and preoccupations that have made the time so 
 heavy, now seem to thrust themselves in between 
 those who have yearned for each other's presence, 
 and the absent are come home at last, but as people 
 are not all gone when they first depart, so they are 
 not always quite come when they meet after long 
 separation. 
 
 "I have just been reading your letter. Colonel 
 Baxter," said Felicia quietly, and regaining her com- 
 posure. 
 
 "I heard you were abroad from your house- 
 keeper," said Colonel Baxter, "and I thought that — 
 that I might as well follow my letter," he said, with 
 an odd expression. All this time he had been so 
 afraid of what Felicia might think; and now she was 
 there before him, more charming, more beautiful 
 even than he had remembered her. His scruples 
 were all forgotten; they seemed unkind, almost cruel. 
 Her eyes fell beneath his look, her face changed, a 
 dazzle of sunlight came before his eyes, it may have 
 been the falling leaves, the wind stirring among the 
 branches, it may have been his own long pent emo- 
 tion, but it seemed to him suddenly as if he could 
 read what was passing in her mind, as if some vibra- 
 tion had swept away all outward conventional signs. 
 He was a silent man usually, not given to much ex- 
 pression, but at this moment the feeling that had
 
 DA CAPO. 37 
 
 long been in his heart overmastered everything else. 
 What was her money to him at that instant, or his 
 own disadvantages? He even tried to remember 
 them, but he could not recall one single impediment 
 between them. 
 
 "You do not know what a struggle it has been 
 to me to keep away! Can you forgive me?" he said; 
 going straight to the point — ignoring all he had 
 meant to say — to explain — to withhold. 
 
 "I do not quite forgive you," said Felicia, smil- 
 ing with tears, and once more responding to this 
 new never-forgotten affection, by some instinct against 
 which she could not struggle. As they stood there 
 a swift western gale began to blow, the leaves 
 showered from the trees, the chestnuts dropped 
 over the terrace and beyond the wall, the children 
 scampered through the changing lights. What had 
 not happened in this moment's meeting. "No, I 
 can't quite forgive you," repeated Miss Marlow. 
 "Where have you been all this time? What have 
 you been doing? What were you thinking of?" 
 
 He could scarcely answer for a minute, though 
 he looked so calm. He was more really overcome 
 perhaps than she was; he was blaming himself un- 
 sparingly, wondering at his pride, the infatuation 
 which had kept them apart, wondering at her out- 
 coming pardoning sweetness and welcome. Baxter,
 
 38 DA CAPO. 
 
 who had been embittered by various mischances; 
 Felicia Marlow, whose pretty Httle head had been 
 somewhat turned of late by the dazzling compli- 
 ments and adulations which she had met with, had 
 both forgotten everything in the present, and met 
 each other with their best and truest selves; sur- 
 prised by the chance which seemed at last to have 
 favoured them. Details did not exist for either of 
 them. At that minute Felicia felt that the future 
 was there facing her with the serious and tender 
 looks. Baxter also thought that at last, leaving all 
 others, she had come straight to him, confiding witli 
 perfect trast. With a silent triumph, almost painful 
 in its intensity, he held her hand close in his. 
 
 "Nothing shall ever come between us again," he 
 said. "Nothing — no one." Was Fate displeased by 
 his presumption? As he spoke a cheerful chorus 
 reached them from behind, a barking of dogs, a 
 chatter of voices. Felicia blushing, drew her hand 
 away from Baxter. A scraping of feet, and in one 
 instant the couple seem surrounded — ladies, gentle- 
 men, parasols, a pugdog. "Here you are, we saw 
 you from the place; why did you run away?" cries 
 a voice. Felicia, with gentle confusion, began to 
 name everybody: "Mrs. Bracy, Mr. Jasper, Mr. Bracy, 
 Miss Harrow. Dear Mrs. Bracy, you remember our 
 James's friend. Colonel Baxter."
 
 DA CAPO. 39 
 
 "We have met in Queen's Square," said Mrs. 
 Bracy, with her most graciously concealed vexation. 
 Had she not brought Felicia abroad expressly to 
 avoid Colonels of any sort?
 
 40 DA CATO. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 BEARS IN THEIR DENS. 
 
 Baxter found it almost impossible to adjust him- 
 self suddenly to these unexpected circumstances, to 
 these utter strangers, complacently dispersing his very 
 heart's desire — so it seemed to him. 
 
 The results seemed so veiy small, compared to 
 the intolerable annoyance inflicted upon himself. 
 His was not the best nor the most patient of tem- 
 pers, and he would gladly have dropped Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bracy, Mr. Jasper, and Miss Harrow too over 
 the terrace at a sign from Felicia. But she gave no 
 sign, she seemed, could it be, almost relieved by 
 their coming. In one instant all his brief dream, 
 his shelter of hoi:)e seemed shaken, dispersed: not 
 one of these people but came in between him and 
 her; they did it on purpose. Couldn't they see that 
 they were in the way? I am not sure that Mrs. 
 Bracy did not do it on purpose. She took the 
 Colonel in at a comprehensive glance. Cold, clear, 
 that look seemed to him to be a wall of well-polished 
 plate-glass, let down between him and Felicia, who
 
 DA CAPO. 41 
 
 had in some confusion accepted Mr. Bracy's arm, 
 and was already walking away and leaving Baxter 
 to his fate. "We are going to the Bears," cried 
 Mr. Bracy, over his shoulder. "Flora, are you equal 
 to the walk, my love? Jasper, take care of your 
 aunt. What are you looking at?" 
 
 Jasper started at this address. He had been 
 standing motionless, gazing up at the sky, and he 
 now turned round. He was a young man about five 
 or six and twenty, peculiar in appearance, and curi- 
 ously dressed; his hair was frizzed out something in 
 the same fashion as his aunt's own locks. He wore 
 an orange cravat, a blue linen shirt, rings upon his 
 fore-fingers, buckles to his shoes, a silver pin was 
 fastened to his wide felt hat. He was handsome, 
 with one of those silly expressions which come from 
 too much intelligent detail. 
 
 "I beg pardon," said he. "That amber cloud 
 floating in ultra-marine called me irresistibly;" and 
 he pointed and stood quite still for an instant, as 
 actors do at the play, who have, of course, to em- 
 phasise their movements as well as their words. 
 Felicia had no great sense of humour, and to her 
 Jasper Bracy's performance was most serious and 
 important. Baxter could hardly help laughing, at 
 least he might have laughed if he had been less 
 disturbed.
 
 42 DA CATO. 
 
 IMrs. Bracy was a lady of about fifty, she must 
 have been handsome once. Her dark hair was nearly 
 black, her features still retained a somewhat regal 
 dignity of hook and arch, her brow was shiny 
 and of the same classic proportions as her conver- 
 sation. 
 
 "Do you wish to see the bears? Do you not 
 agree with me, Colonel Baxter, that it is a cruelty 
 to keep such noble animals in durance vile?" said 
 Flora, turning to Aurelius, who looked very black 
 and brown, and likely to growl himself. 
 
 "What do you say to a study from the life, my 
 dear aunt?" said Jasper, joining in. Some friends 
 of mine are going to Poland bear-shooting, next 
 month. I should be glad to join them and to make 
 a few sketches from the dead carcase." 
 
 "Jasper, do not talk of such horrible necessities," 
 said his aunt. "My husband must show you some 
 lines I wTOte upon 'Living Force restrained by the 
 Inert,'" continued she, with a roll of her glossy 
 eyes, "which bear upon the stern necessities of Fate. 
 Colonel Baxter, you do not seem to catch my mean- 
 ing." 
 
 Felicia, who was a few steps ahead, turned at 
 this moment, hearing Mrs. Bracy's remonstrances; 
 and the kind grey eyes beamed some little friendly 
 signal to llic poor disconcerted Colonel, who tried
 
 DA CAPO. 43 
 
 to overmaster his ill-humour, and to attend to the 
 authoress's quotations, and abruptly asked what was 
 meant by "the inert," 
 
 "Bars, bars," said Flora, "those bars of circum- 
 stances that weigh upon us all; upon you, I dare 
 say — upon myself. What is this but a bar, through 
 which no woman can pass?" and she held up her 
 fat finger, with the wedding-ring which Mr. Bracy 
 had doubtless placed there. 
 
 While Mrs. Bracy, now well launched in metaphor, 
 reveled on from sentence to sentence, Baxter's atten- 
 tion wandered; he was watching the slight graceful 
 figure ahead flitting over the stones by Mr. Bracy's 
 dumpy little form, only he listened when Felicia's 
 friend began to speak of Felicia. They had left the 
 terrace by this time, and were walking down a shady 
 side street. "Dear child," Mrs. Bracy was saying, 
 and she pointed to Felicia with her parasol, "those 
 who have her welfare at heart must often wonder 
 what fate has in store for one so strangely gifted. 
 You may think what an anxious charge it is for me, 
 who am aware of all Felicia's exquisite refinement 
 and sensitiveness of disposition. I have known her 
 from childhood, although circumstances at one time 
 divided us" (the circumstances being that until three 
 years before Mrs. Bracy had never taken the slightest
 
 44 PA CAPO. 
 
 notice of little P'elicia). "There are many persons 
 who, from a subtle admixture of feelings, are attracted 
 by our sweet heiress," continued the lady. "I will 
 not call them interested, and yet in my heart I 
 cannot but doubt their motives. You, Colonel Bax- 
 ter, will, I am sure, agree with me in despising the 
 mercenary advances of these — shall I call them? — 
 soldiers of fortune." Aurelius could hardly force 
 himself to listen to the end of Mrs. Bracy's tirade, 
 and gave her one black angry look, then suddenly 
 strode on two or three steps, joined Felicia, and 
 resolutely kept by her side. She looked up, hearing 
 his step, but lliough she smiled she continued silent. 
 She would not, indeed, she could not, talk to Baxter 
 about indifferent subjects. Just at that moment she 
 wanted to breathe, to collect her nerves and her 
 mind. One vivid impression after another seemed 
 to overcome her, Aurelius attracted and frightened 
 her too; he seemed to have seized upon her, and 
 half-willingly, half-reluctantly, she had let herself be 
 carried away. It was a new Aurelius, a new Felicia, 
 since that moment upon the terrace. Mr. Bracy 
 rattled on with his usual good-humoured inconse- 
 sequence. Mrs. Bracy caught them up at every 
 opportunity. Jasper, who prided himself upon his 
 good breeding, showed no sign of the annoyance he 
 may perhaps have felt at the unexpected advent of
 
 DA CAPO. 45 
 
 this formidable arrival, for it was to charm Felicia 
 that these strange attitudes and ornaments were 
 assumed, and that Jasper sang his song. By degrees 
 Felicia's composure returned. She was able to talk 
 and be interested as the others were, to look at the 
 dresses of the peasant people, at the little children 
 in their go-carts, at the streams above the bridge 
 and below it, at the green river rushing between 
 the terraces and the balconies; she was able to 
 throw buns to the bears, and to laugh when they 
 rolled over on their brown woolly backs, with crim- 
 son jaws wide stretched; she was still a child in 
 some things, and when she caught sight of the 
 Colonel's face she almost resented his vexed look. 
 Why didn't he laugh at the bears' antics. Poor 
 fellow; Mrs. Bracy's conversation might well account 
 for any depression on his part. She seemed to 
 scintillate with allusions. 
 
 Fortune hunters? Felicia's rare delicacies of 
 feeling, and her own deep sympathies, which en- 
 abled her and her only to know what would be 
 suited to that young creature's requirements; she 
 seemed to have taken such complete stock of the 
 poor little thing, that Aurelius wondered what would 
 be left for any other human being. He knew it was 
 absurd to be so sensitive. He might have trusted 
 the woman who had loved him for years and years,
 
 46 DA CAPO. 
 
 but at this moment Mrs. Bracy's monotonous voice 
 was ringing in his brain. 
 
 It seemed to him, notwithstanding all his expe- 
 rience and long habit of life and trust in Felicia, 
 that he had been a fool. Was he to subject himself 
 to this suspicion for any woman's sake? Had he 
 placed his hopes upon some one utterly and en- 
 tirely beyond his reach? Was not that the refrain 
 of it all? Did Felicia mean him to bear alone? She 
 did not seem to interfere; she avoided him; and yet, 
 surely, they had understood each other when they 
 had met only a few minutes ago. He could endure 
 it no longer. He came up to Miss Marlow, and 
 said abruptly: "I am going back to the hotel now; 
 will you come with me?" 
 
 " We are all coming," said Felicia, looking eagerly 
 around; "don't leave us." 
 
 "I cannot stand your friend's conversation any 
 longer," said Aurelius, not caring who heard him. 
 "She is the most intolerable woman." 
 
 Felicia seemed to be gazing attentively at the 
 bears, as she bent far over the railing. "You should 
 not speak like that," she said, very much annoyed. 
 "They are all so kind to me. What do you 
 want?" 
 
 "I want to see you," he said, standing beside 
 her. "I want to talk to you; and I wonder you
 
 DA CAPO. 47 
 
 don't see how cruelly you are behaving, keeping me 
 in this horrible suspense." 
 
 "One more sugarplum, my Felicia, to give your 
 four-footed friends," here says a voice just behind 
 them, and a fat hand is thrust between them with 
 a peppermint between the finger and thumb. 
 
 Baxter turned angrily away. "This is unbear- 
 able," he muttered. 
 
 Felicia looked after him reproachfully; he walked 
 straight off; he crossed the place, he never looked 
 back; he left her, feeding the bears with sugar- 
 plums; left her to Mrs. Bracy, pointing out the ad- 
 vantages of national liberty, and the tints of the 
 mountains, to Felicia, to Miss Harrow, to anyone 
 who would listen. Jasper, his aunt knew by expe- 
 rience, was not a good listener; he would compose 
 himself into an attitude of profound attention, but 
 his eye always wandered before long. 
 
 I suppose Felicia wanted a little time to think 
 it all over, and to understand what had happened, 
 and that was why she took no decisive step concern- 
 ing her new lover. A curious feeling — surprise and 
 confidence and quiet expectancy — seemed to have 
 come over her. Baxter's impatient words had 
 startled her. It was something she was unprepared 
 for. Was this love, this sudden unaccustomed rule? 
 — was she in future to be at another person's call?
 
 48 DA CAPO. 
 
 She had not taken the Colonel's character into ac- 
 count; she had never thought about his character, to 
 tell the truth, only that he had come, that the story 
 of her youth had begun again. He had come as she 
 knew he would, and she had all but promised to be 
 his wife. She did not want to go back from her 
 word; but she wanted to wait a little bit, to put off 
 facing this terrible definite fact a little longer, now 
 that it had come so near. She had got into a habit 
 of waiting. He ought to be happy: what more could 
 he want her to say? And she wanted to be happy 
 also, to rest and enjoy her happiness, and not to 
 be carried breathless away by his impatient strength 
 of will.
 
 DA CAPO. 49 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 THE FALCON HOTEL. 
 
 The Falcon, at Berne, is a quiet old-fashioned 
 place, very silent and restful, and reached by flights 
 of white stone steps. There are echoes, panels, gal- 
 leries, round an old court, and a kitchen which is 
 raised high above the ground. You can see the 
 cook's white caps through a gable window, and taste 
 the cook's good cheer in a paneled dining-room, at 
 the end of a long empty table. 
 
 Now and then you hear a piano's distant 
 flourishes, and if you go to the windows you see a 
 sleepy old piazza, and the serious people sauntering 
 by, and your bedroom windows across the street. 
 
 Aurelius, who was moodily passing the deserted 
 dining-room, was seized upon by Mr. Bracy, who 
 had come in to order some refreshments. "Do you 
 dine with us at the table-d'hute?" said the little gen- 
 tleman, "there is no one else. My wife finds that 
 absolute quiet is necessary to her. The afflatus is 
 easily startled — easily startled away. I have known 
 Flora lose some of her finest ideas through the in- 
 
 Da Cttfin, etc. 4
 
 50 DA CAPO. 
 
 opportune entrance of a waiter or the creaking of a 
 door. I myself one night thoughtlessly attempted to 
 whistle that chorus out of Faust — (after all who is 
 there like Gounod in these days?) — but the result 
 was distressing in the extreme. I shall never forget 
 watching the subsequent wandering about the room 
 in a vain attempt to recall the interrupted thoughts." 
 
 "Do you live in this part of the house?" inter- 
 rupted Aurelius. 
 
 "Come and see our rooms, we are opposite: the 
 ladies are gone ui) to the top of the house to watch 
 the sunset," said the friendly little man. "Charm- 
 ing girl, your friend Miss Marlow; so is Georgina 
 Harrow, a person of rare amiability of disposition. 
 Ah! here is the waiter. At quel heur table-dthote 
 to-day?" 
 
 Aurelius left Mr. r)racy absorbed in the various 
 merits of private and public refections, and crossed 
 the street, and went in at the arched door opposite, 
 and walked up the stone flights of the opposite 
 house, now darkening with all the shadows of even- 
 ing. He climbed straight up with steady footsteps 
 to the upper storey; and there through an open door 
 he saw, as he had hoped, some heads crowding to- 
 gether, and looking through an open window at a 
 faint azure sky and all its dying day-lights; Mrs. 
 Bracy was busily pointing out each tint in turn.
 
 DA CAPO. 51 
 
 Jasper was criticising the colours, and comparing 
 them with various bits of bkie and red rag which 
 he produced from his pockets. Miss Harrow was 
 listening in admiration. 
 
 One person had heard Baxter's footsteps, and 
 Fehcia, guessing by some instinct that it was Aure- 
 lius, slipped unnoticed out of her comer and turned 
 quietly to meet him, -with all the evening's soft 
 radiance shining in her eyes. Her sweet truthful 
 look of welcome touched him and reassured him not 
 a little; he forgot his irritation; for the moment he 
 did not speak, neither did she, he could not waste 
 this happy minute in reproach, and indeed he knew 
 as she did that the whole company would surround 
 them at the first spoken word. As they stood side 
 by side, silent, leaning against the wall, the shadows 
 came deeper, the little room was full of peace, and 
 a sort of tranquillising evening benediction seemed 
 to fall upon their hearts; he could hear her quick 
 gentle breath, though her head was turned away. It 
 was no idle fancy, no vague hope taking shape in 
 her imagination. Felicia was there, and she did 
 not repulse him, and met him with a welcome of 
 her own. 
 
 "Why, Colonel Baxter, have you been here all 
 this time?" cries Mrs. Bracy, suddenly wheeling round 
 and facing the two as they stood in the dusky corner. 
 
 4*
 
 52 DA CAPO. 
 
 Felicia came to dinner that day looking prettier 
 than ever, and happier than they had seen her yet, 
 although the young heiress was on the whole a 
 cheerful traveller. At home she might be silent and 
 oppressed; but abroad the change, the different daily 
 colours and words, the new and altered ways and 
 things, all amused her and distracted the somewhat 
 hypochondriacal phantoms which had haunted her 
 lonely house — home it could scarcely be called. 
 Baxter might have been happy too had he so chosen, 
 if he had accepted the good things as they came to 
 him with patience and moderation, and not wished 
 to hurry and to frighten his happiness away. But 
 although that five minutes' unexpressed understand- 
 ing in the garret had soothed his impatient soul, the 
 constant society of Mr. and Mrs. Bracy, the artistic 
 powers of Mr. Jasper, the cultivated observation of 
 Miss Harrow, all seemed to exasperate his not very 
 easy temper. He was very much in earnest, he felt 
 that his whole happiness was at stake. And to be 
 treated to a few sugarplums when he was asking for 
 daily bread, was not a system calculated to soothe a 
 man of Aurelius' temper. Felicia was kind, gay in 
 her most childish mood that evening. Jasper, who 
 seemed to be on the most excellent terms with her, 
 kept up an artistic conversation about the poignant 
 painters of the present age, as opposed to the subtle
 
 DA CAPO. 53 
 
 school of philosophic submission, while Mrs. Bracy 
 on the other side asked the colonel many questions 
 about the Vedas, and the dreamy Orient, and the 
 moral cultivation of the Zenanas. 
 
 The only other people at the table were some 
 Germans, one of whom was recounting to the others 
 a colossal walk he contemplated across his plate of 
 cutlets and brown potatoes. The little Scheidegg, 
 the waterfall of Lauterbrunnen , the dizzy height of 
 Milrren to be reached that same evening. "It is a 
 colossal expedition," says the athlete, with a glance 
 at the company. "Pfui, Pfui!" cry the others, with 
 a sort of admiring whistle. 
 
 Mj"S. Bracy was preparing to take a parting leave 
 of the colonel that evening; but as Felicia said good- 
 night Baxter held her hand and said quite simply 
 before them all, "Is this good-bye, Felicia; may I 
 not come to Interlaken with you?" 
 
 "Why not," said Felicia, demurely, "if you have 
 time to spare; we are going by the early train. They 
 say the lake of Thun is lovely." 
 
 "I am sure Colonel Baxter will prove a delight- 
 ful and most unexpected addition to our party," 
 cried Mrs. Bracy, not without asperity. "Interlaken 
 is a charming place; it is more suited for invalids 
 like myself, who cannot attempt real mountain ex- 
 peditions than for pr^ux chevaliers, but if your friend
 
 54 DA CAPO. 
 
 will be content, dearest Felicia, to potter with my 
 old husband — forgive me, Egbert — we will escort 
 him to the various pavilions round about the hotel." 
 "I have no doubt I shall be well looked after," 
 said Colonel Baxter, with a somewhat ambiguous 
 gratitude, as he bowed good-night, and walked off 
 with a candle. Felicia's consent had made his heart 
 leap with silent gladness; he no longer minded 
 Mrs. Bracy's jibes. His bedroom was in the same 
 house as the Bracys' apartments. It was on the 
 ground floor, and the windows opened on a rustling 
 and beshadowed garden, where lilac trees waved 
 upon the starry sky, and striving poplars started 
 ghostlike and dim; close shrouds of ivy veiled the 
 walls. Felicia's window was lighted up; and as 
 Baxter paced the walks smoking his cigar, and 
 watching the smoke mounting straight into the air, 
 he caught her voice from time to time, and the 
 mellifluous accompaniment of Mrs. Bracy's contralto 
 notes: he could not hear their conversation, but a 
 word or two reached him now and then, as he 
 walked along. Presently something made him wince, 
 alone tliough he was, dark and solitary as the gar- 
 den might be; he ceased to puff at the cigar, for an 
 instant he listened. "My money, my money," Felicia 
 was repeating; "I know that people think I am 
 rich;" and then the steps Felicia also had been
 
 DA CAPO. 55 
 
 listening to, and which somehow she had identified 
 with Baxter, the steps went away and came no 
 more; and the garden was left quite solitary and 
 dark, with its thick shrubs and silent lilac trees, and 
 strange night-dreams. 
 
 "Good-night, dear Mrs. Bracy," says the girl, 
 starting from her seat. "How shall I thank you for 
 all your kindness to me. Don't be anxious; I am 
 sure no one here ever thinks about my fortune, or 
 about anything but being good to me." But alas! 
 Baxter was not there to hear her.
 
 56 DA CAPO. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 EN VOYAGE. 
 
 Pringle, Felicia's maid, did not call her mistress 
 next morning till a very short time before the 
 omnibus was starting for the station; and Felicia, 
 who had lain awake half the night, jumped up 
 half asleep, and proceeded to dress as quickly as 
 she could. They were only just in time. Mr. Bracy 
 was impatiently stamping on the pavement in an 
 agony of punctuality. Jasper had walked on, they 
 said. His luggage was there — three large bags, 
 red, blue, and yellow, with which he habitually 
 travelled. The intelligent Georgina, calm, brown, 
 composed, was sitting in her corner, looking per- 
 fectly unmoved. Mrs. Bracy was also installed, 
 checking over the various umbrellas and parcels. 
 She was evidently ruffled: with poetic natures cross- 
 ness verges on tragedy, and becomes very alarming 
 at times. 
 
 "I'm so sony," said Felicia; and she looked 
 vaguely round, and to her surprise, and disappoint-
 
 DA CAPO. 57 
 
 ment too, discovered no sign of Colonel Baxter. 
 "Where is Colonel Baxter?" she said. 
 
 "My dear, how can I tell you?" said Mrs. Bracy, 
 who was in devout hopes that he had been left be- 
 hind; and Flora stared at Felicia as if in some sur- 
 prise at her question. 
 
 Felicia flushed up; this was not what she had 
 intended. "Mrs. Bracy, we must go back," said 
 the young lady very much agitated. "I promised 
 that he should come with us. What will he think?" 
 
 "What is there to prevent Colonel Baxter from 
 coming with us, if he chooses," said the elder lady 
 with freezing politeness. "Certainly, if you wish it, 
 I will desire the omnibus to return." 
 
 Felicia was just preparing to say that at all 
 events Pringle should remain with a message, when 
 the object of all this discussion stood up at a street 
 corner to let them pass. 
 
 His luggage was also piled on the top of the 
 omnibus, with Jasper's rainbow bags, and he had 
 walked the short distance from the hotel to the 
 railway station. 
 
 Felicia, seeing him, was satisfied at once; her 
 sudden energy of opposition passed away; and when 
 they all met at the station she greeted him smiling 
 and composed, gave him her hand and her hand- 
 bag with its* many silver flagons.
 
 58 DA CAPO. 
 
 Baxter could not find a place in the same car- 
 riage with Felicia; he climbed up upon the roof, 
 where he sat smoking his cigar, and thinking over a 
 short journey they had once taken together, six 
 years before. Then it was Fate that had separated 
 them, honour, every feeling of affection and gra- 
 titude; now, only her will and the interference of a 
 foolish woman kept them apart. From where he 
 sat he looked down upon Jasper, who stood outside 
 the carriage door upon a sort of platform with a 
 rail; the artist was hatless, he wished his hair to 
 stream upon the wind. 
 
 "Take care, Jasper. Come in here," cries Mrs. 
 Bracy, who had just sent off the Colonel, and de- 
 clared she must have space for her two fat feet 
 upon the opposite seat, and that there was no room 
 for anyone else in the carriage. 
 
 But Jasper said he preferred the rhythm of 
 motion as it thrilled him where he stood. 
 
 A pretty little railway runs between the smiling 
 valleys that lead from Berne to Interlaken. 
 
 Felicia looked out of the window well pleased 
 by the pleasant sights and aspect of the road. 
 
 The railway meets a steamer waiting by a cer- 
 tain smiling green landing-place; and all the pas- 
 sengers issue from the train and go on board, and 
 look over the sides of the boat into deep sweet
 
 DA CAPO. 59 
 
 waters lapping the shore, and calmly flowing in 
 long silver ripples across the lake. On either side 
 the green banks are full and overflowing. White 
 pensions stand in gardens; people come down to 
 the steps to see the steamer pass. Everything tells 
 of peace, of a placid, prosperous comfort. 
 
 Baxter found Felicia a place by an American 
 lady who was pointing out the various scenes of 
 interest with an alpenstock, and the help of a 
 Baedeker, to two young ladies her charges. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Cott, is this the page?" enquire her 
 pupils. "What is the exact distance per rail from 
 Berne to the steamer?" 
 
 "Page 47," says Miss Cott, rapidly turning over 
 the leaves. 
 
 The steamer started off; all the people clustering 
 on board flapped their wings, and hummed their 
 song in the sunshine as it streamed above the 
 awning. The Swiss ladies accepted a respectful 
 share of their husbands' conversation; the American 
 ladies, on the contrary, took the lead. There was 
 one stout and helpless personage, covered with 
 rings and many plaits of false hair, to whom Felicia 
 had taken a great dislike, until a little brown- faced 
 girl with earrings ran up and began to kiss the 
 ugly cheeks and to smoothe the woman's tumbled 
 locks.
 
 6o DA CAPO. 
 
 "Look at that child," said Felicia; "how fond 
 she seems to be of the horrid old woman! I am 
 sure I never could tolerate such a mother." 
 
 "And yet you care for her^^ said Baxter, looking 
 with no friendly glances at Mrs. Bracy advancing 
 to join them. "Oh, Felicia! won't you tell her that 
 you are going to belong to me, not to her? You 
 must choose between us, you see," he said with a 
 smile. 
 
 "How can you speak so absurdly?" she said, 
 turning away hurt; "how mistrustful, how unkind 
 you are!" 
 
 She did not make allowances for his diffidence, 
 for his boundless admiration, for his natural wish 
 for certainty now that the die was cast. The 
 Colonel, who had less life before him than Felicia, 
 more experience of its chances and disappointments, 
 more intensity of feeling to urge him on, might 
 well be more impatient. He had kept her waiting; 
 did the malicious little creature mean him to feel 
 her power now and to take her wilful vengeance? 
 Her cousin James had spoilt her so utterly that she 
 imagined that all lovers were like James, and would 
 submit to her quick caprices, her sudden flights. 
 Little she knew Aurelius, who now, with black, bent 
 brows, excited, uncompromising, prepared to show 
 her what he felt.
 
 DA CAPO. 6 1 
 
 Felicia wanted everybody, not Aurelius only, 
 but others, to be happy and satisfied. It seemed 
 to her to be almost wicked to sacrifice old and tried 
 friends to the fancies of this new comer. 
 
 He had played a part in her life, indeed, but it 
 had been a shadowy part hitherto. Suddenly that 
 shadow had become alive: it spoke for itself; it had 
 a bearing which she could no longer sway at her 
 fancy now. She hardly knew what she felt, or 
 what she wanted. Time seemed to her the chief 
 thing that was to explain and harmonise it all, to 
 accustom her to it all. It would be very nice to 
 have him there always, she thought. They might 
 take walks together, and read books together, and 
 little by little he would learn to appreciate her dear, 
 kind Bracys, and they would learn to know him. 
 Suddenly a thought struck her. Could it be Emily 
 Flower who had influenced him against her friends? 
 It was not like him to be so unkind. 
 
 Baxter, meanwhile, who had thought that all 
 was explained and clear between them, could not 
 understand these recurring doubts and hesitations. 
 He had made up his mind to come to an issue of 
 some sort; and as he stood behind Felicia's bench 
 he let his fancy drift, as hers had sometimes done 
 — imagined a little scene between them which was 
 to take place in a very few minutes; he was to
 
 62 DA CAPO. 
 
 speak plainly to her; to the woman who had all 
 but promised to be his wife; he meant to tell her 
 how truly he loved her, how unendurable this 
 present state of suspense had suddenly become. 
 
 His whole heart went out to her in tenderness, 
 and protection. He felt so much and so deeply, 
 surely she would understand him. 
 
 The steamer paddled on its way, the hills floated 
 past, the people came on board, and struggled off 
 to shore. . . .
 
 DA CAPO. 63 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 NO ANSWER. 
 
 Presently, a special peaceful hour of sun and 
 calm content seemed to fall on the travellers: the 
 talk became silenced, the waters deepened, the 
 banks shone more green. Aurelius, looking up, 
 saw that his enemy had allowed herself to be over- 
 come by the stillness, by the tranquil rocking of the 
 boat. She was leaning her head on Miss Harrow's 
 shoulder. Mr. Bracy was at the other end of the 
 boat, claiming acquaintance with a bench full of 
 English people. Jasper was drowsily balancing him- 
 self against the bulwark, with both amis widely 
 extended. A swan came sailing out from shore; 
 and then Aurelius began his sentence, and in plain 
 words, not without feeling and honest diffidence, he 
 spoke in a low voice, of which Felicia heard every 
 syllable. 
 
 "I have been thinking that I perhaps took you 
 by suiprise yesterday," he said. "If it is so you 
 must tell me; you must not be afraid of giving me 
 pain.. Anything is better than want of confidence; 
 but this state of indecision is really more than I
 
 64 DA CAPO. 
 
 can bear. It was not without painful uncertainty as 
 to what your answer might be that I came; and yet 
 you know that my heart is yours, and has been 
 yours only for all these years. Now whatever your 
 answer may be, I will abide by it." 
 
 Felicia was touched; but she was silent, tapping 
 her foot against the wooden deck. 
 
 "If I had come long ago, perhaps I might have 
 had more chance," Aurelius went on, frightened by 
 lier silence. "Perhaps you think me presumptuous. 
 Some one in whom I trust encouraged me to come." 
 
 "Emily Flower, I suppose, told you to come," 
 said Felicia. 
 
 "Yes," stupid Aurelius answered, slowly. "She 
 told me to come." 
 
 Felicia looked away; she did not care to meet 
 his honest eyes. So he had not come of himself, 
 but only because his cousin had sent him; only 
 come because he thought she expected it of him. 
 Her cheek burned with indignant fire. 
 
 The little heiress was an autocrat in her way — 
 in that gentle, vehement, kind-hearted way of hers. 
 She was an unreasonable autocrat as she sat there 
 motionless, with her head turned away; her eyes 
 flashed angrily, but then tears came to put out the 
 fire. Was no one to be trusted? Did not even 
 Aurelius love her enough to come straight home to
 
 DA CAPO. 65 
 
 her. He too, must needs consult, and hesitate, and 
 calculate. James would not have left her all this 
 long time. The steamer paddled on while the two 
 waited in their many voiced silence, but when at 
 last Felicia looked up, the glance that met her own 
 was so sad that she had not the heart to speak the 
 jealous words that had been upon her lips, the 
 crimson died out of her cheeks, her eyes softened. 
 Aurelius took it all so humbly with a sudden hope- 
 lessness that surprised Miss Marlow, who, as I have 
 said, for all her innocent vanities and whimsicalities, 
 did not realise in what estimation Baxter held her. 
 Something touched her. Suddenly her face changed 
 to the old kind face again, she put out her little 
 hand with its soft grey glove. 
 
 "We must have our talk another day," she said; 
 "to-morrow, not now. This is not the time," 
 
 "No, indeed," said Aurelius, not without em- 
 phasis; for as he spoke Mrs. Bracy was awakening 
 with a wild start and an appealing smile to the 
 company such as reviving sleepers are apt to give. 
 In a minute more she had joined Felicia. Baxter 
 walked away to where Jasper, at his end of the 
 boat, had shifted his spread eagle attitude into one 
 of skewerlike rigidity; while little Mr. Bracy came 
 trottinjg up panting and bubbling over with informa- 
 tion: "The Alpes, the Alpes," says he; "I'm told 
 
 Pa CaJ>o, etc. 5
 
 66 DA CAl'O. 
 
 tliat is the place to go to, Flora; good table d'hote, 
 a magnificent view; the divine for you my love, for 
 us the creature comforts. That family you see sit- 
 ting near the wheel are going there; the gentleman 
 strongly recommends the place — a very pleasant, 
 well-informed person: he was on board the steamer 
 we crossed in to Calais. I think you would like 
 him, but of course one can't be sure." 
 
 "Edgar," said his Avife emphatically, "make what 
 acquaintances you like, but pray do not introduce 
 them to me. Our parly is much too large as it is. 
 It was a mistake bringing Georgina," she added, as 
 Felicia looked up at her with a quick glance. 
 
 "You did it out of kindness, my love. The poor 
 girl is thoroughly enjoying herself," cries the little 
 man, anxiously. 
 
 Then all the little bustlings and distractions of 
 the road come to divert everybody's mind from per- 
 sonalities. 
 
 The travellers by water were turned into pas- 
 sengers by steam, and then again into wretched 
 fares, wedged side by side in a light red velvet 
 omnibus, with gilt-looking glasses to reflect their wry 
 faces. Jasper had more than enough to do grappling 
 with his parti-coloured bags. Aurelius shouldered 
 his own small portmanteau and Felicia's dressing- 
 case, leaving Mr. Bracy, with the help of the amiable
 
 DA CAPO. 67 
 
 Miss Harrow, to collect the many possessions of his 
 Flora — her writing book (carried loose with her pen 
 and her inkstand), her cushions and sunshades, her 
 luncheon in its basket, 
 
 Mrs. Bracy's poet nature invariably required a 
 luncheon basket, the one arm-chair, the most com- 
 fortable bed-room, the wing of the chicken, the shady 
 comer in the garden. 
 
 The spirit being imprisoned in mortal coil, Flora 
 was wont to say it required absolute freedom from 
 mere temporary discomfort, in order to have full 
 scope to soar. 
 
 "So I have observed," says Baxter, diyly, mak- 
 ing room for himself among Mrs. Bracy's parasols. 
 
 "Ah!" Mrs. Bracy answers, dimly dissatisfied; 
 "you notice eveiything." I hope my footrest is not 
 in your way. 
 
 "For comfort," says Jasper, joining in from the 
 opposite corner of the omnibus, and with a glance 
 at the other passengers, "give me cats to stroke. I 
 thought of bringing a couple abroad, but my uncle 
 dissuaded me." 
 
 "Cats!" says Baxter, eying Jasper as if he was 
 a maniac. 
 
 But here the omnibus stops at the doors of the hotel ; 
 the porters, waiters, majordomos, rush forward breath- 
 less, to grip the elbows of the descending travellers. 
 
 5*
 
 68 DA CAPO. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 BY A FOUNTAIN. 
 
 It is very hot and sultry in the hotel garden, 
 Tlie fountain and tlie piano from the saloon are 
 playing a duett. The fountain itself must be boiling 
 after the morning's glare, but the sound of the water 
 is not the less delightful to parched ears. An old 
 man sits on a bench by a charming and handsome 
 young woman; a grandchild is playing at his feet. 
 The old man's is a world-known name; he has 
 swayed nations and armies in his life, but he is 
 (juietly stirring his coffee in the shadow of the chest- 
 nut tree. Presently, obsequiosity in thread gloves, 
 with a newspaper in its hand, comes up, bows low, 
 and takes a respectful chair at the old diplomat's 
 invitation. Felicia is sitting in a little arbour close 
 by, leaning back half asleep, and swinging her little 
 feet. She has taken off her felt hat, and pushed 
 back the two plaits that usually make a sort of 
 coronet about her pretty head. The diamond orna- 
 ment at her throat glistens like the radiating lights 
 of the fountain; the folds of her China silk dress
 
 DA CAPO. 69 
 
 shine with tints that come and go. She is in a 
 peaceful, expectant state of mind, drowsy, prepared 
 for happiness to come to her; it is much too suUry 
 weather to go in search of it. "How can Georgina 
 go on practising as she does through the heat of the 
 day?" Meanwhile, Miss Harrow, the musician, leaves 
 off for an instant, looks up at the approach of Colonel 
 Baxter, or answers when he asks her whether she 
 has seen Miss Marlow, "Yes, Colonel Baxter, you 
 will find her by the fountain;" and then she begins 
 again with fresh spirit, and some vague and re- 
 animating sense of an audience. The dry knobbly 
 fingers rattle on, her bony head nods in time, her 
 skinny kid feet beat upon the pedal with careful 
 attention. It would be difficult to say of what use 
 Georgina's monotonous music is to herself, or to art, 
 or to the world in general; but she does her best, 
 while Felicia by the fountain shrugs her pretty 
 shoulders. Miss Marlow is still sleepily watching 
 the old diplomat and his coffee-pot under the tree, 
 and then her soft, heavy eyes travel on to the end 
 of the terrace, where she can see the line of the 
 mountains. Everything to-day is sleepy, and heaped 
 with shadows and tranquil languor. The blue is 
 kindling beyond the line of crests, the lovely azure 
 flows from peak to peak, from pass and glacier to 
 rocky summit; the sky seems to catch fire as Felicia
 
 70 
 
 DA CAPO. 
 
 looks, and a white something leaps to meet it. The 
 bushes about are all in flower; a whole parterre of 
 olive-green and starry constellations is scenting the 
 air. How hot, how still it is ! how straight the paths 
 look, just crossed here and there by some faint 
 shadow! One's life seems passed, Fay thinks, in 
 straggling from shadow into sunshine, and from 
 sunshine into shadow again. Outside the low wall 
 the people go passing — the prim young German 
 ladies with their tight waists, slightly lame from their 
 clumsy high heels; the little fat Englishman, con- 
 scious of his puggaree; the Swiss family, in drab, 
 with hand-bags to match, each shaded by a dome 
 of grey calico. Then Felicia vacantly stares at the 
 shining ball upon its stick, growing in front of the 
 hotel, and which reflects the sun and the human 
 beings coming and going upon the face of the earth, 
 all gradually curved: and while she is still looking 
 — the figures issue from the ball, they turn into 
 well-known faces and forms; one sits down beside 
 her on the bench, another holds out with both hands 
 a china plate, which breaks into a star. Felicia's 
 little head falls gently back upon a branch of myrtle. 
 She is asleep, and peacefully slumbering in the 
 valley of ease, with a sweet childish face, breathing 
 softly; and Aurelius, black and determined, who has 
 come to reproach her, to insist upon an explanation,
 
 DA CAPO. 71 
 
 Stands watching her slumbers for a moment. As he 
 watches his face softens and mehs, and then he 
 walks away very quietly. When Felicia awoke with 
 a start about an hour later, she found a soft knitted 
 shawl thrown over her. Baxter did not appear 
 again till dinner time, and during dinner he said 
 nothing particular, looked nothing remarkable. He 
 sat next Felicia, attended to her wants, and talked 
 very pleasantly in the intervals. 
 
 The Bracys were bent upon enjoying the various 
 pleasures of the place; and Mr. Bracy, having learned 
 from the head waiter next day that a band played 
 in the gardens of the establishment from four to 
 five, urged his ladies to attend the entertainment. 
 They consented somewhat lazily, for, as I have said, 
 the weather was hot, and exertion seemed un- 
 welcome, but once they were there it was pleasant 
 enough — a little breeze came rustling over their 
 heads; the company sat chattering, turning over 
 newspapers, eating ices; the tunes were dinning gaily; 
 cigars were puffing; friends were greeting. Felicia 
 was sitting between Mr. Bracy and Miss Harrow, 
 under the shade of an awning, Mrs. Bracy was tak- 
 ing a turn on Jasper's indigo arm, when Mr. Bracy 
 suddenly started up to greet some of his numerous 
 steam-boat acquaintances, and at the same minute 
 somebody came striding over a low iron fence at
 
 72 DA CAPO. 
 
 the back of Felicia's chair, and sat down beside her, 
 in Mr. Bracy's vacant place. I need not say that 
 this was Baxter, who had chosen his time. 
 
 "We can have our talk now, Felicia. You gave 
 me no chance last night. Miss Harrow, would you 
 kindly leave us for a few minutes?" (Georgina 
 instantly vanished in discreet alarm, notwithstanding 
 Felicia's imploring glances), and then Baxter went 
 on very quietly, but with increasing emphasis: "You 
 viust face the truth, Felicia; you must give me my 
 answer. Ask no one else to advise you — tell me 
 what you wish from yourself! This much I have a 
 right to ask. I have kept out of your way all to-day 
 on purpose; now you must let me speak plainly. 
 All night long I lay awake wondering what you 
 would decide. I know," he added, that as far as 
 the world goes I am about as bad a match as you 
 could make, but I don't think anyone could ever 
 love you better." 
 
 She heard his voice break a little as he spoke, 
 and then he waited for the last time in renewed 
 emotion for the answer that was to decide both 
 their fates. He was really not asking too much. 
 As he said, he had a right to an answer. Was it 
 some evil demon that prompted Felicia? She meant 
 to spare him, as she thought, to gain time for her- 
 self.
 
 DA CAPO. 73 
 
 "Why are you always thinking of my money?" 
 she said. "Mrs. Bracy tells me it can all be tied 
 up if I marry; it need not concern you." 
 
 Her words somehow jarred upon Baxter; indeed, 
 they jarred upon Felicia herself as she spoke them. 
 He was over-wrought, perhaps unreasonable, in his 
 excitement. 
 
 "It is you and Mrs. Bracy, not I, who are always 
 thinking about money," he cried. "If you can 
 suspect me of such unworthy motives, you are not 
 the woman I took you for. Felicia, trust me — make 
 no conditions " 
 
 She laid her hand upon his arm to quiet him, 
 but he went on all the more vehemently. "You let 
 their flatteries poison your true self. I will agree to 
 none of their bargains. If you love me, marry me 
 with your heart and with all that you have. If you 
 do not care for me, send me away, and I will 
 certainly trouble you no longer. Oh, Felicia! you 
 should not use me so." 
 
 He spoke in a voice which frightened her, with 
 a sort of reproachful despotism that startled and 
 terrified Miss Marlow far more than he had any idea 
 of. When she answered, it was to a sudden scrap- 
 ing of fiddles, to which she unconsciously raised her 
 tones. 
 
 "I cannot see what you have to complain of,"
 
 74 DA CAPO. 
 
 she said, trembling. "If you insist upon only marry- 
 ing me with my money, I certainly cannot agree to 
 the bargain. As I told Mrs. Bracy, I do not grudge 
 you the money; if you wanted some I would give 
 you some, but not myself with it. You " 
 
 "Felicia!" He started up, and spoke in a cold 
 rasping voice. "You need not have insulted me. 
 You are ruined by your miserable fortune. ]V1\ 
 truths don't suit you — their lies please you better. 
 Good-bye; be happy your own way with the com 
 panions you prefer." You have given me my 
 answer. 
 
 "Colonel Baxter!" cried Felicia, starting up too, 
 as he turned. "Don't go, you know you promised 
 to come with us to-morrow." 
 
 Aurelius looked her hard in the face, with his 
 dark reproachful angry eyes. "I could only have 
 come in one way," he said; "that is over for ever." 
 
 "For — for ever," Felicia faltered, dropping back 
 into her chair again, for he was gone. The musicians 
 had ended, the whole place seemed suddenly empty 
 and astir, a crowd seemed to surround her, slie 
 thought once that Baxter had returned, but it was 
 only Jasper standing beside her. "I came back to 
 look for you," said he. "Aunt Flora is gone to the 
 hotel. What is this?" and he suddenly stooped and 
 picked up a dirty little bit of yellow rag that was
 
 DA CAPO. 75 
 
 hanging to one of the railings. "See what quaHty! 
 What exquisite modulations of tone!" cries Jasper, 
 holding his prize up in the air. 
 
 "Exquisite," said Felicia, mechanically — she knew 
 not to what, nor did she look at the precious rag. 
 At the first opportunity she escaped from him, and 
 ran upstairs and along the passage that led to her 
 own room. Once there, she locked the door, still in 
 a sort of maze. She sat stupidly upon the red 
 velvet sofa, staring through the window at the great 
 white Jungfrau, which seemed to stare back at her. 
 What had she done? Had she been wise — had she 
 been acting with sense and judgment and sincerity? 
 There are passes in life where it is scarcely possible 
 to realise very clearly the names of the various im- 
 pulses by which we are driven. Every moment 
 brings a fresh impression, a fresh aspect of things. 
 Each impression is true but partial, each aspect is 
 sincere but incomplete. Perhaps at such times the 
 only clue is the dim sense of a whole to be com- 
 pleted, the craving for more time, for distance that 
 defines, and cancels the less important facts, and 
 reveals the truth. Felicia had followed her impulse 
 and let Aurelius go, though in her heart she would 
 fain have called him back to her again. Baxter 
 had set the estimation of others beyond his own 
 conviction. Instead of thinking only of Felicia, he
 
 76 DA CAl^O. 
 
 had thought of his shortcomings; and she, instead 
 of thinking of Baxter, had talked about him to 
 Flora Bracy. It had all been so short that she 
 could scarcely realise it. If her happiness had been 
 vague, her unhappiness was still more intangible. 
 What had these two days brought about? A pos- 
 sibility. Aurelius had reproached her, she had an- 
 swered angrily; but it was all over. "For ever," he 
 had said. She sat there till the loud dinner-bell 
 began to din through the house, and raps at the 
 door reminded her that Pringle was outside, the 
 others were waiting. Could she bear to tell them? 
 Some feeling in her heart shrank from their com- 
 ments. She felt that it would be best to try and 
 behave as if nothing had happened. She bathed 
 her aching head, let Pringle smooth her hair and 
 then hurried down stairs.
 
 DA CAPO. 77 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 TABLE d'hote. 
 
 All the doors were opening and the tenants 
 coming out of their rooms, Avith various appetites 
 and attempts at adornment. Mrs. Bracy was ar- 
 rayed in her most gorgeous hues, with an Indian 
 scarf wound about her ample shoulders; but even 
 Mrs. Bracy's colours faded before some of the 
 amazing rainbows that appeared balanced on their 
 high heels, puffed, frizzed, stuffed out with horse- 
 hair, tied in by strings, and dabbed with red and 
 yellow, as, male and female, they descended the 
 great staircase and took their places at the long 
 table. Felicia's place was, as usual, by Jasper and 
 Mrs. Bracy. Miss Harrow sat opposite with Mr. 
 Bracy. The day before Baxter had been at Felicia's 
 right hand, and all dinner time they had chatted 
 comfortably together. To-day she looked round at 
 his empty place; it was filled by a well-worn foreign 
 edition of Miss Harrow, a little haggard woman, with 
 an anxious glance and appetite, who seemed to eat 
 not because she was hungry, but because she had
 
 78 DA CAPO. 
 
 paid for her dinner, and was determined to have 
 her money's worth. She looked at Miss Marlow 
 once or twice. "They will give you ice if you 
 demand them," she said, in tolerable English, to 
 Felicia; "and you have a right to a wing of the 
 chick. Some people have left since yesterday; you 
 have been moved up by Mr. Franz. You are not 
 such a large party as you were. I am all alone! 
 yes, I am always travelling alone. Where is that 
 gentleman who was travelling with you yesterday?" 
 
 Felicia felt her cheeks blush up suddenly, and 
 then she blushed again with vexation. 
 
 "Interlaken is a dull place for gentlemen who 
 can valk. Ah! here comes the salad," said the little 
 woman, who saw it all, but pretended to be looking 
 at her plate. "Do not pass it over. Mr. Franz 
 makes such good salad. I tell the lady what good 
 salad you make," said she to the head waiter; and 
 then the little ghost-like woman began to devour 
 the green lettuce, in a curious hurried way, as if she 
 feared that her food might be taken away from her. 
 "It is sad to be all alone in places like these," she 
 went on, with a quick look at Felicia. "I make 
 friends, but people go away, and it is all to begin 
 again;" and she flirted out a great green fan, and 
 began to whisk it backwards and forwards. 
 
 The great hall grew hotter and hotter, the voices
 
 DA CAPO. 79 
 
 seemed to rise, the clatter to increase, the waiters 
 were flying about, a moraine of smoking dishes, of 
 plates, and scraps of comestibles seemed hurled by 
 some invisible means across the great counter at the 
 far end of the room. Felicia's spirits sank lower 
 and lower. All alone! Something in the woman's 
 voice seemed to rouse a dismal echo in her own 
 mind; the sight of that thin nervous hand, flickering, 
 darting at the salt, flying at the dishes, in the place 
 of Aurelius's tranquil neighbourhood, seemed to play 
 upon every nerve. Where was he? What was he 
 thinking? Would that poor woman never keep 
 quiet? She had a longing to seize the skinny hand 
 and tie it down. If Felicia disliked her unknown 
 companion's eager movements, the firm grasp of Mrs. 
 Bracy's fat familiar fingers was almost as trying. 
 
 "Do not talk so much to that horrid woman," 
 said the poetess. "She wants to join on to our 
 party. I will not have her impose upon us." 
 
 "Hush — she will hear you," says Felicia; for she 
 saw the little bat-like lady's eyes fixed upon Mrs. 
 Bracy's lips. 
 
 "My dear child, these people have no conscience," 
 said Flora, crossly. "Edgar," bending forward, "what 
 do you say?" 
 
 "We shall have Fine Weather for our Expedition 
 To-morrow!" shouts Mr. Bracy, across the table.
 
 80 DA CAPO. 
 
 "This gentleman," pointing to a very red face and 
 a flannel shirt, "has come just from Milrren, by the 
 Scheideck. He tells me the mountains are looking 
 remarkable fine just now. Who knows what inspira- 
 tions, eh. Flora, my love?" and Mr. Bracy suddenly 
 began something confidentially, in an undertone, to 
 his new-found friend, and Felicia could tell from 
 the expression of the little man's eyebrows that he 
 was speaking of the Poems. Then her though is 
 travelled away from the clatter of the present to the 
 mountains of to-morrow. She impatiently longed to 
 get to them, to breathe their silent pure air, to 
 escape this stifling valley, which had suddenly lost 
 all interest for her, all vitality. Her heart sank, and 
 sank into some depth, where pain began and no 
 happiness could reach. What was Jasper saying? 
 did she feel faint? would she come out? A sort of 
 mist fell between her and her neighbours. 
 
 "Take my fan," says the strange lady. 
 
 Mrs. Bracy looked at her young companion, and 
 thought of proposing to leave the table with her, 
 but the ices were coming round at that moment; 
 they looked so refreshing in their pink pyramids 
 that, on second thoughts, she helped herself largely. 
 "This will do you good, dear Felicia," she said; but 
 Felicia jumped up quickly, and escaped through a 
 door which happened to be behind her chair. They
 
 DA CAPO. 81 
 
 found her sitting quietly on the balcony outside their 
 sitting-room, when they rejoined her. She looked 
 very pale; she was watching the floating snow-range 
 in its evening dream of light and silver and faint 
 azalea tints. Others had come out to see the won- 
 ders of that sunset. 
 
 The tongues of fire fell that night upon the 
 company assembled in the garden of the Hotel des 
 Alpes at Interlaken — Parthians, with many glances 
 and chignons; clergymen and Jews and infidels taking 
 their hard-earned holidays together; the light fell 
 upon them all, and they all spoke in words of won- 
 dering praise. 
 
 The very children seemed impressed. The fire 
 leapt from snow to snow, dazzling in tender might. 
 The mountain seemed to put out great wings, to 
 tremble with a mysterious life; the snow-fields hung 
 mid-air, the radiance of their summits seemed to 
 spread into space. People came out from the long 
 tables where they had been dining, streaming out 
 into the garden where the miracle was to be seen. 
 Voices changed, people changed; for a few moments 
 one impulse seemed to touch all these human beings, 
 calling them to something most mysterious and 
 beyond them, utterly beyond expression or remem- 
 brance. Such a mood coming from without, im- 
 
 Da Capo, etc. O
 
 82 DA CArO. 
 
 posed by inanimate things upon the living, seems to 
 be Hke some ancient history of revelation realised 
 once again. The faces shone as they turned to- 
 wards the mountains all burning in their light. 
 
 Upon a balcony of the hotel our Poetess had 
 appeared shrouded in a long gauze veil. She stood, 
 tablets in hand, and pausing for inspiration. Mrs. 
 Bracy hated people to talk when she was taking 
 notes. She desired some one, who exclaimed in the 
 room within, to be silent now, and presently her 
 own voice was the only one to be heard upraised 
 in shrill approbation of the solemn beauty of the 
 evening. 
 
 One or two people had left the garden and the 
 crowd, and crossed the road and sat quietly upon 
 the low parapet opposite, watching. The Swiss 
 women, who seem hired at so much a day to walk 
 slowly up and down the avenue, in starched sleeves, 
 with go-carts, ceased to drag for a moment and 
 stopped to look. So did the sentimental German 
 ladies with their hand-bags, and the eager English 
 tourists, and the Swiss students in spectacles, with 
 their arms full of books, and the Russian and 
 American travellers in their well-fitting clothes. 
 
 The glory passed on by degrees; an awful shadow 
 rose from the valley and mounted upward, rapid, 
 remorseless. The beautiful flames of a moment sank
 
 DA CAPO. 85 
 
 away; the pinnacles still dominated with their fiery 
 points — an instant more and all was over in that 
 wonder- world, and the oil-lamps resumed the reign 
 upon earth. 
 
 The old diplomat on his terrace went back to 
 his evening paper; two young girls at a window 
 clasped each other's hands in youthful enthusiasm 
 and regret; the lady in the balcony continued her 
 remarks. 
 
 "Did you not observe the marvellous effect of 
 that last, last tint, succumbing as it were to the 
 great " 
 
 "It is a passion of atmospheric word painting," 
 interrupted Jasper, who had been hastily making a 
 sketch with some yellow ochre and carmine. 
 
 There was a sudden burst of voices from the 
 garden below. "Sugar, absolutely like sugar!" cried 
 a young Russian lady to her partner of the night 
 before. 
 
 "Sugar!" exclaims Mrs. Bracy in a sepulchral 
 voice; "do they liken that noble mass to sugar — that 
 livid, living, loving " 
 
 "My dear Flora, do see after Miss Marlow!" said 
 little Mr. Bracy, anxiously. 
 
 "It is nothing, nothing," Felicia whispers, trying 
 in vain to hush her sobs. Suddenly the poor little 
 thing had burst into tears, and all the gold stoppers 
 
 6*
 
 84 DA CAPO. 
 
 out of her travelling-bag were produced in vain to 
 soothe her troubles. Some remembrance of the 
 night before had come over her, some sudden realisa- 
 tion of her lonely state, and yet Baxter was only ten 
 miles off", toiling up the mountain road to Grindel- 
 wald, as it lies on the mountain side, at the foot of 
 the Eiger, and of the great Wetterhorn, with its 
 crown of floating mist. 
 
 It had been so sudden, she could scarcely be- 
 lieve in it. Baxter was gone — no one but herself 
 seemed to miss him. Why was he not there to see 
 the beautiful sunset? If her brief happiness had 
 been vague, her present unhappiness seemed still 
 more intangible. Aurelius had been unkind, un- 
 reasonable; she had answered unkindly — that was 
 all, and everything was changed somehow, and why 
 was she so miserable? 
 
 Mrs. Bracy may have had her suspicions, but ^ 
 she bided her time, and kept her words to herself. 
 Felicia was petted, sent to bed, to all sorts of vague 
 agitated dreams of parting and desolate places, to 
 dreary startings and remorseful awakenings, as the 
 night sped on with stars without, to the murmurs, 
 and muffled cries from the valley. 
 
 And then, after the long night came morning, 
 as it comes, with a sort of surprise; day breaking 
 once more after the darkness of many hours; the
 
 DA CAPO. 85 
 
 sweet irresistible light reaching everywhere — into 
 every corner — spreading across the valleys as they 
 lie dimly in their dreams. It starts along the 
 mountain side, the shadows melt, disperse. Crisp 
 ridges come into streaming relief; then the snow 
 fields are gained, and lo! mysterious, simultaneous, 
 behold the lights break forth on every side, and the 
 dazzling white Jungfrau floats dominant once more.
 
 86 DA CAPO. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 
 
 They set off for Grindelwald next day in two 
 quick trotting carriages. The horses were hung with 
 cheerful httle bells, and seemed well able to face 
 the steep pass. "How delicious!" cried Felicia, as 
 the wheels of her einspanner rolled across the re- 
 sounding boards of a wooden bridge. The young 
 lady leant forward eagerly, and the cool breeze from 
 the torrent came blowing into her blushing face. 
 She looked down with bright-eyed wonder at the 
 foaming water rushing underneath. 
 
 "Look! mem," said Pringle; "what a picture!" 
 And so it was, for the snow-capped mountain-heads 
 uprose at the turn of the winding road; the grey 
 river was eddying on its way, and the charcoal- 
 burners had lit a fire that flamed down among the 
 boulders by the running stream. 
 
 It was almost evening when they reached their 
 journey's end; coming up through the village street, 
 with its busy little shops lighting up, and the friendly 
 clusters of peasant folk gossiping after their day's
 
 DA CAPO. 87 
 
 work. The great mountains actually overhung the 
 little village; huge rocks reared their mighty sides, 
 all lined and seamed with the intricate net-work of 
 delicate shadow; the pale white crests clustered be- 
 yond the rocks, Felicia was almost overpowered 
 by the pomp and stately splendour of this mighty 
 Court, to which she was not yet accustomed. She 
 could hardly tear herself away from the terrace in 
 front of the windows. 
 
 "Dinner, ladies, dinner!" cried Mr. Bracy, calling 
 from the dining-room of the hotel. As they came 
 in, he made them take their places, talking as usual, 
 while he saw to everybody's requirements. He had 
 just seen their friend Colonel Baxter's name in the 
 book. "He slept here last night, and has gone on 
 to the upper glacier," says Mr. Bracy, sharpening his 
 knife. 
 
 Jasper had also seen the Colonel's departure, not 
 without satisfaction. He had been cross-questioning 
 Georgina in the einspanner coming up. 
 
 "There was something," Georgina owned con- 
 fidentially. "They had a long, long conversation. I 
 think she is angry." 
 
 "She wants a protector," said Jasper thoughtfully, 
 twirling the silver ring upon his first finger. 
 
 I think the same evil imp which so maliciously 
 prompted Felicia now involved the unfortunate
 
 88 DA CAPO. 
 
 painter in his toils, and began to whisper to him 
 that AureHus being gone, Jasper's own hour had 
 come. It was for him to make Felicia forget the 
 faithless Colonel. No one knew for certain what 
 had happened; only that Felicia was changed and 
 preoccupied was evident to them all. Jasp>er ate his 
 dinner as usual, but ostentatiously drank a great 
 deal of wine. He began to turn sentimental; from 
 sentimental art to artistic sentiment the step is but 
 short. 
 
 The next day was Sunday. The bell of the 
 village church had been going for an hour before 
 Felicia arose; as she dressed she had peeped out of 
 her window at the figures passing up the street, 
 quiet and collected, in their smart Sunday coiffes 
 and beavers. As for the English, they also put on 
 their best bonnets, and assembled in the dining-room 
 of the hotel where in those days the English service 
 Avas held once a week. The tables were rolled out 
 of the way, the plates were put inside the wooden 
 dresser, the chairs were set out in three rows, the 
 blinds drawn half-way down, and a few straggling 
 travellers came into the room where the usual traffic 
 was for a time suspended. 
 
 But it was impossible not to feel the incongruity 
 of the form in which much had been expressed that 
 seemed almost incompatible with the associations of
 
 DA CAPO. 89 
 
 the place and its appurtenances. As the congrega- 
 tion left the room, the waiters began clattering their 
 knives and forks and spreading the dinner tables 
 once more; and Felicia walked away, glad to escape 
 up the village street towards the little churchyard, 
 across which came the strain of a hymn sung by 
 many voices. 
 
 Felicia went to the door and looked into the 
 quiet old building, where she saw a great number 
 of the villagers assembled, each in their places. The 
 brown-coated men were on one side, and the women 
 were sitting in rows along the other aisle; the old 
 ones in their coiffes, the young ones with their pretty 
 brown braids tied with velvet, displaying clean white 
 sleeves and black bodices. The preacher was as- 
 cending his pulpit. It was all very quiet and de- 
 corous. The very bareness of the old church seemed 
 to be moje impressive than any tawdry ornament. 
 She listened, but she could scarcely follow the 
 German of the preacher, and so she walked on a 
 little way, turning one thing and another over in 
 her mind. She came presently to a narrow bridge 
 across a stream, and she stood looking thoughtfully 
 down at the rushing water. Where Avas she travel- 
 ling to? Among what past and present things was 
 she living? She started hearing a step. No; it was 
 only Jasper in his indigo suit.
 
 go DA Capo. 
 
 It was Jasper, who came up to her, and suddenly, 
 to Felicia's dismay, began a long and desultory 
 speech in which figured gem-like flames of twin 
 lives, rosy raptures of love-greeting, and double stars 
 encircling their own progression. Miss Marlow might 
 not have understood a word he said, or that he 
 intended this as a serious proposal, had not the un- 
 lucky youth seized her by the hand and suddenly 
 attempted to thrust the large silver ring which he 
 usually wore on to her finger. Felicia fairly lost 
 her temper, and snatched her hand away. The ring 
 flashed into the stream. What! she had parted from 
 the only man she had ever cared for in order to be 
 insulted by this absurd and ridiculous mockery! It 
 seemed like a judgment upon her, a mockery of 
 fate. "The companions you have chosen!" she 
 seemed to hear Aurelius' voice saying. What would 
 he say if he were there now? She seemed to see 
 the reproachful look of his eyes there before her. 
 
 "How dare you ask me to marry you?" she 
 cried to poor astonished Jasper, "when you know 
 you do not care for me one bit? Do you know I 
 might have married someone who has loved me for 
 years if I had not been ill advised, if I had not 
 been a fool and thrown away my best chance? And 
 do you suppose I should think of marrying you," 
 cried Felicia, "who do not care for me, and for
 
 DA CAPO. 9 1 
 
 whom I do not care?" and she turned and began 
 hurrying back through a shower of rain towards the 
 hotel. Jasper must have been possessed; he fol- 
 lowed her step by step, protesting in the language 
 of a troubadour rather than that of a reasonable 
 being. They had reached the churchyard by this 
 time. "Do leave me," cried Felicia, stopping short. 
 "Don't you see I want you to go?" and as she spoke 
 she stamped her foot in a fit of most unladylike 
 passion, then as suddenly burst into tears. The 
 good old preacher's voice had been droning on 
 peaceably all this while inside the church, and 
 Felicia's explanations might have been continued 
 even more fully if the sermon had not suddenly 
 come to an end, and the congregation issued forth, 
 opening its umbrellas, walking off with short sturdy 
 legs, tucking up its ample petticoats and trousers. 
 The men, in their brown coats and clumsy boots, 
 looked like good-natured bears trotting down the 
 wet road; the women, with their kind faces, and 
 quaint lace snoods, were like figures out of some 
 long-forgotten dream. They passed on, quietly 
 streaming down the street; some took to the fields, 
 but more of them were going straight from the 
 service to their Sunday gathering at the tavern by 
 the bridge. Disconcerted Jasper marched oft" with 
 the crowd, leaving Felicia to get home as best she
 
 g2 DA CAPO. 
 
 could. She found him, however, waiting for her at 
 the entrance of the hotel. 
 
 "I'm afraid I carried off the umbrella," he said, 
 with an uneasy laugh. "I've waited to tell you that 
 — er," here he looked very red and foolish, "you 
 quite misunderstood me. Miss Marlow. You didn't 
 do me justice, indeed you didn't. This shall make 
 no difference on my part, and I hope you will keep 
 a fellow's confidence sacred." 
 
 "I have certainly no wish to repeat what has 
 happened," said Felicia, still unrelenting. 
 
 "I shall start early to-morrow," said Jasper, 
 irritated. "After a day alone in the mountains I 
 shall know how to master my feelings. Perhaps if 
 I meet Colonel Baxter," he added, "you would like 
 me to send him down." 
 
 This was said with a mixture of feminine spite 
 and masculine jealousy. He felt he had revenged 
 himself on Miss Marlow. Felicia did not answer; 
 she looked Jasper full in the face, and swept past 
 him haughtily to her own room. Poor Felicia! she 
 began to find her circumstances somewhat trying. 
 Mrs. Bracy was especially snappish that evening; 
 Georgina looked tearful and reproachful. Miss Marlow 
 wondered whether Jasper had kept his own sacred 
 confidence. It was quite a relief when kind little
 
 DA CAPO. 93 
 
 Mr. Bracy bustled in with a guide and a programme 
 for the following day. 
 
 "What do you say to seeing something of the 
 environs? We might all start off to meet our artist 
 to-morrow on his return? We can lunch at the 
 chalet at the entrance to the upper glacier — ex- 
 cellent cookery, I am told; fine view of the moun- 
 tains. Suit you? eh, Flora, my love?" 
 
 Flora answered severely that she certainly should 
 not go, she needed repose. Then she added, with 
 intention: "Probably Felicia would also wish to re- 
 main behind?" 
 
 Nothing was farther from Felicia's wish. She 
 merely said she would like to see the upper 
 glacier. Three mules were accordingly ordered, 
 with three guides to match. The mules were in the 
 stables, the guides were spinning like teetotums with 
 their mountain maidens in the ball-room.
 
 94 DA CAPO. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 CLIMBING UP. 
 
 They were all somewhat late in their start next 
 morning. At last they got off, the ladies in their 
 improvised skirts, Mr. Bracy trotting faithfully by 
 their side in knickerbockers, and with an ice-axe 
 which he had borrowed, but which he found some 
 difficulty in managing. After passing the church 
 and the village , and crossing the stream of provok- 
 ing associations, the way led up a narrow ledge cut 
 along the side of the rock. The path rose abruptly, 
 and the great plain seemed to sink away at their 
 feet. The mules stumbled on steadily; and, after 
 some half-hour's arid climb, the path, with a sudden 
 turn, led into a burst of gentle green and shade and 
 sweetness. Mosses overflowed the huge granite 
 stones; streams rippled; the flowers which were over 
 down below still starred white among the rocks; 
 ferns started from the cracks in the huge fallen 
 masses; the path wound and straggled on across 
 meadows into woods of fragrant pine, flowing green 
 and flowering light, until at last the travellers reached
 
 DA CAPO. 95 
 
 a wide green alp, covered with herds of browsing 
 cattle, open to the clouds, and clothed with exquisite 
 verdure and silence. 
 
 There is a little erection built at the summit of 
 the great alp for travellers to rest, and to eat wild 
 strawberries if they will, provided by the villagers, 
 while they admire the noble prospect. Felicia dis- 
 mounted here, and went on a little way a-head into 
 a wood of mountain ash and birch and chestnut. It 
 seemed enchanted to her; so were the tree stems, 
 and so was the emerald turf, still sparkling with the 
 heavy morning dew. Every leaf seemed quivering 
 with life. This sweet abundance lay on every side, 
 tender little stems, bearing their burden of seed or 
 flower; leaves veined and gilt and bronzed. The 
 eyebright, with its gentle velvet marks, sparkled 
 among the roots of the trees; mone3avort flung its 
 golden flowers; grass of parnassus lit its silver stars. 
 Everything was delicate and tender in fragrant 
 beauty. A little higher up Felicia could see the 
 crimson berries, growing among grey stones and 
 hairy mosses and pine roots. The leaves were like 
 gold, the fruit glowing like rubies. A little peasant 
 girl was climbing down the bank with a bunch of 
 late wood strawberries. The child's little fingers 
 seemed the only ones that should pluck such fairy 
 work, Felicia took the bunch of crimson fruit, and
 
 g6 DA CAPO. 
 
 gave the little girl not money but a little chain of 
 beads she happened to wear on her wrist. The 
 child clapped her hands and ran away as hard as 
 her little legs could carry her. Then came the 
 mules and the guides, climbing up the road from 
 the chalet, and the cavalcade set forth once more. 
 
 High up at the end of a long winding mountain 
 pass stands a little chalet, where cutlets a^e grilling, 
 guides sit sipping their wine and cracking their 
 jokes in the kitchen. The parlour, with its wooden 
 walls, wooden tables and benches, is filled by cara- 
 vans of travellers; some are on their way to the 
 glacier, others are returning home; everybody is 
 more or less excited, exhausted, hungry, discursive. 
 The wooden hut echoes with voices, with the clatter 
 of steel upon earthenware. Sometimes, as the kitchen 
 door swings upon its hinges, the guides begin a sort 
 of jodelling chorus; sometimes an impatient horse 
 strikes up a snorting and pawing on the platform 
 outside. From the terrace itself you may look across 
 a great icy abyss to the mountains rising silent and 
 supreme; but the chalet is a little commonplace 
 noisy human oasis, hanging among the great natural 
 solemnities all about, mighty rocks striking their 
 shadows age after age, deserted seas that seem to 
 have been frozen as they tossed their unquiet waves 
 in vast curves against the summer sky; a wide valley
 
 DA CAPO. 97 
 
 blinked at by our wondering eyes, as we try to 
 name tliis or that glittering point. Someone fires 
 off an old blunderbuss, and the echo bangs down 
 among the rocky clefts, striking and reverberating; 
 and then perhaj^s the host comes out courteously to 
 announce that our portion of bread and cheese is 
 served, and hungry travellers forget echoes, fatigue, 
 and wonder in the absorbing process of luncheon. 
 The German party were enjoying potato soup, and 
 shouting over their dish as the ladies entered. 
 
 "Here is our table," says Mr. Bracy. "Kalb- 
 flesh, hey! I hope you ladies are not tired of veal 
 cutlets." Then, lowering his voice, "Our friend 
 from Berne. I knew him at once — very much 
 altered, poor man — sadly burnt by the sun. Has 
 been through a great deal of ftitigue since we last 
 saw him." 
 
 Felicia looked, and could scarcely recognise 
 their fellow-traveller, so scorched and seamed, so 
 ripped and hacked was he. His lips were swelled, 
 his eyes were crimson, his wild tumbled hair hung 
 limp about his face, his neat tight-fitting clothes 
 were torn and soiled, and burst out at knees and 
 elbows; his enamelled shirt-collar alone remained 
 intact, except that a glittering crack in one place 
 showed the steel; a more forlorn object it would be 
 difficult to imagine. He himself, however, seemed 
 
 Da Capo, etc. 7
 
 g8 DA CAPO. 
 
 well satisfied with his appearance, and with adven- 
 tures, even more colossal than he had hoped for. 
 He had lost his way up among the rocks the even- 
 ing before, having scrambled up to see the sunset. 
 Then came the darkness. He had been able to 
 descend only by the most desperate heroism. 
 
 "He was a madman to put himself into such a 
 situation," said the host, confidentially, to Miss Mar- 
 low, as he dusted her plate and wiped a glass which 
 he set before her. "I discovered him by chance; 
 half an hour later, it would have been too late — we 
 could have done nothing. I sent our man off to 
 help him across the glacier. The Herr saw him 
 coming, and called out, 'Have you food?' Peter, 
 our man, said, 'Yes; I have veal you can eat, and 
 gain strength to return.' He came back quite ex- 
 hausted, and has been drinking all day to refresh 
 himself Travellers should not go into such places 
 without guides; they get themselves into trouble, 
 and we are blamed. Only this morning two gen- 
 tlemen set out alone; one had spent the night here, 
 an English colonel. The other arrived from Grindel- 
 wald. I said to him, 'Take Peter to show you the way 
 to the upper glacier.' Not he. But it is not safe." 
 
 "Which way did they go?" said Felicia, putting 
 down her knife and fork, and looking up into the 
 host's weather-beaten face.
 
 DA CAPO. 99 
 
 "How can I tell?" said he, "or where they may- 
 be now!" 
 
 "It couldn't be Jasper/' said Mr. Bracy, rather 
 anxiously; "he wouldn't have done anything rash. 
 Just ask the man what sort of traveller it was, my 
 dear." 
 
 "One was black and somewhat silent," said the 
 host; "military bear-like." 
 
 "That couldn't have been Jasper," said Mr. 
 Bracy, relieved. 
 
 "And the other?" said Miss Harrow. 
 
 "The second," said the man doubtfully, "he was 
 strangely dressed; he wore a feather, and seemed 
 somewhat out of the common, an actor, perhaps, 
 large ears, like Peter's yonder." 
 
 Felicia hoped that Mr. Bracy did not under- 
 stand, and hastily asked whether they had not 
 written their names in the travellers' book; and sure 
 enough, there upon the long page were the two 
 signatures, Jasper's curling J's and Baxter's close 
 writing. "Jasper is sure to be back," said Mr. 
 Bracy, slightly disquieted still; "he is very careful 
 about keeping people waiting, his aunt has taught 
 him punctuality. He has gone sketching somewhere, 
 or forgotten the time. Of course I don't know any- 
 thing about the Colonel. Very odd of him, wasn't 
 it, 1:0 leave us as he did without a word?" 
 
 7*
 
 lOO DA CAPO. 
 
 "Very odd," said Felicia, faltering a little. They 
 sat over luncheon as long as they could, and then 
 ordered up coffee to pass the time; and then Felicia 
 left the other two, and went in front and stood gaz- 
 ing at the great hopeless wall of mountains. 
 
 "You don't mind waiting a little for him?" said 
 little Mr. Bracy, fussing up presently. "It is getting 
 rather late, but I'm afraid my wife might be anxious 
 if we went back without the boy. There's a nice 
 bench this way and an excellent telescope, one of 
 Casella's, if you wish to look through; excellent 
 maker, you know." Felicia eagerly accepted Mr. 
 Bracy's suggestion. Was it some faint hope that 
 Baxter might return? Was it anxiety for Jasper that 
 made her so reluctant to leave the place? Not long 
 after Mr. Bracy disappeared, again to reappear in 
 excellent spirits. A party had just arrived — two 
 American gentlemen and their guide. They brought 
 news of Jasper. They had passed an artist sketch- 
 ing the crevasses under an umbrella, not very far 
 off, at the entrance of the glacier. 
 
 "It must have been Jasper," says Mr. Bracy; 
 "poor dear fellow, how hard he works. I must say 
 I wish he would come down. I have a great mind 
 to go a little way to look for him, if you two girls 
 don't mind being left." Felicia assured Mr. Bracy
 
 DA CAPO. lOI 
 
 that she had no objection whatever to being left, 
 and in truth drew a great breath of reHef when she 
 found herself at last alone. But it was only for a 
 minute; then the host came up and asked her to 
 look through his glass, and Felicia, not liking to 
 refuse, did as he directed and peeped through the 
 long brass tube. At first everything looked blurred 
 and indistinct, but a good deal of shifting and turn- 
 ing dispelled the clouds by degrees, then clearer 
 and well-defined images grew out of the confused 
 floating visions that had bewildered her at first. 
 Then little by little she became absorbed in this 
 new wonder-world into which she had come as by a 
 miracle; she forgot the stage on which she stood; 
 she heeded not the confusion of sounds round about 
 her as she gazed, every moment more and more ab- 
 sorbed, into the spirit of that awful silence and 
 snowy vastness which seemed to spread before her. 
 She seemed carried away on unknown wings into 
 vast regions undreamt of hitherto, past snowy cavities, 
 by interminable gorges haunted by terrible shrouded 
 figures trailing their stiff grave clothes, and bending 
 in an awful procession. Then came great fields of 
 glittering virgin snow blazing in the sun, then per- 
 haps a narrow track stitched by human footsteps, 
 curiously discernible. Felicia could follow the line 
 for a while, then she lost it, and again it would
 
 I02 I'A CAPO. 
 
 reappear ever ascending, to the foot of a great 
 gulley where all traces seemed lost. . . . 
 
 "How absorbed you are!" said Georgina's voice 
 at her ear. "Can you make anything out? May I 
 have a look?" Felicia did not answer. She was 
 trembling convulsively; then she suddenly seized the 
 other woman's wTist in a tight clutch. "I see some- 
 thing. Oh Georgina, for heaven's sake look, and 
 tell mc what you see." But Georgina looking shifted 
 the great glass and could not adjust it again. Felicia, 
 wildly wringing her hands, began to call for a guide, 
 for anyone who knew. "I saw a man hanging to a 
 rock, a tremendous rock," she said. The guides 
 and the host all came up in some excitement, and 
 eye after eye was applied. "You see the track, 
 follow the track lower down, lower down," cried 
 Miss Marlow. "Do you see nothing?" and then 
 when none could find the place, she pushed the last 
 comer away and with trembling hands followed 
 again the tiny thread she had discovered, recalling 
 each jutting peak and form, and there was the great 
 rock shining in the sun, but the man was there no 
 longer. "1 saw him, I tell you," she cried, "he is 
 killed, he has fallen. Oh Georgina, it may have 
 been Colonel Baxter!" and she stamped in an agony 
 of terror. Georgina with pale lips faltered some- 
 thing, 'i'he guides tried to reassure the ladies. It
 
 DA CAPO. 103 
 
 may have been fancy, people often were mistaken. 
 "^^I tell you I saw him slip," cried Felicia, and old 
 Johann, an experienced guide, looked, paused, and 
 boked again. "It is a nasty place," said he, look- 
 ing puzzled. "It was close by there that we met 
 tie Englishman with his paint-box. That is our 
 track the lady has been following, but there is an- 
 cther beside it. I cannot venture to say she is mis- 
 tiken." Felicia's conviction seemed to have spread 
 to the guides. They examined the track again and 
 again, and began talking the matter over. Two of 
 t'lem presently came forward, looking grave, and 
 proposed that they should go off then and there, 
 and see if there was anything to be done. ■ "It is 
 like last night's experience over again," said the 
 host; "the sun will be setting in a couple of hours; 
 you must take lanterns if you go, for you won't be 
 back by daylight, and what can you do, if so be 
 the man has fallen? What did I say about people's 
 foolhardiness?" he continued, turning to Georgina. 
 "Your papa has taken Peter our man with him, that 
 is something reasonable. If this is one of the Eng- 
 lish travellers I told you of who went off alone, it 
 will show you that I do not speak Avithout think- 
 ing." 
 
 . Poor Mr. Bracy came back with Peter in another 
 hour to share the general consternation. His first
 
 I04 DA CAPO. 
 
 words were to enquire if Jasper had returned, and 
 then he was told what had occurred. He kept up 
 with great courage before the girls, declaring all 
 would be well, but his looks belied his words. His 
 face was pale and drawn; the poor little man stood 
 with one helpless eye applied to the telescope lonj 
 after the darkness had fallen, and it was impossibh 
 to distinguish any object at three yards' distance. 
 
 Felicia's secret fears were for Baxter, though the 
 others maintained that it must have been Jasper she 
 had seen. As the hours went on and the painta 
 did not return, it seemed more and more likely thtt 
 they were right. Baxter was safe enough, if she had 
 but known it. He had not even been alone. He 
 had been all day with the guide whom he had ap- 
 pointed to meet him. It was indeed poor Jasper 
 whose peril had been revealed in that horrible 
 minute. 
 
 Baxter was quietly returning with his friend Mel- 
 chior, the guide, from a long day's walk in the 
 snow, when he happened to see Jasper silting at his 
 easel perched on a rock, and sketching the surround- 
 ing abyss. 
 
 "There is a man I wish to avoid," said the Co- 
 lonel to his guide, and the man laughed, and pro- 
 posed that they should make a short circuit and
 
 DA CAPO. 105 
 
 come back to the track just below the place where 
 the painter was at work. 
 
 Jasper had not returned to luncheon on purpose; 
 he happened to have sandwiches in his pocket, and 
 he wished to cause some slight anxiety. Now that 
 the light was beginning to fail, he began to feel the 
 want of his dinner; but a fancy seized him to climb 
 a huge rock that rose abruptly behind him, and to 
 get one last view of the surrounding country before 
 going down. He had left his easel but a few yards 
 behind him, he climbed a steep crag with great 
 agility, and with some exertion he got round a sharp 
 protruding block, which led, as he thought, to a 
 little rocky platform, when suddenly his foot slipped. 
 He had fallen but a little way, he righted himself 
 with difficulty, and then slipped again. Jasper was 
 frightened and completely sobered, perhaps for the 
 first time in his life. 
 
 There was no one looking on. There were a 
 few rocks and pine trees down below; overhead the 
 great crags were fading from moment to moment 
 into more terrible impassivity. He could scarcely 
 imagine how he had ever reached his present peril- 
 ous position. Was it he himself, Jasper Bracy, who 
 was here alone and clinging desperately — was it for 
 life-^^to the face of this granite boulder? What would 
 they all say at home if they knew of his position?
 
 I06 DA CAPO. 
 
 He could not face the thought, for he had a heart 
 for all his vagaries. He seemed to realise it all so 
 suddenly — his aunt's exclamations, his uncle's wist- 
 ful face came before him. "And poor Georgina," 
 thought Jasper. 
 
 All this did not take long to pass through his 
 mind as he clung desperately to the ledge on to 
 which he had come; even to an experienced moun- 
 taineer it would have been an ugly pass. The rocks 
 were hard as iron, worn smooth by a glacier; there 
 seemed neither foot nor cranny to get on to; the 
 evening was fast approaching: there was no chance 
 of anyone descrying him from the distant chalet. 
 
 Jasper tried to say his prayers, poor boy; but he 
 could not think of anything but the burning pain in 
 his hands and back, the choking breath which seemed 
 so terrible: his head swam, he knew that the end 
 was at hand, he could hold on no longer. Perhaps 
 five minutes had passed since he fell, but what a 
 five minutes, blotting out the whole of the many 
 many days and years of his life. He looked his last 
 at the rock shining relentless; he closed his eyes. 
 ... I think it was at this moment that Felicia was 
 screaming for assistance. If only she had kept her 
 place a moment longer she would have seen help at 
 hand. 
 
 Something struck his face. A voice, not far off,
 
 DA CAPO. 107 
 
 said, very quietly, "Be careful. Can you get at the 
 rope? We will pull you up. One! two! three!" 
 Hope gave him renewed strength, and with a clutch 
 he raised his left hand and caught the saving rope. 
 For three seconds he was drawn upwards, scraping 
 the rock as he went: happily its hard smoothness 
 now was in his favour. Bleeding, fainting, he found 
 himself drawn up to a ledge overhead. His senses 
 failed. 
 
 When he came to himself, Baxter was pouring 
 brandy down his throat, and the Swiss guide was 
 loosening his clothes. They had seen him in the 
 distance. The guide had suddenly stopped short, 
 and exclaimed, 
 
 "Good heavens! that man must be mad. Where 
 is he going to?" and pointed out Jasper's peril to 
 the Colonel. 
 
 "We must go back," said the Colonel, hastily 
 
 "I think I owe you my life," said Jasper, hoarsely, 
 but quite naturally, looking up with bloodshot eyes 
 at Aurelius. 
 
 "Nonsense!" said the Colonel, kindly, "it was 
 Melchior here who spied you on your perch."
 
 I08 r>A CAPO. 
 
 CHAPTER Xri. 
 DA CAPO. 
 
 While the travellers delay, the rocks are lighting 
 up to bronze, to gold, to purple. The Wetterhorn is 
 burning crimson-limned; the Mettelberg rocks are 
 turning to splendid hue, the Vieschhorns answer like 
 flaming beacons, and the great Eiger is on fire. But 
 the hills to the east are shadowy mist upon palest 
 ether, and a faint cloud like a sigh drifts along their 
 ridge. So night comes on with solemn steps. Now 
 the Wetterhorn is dying, the Vieschhorn pales to 
 chillest white, though its summits are still flashing, 
 rose-colour, flame-like, delicate. The people look up 
 on their way, figures in the valley stand gazing at 
 the wondrous peace overhead, they gaze and drink 
 their fill of the evening, and then the lingering 
 benediction is gone with a breath. The rocks are 
 cold and dead, the ether is changed from incandes- 
 cence to veiled dimness. Nothing seems left but the 
 sound of the stream, which before was hardly heard, 
 but which now takes up the tale, rushing through
 
 DA CAPO. 109 
 
 the ravine fresh and incessant. A star appears, the 
 washerwoman's window lights up in the valley. 
 
 "Will you tea in the balcony?" the waiter asks, 
 coming up with a lamp, which he sets on the little 
 table by Flora's elbow. 
 
 "Nong," says the lady, "dedang;" and she looks 
 at her watch and wonders why they are all so late. 
 Then again she reflects with some satisfaction that 
 Mr. Bracy and the two girls are not likely to get 
 into much mischief alone, and that Colonel is safe 
 out of the way. Mrs. Bracy begins to grow hungry 
 and impatient for her family's return. They are 
 quite absorbed in their own arrangements; they for- 
 get everything else. As usual, the spirit suffered 
 from the matter's delay, and the temper also being 
 frail and troublesome, seemed to trouble our poetess. 
 When Pringle, Felicia's maid, came into the salle, to 
 ask, a little anxiously, at what hour Mrs. Bracy was 
 expecting them home, Flora snubbed Pringle as that 
 personage was not accustomed to be snubbed, and 
 sent her off in high dudgeon. A minute after, the 
 woman returned, quite changed, with a curious 
 scared face. 
 
 "Oh, ma'am!" she said, "come out here; there's 
 a boy from the shalley. He says — he says — I can't 
 understand. The cook is talking to him. Oh, 
 ma'am ! "
 
 no DA CAPO. 
 
 Flora jumped up, with more activity than she 
 usually showed, and hurried out into the passage, 
 where, surely enough, a crowd stood round a boy, 
 dressed in common peasant's clothes, who was em- 
 phatically describing something — a fall — a scream. 
 Poor Mrs. Bracy turned very cold, and forgot to 
 analyse her emotions as she pushed her way through 
 the guides and waiters. 
 
 "What, what?" she said. "Speak English, can't 
 you? "\\Tiat does he say?" 
 
 "Your gentlemen 'ave met with accident," said 
 one of the waiters. "De young lady she see him — 
 call for guide to help; dis young man come down 
 to tell you." 
 
 Then the young man said something in an 
 undertone. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Bracy, almost beside herself now, 
 asked with a sort of scream, "Who was hurt? Was 
 it her husband? was it Jasper?" 
 
 The boy didn't know, the waiter explained. "He 
 could tell nothing, only that it was a gentleman who 
 had fallen a long way from the Kulm Hotel. Would 
 Madame please give a trinkgeld; he had run all the 
 way with the news?" 
 
 For the next two hours the poor old poetess, 
 brought back to everyday anxiety and natural feel- 
 ing, suffered a purgatory sufficient to wipe out many
 
 DA CAPO. Ill 
 
 and many an hour of selfish ease and halhicmation. 
 She ordered guides, brandy, chaise-a-porteurs , for 
 herself and Pringle. No porters were to be had at 
 that hour, not at least in sufficient numbers to cany 
 so heavy a lady over the dark and uneven roads. 
 Horses then. Two tired steeds were at length led 
 up to the door, upon one of which the poor lady 
 was hoisted, Pringle devotedly following. So they 
 set forth heroically, with two guides apiece, with 
 brandy, with lanterns, and blankets, which Mrs. Bracy 
 insisted on taking. 
 
 I cannot find it in my heart to describe that 
 long, black, jolting terrifying progress, the bumps 
 and slips, the horrors, the brawling streams, the 
 crumbling mountain ways along which they climbed. 
 
 "Fear nothing," said the guides; but, as they 
 spoke, Pringle's horse came down on its knees, and 
 Pringle gave a wild shriek. So they toiled on, over 
 resounding bridges, up slippery paths, under dark 
 thickets, coming out into a great open alp. Sud- 
 denly two huge black forms seemed to rise up, and 
 bear slowly down upon them. 
 
 The guides only laughed rudely. "Kuhe, Kuhe," 
 said they, and then by degrees horns loomed out, 
 and a heavy snuffling breath came through the 
 darkness. The poor women were somewhat reas- 
 sured. I do not know whether they ever would have
 
 112 DA CAPO. 
 
 reached the top of the long weary pass, which 
 mounted in a long rocky ladder before them. Mrs. 
 Bracy's horse had in its turn come down, and was 
 scarcely roused by many an oath, as it stood trem- 
 bling beneath its quavering burden. One lantern 
 had gone out, and could not be lighted again. 
 Pringle was ciying — when suddenly there was a 
 pause — one of the porters said "Hist!" The second 
 ceased swearing at the horse, to listen. 
 
 "What is it?" says Mrs. Bracy. "Quoi?" 
 
 "People coming this way," said the man. 
 
 "I hear 'em talking, mem," says Pringle, hysteri- 
 cally. 
 
 Every moment the sound came clearer and 
 nearer. At a turn of the path a light appeared 
 overhead, then another and another; the tramp of 
 feet, the sound of men talking, and then could it 
 be? — a laugli coming out of the darkness — a real 
 hearty laugh. 
 
 Poor old Flora threw up her amis as she re- 
 cognised her husband's voice, and burst into hearty, 
 unaffected tears of relief, excitement, and fatigue. 
 All must be well, or Mr. Bracy would not have burst 
 out laughing in the dark, at such an hour, on such 
 a road. 
 
 A minute more, it was a scene of greeting, ex- 
 clamations, embraces, a snorting of horses, a waving
 
 DA CAPO. 113 
 
 of lanterns. Mr. Bracy was ahead, running downhill, 
 supported on either side by a porter. He was much 
 overcome, and filled with admiration by his wife's 
 devotion. There was something peculiar in his 
 manner. 
 
 "Noble woman!" said he. "What exertion! You 
 should have some champagne, Flora, my love," he 
 said; "it will revive you — quite revived by it myself. 
 Have you brought any with you? Baxter, do you 
 happen to have another bottle?" 
 
 Baxter ! Poor Mrs. Bracy turned in horror and 
 bewilderment, and by the lantern's light descried 
 only too plainly Baxter and Felicia, arm-in-arm, 
 coming down the steep path together, preceded by 
 a guide with a lantern. 
 
 Shall I attempt to describe the descriptions, or 
 to explain the explanations. Some seemed to be of 
 so extraordinary a character, that Flora Bracy had 
 to exercise all her self-command to listen to them in 
 silence. But Jasper's safety had softened the poetic 
 heart, and she was unaffectedly grateful to the 
 Colonel for the rescue. Of course, as Baxter said, 
 anyone would have done as much, but not the less 
 there do happily exist certain unreasonable emotions 
 of gratitude in human nature which influence it out 
 of the balance of exact debtor and creditor account. 
 
 "Fact was, my dear," said Mi*. Bracy, looking 
 
 Da CaJ>o, etc. S
 
 114 
 
 DA CAPO. 
 
 round and dro^jpiiig his voice, "the poor dear girl 
 had been so anxious and worked up on Jasper's 
 account, that when they all came suddenly on to 
 the platform, just as we had almost given them up, 
 she and Georgina both shrieked, and Felicia, I be- 
 lieve, rushed fainting into somebody's arms. The 
 Colonel's, I believe. It was all a confusion. I was 
 myself rather overcome. I was certainly concerned 
 when Jasper afterwards told me the guides had been 
 talking about Felicia and Baxter. If you had been 
 there it would have been most desirable: however, 
 Felicia soon recovered; we gave her champagne — 
 that champagne was really excellent, considering the 
 circumstances. Curious thing, Flora, my love, the 
 corks come out at a touch up in those high places. 
 
 It might interest you to see " 
 
 "Do, Edgar, keep to the important subject in 
 question," said Flora, piteously, she was too com- 
 pletely crushed to be severe. 
 
 "You mean about — hum — hum — " says Mr. Bracy, 
 getting rather breathless. "Jasper first gave me a 
 hint, and then the fact is, Baxter himself came up 
 in the most gentlemanly manner, and told us botli 
 it was an old affair, that until now he had never had 
 any certainty of his affection being returned." 
 
 "And you, Edgar, placed in this most responsible 
 situation, what did you say?" asked his wife.
 
 DA CAPO. 115 
 
 "I said, 'Colonel, I'll only ask you one question, 
 which of the girls is it?' for I heard them both 
 scream;" here Mr. Bracy stopped. A detachment 
 from the rear joined them. Miss Bracy walking (she 
 was too nervous to ride), and Jasper himself com- 
 fortably jogging down upon Georgina's mule. 
 
 The lovers meanwhile straggled off with their 
 guide by some short by-road. They seemed to have 
 wings, some sudden power that made them forget 
 fatigue, darkness, length of way, that bore them safe 
 over stones and briars, from step to step along the steep 
 and slippery road; little Felicia felt no weariness, no 
 loneliness: she had reached home at last. They 
 reached the little bridge some ten minutes before 
 the rest of the company, and there they stopped for 
 a moment; while Melchior walked on to announce 
 the safe return of the whole party. It was a wonder- 
 ful minute, silent and shadowy, and fragrant with 
 stars streaming in the dark sky overhead; the water 
 was rushing into the night; as it flowed it seemed to 
 flash with the dazzling lights of heaven, and to carry 
 the stars upon its stream. The night breeze came 
 across the plain and fanned their faces; they were 
 alone, and a blessing of silent and unspeakable 
 gratitude was theirs. And so, after ail this long 
 doubt, Aurelius and Felicia had come to the best 
 certainty that exists in this perplexing world, the
 
 I I 6 DA CAPO. 
 
 sacred conviction of love — that belongs to all 
 estates and conditions of men, not only to the mar- 
 ried, not only to the unmarried, but to all those 
 who have grateful hearts. 
 
 END OF "DA CAPO.
 
 F I N A. 
 
 SOME PASSAGES FROM AN OLD DIARY OF 
 MISS WILLIAMSON'S.
 
 April 30. 
 
 The child has a sweet inquisitive Httle face, and 
 a pathetic voice. She looks hard at me when we 
 meet on the stairs. Last Sunday I heard a crackling 
 at my door, and, looking round, I saw my small 
 fellow-lodger peeping in. "Come in," said I, making 
 the first advances. "How do you do?" The little 
 girl advanced shyly, looking about. I saw her look- 
 ing at the china-pot full of roses, at me, at my 
 pictures. But she did not appear quite satisfied. 
 "Why do you live so high up?" she said. "You 
 can't walk out in the garden as mamma does." 
 
 Fina — so they call her — lives on the ground 
 floor, with her father and mother. The drawing- 
 room floor is let to a fashionable barrister, who is 
 out all day, and who only comes home to dress in 
 splendour and white ties, and to drive off again in 
 hansom cabs. / am only the second floor, and yet 
 this seemed a very paradise of lodgings when I ac- 
 cidentally stumbled upon it one day on my way to 
 Old Palace-square. A paradise with neither moth 
 nor rust to corrupt, nor grasping landlady to peep
 
 1 20 FINA. 
 
 through and steal. I think it was the sight of little 
 Fina's face at the parlour window which attracted 
 me. The housekeeper looked friendly, the house 
 was clean and old-fashioned. I thankfully climbed 
 my two flights, unpacked my possessions, and settled 
 down. Elsewhere I am a governess, and go my 
 rounds; but here everyday as I come back a trans- 
 formation takes place. I hang up my waterproof, 
 drop my claws and my instructive manner, tuck 
 away my horns under my cap, and become a quiet, 
 respectable, independent old lady, with cherry jam 
 and seed-cake in my cupboard, an evening paper, 
 and a comfortable arm-chair; but all these ad- 
 vantages do not seem to impress little Fina. 
 
 "Shouldn't you like to walk in the garden," 
 persists the child; "come here, Fina, and look out 
 of my window," I reply; "you see I have my garden 
 up here." 
 
 This little street of ours runs from the main 
 road into Old Palace-square, and my sitting-room 
 windows open to the street, but my bed-room over- 
 looks the gardens of the square, the many green 
 lawns and flower-beds. This little corner is almost 
 like the country. A thrush sings in the chestnut-tree 
 beyond the wall, and awakens with the dawn; little 
 Fina stands on the wooden bench at the end of our 
 narrow inclosure and wistfully peeps over the bricks.
 
 riNA. 121 
 
 at the children at play in the big garden next to 
 ours. These big gardens act the part of benevolent 
 protectors to us, their humbler neighbours. They 
 send us whiffs of apple-blossom and lilac, notes of 
 birds, and stray sprigs of green. 
 
 The garden of the house to which I go every 
 day is the one next to ours. It is the corner house 
 of Old Palace-square, and has been let for the season 
 to an old lady and her son and her grandchildren. 
 There is an air of prosperity about its well-cleaned 
 windows and brightly-scrubbed brasswork, and its 
 respectable, over-fed butler. Mrs. Ellis, in her Indian 
 shawls, is all in keeping with the place; she is a 
 friend of my old friend Lady Z., who recommended 
 me to apply for the situation. I had been afraid 
 my inability to teach music might have stood in my 
 way, but in this case music was not wanted. The 
 Colonel did not wish his daughters to learn 
 music, I was told. It seemed to me a curious 
 fancy. I was a little late this morning; and, as I 
 was hurrying down stairs, on my way to my pupils, 
 I met my little girl again. I am fond of most 
 children, but this one interests me specially. The 
 parlour door was open as I passed, and Fina's 
 father was coming out. The child darted away from 
 my side to meet him, and began dancing and swing- 
 ing by his hand. "Take care, little Fina; take care.
 
 122 FINA. 
 
 you imp!" he cried; "you will make me drop my 
 violin." He was carrying a violin-case under one 
 arm. He was a big man, burly, and near six foot 
 high, with an honest, somewhat careworn face, and 
 a grizzled, shock head of hair. I believe he is the 
 Francis Arnheim whose name I have seen in big 
 letters outside the Albert Hall and elsewhere. Big 
 as he is, his little girl seems at her ease with him. 
 She paid no atteiTtion to her father's remonstrances, 
 and went on with her wild gymnastics. "Mamma, 
 come and take this little demon!" cried Arnheim; 
 and then the mother came, smiling, to the rescue, 
 and put her arms round the child and carried her 
 off. I could not help thinking of this little scene five 
 minutes later, as I stood on the doorstep of my em- 
 ployer's house in Old Palace-square. 
 
 The Colonel himself was going out for a ride, 
 and impatiently waiting to be off. The poor chil- 
 dren had come up with a shout from the garden of 
 the sijuare. Edgar, the boy, a handsome little fellow 
 about eight years old, rushed across the road and, 
 in his excitement, tumbled over the Colonel's shiny 
 boots. "Here comes Grasshopper, here she comes 
 — Papa, do, do let me have one ride," says little 
 Edgar. 
 
 "I can't have this noise in the street," says the 
 Colonel. "You should have been at your lessons
 
 FINA. 123 
 
 long before this." With this rebuke, which appHed 
 to the dilatory governess as well as to the pupils, 
 the Colonel sprang upon his horse,, never looking 
 back, and caracoled erectly down the square to the 
 admiration of the young ladies' school opposite, the 
 baker's boy at the area gate, and the old mother at 
 the drawing-room window. His friendly little audience 
 of children meanwhile retreated somewhat discon- 
 certed to the schoolroom. 
 
 There was not much in all this — not much, only 
 everything. The musician's voice had seemed to 
 me that of a father, but this was no father's voice. 
 The little shabby lodging where Fina dwelt seemed 
 to me a real home, the big house, with its stair- 
 rods and buckram and well-trained sei-vants, a sort 
 of lodging-house only. The old grandmother half 
 asleep in her Indian shawls — a soft old lady like an 
 owl — was the one bit of home to me in the big 
 house. She was, what she looked, a lady of the 
 old easy-going school — well bred, well born. At 
 times she seemed rather afraid of her son and her 
 eldest daughter. There was a second daughter I 
 had not yet seen, who was coming home, the chil- 
 dren told me. 
 
 "Aunt Josephine is such a dear," said little 
 Edgar, confidentially; "isn't she, Josie? She will let
 
 124 
 
 FINA. 
 
 US come to tea with you. Don't ask Aunt Bessie, 
 she always says no." 
 
 I could quite imagine this. Miss Ellis was a 
 second edition of the Colonel — high heels, tight 
 straps, stiff linen, sharp voice included. 
 
 Aunt Josephine, the younger sister, took after 
 her mother. The very first morning she was at 
 home she looked into the school-room with a friendly 
 face to see wliat we were all about. She w-as hospi- 
 tably welcomed by the young people. ]\Iary, the 
 eldest girl, pushed up a chair, Edgar gave it a 
 thump to make it comfortable, little Josie thrust a 
 lesson-book into her aunt's hand. "You stop and 
 do lessons, too," said she. 
 
 "Very well," said Aunt Josephine. And after 
 this she got into the way of coming every day. 
 
 One morning she was reading by the window 
 while we were at work when we heard the Colonel's 
 voice outside calling hastily for Miss Ellis; then the 
 door opened and he looked in: he was red, odd, 
 excited. "Bessie is out; I want you, Josephine," he 
 said. He appeared to be in great perturbation: he 
 left the door open, and we heard his heels on the 
 oil-cloth in the hall as he walked up and down, 
 talking emphatically. 
 
 "He is here; I saw him myself. We shall have 
 liini here." Then a sort of burst from Aunt Jo-
 
 FINA. 125 
 
 sephine — "Oh! perhaps she is with him. I must 
 tell mamma — indeed I must." 
 
 The three children had all left off their sums 
 and were listening with the deepest attention. "You 
 had better shut the door, Edgar," said I; and Edgar 
 obeyed very slowly. 
 
 "It's about Aunt Mary," said little Josie, nodding 
 her head. "Aunt Josephine always cries when it is 
 about Aunt Mary." 
 
 "Hush, Josie!" said little Mary; and as she 
 spoke we heard a sob from Aunt Josie in the hall. 
 It was a curious little family scene, but it did not 
 concern me. I forbade all talking, and did my best 
 to keep my little pupils quiet and attentive to their 
 lessons. They were good, lovable children, and 
 flourished upon somewhat arid soil, as one has seen 
 little flowers upspringing in rocky, unlikely places. 
 Although I forbade discussion, I found myself puz- 
 zling over it all that evening as I sat alone with my 
 lamp, and wondering why Aunt Mary was not to be 
 mentioned. Had she disgraced herself? What crime 
 had she committed? Then came a something to 
 distract me from these fruitless digressions, and to 
 carry me far, far away from my lonely corner — a 
 Tovely voice, Mendelssohn's voice, calling, singing of 
 many a familiar home strain to me. Fina's father 
 was playing down below on his violin, and some-
 
 126 I'lNA. 
 
 how, irresistibly drawn and attracted, I presently 
 found myself standing at the foot of the stairs in 
 the moonlight, listening, absorbed, to his music. 
 There also stood the landlady, raised from her kit- 
 chen. "Aint it beautiful, mem?" said she. We 
 were both rather foolishly disconcerted when the 
 back parlour door suddenly opened upon us. The 
 room was full of harmony and light; the floor 
 seemed scattered over with music-books. Someone 
 was standing by a music-stand playing the violin. 
 Many candles were burning. Out of all this radiance 
 little Fina came darting, and calling out, "Mamma, 
 here is my lady!" And then the mother, with a 
 very sweet, gentle face and manner, came out and 
 invited me in. 
 
 After this it became a usual thing for me to go 
 down when Mr. Arnheim was at home. As soon as 
 his practice began little Fina used to come running 
 up to my room to summon me. I am not sure that 
 the music was the best thing to be found in that 
 shabby back parlour; the peace, the moderation, the 
 mutual trust and confidence of that little family 
 touched me as much as the wonderful strains of 
 Arnheim's violin. His playing was unecpial, but 
 there was a certain quality about it which I can 
 scarcely describe — a suggestion beyond the music. 
 I used to think Mrs. Arnheim had caught that some-
 
 FINA. 127 
 
 thing in her face — in her lovable eyes. I could not 
 think who it was she reminded me of at times. 
 Meanwhile I sit peacefully listening and watching 
 her as she turns over her husband's leaves. The 
 back windows are open to the garden, where little 
 Fina is hopping about in the dusk. Mendelssohn 
 speaks, and we are all silent and spell-bound. 
 
 May I. 
 
 My friend Lady Z, has written to offer me her 
 carriage for to-morrow, and I think it will add to 
 the interest of my long-promised party if we drive 
 down first to Roehampton, as she suggests, lunch in 
 her garden, and fill our baskets with rhododendrons. 
 Kind Aunt Josephine has asked leave for the chil- 
 dren to come; and my friend Fina and her mother 
 are to join the little expedition. Last night, as I 
 was going up to my room, I met Fina blushing and 
 with entreating looks. The landlady's little boy was 
 at home for the holidays. He was such a good little 
 boy, and helped his mother with the knives and 
 boots. Might he come for the drive on the box? 
 
 Fina's eyes danced with delight when I agreed 
 to this arrangement. My preparations of cold chicken 
 and salad are all made, and nicely packed by the 
 landlady, whose little son Dan is also, I do believe,
 
 128 FINA. 
 
 to be parboiled for the occasion, brushed, and 
 scrubbed, and trussed. 
 
 May 2. 
 Is there anything so sweet, so hopeful as an early 
 spring morning without cold wind or spite in the air 
 — only a gentle awakening to sunshine and cheerful 
 sounds? The birds have been singing since the dawn; 
 the trees and green plants have come out with a new 
 flood of colour; London puts on its loveliest spring 
 veils and lights, and tosses its blue sky with floating 
 clouds; the parks are a burst of perfume and May 
 essence; the shrubs glow with white and crimson; the 
 very streets are abloom ! Just now, when I looked out 
 from my window, I saw two ragged figures dragging 
 a flower-cart — a creaking load of gold and dazzling 
 colour — at which everyone turned to look. These 
 were only itinerant flower-dealers; but Titania her- 
 self could not have conjured up a more lovely rain- 
 bow. The passers-by stopped to look; the little girl 
 from below ran out and changed her coppers for 
 lovely new lamps of white narcissus^ — of pale blue 
 hyacinth. 1 saw a bunch in Mrs. Arnheim's waist- 
 band when she came out all ready for our start. 
 She also was dressed in muslin, with a pretty straw 
 liat tied under her chin, and a look of youth and 
 enjoyment in her gentle grey eyes which I had
 
 FiNA. izg 
 
 scarcely ever seen before. She sprang into the car- 
 riage almost as eagerly as little Fina herself. The 
 coachman pulled my hamper up beside him on the 
 box; Dan followed the hamper; the horses, with a 
 great deal of clattering and jumping, set off, the sun 
 made merry all along the way as we drove by the 
 pleasant old roads that lead from London to the 
 river and beyond it. I specially remember two red 
 cows eating dazzling green grass under a staring 
 pink apple-tree. "Look at the flower-tree," said little 
 Josie, pointing. She was the youngest of the party, 
 and chattered unceasingly for us all. 
 
 "What a funny name Fina is," said she. "Have 
 you a real name too?" 
 
 "My name is Josephine," said Fina; "but papa 
 always calls me Fina." 
 
 "Why, niy name is Josephine," said Josie, "and 
 so is grandmamma's." And all the children ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 As the children talked, I looked up and caught 
 a strange, eager, half-hopeful, half-frightened expres- 
 sion in Mrs. Arnheim's face; and all of a sudden I 
 knew who it was she reminded me of at times — who 
 but my sleepy old lady in Old Palace-square? 
 
 "What is your name, Mrs. Arnheim?" I asked, 
 with some odd certainty of what her answer would be. 
 
 Da Capo, etc. 9
 
 1 30 FIN A. 
 
 "Mary," she said, simply; and as she spoke her 
 eyes filled with tears. 
 
 After luncheon the children played away to their 
 hearts' content in lady Z.'s pretty old park. Mrs. 
 Arnheim and I kept to the beaten paths and zinc 
 benches; the children held a happy little woodland 
 court in the shade of the trees, with music of birds 
 overhead and childish laughter, with many orders 
 and decorations of daisy and of primrose. Josie 
 was enthroned on the branch of an old tree, the 
 others gathered round. Little Dan was allowed to 
 join the sports and meanwhile Mrs. Arnheim was 
 asking me question after question — who was the 
 little girl called Josephine, who was her grandmother; 
 and as I answered she tried to speak — she faltered, 
 then burst into tears, "Don't you guess it all, she 
 sobbed. Yes, she is my mother, my own mother, 
 and I did not even know we were at her very door. 
 Oh! Miss Williamson, she must relent, she must take 
 me to her heart once more. If it were not for my 
 brother she would have done so long, long ago. 
 AVheu I go there they will not admit me. When I 
 write they send me back my letters. This time, 
 when we came to England I could make no more 
 advances. I had been too bitterly wounded." 
 
 It is difficult to understand how some people can 
 have the courage to be unforgiving, day after day,
 
 FINA. 1 3 I 
 
 week after week. They go to sleep, they wake up 
 again; they hear the birds sing; they see the sun 
 shine upon the just and the unjust; a thousand 
 blessings are theirs; but still they hold out and re- 
 fuse their own blessing to the offenders. They hear 
 of sorrows that can never be healed; they hear of 
 joys befalling their fellow-men; they realise life and 
 death, and it does not occur to them that there is 
 no death like that of coldness and estrangement. 
 Against the inevitable, warm hearts can hold their 
 own; but the avoidable, the self-inflicted pangs of 
 life, what is there to be said for them? This kind 
 old lady, Mrs. Ellis by name, who was good to the 
 poor, thoughtful for her dependants, affectionate to 
 her friends, showed a stern and unforgiving spirit 
 towards one person which seemed utterly at variance 
 with her whole life and nature. This one person 
 was the daughter she had loved best of all her 
 children, who had left her home one day and mar- 
 ried without her mother's consent. Arnheim had 
 been Mary's music master. The family could not 
 forget it. 
 
 All the way home I sat turning over one scheme 
 ari,d another in my mind for bringing the mother 
 and daughter together without any chance of inter- 
 ference from the Colonel or Miss Ellis. Miss Jo- 
 sephine I knew would help me, but she was young 
 
 9*
 
 I 3 2 FINA. 
 
 and timid, and it seemed to mc safest to act on my 
 own responsibility. 
 
 Mrs. Arnheim had lent me her parlour for tea. 
 It was pleasanter than mine, and opened on the 
 garden; and as we were all eating our bread-and- 
 butter and strawberries Arnheim looked in. I saw 
 him give a quick, anxious look at his wife, who sat 
 silent and with a drooping head. 
 
 "Here is papa," cries Fina; "now he will play to 
 us. Papa, they do want to hear some music. Please, 
 l)lay, and we will dance mulberry-bush in the gar- 
 den, and Dan shall come too." 
 
 "I want Dan to go for a message for me first," 
 said I, a vision of the Colonel's wrath rising before 
 my eyes if Dan were allowed to dance in the ring 
 with the other children. 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Ellis," I wrote, "would you be so 
 very good and kind as to come in for five minutes, 
 and see my happy little party. Yours sincerely, 
 
 Mary Williamson." 
 
 After a time the children became riotous over 
 their mulberry-bush game, and Arnheim began to 
 jjlay another measure, and then by degrees they 
 <luioted down and came to the window to listen. 
 Dan and Edgar exchanged a few cuffs in the twi-
 
 FINA. 133 
 
 light; the little girls listened; and I sat wondering 
 what was to come of my note. 
 
 Presently there was a ring at the door, and I 
 thought I could recognise the soft, lagging step of 
 the old lady from the square. 
 
 "See who it is," I whispered to Mrs. Arnheim, 
 who looked surprised, but got up quietly and went to 
 the door. I followed her. The passage was dark, 
 but the garden door was open, and the old lady had 
 passed on to the garden door. 
 
 Then I heard a little cry from one or from the 
 other — I know not which it was; their two voices 
 sounded so alike. 
 
 "Oh, Mother!" said Mrs. Arnheim, springing for- 
 ward, with both hands wildly put out. 
 
 "Mary! You! My child!" said the aged woman, 
 surprised and overcome; and the two women were 
 locked together in a long, close embrace. And then 
 the two hearts so cruelly parted were beating to- 
 gether once more. . . 
 
 Neither the Colonel nor Miss Ellis could keep 
 them asunder now. Tighter and closer the mother 
 clasped her daughter; those fast enclosing arms 
 clung to the truth, to the reality of life, to the love 
 of past years, Mrs. Ellis was near the end of her 
 long journey. Was she to let her child go now that 
 she had found her again?
 
 1 34 FINA. 
 
 Ariiheim, meanwhile, went on playing, quite un- 
 conscious of the scene just outside the door. He 
 quietly travelled to the end of his melody. His 
 beautiful music seemed singing in measure to that 
 best and holiest strain of peace and reconciliation. 
 
 END OF "FINA.
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OLD MSS. 
 
 Not long ago the children opened a drawer in 
 my writing-table and found a little roll of dusty 
 manuscript which I myself had written many years 
 ago. It was a story in which some true things were 
 told with others that were not true, all blended 
 together in that same curious way in which, when 
 we are asleep, we dream out allegories, and remem- 
 brances, and indications that we scarcely recognise 
 when we are awake. Story-telling is, in truth, a 
 sort of dreaming, from which the writer only quite 
 awakes when the last proof is corrected. These 
 visions seem to haunt one, and to contend with 
 realities, and at times to flash into definite shape, 
 and voice, and motion, and to hold their own 
 almost independently of our will, and to impress us, 
 a? real voices and impulses do in everyday exis- 
 tence. 
 
 When the children, who take a faithful interest 
 in my performances, brought me this dusty packet
 
 138 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 I read it through, and once more found myself in a 
 little village in France, which I had scarcely thought 
 of for years and years. There it stood among its 
 plains, sunning itself in the autumn rays; all the 
 people who used to live there with us came march- 
 ing out of the drawer, bringing fruit in their hands, 
 rolling barrows piled with golden pumpkins, carry- 
 ing great baskets of purple plums, or sweet green- 
 gages oozing golden juice, great jugs of milk, and 
 wheaten loaves baked in the country ovens. Not 
 only people, but the bygone animals came too out 
 of this ark. A black retriever making for the water, 
 the turkey-cocks perching on our doorsteps, the 
 little black hen with the crooked bill; the poor 
 tortoiseshell cat, who died of hunger, shut up in the 
 cellar below the kitchen. We had a cook — a hate- 
 ful woman — who had once tried to poison the poor 
 creature, and who laughed at our dismay when we 
 learnt its ultimate fate. No one else had heard its 
 cries. The rambling old place seemed made for 
 some such tragedy, piled together with dark corners, 
 hidden passages, stone flights, and heavy masonry. 
 The walls were of thickest stone. There was a sort 
 of dungeon under the flight of steps that led to the 
 house-door, and the dining-room had two hiding- 
 places opening on either side of the jam cupboard. 
 All round the drawing-room a secret passage ran
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. I3g 
 
 between the wall and the wooden panelling. This 
 passage was lighted by a narrow windov\', all hidden 
 by leaves of the vine -tree. The drawing-room 
 windows opened into a sweet garden full of flowers 
 and straggling greenery. At the end of the walk by 
 the vine wall stood a little pavilion, with a pointed 
 roof and a twirling weathercock, with casements 
 north, east, and west. This little pavilion seemed 
 to guard the entrance of the village. People said 
 that the old farm had once been a hunting-lodge 
 built by Henry IV., who came here with his Court. 
 I could imagine any one of the old pictures I had 
 seen in the Louvre and elsewhere made alive, the 
 gay cavalcade sounding and galloping away, disap- 
 pearing along the highway; horses prancing, squires 
 following, horns sounding, and scarfs flying in the 
 air. Sometimes the King ruled at the Chateau de 
 Visy, so the legend ran; but the chateau was the 
 Queen's and the hunting-lodge was the King's, and 
 the little pavilion where we girls all did our lessons 
 together, and blotted our German exercises, had 
 been built for some aigretted lady of the Court. 
 
 Visy le Roi is a village not far from Corbeil, a 
 w'ell-known country town in France. It is a district 
 where the sun sets across miles of flat spreading 
 fields that are crossed and recrossed in every direc- 
 tion by narrow canals, of which the sluggish waters
 
 140 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 reflect the willows planted along their course. These 
 streams are darkened by the colour of the banks on 
 either side. The earth is nearly black; the water is 
 stained by strange tints. The country is sombre 
 with peat-fields, and here and there are peat-manu- 
 factories, standing lonely against the sky. When 
 the light blazes it is reflected on the waters as they 
 flow with a certain sluggish persistent tide. Every 
 here and there at crossways are deep pools where 
 lilies and green tangles are floating on the brown 
 eddies. Sometimes of an evening, when the sun 
 sets over the black fields, long-drawn chords of light 
 strike against the stems of the poplar-trees, and then 
 their quaint mop heads seem on fire, while the 
 flames roll down from the AVest with vapour and 
 with murky splendour. The figures passing along 
 the roads on the way homewards, the blue blouses, 
 the country-women carrying their baskets on their 
 arms or their faggots on their backs, are sti'angely 
 illumined by these last beams of daylight. Some of 
 Millet's sketches at Paris a year ago brought a 
 remembrance to my mind of the roads and country 
 places that I had haunted in my early youth. Few 
 painters have drawn such wide fields as he; plains 
 stretching so far — hours so long, as I remember 
 them in those days, when they passed with strangely 
 slow and heavy footsteps. The hours are shorter
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. I4I 
 
 now. The plains are sooner crossed; horizons close 
 in. Hope is less, and less deferred. 
 
 The inhabitants of Visy le Roi might be bakers 
 or grocers in public; in private, after business hours, 
 and at the backs of their houses, they were com- 
 fortable people, with pleasant gardens — in which 
 they spent much of their time, among an abundance 
 of pumpkins, of vine wreaths, of reflecting glass 
 globes on wooden stems, and blue lupins. Some of 
 the people in the village, finding the gardens at the 
 back of their houses insufficient for their require- 
 ments, cultivated quadrangles outside the village, 
 where they would water their rose-trees quietly of 
 summer evenings. 
 
 The Maire of Visy le Roi was very proud of his 
 garden, which was neatly spread out in front of his 
 stone house, and ornamented by two large black 
 balls reflecting each other and the street, and our 
 opposite gateway, and our dining-room windows, 
 and his tidy plots of marigolds and scarlet-runners, 
 which were our admiration. He used to be specially 
 active on summer evenings, and might be seen 
 cfipping, and chopping, and brushing away insects. 
 He was not married in those days; he settled in 
 Normandy after his first marriage, and sold his 
 property at Visy. In fact, circumstances had made
 
 142 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 the place distasteful to him. He was a sensitive, 
 kind-hearted man, although a somewhat absurd one. 
 One of our party, a young French lady, who has 
 since made a name for herself, was a good musician, 
 and evening after evening I have sat listening to the 
 flow of her music and the scrapings of M. Fontaine's 
 violin. I made bold to put them into a book long 
 after, but here they are in the catgut. How plainly 
 these strains still sound coming out of the darkened 
 room, with the figures sitting round; the windows 
 are open to the dim garden, and I can still hear the 
 dinning accompaniment of the grasshoppers outside 
 whistling their evening song to the rising stars. 
 
 My granduncle, who was of an ingenious turn of 
 mind, had come to Visy to try a machine he had 
 invented, and to make experiments in the manu- 
 facture of peat-fuel. It is certain that with his 
 machine, and the help of an old woman and a boy, 
 he could produce as many little square blocks of 
 firing in a day as M. Merard, the rival manufacturer, 
 in three, with all his staff, including his cook and 
 his carter's son. The carter himself, a surly fellow, 
 had refused to assist in the factory. It is true that 
 our machine cost about 300/. to start with, and that 
 it was constantly getting out of order and requiring 
 the doctoring of a Paris engineer; but, setting that 
 aside, as Monsieur Fontaine proved to us after an
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT- FIELDS. 1 43 
 
 elaborate calculation, it was clear that a saving of 
 35 per cent, was effected by our process. 
 
 The engineer from Paris having failed us on two 
 occasions, I believe that my granduncle had at one 
 time serious thoughts of constructing a mechanical 
 engineer, who was to keep the whole thing in order, 
 and only to require an occasional poke himself to 
 continue going. I remember once seeing a wooden 
 foot wrapped up in cotton wool in a box in our 
 workshop, but I believe this being went no further. 
 The old woman's wages, with the boy's, were fifteen 
 francs a week, amounting to about seven pounds for 
 the three months we were at Visy. The Franken- 
 stein's foot alone cost twelve pounds, so that it is 
 easy to reckon how other more complicated organs 
 would have run up the bill. I asked my uncle 
 once whether the creature when complete would be 
 content to live in the shed, or insist on coming 
 home of an evening and joining the family circle. 
 "Who can tell?" said my granduncle, laughing; 
 "perhaps it may turn out an agreeable member of 
 society, and Fontaine himself will be cut out in his 
 attentions to Mademoiselle Merard." 
 
 Old Merard was the rival manufacturer. He 
 came down in his slippers one day to inspect our 
 designs; he did not think much of them, and de- 
 clined to purchase the patent. He and Madame
 
 144 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 Mcrard, and Mademoiselle Leonie, were, so he told 
 us, starting for their estate in Normandy. Madame 
 Merard and her daughter never missed the bathing 
 season, and preferred being accompanied by him; 
 he was a tidy-looking old fellow, Madame was a 
 dark and forbidding-looking person — a brunette, my 
 polite old uncle called her, when I complained that 
 she frightened me with her moustache and gleaming 
 white teeth. Madame Merard had a strange effect 
 upon people's nerves. I always felt as if she was 
 going to bite me. As for Mademoiselle Leonie, she 
 was a washed-out, vapid, plaintive personage, in grey 
 alpaca and plaid ribbons. She embroidered, she 
 sang out of tune, she shuddered at the mention of 
 a Protestant, She would have been a nonentity but 
 for her ill temper, which fascinated Fontaine. I 
 never could otherwise account for the attraction 
 which our friend seemed to find in her society.
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS, 1 45 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 BLACK CANALS AND YELLOW PUMPKINS. 
 
 After the Merards' departure for Petit-port, we 
 saw a great deal of M. le Maire. He was a sociable 
 creature, and consoled himself for his Leonie's 
 absence by various gentle flirtations in the village. 
 Our life would have been monotonous but for his 
 cheerful visits and friendly introductions. All our 
 acquaintance in the place we owed to him. He in- 
 troduced us to the new-made Lords of the Manor, 
 the Fourniers at the Castle (he brought us a message 
 from Madame Fournier requesting us to call there 
 any day our religion might permit), the Merards, the 
 fascinating Madame Valmy, Captain Thompson, our 
 compatriot; upon all these persons we called at 
 Fontaine's suggestion, and escorted by him. But we 
 did not greatly care for society. Some of us were 
 top old, some of us were too young, to need much 
 company beside our own. We young ones lived in 
 good society. Poets sang to us in the mornings 
 under the shady vine trellis, and of evenings by 
 lamplight and by moonlight; we had the company 
 
 Da Cnpo, etc. lO
 
 1^.6 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 of philosophers too, and of romancers, charming in 
 those days with an art which I can remember with 
 a sort of wonder. So we rose betimes, worked and 
 rested, studying in barns and trellised bowers, ex- 
 ploring the farms and farmyards round about. When 
 we had written our exercises, practised our fingers 
 upon the piano, closed our lesson-books, agricultural 
 arts awaited us. Muslin bags had to be made for 
 the sweet heavy bunches of ripening grapes. The 
 pumpkins had to be met, counted, disposed of. I 
 remember one dewy morning when the first pumpkin 
 opened fire, if I may so describe its advent. Next 
 day there were twenty large golden disks, and then 
 from every side they upheaved, growing upon us 
 hour by hour, multiplying, rolling in, in irresistible 
 numbers; hanging from the tops of the walls. From 
 every corner these monstrous creatures encircled us. 
 Poor Fontaine was in despair; it was a plague of 
 pumpkins. "There are those who like pumpkin 
 soup," said he, doubtfully. Here we all cried out, 
 protesting we had had pumpkin soup every day for 
 a week; we did not like it all. But my cousin, 
 Mary Williamson, the housekeeper, declared that it 
 was absolutely necessary, and so the remainder of 
 our stay was embittered to us by the tides of this 
 milky, seedy, curd-like mixture. 
 
 Our visit to the Fourniers was a very solemn
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. I47 
 
 event. From the very first Monsieur Fontaine had 
 been anxious that we should reahse the glories of 
 the Castle. 
 
 "You will see — pure Henri Quatre — Monsieur 
 Fournier bought it direct from the Mesnils, and has 
 not yet refurnished the reception-rooms. The Mesnils 
 had owned it for years, but the late Count ruined 
 the family, and they were forced to sell at his death. 
 Madame la Comtesse signed the papers before me 
 as well as her son. She was in a fuiy, poor woman! 
 I tried to soothe her; she flung the pen into my 
 face; her son, Monsieur Maurice, apologised. 'My 
 dear friend,' I said to him, ' do not mention it.' " 
 
 Monsieur Fontaine came to fetch us on the ap- 
 pointed day. My cousins could not join us, but my 
 uncle put on his short round cloak, and we set off 
 together. On the way along the village street, Mon- 
 sieur Fontaine gave us information about the various 
 inhabitants. "Ah! there goes the doctor; that good 
 Poujac; he is the most amiable character. Monsieur 
 le Cure says he never had a more devout parishioner, 
 and yet if I were seriously ill, I should send to 
 Cqrbeil, I think, for further advice. Madame Valmy 
 has the greatest confidence in him. He nursed her 
 husband in his last illness. It was most alarming 
 for her — it was cholera. Poor Valmy died within 
 twenty-four hours; she is only now out of mourning.
 
 148 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 She has passed the winter at Paris — I should Hke to 
 pass the winter at Paris," sighed Fontaine, "but my 
 duties keep me here, and when my vacation comes," 
 he said consciously, "I am to remain a fortnight 
 with my friends, the Merards, at Petit-port, for the 
 bathing season. Mademoiselle Leonie's health re- 
 quires sea-bathing; she has not the physique of Ma- 
 demoiselle Pauline at the Castle." 
 
 As he spoke, we had a vision of Mademoiselle 
 Pauline herself in the distance, actively trudging 
 alongside the canal. Monsieur Fontaine became 
 very much excited as he pointed her out to us. She 
 was followed by a maid-servant carrying a basket, 
 and walking (juietly, with long country footsteps, and 
 wearing a white coiffe, a handkerchief across her 
 shoulders, and a big apron with pockets. Her young 
 mistress, unconscious of Fontaine's signals, some- 
 times hurried ahead, sometimes lagged behind to 
 gather dock-leaves, branches of green, and marsh- 
 mallows, of which she had made a sort of wreath, 
 bound together by broad blades of grass. I could 
 sec the two heads passing between the willow stumps; 
 some bird wheeled round overhead, and returned to 
 its nest in a willow tree; some water-rat splashed 
 from its hole at the root of an alder. The young 
 person walking ahead hearing this splashing, stopped 
 short and went down on her knees amon2 the
 
 ACROSS TliE PEAT-FIELDS. 1 49 
 
 grasses; the maid-servant, who had long since out- 
 grown the age of weasels and water-rats, and had 
 matured to domestic interests, went on her way. 
 
 What a strange feeling it gives to write of all 
 this that happened so long ago, vividly flashing be- 
 fore one's mind like the splash of the water-rat. I 
 remember how the willows stood at intervals with 
 their black stumpy stems, how all the purples and 
 golds of the evening were reflected in the peat- 
 stained water, shining in the green foliage and on 
 the bricks of the old walls of the park. 
 
 "Mademoiselle!" said the Maire, politely stepping 
 forward. 
 
 Pauline, still upon her knees, looked round into 
 our faces while the Maire introduced us, and the 
 water-rat darted away. She scrambled up; her dress 
 was all dabbled with water, smeared with black 
 earth, and also on fire with the evening light; so 
 was her hair, which was oddly dressed in two twisted 
 horns in the fashion of those days. There was 
 something rude and honest about Mademoiselle 
 Pauline which attracted me to her. She had a 
 thick waist, country shoes; she wore a blue ribbon 
 with a medal round her neck. She had pudgy red 
 hands. She acknowledged Fontaine's elaborate in- 
 troduction by squaring her elbows, with an awkward 
 bob of the head which she had copied from her
 
 150 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 father. Then she turned and said to my uncle in 
 tolerable English, "My papa and mama are at the 
 house; will you come to see them?" and then she 
 led the way without another word. There was a 
 low door in the wall at which Pauline stopped, 
 pushing with her shoulder and giving a violent 
 jerk. 
 
 "Allow me, mademoiselle. You will hurt your- 
 self," exclaimed Fontaine, quite shocked. 
 
 "Take care, my dear young lady," said uncle 
 Joseph; "a small wedge inserted into the opening — " 
 
 But Pauline had burst open the door, and there 
 was no more to be said. We all walked into the 
 park, which was darkly overgi-own, as French parks 
 are apt to be, but not without a certain dim charm 
 of its own. Long vistas glimmered, and narrow 
 avenues of trees ran in every direction. The great 
 gates at the entrance of the chief avenue were half 
 sunk into the earth; the ivies were clinging to the 
 rusty hinges. The Court and its gay company had 
 passed away, leaving it all to silence. For those 
 who were to come after only a sign remained from 
 the past generation to that which was to come — a 
 stone with a herald's mark for us to note as we go 
 by — some symbol of glories that are not quite over 
 yet for impressionable people. And then we in turn 
 hang up our tropliies, names, and records, dumbly
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. I5I 
 
 appealing for goodwill and sympathy to those who 
 are to come after, and so we pass on our way. The 
 maid walked first, then came Pauline swinging her 
 arms, then followed my uncle and Fontaine of the 
 springing step. The park led to an open space in 
 front of the old house, and a ten-ace, upon which M. 
 and Madame Fournier were seated enjoying the 
 evening air. They had coffee-cups on the little green 
 table between them. M. Fournier was in his shirt- 
 sleeves, Madame Fournier's hair was neatly combed 
 and arranged with many pins. She did not wear a 
 cap, as do English matrons. She was like her 
 daughter in appearance; but, although prettier, she 
 had less expression. Neither she nor her husband 
 troubled themselves about Henry IV. and his hunt. 
 They put a large billiard table in the hall, set a 
 maid to darn stockings in a window, placed a green- 
 baize-covered piano exactly in the centre of the 
 drawing-room, saw that the floor was polished, so 
 that Pauline could slide from one end to the other 
 in her chaussons, and prepared to enjoy the fruits 
 of their many years' labour in peace. But there was 
 still something to be done. Pauline, notwithstanding 
 her short frocks, her scrambles, her tails of plaited 
 hair, was eighteen, and of an age to marry. "His 
 daughter's establishment occupies Fournier very 
 anxiously," the Maire had already explained; "se-
 
 152 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 veral propositions have been made, but he has his 
 
 own ideas. Mademoiselle Pauline herself as yet 
 
 only thinks of running wild. Hers is a wonderful 
 activity!" 
 
 "She inherits it from her papa," Madame Four- 
 nier used to say. She was fat and lazy herself, and 
 took her exercise chiefly in nodding from her chair; 
 she would gladly have seen her daughter more like 
 other girls, and used to protest placidly from the 
 chimney-corner, "Would you believe it, Monsieur 
 Fontaine, my daughter drags the roller unassisted 
 for an hour a day! It is inconceivable." 
 
 "Excellent gymnastics, mama," says papa Four- 
 nier, cheerfully. "Don't you interfere with my course 
 of hygiene." 
 
 Next time I walked up to the Chateau. I was 
 amused to meet Pauline actively occupied, as her 
 mother liad described, dragging a huge roller over 
 the grass. The young lady stopped on seeing me 
 coming, wiped her brow, and sent a gardener for a 
 glass of beer, which she tossed off at a draught. 
 Her manners were not attractive at first sight, but 
 one got used to them by degrees, and very soon 
 Pauline and I had struck up a girlish intimacy. 
 
 She was a kind and warm-hearted girl, gentle 
 enough in reality, although she seemed so abrupt
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. I53 
 
 and determined at first. She was dogmatic and 
 conceited; she had a habit of telling long and prosy- 
 stories all about her own exploits and wonderful 
 penetration, but this was only want of habit of the 
 world. Her confidence in others made her a bore, 
 perhaps, but it made one love her too. She had 
 plenty of sympathy and intelligence. She had never 
 read any books, or known anybody outside the walls 
 of her home. It was a lonely life that she had lived, 
 with the garden-roller and her dogs for playfellows, 
 roaming within the gloomy gates of the park, or 
 among the black fields and creeping waters that 
 surrounded it. But she was happy enough; she was 
 free to come and go as she liked. The tranquil 
 commonplace of home was made dear to her by her 
 father's trusting love; even her mother's placid jeal- 
 ousy was part of it all. 
 
 "Before my brother died," she said one day, 
 "mama did not mind little things as she does now. 
 That was years ago — before I can remember. I am 
 the only child," she said, with a sigh, "and all their 
 fortune is for me, they say. They have bought this 
 big house for me; it is part of my dot; it was the 
 de Mesnils' once." Then she shrugged her broad 
 shoulders. "I shall be a great deal richer and in a 
 much better position than Claudie de Mesnil, and 
 yet I assure you Madame la Comtesse would scarcely
 
 154 ACROSS TIIE TEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 allow her daughter to speak to me. She thinks 
 people who are not noble are scarcely human beings. 
 I am a good bourgeoise, and I am not ashamed of 
 it. I might like aristocrats better if they were more 
 like Monsieur Maurice," said Pauline. "That day 
 his mother was rude, and sent her daughter away 
 from me when I spoke to her, he looked really sorry, 
 and came up to mama to try and make up. I was 
 nearly crying, but I would not let them see it. We 
 had gone to offer that detestable woman the Chateau 
 for the summer. She would not take it, so we left 
 it shut up. Another year you might have it if you 
 liked, and you must come and stay with me next 
 week when your uncle goes back to Paris. You 
 don't know me yet; but I know you, and I am sure 
 we shall be good friends. Shake hands," and she 
 held out her hand. It was very red and broad, 
 but its grasp was cordial. "I will come and see 
 you to-morrow after breakfast. Is it true that Pro- 
 testants fast every day but Sunday? I should not 
 like that," says Pauline, making a horrible face. "I 
 did not like the English till I knew you." Here, I 
 suppose, I flushed up. 
 
 "Good morning," I said, very stiffly. "I might 
 say just the contrary. I did like the French until " 
 
 "Nonsense. You like me very much," said Pau-
 
 ACROSS TIIE PEAT-FIELDS. I55 
 
 line, "I shall come and see you to-morrow, after 
 our breakfast." 
 
 I took my way along the canal, and she walked 
 off under the trees, whistling and swinging her arms.
 
 I s6 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AN INVENTORY. 
 
 I AFTERWARDS discovcred that Pauline did these 
 things a Httle out of bravado. She was not really- 
 vulgar, though she did vulgar things, and would 
 swing her arms, rub her eyes, yawn in one's face in 
 the most provoking manner at times. I have heard 
 her exclaim, "Ah! bah!" just as the peasants did 
 down in the village. This was what she said when 
 her father told her one day that an uncle of M. de 
 Mesnil, an old bachelor living in Paris, had, upon 
 some general expression of Monsieur Fournier's 
 goodwill towards the young dispossessed proprietor 
 of the Chateau, asked him pointblank what he would 
 say in tlie event of Maurice de Mesnil coming for- 
 ward as a suitor for the hand of Mademoiselle 
 Fournier. 
 
 "Tliere! that is just like you," cried Madame 
 Fournier, strangely flustered for her. "You tell one 
 this when it is too late; you never consult me, never 
 say one word till the whole thing has blown over. 
 Pauline, I don't know Avhether you or your father is
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT- FIELDS. I57 
 
 the most childish and incapable. I have no doubt, 
 M. Fournier, you never gave any answer at all!" 
 
 "I gave an answer," said Fournier, gravely. 
 
 "Well!" said Madame Fournier, "what did you 
 say?" 
 
 Fournier shrugged his shoulders. "It was ab- 
 surd," said he; "that was what I said. If they had 
 not been so unfortunate, I might have told them 
 that their suggestion seemed an impertinence." 
 
 "An impertinence, papa," said Pauhne. "M. 
 Maurice never would be impertinent. He knew no- 
 thing about it. I could not have believed you to be 
 so prejudiced," and she suddenly leaped over a little 
 rail that happened to be in her way, and walked off. 
 Madame Fournier looked after her. When Fournier 
 spoke again, his wife answered him so sharjoly for 
 her, that I thought it more discreet to leave the 
 worthy couple to themselves. I could not find 
 Pauline anywhere in the park, but on my way back 
 to the house I met Fournier walking thoughtfully 
 along with his hands in his pockets. 
 
 "Have you not found Pauline?" he asked- "Has 
 she run off? Are you not great friends, you two? 
 My little Pauline," he went on, speaking to himself; 
 "she is a treasure. Whoever wins her will have 
 found a treasure. Her mother would have her 
 different — a fine lady; not so would I. She is true
 
 I 58 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 and innocent and courageous, and tender to those 
 who belong to her home. I am thankful to have so 
 good a child." And so he walked on. 
 
 Presently someone came up from behind and 
 caught me round the neck with a sudden pair of 
 arms. 
 
 "You never saw me, you little blind creature," 
 cries Pauline. "I have been peeping at you from 
 behind the bushes. You looked so nice there! 
 Come — papa shall take us in the punt; that is a 
 good bourgeois way of getting about. I saw him 
 just now waiting down by the waterside." And 
 there surely enough stood Monsieur Fournier, looking 
 abstractedly across the canal at the willow stumps 
 opposite. 
 
 It w'as in the punt, as we were sliding along the 
 waters, with the lovely autumn gold lighting the 
 dark banks, with the green leaves floating on the 
 water and insects droning sleepily, and a sweet 
 fragrance in the air, and a faint aroma of distant 
 peat-fields, that M. Fournier said to his daughter, 
 "Tell me, Pauline, is your mother right? Would you 
 like me to think seriously of young de Mesnil for 
 your husband?" 
 
 "I like him very much, papa," said Pauline, very 
 composedly. "I would not wish to influence you or 
 my mother, as 1 am sure you can judge far better
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. I 59 
 
 than I can. But if you ask me my wishes, I should 
 certainly be glad that you should consider M. de 
 Mesnil's proposition." 
 
 I opened my eyes in amazement. Was this — 
 was this the way in which a maiden yielded her 
 heart? Were they serious? They were quite serious, 
 and went on discussing the subject until the boat 
 ran aground. Then we had to clamber up the 
 banks and run home in the twilight, under the trees. 
 
 When Pauline asked me to spend a fortnight 
 with her after my uncle's return to Paris, I had 
 gladly consented, for I was sincerely interested by 
 my new friend. From some hints of Monsieur Fon- 
 taine's, I had imagined that under the circumstances 
 my presence might be thought out of place, but they 
 assured me that I was welcome, and Madame 
 Fournier kindly insisted. 
 
 "We are glad, miss," she said, "that our Pauline 
 should be cheered and distracted by the presence of 
 one of her own age. You young people understand 
 one another." When it was thus decided that I 
 should stay on with Pauline Fournier, the respite 
 was very welcome to me. We had all been very 
 happy in the little village, and not one of us but 
 felt sorry that the time was come to leave it. 
 
 The good farmers' wives had welcomed us hos- 
 pitably, the labouring women had grunted a greeting
 
 j6o across the peat-fields. 
 
 as they trudged home with their loads, so did their 
 little children along the road; Jacques from the mill, 
 Jean from the farm, were all our acquaintances — the 
 Laiti^re at her door, the friendly old grocers oppo- 
 site the church. 
 
 I remember that one day a travelling organ came 
 round to Visy, and was for half the day in the 
 market-place grinding its tunes. The people inside 
 the church could hear it. The old grocer's little 
 granddaughters stood in the shop-door dancing and 
 practising their steps; they were pretty little pension- 
 naires from the convent, with blue ribbons and 
 medals like Pauline's tied round their necks. The 
 old couple looked on, nodding their heads in time 
 to the children. 
 
 "They are beginning early," said the old lady, 
 proudly; "they will be ready for the St. Come." 
 The St. Come was an annual dance at Estournelles 
 hard by, to which the whole village was looking for- 
 ward. . . 
 
 Our lease had come to an end, and the house 
 had to be given up to Madame Valmy, its rightful 
 owner. A very grim-looking maid-servant came to 
 receive the keys, and to take possession. All our 
 own boxes and parcels were carried out through the 
 garden, and placed ready in the road for the little 
 omnibus. It ran daily past our gate at ten o'clock,
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. l6l 
 
 and caught the early train to Paris from Corbeil. 
 My luggage, however, was kept distinct from the 
 family penates, and was piled up on a wheelbarrow, 
 for the gardener to convey to the Chateau in the 
 course of the morning. 
 
 I do not think I have described the Pavilion, as 
 our house was called, now standing empty in the 
 sunshine awaiting the return of its owner. Madame 
 Valmy had put up at the little inn for the night, 
 and was not to come in till the following day; but 
 this maid-servant, Julienne, as they called her, had 
 appeared early in the morning to go over the in- 
 ventory, and to receive the keys from me, the only 
 survivor of our cheerful colony. Julienne was not a 
 pleasant person to have to do with. She was stout 
 and pale, with a heavy sulky face. She seemed con- 
 stantly suspecting me of some sinister purpose as 
 she walked over the house, counted the inventory, 
 and asked for the rent. Monsieur Fontaine had the 
 rent. He had promised to get change for a cheque 
 and to bring the amount, but Julienne did not seem 
 to believe me when I told her so. The house stood 
 dt right angles between a garden and a courtyard; 
 the drawing-room windows opened into the garden, 
 the door of the house led to the courtyard; the 
 courtyard opened into a side street of the village, so 
 that there were two distinct entrances to the house. 
 
 Va Capo, etc. I '
 
 1 62 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 People calling generally came through the court 
 where the bell hung under a little tiled roof all to 
 itself; but it was quite easy to open the garden gate 
 if you knew the trick of the latch, and to come in 
 by the drawing-room windows. An iron gateway, 
 and wreathed by a vine, divided the courtyard from 
 the garden. This door was always locked, besides 
 which the vine had travelled on and on and bound 
 the hinges and the iron scrolls together. I was 
 standing in the courtyard that morning still talking 
 to Julienne and trying to divert her many suspicions, 
 when some shadow fell upon me, and turning round 
 I saw that someone was looking at me through the 
 grating. It was the figure of a slim woman in a 
 pink dress, with a very bright complexion. In one 
 hand she held a green parasol. She laid her white 
 fingers upon the lock. "Madame, you know very 
 well that there is no getting through that way," said 
 Julienne. The woman's voice was singularly rough 
 and yet distinct. As she spoke the figure disap- 
 peared. I don't know what it was that impressed 
 me so disagreeably in both maid and mistress. It 
 is difficult not to believe in some atmosjjhere which 
 strangers coming into a place often feel, although 
 they may not always understand it. Meanwhile 
 Julienne went on with her investigations. "Where 
 arc the chests off the landing?" said she. "We put
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 1 63 
 
 them out of the way," I answered. "You will find 
 them in the little cellar off the dining-room." The 
 housekeeper was not satisfied until she had lighted 
 a candle, descended the three stone steps that led 
 to the cellar, and examined the locks, to make sure 
 they had not been tampered with. "There is an- 
 other cellar beyond," said she, "but it is full of good 
 wine, and we did not give you the key." 
 
 I was not Sony when Pauline interrupted our 
 tete-a-tete; she had goodnaturedly come off to fetch 
 me. "Here you are, miss," she said. "I have been 
 to the station with papa. I saw your uncle and your 
 cousins go off, and now you belong to me for ever 
 so long;" and she took my hands in hers and shook 
 them cordially. Her eyes looked very bright, and 
 her hair very curly. "Well, have you nearly done? 
 can you come with me? How are you? How is 
 your mistress. Julienne, and when is the wedding 
 to be?" 
 
 Julienne answered drily that she never asked 
 questions, and that if people were curious they had 
 better enquire for themselves. Pauline turned away 
 with the family shrug. "The longer it is put off the 
 better pleased I shall be," she said. "I can't imagine 
 how she can think of him. The English are so 
 ridiculous. I wouldn't marry an Englishman." 
 
 I was little more than a schoolgirl, and my
 
 164 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 temper was already roused. "I think it is very rude, 
 and unkind, and inhospitable of you, if you are my 
 friend, to talk in this dreadful way," I cried, almost 
 with tears in my eyes. "The English are not ridi- 
 culous, they are a noble " 
 
 "Do you really mind what I say," said Pauline, 
 taking my hand. "Please, my dear friend, forgive 
 me," and she looked at me full of concern, so that I 
 was obliged to laugh. 
 
 Then, as soon as she had made sure I had for- 
 given her she walked out of the house. Pauline did 
 not look round to see whether I had followed her 
 out, pushed open the door of the courtyard, and 
 marched out into the street. She was very rude at 
 times, and made me more angry than anybody else, 
 but she was so kind and feeling too that I always 
 forgave her. My own cousins were gay, gentle, 
 friendly in manner; she was either quite silent, or 
 she would talk by the hour. She was alternately 
 dull and indifferent and boisterous in her mirth; she 
 was by way of hating affectation, and of thinking 
 everybody affected; in order to show how sincere 
 she was, she seemed to go out of her way to invent 
 rudenesses. She was not even pretty. She might 
 have had a good complexion but for her freckles; a 
 pretty smile and white teeth seemed to be her only 
 attraction. As I have said, she generally wore an
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT- FIELDS. 1 65 
 
 ill-made green frock, country shoes, and coarse 
 knitted stockings. Till she was sixteen she had 
 persisted in keeping her petticoats half up to her 
 knees, with black stuff trousers, such as girls wore in 
 those days, and a black stuff apron and sleeves to 
 match. 
 
 "No," said Pauline, again, "I cannot think how 
 my pretty delightful Madame Valmy can think of 
 marrying your Capitaine Thomsonne, or how she can 
 keep that hon-id Julienne in her service." 
 
 As she spoke we were passing Fontaine's house, 
 and his head appeared for one instant in a window; 
 the next minute he had hurried into the road to 
 greet us. "Are you aware that Madame Valmy is 
 come?" he said, in great excitement. "I have just 
 seen Le Capitaine, who seems a little suffering. But 
 our fine air will set him up. I am immediately 
 starting to pay my respects to Madame. I hope. 
 Mademoiselle Pauline, with your leave, that our 
 musical evenings at the Chateau will now recom- 
 mence, the prima donna being among us once more. 
 To-morrow I am engaged upon business for my 
 friend Monsieur Merard, but Thursday we might all 
 combine perhaps." 
 
 "I will let you know," said Pauline. "We may 
 be busy." She spoke with some constraint. The 
 Maire gave one rapid glance.
 
 1 66 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 It is Strange what a part in life the things play 
 which never happen. We think of them and live for 
 them, and they form a portion of our history, and 
 while we are still absorbed in these imaginary dreams 
 the realities of our lives meet us on the way, and we 
 suddenly awaken to the truth at last, Pauline thought 
 that her fate was being decided, and that by Thurs- 
 day all secret destinies were to be unravelled; no 
 wonder that she was silent as we walked along.
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 167 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 MADEMOISELLE PAULINE's MARRIAGE PORTION. 
 
 When the Comte de Mesnil fell into that hope- 
 less condition from which he never rallied, but sank 
 after some months of illness, it was found that his 
 affairs were in utter confusion. He had kept his 
 difficulties secret even from his wife. It was im- 
 possible to tell whether this impending ruin had 
 produced the mental disturbance from which he was 
 suffering, or whether the ruin had not been partly 
 owing to some secret want of balancing power; for 
 his extravagance had been almost without a limit. 
 The Countess had tried in the first years of their 
 marriage to interfere; but for long past had forborne 
 to blame her husband or to enquire into his affairs. 
 She herself had drawn largely upon his resources. 
 To do him justice, the Count vvas indifferent to 
 money for its own sake, and had only been anxious 
 that everyone should be as comfortable as circum- 
 stances might admit. Unfortunately one day came 
 when circumstances no longer admitted of any com- 
 fort for anybody. The Count's creditors seized his
 
 I 68 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 great house in Paris; the sheriffs officers were in 
 possession; the whole magnificent apparatus of 
 damask, and crystal, and china was to be disposed 
 of by public auction. And the unfortunate Countess, 
 who was more difficult to dispose of, was sitting, 
 silent, resentful, and offended beyond words or the 
 power of words, in a temporary lodging which her 
 son had taken for her use. She had a daughter also, 
 an amiable and gentle girl, who tried in vain to con- 
 sole her, for Madame de Mesnil looked upon all 
 attempts at consolation as insults. We have seen 
 how she treated M. Fontaine. Maurice her son, now 
 Comte de Mesnil in his own right, had suggested 
 their all going into the country, and trying to live as 
 economically as might be upon what might remain 
 to them; but even this moderate scheme was not to 
 be carried out. The estate at Visy remained, but 
 there was scarcely anything left besides, and the only 
 thing to be done Avas to sell that too and to live 
 upon the proceeds of the sale. The one piece of 
 good fortune which befell this unfortunate family was 
 the advent of a purchaser for the estate. This was 
 our friend Fournier, who was Avilling to pay a fair 
 price for the land and the old house upon it. He 
 produced certain sums of money representing a great 
 deal of good sense, hard work, and self-denial, and 
 received in return the estate which the late Count's
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 169 
 
 folly and self-indulgence had thrown into the 
 market. 
 
 Maurice had several interviews with the old 
 manufacturer — ventured to make one or two sug- 
 gestions about the management of the property, 
 which had been very ill received by his late father, 
 but which nevertheless were, in Fournier's opinion, 
 worth considering. Something in the young Count's 
 manner, his courtesy and simplicity of bearing, im- 
 pressed the old man in his favour. Fournier thought 
 himself no bad judge of character, and after that 
 little talk with Pauline he made up his mind. He 
 cared less for money than people usually do who 
 have not earned it. It seemed to him that there 
 were other things wanting besides money to make 
 his girl happy in her marriage. "This young fellow 
 is clear-headed, modest, ready to occupy himself in- 
 telligently; he will make an excellent landlord. My 
 wife has a fancy to see a countess's coronet on her 
 daughter's pocket-handkerchief. Pauline might do 
 worse," he said to Fontaine. "I am going to Paris 
 tp-morrow to speak to the Baron. That is an old 
 fox if you like, but I like the young man." 
 
 "I have known Maurice from his childhood," said 
 Fontaine, solemnly (so he told me afterwards); "he 
 is a gallant man, incapable of a dishonourable action. 
 I will answer for him with my word and "
 
 lyO ACROSS TIffi PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 "Good, good, good," says Fournier, who hated 
 phrases. "I daresay he is very like other people; it 
 will be a good business for him. My Pauline, and 
 my rent-roll, and my share in the factory — it is not 
 a bad bargain he will make." 
 
 It was the very day I went up to stay at the 
 house that Fournier came back from Paris, having 
 concluded this solemn affair. 
 
 We had been walking in the park, in silence, for 
 Pauline seemed absent, and for once she did not 
 care to go on with her usual somewhat long-winded 
 histories. There is a little mound near the terrace 
 from whence one can see the road winding between 
 its poplars, the great fields lying one beyond the 
 other, some golden with corn, others black with peat 
 and with smoking heaps, of whicli the vapours drifted 
 along the liorizon. "There is my father coming," 
 cried Pauline suddenly, and she started running 
 along the avenue, and came up to M. Fournier just 
 at the entrance gate by the poplar-trees, of which all 
 the shadows seemed to invite the passing wayfarers 
 to come in and rest. I followed, running too, be- 
 cause Pauline ran. I am afraid it showed small dis- 
 cretion on my part. 
 
 "Well, Pauline," said her father kindly, stopping 
 to breathe. Then he turned to me. "How do you 
 do, miss? I am glad to see you."
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. I7I 
 
 "Where have you been, papa; what have you 
 been about?" PauHne said, after a minute of 
 silence. 
 
 "I have had a hard day's work in your service," 
 he answered. "I have been to call upon M. le Baron 
 de Beaulieu, upon Madame la Comtesse de Mesnil," 
 said the father, stroking her cheek with his finger. 
 "I have been working for you, mademoiselle. I hope 
 it is all for the best," he repeated, with a sigh. 
 "Mr. Maurice seems a fine young fellow. I do not 
 like the mother." 
 
 "Don't you, papa?" said Pauline, absently; and 
 she stooped and pulled up a handful of grass, which 
 she then blew away into the air. 
 
 "To be Madame la Comtesse is small comfort 
 where hearts are cold, and the home an empty lonely 
 place," said Fournier. "Well, well, the young man 
 is coming here as you wish. You must see him and 
 make up your mind. I don't think he can ever learn 
 how to love you, my child, as well as your old father 
 does." Fournier was veiy gentle and sad, and he 
 went on swinging his stick, and said no more. I 
 lingered behind and watched the father and daughter 
 walk away together, up the avenue towards the house, 
 trudging along side by side, looking strangely alike. 
 When I came in Pauline was not to be seen. 
 M. Fournier was sitting reading the paper in his
 
 172 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 usual corner. Madame Fournier met me on the 
 stairs; I think she had been crying. She stopped 
 me. "Do not go to PauHne just yet," she said; "she 
 
 is agitated, dear child — she— — we . Monsieur 
 
 Fournier has decided. I have been very happy my- 
 self," she added, with a tender look in her flushed 
 red face; "I should like my child to know such 
 happiness. M. de Mesnil is coming here to-moiTOw." 
 They were good and worthy people. I was glad 
 to be with them. 
 
 I was happy enough up at the Chateau, but I 
 could imagine that for a young man it might seem 
 rather monotonous at times. Maurice used to think 
 it almost unbearably so in his father's time, and 
 secretly hated the place. One cannot reason out 
 every motive which prompts each human action. 
 Sufficient be it if the sum, on the whole, drives the 
 impulse rightly. Perhaps it had been no great sacri- 
 fice to the young man to hear that the cruel fates 
 had exiled him from this dreary, familiar, wearisome 
 old home, and that he was to return thither no more. 
 Long after he confessed everything to Pauline; and 
 the dismay he felt when his mother sent for him, 
 and with happy agitation told him of the wonderful 
 chance by which, if he was so incliiied, the old home
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. I 73 
 
 might return to its ancient possessors, to the owners 
 whose right she still considered greater than that of 
 mere purchase. As Maurice heard for the first time 
 of his uncle's suggestion and Fournier's acquiescence, 
 his heart only sank lower and lower; his mother's 
 delight and eager exclamations sounded like a knell 
 to his hopes. "And now, now," cried the poor lady, 
 exulting, "I shall not die with the bitter pang in my 
 heart that your father's was the hand which exiled 
 my son from the home to which he had a right; 
 now," she said, "my life will close peacefully, reas- 
 sured for my children's fate. My daughter need not 
 fear the future. Your home will be hers at my death. 
 I have not deserved so much; it makes up to me for 
 my life of anxious sorrow," said the poor lady, 
 bursting into tears, and covering her face with her 
 hands. Poor Maurice knew not how to answer. His 
 heart went on sinking and sinking; it had leapt up 
 at the prospect of liberty, of hard work, of change, 
 of independence. He had behaved very well; but 
 he had been doing as he liked for the first time in 
 all his life, and now more firmly than ever did the 
 fetters seem rivetted which were to bind him down 
 to Visy. The black canals seemed to rise and rise 
 and choke him; the dreaiy old gables seemed to 
 weigh upon his very soul. For a few moments he 
 stood silent, making up his mind. He was trying to
 
 174 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 frame the scentence by which to explain to his 
 mother what he felt. 
 
 "There is much to be considered," he was be- 
 ginning. Then she raised her head; her entreating 
 eyes met his, she put up her thin hands. 
 
 "Oh, my son!" she said. "Do you think I sacri- 
 fice nothing when I give you up to strangers, that 
 my mother's pride does not suffer at the thought of 
 this cruel necessity? My Maurice, you have been my 
 consolation and my courage; and oh, believe me, my 
 son, you will never regret the impulse which makes 
 you yield to your mother's prayer. Think what my 
 life has been, think of the sorrows I have hidden 
 from my children. Ah ! do not condemn me to that 
 renewed penance; I have no more strength for it." 
 She put her arms round his neck with tender per- 
 sistence. Her wasted looks, her tears, and above all 
 her tenderness, which he had so often longed for as 
 a child, and which had been so rarely expressed, 
 overcame the poor kind-hearted young fellow's faint 
 effort at resistance. He turned veiy pale, his lips 
 seemed quite dry and parched, and something 
 seemed to impede his speech as he said, "Very well. 
 Since you wish it, I will consent. The sooner it is 
 all settled the better, I suppose." He shook off little 
 Claudinc, who came coaxing up to him with innocent 
 congratulations. He scarcely answered his uncle's
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 1 75 
 
 long speeches and elaborations, when the Baron 
 arrived in his black satin stock, prepared to under- 
 take any negotiations. Three days later, Maurice 
 went down to Visy. From a French point of view, 
 the whole thing Avas a highly desirable and honour- 
 able proceeding. M. le Comte de Mesnil arrived in 
 a dogged and determined state of mind, prepared to 
 go through with the dreary farce.
 
 176 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 MADEMOISELLE PAULINe's INTENDED HUSBAND. 
 
 It must have seemed like a sort of mockery to 
 poor Maurice to see the famiUar chairs in the hall, 
 to hear the well-known tick of the old clock in the 
 great salon, and to be solemnly announced to the 
 company assembled at the Chateau — M. Fournier, 
 Madame Fournier, Pauline with her Sunday frock, 
 and Fontaine the friend of the family, who had been 
 invited to break the formality of this first introduction. 
 M. de Mesnil was a youth of the usual type, with 
 honest grey eyes, not unlike Pauline's. He was pale, 
 slight, distinguished in manner and appearance — a 
 contrast to the worthy master of the house, in which 
 M. Fournier certainly seemed to me very much out 
 of place. Pauline looked very pale, too, very clumsy, 
 but noble, somehow, notwitlistanding her plaid frock 
 and her twists. Maurice was perfectly quiet and 
 conventional, bowed with his hat in his hand, ex- 
 pressed his gratitude for the invitation he had re- 
 ceived, sat down in a company attitude upon the old 
 armchau: against which he had so often knocked his
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 1 77 
 
 nose as a child. He took Madame Fournier into 
 dinner, Pauline sat on his other hand. They had a 
 melon, soup, sweetbreads, a gigot, with a plated 
 handle to carve it by; a round tart, cream-cheese, 
 and champagne for dessert. "The dinner was ex- 
 cellent, but Maurice certainly did not distinguish 
 himself," the Maire observed. "I did my best, but 
 conversation languished." 
 
 For the first few days M. de Mesnil was busy 
 with his father-in-law going over the estate and the 
 business connected with it, and while he had work 
 to do, Maurice seemed comparatively resigned; but 
 when, on the third morning, M. Fournier told him 
 to go in and make himself agreeable to his wife 
 and daughter, Maurice felt the old dismay return 
 tenfold. He had little in common with the ladies. 
 He might respect Pauline, but he was certainly 
 afraid of her; and as for making himself agreeable, 
 nothing seemed left for him to do but wander vapidly 
 about from one room to another, or to saunter along 
 the terrace with Pauline and with Madame Foxirnier, 
 who conscientiously and laboriously chaperoned the 
 couple. One day I found him yawning in the hall, 
 and watching the darning of stockings. Another 
 day he assisted Pauline with the garden-roller. 
 Pauline was a curiously determined person. She 
 would not give up one of her pursuits for any num- 
 
 Dti Ca/io, etc. 12
 
 1^8 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 ber of aspirants. "Let them come, too," said she, 
 "if they want to see me." Some horrible dulness 
 overpowered Maurice; a nightmare seemed to be 
 upon the place, and Pauline was only a part of it, 
 and so was everything else. Formerly he used to 
 have schemes for benefiting the tenants, now he no 
 longer wished to benefit anybody. Once it seemed 
 to him want of funds which prevented his efforts — ■ 
 now it was some strange inability to do and care 
 and to interest himself which had come over him: 
 they had taken his liberty away, condemned him 
 to a life he was weary of. He did not care what 
 happened. 
 
 He took us out in a punt one day; and I re- 
 member when we ran aground it was Pauline, not 
 Maurice, who sprang into the water and pushed 
 us off. 
 
 Madame Fournier screamed. M. Fournier only 
 laughed. I'auline, shaking her wet clothes', said it 
 was nothing. However, she conceded something to 
 de Mesnil's well-bred concern, and went back to the 
 house to change her wet things. Maurice would 
 have accompanied her, but his father-in-law called 
 him back. 
 
 "T.ct her be, let her be! She will be quicker 
 without you. We shall meet her at the little bridge." 
 Then we went on our way again in the punt, rather
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 179 
 
 a silent party. The banks slide by, so do the stumps, 
 and the willow rods starting from among the up- 
 springing weeds, and grasses and water-plants stream 
 upon the waters. How dark and blue the sky 
 looked overhead, studding the pale green of the 
 willow-trees ! 
 
 "That naughty child!" said Madame Fournier. 
 "She will get some frightful illness one day if she 
 is not more careful. I am glad you persuaded her 
 to change her wet things, M. Maurice. She would 
 not have done it for me." 
 
 "In my time," said old Fournier, "it was the 
 young men, not the young women, who jumped into 
 the water. You have certainly not brought your 
 daughter up to think of the bienseances, Louise." 
 
 "It is not my doing, Monsieur Fournier," said 
 his wife, reddening. "You would never allow me 
 to hold her back. How many times have I 
 not " 
 
 "Good, good, good!" cries M. Fournier, in his 
 irritated voice. "This is the hundredth time you 
 tell me all this." 
 
 I saw Maurice bite his lip while this discussion 
 was going on. He did not speak; he continued to 
 work the long pole by which we were shoved along; 
 the boat steadily progressed, rounded the point, 
 came out into a sudden glow of light, air, sunshine. 
 
 12*
 
 l8o ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 There was the bridge, there was a sight of the old 
 house with its many windows. Three figures were 
 standing by the bridge. PauHne herself, still in her 
 wet clothes, a short little gentleman with a mous- 
 tache, and a tall lady waving a green parasol. 
 
 "Who is it?" says Fournier, blinking. 
 
 "Why, here is Madame Valmy!" cried Madame 
 Fournier, quite pleased, and bristling up with con- 
 scious maternal excitement at the news she had 
 to give. "And Pauline " 
 
 Mademoiselle Fournier turned and nodded to us. 
 She was wet, soiled, splashed from head to foot. 
 She was talking eagerly to the friends she had en- 
 countered, to the flourishing little gentleman, to the 
 elegant lady, curled, trimmed, cool, in perfect order, 
 who seemed to me to give a sarcastic little glance 
 every now and then at poor Pauline's drenched 
 garments. Fournier called out very angrily again, 
 why had she waited, why had she not gone home? 
 
 "I am going, papa. They did not know the 
 way," shouted Pauline. And she set off, running 
 and swinging her arms as she went along. Then 
 Fournier, rather reluctantly I thought, greeted his 
 guests. Madame Valmy was invited into the punt 
 by Madame Fournier. 
 
 "Get in, if you like," said Fournier. "There 
 will be room enough. You can take my place. I
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. l8l 
 
 will show the captain my new hydrauHc pump, if 
 he will walk across with me to the stables." 
 
 It was a curious change of atmosphere when, 
 with a rustle and a gentle half-toned laugh, Madame 
 Valmy stepped into the broad boat, and settled her- 
 self down beside me. I saw Maurice looking at 
 her with some surprise. She was smiling. To-day 
 she wore a blue gown, and falling muslin sleeves 
 and ruffles. She held her ivory parasol daintily in 
 one mittened hand; she laughed, talked, seemed at 
 once to become one with us all. It was certainly a 
 great relief to the poor young Count to meet this 
 fascinating, agreeable, fashionable person in his 
 somewhat wearisome Arcadia. His eyes brightened, 
 some change came over him; and Madame Sidonie 
 herself, as she liked to be called, appeared greatly 
 interested by the melancholy, pale, romantic looks 
 of M. de Mesnil. She opened her eyes, seemed to 
 understand everything in a minute, and I could read 
 her amused surprise that Pauline, of all people in 
 the world, should have discovered such a husband. 
 Nothing would content Madame Fournier but that 
 Madame Valmy should return to the Chateau with 
 us. The two gentlemen were pacing the terrace 
 and tranquilly discussing pumps. Pauline came to 
 meet us along the avenue, and all the fragrant dark- 
 ness seemed to me like a tide rising among the
 
 l82 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 Stems of the trees. The house-door was open wide. 
 The hall was lighted with two oil lamps; a tray 
 with various cordials and glasses stood on the 
 billiard-table. 
 
 "Come in and rest," said Pauline. "Won't you 
 have some beer, instead of all this?" 
 
 Madame Valmy laughed and shrank back; 
 Pauline tossed off a glass; and Fontaine now ap- 
 peared from within; he had been tuning his fiddle 
 in the drawing-room, and the candles were already 
 lighted on the piano. 
 
 Although Madame Valmy refused the beer, she 
 accepted a glass of chartreuse, and then consented 
 to open the concert, and to sit down at the piano, 
 and to sing a romance which made Maurice thrill 
 again. It was something about — 
 
 Je suis triste — je voudrais mou-ri-re, 
 Car j'ai perdue — ue, mon ami, 
 La la la la li-re. 
 
 When she had finished, M. le Maire accompanied 
 Mademoiselle Fournier on his violin all through an 
 immensely long piece of music, so difficult that he 
 declared no amateur would ever be able to master 
 it, and during the performance of which the Intended 
 was busy paying compliments and whispering re- 
 marks to the songstress. My attention wandered
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 1 83 
 
 away to the two as they sat on the big couch by 
 the window, while the Maire went on from one 
 agonising passage to another, beating time with his 
 foot, running frantic scales, and poor Pauline, with 
 her elbows squared, was banging away at the piano, 
 and rumbling in the bass so as to imitate thunder. 
 She had put on a dress, with two frills sticking up 
 on the shoulders. Her mouth was open, her eyes 
 fixed on her music, her tight bronze shoes hard at 
 work at the pedals. Madame Fournier was in her 
 chair delightedly nodding time. M. Fournier in the 
 distance reading the paper by the light of a lamp 
 with a green shade. M. de Mesnil looked away 
 from his bride and her surroundings to the charm- 
 ing lady who was glancing so archly at him over 
 her waving fan. No wonder if he sighed and 
 thought, perhaps, that honest Pauline was not exactly 
 the idea which a young man would dream of at his 
 start in life — the sympathetic being who, &c. &c. &c. 
 But meanwhile squeak-eak goes the fiddle, bang, 
 rumble, bang goes Pauline, and Sidonie Valmy's 
 deep eyes are glancing, her glittering fan waves 
 faintly, her silence says a thousand things, her smiles 
 sing siren songs, and the foolish young man is sink- 
 ing, sinking, head over ears in the deep water.
 
 184 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 MADAIME VALMY. 
 
 After all these romances and minor chords, my 
 conversation with Madame Valmy that night before 
 she went home seemed rather a come down to 
 commonplace again. She came up very graciously 
 to speak to me as I sat in my corner. She seemed 
 in high spirits, with pink cheeks blushing. 
 
 "I am now at home, and I have to thank your 
 uncle for the rent which he left with M. Fontaine," 
 she said. "My maid, Julienne, who is very difficult 
 to please, tells me that your servants have left every- 
 thing in excellent condition. She begged me to 
 ask," said Madame, with a charming smile, "if you 
 happened to know anything of the key of the door 
 to the recess in the dining-room. We keep our 
 provisions there, the place is so cool and dark — I 
 am giving so much trouble, but Therese is dread- 
 fully particular . . . ." 
 
 De Mesnil prepared to walk home with our 
 visitors across the park. Pauline said she should 
 also like to accompany them. It was quite dark,
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 1 85 
 
 but she came back alone whistling and calling to 
 her dog. 
 
 "I sent him on to the village, mama," she said, 
 in answer to Madame Fournier's glance. "Mary is 
 coming with me for another stroll." She took my 
 hand and held it tight in hers. As we walked out 
 into the evening once more everything looked weird 
 and shadowy, but the last twilight gleam was still 
 in the sky. Pauline did not look up; she was think- 
 ing of other things, her heart was full and she 
 Avanted to speak; she suddenly began in a low 
 moved voice. ''Ah!" she said, "what a great re- 
 sponsibility is another person's happiness! How do 
 I know that I can make him happy? Of what use 
 would it be to me to be Madame la Comtesse? Of 
 what use would the park, and all the trees, and the 
 houses and furniture, and all my money, be to M. 
 Maurice if he was not happy? I am foolish," she 
 said. "I don't know what I want. Mama had only 
 seen my father once when she agreed to marry him. 
 Maurice is so different. His habits are not like 
 ■mine. Oh! I think I could not, could not bear it, 
 if I thought he was unhappy with me. But my 
 father and mother must know better than I can do. 
 They have judged wisely for me in their tender 
 affection, and I can abide by their decision." 
 
 We had come to the gate in the wall; it had
 
 1 86 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS, 
 
 been left wide open; I passed out and looked out 
 across the fields. 
 
 "Do you see him coming?" said Pauline. "Shall 
 we wait here a little bit?" 
 
 We waited a very long time, but Maurice did 
 not come. It was not till I was undressed that I 
 heard the hall-door unbarred, and M. Fournier's 
 voice as he let the young man in. 
 
 It was a hot sultry night, and I could not sleep. 
 I went to the window of my room, which looked out 
 at the back of the house into the park. A sort of 
 almost supernatural sweetness seemed brooding from 
 the vaguely illumined sky, where one great de^vy 
 planet hung sparkling. The other stars were dimmed 
 by this wonderful radiance. The cattle were out in 
 the dark fields beyond the trees, and from time to 
 time I heard them lowing. The sound came dis- 
 tinct, and sounded melodious, somehow, and reassur- 
 ing. Everything was still and very hot. Strange 
 vaporous things whirled past me in the darkness. 
 Moths beat their gauzy sails. Was it a bat's wing 
 that flapped across the beautiful star, as I leant from 
 the window, breathing in the fragrant perfume of 
 some creeper that was nailed against the wall? I 
 could see a line of light from Pauline's window, 
 shooting out into the darkness. Then I saw, vaguely 
 at first, and then more distinctly, some shadowy
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 187 
 
 movement among the flower-beds at the end of the 
 paved terrace. Then the shadow seemed to gain in 
 substance and form, and the sound of slow falHng 
 footsteps reached me. I was only a girl, and super- 
 stitious still in those days, and for a moment my 
 heart beat fast. But almost immediately I recognised 
 something familiar in the movement which told me 
 that it was the very substantial figure of M. Fournier 
 that was wandering in and out and round and about 
 the little flower-beds. It seemed to me a strange 
 proceeding on his part, for it was not the beauty of 
 the night which attracted him. As he passed my 
 window, he seemed to me muttering angrily to him- 
 self. "Que diable!" I heard him say. Then I went 
 to sleep, and awoke with a start, still listening to 
 the wandering footsteps. After all his talk about 
 early hours, here was M. Fournier himself restlessly 
 pacing the night away. 
 
 Captain Thompson was very much occupied just 
 about this time. He was winding up some affairs 
 connected with another peat factory which he had 
 started at Estournelles. He used to be absent all 
 day, and only came in late in time for dinner. He 
 was not there to turn over Madame Valmy's pages 
 as she sat at her piano on the hot autumnal after- 
 noons, but somehow de Mesnil was always ready to 
 do her errands, or to wait her orders. Pauline was
 
 1 88 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 not a severe taskmistress, and never attempted to 
 keep him by her side when he wished to go. 
 
 Monsieur Fontaine, who did not deny having 
 been himself very much attracted by the lovely 
 widow, shook his head solemnly, and disapproved 
 exceedingly of her flirtation with Maurice de Mesnil. 
 Rarer and rarer were the accompaniments his fiddle 
 scraped to Madame Valmy's love ditties, but the 
 songstress somehow thrilled on. Day after day de 
 Mesnil would come sauntering down the street, and 
 stop and go in at the gateway of the Pavilion, and 
 the performance would presently begin, and the 
 music would come floating across the court. 
 
 Pauline herself was an odd mixture of simplicity 
 and shrewdness, and she went about loudly pro- 
 fessing her admiration for the son-in-law her father 
 had chosen. De Mesnil's refinement, his gentleness, 
 impressed the brusque young bourgeoise with a cer- 
 tain shy admiring respect. She declared that he 
 was too good for her, that he was throwing himself 
 away; that she expected some obstacle must inter- 
 vene. She was a girl of singular frankness — she 
 never said a word that was not truth itself. She 
 hated exaggeration; she had no sense of humour; 
 her frankness was sometimes objectionable, her re- 
 marks stupid and ill-timed, and yet, in common 
 with all conscientious persons, there was a certain
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 1 89 
 
 force of character about her which impressed those 
 who came in contact with her. Her mother always 
 ended by succumbing; her father, from whom she 
 inherited this turn of mind, generally ended by giv- 
 ing in to her wishes. 
 
 It was not to be supposed that if Fontaine's eyes 
 were open hers were closed, and that if the Maire 
 had commented upon what was passing she too did 
 not suffer some natural pangs of jealousy. 
 
 Fontaine thought it his duty to speak to M. 
 Fournier on the subject — so he told me confiden- 
 tially; but the retired manufacturer stopped him at 
 once. 
 
 "I have promised Pauline not to interfere for 
 the present," said he; "I can trust her good sense. 
 You will be helping me most effectually by saying 
 no more on this subject to me or to anyone else." 
 
 "Of course I can only respect his wishes," said 
 Fontaine; and so I told Mademoiselle Pauline, and 
 so M. Fontaine told me whenever an opportunity 
 occurred. 
 
 The key which Madame Valmy had asked me 
 for was not to be found. My cousin wrote, and 
 Pauline and I went one day to the village lock- 
 smith, and ordered another in its place. 
 
 "Madame Valmy's Julienne has already been 
 here to tell me to make one," said Lcroux, the
 
 IQO ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 locksmith. "She desired me to send you the ac- 
 count." 
 
 Madame Coqueau, the locksmith's mother-in-law, 
 who was the village newsmonger, here chimed in. 
 "The Captain's cider and champagne had aiTived," 
 she said; "no wonder they were in want of a key; 
 and that Julienne, for all her grim airs, was as fond 
 of a bottle of good wine as others with half her pre- 
 tensions." 
 
 Madame Coqueau evidently shared my dislike 
 to Julienne. Pauline and I said good-bye to Ma- 
 dame Coqueau, good-day to the Cure, whom we 
 passed. We were walking home leisurely up the 
 street, chattering and looking about; I had just 
 asked where the Captain was living, when we passed 
 a low white house, covered with a trellis. 
 
 "This is his house," said Pauline, "and that is 
 the Doctor's opposite." 
 
 Then we came to the gates of the Pavilion, 
 which were open, for Captain Thompson was cross- 
 ing the courtyard from the house. He was look- 
 ing very smiling and trim as usual. He took off 
 his hat when he saw us, stopped, and came up to 
 Pauline, saying — 
 
 "I was just going in search of a good-natured 
 person, mademoiselle. Would you consent to do 
 me a favour? Fongtaine has been drawing up a
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS, 
 
 191 
 
 paper for me. Sidonie can't sign, because she is 
 interested. We want someone to witness my signa- 
 ture, and if you young ladies would be so kind as 
 to come in for one minute, everything would be en 
 reggel. This is very good of you ," as he stood by 
 to let us pass. We went up the steps and past the 
 kitchen. Julienne was standing at the door with a 
 saucepan in her hand. Pauline said "Good morn- 
 ing," but Julienne did not answer. She looked as 
 if she would have liked to throw her saucepan at 
 our heads. I could not imagine what we had done 
 to vex her. 
 
 "You must not mind her," said Captain Thomp- 
 son, as we came into the dining-room. "She is in 
 one of her ill -humours. Only Sidonie, who is 
 sweetness itself, would put up with her. She is 
 rude to everyone. She positively refused to wit- 
 ness for us just now, and that is why I have to 
 trouble you, ladies." Then he opened the drawing- 
 room door and ushered us in. Sidonie, in her 
 sweetest temper and blue trimmings, was installed 
 in her big soft chair by the window. She seemed 
 unprepared for our appearance, but her embarass- 
 ment did not last. 
 
 "Well, Sid! here are some witnesses," said the 
 Captain; "now we shall get the business settled." 
 
 A huge foolscap lay on the table, emblazoned
 
 1 92 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 in Gothic letters with "Will of Captain J. Beauvoir 
 Thompson, of Amphlett Hall, Lancaster." M. Fon- 
 taine was ^vritiug something at a side-table. He 
 waved his hand to us and went on. 
 
 Captain Thompson went up and read over Fon- 
 taine's shoulder, while I looked round in some sur- 
 prise. Was this the room we had lived in for so 
 many months? It seemed transformed into some 
 strange place. The furniture was differently ar- 
 ranged, dark blinds had been put up in the win- 
 dows, mirrors hung from the walls; bonbon boxes, 
 footstools were scattered all about, huge japan pots 
 stood on the chimney; some sense of enclosure had 
 come over the place; there was a faint scent of 
 patchouli, a log was smouldering in the grate. The 
 homely country fragrance of the vines and the garden- 
 beds had pleased me better on the whole. 
 
 "There," said the Captain, as Fontaine finished. 
 "Thank you, Fongtaine, and now, in case of any- 
 thing happening to me between this and the wed- 
 din', I shall feel sure that you won't be put 
 upon, my poor little woman. I know I'm absurd, 
 
 but " he walked across to where Madame Valmy 
 
 was sitting. 
 
 She did not notice him at first. "Why do you 
 persist in dwelling upon such dreadful thoughts?" 
 said she, starting up suddenly with a glance at
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 1 93 
 
 Pauline; "why trouble yourself cabout me; I should 
 manage somehow, anyhow, as I did before I knew 
 you. What should I want else if I had not my 
 foolish, foolish " 
 
 Here she pulled out her handkerchief. 
 
 "There, there, don't cry, dear; it is all non- 
 sense," said he. "You get anxious, you silly child," 
 and his voice softened. "Why, it was something 
 you said yourself last night which put it all into 
 my head. It is only a fancy. I shan't die any 
 the sooner for writing my name upon a piece of 
 paper." 
 
 As he walked back to the table, the door opened 
 and Julienne looked in. He was deliberately writ- 
 ing his name with a flourish; Madame Valmy was 
 watching him, and I, looking up, saw Julienne's 
 strange eyes reflected in the glass. Then Pauline 
 witnessed the signature; and as she, too, suddenly 
 met this strange fixed glance she turned pale. 
 
 "What is it. Julienne?" said she. "Why do you 
 look at me like that?" 
 
 Julienne gave no answer, but walked away. 
 
 Madame Valmy began to laugh, rather hysterically. 
 "I don't know what is the matter with Julienne," 
 said she; "she seems to have a horror of business. 
 I myself am rather interested in it." 
 
 "Business! Sid thinks she understands about 
 
 Da Capo, etc. 1 3
 
 194 
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 business!" said the Captain, fondly. "Shall I tell 
 Fongtaine what a confusion you had got into, poor 
 child, when you first consulted me? Think of her 
 trying to speculate at the Bourse." 
 
 Madame Valmy, with burning cheeks, was evi- 
 dently vexed by the conversation, and the good 
 Captain saw this and became serious at once. 
 
 "Thank'ee, thank'ee," he said, folding up the slips 
 and putting them neatly away in his despatch-box. 
 
 The incident was slight enough, but it made an 
 impression on me. I remembered his kind look 
 afterwards. 
 
 "You English," said Fontaine, gathering up his 
 hat and gloves; "you are a generous, impulsive 
 race. I am sure, M. le Capitaine, that Madame 
 Valmy must be touched by your care for her." 
 
 "Nonsense, nonsense," said the Captain. "Sid 
 makes a great deal out of nothing. Now then. 
 Julienne and I are going to put by the cider. I 
 believe that is the real secret of her impatience this 
 morning. Good-bye, thank you," he repeated. 
 
 Madame also accompanied us to the door, wav- 
 ing farewells. She embraced Pauline, who seemed 
 to me less demonstrative than she had usually been 
 to her friend. She did not say a single word as 
 we walked away. At the end of the village street, 
 by the church, we met Maurice walking down.
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 1 95 
 
 "Were you coming to meet us?" Pauline asked, 
 brightening up when she saw him. 
 
 He looked at her gravely, and said, "No, I 
 was not, but I will walk back with you if you will 
 allow me." 
 
 He and Pauline went first; I followed. I could 
 not help, as I went along, speculating about Ma- 
 dame Valmy and her feeling for the Captain. It 
 seemed to me that it was Fontaifie who had been 
 touched by the Captain's affection for Madame 
 Valmy, far more than that lady herself, for she cer- 
 tainly was not crying when she pulled out her hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 13^
 
 196 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 COFFEE. 
 
 English Parisians are a curious race of willing 
 exiles from their own country. I remember how I 
 and my companions as girls used to feel an odd 
 isolation at times and shame for our expatriation. 
 We used to hang up our youthful harps by the 
 waters of Babylon and lament our captivity, and 
 think with longing of the green pastures and still 
 waters of our native land. Older people feel things 
 differently. Captain Thompson for one was never so 
 well pleased as when anybody mistook him and his 
 paddings and his blue boots for a Frenchman. He 
 was respected in his own country; he was the master 
 of a pretty home there and a comfortable estate; 
 but his dream was to live abroad, and to be ordered 
 about by the widow. He would have changed his 
 name, and his nationality, if he could, as he did his 
 clothes, and all his habits, soon after making Ma- 
 dame Valmy's acquaintance. After he knew her 
 time and space were not, except indeed so far as
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 1 97 
 
 they concerned her and her wishes. For two years 
 he had hved in her presence; he had taught himself 
 French, which he spoke with wonderful fluency and 
 an inaccuracy which was almost heroic. Madame 
 Valmy used to stop her pretty little ears at times; 
 the Captain would blush, try to correct himself good- 
 humouredly, and go on again, after gallantly kissing 
 her fair hand by way of making peace. Of his 
 devotion to her there was little doubt; her feelings 
 for him used often to puzzle me. She seemed to 
 avoid his company, to be bored by him; to accept 
 his devotion, his care, his romance, with weariness 
 and impatience. I have seen a doubtful look in his 
 honest round face at times, and then at a word from 
 her, some friendly little sign, he would brighten up 
 again. 
 
 Little girls who are not yet of an age to be 
 engrossed in conversation or in their own affairs are 
 more observant than people imagine, and although 
 Pauline praised Madame Valmy from morning to 
 night, I never heartily responded. She was white, 
 she was pink, she was exquisitely dressed, she was 
 kind, her eyes were blue under her thick fair eye- 
 brows; but it seemed to me that her kindness, her 
 grace, her soft colours, were not the spontaneous 
 outcomings of a gentle heart, but the deliberate 
 exertion of her wish to please, to seem charming to
 
 igS ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 certain persons for purposes of her own. It seemed 
 to me that she was stupid, and with all her clever- 
 ness devoid of imagination. I remember once seeing 
 her push a toddling child out of her way into the 
 gutter; the little thing fell and began to cry; Ma- 
 dame Valmy walked quietly on, scarcely glancing to 
 see whether the baby was hurt. It was Monsieur 
 Fontaine, who happened to be on his doorstep, who 
 came down, picked the child up, and gave it a sugar- 
 plum, and wiped its face with his bandanna hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 Madame Valmy had been spoiled all her life, by 
 fortune, by misfortune, by trouble of every kind. 
 She had married to escape a miserable home, but 
 she married a rough and jealous and brutal man, 
 whom she had never loved, and his cruelty roused 
 all that was worst in her nature. Madame Valmy 
 seemed to be utterly without the gift of conscience. 
 Some people are said not to have souls — at least 
 that is the only way in which I can account for 
 events which came to my knowledge afterwards, and 
 which never seemed to me quhe satisfactorily ex- 
 plained away. Sometimes I believe for a minute 
 some vague vision of better things than her own 
 warmth and ease and greed and need for admiration 
 would come before her, but these visions were only 
 passing ones; at tlie first nip of cold, the first effort
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. IQQ 
 
 of self-restraint, this weak, stubborn, reckless creature 
 forgot everything but her own grasping wishes — to 
 be first, to be rich, envied, admired, to dazzle and 
 eclipse all other women, to fascinate every man 
 within her reach, to go to heaven charming M. le 
 Cure and M. le Vicaire by the way — I can hardly 
 tell what she hoped and what she did not hope. 
 She was not grateful, for she took everything as her 
 due, while she had the bitter resentments of a per- 
 son who over-estimates her own consequence; but 
 with all this her manner was so charming, so gentle 
 and sprightly, her laughter was so sympathetic, her 
 allusions to her past sufferings so natural and so 
 simple, that most people were utterly convinced by 
 her. Madame Fournier and Pauline both thought 
 there was no one like their pretty, poor, ill-used 
 Madame Valmy. Fournier mistrusted her, but Fon- 
 taine would have gone to the farthest end of his 
 Commune for her, and as for our compatriot Captain 
 Thompson, he was head and ears in love with her, 
 and considered himself engaged to the sweetest 
 angel in the world. 
 
 He had first known her at Visy in her husband's 
 lifetime; it was from Valmy that he had bought his 
 land and the little house in the village which he 
 inhabited. Captain Thompson never spoke of those 
 days. I have seen him turn quite pale when Fon-
 
 200 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 taine made any allusion to the time when they first 
 met. Fontaine was less sensitive, and used to give 
 us dark hints of Madame Valmy's history. I remem- 
 ber one evening, as we were all strolling across the 
 fields in the sunset, that Fontaine was discoursing 
 about the Valmy menage and stove in his dining- 
 room. 
 
 "It is six years since it was put up," said he. 
 "I remember that the only civility the late M. Valmy 
 ever showed me was at that time. He came to 
 see it fixed and gave me several very useful 
 hints." 
 
 "M. Valmy! You knew him then. What sort of 
 man was he?" said Madame Fournier. 
 
 "That would not be very easy to tell you," said 
 Fontaine. "He was a man of military carriage, 
 bronze complexion, a black, penetrating eye, a 
 taciturn disposition. You may have heard how he 
 locked himself up, and his wife too for the matter 
 of that. They say he once kept her for a whole 
 month in one of those little cells out of the dining- 
 room." 
 
 "Who says so?" cried a voice at our shoul- 
 der. What a horror! It was Pauline who had 
 joined us. 
 
 "Ah, Mademoiselle!" said Fontaine; "excuse my
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 201 
 
 Starting — in reply to your question," and he lowered 
 his voice, "Madame Picard mentioned the circum- 
 stance to me. She lived next door, and she heard 
 it from a servant who was soon afterwards dis- 
 missed." 
 
 "I don't believe it," said Pauline. "M. Fontaine, 
 you should not repeat such things." All the same I 
 saw Pauline watching Madame Valmy that evening 
 with strange looks of pity. Well, her troubles were 
 over. Captain Thompson seemed to be of quite a 
 different temperament from his predecessor, and his 
 one regret was that there were not more families in 
 the neighbourhood with whom there was any possi- 
 bility of intimacy. The retired pastrycook in the 
 house near the church was scarcely an associate for 
 educated people; the doctor was a stupid little 
 being, born in the village, and with but two ideas 
 in his head. One was that Madame Picard should 
 look kindly on his suit, and join her fortune and 
 her cows to his practice; the other idea was 
 that an 'infusion de the' was a specific for every 
 malady. 
 
 On this particular evening, as we walked through 
 the village, Madame Valmy began to ask us all in, 
 to drink coffee in her garden. 
 
 "It is absurd," said she, "of me to invite you 
 
 I
 
 202 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 down from your pleasant terrace to my little par- 
 terre, but, as you are here, if you will come in, the 
 Captain shall make the coffee. Nobody understands 
 the art so well as he does. Even Julienne admits 
 his superiority." 
 
 As she spoke she led the way and we all followed 
 one by one. We came in across the court-yard, 
 passed through the house and out into the garden 
 again, where a table was ready laid, and some 
 chairs were set out. Julienne, looking as black as 
 usual, and not prepared to admit anybody's supe- 
 riority, came and went with coffee-cups and plates 
 of biscuit and cakes, clanking her wooden shoes. 
 The sky was ablaze, and so were the Michaelmas 
 daisies in Madame Valmy's flower-beds. They seemed 
 burning with most sweet and dazzling colour. A 
 glow of autumn spread over the walls and the vines, 
 and out beyond the grated door that looked upon 
 the road and the stubble-fields. 
 
 As I sat there I looked back into the comfortable 
 house through the drawing-room windows. M. Fon- 
 taine's dark inuendoes seemed utterly out of place 
 amid so much elegant comfort. How impossible 
 crime and sorrow seem when the skies are peacefully 
 burning, when the evil and the good are alike rest- 
 ing and enjoying the moment of tranquil ease! The
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 203 
 
 Captain may have been enjoying himself, but he 
 was not resting. He came and went, puffing and 
 hospitable, with a huge coffee-pot, from which he 
 filled our cups. 
 
 "Prengar, mon fiUe," he said to the maid-servant, 
 over whom he nearly tumbled once, coffee-pot and 
 all, in his eagerness to serve us. Pauline put out 
 her hand — one of the small tables went over; 
 Madame Valmy gave a little scream of annoy- 
 ance, the hot milk was spilt over her pale azure 
 dress. 
 
 "Sidonie! my dear Sidonie, are you hurt?" cried 
 he. 
 
 She laughed, but it was an angry laugh. "I am 
 not in the least hurt, it is nothing," she said. "You 
 have only spoilt my dress, you or whoever it was," 
 and the gleam of her blue eyes seemed to say, Pau- 
 line, you have done it on purpose. "Here, Julienne! 
 bring a handkerchief," she said; "there is one in my 
 work-basket." 
 
 "I know, I saw it there," cried Maurice, eagerly 
 jumping and running into the house. 
 
 I thought Pauline looked a little surprised that 
 Maurice should be so much at home at the Pavilion 
 as to know the contents of Madame Valmy's work-
 
 204 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 basket. She said nothing. Madame Fournier stared 
 at the young man when he came back, and if Fon- 
 taine had not started some discussion about the 
 length of time that coffee should be allowed to boil, 
 I think we should none of us have spoken. Pre- 
 sently Fournier put his untasted cup down on the 
 table, and looked up at the evening star which was 
 twinkling over the garden wall. 
 
 "It is getting cold," he said. "My rheumatism 
 will not let me sit still here any longer. Pauline, 
 will you come for another walk?" said he, "so long 
 as it is not in the direction of Etournelles; they have 
 got their dance for the St. Come." 
 
 "Papa!" cried Pauline, "that is exactly where I 
 want to go." 
 
 "Etoumelles, is that where they are dancing?" 
 said Maurice; "why should we not go? The Captain 
 shall dance, and so will I, and here is our agile 
 friend Fontaine," he added, laughing. 
 
 "I would go four miles to get out of their way," 
 said Monsieur Fournier, impatiently. 
 
 It is all very well for people who have danced 
 for years and years to all manner of tunes and jigs 
 until they are tired, to walk away quietly. Pauline 
 and I were young enough to feel our hearts beat
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 205 
 
 more quickly when we heard the scraping of fiddle- 
 strings; our limbs seemed to keep some secret time 
 to the call of these homely instruments (how many 
 measures are there not to which one would fain 
 keep time while life endures!). Some melancholy 
 strain had been sounding in Pauline's ears as she 
 sat among Madame Valmy's gay flower-beds. The 
 thought of the peasants' dance at Etournelles came 
 to her, I could plainly see, as a distraction, a means 
 of escape from oppressing thoughts. 
 
 "Dear papa," said she, "let us go; take mamma 
 home. Maurice is here, he and Monsieur Fontaine 
 will see us back." 
 
 "And I may be allowed surely to chaperone the 
 young ladies. They would enjoy the dance of all 
 things," said Madame Valmy, recovering her temper. 
 
 But Madame Fournier objected, as any properly- 
 educated French mother would be sure to do. Pau- 
 line must not be seen in public without her. What 
 was Madame Valmy thinking of? To everybody's 
 amazement Madame Fournier actually proposed to 
 walk another mile to the dancing place. "M. Four- 
 nier, thou wilt send back the carriage to fetch us," 
 said she, decisively. "Tell Jean to wait for us at 
 the corner of the road by the Captain's new shed." 
 
 "Ah, yes, the machine is not working at this
 
 206 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 hour," said Fontaine, "or else it is hardly the 
 place where I would recommend a carriage to 
 wait." 
 
 It was settled. Fournier marched off to his 
 evening paper; we started in couples and triples 
 across the fields. I was surprised to notice Madame 
 Valmy's childish excitement. She was nodding and 
 wriggling in a sort of exaggeration of her usual 
 ways. Pauline plodded alongside. Monsieur Fon- 
 taine had offered his arm to Madame Fournier, who 
 had tied her handkerchief under her chin. 
 
 Allow me to compliment you upon this ex- 
 tremely becoming toilette," I heard the Maire say- 
 ing to her. "Sprigs upon a white ground are always 
 in good taste." 
 
 Captain Thompson was still ruminating upon 
 the accident. "Spilt milk. There's a proverb about 
 spilt milk. It was a mercy her arm wasn't burnt, 
 she would not have been able to come this evening. 
 I don't know if you young ladies mean to dance. 
 I think I would take a turn myself if I could find 
 any one to take pity on me. You may well look 
 surprised, Miss Mary. But I don't know how it is," 
 said the little man, "everything seems so happy, and 
 though I'm a middle-aged man, yet I feel as if I 
 were a boy again. I have been very fortunate, I
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 207 
 
 have had better luck than I deserve all my life, and 
 now this sweet angel has taken pity on me and con- 
 sents to take me under her wing. No wonder I feel 
 young."
 
 208 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 A COUNTRY DANCE. 
 
 A peasants' dance is always a pretty, half-merry, 
 half melancholy festivity to persons looking on. The 
 open air, the rustle of trees, the mingled daylight 
 and darkness, the freshness, the roughness, the odd 
 jingling of the country music, the rustic rhythm of 
 the dancers; the country people coming across fields 
 and skirting the high-roads; some feeling of the long 
 years of hard work before them, of their daily toil 
 intermitted; the echoes sounding across the darken- 
 ing landscape — all these things touch one with some 
 strange feeling of sympathy and compassion for the 
 merrymakers. We were bound to a certain open 
 green at Etournelles where the villagers used to meet 
 and dance on Sundays after church, while the elders 
 looked on, smoked their pipes, and made their com- 
 ments to the merry jigging and jingling of their 
 children's pleasures. The refreshments were simple 
 enough, and consisted of a little beer, a few cakes, 
 or pears, baked in the country ovens, and set upon 
 a wooden board under a tree. The music was made
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 20C) 
 
 by a boy blowing on a pipe, an old man scraping a 
 fiddle, sometimes on grand occasions such as this a 
 second fiddle was forthcoming, with an occasional 
 chorus of voices from the people dancing. When 
 the grand ladies and gentlemen from the houses all 
 round about came to look on, the voices would be 
 shy and hushed for a time. But soon the restraint 
 would wear off; the dancers, carried away by the 
 motion and the exhilaration of all this bouncing and 
 swinging, would burst out anew; sometimes the fine 
 people themselves would be seized with some sudden 
 fancy to foot it with the rest. The grand gentlemen 
 would ask the village maidens to dance, or lead for- 
 ward one of their own blushing ladies, half shy, 
 half bold. 
 
 Pauline was shy to-night, and when Maurice 
 invited her, as he was in duty bound to do, she 
 hung back a little ashamed, and yet, as 1 could 
 see, she was only wanting a few words from him 
 to give her courage. Her eyes looked so kind, 
 her smile was so humble and yet so sweet for an 
 instant. She blushed. "Won't you come?" said he 
 gaily. 
 
 "Don't you see that the child is timid," said 
 Madame Valmy, hastily. "I will begin! I am an 
 old woman, I have faced more terrible things than 
 
 Da Capo, etc '4
 
 2IO ACROSS THE TEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 a village dance. Will you hold my fan, M. Fontaine, 
 and my shawl?" 
 
 Maurice could only offer his arm with ready 
 alacrity. 
 
 Fontaine bowed and took the fan. Pauline's 
 happy eyes seem to grow dim. The country people 
 looked on, they had whispered a little to each other, 
 hung back for a few minutes, and then again they 
 seemed to be caught up by the wave, and to forget 
 our presence. The tree rustled over our heads, and 
 some birds awakened by the music chirped a note 
 or two. The fields lay darkling round us, a great 
 round pale moon slowly ascended from beyond the 
 distant willow-trees. Its faint rays lit up the dark 
 fields beyond, and the canal gleamed; so did the 
 tiled roof of the new machine-house as it glittered in 
 the light of this cold river of light. 
 
 Madame Fournier found a seat on a bench 
 under a tree, Pauline and I stood beside her; 
 our gentlemen came and went. There was a paper 
 lantern hanging from a branch just over Madame 
 Fournier's head, so that she seemed a sort of 
 beacon to return to at intervals. Captain Thomp- 
 son, seeing that Sidonie was dancing, invited 
 me. We did not join the general circle, but 
 chose a modest corner in the shade, where he and
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELD3. 2 I I 
 
 I danced a little polka to the music on our own 
 account. 
 
 When he brought me back to Madame Four- 
 nier, Madame Valmy with a lively sign of the 
 head was just going off a second time with M. le 
 Comte. 
 
 "Ah! Capitaine," said Fontaine, who was stand- 
 ing by, "we are admiring Madame Valmy's grace- 
 ful talent. Yes, from out yonder you Avill see 
 them better." "Admirable man!" said the Maire, 
 looking after him. "There he goes! Times are 
 changed since I first knew Madame Valmy. Look 
 at her, what grace, what gaiety. Ah! here is our 
 good doctor. How do you do, Jobard? What are 
 you doing here?" 
 
 "I have been to see Madelon at the mill," 
 said Jobard, with a professional air. "She sleeps, 
 eats, the symptoms are good; I feared cholera, 
 but there is no danger whatever. I am glad to 
 see Madame Valmy enjoying herself so much. 
 She too has been indisposed. She sent for me 
 only yesterday; my medicine has done her good. 
 How she goes round! Look at her! round and 
 round!" 
 
 "Madame Valmy indisposed!" said Fontaine; 
 "she never complained to me!" 
 
 "Oh!" said Jobard (he was a little, high-
 
 212 ACROSS TIIE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 shouldered, shuffling man), "it has been a mere no- 
 thing — malaise! migraine! want of sleep, want of 
 sleep! She could not close her eyes for the rats 
 in that garret. I know them. I lived in the house 
 that winter after poor M. Valmy died. There was 
 noise enough to wake a regiment, wind in the 
 chimney, rats and mice racing in the wainscot, and 
 that tree outside creaking and swaying. Along with 
 Madame Valmy's medicine, I sent some physic for 
 messieurs the rats, which I found very efficacious 
 when I was there. Those old houses, they are all 
 alike. I infinitely prefer my present domicile." And 
 Jobard, seeing a patient, walked on with a bow to 
 Madame Fournier. 
 
 "Excellent man!" said Fontaine aloud, as Jo- 
 bard walked off tlirougli the crowd, then he con- 
 tinued, lowering his voice: "He may well complain 
 of the noises in that house; there are those who 
 assure me that rats can hardly account for the 
 extraordinary noises which are heard in the Pavilion 
 at times. Those who believe in the supernatural 
 declare that — but we will not talk of it. La Mere 
 Coqueau, you know her — her daughter married 
 Leroux, the blacksmith — once ventured to ask 
 Mademoiselle Julienne her impression. She says 
 she shall never forget the look in the woman's 
 face."
 
 ACROSS THE TEAT-FIELDS. 213 
 
 "Madame Coqueau is an old gossip," said 
 Pauline impatiently. "Why are you always quoting 
 her, M. Fontaine?" 
 
 "She has played her role," said Fontaine, slightly 
 offended. "I do not wish to bring her again upon 
 the scene." Pauline, however, was not listening to 
 the Maire, but to the music, and her eyes were fol- 
 lowing Maurice and Madame Valmy twirling in time 
 to it. The two fiddles were answering each other 
 with some fresh sudden spirit, and the whole com- 
 pany seemed stamping in time to the measure. 
 A little wind came blowing from across the 
 fields. 
 
 Madame Fournier, who liked anything in the 
 shape of a medical disquisition, now began asking 
 with some interest how M. Valmy died. "It was an 
 unhealthy season," said Fontaine with his eloquent 
 finger. "He had caught some chill out in his peat- 
 fields, and he sent for Dr. Jobard. He seemed re- 
 covering, they talked of moving to Paris next day, 
 when in the evening he was suddenly attacked with 
 stomach cramp. Jobard was again sent for — I 
 fetched him myself. He did everything that could 
 be done, applied cataplasms of bran, prescribed in- 
 fusions of tea, and of violets. I called to inquire 
 the first thing in the morning. Madame Valmy was 
 most unremitting in her attentions; she allowed
 
 214 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 no one else to come near him, gave him every 
 medicine, watched him night and day; nothing 
 was neglected; it was all in vain; he died, poor 
 man, and so much the better for everybody. You 
 would not recognise Madame Valmy now if you 
 had seen her then. Have you ever remarked 
 a blue scar upon her throat?" said Fontaine, 
 in a whisper, for Maurice and his partner were 
 dancing past us at that moment. "Shall I tell 
 you — " 
 
 "I have no curiosity for such details," inter- 
 rupted Pauline coldly. "She has evidently forgotten 
 her troubles, whatever they may have been." 
 
 "But this cholera is alarming," said Madame 
 Fournicr, with placid persistence. 
 
 "A man and an old woman died at Etournelles 
 last year," said Fontaine, "and you know what ter- 
 rible mortality we have had in Paris." 
 
 "So it ivas cholera," said Pauline. 
 
 "Dr. Jobard had no doubt whatever on the sub- 
 ject," replied the Maire. 
 
 "I never pay the slightest attention to anything 
 that Dr. Jobard says," cried Pauline. 
 
 "I'ardon mc, Mademoiselle" (in a reproving tone). 
 "Our exrcllciit doctor has liad great experience both
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 215 
 
 with cattle and human subjects. He described the 
 theory of cholera to me only the other day; it is 
 proved to be some subtle poison which penetrates 
 the system. Valmy, predisposed to absorb the 
 
 miasma, fell a victim to its fatal influence 
 
 Mademoiselle," said the Maire, interrupting himself 
 suddenly, "they are playing a countiy dance; will 
 you not honour me?" The fiddlers had changed 
 their key. 
 
 Madame Valmy came gaily up, sliding her feet, 
 leaning back on her partner's arm. She looked into 
 Pauline's face with her sparkling blue eyes. "Dear 
 Pauline," she said, "you must spare M. Maurice to 
 me for this one more dance; I am positively a child 
 where dancing is concerned. I could go on for 
 hours." 
 
 It certainly occurred to me that Pauline and I 
 were a great deal younger than she was, and not 
 less inclined to dance. Pauline, however, refused 
 Fontaine's invitation, although I heard Madame 
 Fournier nervously urging her to take a turn. The 
 girl was very pale, very determined. She wished to 
 remain by her mother, she said. 
 
 It was at her suggestion that Fontaine offered me 
 his arm, and we set off together, but Pauline's looks 
 haunted me, and I thought that my partner also was 
 pre-occupied.
 
 2l6 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 Sometimes as we twirled in time, and advanced 
 and retreated, I caught sight of Captain Thompson's 
 little round face, anxiously watching his beautiful 
 Sidonie in her flights. 
 
 "She dances too much," said Fontaine, who was 
 also on the look-out. "When people have had such 
 a life as hers, they are apt to forget everything 
 when pleasure comes in their way. But I can see 
 that Thompson, who is the best fellow in the world, 
 is vexed. Valmy never allowed her to dance. Per- 
 haps he was in the right." 
 
 Fontaine seemed haunted by some spirit of re- 
 miniscence that evening. At every pause in the 
 dance he kept returning to the story he had been 
 telling us. "Who would believe in the past, who 
 saw her now?" he said. "I know for certain she 
 was once met flying from her home, but Valmy 
 came after her, and she went back to him. They 
 say he kept her locked up for three months on that 
 occasion. It was then he had the gate leading from 
 the courtyard to the garden fastened up." 
 
 There was something revolting to me in the 
 thought of a woman, who had suffered so much, 
 now apparently forgetting it all to the sound of a 
 fiddle; forgetting her own past, and another person's 
 l)rcsent — so it seemed to me. She appeared to have
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 217 
 
 no scruples; she absorbed Maurice that evening, 
 without a thought for Pauhne, or for Captain Thomp- 
 son, who went away, I think, for I saw him no more. 
 Maurice asked Pauline to dance once again, but it 
 was evident that it was only from a sense of duty 
 that he did so; and if Pauline consented, it was 
 only to give a countenance to Maurice himself, and 
 to prevent people from saying that he was entirely 
 neglecting his betrothed. It was not a happy even- 
 ing. Madame Tournier alone should have been 
 satisfied. She made a heroic effort to give her 
 daughter pleasure; her conscience was its own re- 
 ward. 
 
 "Are we never going home, mamma?" said Pau- 
 line, wearily. 
 
 The music had ceased, the peasants were talking 
 together and buzzing like a swarm of bees. As we 
 Avere making our way across the green, towards the 
 corner of the road where Madame Fournier had 
 desired her carriage to meet her, we came upon two 
 gentlemen walking arm-in-arm in the shadow. One 
 was Maurice, the other was Fontaine, who seemed 
 to have drawn his companion away from the crowd. 
 It was impossible not to gather portions of the 
 Maire's emphatic sentences as we came along: "You 
 cannot prevent chattering tongues. Your duty to
 
 2l8 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 your interesting fiancee — excuse the frankness of an 
 old friend." 
 
 Pauline stopped short, shrinking back. "Oh, 
 mamma!" she said, breathing quickly. "Is this 
 true? Everybody talking. Oh, come away. Oh! 
 what shall we do?" 
 
 Madame Fournier, with some motherly presence 
 of mind, only shrugged her shoulders. "My dear 
 child, if we listened to all the advice people give, 
 do you think anybody would ever have a moment's 
 peace? Fontaine is a chatterer, who likes to make 
 gossip where it does not exist." 
 
 "Ladies, you are going!" cried the Maire, spring- 
 ing forward as he heard his name. "M. le Comte! 
 Mesdames Fournier are going. I will call their car- 
 riage," he continued, talking on to hide his embar- 
 rassment. 
 
 The music had begun again. Maurice, looking 
 very black and very stiff, came up to the carriage- 
 door. 
 
 "Are you coming with us?" said Madame Four- 
 nier, very coldly. 
 
 "No, no; remain and dance your dance out," 
 said I'aulinc, not mikindly, but in a chill, sad voice 
 that seemed to come from a heavy heart. Maurice
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 2ig 
 
 bowed, and we drove away without him, and reached 
 home in silence. 
 
 "Well, have you enjoyed your dance?" said 
 Fournier, when he let us in.
 
 2 20 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AN EXPLANATION. 
 
 When I saw Madame Fournier again next day, 
 lier eyes were red, her face was pale; she looked as 
 if she had not slept, and Fournier himself did not 
 seem to me in much better condition. It was a 
 melancholy morning. The old couple kept together. 
 Fournier avoided De Mesnil; Madame Fournier 
 treated him with ceremonious politeness. Pauline, 
 I think, must have guessed what was coming; she 
 stayed in her room all the morning, and sat over 
 her embroidery, stitching and stitching as women do 
 who are anxious, and who cannot trust themselves 
 to cease from work. De Mesnil did not appear at 
 luncheon. 
 
 M. Fournier had pulled his little black velvet 
 skullcap over his eyes, he had tucked his afternoon 
 newspaper, unopened, under his arm; he was walking 
 up and down the hall, crossing and recrossing the 
 great square of light by the open door; his coffee 
 was standing on a table, cooling and untasted; his 
 brows were bent, his steps were hurried and heavy.
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 221 
 
 Fontaine's remarks, as repeated by Madame Four- 
 nier, had made a great impression upon him. It 
 was all the more vivid because the Maire had 
 seemed to him to speak his own impressions. It 
 does not matter whether impressions are real or 
 imaginary, the fact of another person unexpectedly 
 speaking out what we have secretly felt seems to 
 give a sudden life to our silence. The feeling be- 
 comes a part of real things, it gains speech and 
 action; it is life itself, and ceases to be a criticism. 
 Fournier's idea that Maurice was trifling with his 
 daughter, and not behaving well by her, now seemed 
 Xo take consistency and shape, voice and action; all 
 his deep tenderness for Pauline turned to indigna- 
 tion against Maurice. But I don't imagine that 
 Fournier, good father as he was, quite understood 
 what it was he was asking of his daughter when 
 he expected her to give up suddenly and immedi- 
 ately the wonderful, new, irresistible interest which 
 had come into her existence. All her life Pauline 
 had wanted affection, and though she had known 
 Maurice only for a few weeks, the instinct to love 
 and to devote herself had been there long before. 
 She had been told that he was the person with 
 whom the rest of her life was to be spent, she had 
 felt that it was to him that her heart went out un- 
 hesitatingly; it seemed so natural to love him, so
 
 222 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 unnatural not to love him. Her affection for him 
 seemed to her something quite independent of his 
 affection for her — in the same way as a mother's 
 affection for her child does not depend upon that 
 child's feeling for her. When her father called, 
 Pauline came hurrying up to ask what he wanted. 
 What was it he was saying as he marched up and 
 down? He told her that he could allow this trifling 
 no longer, that she must take courage and face the 
 truth, and acknowledge it to herself; that De Mesnil 
 was playing with her, acting dishonourably; it was 
 as if some one had suddenly struck a heavy blow 
 upon her heart. 
 
 "What do you mean, papa?" said Pauline, 
 leaning back against the billiard-table. "Why do 
 you say this?" she asked, speaking with dry, 
 parched lips. She had known what was coming, 
 but she had put it away all that day. 
 
 The old man was so unhappy at what he had 
 to say that he answered sharply, from pain of the 
 pain he was giving. 
 
 "You know what it means as well as I do, 
 Pauline," he said. "I am not a patient man; 
 I cannot wait in silence, and see my daughter in- 
 sulted, while I, her father, am outraged, defied. 
 Look; can you not see for yourself? Have you no 
 dignity, my child?"
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 223 
 
 "I hope not," says Pauline. 'What has dignity 
 got to do with what one feels in one's heart? 
 Dignity is for outside things." 
 
 "Hush, Pauline; don't talk such nonsense!" 
 cried Fournier, exasperated; and indeed I could 
 understand it. 
 
 By some unlucky chance, at this veiy minute 
 our usual visitors came along the terrace, the 
 Captain and the Maire and Madame Valmy, and 
 Maurice, who had been walking up and down an 
 hour past and who had seen them coming, and 
 gone to meet them. The Captain was a little 
 ahead, talking to Fontaine. The two gentlemen 
 did not enter the house at once, but turned up the 
 path that leads to the stables. 
 
 Maurice had stopped short, unconscious of the 
 eyes that were fixed upon them. He was gazing up 
 into Sidonie's face. She was half turning away, 
 half accepting his homage. 
 
 "To-morrow," cries Fournier, furious, "he goes 
 back to his garret! That devil of a woman may 
 follow him if she chooses. My daughter and I 
 wash our hands of him. Such conduct is not to 
 be entertained by honest people. Do you hear, 
 Pauline?" 
 
 "I hear you, papa," says Pauline. "It is enough 
 to break my marriage, without breaking my ears as
 
 224 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 well;" and then she changed; somehow a great 
 blush came into her face, and she said, "One thing 
 I ask, which is, that you do not condemn Maurice 
 unheard. I shall never care for any one else; 
 never, papa, never; remember that. I shall not 
 forget, even though he may forget me." 
 
 "Is this the way you speak? you, a modest girl 
 brought up at your mother's side," cries Fournier, 
 furious, bothered, and affected. 
 
 "Well, then, I am not modest," cries Pauline. 
 "And the thing that I am most grateful to you for 
 is that you have brought me up to think for myself. 
 I am not like Marie des Ormes in her blue and 
 white. 1 am not a gentle, obedient, young girl. 
 1 respect my parents; I will not act against their 
 wishes. But, oh! that it should be you, of all the 
 people in the world, to make me so unhappy," 
 cried Pauline, with a great burst of tears, throwing 
 herself into her father's arms. "And, oh! I love 
 liiin, father, with all my heart I love Maurice." 
 
 "My child," cried poor Fournier, "it is not I who 
 make you unhappy. Don't, my dear one, I beseech 
 you, do not cry. It is that imbecile out yonder. 
 Look at him, he has forgotten your very existence. 
 May the devil take that woman! The day will come 
 when you will thank your old father." 
 
 "Let Maurice come and explain for himself,"
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 225 
 
 cried Pauline, very loud and not caring who heard 
 her. "Maurice! Maurice!" she called, going to the 
 door. Maurice heard Pauline's voice calling across 
 the terrace. I saw him turn, say something hastily 
 to his companion, and come hurrying towards the 
 house. His face looked so pale and scared, his eyes 
 so bright and wild, that it seemed to me that he was 
 at least no heartless, indifferent actor in the play that 
 was being played out. 
 
 Pauline was still standing at the door when 
 Maurice came up. She went up to him and put out 
 her hand, but he did not take it. She began at 
 once without any preamble. 
 
 "I called you; I want to hear the truth from 
 yourself. Do you know what my father is telling 
 me?" she said. "He says that all that has passed be- 
 tween us must come to an end; that you must go back 
 to Paris, and that I must stay here and marry some- 
 body else. What do you say to his plan? What do 
 you say to it?" she repeated shrilly, with her eyes 
 fixed upon his face. 
 
 For a minute Maurice was silent. 
 
 "What does he say? Who cares what he says?" 
 cried Monsieur Fournier, almost brutally. "All he 
 has got to do now is to hold his tongue. I don't 
 suppose he wishes for any explanations from me. If 
 
 Da CaJ'o, etc. 1 5
 
 2 26 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 he does, he may chance to hear Ihhigs which may 
 not please him." 
 
 "You cannot tell me anything I do not already 
 know, that I have not already told myself," said the 
 young man, speaking in a low, thrilling voice, 
 quickly and distinctly. "You iTiay say to me any- 
 thing you please, it is only what I deserve to hear. 
 The deep respect and gratitude I feel for all your 
 daughter's goodness and " 
 
 "Be silent!" shouts Fournier, in a rage. "Do 
 you suppose that any one here wants your fine 
 speeches? Take them where they are in request, but 
 do not insult my daughter by such professions after 
 your conduct," 
 
 "He does not insult me, papa," Pauline said; "I 
 believe him." There was something touching in the 
 girl's honest accent. "I believe him and so do you," 
 — and she took her father's hand in both hers as 
 she spoke — "I am not going to many him. I could 
 not if it is true that he feels as you think. I do not 
 wonder at it." Pier voice faltered. "But you see I 
 can understand it all, and I daresay I should do the 
 same as he, and be ready to leave the people who 
 cared the most for me for those I felt I loved the 
 best." 
 
 Her steady voice failed; she could scarcely finish 
 licr sentence, and she turned from us and ran quickly
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 227 
 
 upstairs to her room, passing Madame Fournier, who 
 was leisurely creaking down from her afternoon nap 
 to wakeful life again. Madame Valmy also appeared 
 at the same instant smiling in the doorway. I won- 
 dered she had the courage to walk up as usual. 
 With an impatient exclamation Fournier moved away. 
 
 "This is intolerable. Come in here. I have to 
 speak to you in private," he said to the Comte. 
 And he walked to his study followed by the young 
 man. 
 
 "What is it, mon ami?" asked Madame Fournier, 
 trotting in after them. 
 
 "What is happening?" says Madame Valmy, 
 looking round. "Why has everybody nm away?" and 
 she settled her laces and gently flirted her fan. "Here 
 you are; have you been to the stables?" she said, 
 as the Captain and Fontaine now joined us. "All 
 the Fournier family are shut up in there," said she, 
 pointing. 
 
 "They seem engaged on some very mysterious 
 business," says Madame Valmy, sinking back for a 
 moment in a big chair. 
 
 We could hear voices rising and falling behind 
 the closed door, and more than one angry burst 
 from Fournier. I think Madame Valmy might 
 have guessed what it was all about had she tried to 
 do so. 
 
 15*
 
 2 28 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 "1 am privileged, I will ascertain," said Fontaine, 
 walking with precaution across the hall and knock- 
 ing carefully at the door. 
 
 "Who is there?" shouts Fournier from within. 
 Fontaine opens the panel a little way, slides in 
 — the door is again shut. Madame Valmy shrugs 
 her shoulders and begins to walk about the room. 
 
 "That is a pretty print," says she, looking at a 
 framed plan of Sebastopol which' was hanging on the 
 wall. Then with a slight yawn, "I am tired," she 
 said. "I think I should like to go home, if Made- 
 moiselle Mary will make my excuses to Madame 
 Fournier when the mysterious business is over. Take 
 me home, Beauvoir." 
 
 Captain Thompson started up delighted. It was 
 not often that his lovely intended would consent to 
 come away under his exclusive escort. 
 
 "Yes, you are tired; you should rest," he said. 
 "Yes, let us go at once. You are not strong, Si- 
 donie; you never spare yourself." In this he was 
 ([uite mistaken, poor man; but if Sidonie had wished 
 to spare herself a scene she was too late, for at this 
 moment Pauline, still looking very pale, but (^uite 
 composed, came down the stairs again, and as Ma- 
 dame Valmy was going, she called to her to stop. 
 
 "Is Maurice already gone down to the village?" 
 Pauline asked.
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 229 
 
 "Are you going?" 
 
 "Why do you ask me?" said Madame Valmy. 
 "He is still here, I believe; but I am not his keeper. 
 It is not me he is obliged to many;" and she turned 
 with a curious feminine dart, and took Captain 
 Thompson's arm. 
 
 "Come, Beauvoir," she said; "Mademoiselle 
 Fournier will be best without us." 
 
 "No, I want to speak to you," said Pauline, 
 gravely; "stay for a minute." 
 
 "I will go outside!" cried Captain Thompson, 
 still quite unconscious. "I will smoke my cigar, and 
 when you young ladies have had your confab, call 
 me back, Sid, for you ought to get home." 
 
 He walked away. Madame Valmy was, I think, 
 curious to know what Pauline had to say. She let 
 him go, after a moment's hesitation, and came to 
 meet the girl with an odd smile. 
 
 "Have you had a quarrel?" she asked; "do you 
 want me to help you to make it up? I'm afraid it 
 tvas very naughty of him to dance with me all last 
 night; but I have got him into good training for you, 
 and you ought to be grateful," she said, with a 
 laugh. 
 
 Sidonie was not used to simple outspoken natures 
 such as Pauline, and she did not calculate upon the 
 consequences of her ill-timed joke.
 
 230 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 "Listen," said Pauline, in her dogmatic way; "do 
 not think that I do not blame you because I am 
 silent? Why did you come in our way? I could 
 have made him happy, I think, if it had not been 
 for you. You say you are not going to marry him. 
 Do you think it is any comfort to me that he is to 
 be made unhappy too? Are you acting honestly by 
 us all?" 
 
 As Pauline spoke, a sort of light came into her 
 eyes and a tone into her voice. She looked far 
 handsomer at that moment than Madame Valmy, as 
 she stood her ground, sincere, indignant, alive, utter- 
 ing her protest against wrong. 
 
 Madame Valmy seemed to me to grow pale, then 
 grey; all the beautiful colour died out of her cheeks, 
 all the glitter out of her hair; she laughed a nasty 
 little shrill whistling laugh. "What a dear impetuous 
 child you are," she said, "and what foolish, foolish 
 things you take into your silly little head! What 
 have I to do with all this? M. de Mesnil comes to 
 see me. I gave him a lesson in dancing last night. 
 I have a great regard for him, and am only too glad 
 to make him welcome; but, my dear child, do you 
 imagine for one instant that I wish to interfere with 
 your claims upon his attention? You should be more 
 careful before you make such unfounded assertions;" 
 and Madame Valmy drew herself up; she had found
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS, 2^1 
 
 her part, so it seemed to me. At first, taken by 
 surprise, she had really not known what to say or 
 what attitude to take. It was one thing to be secretly 
 enjoying Pauline's mortification and her own sense 
 of power and Maurice's unconcealed devotion, and 
 another to be called to account by her outspoken 
 rival; questioned, rebuked, and desired to marry him 
 on the spot. This seemed the strangest complica- 
 tion of all, and I could quite understand Madame 
 Valmy's objections to pledge herself to any definite 
 course. 
 
 "Do you mean that, notwithstanding all that has 
 passed, you are not sure of your feelings?" said 
 Pauline. 
 
 At this moment the hall-door opened, and 
 Thompson's head was put in. "Nearly ready?" said he. 
 
 "Of this I feel sure, that Captain Thompson will 
 protect me, and that you have strangely forgotten your- 
 self, Pauline, in the way in which you. have been speak- 
 ing!" cried Madame Valmy, greatly relieved by the 
 interruption. "Tell her, Beauvoir," she said, twirling 
 swiftly round, "that you will not see me insulted by 
 cruel suspicion," and, as chance would have it, as 
 she pointed to Pauline, with a sob, the study-door 
 opened, and Maurice, of the pale face, came out. 
 The wretched woman now turned towards liim, still 
 holding by Captain Thompson's arm. "M. Maurice,"
 
 2;^ 2 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 she said, "I will not, cannot believe that you are 
 aware of the things which have been said to me. 
 Oh, it is too dreadful!" and she buried her face in 
 her hands for an instant. 
 
 Poor Maurice looked from one to the other. He 
 had himself only just escaped from an agitating 
 scene, in which Mr. Fournier had certainly not 
 spared Madame Valmy; and for a moment it seemed 
 to him as if all the blame at which he had been 
 chafing had been poured out upon her head. She 
 looked at him with such appealing eyes, she was so 
 pale, so trembling. Thompson was stepping forward, 
 also prepared to do battle for his Sidonie, but not 
 quite knowing whom to attack, nor what to complain 
 of. Pauline stood defiant, with flashes of sullen dis- 
 pleasure. She blushed crimson when Maurice looked 
 at her reproachfully. It seemed to him at the time 
 that her looks accused her, poor child. 
 
 "I need scarcely tell you that I am not account- 
 able for what may have been said to pain you," he 
 said, in a low, indignant voice. "I can only beg 
 you, madamc, who are generous, to forgive those 
 who may have been wanting in generosity." 
 
 "Forgive, forgive," said the Captain; "that is not 
 the question. Of course, one forgives real injuries; 
 but people should be careful before giving way to 
 their silly tempers, and remember that they give a
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 2^^ 
 
 great deal of unnecessary pain and annoyance. I 
 am sure Mademoiselle Fournier will be the first to 
 regret this to-morrow morning. Come along, Sid, it 
 is time we got home." 
 
 He pulled Madame Valmy's arm through his, 
 and the two walked away together. Maurice was 
 already gone; poor Pauline stood silent, self-reproach- 
 ful, ovenvhelmed; it suddenly seemed to her that 
 she had been ridiculous, unkind, unreasonable; she 
 turned pale, hard, stupid; she stood in the centre of 
 the hall; all the fire was gone out of her eyes. 
 
 Was it so, had she been ungenerous? Maurice 
 said so, and his look of reproach had pierced her 
 more than his words. 
 
 We were all silent in the study that evening; 
 the green lamp was trimmed; books and newspapers 
 lay upon the table, the servants had lighted a wood 
 fire, which was comfortably crackling. Pauline 
 added some logs, and sat down on a low stool be- 
 fore the flame, resting her chin against her hands. 
 Madame Fournier watched her with an anxious face 
 for a time, then settled herself for a nap in the big 
 ann-chair. Fontaine, who had remained at Four- 
 nier's request, sat down to a game of ecarte by the 
 light of the green lamp. There was something 
 homely and tranquil in this interior: the peaceful 
 crackling of the fire, the even glow of the lamp, the'
 
 234 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 quiet slumbers of the old woman in her chimney- 
 corner — all diffused a certain sense of peace and of 
 repose, only all the room seemed to me somehow 
 full of the pain in poor Pauline's sad and aching 
 eyes. 
 
 The window was uncurtained. The clouds were 
 drifting across the sky, and the moon was on the 
 wane. Once I thought I heard a cry coming faintly 
 from a long way off. Fontaine put down his cards 
 for an instant. 
 
 "It is only some bird or animal," said he. 
 
 Pauline started from her dream, and presently 
 went to the window and looked out for a minute, 
 and soon after left the room. She did not come 
 back any more that night. For the first time in her 
 young life, she had been met and overwhelmed by 
 one of those invisible currents of feeling which carry 
 people, and boundaries, and stationary things all 
 before them, until little by little the stormy stream 
 subsides. Pauline, who had been so confident, so 
 intolerant for otliers, was strangely humbled and 
 overcome by the force of her own emotions. Slie 
 had despised people who "gave way." What was 
 this strange new power that had laid its relentless 
 hand upon her? She hated herself, but all the 
 same she could not help the suspicions, the self- 
 reproaches, the emotions, which distracted her so
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 235 
 
 cruelly. When generous and well-meaning people 
 suspect others of wrong, it is an almost intolerable 
 pain and humiliation. The thought recurs, it cannot 
 be put away, but it spoils all peace of mind, all 
 tranquil enjoyment of life. Mistrust of oneself is 
 perhaps the worst form of this phase of feeling, and 
 Pauline had suddenly lost confidence in her own in- 
 fallibility.
 
 236 ACROSS IHE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE LODGE IN THE GARDEN OF CUCUMBERS. 
 
 When I awoke next morning, she was standing 
 by my bedside. She looked pale and haggard. She 
 had not been able to sleep all night, she told me. 
 
 "I want you to do something for me," she said. 
 "I want you to dress quickly and to come with me 
 to the village. Madame Valmy is going. I know it 
 — never mind how I know it. I think my mind 
 would 1)C more at ease if I could see her once more. 
 I'erhaps I was hard ui)on her yesterday. Am I 
 jealous? Is that what ails me?" She pushed back 
 the curtain from the window and threw it open. 
 All the sweet autumnal light came floating in from 
 the garden without, and a golden withered leaf from 
 the creeper overhanging the balcony dropped on to 
 the wooden floor. The fragrant breath of morning 
 seemed to fill the room. For a minute Pauline 
 stood leaning against the window rail, looking out 
 across the park and the fields beyond, towards the 
 thatched village with its belfry and enclosing poplar- 
 trees. Then she turned, smiling with a sweet look
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 237 
 
 in her face, something like the autumnal sunshine, 
 at once troubled and sincere. She signed to me to 
 lose no time, and left the room. 
 
 The house was scarcely awake when we left it, 
 huiTying down by the little side-path leading to the 
 canal. I remember the look of that early morning 
 so well! The delicate fragrant perfume from the 
 burnt leaves, the stir in the foliage, through which 
 the stems were beginning to show, the tranquil faint 
 tones of the sky, and the wheeling flight of a great 
 company of birds high overhead. At the turn of 
 the road we met the postman, in his blue linen 
 smock, with dusty boots. He had a letter for me, 
 he said, and one for M. Fournier, which sent a 
 sudden glow into Pauline's pale cheek, for she re- 
 cognised M. de Mesnil's writing. I opened my letter 
 as I walked along. It was heavily weighted, and 
 contained the long-missing key for which I had 
 written, and a letter in verse from my kind old 
 uncle, who sometimes amused himself by this style 
 of composition: "Pocket and lock it," "easy and 
 Visy," and so on. I would have read it to Pauline, 
 but she would not listen, and only hurried faster 
 and faster along the road. She would not tell me 
 at first how it was that she knew of Madame 
 Valmy's plans, but after a while she suddenly said, 
 *T do not know why I do not tell you at once.
 
 2o^ 
 
 ACROSS TliE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 Maurice came up last night. I saw him coming 
 when I was at the window, and I went to meet him, 
 and he told me of this. He told me other things," 
 she said with a strange sort of burst. "It all seems 
 so miserable, so strange! Will you be silent if I 
 trust you? He adores her. She has promised to 
 marry him in a year. Why did he tell me? Why 
 did he tell me?" 
 
 "Why, indeed!" said I. "Pauline, he is a 
 miserable creature." But Pauline would not let me 
 blame him. 
 
 "It was to exonerate her, he told me," she said. 
 "He asked me to tliink more kindly of her. And 
 now," said Pauline, "I do not know whether or not 
 I think more kindly of her." 
 
 "But is she not going to tell the Captain?" I 
 asked. "Is she going on deceiving him? Are you 
 not going to tell him, Pauline?" 
 
 "I!" cried the girl, with a sort of laugh. "Do 
 you think it my place? The worst part is to come," 
 she said, in a dry, matter-of-fact voice. "Madame 
 Valmy has assured Maurice that the Captain is ill — 
 that he has not a year to live, and that is why she 
 keeps silence. It might kill him, she says, to know 
 the truth. For my part, I had rather die of a truth 
 than live upon a lie, I think. But Madame Valmy
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 239 
 
 likes to arrange her life to her circumstances," and 
 Pauline broke off; a burning blush came over her 
 face. 
 
 "I think you should speak to your father," I 
 said. 
 
 "I want to see her first," said Pauline, now quite 
 piteous. "She might say something to undo all this 
 horrible doubt, Maurice believes in her. For his 
 sake I try and believe in her too." 
 
 When we came to the Pavilion the great gates 
 were open; the chickens were pecking in the court- 
 yard; there seemed to be not a soul about the 
 place. 
 
 "They went at seven o'clock, driving with the 
 luggage. Madame Coqueau is to come and keep 
 the house," said little Jeanne Picard, who was peep- 
 ing in at the gate. "She has not yet arrived; she 
 is gone to see to the cows." 
 
 Pauline did not answer. She stood still for an 
 instant — then she walked in, crossed the yard, 
 mounted the stone steps, and marched straight into 
 the drawing-room, where all the chairs and tables 
 were pushed about just as they had been left the 
 night before. The newspaper lay on the floor; one
 
 240 ACROSS THE PEAT- FIELDS. 
 
 of the Captain's gloves had been forgotten in a 
 chair; the shutters were half-closed, the daylight 
 came freshly shining in and reflected from the flower- 
 glasses and the pretty ornaments all about the room. 
 On a sofa a little piece of work was lying. It was 
 a cigar-case, of embroidered canvas, with an ela- 
 borate M interwoven with coronets. Pauline took it 
 up, looked at it for an instant, flung it down once 
 more, and then suddenly dropping into the corner 
 of the sofa, hid her face away, and I could see that 
 she was crying. I was obliged to rouse her almost 
 immediately, for I heard some one coming. As 
 usual it was Fontaine. He had seen us pass by, 
 and now entered the room with an exclamation — 
 fresh from his morning toilet. 
 
 Pauline made an effort, choked down her tears, 
 and met him quietly. As I think of it all it seems 
 like a vague sort of dream; so disjointed, so sudden 
 and tragical were the events which followed. 
 
 "You are too late," said the Maire, cheerfully. 
 "Our good friends are gone! They have stolen a 
 march upon us. The Captain drove Madame Valmy 
 to the station early this morning; they were to take 
 the train at Etournelles: he told me he wanted to 
 leave some directions with his manager there. His 
 man was to take the luggage to Corbeil and rejoin
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 24 1 
 
 them there. Mademoiselle Julienne was not with 
 her mistress. I don't know how she went," said 
 Fontaine, thoughtfully. "Possibly she stalled last 
 night. I don't know what called the Captain away. 
 I think he was anxious, and wished to consult a 
 physician." 
 
 "For his health?" said Pauline, quickly. 
 
 "For her health," said Fontaine. "He told me 
 himself that she was strange — hysterical; that he 
 was not easy, and did not trust Jobard entirely," 
 said the Maire, lightly. 
 
 "Madame Valmy not well!" said Pauline, vehe- 
 mently. "Monsieur Fontaine, is it only Madame 
 Valmy you have been anxious about? Tell me, do 
 you believe what she tells people in confidence, that 
 he is suffering from a mortal disease?" 
 
 She had spoken at last, and Monsieur Fontaine 
 seemed taken aback. 
 
 "A mortal disease," he repeated. "Pray explain 
 yourself. Mademoiselle. I really cannot follow you." 
 
 "How can I explain myself?" cried Pauline, all 
 excited. "Is it my business? Am I a spy set to 
 watch other people? I am a wicked, suspicious 
 girl, Monsieur Fontaine. I came here to confess to 
 her, but she is gone, and I don't know — I don't 
 
 Da Ca/,o, etc. '^
 
 242 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 kiiow what I mean." And she burst out crying 
 once more and hid her face in her hands. 
 
 "My dear lady, you are ill — out of sorts. No 
 wonder, after all that has occurred. Come away, 
 come home with me. Let us consult Jobard; that 
 good fellow will give you some soothing mixture," 
 cried the Maire, very kind, full of concern. "What 
 is it? do not be alarmed. Yes. I too hear some- 
 thing. What can it be?" said he, seeing me look- 
 ing about. "Wait here — pray wait here; I will 
 return," he cried, divided between his concern for 
 Pauline and his intelligent interest in everything 
 going on. 
 
 What was it? I had heard it for some time. It 
 seemed a dull muffled knocking, and now and then, 
 so I thought, came the echo of a human voice 
 calling out, so faintly that one might well mistake 
 it. "It is not in the village," I said. 
 
 "It is something in the house," said Pauline, 
 decidedly, listening with all her might. 
 
 "Can it be the little Picards at their play?" said 
 the Maire, doubtfully. 
 
 "No. I think it is in the garret," said Made- 
 moiselle Fournier, suddenly hurrying out of the 
 room. The Pavilion, as indeed all the houses in 
 the village, had empty garrets under the roof where
 
 ACROSS TOE PEAT-FIELDS. 243 
 
 people hung their clothes to dry, and kept their 
 lumber and their apples from one year's end to 
 another. I followed her as she ran up the wooden 
 staircase and climbed the flight which led to the 
 topmost garret, of which she threw the door wide 
 open. 
 
 All was silent here. The place was empty. The 
 light was streaming in through the sashless windows; 
 a few white clothes were still hanging upon a line; 
 the rats and mice were safe in their holes. 
 
 "There is nothing here," said Pauline. "Come 
 down — it must be from below." 
 
 Fontaine was standing, looking very pale, at the 
 foot of the stairs as we came down. 
 
 "The sound comes from the cellar out of the 
 dining-room," said he. "There is something shut 
 up in there." 
 
 I knew the ways of the house — having lived 
 there — better than they did, and I could now tell 
 them which was the way. 
 
 "This is the door which leads to the outer 
 cellar," said I. "Here is a key that fits it," and I 
 pulled mine out from my pocket. 
 
 "Effectively there is no key in the door," said 
 Fontaine. "How do you come by this one?" 
 
 i6»
 
 244 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 "It is not wanted, the door is only bolted," said 
 Pauline, who had taken the key from my hand, and 
 drawn back the massive iron bolt as she spoke. 
 When she opened the heavy door a damp breath of 
 vault-like atmosphere seemed to meet us. The knock- 
 ing became louder and more distinct; and the voice 
 — shall I ever forget the strange terror of that 
 despairing voice? — seemed to be coming out of the 
 darkness, and calling and calling. 
 
 "Take care; there are steps within," I whispered, 
 too frightened to speak out. 
 
 Pauline, however, walked in unhesitatingly. She 
 swept against some bottle, and it fell with a crash 
 upon the ground. Suddenly the knocking ceased — 
 it seemed as if the i)erson within was listening too. 
 Fontaine, who had left us, came back with a light 
 almost immediately, and then we could see the dark 
 damp vault and the flight of steps before us. I had 
 often fetched the wine out of this outer cellar, and 
 ])eeped down the black flight which led to the inner 
 vault, where Madame Valmy kept her best cider, so 
 T had been told. Now as the light Hashed I saw it 
 all in its usual order. There were the bottles; the 
 one Pauline knocked over Fontaine picked up and 
 put back ill its place. There stood the two chests 
 tlial uc had jnit away; there was the dark flight
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 245 
 
 leading to the milde'wy door of the lower cellar. It 
 was fast closed with bars and rusty-headed nails. 
 
 "Open, open, open, madame!" screamed the 
 voice; and somehow in one moment we all recognised 
 it as that of Julienne. " If you do not open I will 
 knock the house down and denounce you. Open, 
 open — I know you are there; I hear your silk dress 
 on the stones. Speak — why don't you speak? — for 
 pity speak. Have you spared him? Mercy for us 
 both — mercy, mercy. Valmy was a monster, but 
 this one is a good man. Spare him — spare me. 
 Have I ever said one word? I will be silent. Only 
 spare me. Oh, Madame, I entreat you, have 
 pity." 
 
 "Julienne, is it you?" said Pauline, falteringly. 
 But Fontaine signed to her to be silent, and put his 
 hand on his mouth. 
 
 "What do you say?" cried the voice; and the 
 hands within began to thump and bang again. "If 
 you do not let me out I will live, I will escape to 
 denounce you. Let me out — let me out." 
 
 "I am not Madame Valmy; I am Pauline Four- 
 nier," said Pauline, speaking very loud. "Do not be 
 afraid, Julienne. We will open the door and let 
 you out." 
 
 There came a half-suppressed scream of horror 
 from within — then silence.
 
 246 ACROSS THE PEAT- FIELDS. 
 
 "Perhaps our outer key would fit this door too," 
 said I. 
 
 "No," said Pauline, "I have tried it. It will not 
 go in." 
 
 "This is horrible. We must get the locksmith 
 at once," said Fontaine. "Will you ladies wait here 
 and tranquillise the poor thing if you can? She is 
 half out of her mind." 
 
 "Yes," said Pauline. And then, as soon as he 
 was gone, still calling through the door, she tried to 
 reassure the wild creature within. 
 
 "Is it you. Mademoiselle? Don't leave me — don't 
 leave me!" shrieked Julienne once more. "I am 
 mad — quite mad! Oh, do not heed what I say." 
 Then suddenly she seemed to remember herself. 
 "Oh, what have I done? Leave me. Lose no time 
 — follow them — warn her. Tell her you know all. 
 And oh, for pity. Mademoiselle, spare us — do not 
 betray her. Oh, for pity's sake do not betray 
 her." 
 
 I own that I was trembling in every limb — the 
 time seemed endless. 
 
 "M. P'ontaine is a long time," said Pauline. 
 "Should you mind going to see if any one is coming. 
 Oh, i)lcase do go," she said, "go to Lcroux and tell
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 247 
 
 him to come at once and open the door for us. 
 
 There is no time to lose." 
 
 "Shan't you be frightened," I said, "here alone?" 
 "No," said Pauline, impatiently. "Only go, 
 
 please go."
 
 248 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 FAREWELL TO VISY. 
 
 My Strength seemed to return ^vith the fresh air. 
 It seemed strange to come out alive, and breathing 
 and unhurt, into the commonplace street. I had 
 not far to go. The locksmith lived at the end of 
 the village, by the church. As I hurried along I 
 met the Cure, who looked at me and seemed about 
 to speak, but I passed him quickly. Even then I 
 noticed a little group in a doorway. It seemed to 
 me that they also looked up, broke off, and then 
 began to speak again. I was too much excited and 
 preoccujDied to pay much attention to stray looks 
 and words, but in my horrible agitation and ex- 
 citement it already seemed to me that our secret 
 had spread, and that people were suspecting and 
 discussing the truth in hurried whispers. Had Fon- 
 taine been wasting time making confidences all 
 along the road? I did him injustice. The lock- 
 smith's door was closed, and for some minutes I 
 knocked and thumped in vain. At last I heard slow 
 steps, and when the door was opened, Leroux's
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 249 
 
 aged mother appeared on the threshold, with a child 
 in her arms. 
 
 "Be quiet," said she. "My daughter-in-law is 
 ill. What do you want?" 
 
 "I want your son," said I, breathless. "M. Fon- 
 taine wants him at once — it is of importance that 
 he should come at once." 
 
 "He can't come," said the old woman, shaking 
 her head. "He was fetched — have not you heard of 
 what has happened? There has been an accident 
 to a carriage." Here the child began to cry, and 
 its grandmother to hush it on her shoulder. "Eh! 
 yes; an accident," said the old woman, slowly. "The 
 Captain's horse took fright down by the peat-fields. 
 The carriage-wheels are off. My son has gone to 
 see if he can fix them on again, to bring back the 
 unfortunate wounded." 
 
 "The wounded! — who is wounded?" I asked, all 
 dazed. 
 
 "No one knows for certain," said the old woman, 
 still hushing the wailing child. "Some say it is the 
 lady, some say it is the Captain who is killed." 
 
 Then a voice called from within. She went 
 back, still hushing the child, and abruptly closed the 
 door. It was all very miserable. I turned very 
 faint. I felt it a great relief at that minute to see 
 Fournier turning the corner by the church. Fontaine
 
 250 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 was with him. The two were walking rapidly, and 
 Fontaine was carrying some tools in his hands. I 
 ran to meet them. They were speaking excitedly. 
 Fournier quickly broke off to ask me why I had left 
 Pauline alone. 
 
 "She sent me," said I. "The time seemed so 
 long. Do not wait for me now. Please go to her." 
 
 "You had better wait outside and rest," said 
 Fournier. "Poor child! all this has been too much 
 for you." 
 
 "And there is more to come," cried Fontaine. 
 "Ah! Mademoiselle, have you heard of this terrible 
 accident? There is hope for the Captain, M. Four- 
 nier tells me. It is too much — it is all too terrible!" 
 and he hurried after Fournier, who was walking with 
 his longest strides. 
 
 I confess that I could hardly stand; the sunny 
 street, the voices, the horrible events of that morn- 
 ing seemed crowding down upon me in dizzy circles. 
 I tliink a child came up and said something, but I 
 could not answer. When I reached the Pavilion, I 
 sank down upon the stone steps, for I could not 
 stand, and for a minute I waited to collect my 
 thoughts. As I sat there I could hear the voices in- 
 side the house exclaiming, the sound of the crowbar 
 forcing open the lock, and the quiet strokes of the 
 cluirch clock striking nine, followed by the rumble
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 25 I 
 
 of distant wheels. And then something haj^pened 
 which seemed to me, perhaps, the most strange and 
 unexpected event of all. The kitchen door slowly 
 opened, and Julienne came quietly out in her big 
 black cloak. She had on her usual tidy cap tied 
 under her chin, and a basket on her arm. She 
 looked at me, but did not speak, brushed past me, 
 and walked quickly. I was so startled, I only 
 watched her go across the court. At the gate she 
 met the omnibus just starting for the station at 
 Corbeil. She signed to it to stop, got in, and before 
 I could recover from my surprise, she was gone. 
 Next minute I heard a final crash within, and loud 
 exclamations, and then as I ran in to tell of my 
 strange impression, a dream, a reality, I scarcely 
 knew which, I met Fournier with his daughter cling- 
 ing to him in tears, followed by the Maire in his 
 shirt-sleeves, in a most extraordinary agitation. 
 
 "Was there ever anything so utterly unbe- 
 lievable! Mademoiselle, could you not have sworn 
 to her voice? There is nothing, absolutely no one 
 in the cellars. Do you understand me? No one — 
 Julienne was not there." 
 
 "Julienne passed me a minute ago," I said. "She 
 went across the court. She went off in the diligence 
 to Corbeil." And as I spoke I looked at Pauline,
 
 252 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 who Still Stood silent and sobbing by her father's 
 side. 
 
 "Oh! Mademoiselle," said Fontaine, turning 
 upon Pauline. "How could you play me this trick? 
 Then it was you who let her out! But are you both 
 demented? You let this witness escape you!" He 
 could not finish for agitation and excitement. Pau- 
 line looked imploringly at her father through her 
 tears. 
 
 "Well, Paule!" said he, quietly assuming the fact; 
 "speak — why did you let her out, or rather why did 
 you not tell us that you had done so?" 
 
 Pauline tried to answer, but she turned pale and 
 very faint for a minute, and could only cling to her 
 father's arm. 
 
 The hot sun came pouring down into the little 
 courtyard as we all ^ood there. The shadows were 
 striking, black and fierce. Pauline waited silent by 
 her father's side, apparently sullen or downcast, and 
 tired out; Fontaine, perfectly bewildered, and still 
 in his shirt-sleeves, stood looking from her to me. 
 The ducks, missing their accustomed meal, came 
 straggling up to be fed, and presently one and an- 
 other neighbour came in with scared looks and 
 hushed voices. Fournier took his daughter upon his 
 arm and drew her a little aside; he wanted to 
 question her in private, and he also had miserable
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 253 
 
 news to tell; she burst into piteous sobs, and he led 
 her away through the crowd of children and peasant 
 people. I followed with kind Madame Bougie from 
 the grocer's shop, not a little grateful for her friendly 
 exclamations and sympathies. Fournier 'left us in 
 the shop while he went back to fetch the pony- 
 carriage, for poor Pauline was quite spent and could 
 scarcely stand. Madame Bougie took us into the 
 back parlour with the glass door that opened to the 
 garden. She brought us glasses of orange-flower 
 water, that panacea of French emotions, and her 
 little boy ran in with a nosegay from the garden. 
 She would let in no one else until Fournier's return. 
 Fontaine came to the door, but she drove him off. 
 I was glad of it, for Pauline began to shiver nervously 
 when she heard his voice. I thought it might be a 
 relief to her to speak, and I a^ed her how it hap- 
 pened that she let Julienne out after I left. 
 
 Pauline looked at me hard. "Was it wrong?" 
 said she. Then she started up, and went to the 
 window and looked out; then came back to me. "I 
 tried the key a second time and found it fitted. 
 When you first gave it to me I had turned it wrong. 
 She came out looking all wild," said Pauline. "Oh, 
 she looked so terrible. She had hurt her hands; 
 they were bleeding wlien she held them up, and 
 she implored me and implored mc to let her go.
 
 254 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 She told me she had seenValmy's face in the dark- 
 ness close beside her, reproaching her for the past; 
 that she knew he Avould have been still alive if they 
 had cared for him when he was ill; that he died of 
 their neglect. That is what Julienne said, and she 
 had let him die without remorse, and Madame Valmy 
 knew it." 
 
 "Oh! how horrible it all is! Oh! what have I 
 done?" cried poor Pauline. She was so agitated I 
 did not like to ask any more questions, it seemed 
 best to leave her to herself. 
 
 Pauline was still very much upset when Fournier 
 returned. She told him the whole story, with not a 
 little agitation. He listened without a word. 
 
 "Oh, papa," she said, "I will confess to you that 
 I have been half beside myself with such miserable 
 suspicions that I can 'scarcely bear to think of them. 
 I have not known what to do or how to bear it all. 
 When I heard that Madame Valmy said the poor 
 little Captain must die, some horrible dread came 
 over me which haunted me like an evil spirit; and 
 then when Julienne implored me to let her go, I still 
 believed — I thought if she warned her mistress, it 
 might yet be time to prevent I knew not what evil. 
 Oh, papa, as I think it over, it seems to me like a 
 crime that I have committed. To think a cruel thing 
 is such a hopeless wrong, and now, now it is too
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 255 
 
 late to repent. Oh, what shall I do, what shall 
 I do?" 
 
 Poor Pauline was quite overcome by the events 
 of the last few hours which had made clear so much 
 unhappiness. She was trembling in every limb. 
 Fournier did not attempt to comfort her. 
 
 "We are all liable to mistake," he said; "all 
 ready to judge our neighbours harshly at times. 
 You and I have, perhaps, been hard upon that poor 
 woman, Pauline, and we must bear our punishment. 
 There is poor Thompson, he has done no wrong, he 
 is dreadfully stricken. It is fortunate that they 
 brought him to your mother to nurse, it was the 
 nearest house." 
 
 Then he went on to tell us that the horse had 
 taken fright at the sudden working of the poor Cap- 
 tain's machine, and galloped across the field. Ma- 
 dame Valmy had been thrown against a stone and 
 killed upon the spot; the Captain had fallen under 
 the carriage, and the wheel had passed over him as 
 he lay. It was thought at first that he too was 
 hopelessly hurt, but the accounts were now more 
 reassuring. 
 
 How well I remember our drive back to the 
 chateau through the pretty autumnal avenues, over 
 the bright brown carpet of leaves that had fallen the 
 night before. Pauline was sitting with her head
 
 256 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 
 
 upon her father's shoulder, quite silent and scared. 
 I too felt utterly stupefied and bewildered until kind 
 Madame Fournier met us on the terrace and put 
 her arms about us. I shall never forget her good- 
 ness and motherly tenderness during all the days 
 that immediately followed the disaster. The poor 
 Captain lay between life and death; Pauline too, 
 was ill, and requiring the tenderest care; Madame 
 Fournier's motherly looks seemed to fall with com- 
 fort on one and on another. She undertook to 
 enlighten l^'ontaine as to the real events of that 
 morning. 
 
 There is not very much more to tell of these sad 
 things which liappcned during my visit to my 
 friends. Jobard, when cross-(|uestioned by Fournier 
 and the Maire, solemnly affirmed that the cause of 
 Valmy's death was cholera. The symptoms were 
 unmistakable, the patient had rallied, and seemed 
 recovering, when he suddenly sank from exhaustion. 
 Jobard himself was present at the time, and had 
 been administering stimulants. Fournier consulted 
 witli Fontaine and came to the conclusion that there 
 was no reason to doubt Jobard's professional opinion 
 deliberately given. One little fact is worth men- 
 tioning which went far to remove some of our vague 
 suspicions, and to ease our minds. One day the 
 Captain jjcgan to speak of the events of that fatal
 
 ACROSS THE PEAT-FIELDS. 257 
 
 morning, and told Fontaine Vvitii a sigh that he be- 
 lieved the accident had turned upon the merest 
 chance. "Just as we were starting," he said, "I 
 went back and saw that the cellar-door had not 
 been closed. . . . Why does one remember such 
 thing? I used to think poor Julienne had a weak- 
 ness for wine-bottles, "Look there," said he very 
 sadly, holding up his right hand. "I believe that 
 terrible accident came of my turnmg that key. I 
 sprained my hand against the door, and I was hold- 
 ing the whip and the reins in my left hand when 
 the horse took fright." 
 
 One of my cousins was taken ill, and I was sent 
 for home long before the Captain was sufficiently 
 recovered to leave his room. It was perhaps best 
 for him to lie there quietly with the good, kind, 
 worthy Fourniers to keep watch over him, and to 
 prevent the many rumours and suspicions from with- 
 out from wounding him afresh as he lay upon his 
 bed of sickness. 
 
 I have not been to Visy since the day when 
 Pauline kissed me and said farewell by the old gate- 
 way; but I can still see her before me, as she was 
 then, when I looked my last at her honest kind face, 
 and at her home with all its friendly doors and 
 windows open to the autumn sunshine. The Cap- 
 tain waved a thin hand from the balcony where they 
 
 Da Caj>o, etc. ^7
 
 258 ACROSS THE PEAT- FIELDS. 
 
 had carried him. Monsieur Fournier was waiting 
 to drive me to the station. I remember the scent of 
 the clematis about the terrace; the sound of the 
 cheerful country servants' voices calling, the glisten- 
 ing of the water as we crossed the little bridge over 
 the canal. 
 
 There is one more fact I have to relate concern- 
 ing my friends at Visy. One day, about a twelve- 
 month later, I received a printed form directed in 
 Captain Thompson's handwriting, which gave me no 
 little surprise. It was the formal announcement by 
 M. and Madame Fournier of the Chateau of Visy le 
 Roy, and by Miss Marianne and Miss Eliza Thomp- 
 son of Lancaster, of a marriage contracted according 
 to the Catholic and the Protestant rites, between 
 their daughter Miss Pauline Hermance Louise Me- 
 lanie Fournier and their nephew Captain John 
 Beauvoir Thompson, of Amphlett House, near Lan- 
 caster. 
 
 IHE END OF "across THE PEAT-FIELDS."
 
 MISS MORIER'S VISIONS. 
 
 17*
 
 I WAS walking home one evening along an 
 autumnal road, and hurrying, for I was a little be- 
 lated, when I thought I heard a step following mine. 
 I stopped, the step also stopped. I looked back, 
 there was no one to be seen; but when I set off 
 again I once more heard the monotonous footfall. 
 Sometimes it seemed to miss a beat; sometimes it 
 seemed to strike upon dead leaves, and then to 
 hurry on again. This unseen march or progress 
 was no echo of my own, for it kept an independent 
 measure. The road was dull; twilight was closing 
 in; the weather was dark and fitful; overhead the 
 flying clouds were drifting across a lowering sky. 
 All round about me the fogs and evening damps 
 were rising. I thought of the warm fireside at Rock 
 Villa I had left behind me; to be walking alone by 
 this gloomy road was in itself depressing to spirits 
 not very equable at the best of times, and this 
 monotonous accompaniment jarred upon my nerves.
 
 262 MISS MORIER's VISIONS. 
 
 On one side of the road was a high hedge; on the 
 other, a rusty iron raihng with a ploughed field be- 
 yond it. A little farther away stood a lodge by two 
 closed gates. The whole place had been long since 
 deserted and left to ruin — one streak in the sky 
 seemed to give light enough to show the forlornness 
 which a more friendly darkness might have hidden. 
 It is difficult to describe the peculiar impression of 
 desolation and abandonment this place produced 
 upon people passing along the high road. The 
 place was called "The Folly" by the neighbours, 
 and the story ran that long years ago some Scotch- 
 man had meant to build a palace there for his bride; 
 but the bride proved false; the man was ruined. 
 The house for which such elaborate plans had been 
 designed was never built, although the gates and 
 the lodge stood waiting for it year after year. 
 
 The lodge had been originally built upon some 
 fancy Italian model, but the terrace was falling in, 
 the pillars were cracked and weather-stained, the 
 closed gates were rust-eaten; the long railings, which 
 were meant to enclose gardens and pleasure-grounds, 
 were dropping unheeded. In the centre of the field, 
 a great heap showed the place where the founda- 
 tions of the house had been begun, and on the 
 mound stood a signpost, round which the mists were 
 gathering.
 
 MISS morier's visions. 263 
 
 Meanwhile I hurried along, trying to reason 
 away my superstitious fears. The steps were real 
 steps, I told myself; perhaps there was some one 
 behind the hedge to whose footsteps I was listening. 
 I thought of the old Ingoldsby story of the little 
 donkey and the frightened ghost-seer. I scolded 
 myself, but in vain; a curious feeling of helplessness 
 had overcome me. I could not even summon up 
 courage to cross the road and look. I felt convinced 
 that I should see nothing to account for the step 
 which still haunted me, and I did not want to be 
 thrown into terrified intangible speculations, which 
 have always had only too great a reality for me. I 
 was still in this confusion of mind, when I heard a 
 sound of voices cheerfully breaking the silence and 
 dispelling its suggestions, a roll of wheels, the cheer- 
 ful patter of a pony's feet upon the road. ... I 
 turned in relief, and recognised the lamps of my 
 aunt's little pony carriage coming up from the sta- 
 tion. As it caught me up, I saw my aunt herself 
 and a guest snugly tucked up beside her, with a 
 portmanteau on the opposite seat. 
 
 The carriage stopped, to exclaim, to scold, to 
 order me in. After a short delay the portmanteau 
 was hauled up on the box to make room; Mr. Geral- 
 dine, the arriving guest, gave up his seat to me. I 
 did not like to tell them how grateful I was for this
 
 264 MISS morier's visions. 
 
 opportune lift, or for the good company in which I 
 found myself. The pony was not yet going at its 
 full speed when we passed the lodge. 
 
 "Why, that place must be inhabited at last! 
 there is a light in the window," said my Aunt Mary, 
 leaning forward as we passed the lodge. 
 
 As she spoke, a figure came out to the closed 
 gate, and stood looking through the bars at the car- 
 riage. It was that of a short, broad-set man, with 
 a wide-awake slouched over his eyes, and a rough 
 pea-jacket huddled across his shoulders. He seemed 
 to be scanning the carriage; but when the lamps 
 flashed in his face he drew back from the light. I 
 just caught sight of a dull, sullen countenance; and 
 as the carriage drove on, and I looked back, I saw 
 that the solitary man was still staring after us, stand- 
 ing alone in the field where the streak of light was 
 dying in the horizon, and the vapour rising from the 
 ground. 
 
 "That is not a cheerful spot to choose for a 
 residence," said Mr. Geraldine, deliberately. "What 
 can induce anybody to live there?" 
 
 "Something, probably, which induces a great 
 many people to do very strange things," said Aunt 
 Mary, smiling: "poverty, Mr. Geraldine." 
 
 "That is an experience fortunately unknown to
 
 MISS morier's visions. 265 
 
 me," said Mr, Geraldine, tucking the rug round his 
 legs. 
 
 Rock Lodge is at some distance from a railway; 
 the garden is not pierced by flying shrieks and 
 throbs; it flowers silently amid outlying fields, with 
 tall elm-trees to mark their boundaries. The road 
 thither leads across flat country; it skirts a forest in 
 one place, and passes more than one brick-baked 
 village, with houses labelled, for the convenience of 
 passers-by: Villa, Post Office, Schools, Surgery, and 
 so on. We saw Dr. Evans's head peeping over his 
 wire blind as we passed through Rockberry, and then 
 five minutes more brought us to the gates of Rock 
 Villa, where my aunt has lived for many years. 
 
 My cousins came out to greet the new comer. 
 "Aunt Mary's bachelor," they used to call him in 
 private; in public, he was "Uncle Charles." The 
 two little boys, my aunt's grandsons, appeared from 
 their nursery. There was a great deal of friendly 
 exclaiming. The luggage was handed up and down. 
 Little Dick seized Mr. Geraldine's travelling-bag, 
 and nearly upset all its silver bottles on to the 
 carpet. My aunt, Mrs. Rock, began introducing her 
 old friend. 
 
 "You see, we have Nora and her boys, and Lucy 
 and her husband," said she, cheerfully ushering him 
 in, "and my niece Mary you know, and Miss Morier
 
 2 66 MISS morier's visions. 
 
 I think you also know; she is in the drawing-room." 
 And then Mr. Geraldine was hospitably escorted into 
 a big room, with lights, and fire, and tea, and arm- 
 chairs, and conversation, and flowers, and a lady in 
 a shawl by the fire, and all the usual concomitants 
 of five o'clock.
 
 MISS morier's visions. 267 
 
 II. 
 
 We had all been staying for some days at Rock 
 Villa, and enjoying the last roses of summer from 
 its warm chimney-corners. It is a comfortable, un- 
 pretending house standing in a pretty garden, which 
 somehow seems to make part of the living-rooms, 
 for there are many windows, and the parterres al- 
 most mingle with the chintzes; the drawing-room 
 opens into a conservatory; there is also a bow win- 
 dow with a cushioned seat, and a tall French glass 
 door leading into the garden. The conservatory di- 
 vides the drawing-room from the young ladies' room 
 or study, which again opens into the hail. The 
 dining-room is on the opposite side and the windows 
 face the entrance gates. Inside the house, as I have 
 said, the fires burnt bright in the pretty sitting-rooms; 
 outside, the glories of October were kindling in the 
 garden before winter came to put them all out. The 
 plants were still green and spreading luxuriantly, 
 stretching their long necks to the executioner; a 
 golden mint of fairy leaves lay thickly scattered on 
 the grass; from every branch the foliage still hung.
 
 268 MISS morier's visions. 
 
 painting trees with russet and with amber. On the 
 stable wall a spray of Gloire de Dijon roses started 
 shell-like, pink against the sky. The guelder-rose 
 tree by the hall door was crimson, the chestnuts 
 were blazing gold. 
 
 The days passed very quietly; all the people in 
 the house were very intimately connected with one 
 another; married sisters are proverbially good com- 
 pany. The outside world was almost forgotten for 
 a time in family meetings and greetings and per- 
 sonalities; Nora's husband, the colonel, was in India; 
 Lucy's husband, the clergyman, came up and down 
 from London twice a week; Clarissa, the only un- 
 married daughter of the family, made music for us, 
 for Mr. Geraldine especially, who delighted in good 
 music; Miss Morier was also a very welcome visitor 
 in my aunt's house. For many years she had been 
 too ill and too poor to leave her own home; but her 
 health had improved of late, and a small inherit- 
 ance had enabled her to mix with her friends again. 
 She was a peculiar-looking woman, with dilating 
 eyes under marked brows; she may have been pretty 
 once, but illness had destroyed every trace of good 
 looks. She was very delicate still, and on her way 
 to the South for the winter; she was well educated, 
 well mannered, and full of ready sympathy; gold 
 and silver had she not in great abundance, but what
 
 MISS morier's visions. 26c) 
 
 she had to bestow upon others was the ease and 
 help of heart which real kindness and understanding 
 can always give. I could not help contrasting her 
 in my mind with Mr. Geraldine, who was also un- 
 married, and in his way full of friendly interest in 
 us all; but then it was in his way. He was easily 
 put out of it, easily vexed; punctual and, alas! often 
 kept waiting; he liked to lead the conversation, and 
 it rambled away from him; he was impatient of 
 bores and they made up to him; he didn't like ugly 
 people or invalids; he detested Miss Morier, and her 
 place was always by his at table. 
 
 Notwithstanding these peculiarities we are all 
 fond of him, and grateful too. Colonel Fox is sup- 
 posed to owe his appointment to Mr. Geraldine's in- 
 fluence. Lucy's husband, the curate, declares that 
 half his parish is warmed and beflannelled with 
 Uncle Charles's Christmas cheque; there is no end 
 to his practical kindness and liberality. The intan- 
 gible charities of life are less in our old friend's 
 way, perhaps. As we were all sitting round the fire 
 that evening after dinner, the conversation was turned 
 upon our meeting in the road. 
 
 "Were you frightened, Mary?" said my aunt; 
 "you were walking very fast." 
 
 "I was never more glad to see you. Aunt Mary,"
 
 270 MISS morier's visions. 
 
 said I, gaining courage to speak of my alarm, and I 
 told them my story. 
 
 "One has all sorts of curious impressions when 
 one is alone," said my aunt, hastily. "You mustn't 
 go out by yourself so late, my dear. It must have 
 been fancy, for we should have seen any one follow- 
 ing you." 
 
 "Footsteps? — how very curious!" said the curate. 
 "Do you remember, Lucy, the other day I thought 
 we were followed." 
 
 "Clarissa, will you play us something?" inter- 
 rupted my aunt, rather uneasily; "and it is time 
 for tea." 
 
 "You need not be afraid of my nerves," said 
 Miss Moricr, smiling. "I have quite got over my 
 old troubles, dear Mrs. Rock, and I can hear people 
 discuss hobgoblins of every sort with perfect equa- 
 nimity." 
 
 My aunt evidently disliked the subject very 
 much. Slie did not answer Miss Morier, and again 
 said something about tea-time; but Nora, with some 
 curiosity, exclaimed: — 
 
 "What was it, dear Miss Morier, that you used 
 to see? I never liked to ask you; but I have always 
 heard that you were troubled by some curious im- 
 pressions." 
 
 "I don't mind telling you," said Miss Morier,
 
 MISS morier's visions. 271 
 
 turning a little pale as if she had somewhat over- 
 rated her own strength of nerve. "I used to see the 
 figure of a man, a common-place looking man in a 
 wig, and muffled in some sort of cloak: you will 
 laugh, but you cannot imagine what misery it caused 
 me. At times I saw the whole figure advancing to- 
 wards me; sometimes it was retreating; sometimes 
 only the head appeared. I found out at last that 
 by a strong effort of will I could dispel the phan- 
 tom. When I was once convinced that it was some 
 effect upon my nerves brought on by physical weak- 
 ness, I was able to overcome it. The apparition was 
 always accompanied by a peculiar sensation which I 
 can hardly describe; a sort of suspense and loss of 
 will, which came over me suddenly at all sorts of 
 times and in different places." 
 
 "I have been reading some of those accounts 
 of Shelley's visions, in that series of Morley's," 
 said Mr. Geraldine, rather scornfully; "and the 
 mysterious attacks upon him, and the apparition 
 of the child coming out of the sea. He was a 
 vegetarian, and he only drank water, which more 
 than accounts for such cases of brain affection," 
 said he, with a glance at poor Miss Morier, who was 
 a teetotaller. 
 
 "I can't agree with you in thinking it alto- 
 gether physical," said the curate gravely. "If all
 
 272 MISS MORIERS VISIONS. 
 
 the tens of thousands of alleged phenomena wit- 
 nessed in all parts of the world, and attested by 
 experienced observers, be illusions, the fact would 
 be more marvellous than the greatest marvel among 
 them." 
 
 "But surely," said my aunt, impatiently, "the 
 more common such things are, William, the more 
 it also proves that it is a recognised affection de- 
 pending on certain states of health not fully under- 
 stood." 
 
 "All I can tell you," said I, "is that I heard the 
 steps quite plainly." I spoke rather crossly, for they 
 did not seem to give me credit for common sense. 
 My aunt cut it short by saying I must not walk out 
 alone again; and then came tea, music, bedroom 
 candlesticks, good-nights. The curate went off with 
 a pipe to some spot where tobacco was recognised 
 at Rock Villa; Mr. Geraldine selected a book and 
 a paper-cutter, and also disappeared; Clarissa, my 
 youngest cousin, carried me off to her own room 
 for a long midnight conversation. It lasted till 
 the small hours, and I was creeping down to bed, 
 carefully creaking through the sleeping house, 
 when I thought I heard a faint cry. As I passed 
 Miss Morier's door, I again heard it — a sort of 
 agonised sigh. 
 
 I stopped short, and without further hesitation
 
 MISS morier's visions. 273 
 
 opened the door, which was not locked, and walked 
 in. . . . 
 
 The room was full of moonlight; there was 
 no candle, only a dim nightlight burning near 
 the bed; the blinds were undrawn. In the middle 
 of the room stood Miss Morier, in her white dress- 
 ing-gown, with her long grey curls falling over her 
 shoulders. She looked very pale in the moonlight; 
 she gave a sort of gasp when she saw me. 
 
 "Who is it? What was it?" she said wildly. 
 "Have you also seen? Oh, tell me! Thank you 
 for coming." And then she caught me by the 
 arm, and burst out crying. "You will think me so 
 foolish," she sobbed, still clinging to me. "I thought 
 I was cured; my old trouble has come upon me 
 again to-night. I should not have talked of it. I 
 saw him there," she said, pointing to the window 
 and looking away. 
 
 I went to the window and saw nothing but the 
 broad moonlight upon the lawn and the shadows 
 of the bushes. There was a high clear frosty sky, 
 a few cold stars were shining above the trees, one 
 branch glistened and seemed to shake in the dark- 
 ness. 
 
 Miss Morier recovered herself after a minute. 
 She drank some water, grew calmer, again thanked 
 me for coming, begged me to say nothing to any 
 
 Da Capo, etc. 
 
 18
 
 274 ^"SS MORIERS VISIONS. 
 
 one of her fright, and gratefully accepted my pro- 
 posal that we should unlock the door between our 
 rooms. Her alarm did not affect me, though I was 
 very sorry for her, and after this night a certain 
 slight barrier which had divided us hitherto seemed 
 to be completely done away. I kept her secret as 
 she desired. The subject was never mentioned be- 
 tween us. I could understand that the less she 
 dwelt upon such nervous affections, the better it 
 must be for herself and for every one else.
 
 MISS MORIER S VISIONS. 
 
 III. 
 
 But, perhaps, silence is not after all the best re- 
 ceipt for morbid impressions. I used to find my- 
 self watching Miss Morier, wondering whether her 
 ghostly visitor was present to her; if she turned, if 
 she looked about the room, as she had a way of 
 doing, I used to imagine unseen visitants among us, 
 or peeping over our shoulders. One day, in the 
 garden, I thought I heard some one coming up to 
 join me, and when I turned there was no one to be 
 seen; then a curious uncomfortable sensation of 
 being watched came over me, of something near 
 and yet unrecognisable, of some one haunting my 
 steps. One day Miss Morier came in from the 
 fields and sat down impatiently by the fire. "Can 
 you imagine what it is," she said, "never to be 
 able to shake off the feeling of being followed? 
 I never seem to be alone. I cannot bear it, I must 
 get away. I think, perhaps, change of scene may 
 help me." 
 
 I hardly knew how to answer her. This I knew, 
 that I too had felt the same sensations. If we 
 
 i8'
 
 276 MISS morier's visions. 
 
 Avalked in the garden, there would be odd rustlings 
 among the trees and bushes; sometimes of an even- 
 ing it seemed to me that eyes were looking at us 
 through the uncurtained windows; a sense of an 
 invisible presence used to come over me suddenly 
 as I sat busied with my own affairs; looking up, I 
 might see nothing, but it would seem to me as if 
 something had been there. 
 
 That very afternoon, after she left me, I remained 
 alone in the drawing-room, reading by the fire and 
 absorbed in my book, when this peculiar sensation of 
 being watched made me turn round suddenly. This 
 time I did see something which seemed to me 
 more tangible than a ghost should be. It was 
 a dark figure, starting from a corner of the room 
 and vanishing into the conservatory. I saw it dis- 
 tinctly cross the window. I jumped up and followed, 
 knocking over a table and a vase of flowers on my 
 way; only, when I reached the conservatory, there 
 was no one to be seen. The door was open to the 
 garden and a chill wind was blowing in. Mr. 
 Gcraldine, hearing me call, came out from the 
 study wliere he had been writing. I asked him if 
 he had seen any one pass by, and he began some 
 joking answer. 
 
 "It is no joking matter," I cried. "Pray do call 
 some one."
 
 MISS morier's visions. 277 
 
 We called everybody and looked everywhere, 
 and searched the grounds, but nothing was dis- 
 covered. 
 
 My younger cousins had also been in the study, 
 and had seen nothing, heard nothing but the crash 
 of the table. Mr. Geraldine continued his gibes, 
 and I could see that the others only half believed 
 me. The servants were desired to be careful about 
 closing doors and windows. It was impossible to 
 be really nervous in so large and cheerful a house- 
 hold, and by degrees the subject was dropped. 
 Nevertheless, Miss Morier went on hurrying the pre- 
 parations for her departure; she engaged a maid, 
 packed her boxes; she was to start at the beginning 
 of the week. She seemed in a fever to be off. 
 
 "Maria was always an excitable person," said 
 my aunt, who was vexed by this sudden departure. 
 "Once she gets a thing into her head, there is no 
 changing her mind; she has always been fanciful 
 since her trouble." 
 
 "What were her troubles?" said my cousin Nora. 
 Then my aunt told us something of her friend's 
 early life. She was to have been married to a young 
 officer, who was killed in India, and she never really 
 got over the shock, although she was once engaged 
 to some one else. "It was her mother's doing, for 
 the man was supposed to be rich; but it was a
 
 278 MISS MORIERS VISIONS. 
 
 miserable business," said my aunt. "Maria nearly- 
 died of the strain. She seemed to hate the man, 
 though he had obtained some strange power over 
 her too. He was desperately in love with her, 
 people blamed her for breaking it all off, but I al- 
 ways advised her to do so." My aunt ceased ab- 
 ruptly, for as she was speaking the door opened, 
 and Miss Morier came in ready dressed for a walk. 
 
 "Is it prudent of you to go out?" said my aunt. 
 "I don't trust these afternoon gleams." 
 
 "Oh, yes," cried Miss Morier, eagerly. "The 
 day is fine, and I feel so well, and it is quite early 
 yet." And then, as she seemed to wish for a com- 
 panion, I offered to go with her. 
 
 We had paid our visit, and we were half-way 
 liome, when the fine sunshine suddenly vanished. It 
 was gone, and then the clouds gathered overhead, 
 and in a few minutes great chill drops began to fall 
 in our faces. We had nearly half a mile to walk, 
 and I felt not a little uneasy about my companion, 
 who was very delicate, and not well able to bear 
 sudden changes of temperature. We were walking 
 along that straight high-road, of which I have al- 
 ready made mention, when the storm broke into a 
 great downpour of rain and hail falling straight from 
 the sky overhead. My companion was hurrying 
 along by my side witli flushed cheeks and panting
 
 MISS morier's visions. 279 
 
 breath. We were very wet by the time we reached 
 the lodge, which looked more dismal than ever, pre- 
 senting its Italian columns to the rain; but some 
 shelter was to be found in the portico, and there we 
 waited till the violence of the rain should abate. It 
 was a dreary refuge enough; the field looked black, 
 and the mist was creeping along the ground, the 
 railings were dripping. It was early in the after- 
 noon, but the evening seemed suddenly to be clos- 
 ing in. Maria Morier shivered and drew close to 
 the door, and then immediately we heard a creak- 
 ing. The lodge door opened — two shaking hands 
 held it back for us. 
 
 "You can come in," said a voice; "the door is 
 open." Maria started, shrunk back, and then with 
 a strange fixed look, said faintly, "We must go in, 
 it is too late," and she walked into the lodge. 
 
 It consisted only of one room, big and dark and 
 dull, and scarcely furnished. There were two narrow 
 windows looking different ways, with lattice panes. 
 There was a big divan in a sort of recess. In the 
 centre of the place stood a round table with a velvet 
 table-cloth half pulled aside, and all stained and 
 dirty; the walls had once been papered with some 
 red flock paper, it was falling here and there in dis- 
 coloured strips. There was a medicine-bottle on 
 one of the window-ledges, Avith a pair of shabby old
 
 2 So MISS MORIEr's VISIONS. 
 
 boots covered with mud, and a candle stuck into a 
 bent and once gilt candlestick. As my eyes be- 
 came more accustomed, I recognised the man I had 
 seen watching us through the gates. "You can wait 
 a bit," he said, but his voice frightened me, it was 
 so harsh and so hollow. His face looked pale and 
 sullen, but his eyes were burning. An old wig was 
 pulled over his forehead. He stood holding on by 
 the back of a chair.
 
 MISS morier's visions. 281 
 
 IV. 
 
 The rain was still beating and pouring upon the 
 roof and against the windows. The old man had 
 sunk into the chair from which he must have risen 
 to admit us; he sat staring at Maria with a curious 
 watchful inquiring look. He put me in mind of 
 some animal caged away and dazed by long con- 
 finement. A sort of mist came creeping from be- 
 neath the door. They both looked so strangely that 
 I thought it best to try and speak, I could not un- 
 derstand their curious fixed looks. 
 
 "It is very kind of you to let us in," said I. 
 "My friend is not strong, and might be seriously ill 
 if we were out in the rain. It is very good of you 
 to give us shelter." 
 
 "Shelter!" said the old man. "Don't you see 
 that this is the gate-keeper's house — gates to no- 
 thing. I'm my own keeper." 
 
 He spoke with a sneer, and sank back with the 
 effort. Then he began again, still staring at Maria 
 Morier. 
 
 "I knew you were coming. You did not think
 
 282 MISS morter's visions. 
 
 who it was that was about to give you shelter, or 
 you would have stood out drenching in the rain 
 sooner than come in." 
 
 He said all this a little wildly. I could not un- 
 derstand him. Miss Morier looked more and more 
 frightened, and I too began to be alarmed. We 
 had sat down upon the only convenient seat — the 
 divan in the recess. I took Maria's hand, it was icy 
 cold. The man sat fronting us, with his back to 
 the door. He did not speak like a gentleman, nor 
 as if he was a common man. Poor wretch! what a 
 miserable life he must have led for days past in this 
 lonely place. He began muttering to himself after 
 a while. 
 
 "There she sits," I heard him say. "She is an 
 old woman now. Who says people change? I do," 
 he shouted suddenly, starting to his feet; "they 
 
 change — they lie — they forget, d their false 
 
 hearts," and he dashed his hand to his head. 
 
 I was so startled by his sudden fury that I, too, 
 started to my feet, still holding my friend's hand. 
 
 "Does she look like a woman you might trust?" 
 lie cried. "Smooth-spoken and bland, she fools us 
 all; poor fools and idiots, ruined for her sake. Ay, 
 ruined body and soul!" 
 
 By this time 1 was fairly terrified. Miss Morier, 
 strange to say, seemed less frightened than at first.
 
 MISS morier's visions. 283 
 
 She looked at the door expressively, and we tried to 
 get nearer to it; but he was too quick, and put him- 
 self in our way. 
 
 "Foil may go," he said, very excitedly, pointing 
 to me. "I've taken you for her more than once, 
 and nearly come upon you unawares, but to-day 
 there is no mistake. I have waited for her all this 
 time, and she can stay a bit now she has con- 
 descended to come to me. This might have been 
 her lodge-gate once, all new and furnished up. It's 
 not fit for my lady to bide in for an hour; but good 
 enough for me to die in like a dog, alone." 
 
 It was a most miserable, terrifying scene. Miss 
 Morier spoke very calmly, though I could see what 
 a great effort she was making. 
 
 "I shall be glad to stay till the rain is over," 
 she said; "and then, perhaps, you will show us the 
 way back." 
 
 Her words, civil as they were, seemed to ex- 
 asperate him. 
 
 "So you speak," he said, in a shrill sort of voice. 
 "Mighty civil is my lady, but she shall not escape 
 for all her silver tongue. I have followed you all 
 these days,— followed your steps, waited your com- 
 ing; and now you are come to me, and you shall 
 not leave me, you shall not leave me!" he cried, in 
 a sort of shriek, and I saw something gleam in his
 
 284 MISS morier's visions. 
 
 hand. He had got a knife, which he flourished 
 wildly over her head. "Yes, you are come," he 
 cried, "though you have forgotten the past, and 
 David Fraser, the ruined man." 
 
 Miss Morier, who had been shaking like an 
 aspen, suddenly forgot all her terror in her surprise 
 and spontaneous sympathy. ^^ Vou David! David 
 Fraser! Oh! my poor David!" she said, stepping 
 forward with the kindest, gentlest pity in her tones, 
 and only thinking of him and his miserable condi- 
 tion, and forgetting all fears for herself. 
 
 I don't know whether it was her very kindness 
 that overcame him. As she spoke, he threw up his 
 arms and let them fall at his side, dropping the 
 knife upon the floor. He seemed to catch for 
 breath, and then, before we could either of us catch 
 him, he had fallen gasping and choking at our feet. 
 We could not raise him up, but Maria lifted his 
 head on to her knee, while I loosened his shirt and 
 looked about for water. There was no water, nothing 
 in the place, and I could only soak my handkerchief 
 on the wet flags outside, and lay it on his head. 
 The rain was stopping; a boy was passing down the 
 road, and I called to him, and urged him to hurry 
 for help — to the doctor's first, and then to my aunt's 
 house. I hastily wrote a pencil line upon the card 
 for him to show, and he set off running. Then I
 
 MISS morier's visions. 285 
 
 went back into the house; it was absolutely bare, 
 neither firing nor food could I find. There was a 
 candle and there were some lucifers, which I struck, 
 for the twilight was falling. "Some one will soon 
 be here," I said to Miss Morier. 
 
 "Rub his hands," she said in a whisper; and we 
 chafed the poor cold hands. The man presently 
 came to himself, and began muttering again. As I 
 looked at the poor patient, I could hardly believe 
 this was the same man we had been so alarmed by. 
 His wig had fallen off, and we could see the real 
 lines of his head. He was deadly pale, but a very 
 sweet expression had come into the sullen face. His 
 talk went rambling on in some strange way. He 
 seemed to know Miss Morier, for he kept calling her 
 by her name. Then he appeared to imagine him- 
 self at some great feast or entertainment. 
 
 "Welcome to my house, Maria," he said; "wel- 
 come to the Towers. Tell the musicians to play 
 louder; scatter flowers; bring more lights, it is dark; 
 we want more lights." 
 
 As he spoke a curious bright reflection came 
 shining through the window that looked towards the 
 field. 
 
 "Is some one coming?" said Maria, trying to 
 raise the helpless figure. "Oh, go to the door." 
 
 I went to the door and flung it open, and then
 
 286 MISS morier's visions. 
 
 I stood transfixed. It was not the help we longed 
 for. I cannot explain what I saw — I can only simply 
 describe it. The light which had been shining 
 through the window came from across the field: 
 from a stately house standing among the mists, and 
 with many lighted windows. I could see the doors, 
 the casements all alight. I could even trace the 
 shadows of the balconies, the architectural mouldings. 
 The house was a great square house, with wings on 
 either side, and a tall roof with decorated gables. 
 There were weathercocks and ornaments, and many 
 shining points and decorations. It seemed to me 
 that, from time to time, some dreamy faint sound of 
 music was in the air. It was all very cold; I shivered 
 as I stood there, and all the while I heard the poor 
 voice rambling on — calling to guests, to musicians. 
 "Welcome to my house," he said, over and over again. 
 "I built it for her, and she has come to live in it." 
 
 This may have lasted some minutes; then I 
 heard Maria calling, and as I turned away suddenly 
 the whole thing vanished. "Oh, come!" she said. 
 Some gleam of recognition had dawned into the 
 sick man's eyes. He looked up at her, smiled very 
 peacefully, and fell back. "It is all over," she said, 
 bursting into a flood of tears. A minute after, there 
 came a knocking at the door — it was the doctor, but 
 he was too late.
 
 MISS morier's visions. 287 
 
 I cannot account for my story. I have told it as 
 it occurred. When the doctor came, and I opened 
 the door to him, the field was dark, the black shadows 
 were creeping all about it, the signpost stood upon 
 the mound. 
 
 I asked the doctor afterwards if he had seen 
 anything coming along, but he said "No;" and when 
 I told my story, he tried to persuade me it was 
 some effect of the mists on the marshy ground; but 
 it was something more than that. Perhaps a 
 scientific name will be found some day for the 
 strange influence of one mind upon another. 
 
 THE END.
 
 PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.
 
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 DATE DUE 
 
 NOV :. 5 1983 
 
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