The Marbeau Cousins.
 
 The Marbeau Cousins 
 
 By 
 Harry Stillwell Edwards, 
 
 Author of " Sons and Fathers," etc. 
 
 Chicago and New York: 
 
 Rand, McNally & Company, 
 
 Publishers.
 
 Copyright, 1897, by Harry Stillwell Edwards. 
 Copyright, 1898, by Rand, McNally & Co.
 
 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 BY HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 THE FLIGHT. 
 
 Early in the summer of 1886, the simple mountain 
 people of Kentucky, Tennessee and Georgia, who let 
 the pine and cedar knots blaze upon their hearths after 
 dark and friendly shafts of light pierce the night through 
 the cracks of their cabin walls, made the acquaintance of a 
 man whom, at first, they invariably regarded with sus- 
 picion, but in the end as invariably favored with their rude 
 hospitalities, without expectation of reward. 
 
 This man was never known to spend more than a 
 few hours at any house and no one ever saw him by day- 
 light, nor the second time. What became of him during 
 the day was not known, but it was easy for those who had 
 defied the revenue officers to guess that the rocks and 
 vine-encumbered ravines furnished him convenient ref- 
 uge. A few whose business called them abroad after 
 dark saw him shadow-like glide by in the moonlight and 
 disappear in the woods. Once the suspicious moonshin- 
 ers detained him, and once he fell into the hands of gov- 
 ernment officers engaged upon a raid. No one harmed 
 him. 
 
 Seen by the wavering light of the blazing chunks as he 
 stood in the mountain cabins, he was a man of not more 
 than thirty-two years, erect, lightly but compactly built 
 and of little more than the medium stature. His hands 
 were small and white where the skin shone through the 
 
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 6 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 stains upon them, and his feet were incased in the remains 
 of what had been good gaiters. His worn and torn cloth- 
 ing showed in its texture something superior to the rough 
 jeans and homespuns of the mountains. 
 
 All these details were carefully studied out by his 
 hosts, for the lives of many of them called for the utmost 
 caution in dealings with strangers, and revenue spies were 
 not infrequently abroad. But the examinations always 
 ended when the questioning gaze returned to the man's 
 face, which was, while grave and immobile, singularly 
 open and trust-inspiring; the face of a man then under 
 self-control only by powerful efforts and wearing a record 
 that was indefinable if it stood not for mental suffering. 
 
 But this face drew much of its trust-inspiring quality 
 from the eyes. Its expression, despite its sadness and 
 misery, was admirable; the eyes large, brown and singu- 
 larly luminous, the ray in them being an exaggeration 
 of that strange flame, which, if it be not the spirit itself, 
 is born of it, and is oftener seen in the eyes of dogs than 
 men. Whatever its origin, this noticeable, nay entranc- 
 ing light, seemed to suggest and index a power, an en- 
 ergy, almost a fever within, that, guarded and desperately 
 restrained at every other point, betrayed itself at the eye. 
 
 To these conspicuous points was added a voice that was 
 full, round and musical and abounding in those overtones 
 which make some voices so pleasant upon the ear. 
 
 He told the same story everywhere; he was one of the 
 people, he needed friends and help for the time being; 
 he had no money nor wanted any a little food, that 
 was all. His business? He had none. He was making 
 his way to friends, on foot because he could not afford to 
 ride. Different people drew different inferences; but 
 they gave him of their humble stores. He thanked them 
 gravely, and passed on out of their lives forever; but not 
 always from their memory. 
 
 The hill country succeeded the mountains, and still the 
 stranger held a southward course, avoiding the cities and 
 towns and even villages, when possible. He kept close
 
 THE FLIGHT. 7 
 
 to the open heart of nature and her simpler children, in- 
 stinctively. One evening at dusk, footsore and utterly 
 wearied, he came to a swift stream that wended its way 
 to the sea. The path he traversed led to the ferry, and 
 there tied up for the night was the great flat with a bateau 
 attached. Without hesitation he entered the latter, glid- 
 ed under the darker shadow of the trees and disappeared 
 from the scene. 
 
 All through the long night the traveler's weary arm 
 sent the little craft southward under the stars, his gaze 
 strained for rocks, in which the stream abounded, and 
 once, caught in the rapids despite his desperate efforts, it 
 swung crosswise, rolled over a submerged obstruction 
 and hurled him into the water. No cry escaped him, no 
 prayer to heaven. Rescue seemed impossible in that 
 lonely river at midnight. Over the rapids they went, and 
 when the foamy level below was reached the man was 
 bruised, exhausted and half drowned. He had clung 
 mechanically to the paddle, the only tangible object in 
 reach of his hand. The overturned boat floated near him. 
 Swimming and wading he pushed it ashore, righted it 
 again and hatless and chilled to the bones renewed his 
 perilous journey. He suffered, but with the dumb un- 
 complaining stoicism of the Indian. Indeed, he resem- 
 bled nothing so much in his swift silent passage as one of 
 the vanished braves, a Cherokee or Choctaw stealing 
 through an enemy's country. 
 
 And then, as eagerly the lonely boatman searched with 
 straining eyes the shapes and outlines of the hills that 
 bounded the valley, there came upon the clouds over- 
 hanging a forward bend of the stream, a strong upward 
 glow. For the first time in that long struggle an excla- 
 mation burst from his lips, an expression of satisfaction. 
 Keeping in the middle of the stream, he glided swiftly by 
 a large city, its many lights doubling themselves in 
 the waters that carried him. The rise and fall of his pad- 
 dle were noiseless; his passing was as the shadow of a 
 cloud or a log drifting endwise to the sea. It was nearly
 
 8 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 day again; no one was abroad upon the river; no one 
 hailed him and no sound broke the stillness except the 
 hissing steam of locomotives harnessed for their jour- 
 neys, and the far away stroke of a town clock. On under 
 the bridges he went, and then the lights died away behind, 
 and the hills ceased to hem him in. The low country 
 with its stretches of cypress and cane, its festoons of gray 
 moss and long trailing banners lifting and falling in the 
 faint breeze, received him. Like a shadow merging into 
 a shadow, he passed out of the visible. 
 
 The traveler felt the change. His pace slackened. 
 Then he began to search the shore line closely, returning 
 wearily more than once over his course, until finally a 
 dark narrow opening in the canebrake that walled in the 
 stream caught his eye. He promptly turned his boat into 
 it. Here it was utterly dark, for the stars were out and 
 he made but slow progress, the little bayou winding 
 through the tangled swamp in a most exasperating way. 
 But he proceeded with confidence. Whoever he was he 
 had found familiar scenes, for no human being in those 
 black depths could have advanced without accurate 
 knowledge of the way. 
 
 The swamp ended at the base of a low hill where the 
 table lands ran out, and in the clearing on the margin of 
 the bayou stood a cabin, light glimmering under the 
 closed door. 
 
 For the first time on his long journey the traveler hesi- 
 tated before the friendly light of a cabin. This time he 
 sat motionless in the boat and listened intently. What at 
 first seemed the murmur of winds in the trees in the 
 depths behind him, swelled out clearer as the tones of a 
 human voice beyond that door, a wild, weird, wordless 
 monotone of sound, a chant as mystic as ever dervish 
 sang under an eastern moon. 
 
 The man in the boat was strangely affected. The pad- 
 dle dropped from his grasp, and burying his face in his 
 hands he bent silently to an emotion that shook his frame 
 as a vine is shaken by the passing of a wind. But what-
 
 v THE FLIGHT. 9 
 
 ever the storm that had arisen within, whatever the mem- 
 ories stirred, he at length regained self-control. Thrust- 
 ing his paddle deep into the water again he sent his boat 
 ashore, stepped stiffly out, made his way to the end of the 
 little building and applied his eye to a crevice. The sing- 
 ing ceased abruptly, and, as he drew back into the dark- 
 ness, all was silence except that in the swamp a laughing 
 owl awoke the echoes with unearthly cachinnations. 
 Going confidently to the door he drew the latchstring 
 and entered. A woman sat in a low chair before the fire- 
 place, her back to him. She raised her head and listened 
 intently without turning.
 
 10 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 LIVE! LIVE TO KILL! 
 
 Then was enacted one of those dramas, inexplicable by 
 any known rule, in which subtle intelligence is born and 
 asserts control. The woman suddenly straightened bolt 
 upright in her chair, and, the silence continuing, her aged 
 form arose until its full height of six feet was visible to 
 the man who stood with folded arms behind her. The 
 great, gaunt figure, with its wrinkled yellow neck and 
 wisps of gray hair projecting from her plaid turban, wav- 
 ered a moment in the changing firelight. Her voice 
 broke the silence, weak and full of quavers, but gathering 
 strength as her evident excitement increased. 
 
 "I saw young Marster under de new moon," she said, 
 "lost and ersleep in de hills! I hyard es voice when de 
 moon was full; an' all de dark nights I hyard 'im callin' 
 for Silvy tell I cyant sleep. An' now I hyah es footstep 
 on my cabin flo'." She waited. 
 
 The man made no answer. Slowly, with dread, she 
 turned her wrinkled face and fixed upon him her weak, 
 dim orbs. At sight of the hatless figure and the eyes of 
 the man, now blazing in his bearded face, she uttered a 
 low moan, followed by the single word, a mere whisper: 
 
 "Dead!" 
 
 "Yes, dead," he began. She caught her breath with a 
 gasp and stretched out her hand to the rude mantel, while 
 he continued, "dead to the world; but to you, Mammy 
 Silvy, to you and one man, alive!" He rested his hand 
 lightly upon her shoulder as he spoke. "You are the one 
 friend that Chilon can rely on," he continued bitterly; 
 "but he has one enemy, and life is worth living if we have 
 one friend and one enemy!" Still doubtful and trembling, 
 the woman took his hand in both of hers, and struggled 
 for self-control while she sought to read his face.
 
 LIVE! LIVE TO KILL! II 
 
 "Changed! Changed!" she whispered. He looked away 
 a moment, his head drooping. 
 
 "Twelve years of the life I have led is apt to change a 
 man," he said. "I am changed; but the headstrong boy 
 that left you so long ago, who used to play upon your 
 cabin floor and sleep the noon hour on your white bed 
 well, the boy is a man conscious of his strength. Chilon 
 is dead ; but he who lives in his place is the friend of his 
 friend, and to him who slew Chilon" he secerned to choke 
 a moment and then with unrestrained passion the words 
 broke forth, "he is the deadliest enemy a living man ever 
 had." His voice rose under his emotion. The woman 
 caught the infection. Her tall form straightened again in 
 the unsteady light as if youth, sleeping within her, had 
 received an electric shock. In the far depths of her fad- 
 ing memories, some tribal instinct heard and responded 
 to the call to war. Ninety years had weighted her with 
 their burdens, but the savage was still alive. 
 
 "He shall die!" she said simply. 
 
 "No, he shall live, live to rot in prison and eat out 
 his soul with remorse and unsatisfied revenge, live as a 
 chained beast lives, and die at last as the dog dies 
 may God give me eternal damnation if I forgive 
 forgive " He tore at his throat, gasped, and in a par- 
 oxysm of rage and grief threw out his arm, falling full 
 length and senseless upon the floor. Instantly the aged 
 black seemed imbued with new life. She sank beside 
 him, her face close to his, her hands on wrist and tem- 
 ple. Reaching back she snatched from a crevice in her 
 chimney a long keen knife and drew his hand to her lap. 
 When she released it, blood trickled down the wrist, and 
 the writhing figure lay stilled. "Live," he heard her say, 
 as his vague gaze rested upon her. "Live to kill." A 
 flush swept over his face, and his eyes closed wearily.
 
 12 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "SPEAK, IS SHE LIVING?" 
 
 The name of the man who had taken refuge in the 
 cabin of the negress that summer night was Chilon 
 Marbeau. He was a fugitive from justice, but no hard 
 pressed one. He came in pursuance of plans carefully 
 laid and pondered for many a year. Waiting and watch- 
 ing for an opportunity had frozen the youth in his face 
 and put his soul into his eyes. Plans were laid in ex- 
 pectation that his opportunity would come; it did come: 
 he seized upon it, and followed them out exactly. No 
 feature had failed. He reached the river at the point 
 aimed for, found the little boat as anticipated and came 
 to the cabin as he had come in his dreams a thousand 
 times. No one was on his trail; no man could have 
 followed the zig-zag route he had chosen. Whatever 
 his reasons for hiding, there was little cause to fear pur- 
 suit from the outer world after he had crossed the 
 threshold of the woman's cabin. The uncertain quan- 
 tity in his calculation had been her life. If she were 
 dead there was no safety for him in the neighborhood; 
 but the river was there and the boat, and on the coast, 
 lumber ships were loading for foreign ports. Escape 
 was easy when once the cabin had been reached; but 
 escape was not the only aim in the life of this man. 
 
 Chilon Marbeau in choosing this refuge, had done so 
 with consummate skill and perfect knowledge of all that 
 offered for the purposes in mind. The civilized sections 
 of the world did not contain for him a safer place than 
 Silvy's cabin. Isolated upon a great plantation, whose 
 acres were numbered by the thousands, distant from 
 roads and byways, it was a place that white men would 
 not stumble upon in years; but the most fortunate fact 
 for his purposes lay in the calling and character of the 
 occupant, for Silvy was the last and most noted in her
 
 "SPEAK, IS SHE LIVING?" 13 
 
 day of all those voodoos or "doctors" once famous in 
 the south. Her giant frame, her pale gray eyes, wrinkled 
 face and white hair, her knowledge of herbs and medi- 
 cine, and the fact that she had brought her practices 
 and superstitions from Africa, all combined to make her 
 a being feared and reverenced. In truth there did not 
 live a negro who would, even with permission and in 
 daylight, have entered her house, nor for that matter 
 have opened his mouth about her under any circum- 
 stances. When her services were needed for any pur- 
 pose, the visitor called from a distance and if she chose 
 to respond she went forth. If she did not the visit must 
 be repeated until her convenience or whim was suited. 
 She still drew her rations from the family smoke house, 
 and was the recipient of many small contributions from 
 her patients and patrons. But none interfered with her. 
 
 The chief danger that imperiled the man's plans lay 
 in the enfeebled mental and physical condition of the 
 woman. Upon her he depended for information of 
 which he had been for ten years deprived. 
 
 Chilon Marbeau realized the calamity that threatened 
 him when he recovered from the spell that bodily 
 fatigue and the long mental strain had brought upon 
 him. When he opened his eyes the negress was sitting 
 by his side crooning a rude lullaby and evidently im- 
 pressed with the idea that he was still the little child 
 that had been wont many years before to make her cabin 
 his play ground. The memory of those old days, when 
 he used to lie there and listen to her queer myths days 
 full of sunshine and happiness, the golden days of youth, 
 rose within him with almost suffocating tenderness. All 
 associated with them were gone forever! Only himself, 
 as far as he knew, and this tottering human wreck re- 
 mained. And what was he? 
 
 Recovering his steadiness, although still weak, he be- 
 gan eagerly to try to bring her mind back to the pres- 
 ent and to recent events, but seemingly in vain. The 
 startling suddenness and manner of his appearance and
 
 14 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 his contagious excitement and passion, had, for the mo- 
 ment, aroused her drooping mind. But it had lapsed 
 again into lethargy. One name, "Lena," was ever upon 
 his lips; or "Celeste," his sister's, and his Uncle Charles; 
 he tried them all in vain. The sounds seemed to carry 
 no message to her bewildered senses. 
 
 Her subsequent history was marked by flashes of men- 
 tal activity under the stimulus of accidental memories; 
 and sometimes for hours she succeeded in connecting 
 herself closely with the present; but her moods were 
 variable and uncertain. All that the impatient man 
 could hope for, then or afterwards, was to take advantage 
 of her moments of consciousness, and gradually extract 
 from her such points of the desired information as she 
 might possess; and this he soon found exceedingly dif- 
 ficult, for when sanity departs through age, habit is still 
 strong, and reticence had been the lifelong habit of this 
 strange woman. 
 
 So it was that while he rested, only little by little 
 could he gain from her any information of his family 
 and the changes that had taken place since his departure ; 
 and of the truth of this he was not sure. Questions 
 alarmed her cautious nature and when directly interro- 
 gated, she was apt to close her mouth in obstinate 
 silence. When he attempted to lead her mind to the sub- 
 ject nearest his heart, ofttimes she would ramble off on 
 events that antedated his very existence. 
 
 Once at midnight, baffled by the strange limitations 
 of his existence, having wandered away and viewed the 
 familiar house of his boyhood from the distance, brood- 
 ing in the shadows, he returned and burst into the cabin, 
 crying passionately: 
 
 "Is she living or dead? Can't you see, can't you see 
 the suspense is killing me?" As the vibration of one note 
 sometimes recalls a whole song, so his voice startled her 
 again into partial consciousness. She gave him a long 
 pitying look and shook her head. 
 
 "Do you mean dead?" he asked, his voice failing him
 
 "SPEAK, IS SHE LIVING?" 15 
 
 with sudden weakness "you do not mean dead?" Again 
 she looked upon him steadily a moment, only to turn 
 away in silence. "Speak to me, Mammy," he pleaded, 
 plucking her sleeve, "you must, you must! Where is 
 Lena, where is my wife?" The woman looked with 
 genuine sorrow into his eager face; of this he was sure. 
 "She is dead then," he said in despair, "dead lost to 
 me forever! It was too late!" Her head sank upon her 
 breast; his hand relaxed, and he turned away his face 
 that even she might not behold its abject misery. She 
 arose then, slowly, and brought him a gourd of water. 
 
 "Drink!" she said simply, "it is too late!" 
 
 He was for hours silent. One of the two incentives 
 that had sustained him so many years was gone. It was 
 his one day of weakness, the one day that almost saw 
 the white flag upon his citadel. Afterwards he tried to 
 turn his mind from its despair and bring to its support 
 the wonderful spirit that had so long helped him defy 
 fate. But love was gone ! 
 
 The woman mumbled away the hours, and more than 
 once he heard the name of his wife upon her lips. And 
 then at last the broken threads tied themselves in her 
 wavering mind and she told graphically of a runaway 
 horse, of entangled skirts and a dead woman. A cry 
 burst from his lips. In his mother's family there had 
 been a Lena, and so had she died thirty years ago ! The 
 woman still looked upon him with sorrow: 
 
 "Too late! too late!" she muttered. But hope had 
 been born again with him.
 
 l6 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 THE RECORDS FOUND. 
 
 The situation of Chilon Marbeau was at that time 
 without parallel in history or fiction. Absolutely free 
 to come and go, he was also absolutely cut off from all 
 channels of information. His only safe point of contact 
 and communication with the world was this singular 
 old woman, whose mind was already losing its hold upon 
 that world, whose memory was defective and habits such 
 as to render it practically useless outside her house. 
 His shoes were now nearly gone, his clothing dilapi- 
 dated to the last degree, and hat he had none. He 
 could not therefore venture into the city after dark for 
 more supplies, even had he any money wherewith to 
 purchase or were indiscreet enough to take the risk. 
 His appearance was such that he would not have dared 
 to ask a question of or apply to any person for work. 
 He was, to look upon, a veritable wildman of the swamp, 
 one who would be a prey to suspicious police in the city, 
 an object of dangerous curiosity and gossip in the coun- 
 try. He realized it all too well. 
 
 Still there was in him a sense of freedom, so novel, 
 so restful, that much of his feverish impatience passed 
 away, a freedom so sweet that every morning his first 
 realization of it sent a new flush of pleasure from heart 
 to cheek. What the future held he could not guess ; he 
 had his plans, but they were impossible until he could 
 ascertain the condition and circumstances of his family 
 and his present necessities were supplied. But in the 
 meantime he had freedom. 
 
 Mere food soon became an object for him to strive 
 after; for the slender stores of the old woman seemed 
 to be exhausted. He helped her in the only possible 
 way. He knew the treasures of that old cabin and where 
 to find lines and hooks. He fixed up an abundant sup-
 
 THE RECORDS FOUND. 17 
 
 ply and set them by night in the bayou and under the 
 river willows. And in this occupation he stretched his 
 limbs in a fuller freedom, paddling his boat, while the 
 lines hung in the dark waters, up stream as far as the 
 city to gaze upon its lights, its trains roaring across the 
 bridges overhead, and listen to its lessening sigh as it 
 sunk into slumber. It was a novel sensation for him, 
 bareheaded, and in rags, to be lurking in the shadow of 
 some tree in sight of those familiar steeples and in sound 
 of their bells. His companions had been gay ones there, 
 hightoned, chivalric, full of the southern fire and gallan- 
 try. Were they married and settled now? Were they 
 men of prominence? The prospects of none had been 
 brighter than his. And he at thirty-two was an outlaw 
 hiding in the shadows by his native city. 
 
 The only reflection that gave him comfort at such 
 times was that while he had come back without knowl- 
 edge of any facts that had transpired within his family 
 circle during ten years, the family were probably as 
 ignorant of his life; and only one man in the world 
 abroad had known his real name. But for that one 
 man he might dare all. How much had been revealed? 
 That he must ascertain. 
 
 His freedom, broad as it was, became at length too 
 limited for his youth and impatience; and with the full 
 return of his physical and mental forces came something 
 of the old recklessness that characterized his boyhood. 
 Clothing would never come to him by chance, nor 
 would information. And the will is king! He deter- 
 mined to settle for once and all the mystery that over- 
 hung his family. He would enter the house of his 
 uncle! 
 
 On the night of the day that brought this decision, 
 Chilon turned his back upon the swamp when he left 
 the cabin and passed up the hill to the great plateau 
 that constituted the arable lands of Ravenswood, and 
 soon found himself in front of the Marbeau mansion. It 
 was a massive, old colonial building whose every detail
 
 l8 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 was indelibly fixed upon his memory. Change is slow 
 upon the southern plantation, and time, as far as he could 
 judge, seemed to have spared this house. He had gone 
 forth from it a light-hearted boy; change had not 
 spared him. Stilling the rising tumult in his bosom he 
 passed noiselessly through the shrubbery of the front 
 yard well hid in the shadow, and performed once more 
 a feat common in his old boyish days of misrule; he 
 swung himself into a giant cedar that stood near the 
 rear and dropping lightly upon the roof of the side 
 veranda found himself at the window of his once well- 
 known room. The shutters opened stiffly to his touch, 
 and the sash responded unwillingly, but there was little 
 noise. In a moment more Chilon stood again in his old 
 quarters. 
 
 The situation was now full of uncertainty, if not dan- 
 ger; he did not know that his uncle still occupied the 
 house, nor that the room he had entered was empty. 
 
 Chilon ascertained that the room was not occupied by 
 touching the bed. The bedding had been removed. 
 Closing the shutters carefully he lit a bit of candle that 
 he had provided and with deep emotion gazed about the 
 familiar place. Only the bedding was gone. Otherwise 
 the room was as he had left it. He could not, viewing 
 the well-known objects about him, realize that youth 
 had passed since his eyes last beheld them and his foot- 
 steps echoed in that room. In the corners were his sad- 
 dle and oars, his gun case, riding boots and jointed rod ; 
 on the walls the same old pictures. In the closet he 
 found, even, some of his clothing still hanging as he 
 had left it, but moth-eaten into ruin. He turned from 
 it all, touched and saddened. His belongings had not 
 been cast out. They awaited his coming. 
 
 The presence in that room of these objects carried to 
 him also another meaning. The house had not changed 
 hands. Extinguishing his candle, for the rooms were all 
 transomed, he made his way through the silent hall to- 
 ward the stairs. He waited by the door of the room that
 
 THE RECORDS FOUND. 19 
 
 had been Lena's, listening intently. No sound came from 
 within. Gently he tried the latch. It was locked, and 
 then his hand touched the key on the outside. Saddened, 
 he passed on, descended the stairway and stood by his 
 uncle's door. It was half open, and within the room he 
 heard the deep, strong breathing of a man. With noise- 
 less footsteps he left it, and entered the library. 
 
 As in that dear old room, with its East India lounge 
 and cool leathern chairs so well remembered, he relit his 
 candle, a low cry of triumph escaped him. Upon the 
 center table under the extinguished reading lamp were 
 letters addressed to his Uncle, Charles Marbeau, and 
 near them, newspapers. He caught up the latter as 
 a famishing man seizes upon food, for through them 
 he was again in touch with the world. The object of 
 his venture had been accomplished and so profound was 
 his satisfaction that he prepared at once to depart, when 
 a new idea flashed into mind. If these papers were so 
 valuable, the preceding issues were doubly so. 
 
 The library at Ravenswood was supplied on all sides 
 with shelving reaching to the ceiling and closed in by 
 glass doors. But the lower three feet projected and were 
 closed by separate doors and used for files of certain 
 papers, and for magazines and pamphlets. The arrange- 
 ment and custom were well remembered by the silent 
 visitor. Throwing open these latter doors he bent to as- 
 certain if the family custom had continued. Upon the 
 files of bound papers his finger traced backward the 
 dates. None were missing. They were all there, the 
 sealed years of life in the world from which he had been 
 isolated so long. He selected several of these 1873, 
 1874, 1875 and immediately withdrew. In the hall 
 above he could not resist the temptation to enter the 
 locked apartment. It was, of course, vacant, but a vase 
 held a long-withered rose that shattered at his touch. 
 He stood a few moments resting his forehead against 
 the mantel, and then without a second glance about him 
 withdrew hurriedly, almost precipitately.
 
 20 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 THE VOODOO'S SECRET. 
 
 But outside the house his mood changed. The 
 volumes he bore were dearer than life, by far; they were 
 to arm him with knowledge of past events and settle for- 
 ever, perhaps, the doubts that were consuming him. Al- 
 though he had become accustomed to self-control, it was 
 with the greatest difficulty that he could restrain his ex- 
 citement when he reached the cabin and deposited his 
 precious burden. He looked up under the spell of a pen- 
 etrating gaze and found the woman's eyes fixed upon 
 him, uneasiness expressed in her aged face. Whether 
 she had affected much of the ignorance and imbecility 
 with which she had received his questions or whether a 
 transient sanity was at that moment in control, the man 
 realized that she understood the situation and was un- 
 easy. She spent her time night and day for the most 
 part dozing above the flame or embers on her hearth, 
 and to this occupation she now returned. Thrusting a 
 piece of lightwood into the coals Chilon began to ex- 
 plore his treasures, but ever and anon he glanced up 
 into the wrinkled face to find the strange eyes fixed 
 steadily upon him. 
 
 "What is it, Mammy?" he asked carelessly as he 
 turned the pages. There was no answer for so long a 
 time he forgot his own question; but at length she said 
 simply: 
 
 "Silvy's hair was black an' her eyes were dark." 
 
 "Ah?" He continued his reading. She said no more. 
 Presently as he turned page after page he repeated the 
 words to himself. "Silvy's hair was black and her eyes 
 were dark;" and then he, too, began to study the flames. 
 The words did not amount to much, but the easy, confi- 
 dent tones so different from her usual mumblings clung 
 to him. "How could Silvy's eyes have been dark?" he
 
 THE VOODOO'S SECRET. 21 
 
 asked himself idly. "Silvy's eyes were gray, pale gray. 
 Does age change the color of one's eyes?" The violet 
 eyed babe always became the brown-eyed, he had heard ; 
 and his own eyes, he had been told, varied their shades, 
 as did those of many people, with moods or changing 
 conditions of health. But did anyone's eyes ever pass 
 from dark to light and so remain? Could even drugs 
 effect this? Besides, why this remark at such a time? 
 
 Chilon knew the indirectness of the African mind. 
 
 "What changed them, Mammy?" he asked at length, 
 with curiosity. 
 
 "My mother," she said simply and without hesitation. 
 The alteration of her manner would have been enough 
 to startle him had there been no meaning in her words. 
 He let his pages fall back into their places. 
 
 "Your mother! To make you a doctor, was it?" She 
 nodded her head. When he looked at her again her 
 strange eyes were fixed upon him with the peculiar ex- 
 pression he had before remarked. Under the impulse of 
 a startling idea he rose suddenly to his knees, his limbs 
 shivering. Some subtle power had transferred her mean- 
 ing. He touched her shriveled arm. 
 
 "Can you," he began. She looked away quickly. 
 "Mammy! Mammy! if you will, the man who put irons 
 upon these arms, who robbed me of all that makes life 
 beautiful, who stole my youth and freedom ." She 
 started violently. His voice was now ringing out into 
 the night, and she stood erect with sudden energy. 
 Again in her face he saw for one brief moment the flash 
 of a savagery that time could not entirely subdue. "You 
 know what it is," he continued passionately, "to be 
 robbed of these, to be plucked from life and friends and 
 hope ." A cry escaped her. "You know what it is to 
 eat out your heart waiting for revenge that never came! 
 help me, Mammy, help me!" 
 
 She trembled violently before the appeal and the rush 
 of memories it had stirred. She put her finger with
 
 22 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 pathetic tenderness and respect upon his head, and then 
 his cheek as he knelt. 
 
 "You will be old old old. There ain't no way 
 back!" 
 
 "I am old already. Revenge will make me young." 
 
 "It will take time a long time!" 
 
 "Let it be years, but promise!" 
 
 She stood a moment in deep thought. 
 
 "Dreams will come," she said, touching his forehead, 
 "dreams! Some of them will stay." He reflected upon 
 her answer. She meant hallucinations. 
 
 "I will risk them all," he said. "The new cannot be 
 sadder than the old!" For answer she went slowly to 
 her room and stretched herself upon her cot. She never 
 again spoke upon the subject.
 
 "REVENGE IS IMMORTAL." 23 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 "REVENGE IS IMMORTAL." 
 
 Left alone by the flickering flame Chilon aroused him- 
 self from the half stupor into which reaction had plunged 
 him, and opened a volume of papers again. This time he 
 read the telegraphic reports of 1874. Upon a date graven 
 indelibly in his mind, he found this dispatch from the 
 Associated Press: 
 
 "The police to-day made an important capture in the 
 person of Carl Garner, the youngest and most dangerous 
 counterfeiter that ever operated extensively in the United 
 States. The man has been known by name to the gov- 
 ernment detectives for several years, and there are stand- 
 ing rewards for his arrest amounting to $2,000; but so 
 successful have been his precautions, all efforts to get a 
 full description of him have failed. It has been known 
 for a year that a surprise in the youth of this criminal 
 awaited the public, but the result was even more remark- 
 able than imagined. The police decline to state just how 
 his capture was effected, but knowing ones say that a 
 confederate must have betrayed him, for it had been 
 many months since he was actively engaged in his ne- 
 farious profession, and when seized had in his possession 
 spurious bills of a new counterfeit issue that had not 
 made its appearance anywhere. The new counterfeit is 
 remarkable from the fact that it is printed upon ap- 
 parently genuine government paper, and is so nearly per- 
 fect that only a microscopic comparison with a genuine 
 bill reveals any difference. Every cashier to whom it has 
 been submitted at first pronounced it genuine. A treas- 
 ury expert, however, pointed out a slight variation, 
 which for good reasons will not be made known until it 
 is ascertained definitely whether or not any of the issue 
 has been floated. The accused man is persistent in his 
 denial that he is Carl Garner or a counterfeiter by pro-
 
 24 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 fession, but declares that he is by force of circumstances 
 compelled to remain silent as to his true identity. It is 
 the opinion of detectives, however, that he is the go- 
 between of a dangerous band of operators, and is play- 
 ing a deep and skillful game to shield them. They are 
 confident that, despite his youth, the right man has been 
 arrested, a conclusion not perhaps unnatural in view 
 of the large reward in sight. Garner is to be examined 
 before a commissioner to-day." 
 
 The face of the man in the cabin was a study as he 
 lifted it from the page, and sat in silent reverie. Slowly 
 he turned the pages and took up again the history of the 
 case that interested him so deeply. 
 
 "The counterfeiter, Carl Garner, was on yesterday 
 brought before the United States commissioner for ex- 
 amination. He is a young man, a little above the medi- 
 um height, with dark hair and bright, brown eyes, noth- 
 ing in his appearance indicating the criminal, although 
 marks of dissipation were clearly apparen* The closest 
 examination did not bring out any new facts in his case. 
 He persisted in maintaining an obstinate silence as to 
 the whereabouts of the plates and the names of his con- 
 federates ; for it is certain that these exist, since no man 
 of the prisoner's age could have alone produced such 
 works of art as the plates undoubtedly are. He denied 
 again that he is Carl Garner, and that he is a counter- 
 feiter; but he would not state his true name, birthplace 
 nor occupation. He admitted, however, that he knew 
 that the bills found upon his person were counterfeits, 
 and even that he printed them himself; but his sole ob- 
 ject, he declared, was to start an excitement about the 
 bills and then deliver the plates to the government for a 
 reward. The plates, according to his story, came into 
 his possession by chance, had never been criminally used, 
 and are where they can never again be used. His asso- 
 ciate in this enterprise, he declared, had betrayed him 
 for the larger and more certain reward, and was in all 
 probability the man wanted as Carl Garner. He offered
 
 "REVENGE IS IMMORTAL." 25 
 
 to get the plates and deliver them to the authorities if 
 given his freedom, but said he would die before he would 
 betray to anyone their whereabouts and thereby bring 
 disgrace and dishonor to innocent people. He adhered 
 to this resolution even when it was shown that the effect 
 would be disastrous to him, while a confession accom- 
 panied by a surrender of the plates would get him off 
 lightly and even, perhaps, go far toward substantiating 
 his story. In default of bail in the sum of $20,000, he 
 was bound over to await the action of the district court." 
 
 Again the hand of the silent man turned the pages. 
 His eye found and rested upon this record: 
 
 "The now noted counterfeiter, Carl Garner, was ar- 
 raigned in the United States district court on yesterday 
 charged with the crime of counterfeiting. He appeared 
 without counsel, and His Honor, Judge William Brown, 
 appointed young Mr. Wilbur Sterns to defend him. The 
 trial developed nothing additional to what has already 
 been printed. The prisoner repeated his story without 
 material variations, and it produced a favorable impres- 
 sion upon many who were present. One of the treasury's 
 most skilled detectives gave as his opinion that the story 
 was true in every particular, and that the whole^ difficulty 
 was the result of a youthful indiscretion and an exag- 
 gerated idea of family honor. Judge Brown, however, 
 said that the reputation of a country's currency was too 
 sacred to be trifled with; that a laboring man's money 
 represented his toil and economy, the future welfare of 
 himself, his wife and his children; that next to protect- 
 ing a man's life, the highest duty of a government was 
 to protect the results of a man's labor; that the prisoner 
 was technically guilty by his own admission, even though 
 he had intended no greater harm than to force his gov- 
 ernment to buy something that, as a loyal citizen, he 
 was in honor bound to deliver free. But the story had 
 not been proven true; indeed, it was a very improbable 
 story, and even were he disposed to discharge the pris- 
 pner on parole and his promise to surrender the dan-
 
 26 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 gerous plates, there was no law to justify such an ac- 
 tion. He could therefore, he said, give the prisoner 
 full credit for truth without seeing his way to help him; 
 for if the government was to be denied the privilege of 
 destroying the plates, it was bound to do the next best 
 thing possible destroy the power of the man who con- 
 trolled them. He thereupon called upon the prisoner to 
 make his final decision in the matter, intimating that a 
 confession and surrender of the plates would secure for 
 him the lightest possible sentence. The prisoner then 
 read this brief and affecting statement which he had pre- 
 pared: 'Circumstances prevent acceptance of the condi- 
 tions imposed upon me. No stain has ever, within my 
 knowledge, rested upon the name of my family. I will 
 never be the first to stain it. The plans that I had in 
 view were the plans of an inexperienced, credulous boy 
 led astray by dissipation and bad associates, and con- 
 templated only selling to the government dangerous 
 counterfeit plates that had not been used. Of course, 
 the whole scheme was wrong, but the wrong shall end 
 in me. I will not break the hearts of people who love 
 me. A lifetime in prison will not change my decision.' 
 
 "The court ordered this statement filed with the papers 
 in the case, and thereupon sentenced the prisoner to 
 twenty years in the penitentiary, upon three counts in 
 the indictment, the full limit of the law. So ends a very 
 remarkable case. The frank manliness of the prisoner 
 produced a profound impression and many exclamations 
 of sympathy and pity followed him as he was led away. 
 Judge Brown said afterwards that he had no choice left 
 but to proceed as he had, but that never in all his ex- 
 perience had he been more inclined to believe in the 
 sincerity of a statement that his judgment told him was 
 untrue. He predicts that a confession will yet follow." 
 
 The reader searched every line of the paper for addi- 
 tional mention of the case, and found this in the editorial 
 columns : 
 
 "Dispatches of to-day bring us particulars of the trial
 
 "REVENGE IS IMMORTAL." 2? 
 
 and conviction of a young man arrested in New York as 
 Carl Garner for counterfeiting. The remarkable features 
 of the case are the prisoner's persistent denial of his 
 identity and his statement that his innocence can only 
 be proven by revelations that will bring distress and dis- 
 honor upon innocent people. He insisted that his embar- 
 rassment was due to dissipation and bad associates, and 
 declared his willingness to expiate his offense by sacri- 
 ficing his life and liberty. 
 
 "Twenty years was the sentence imposed upon him. 
 Twenty years! Think of this, our young reader, when 
 you are first tempted to wander from the parental roof 
 at night, to take your first glass of beer, or heed the 
 appeals of vice in any form! Here is a man just of age, 
 born, it is likely, in good circumstances, reared by lov- 
 ing parents and given every advantage that a Christian 
 community can furnish, gone from all these to a living 
 tomb! 
 
 "Twenty years! When he conies forth, confinement 
 will have made him an old man. Youth will have been 
 long since dead in his heart. Parents perhaps, twenty 
 years is a long time, will have grown sick and weary 
 of waiting and have passed away heartbroken. If he is 
 heir to property, others will have succeeded to it. If he 
 had a child of his own it will have grown to manhood 
 or womanhood and will know him not. Indeed, how 
 can he, with the smell of the convict upon his garments, 
 claim kinship, sympathy, friendship with any of those 
 who believed him at least honorably dead? 
 
 "And if he has a wife, she too will be nothing to him. 
 If so constituted that she cannot survive a prolonged 
 grief and the uncertainty of his fate, she too may per- 
 ish; but as he lies at night in his lonely cell there is a 
 worse thought than this, to us the most terrible that 
 could come to a convict so situated; he must see that 
 wife waiting and watching and losing faith, her love 
 growing cold ; and distrust followed by hatred and con- 
 tempt, taking its place, until some day she casts it all
 
 28 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 out and, in her loneliness, loving less madly than she 
 did at first, turn at last for comfort to a nobler man." 
 
 The reader, who had unconsciously begun to pro- 
 nounce aloud the lines of this word picture, his voice 
 trembling with repressed excitement, paused and strug- 
 gled up to his knees. Behind him in the doorway of the 
 little room the voodoo was crouching, having crawled 
 from her couch, her eyes blazing with passion. The man 
 had paused above the page that still held his gaze fas- 
 cinated by the convict's doom foretold thereon. Again 
 he began: "In his heart he cannot blame her; but he 
 must realize that when the twenty years end, he will issue 
 from prison with no friend alive and no object in life!" 
 The volume closed with a sharp crash. Chilon was on 
 his feet now, his face transformed. A sound attracted 
 his attention or was it the concentration of her fixed 
 gaze? He turned and looked into the voodoo's face. 
 
 "Ah," he- cried, "the man who wrote that had never 
 been a felon! He did not know! Love may perish, but 
 revenge is immortal!" He paused abruptly. The wom- 
 an's lids closed gently over her pale eyes and a strange 
 smile overspread her wrinkled countenance. Slowly, 
 after the manner of some great reptile, she drew back 
 into the darkness.
 
 THE CRY IN THE NIGHT. 29 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 THE CRY IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 Chilon spent the next night in the swamp. The little 
 bayou had an almost imperceptible current and sitting 
 in his boat, his chin upon his breast, he let it drift at 
 will. The night was cloudy and intensely dark, for the 
 water-way led under the spreading branches of great 
 oaks and beeches and canopies of tangled vines. No 
 sound came to him except that strange sweet murmur 
 that belongs to all great swamps, which is like unto 
 nothing in nature unless it be the sad voice in the hu- 
 man heart that physicians know. It may have been this 
 note that insensibly attracted him into the gloom rather 
 than the open fields; and there it was that he first be- 
 trayed his presence to any one of the neighborhood. 
 
 His mind was busy with the memories that had been 
 so vividly flashed upon it by the record, and uncon- 
 scious of his surroundings the little craft passed silently 
 into an open space and emerged upon the starless water ; 
 but noiseless though it was, two men, negroes, crouch- 
 ing over their fishing lines by a bed of coals, where 
 blazed a lightwood torch, saw him and sprung to their 
 feet. The light and their exclamations drew his atten- 
 tion, but too late to avoid detection. One of the men 
 suddenly swung the torch above his head, and leaning 
 forward, said loudly: "Who dat?" Chilon made no mo- 
 tion, and the scene then presented to these representa- 
 tives of a most superstitious people was a boat, white in 
 the glow of the torch, holding a wild, haggard, bare- 
 headed and half-clad man. Responsive to the moving 
 torch, fantastic shadows leaped among the trees, and 
 somewhere an owl uttered his inquiring note. With loud 
 cries the men, dropping their brands, rushed back into 
 the night, the sound of breaking bush and rotten wood 
 indicating for some moments their continued flight. The
 
 30 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 man in the boat weighed the circumstance and soon per- 
 ceived its value. To have it rumored that a haunt was 
 abroad in the swamps would render it a safer refuge. 
 He lifted his voice and sent a prolonged shriek after the 
 fleeing negroes, a cry weird and wild that set a thousand 
 echoes afloat. Chilon himself started as he heard it com- 
 ing back to him from every side, doubled and distorted 
 until the night was hideous with its unearthly discord. 
 As it died away he bowed his head into his hands and 
 shuddered. Unconsciously he had given expression to 
 the discord within him born of his grief and passionate 
 rebellion. It was the first time he had heard his own 
 voice unrestrained in all those years, and the echoes 
 that laughed back at him were from the nights made 
 hideous by vain regrets behind prison bars. He had cried 
 aloud as he had wished to cry a thousand times when he 
 felt those bars across his face, cold iron at first, and then 
 hot, searing his very heart. But not a cry had escaped 
 him. There was an iron will within that upheld him; 
 for was not his chance to come some day when a record 
 for good behavior had been made? 
 
 The boat in silence and loneliness drifted on. Chilon 
 had thrown himself face down within it, and for the time 
 yielded himself to the bitterness of his fate. Hours must 
 have passed when he aroused himself to find the swift 
 river hurrying him seaward. For a moment the impulse 
 to let the stream have its will, to pass out into the dis- 
 tant sea and find a harbor at last on some foreign 
 shore, almost overcame him ; but he put aside the temp- 
 tation resolutely, and turning his back upon the swarm- 
 ing demons that had tormented him, bent himself to the 
 task of guiding his craft back into the haven of the 
 swamp. Day was breaking when he entered the empty 
 cabin. He threw himself upon his pallet and fell asleep; 
 and as he slept the woman came again and bent over his 
 wearied frame chanting her weird songs. Her eyes grew 
 humid at times with tenderness; at times they flashed 
 forth steely gleams of light.
 
 THE WOUND THAT WOULD NOT HEAL. 3! 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 THE WOUND THAT WOULD NOT HEAL. 
 
 In her queer way, the African woman was physician, 
 magician, alchemist and pharmacist. She knew every 
 shrub and bulb of the country, and their effects upon the 
 nerves, the organs and the muscles of the human sys- 
 tem. She knew how to fill the mind with fancies and 
 bend the imagination to her ends. She came of a race 
 that from the days of Pharaoh recognized the power of 
 the mind over matter; for faith cure is older than the 
 pyramids. Long habit had linked her incantations to her 
 task and become a part of her trade, for minds can steep 
 themselves in deception until they are themselves de- 
 ceived. 
 
 There were other agencies than human that combined 
 in her service if the undertones of the African society 
 could be trusted, for no living thing of all God's beauti- 
 ful world would for long make its home with her. If she 
 took to the cabin a little kitten, it grew into shy cathood 
 and accepted a grim mate from the canebrakes where 
 she went to hunt young rabbits, and when motherhood 
 came, caught the contagion of their wildness and made 
 her a lair in the trunk of some fallen tree. Her turkeys 
 nested wild and came no more except in dead of winter 
 to crane their necks from a distant covert and gaze, with 
 half memories, at dawn, upon the cabin lights. Her 
 ducks, too, mated with the Mallards or the Carolinas, and 
 drifted out in sunny days upon the river. Birds she had 
 years ago, but they were noteless and died with heads 
 under their wings. 
 
 Be this as it might, the visible agencies of her calling 
 were plentiful. Out from among the rafters and corners 
 her ingredients came as needed. No man could read her 
 formulas; they were wordless, but she knew them all. 
 The mother, in the singular division of her people's social
 
 32 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 organization, was the sole university of the daughter, 
 and nature was the one great wholesale supply house. 
 There were the queer little bottles, with their infusions 
 and decoctions, clear liquids and liquids deepening into 
 the roots and twigs, whose essential elements they con- 
 tained. And there were the spiders floating in an amber 
 fluid, five drops of which would lessen the strength of 
 the fiercest pulse, the lizard coiled in oil that made sup- 
 ple the rheumatic joints of age; and sprainwort for 
 sprains. Tanzy, too, was there, and sage and mint and 
 mullein, bark of the red oak for its tannic acid, hoarhound 
 for coughs, and pine splinters for turpentine. And there 
 were milkweed to cure fits, and mole claws to hang about 
 the necks of teething babes. 
 
 These and a hundred other nostrums she had in store, 
 many long worthless. For times had changed; the new 
 race was in reach of ambitious doctors and the old system 
 was passing out of fashion. Even at this time her help 
 was sought chiefly by women in labor, who still believed 
 in the potency of a "hand that had smothered a mole," 
 and by those who wished the protection of "conjure 
 bags," the little amulets once so popular. The old prac- 
 titioner had nearly reached her end. The time would 
 soon come when the last and greatest of the voodoos 
 would pass away. 
 
 But these herbs hanging from her rafters and clustered 
 about the recesses of the cabin gave it an uncanny ap- 
 pearance to eyes that viewed them from a distance, and 
 thus strengthened its defenses. 
 
 This day she labored with new vigor as she sang; 
 and on her table were roots and culms and bulbs of 
 nameless plants that grow in southern swamps. Some 
 thought was with her as she labored, some fancy or 
 memory. A skilled reader of the human face would not 
 have selected love as the quickening power behind the 
 singular revival of vital forces that supplied her aged 
 limbs with energy. So thought Chilon, when, waking 
 from a troubled sleep, he lay with aching joints and
 
 THE WOUND THAT WOULD NOT HEAL. 33 
 
 silently watched her toil. The look upon her face was 
 the same it wore the previous night when her lids sank 
 over the pale eyes and she drew back into the shadow. 
 It was a flash from the savagery that lurked in the 
 shadows of her soul, a savagery that would endure for 
 an eternity if necessary to avenge a wrong. He read it 
 by the light of the inward flame that fired his own lag- 
 ging soul to action. 
 
 The long day ended, Chilon arose and partook of the 
 simple food set before him. When the shadows deep- 
 ened he laid his hand upon the woman's shoulder and 
 said : 
 
 "Someone has wronged you. Mammy! Who is it?" 
 She had resumed her low chair and her usual crouching 
 attitude. She looked upon him with an increasing intel- 
 ligence as her mind struggled back out of its vapors. 
 "Tell Chilon," he continued, "he will find him some day. 
 Who is the man?" 
 
 Again the strange wild eyes blazed with their steely 
 light. 
 
 "The man you wait for." She spoke the words gently, 
 but confidently. 
 
 "No," he replied, after a moment's thought; "he 
 could not have harmed you." She did not answer him 
 for so long that he imagined the curtain had fallen across 
 her mind again. Her next action revealed his mistake. 
 Her claw-like fingers slowly undid the collar of her dress 
 and drew aside the covering until the shoulder was ex- 
 posed and a wound four or five inches long, such a 
 wound as the last foot of a rawhide in the hand of an 
 angry man would produce upon a tender skin. He start- 
 ed, amazed and distressed, his eyes riveted upon the spot. 
 It was an old cut, angry and festering still. 
 
 "Hit's de only lick Silvy ever got," she said, quietly, 
 "an' hit won't heal while he lives! Hit can wait!" She 
 fell into silence again. 
 
 Chilon went forth at midnight carrying the bound 
 papers. 
 
 3
 
 34 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 THE MIDNIGHT MEETING. 
 
 Ravenswood, the home of the Marbeaus, was one of 
 the great landed estates for which the old south was 
 noted, but it differed from the majority in possessing 
 every adjunct that wealth and cultivated taste could sup- 
 ply. The house, originally colonial in its general ap- 
 pearance, reflected the moods of successive owners in 
 the changes and additions, presenting in the growth of 
 its better days an aspect somewhat divided between the 
 English country residence and the French chateau of a 
 hundred years ago. The interior furnishings were an- 
 tique, many of them having been picked up abroad before 
 the war. The decorations were few and the dominant 
 note was simplicity. That it was a house that had been 
 "lived in," impressed every visitor. Its dumb walls 
 seemed to have absorbed and learned to reflect something 
 of the easy hospitality of the gracious men and women 
 who reigned there in the good old days, and every article 
 of furniture exhibited a dignified friendliness. 
 
 It was a large house of many apartments, the majority 
 of them closed and out of use. Its ball room was above, 
 and was the counterpart of the state dining room that 
 extended toward the rear. Both had long been aban- 
 doned, the former to become the depository of a vast 
 aggregation of things which, too sacred for exile, must 
 perforce be given honorable retirement.; the latter in 
 favor of a smaller room better suited to the family needs. 
 Gayety had long since fled from Ravenswood. 
 
 The old house looked over and down from the pleateau 
 upon which it stood into a deep valley where slept a 
 placid lake whose heart beat through the succeeding 
 hours of day and night in a little hydraulic machine that 
 distributed water where needed, the slow monotonous 
 rhythm well in keeping with the brooding quiet of the
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MEETING. 35 
 
 residence. Near by was a water mill, generally still, and 
 at the water's edge tall grasses bent to cool their shadows 
 in pellucid depths. Around the lake the wooded lands 
 came gently down and girdled the inverted castles of the 
 sky with wreaths of color as the seasons changed. 
 
 With the death of slavery began the passing of the 
 many servants that kept up Ravenswood. Gradually the 
 house shrunk into itself a little, the great flower gardens 
 lost their well kept aspect and life settled down into a 
 smaller suite of rooms as indicated by the many drawn 
 blinds. For following the political had come family 
 changes equally as radical. 
 
 Into this scene came Chilon the second night, his feet 
 tracing out the old and well known environments and 
 bringing him at length before the darkened residence. 
 He had seen from the distance light in an upper room. 
 Who was the occupant? No servant ever slept within 
 the main building. Who was his uncle's guest? Wheth- 
 er it had been extinguished or shut in by heavy damask 
 curtains he could not decide. It was no longer visible. 
 
 The discovery made caution imperative. Whoever 
 dwelt there must be avoided; and so when, having en- 
 tered his room again, he passed on through the hallway 
 and down to the library, he might have been, so far as 
 the prying eyes of a visitor could decide, only the ghost 
 of some dead Marbeau come back to visit the scenes of 
 his youth. 
 
 But in the library he found everything as he had left 
 it, the odor of his uncle's pipe being still strong upon 
 the air. Relighting the lamp he ran his eyes over the 
 open papers and saw the usual chronicle of daily events, 
 all strange, and possessing for him no interest. Wearily 
 putting them aside he drew from the lower shelves an- 
 other file of the old papers. The thought came to him 
 that there was little danger in reading there; and he 
 had found his burden hard to carry over the difficult 
 route that fate compelled him to accept. He adopted the
 
 36 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 suggestion and began again to search the records, the 
 local news being still the line of interest. One by one 
 old acquaintances seemed to rise to view and pass away, 
 some to foreign lands, some to their burial. There were 
 business changes of familiar firms, births, marriages and 
 the happenings of the social world, the dances, recep- 
 tions, excursions and functions of even less importance 
 and of no interest except for the names they contained. 
 At length his finger rested upon an item and a low cry 
 escaped his lips. The item was in the department de- 
 voted to reprints from other journals and was very brief. 
 It merely related that one of the accomplices of the men 
 engaged in the great Kansas train robbery had been ar- 
 rested and had confessed. Among the names of the 
 guilty as given by this man was "Chilon Marbeau." He 
 sat long in profound thought. Only one man in the 
 world would have been apt to wear his name. Had he 
 been convicted? Was he now in prison? Henceforth 
 there must be a new direction of his search. But a 
 greater sensation awaited him ; this time he found in the 
 society column the simple announcement: "Miss Lena 
 Marbeau, of Ravenswood, is visiting her aunt, in this 
 city!" "Miss" Lena Marbeau. That one word possessed 
 for him a deep significance. "They have persuaded her 
 to this," he said. "There has been no revelation. She has 
 simply taken up again her maiden name and waits, 
 waits for me. The family have taken her back ! 'Chilon 
 is not dead,' that is what she tells herself and she keeps 
 her faith, she waits for me. I will return, I will return," 
 he said, brokenly, "some day, to vindicate that faith, and 
 make her happy." He could read no more that night. 
 He closed the book softly and bent his face above it. 
 "Yes, dear God," he said, "dear God, I will return! I 
 will free my name of infamy and make her happy!" 
 
 As thus he sat, a sound came faintly to his ear that 
 instantly aroused him to a sense of his situation. It was 
 the sound of a door closing; and then came footfalls
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MEETING. 37 
 
 upon the stairs. He looked around him, grown cool now 
 that actual danger threatened. The broad, dark under- 
 recess of the library decided him. In a moment he had 
 crept inside and drawn together the doors. Pushing 
 aside the green baize that covered the glass he had but 
 a moment to wait. A woman in her dressing gown 
 stood in the doorway, candle in hand, looking about her 
 in surprise. There was no hesitation in the decision of 
 his heart. It sent the blood in one great wave to his 
 head, where it stood still so long that he almost suc- 
 cumbed. Then it started off in fierce excitement, for 
 this woman, gazing about her and evidently puzzled to 
 find the library lamp burning, was, when last he beheld 
 her, Lena Marbeau, his wife. 
 
 The hidden man gazed upon the face illumined by two 
 lights with indescribable emotion. There had been few 
 changes; the girlishness had given place to a sweeter 
 womanliness, and it was whiter; that was all. The 
 smooth contour was there, the same liquid, brown eyes 
 that pleaded so eloquently for love and tenderness, the 
 same mass of black-brown hair tumbling down over 
 neck and shoulders. All came back to him like a dream 
 from the years wasted and flown forever. He longed to 
 leap forth and throw himself into her arms; to tell her 
 of his deathless love and faith and belief, to take her to 
 his heart and bring back again out of the sadness that 
 had engulfed it, her beautiful smile. His hand was 
 against the little door; he drew it back with sudden, al- 
 most frantic haste. 
 
 "God, in heaven!" he whispered, "save me! What am 
 I? She would flee from such as I, she would die of 
 horror!" He dashed the mists from his eyes and, fas- 
 cinated, sought her face. She crossed the room, took 
 from the sofa a little traveling bag and extinguished the 
 lamp. He heard her footsteps in the hall, on the stair 
 and above; then, the opening and closing of a door. 
 The twilight of the room had faded into darkness; all
 
 38 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 was still again. Then the little door against which his 
 hand rested was flung wide open. He plunged out into 
 the darkness and fell upon his face at the place where 
 she had stood, crying out her name, once, in agony, and 
 pressing his lips again and again to the threshold. 
 
 As he lay there a door upstairs was opened and a few 
 moments later closed, as if some one had stood to listen.
 
 "I WAS A CONVICT." 39 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "I WAS A CONVICT." 
 
 When Chilon arose weak and exhausted the darkened 
 house was silent. In the reaction of the moment every- 
 thing he had resolved to do was abandoned. He had 
 seen her! Could he go away without speaking to her, 
 go forth perhaps forever, and she so near? The woman 
 was his wife; he would go to her and tell her all. She 
 would forgive him, and her courage would sustain him 
 in* the struggle to come. Would she forgive did she 
 still love him? The mental questions filled him with an 
 almost insane fear, born of jealousy. He felt then that 
 if the morning broke upon him with his questions un- 
 answered he was lost. He had wavered and the tumult 
 within swept away all old plans. If he died for it on the 
 morrow, he would see her. 
 
 The mind under pressure works quickly. Not in that 
 garb, not with that unkempt beard and those soiled hands 
 would he face the woman who was literally his world now. 
 There was no necessity for it. In that house he was at 
 home. Lighting the lamp he made his way to his uncle's 
 dressing room, where were all the requisites for a man's 
 toilet. With noiseless haste, but neglecting nothing, he 
 began the task of restoring the old appearance of Chilon 
 Marbeau as nearly as might be. The methodical habits 
 of Colonel Marbeau were well-known to him. He could 
 have placed his hand in the dark upon most of the articles 
 he needed. With the lamp before him, the task was 
 easy. Within the hour he stood before the glass, dressed 
 as for breakfast, his beard had gone and, for the first time 
 in many a year, in appearance a gentleman. His efforts 
 had been to make himself as nearly as possible the wild 
 boy that left her so long ago, and he knew that except 
 for the settled look of sadness and the irrevocable record 
 of a mental agony, his face had changed but little, A
 
 40 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 crisis, the real crisis of his life, was at hand, and now that 
 it must be encountered the thought calmed him. There 
 must be no mistake; no tracks must be left. He forced 
 himself to return to its exact place every article used and 
 to remove all traces of his occupancy from the dressing 
 room. His discarded clothing he carried to the closet 
 of the room formerly his own. That which he had ap- 
 propriated would in all likelihood never be missed. Then 
 he went and stood silent before the door of Lena's room, 
 the light issuing above it illumining the hall just enough 
 to show the ghastly pallor of his face. The critical mo- 
 ment had arrived and the moment of peril. His life would 
 date from the next hour. 
 
 It was an index to the changes which had made a man 
 of a wild, reckless and somewhat selfish nature, that his 
 first thought when he stood with hand upon the knob 
 was for the woman within. How could he avoid for her 
 the shock of a sudden appearance. It was also an index 
 to the implicit faith he still felt that never for a moment 
 did it occur to him that any other than the woman he 
 loved was within. He decided quickly. Securing a chair 
 he stood upon it and looked down through the transom ; 
 she was writing by the little table, her back to him, 
 dressed as he had seen her last. The bed had been occu- 
 pied and forsaken, possibly from sleeplessness, and writ- 
 ing was an afterthought. He descended, turned the knob 
 slowly and steadily. The door opened without noise, 
 and stepping within he said, in a low, natural voice, as 
 if but a day had passed since last he issued there: 
 
 "Lena, do not be frightened; it is I, Chilon!" The 
 pen slipped from her fingers, and these, closing convul- 
 sively, flew to her temples. A sound escaped her, a mut- 
 tered prayer, perhaps, that did not open her drawn lips. 
 The next moment he was beside her upon his knees, one 
 arm about her waist, his face buried in the folds of 
 her dress, while his form shook with such an outburst 
 of passionate emotion as rendered speech impossible. 
 She drew her hands away, and still holding them aloof,
 
 "I WAS A CONVICT." 41 
 
 shrank back fearfully as she gazed downward. His name 
 escaped her lips in a whisper that would not have been 
 audible at the door. It carried with it something so 
 deep, so strange and unexpected, something so like a 
 momentary horror, that the man ceased at length to 
 shudder, and, as though listening for some voice in the 
 far-away night, lifted his head. Slowly, fearfully, he 
 turned his face to hers. Her hands were still drawn 
 back from touch of him, her eyes were distended and the 
 pallor of death covered her face. His own grew pale 
 instantly. Slowly he withdrew his arm and shrank back 
 as from some deadly danger. In the chill silence that 
 followed the pulse of the little water engine sounded like 
 clock ticks in a deserted hall. 
 
 "Too late." He spoke the words scarcely aloud. It 
 was an explanation to himself, to the self that he felt 
 was incapable of thought. He tried to realize his situa- 
 tion. He could not. He had attempted something and 
 had failed. Dazed and uncertain, he placed his hand 
 upon the table and sought to rise, but strength had gone 
 from his muscles. The dumb agony in his eyes as they 
 fell beneath her frantic gaze filled her own with sudden 
 tears. Something terrible must have happened to affect 
 Lena so. The next moment he remembered all. She 
 clasped her hands over her face and gave way to a pas- 
 sionate weeping, and as if doubting her senses she from 
 time to time drew them aside and turned to him her agon- 
 ized face, shutting out the vision again and again. The 
 presence of this almost hysterical outburst hushed him 
 and filled him for the moment with fear for her mind. At 
 length, unable longer to endure it, he arose, placed his 
 hand upon her head with infinite tenderness, stroking 
 gently her soft brown hair. 
 
 "Will you not speak to me, Lena?" The voice, the 
 tones increased her emotion. She sprung to her feet 
 and walked the room, wringing her hands and regarding 
 him with a face so grief-stricken, so despairing, that he 
 could find no words to speak again. Overcome at length,
 
 42 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 she threw herself upon the bed, her sobs filling the room. 
 
 Chilon. sank into a chair and covered his face with his 
 hands, trying to collect his thoughts. Minutes passed, 
 and then her sobbing ceased. He heard her rise slowly 
 and come to him, and he felt upon his own head the 
 doubting, hesitating touch of her hand. It was not pity 
 that his breaking heart cried out for; it was love; and love 
 he felt was now for some reason impossible. Why, he 
 could not understand; but something had happened. He 
 took her hand down, held it a moment in his and released 
 it, and presently, with the last effort of his pride, he stood 
 up ; but something in her white face unnerved him again 
 and banished pride. With a loud sob he threw his arms 
 about her. 
 
 "Lena, my wife!" he cried, "my own, my own!" She 
 did not struggle, but lay shuddering upon his breast, his 
 hand stroking her brown hair, while his low voice pleaded 
 with her for love and tenderness. The face she lifted to 
 him at last was full of anguish and despair. 
 
 "Go," she said, weakly, "you must leave the room!" 
 
 "Your room my wife's room?" She gave way again 
 to grief and weeping. 
 
 "Leave me; leave me!" 
 
 "Never!" he said, passionately, "never until I know 
 from your lips that you no longer love Chilon! Tell 
 me that and I will go, Lena, never to look upon your 
 face again, as God is my judge!" She did not reply. 
 "Will you say that you do not?" he said, gently; but no 
 sound except her sobs came back. "You do love me, 
 then?" he added, "do you not? Absence, time and neg- 
 lect, as it seems to you, have not destroyed the love you 
 once felt for me!" She would not reply. His eager 
 eyes caught sight of a little chain of gold upon her neck. 
 With sudden recognition he seized it and drew from her 
 bosom a tiny medallion. He pressed his lips to the face 
 upon it and lifted his eyes toward heaven. "I thank you, 
 my Father!" he said, his face radiant. "Chilon lives 
 again!" He felt the weight upon his arm increase.
 
 "I WAS A CONVICT." 43 
 
 Alarmed, he drew her to the bed and stretched her upon 
 it. She was unconscious. 
 
 But as he hurriedly searched for restoratives she recov- 
 ered and came to him frantically. 
 
 "'Go at once; do not wait a moment. Go, Chilon, I 
 implore!" An unfinished letter lay upon the table. She 
 sprung to it and crushed the sheets in her hand, her eyes 
 turned in terror upon him. The look of unutterable 
 despair he cast upon her banished for the moment her 
 terror. He was wavering before her and ready to fall. 
 His voice was faintly audible when he spoke the words 
 fearfully : 
 
 "To whom was it?" 
 
 "Ah!" she gasped, eagerly, "to your sister! See, it 
 begins 'Dear Celeste.' " 
 
 "Lena!" He came to her again and took her hand, 
 "you bid me go, and I will, but let us understand each 
 other. It may be our last meeting. Look!" He lifted 
 the medallion she wore, and thrusting his hand into his 
 bosom, drew a duplicate of it to view and placed them side 
 by side. "They tell the same story. Why should you 
 wish me to go?" Again her face was hidden by her 
 hands. 
 
 She looked at him with a new wonder, for the first 
 time suspecting the truth. 
 
 "Do you not know Chilon! Chilon! I could not 
 stand disgrace!" He misunderstood. 
 
 "You have heard it, then?" he said, despairingly; "they 
 have told you that I was a convict?" 
 
 "They told me, yes, but I did not know they lied. I 
 swear to you upon my knees, Chilon, I did not know! 
 They took advantage of my youth to deceive me. They 
 brought me proof that you, my husband, were a train 
 robber, a convicted robber. I would not believe it until 
 then. I cared for nothing afterwards; I gave up. When 
 I found that it was a lie, and you, my poor darling, were 
 innocent, I almost died! Forgive me, Chilon, I loved 
 you indeed; indeed I did; and I love you now better than
 
 44 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 life; aye, more, even, than the life to come! Oh, why did 
 you not return to me and help me! Why did you leave 
 me to fight it out alone! Alone! Think of it those 
 months of loneliness ; and no word from you !" 
 
 She had sunk to his feet, her arms clasping his knees, 
 her body swaying with the violence of her excitement. 
 
 "I could not!" he said hoarsely; "could not. I was a 
 convict !~ 
 
 She did not realize it at once, but presently she stood 
 up and holding him at arm's length looked in wonder 
 upon his face. He replied to the unasked question: 
 
 "Yes." he said, "a convict then; an escaped convict 
 now: but innocent!" 
 
 She did not turn from him, but in silence sank into 
 her chair again and hid her face. He knelt by her side 
 and placed his arm around her. This time she did not 
 repulse Him.
 
 HIS STORY. 45 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 HIS STORY. 
 
 "Let me tell you the story," he began; "you shall judge 
 me. You cannot judge me more harshly than I have 
 judged myself. Afterwards I will leave you, never to re- 
 turn, unless some day you wish for me. I came in here 
 to-night to see you and to tell you that never for a mo- 
 ment since we parted has your image been dim within my 
 heart. I have been weak and have debased myself, but, 
 Lena, I have been faithful to you. If it had not been for 
 you I would long ago have ended my life; but I could not 
 fill an unknown grave leaving you to believe that I had 
 been untrue had deserted you. I would not let you 
 know that I was filling a living grave. That was worse. 
 Much as you have suffered, I have suffered more, for I 
 was the cause of it all, and you were innocent!" 
 
 He arose and paced the floor in silence, but came again 
 and seated himself upon a stool at her feet. 
 
 "When I went to Uncle Charles and told him of our 
 love and asked him to permit our marriage the mar- 
 riage already consummated he stormed and raved, as 
 I wrote you, like an insane man. One would have thought 
 that I was already a criminal," he said bitterly, "instead 
 of an honorable but impulsive and weak boy, consumed 
 by an honorable love. He threatened that if I ever spoke 
 of the subject again to him or you he would disinherit 
 me and drive me from the house. Had he been kinder 
 I think the end would have been different, but I had more 
 than a share of the Marbeau temper and replied in the 
 same spirit, declaring my intention to win you with or 
 without his consent. I pleaded with him for your sake 
 and my father's. He grew frantic with rage. He struck 
 me he, my uncle, struck me over and over with his 
 riding whip ; and I well, driven backward by the fierce- 
 ness of his attack and blows, I reached out for a weapon.
 
 46 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 My father's sword hung upon the wall, and my hand 
 found it. I snatched it from the scabbard and thrust to 
 kill. The blade passed through my uncle's shoulder, as 
 I learned afterwards, but I saw the blood and saw him 
 stagger. The terror of an awful guilt seized me, and I 
 fled from the house. I wrote you that I would make a 
 home for us and return. I have returned," he said, with 
 infinite pathos, "but I have no home!" 
 
 Presently he continued: 
 
 "I cannot go over all the weary months of dissipation 
 and the gradual descent after I went north. For awhile 
 I tried hard for occupation, cheered by your letters, 
 but they ceased 
 
 "I did not know where to write. Your letters were 
 intercepted!" 
 
 He nodded his head gently. "I understand now; I 
 ought to have known. But I was reckless and embit- 
 tered. I failed everywhere. My little store of money 
 and that which you sent to me soon disappeared, lost in 
 gambling and drink. I found myself at length a pauper 
 and an easy victim to others. 
 
 "You did not know our Uncle Gaston as well as I, 
 though you were his favorite always. He was here five 
 years, before you returned for the last time, from the 
 convent. He was devoted to his profession. Hearing 
 it said one day at a dinner party that a perfect counterfeit 
 was an impossibility he, to amuse himself, undertook 
 to make one. His etchings and engravings were highly 
 valued abroad, and he was, in reality, one of the most 
 extraordinary of living artists; but some mystery over- 
 hung his life and he used a vignette only when signing. 
 For years, at odd times, he worked upon these plates, and 
 when he had finished them exhibited the print proofs to 
 Uncle Charles and defied him to find a difference between 
 them and a new five-dollar note used as copy. Uncle 
 Charles was greatly worried over the matter, however, 
 and asked him to destroy the plates. This he promised 
 to do, but I suppose forgot it. When he went away to
 
 HIS STORY. 47 
 
 Europe again, leaving all his outfit in the old ball-room, 
 which was his workshop, I often amused myself with the 
 tools, making little etchings, as I had seen him do; for I 
 had been his companion and helper for years almost his 
 only companion, and possessed, as he thought, considera- 
 ble talent. Uncle Gaston was a wonderful organist, and 
 taught me, as you are aware, all of music that I knew, 
 besides drawing and painting. One day I came across 
 the plates and amused myself making money of common 
 white paper. This it was that led to my ruin, for when 
 my trunk was sent to me it contained one of these im- 
 prints and in an evil moment I showed it to one of my 
 companions in dissipation. 
 
 "I hardly know how or where I first met Carl Garner, 
 but from the beginning of our acquaintance the man ex- 
 erted a strange power over me. Older than I, but in ap- 
 pearance not unlike me, he possessed a most extraor- 
 dinary flow of fun and good humor that rose superior 
 to all trials and difficulties, and these, depressed as I was, 
 bound me to him, despite the fact that I knew him to be 
 utterly devoid of principle. We became inseparable com- 
 panions and I shared his room, neither of us knowing, 
 frequently, where the next meal was to come from, a. 
 fact that troubled him not a bit. He had acquaintances 
 that I never knew, and at times plenty of newly printed 
 money, the base character of which I did not then sus- 
 pect. Garner was at once intensely interested in my 
 print and secured a genuine bill for comparison. But, 
 warned by some instinct, I did not tell him the history of 
 my plates ; indeed, he did not even know the whereabouts 
 of my former home. 
 
 "One day he unfolded to me a scheme which he de- 
 clared harmless, but likely to bring us in plenty of money; 
 and this was, in brief, to secure some good paper, print 
 more money and turn it over to the detectives, with an 
 offer to find and deliver the plates for a large reward. He 
 had invented a story to explain our knowledge of them, 
 a very plausible story. The whole thing amounted only
 
 48 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 to a plan to sell the plates to the government. We had 
 not made nor criminally used them, as I supposed, for I 
 thought that the crime consisted in passing the bad 
 money. I hesitated long over the scheme, since it in- 
 volved my return to this house, but overborne by neces- 
 sity and Garner's influence, I yielded. 
 
 "We made our way to Mammy Silvy's cabin, and enter- 
 ing here by my window, printed our money upon Uncle 
 Gaston's little press. The paper and inks were supplied 
 by Garner. But at the last moment my suspicions re- 
 turned. Garner had the money and preceded me from 
 the house. Instead of taking the plates I secreted them, 
 determined to get the government's offer in advance. I 
 lingered to pack a few of my things, and when alone 
 came to this room. It was empty. I had no way to 
 learn of your whereabouts except through Mammy Silvy, 
 and she pretended not to know. I did not go to Celeste; 
 1 was ashamed to come back so poor. Besides, I expect- 
 ed to return soon. Well, we made our way north again, 
 Garner supposing all along that I had the plates. When 
 I told him they had been left for safety in a secret place he 
 was furious. For two days we scarcely spoke. He was 
 moody, and at work upon some problem, the details of 
 which he at length completed. His plot against me, for 
 such it was, involving, as it did, the reading of my charac- 
 ter, the forecasting of results and a perfect knowledge of 
 all the circumstances surrounding him, is one of the most 
 remarkable in the annals of crime. His real name was 
 Garner, but at that time I knew him only as Adams. 
 
 "Under the former name he was wanted by the govern- 
 ment for many operations with counterfeit money, as I 
 learned afterwards, and large standing rewards were of- 
 fered for him. One day I was arrested by a detective as 
 Charles Garner, and in my satchel was found the counter- 
 feit money. Garner, or Adams, had disappeared; but 
 the reward was, of course, paid to the detective and divid- 
 ed with the criminal himself. He had foreseen that I 
 could not escape except by such a confession as would
 
 HIS STORY. 49 
 
 bring ruin upon the family, and somehow he knew that 
 I would die first." 
 
 Chilon's head sank upon his breast and he was silent. 
 His arm lay across Lena's lap, and she let her hand rest 
 upon his.
 
 50 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 
 
 The quick, earnest words, the tones of voice, the flash- 
 ing and filling eyes, the up-turned face, the pressure upon 
 her hand, the quiver of lips, all combined to reassert over 
 the young woman the influence which Chilon had 
 achieved years before. Fascinated, she hung upon his 
 words, oblivious to time, place and the circumstances that 
 surrounded her. She was alone with the man she had 
 loved so long and so well. He was innocent and he loved 
 her with a noble, self-sacrificing tenderness. These facts 
 dawning upon her anew, as the narrative proceeded, filled 
 her with a joy that betrayed itself in her face. But over 
 all at length settled a melancholy, a sorrow too deep for 
 words. As he told of his arrest and trial, and his resolu- 
 tion to protect their name from infamy, of his condition 
 and long sentence, tears fell upon his hand and she bent 
 above him until her long hair almost hid his face. 
 
 "Ah, the agony of those years," he said. "How I en- 
 dured them I do not know. If I could have sent you a 
 message without telling of my shame and disgrace, I 
 could have stood it better. I only existed with the hope 
 of escape, piling up in my heart bitterness and revenge." 
 
 He broke down then and shook with sobs. "This little 
 picture was all of home that I had, and I have worn the 
 gold upon it to the thinness of paper. Morning, noon, 
 night it sustained me, and many a time when sleepless I 
 have stood where the moonlight streamed through the 
 bars and caught their beams upon it to see your face. It 
 kept me from madness, from utter despair! 
 
 "And then my opportunity came. I was no longer a 
 prisoner to be watched closely. My skill at the organ 
 had given me at length an easier position and I was en- 
 abled to keep something of youth in my heart; they let 
 me furnish the music for Sundays and for special services,
 
 BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 5 1 
 
 and release came through that. A woman who came 
 to sing for the convicts many times, with a divine voice, 
 and sympathy, read in my music innocence and the un- 
 utterable longings of a breaking heart. I told her of 
 our love, and God be praised that women can still sin! 
 She yielded to my prayer and gave me tools. It took 
 months, but what are months to a prisoner at work for 
 freedom ! A day dawned that found me free. The same 
 kind friend gave me clothing and a little money. I came 
 away through the hills and valleys and by the running 
 streams under the blue of the skies by day and the stars 
 by night, to home, to liberty, to you!" He held her 
 hands in his passionate grasp, crying: 
 
 "Lena, Lena! I have no name, but I can make one! 
 In some foreign land I will find you a home! It will take 
 time, years perhaps, but armed with the knowledge of 
 your love, blessed with your trust and faith, I cannot fail. 
 Tell me, my darling, my wife, will you come to me then?" 
 
 She did not reply. Her head had drooped until it 
 touched and rested upon his. He put his arms about her. 
 Her cheek was cold and her eyes closed. Presently she 
 opened them and bestowed upon him a look that thrilled 
 him with an awful fear. The shock, the excitement, the 
 loss of sleep! Was she indeed dying? 
 
 "Lena! Lena!" he cried, in a changed voice; "are you 
 ill? What is it? Speak to me, dear! It is I, Chilon, 
 your husband!" 
 
 Her eyes were fixed not upon him, but upon the* win- 
 dow, and she seemed to be listening under the growing 
 pressure of some great fear. He, too, turned and looked. 
 The sun was just rising over the horizon. Before he 
 could utter a word, she, still listening, still holding his 
 arm, rose to her feet. There came to them then the 
 sound of a man's footsteps in the hall. She ran to the 
 door and turned the key ; and as if fearing this were not 
 sufficient bar leaned with her whole strength against it. 
 
 "Quick," she whispered, her white face looking back;
 
 52 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 "don't stand there watching me; hide yourself. Oh! 
 Chilon, don't you understand? Hide, hide for my sake!" 
 
 The steps grew nearer and clearer. The man in the 
 room stood where she had left him, paralyzed with aston- 
 ishment. She ran to him and pushed him toward the 
 heavy draperies of a window. "For my sake, Chilon, for 
 my sake!" 
 
 He found himself in the slight recess, curtained from 
 view, bewildered, but fascinated by the mystery and the 
 ecstacy of fear that revealed itself in her every tone and 
 motion. 
 
 At that instant the door knob was turned and a knock 
 followed. 
 
 "Lena," a voice said; "Lena, open the door!" To the 
 man behind the curtain the voice came as from a by-gone 
 age, clear, cold and irritating. He dared not touch the 
 drapery, he shook so with fear and horror. He heard 
 the woman's slow step cross the room, the lock click, and 
 then, the man come in. Evidently the intruder was look- 
 ing with displeasure upon her agitated face and the writ- 
 ing material. His first exclamation was: 
 
 "Well, what is the matter? Why are you not asleep?" 
 
 "I could not sleep," she said; "I could not!" a sob end- 
 ing the sentence. 
 
 "I see," he said, coldly, "still moping and crying. Are 
 you never going to end it?" She could not answer him. 
 He walked across the room and began to fleck the dust 
 from his clothing with a whisk broom. "I should think," 
 he continued, "for the sake of your child you would throw 
 off these moods and not fill her life with tears and long 
 faces. What is the matter now?" he concluded crossly. 
 
 "I am ill, so ill; leave me! leave me!" 
 
 She sank in a chair and turned her face pleadingly to- 
 ward him. 
 
 "I am not surprised," he said, after a momentary pause 
 in his occupation. "You purposely destroy your health 
 and spirits with your perpetual heroics. Still grieving 
 for that vagabond, of course."
 
 BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 53 
 
 A peculiar expression swept over her face. She spoke 
 at length. 
 
 " 'That vagabond,' as you call him, is a gentleman. 
 You are a cur!" 
 
 "Heigho!" he exclaimed, with affected amusement. 
 "Well, I have only ridden out for a few moments with 
 Uncle Charles. You will be down to breakfast, I sup- 
 pose?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "Good-bye, then; come home when you like. Little 
 Lena and I will try to exist, in the meantime." 
 
 He touched his hair with her brush, drew the comb 
 through his moustache and disappeared without further 
 remark. 
 
 Lena stood with a stony gaze fixed upon the carpet. 
 No sound broke the stillness after the echoes of his reced- 
 ing footsteps died away in the hall. The scene floated 
 about her. Dazed and bewildered she passed her hand 
 repeatedly across her face. What had happened? What 
 was she doing before he came? To whom was she talk- 
 ing? Then she sprung to her feet and stood gazing in 
 terror upon the curtain. Was Chilon in the room had 
 she dreamed it all? Who was behind that curtain? No 
 sound answered her; not a fold of drapery shook. She 
 crept to it fascinated and touched it with her hand. Slow- 
 ly she drew it aside and looked fearfully in where a man 
 was standing with ashen face and closed eyes. She 
 plucked his sleeve ; he did not move. With a loud cry she 
 threw her arms around him and hid her face upon his 
 breast. 
 
 "Forgive me, Chilon, forgive me! I am not to 
 blame!" Her grief roused him at length. "They told 
 me, they showed me proof they lied to me! I was 
 crazy; I did not know what I was doing!" 
 
 "Who did this? Who robbed me of heaven, of faith in 
 God of you?" The menace, the calmness of his words 
 sealed her lips. "Was it my cousin Richard Marbeau? 
 Was it the man who entered this room?"
 
 54 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 "Hush! Hush!" she said; "oh, what have I done?" 
 
 "Then there is another," he said quietly; "stay here. 
 I go to meet him first!" But she threw herself against 
 the door and barred the way. 
 
 "Chilon! Chilon! Don't! Oh, no, not now! It is ruin 
 ruin for all." She was struggling madly to resist him. 
 "Chilon, hear me; oh, you do not know him! It is ruin 
 if you kill him ! If you fail it is still ruin, for he will be- 
 tray you! Keep your liberty, for me. I will some day 
 have no other friend." 
 
 She saw the hesitation and pushed him to a chair. 
 
 "There, Chilon, stay here! It is I, Lena, who begs 
 you! I will go down. He will not come again! Stay 
 in this room; it is mine!" She did not know what she 
 was saying. He was silent, his white face convulsed with 
 his emotions. She plunged her own into a bowl of water, 
 brushed her hair with feverish haste and came to him. 
 
 "Promise me you will stay." He looked steadily into 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Is it for my sake, or ." 
 
 "As between you two, it is for yours. May God have 
 no mercy upon me if I do not speak the truth." 
 
 "I have never lost belief in you," he said. "I will 
 stay." She hesitated a moment, came back quickly, 
 touched his forehead with her lips, and passed out.
 
 BETWEEN TWO LIVES. 55 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 BETWEEN TWO LIVES. 
 
 At the bend of the stairs Lena Marbeau paused to col- 
 lect her thoughts. Up to that moment, since the meet- 
 ing with Chilon, she had been hurried blindly forward 
 upon the current of her emotions. Now she realized that 
 some plan of action was necessary for her safety and 
 good name, as well as for the safety of the man hiding be- 
 hind her in her room. In a few moments she must de- 
 scend into the library, meet the two men there and pre- 
 serve a cool and collected demeanor. If only she could 
 get into the open air for ten minutes, she thought, her 
 head would clear itself of the confusion there, her tem- 
 ples throb less madly; but she dared not leave the house. 
 
 If her husband were to ascend again to that room! 
 
 She shuddered to think of the result. He might escape 
 with his life, but no explanation could clear his mind of 
 the suspicions that Chilon's presence there would arouse; 
 and existence for her was bitter enough already. 
 
 She saw in advance the scene, heard his recriminations. 
 The divorce court might follow; possibly separation from 
 her little girl. This thought caused her to clutch the 
 balustrade and crouch back. 
 
 Just below her was the library door, open. She heard 
 the voices of the men there blending with the steady 
 murmur of the waterfall at the foot of the hill, the rhyth- 
 mic stroke of the little engine and the shrill, monotonous 
 call of guinea hens in the orchard. How strange it was that 
 with all the world at peace she should be crouching there, 
 miserably, between two lives, one begun and ended above, 
 the other entered into and endured below. Could she 
 face the issue and keep her secret? 
 
 Though young in years still, Lena Marbeau had 
 learned self-control in a bitter school and knew how to 
 crush her own heart with smiling face. The sudden-
 
 56 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 ness, the utter unexpectedness of the late experience had 
 temporarily overwhelmed her; her nerves were unstrung 
 from excitement and loss of sleep. But she fixed clearly 
 in her mind that she was innocent of wrong doing, and 
 that, right or wrong, she did not fear either of the two 
 men below. One, in years gone by, had been kind and 
 good, but in the hour of her great distress and sorrow had 
 made life there unendurable; had practically driven her 
 away, and had driven away by his harshness the only man 
 she had ever loved. He had destroyed her youth and 
 happiness, and while it was true that he had taken her 
 back again, and was generous and forgiving, he had not 
 brought back happiness to her heart nor light into her 
 life. 
 
 The other well, she feared only to look into her heart 
 and read its estimate of him. He had deceived her in the 
 crudest manner; had made her untrue to the man she 
 worshipped years ago and loved now, as she knew al- 
 ready, with the whole strength and passion of her nature. 
 He stood between her and happiness. Fear? If the 
 worst came let them beware. As long as they let her, she 
 would be what the world demanded; but she could not, 
 she would not, stand another stroke of cruelty. Oh, if 
 they would if they would give her an excuse! She 
 checked the thought. The safety of Chilon was at stake! 
 
 With proudly lifted head she descended the steps and 
 passed into the room, graciously responding to their salu- 
 tations, and leading the way to the breakfast table with a 
 sweet dignity that she did not often choose to exhibit. 
 Richard Marbeau was puzzled. What new mood was 
 this, what game was she playing; who trying to deceive? 
 He watched her in admiration, his peculiar mental bent 
 revealed in the solution that it reached. Her father is 
 getting old, he said to himself, looking toward the col- 
 onel, and in some way she has found out that I am writing 
 his will. Oh, woman! woman! But the thought was an 
 agreeable one. 
 
 "You have braced up wonderfully," he said to her en-
 
 BETWEEN TWO LIVES. 57 
 
 couragingly, "and I am glad that you have changed your 
 mind. With a nap after breakfast you will be all right 
 again. But by the way, I want to see you on a matter 
 of business before I go, so don't drop off asleep before I 
 come up." She smiled into his face, a thing so rare that 
 he positively suspended eating and gazed upon her with 
 mouth half open. 
 
 "I think I will take a little walk after breakfast," she 
 said, "come with me and perhaps we may discuss it then." 
 
 "Not sick, I hope, daughter!" the colonel interrupted, 
 with solicitude. 
 
 "Oh, no, indeed! I was simply sleepless last night." 
 Both men looked to their plates, the stern, gray face of 
 the elder softening as he imagined the cause. It was not 
 often that she came, and this was the first night she had 
 spent in the house since she left it because of that scape- 
 grace. Again the manly face of the soldier changed. 
 The set look came back. 
 
 "Go down and see the pond lilies; they have begun to 
 open. Take Dick out in the boat and let him get you 
 some. There is nothing prettier, except a rose," he said, 
 and then, with a return of his oldtime gallantry, adding, 
 "And my daughter." Her handkerchief slipped to the 
 floor. 
 
 "Never mind, Jerry," she said to the old waiter, and 
 bent to reach it herself. "I think," she replied, "I won't 
 go there; I do not feel equal to the glare of sunlight on 
 the water, and Mr. Marbeau is to go back soon did I 
 so understand?" 
 
 "Yes; can't stay but a few moments." 
 
 She went with him into the flower garden only, and 
 busied herself idly plucking roses as he told her of the 
 will he was drawing. 
 
 "Can you keep a secret?" he said, with sudden con- 
 fidence, won over by her new and charming mood. 
 
 "Can I?" she smiled, looking up archly from her task, 
 "when there is a necessity for it, yes!" 
 
 "There is a necessity for it," he said, "but you have a
 
 58 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 right to know. Uncle Charles, I think, desires it. With 
 the exception of a few bequests, Uncle Charles wills the 
 bulk of his fortune to you for life, to revert to your oldest 
 living child upon your death." 
 
 "Ah!" The sudden change in her manner, the half- 
 suppressed exclamation, the peculiar expression that 
 overspread her face, startled and puzzled him. An in- 
 stant later she was smiling again. 
 
 "I was not expecting that," she said; "I can scarcely 
 believe it." 
 
 "It is true, nevertheless. I congratulate you, my dear." 
 She had stooped to reach a blossom growing low upon 
 the bush, and at his words glanced upward with a smile. 
 Behind and above him were the windows of her room, and 
 a man's face looked down upon them. A deathly pallor 
 overspread her own. Her husband caught her arm. 
 
 "You are ill!" he exclaimed, with alarm. "There, let 
 me help you to the house." He placed his arm about 
 her waist, but with a sudden energy she cast it off and 
 looked upon him with an expression that he never forgot. 
 Amazed, he could only glare at her in return. She 
 laughed and led the way back. 
 
 "Men are so silly!" she said. The appropriateness of 
 this comment did not strike him ; but sudden transitions 
 of moods were common to her. He accompanied her as 
 far as the library, and she stood by the center table filling 
 a vase with flowers while he exchanged a few words with 
 the colonel. Coming to her side he said: 
 
 "Will you not give me a rose?" 
 
 "Why, yes;" she withdrew her hands, not looking up; 
 "take your choice." He chose a yellow one, hesitated a 
 moment and placed it in his button-hole. 
 
 "Papa, shall I give you a rose?" she inquired, going 
 toward the other. 
 
 "Yes, indeed, daughter." She pinned a pink bud upon 
 his lapel. 
 
 "Is it not beautiful?" she asked, stepping back and
 
 BETWEEN TWO LIVES. 59 
 
 turning her head from side to side to better judge of its 
 effect. 
 
 "Yes, indeed. I wish it were blooming upon your 
 cheeks. Come back to Ravenswood oftener, child, and 
 the colors will return. Let her come often, Dick; it does 
 me good, and it will do her good." 
 
 "As often as she will," said the younger man. "Good- 
 bye! Good-bye, Lena!" She was again arranging the 
 roses, and merely nodded to him over her shoulder. Col- 
 onel Marbeau looked upon her thoughtfully a moment 
 and followed his nephew to the gate, where a horse was 
 waiting. The young woman slowly ascended the stairs ; 
 the house-maid was passing below. 
 
 "Nancy, I may go to sleep. Don't disturb me. I will 
 call when I need you." Beyond the bend, she sank again 
 to the steps and gave way to trembling. "If he had staid 
 ten minutes longer," she said to herself, "I would have 
 fainted, and they might have carried me to my room!" 
 She turned her head and listened. No sound came from 
 above. Through the hall below floated in and upward 
 the echoes of a horse's galloping feet. Rising quickly, 
 she hurried noiselessly along the hallway, turned softly 
 the latch and entered her room. Chilon was leaning 
 against the mantel, pale and haggard. His eyes ques- 
 tioned her. 
 
 "Gone," she said softly. Hesitating a moment, she 
 came to him, looked tenderly into his troubled eyes. 
 Upon her bosom was one magnificent crimson rose; she 
 thought a moment, and loosening its stem, placed it upon 
 the lapel of his coat. With a brave effort at cheerfulness 
 and a smile, she said: "You must leave me now, Chilon, 
 but I will see you again." 
 
 "Why," he exclaimed, "how can I leave you? I would 
 be discovered before I got outside the yard." 
 
 "What do you mean?" she said in bewilderment. 
 
 "Have you forgotten, indeed? I am a fugitive. No 
 one but Silvy has seen me, and her cabin is my hiding 
 place. I came into this house last night to search the
 
 60 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 newspaper files for information that I needed. I saw you 
 when you came to the library for your satchel, and fol- 
 lowed you here." 
 
 She was breathless now with dismay and the sudden 
 realization of her situation. 
 
 "Then you must stay here in my room all day! Oh, 
 no ! no ! Chilon !" 
 
 "Shall I go, then?" he asked bitterly. 
 
 "Oh, yes; go, go at once! Do not, if you love me, 
 hesitate a moment." 
 
 She was wringing her hands in her excitement. With- 
 out a word more he walked across the room and placed 
 his hand upon the knob; but in an instant she was by 
 his side. 
 
 "No, no! What was I saying? You stay; I will go! 
 Oh, Chilon, if you love me you do love me, I know 
 pity me, spare me, Chilon ; I could not stand remember, 
 it is not Lena alone that talks, but the mother of my 
 child! Oh, if I should lose her, if I should lose her!" 
 Her arms were about him now and tears were streaming 
 down her cheek. He held her by both arms and looked 
 down into her eyes. 
 
 "Would you stay, if it were not for her?" 
 
 "Would I?" the question burst from her. "Yes, I 
 would stay with you, I would go with you to the end of 
 the earth!" He kissed her forehead tenderly. 
 
 "Tell me all." He spoke sadly and with a desperate 
 effort at manhood. "Tell me the truth. I will go then. 
 There is now no reason why I should stay." She leaned 
 against him in silence a moment, hiding her face. 
 
 "As well now as any time," she said, with weariness. 
 He drew her to the chair and seated himself, she upon the 
 stool by his side. Unconsciously they had reversed their 
 positions of the night before; and indeed they were re- 
 versed; for this time she was to plead her cause. She 
 took his hand in hers and held it tightly as she began.
 
 "MY HOLIEST AFFECTIONS." 6l 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 "MY HOLIEST AFFECTIONS." 
 
 "When you were gone," she said gently, "papa sent for 
 me. I have never seen him so angry. His wound trou- 
 bled him a great deal, but if it had not been for the wound 
 I don't know what he would have done. It placed a 
 limit upon his violence, and when it healed he was calmer. 
 From the day he let me talk to him I begged and pleaded 
 for our love for you, without telling him of our mar- 
 riage. I told him that you must have struck him in an 
 outburst of passion, and then for the first time I learned 
 of the circumstances under which he was wounded. He 
 said emphatically that it was the one thing he did not 
 blame you for; that if you had not resented a blow from a 
 whip you would have been too ignoble to wear your 
 father's name. But he would entertain no proposition 
 looking to our reunion and declared that he would disin- 
 herit me if I attempted to join you. To this I replied that 
 when you came for me I would go with you and if he 
 pressed me too far I would go to search for you. If left 
 alone I was willing to remain and wait but no one should 
 wrong you in your absence. I think I must have inherit- 
 ed a good deal of the family temper, for I convinced him 
 that I was in earnest." 
 
 "What was the real cause of his violent opposition; do 
 you know?" 
 
 "No. But he had set his heart upon my marrying 
 your cousin, Richard, who was the oldest and would be 
 the head of the family. Besides, he was a lawyer, and 
 papa's business would require a legal mind to protect it. 
 
 "Another reason papa had was that Richard was Cath- 
 olic, like himself, and most of the foreign family connec- 
 tions, while your mother had been Protestant and you 
 were following in her footsteps. When I was allowed to 
 come home and to see you, Chilon, whom no one count-
 
 62 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 ed a danger, I found love and sympathy. I loved you 
 from the first. Oh, God! how I loved you." She bent 
 her head upon his hand and kissed it, weeping silently. 
 "I had no mother; the sisters had been good to me, but 
 stern and strict. You were all, and more. With you 
 everything I did was right, and you praised and loved me 
 until I was blind to all except the one fact that you did 
 love me. I would have died for you then; I would die 
 for you now; ah, if I could only live for you, Chilon, 
 if God would only let me live for you !" Her voice broke. 
 She waited a moment, shaking her head mutely as the full 
 realization of her situation came back to her. 
 
 "Then they began to try and change me. I left the 
 house and took refuge with your sister. Oh, but if there 
 is an angel on earth, she lives in Celeste! She was good 
 to me. She came here to papa and they stormed and 
 raved at each other, for she is a Marbeau, too, and injus- 
 tice maddened her. He took up the idea that she had led 
 me off and would try and bring about our marriage ; and 
 he drove her from the house, swearing that he would 
 never speak to her again, his dead brother's child. And 
 he never did." She paused a moment and reflected. 
 "Months passed. Your letters ceased. I did not know 
 where to write. Richard came again and again, and with 
 a cunning that deceived me, offered his friendship. He 
 pretended that he had detectives searching for you, and in 
 this way he got my sympathy. I did not know what to 
 do. Time went on, a year two years; not a word 
 came to me; and then the blow fell. They showed me 
 the train robbery and your name. I would not, I could 
 not believe it. I still held out for you. I was the only 
 one. Then your cousin went on to see about you and 
 when he came back, God forgive him, I never will, he 
 told me that there had been no mistake. He brought me 
 a message from you, too cruel to repeat now. I know 
 it was false, I soon found out. They persuaded me to 
 go to my aunt's in the city ; they found out my secret mar- 
 riage, they advertised for a divorce, they hurried it
 
 "MY HOLIEST AFFECTIONS." 63 
 
 through, and I was free. My father knew nothing of 
 the lies told to me; he has said it, and I believe him. 
 When Richard came back, he brought a picture of the real 
 culprit, and it was published to vindicate the family. They 
 never let me see that paper. I was secluded and too mis- 
 erable to read or care for anything, and my aunt had 
 taken me abroad. Somehow, they got my consent; my 
 father was getting old; I had wronged him, disgraced the 
 family; they played upon my holiest affections to ac- 
 complish their base ends; and I, still a weak girl yield- 
 ed." She was crying softly. He did not speak, but sat 
 with his free hand gently stroking her hair. 
 
 "And then," he said, at length; "go on, I listen!" 
 
 "Months after it all came out. By accident I learned 
 the truth, and in a frenzy charged him with his treachery. 
 He coolly admitted it, and pleaded his love. His love! 
 The greed and avarice of a mere money seeker! The love 
 of a brute!" 
 
 "Be calm," said the man by her side, tightening his 
 clasp on her hand and head. "Tell me the rest!" 
 
 "I left him and went to your sister. He came and 
 pleaded; and then my little girl was born, and he 
 threatened to take her away! I did not know that he 
 could not have taken her, that no moral offense could be 
 proved that unfitted me for the custody of my child. I 
 went; but not as his wife. From that day we separated. 
 I have made the best of the wretched life. Papa has real- 
 ized the sadness of it; he knows now what a mistake was 
 made, and blames himself. I know it from his tenderness 
 to me. He has asked me to come here frequently and 
 stay with him, and I come for the day, often. Last 
 night was the first I have spent beneath this roof since I 
 left it years ago ; and before I retired we had been talking 
 about you. He spoke so kindly of you, it almost made 
 me love him again ; for God forgive me, I used to think 
 that I hated him. Oh, Chilon! If you had only let me 
 come to you, if you had only given me some address to 
 write to you. A one-room house with daily work with
 
 64 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 the needle, or even at the washtub anything to be with 
 you; I would have been so happy! Look at me now; 
 not yet thirty; no happiness in all my life but those few 
 sweet months; no happiness in the years to come; 
 nothing but misery, wretchedness, separation; unless 
 Heaven sends me release!" She poured out the broken 
 sentences passionately and ceased from exhaustion. 
 There was a long silence. The slow, rhythmic rise and 
 fall of his hand upon her head continued. 
 
 "Is that all, have you told me all?" he said gently, 
 at length. She lifted her face and looked pitifully into his, 
 her eyes melting with love and tenderness. 
 
 "That is all!" The voice was as the whisper of the 
 wind in the pines. He was still again for a time. 
 
 "It is well," he said at length, calmly, "there is no child 
 to call the convict 'father.' ' Gently lifting her to her 
 feet and supporting her whole weight, he half led, half 
 carried her to the door. 
 
 "Shall I see you again before I go?" She steadied her- 
 self with her hand on the lintel as she stood to answer 
 his question, her sad eyes lingering upon his. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "I will come again."
 
 "LET HIM BEWARE OF RAVENSWOOD." 65 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 "LET HIM BEWARE OF RAVENSWOOD." 
 
 Twilight had fallen when, for the fourth time, Lena 
 came with noiseless step and entered the room. He still 
 lay where he had thrown himself, upon the bed, and still 
 slept the sleep of exhaustion. This time she bore a tray 
 of food and arranged it upon the table. Going to Colonel 
 Marbeau's dressing room she secured the little alcohol 
 lamp and silver boiler that he used for heating his shav- 
 ing water and soon had a cup of tea steaming. To obtain 
 all these things had been no easy task, but she had learned 
 many things in her short life, and no one suspected her. 
 When she excused herself for the night the colonel re- 
 turned to his political papers in the library, the servants 
 hurried through the few preparations after tea and the 
 house was still again. 
 
 She stood above the sleeper a moment and gazed into 
 his face, now relaxed and wearing something of the old 
 boyishness that had once characterized it. It was hard 
 to realize that so many years had passed since she had 
 seen him lying there, her husband, the hour for their 
 daily separation at hand. She could not count them. 
 It was a lifetime. She thought of all that had transpired 
 in those years, of her grief and sorrows and her fatal trou- 
 bles. From these her mind turned with sudden remorse 
 to him ; lonely, wifeless, a fugitive, with no friend on earth 
 to help him. She pressed her hand to her eyes to check 
 the tears. 
 
 ''One," she murmured, "one! until death parts us! So 
 I promised and so it shall be!" She knelt by his side, her 
 lips to his ear, her hand upon his brow. "Chilon! Chilon! 
 Awake, it is I, Lena!" He opened his eyes and lay half 
 conscious. 
 
 "Did some one speak," he said, "or was I dreaming?" 
 His eyes traced the outlines of the room. It was not a 
 5
 
 66 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 cell, nor was it the humble cabin that had been his home; 
 and a hand was upon his brow. 
 
 "It is I, Lena. Wake!" He started up violently, and 
 noted the lighted lamp. 
 
 "Lena! Lena!" he exclaimed, "have I slept so long?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, disengaging herself with gentle force, 
 for he had caught her in his arms. "See, here is your 
 supper! I came several times, but you were sleeping so 
 soundly I would not waken you." She was forcing her 
 smiles and trying to brave it out. "Be seated and let me 
 wait upon you as I used " She Hesitated, sobbed and 
 turned away a moment, but when he placed his arm 
 around her with tender solicitude, she broke from him 
 again resolutely. "Sit there, now; the tea is hot and we 
 have not much time." 
 
 He was not hungry, but he made an effort to please 
 her. She seated herself opposite him and ministered to 
 his wants, glad that she could do even that little for him. 
 Her quick mind had already noted a change in him. The 
 wild excitement of eye and action were gone, and in its 
 place, after the surprise of his wakening, had come a quiet 
 that was ill suited to his situation. The boyishness no 
 longer shone in his face; he was a man again, cool and 
 collected, with a definite purpose in mind. He stood up 
 at length and took her hand in both his. 
 
 "Now," he said gently, "I thank you for all your love 
 and faith, and this last kindness to Chilon. If it so hap- 
 pens that we do not meet again, remember that however 
 wrong my life has been, I have never lost sight of you, 
 the star of my long night. I know you are loving and 
 true; that you have been wronged more than any woman." 
 He struggled a moment for calmness. "You are my all," 
 he said at length, "but you must soon be to me a mem- 
 ory. I will love you and bless you forever." He lifted 
 her face and pressed his lips to hers a moment. Then 
 gently disengaging her arms, he turned away. 
 
 Oh, strange power of womanhood's intuition! She, 
 amazed at the change in him, stood looking after his re-
 
 "LET HIM BEWARE OF RAVENSWOOD." 67 
 
 treating form, then ran to him and laid her hand upon 
 his shoulder. 
 
 "Chilon, promise me one thing," she said, with sudden 
 understanding, "will you promise me?" He searched her 
 face and read the truth. 
 
 "No! I will not promise. I have sworn the other way." 
 She locked the door and placed her back to it. 
 
 "You must!" she said with desperate firmness. "You 
 are innocent now. I love you and believe sometimes that 
 all may some day be well; that faint hope is my all; but 
 oh, Chilon; a murderer a murderer! I could not, I 
 could not live through that!" 
 
 "And I cannot live through this," he said passionately, 
 his restraint broken. "I can forgive him his cowardly 
 sacrifice of me, of my happiness, but he has wronged 
 you, and as God lives he shall die!" 
 
 "What!" she cried, awed and horrified. "You would 
 assassinate him! You would curse my life with a new 
 horror; make my child an orphan! For what? Would 
 that right the wrong? Would that bring us together? 
 Do you think that I could ever look into your eyes again, 
 or touch your hand or lips? Never! The day you do 
 such a deed, you pass from my heart, from my love, from 
 my life, forever!" He never forgot the words and the ex- 
 pression of her face. Her mood changed instantly. "Oh, 
 no, Chilon, that is impossible for you for you! You are 
 excited, you do not know what you are saying. Come; 
 Lena loves you, worships you ! If you do this deed you 
 slay yourself and me!" He was dazed by this passionate 
 outburst. He could not understand. 
 
 "You love him, then!" The words were whispered al- 
 most in awe. 
 
 "No; a thousand times, no! But I love you." He 
 looked away, almost overcome. 
 
 "Lena, I have sworn by my holiest memories, by my 
 mother's grave, by the love of heaven and the love I have 
 for you ! While I waited and walked this room, I plead- 
 ed with God for an opportunity! I swore that if ever I
 
 68 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 meet Richard Marbeau I would kill him! I shall keep my 
 oath if it sinks me into the blackest depths!" She re- 
 treated slightly, her wide open eyes full of horror. Her 
 mind flew to another defense. 
 
 "But you did not swear to seek him. Promise me you 
 will not go into the city! Promise me that, Chilon; 1 
 would do anything you ask of me; promise! You were 
 going to seek him. Promise me you will hot go!" He 
 held her in his arms where she had thrown herself again. 
 
 "I promise that!" he said, slowly. 
 
 "Ah!" she said, proudly, "you need not swear it, Chilon, 
 as you did the other. Lena does not need an oath from 
 you!" 
 
 "I promise," he repeated, brokenly, "but God pity him 
 if we meet! You do not need my oath; you believe me! 
 I shall keep them all, the pledges. I said when you 
 gave me your girlhood that I would protect you! Mis- 
 fortune, weakness, treachery destroyed my power to 
 keep that vow, but I am free now, and I shall protect you 
 against even your husband. The man who wronged, who 
 betrayed and debased you cannot meet me and live!'' 
 Again his excitement overcame him. She soothed him 
 with her arms upon his shoulders, her earnest face up- 
 turned to his. 
 
 "You will not meet you cannot meet and if you did, 
 you would not kill Lena to keep a promise. Oh, no, 
 Chilon, think no more of that!" 
 
 "Shall I never, never see you again, Lena?" he cried, 
 in agony, now that the moment for parting was upon 
 them. The fear of that coming crime was still overshad- 
 owing her. 
 
 "Yes," she said, eagerly. "We shall meet again, 
 Chilon!" 
 
 "Here?" 
 
 "Here. I will dare all for you, Chilon." 
 
 "How shall I know when you are alone?" She looked 
 about her quickly. 
 
 "The lamp at that window will mean it is safe ; at the
 
 "LET HIM BEWARE OF RAVENSWOOD." 69 
 
 other, it will mean danger. But, oh, Chilon, you would 
 not, you could not break your promise to me! Any- 
 where, come anywhere, but not to the city!" 
 
 "I shall not break it," he said. "I will not enter there 
 while Richard lives. But let him beware of Ravens- 
 wood !"
 
 70 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 "I KNOW WHERE TO FIND IT." 
 
 He tore himself from her arms and made his way out 
 through his old room. Descending the tree he passed 
 swiftly toward the swamp and soon found the cabin. The 
 old woman arose as he entered. With one glance at his 
 changed appearance she shook her head. 
 
 Age and her calling had brought to S.ilvy great skill 
 and judgment in forming correct conclusions. This man 
 had been dead for years to the family. He had returned 
 in the night as a fugitive. The great Marbeau house a mile 
 away, was open, its owner still there and the nephew's 
 room was probably as he had left it; but he had come to 
 her cabin, a negro's cabin, for refuge. He had come 
 burning with the memory of a great injustice. Now, 
 shaved and dressed and in appearance again himself, he 
 returned once more. And in his eye was a new light. 
 
 She shook her head over the problem and offered him 
 food. He turned from it. 
 
 "I have eaten," he said simply. 
 
 There was an urgent call from the outside and she went 
 forth. A woman desperately ill needed medicine and she 
 returned and procured it. Placing it in the visitor's hand, 
 she said: 
 
 "In a dream to-night, Silvy saw company at the big 
 house. Her eyes are dim and couldn't find their faces. 
 Who there?" The negro visitor shrunk back slightly. 
 
 "Young Miss come back; and Marse Dick." 
 
 She waved her hand and went in. Chilon was sitting 
 lost in thought over the scenes from which he had re- 
 turned and she forebore to disturb him. But when he 
 rose to seek his couch, he found her standing and regard- 
 ing him, her strange, wild eyes now flashing with some of 
 their oldtime fire. 
 
 "You seen her?" she said, simply.
 
 "I KNOW WHERE TO FIND IT." ' 7 1 
 
 "Who?" Her face took on its look of cunning. 
 
 "An' you seen him!" He was amazed beyond expres- 
 sion. "He would kill you," she said. "The snake in the 
 weeds ain't as bad!" 
 
 "Whom are you talking about, mammy?" 
 
 "I am talkin' bout him; de man what steal your wife 
 while you gone! He would kill you." 
 
 "We shall see!" he said, roused again to sudden fury. 
 "We shall see!" She took from the crevice in the chim- 
 ney her long, keen knife and offered it to him. He shud- 
 dered at sight of it in her claw-like fingers and shook his 
 head. 
 
 "Put it back," he said, "I know where to find it." And 
 then, noting her excitement: "You evidently do not 
 love the man?" 
 
 She reached her hand over her shoulder and touched 
 the hidden wound. 
 
 "What!" he exclaimed. "Did he strike the blow?" 
 
 But she had gone to her couch. Presently she began 
 her queer chant, her voice at times rising to a pitch of ex- 
 citement that made his flesh creep. So sang the wild 
 savage, he had heard, when war was at hand. 
 
 This passed. Over him came the shadow of his great 
 misfortune. Lena was lost to him forever. Nothing 
 could alter, could lessen that fact. He arose and plunged 
 out into the night, to come at dawn and sink exhausted 
 upon his couch again.
 
 72 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 WHERE LOVE AND SORROW MEET. 
 
 Chilon could scarcely restrain his impatience when at 
 noon he opened his eyes again. The hours wore away 
 slowly, tediously. There was nothing to divert his mind ; 
 the song of the mocking bird outside, the chatter of noisy 
 jays in the water oaks and the pert challenge of the squir- 
 rel had no power to amuse him. From over the hill 
 came the sweet melody of negroes at work in the fields, 
 but the hymn once so familiar was harsh and hateful 
 now. His mind, depressed at one moment over its tra- 
 gedy, the next exulted over the realization that, after all, 
 one being in the world still loved and trusted him, was 
 incapable of outside impressions. Thought is the finest 
 voice in nature, and that mind must be at rest when the 
 chatter of her many children fall sweetly within it. 
 
 He saw the slow sun descend from the zenith, the shad- 
 ows grow long upon the hillside, and fireflies begin to 
 twinkle in the darkening swamp. Then came the black- 
 ness of night and with it freedom. He did not wait for 
 midnight. He found a position from which he could 
 view the house, and waited hour after hour. He saw 
 Lena in fancy with his uncle in the library, talking over 
 the events of the past, and plans for the future. Per- 
 haps in those moments of confidence they again spoke of 
 him, of him, the fugitive hiding in the dark, waiting 
 with hungry heart for his brief hours of happiness. 
 
 It came at last; his star arose in the night and shone 
 with resplendent beauty above him. With a glad cry 
 he sprung forward, swung himself up through the cedar 
 to the roof and passed into the house. The hallway was 
 dark, but he knew every inch of the way. His hand found 
 the door, closed, but not latched, and in a moment more 
 he was inside. She came to him quickly and his arms en- 
 circled her. The hour was too sacred for word?. He led
 
 WHERE LOVE AND SORROW MEET. 73 
 
 her to a chair, and seating himself at her knee heard 
 over and over again the pledge, "I love you only." With 
 loverlike persistency he made her swear it with lifted 
 hand, and looking into her brown eyes, frank with truth 
 and limpid with tenderness, he believed her and was 
 happy. But ever and anon some word of her city life 
 would slip in, bringing with it a tumult of unavailing 
 regrets, of jealous fears and fierce anger moving him to 
 such extremes that she feared his self-control would be 
 lost. Never then, nor afterwards, could he endure from 
 her any reference to her husband, however remote ; and if 
 she spoke of any duty to be performed at home it filled 
 him with anguish. After one of these outbursts he ex- 
 claimed passionately: 
 
 "You are a woman, gentle, refined and loving; but you 
 despise the man you have married. It is your duty to 
 tell him so and return to your father's home. You owe 
 it to yourself. God has given you a nature, a soul, a life 
 to be preserved, to be kept fresh and sweet; you brutalize 
 it when you submit yourself to that creature. The day 
 will come, when cold and hard, and insensible to the finer 
 feelings of life, you will wake to the realization that the 
 best part of you is already dead. Is the girl I loved dead 
 indeed?'' And she would calm him with a gentle touch 
 that was irresistible. 
 
 "No," she said softly, "she is not dead, Chilon. She 
 lives and loves you; and she loves her child." She shook 
 her head sadly. "If it had not been for her, I would have 
 died. If it were not for her, I would come home!" 
 
 Again, he would rise to his knees and clasping her to 
 him with passionate force implore her to promise him, 
 when he had made a home for them, to come back to 
 him. 
 
 "Divorce is easy," he cried, "mere incompatibility is 
 sufficient. It will be a week's wonder and then forgot- 
 ten!" But she only shook her head sadly, drying her 
 eyes with pathetic calmness. At length, overcome with
 
 74 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 the strength of his pleadings, her heart stirred to sudden 
 rebellion against fate, she said with proud vehemence: 
 
 "Yes, Chilon, I will! When you have won back your 
 name and are free. I will come to you. I could not 
 bring my child to less. You could not ask it! Prove to 
 the world, to my father, that you are innocent you are 
 innocent and proof can be had some way, prove it and 
 I will come back to you!" He could not at first reply, 
 for the flood of feelings that came over him. 
 
 "Do you mean it?" he asked, almost in awe. "You 
 would not deceive me in such an hour, Lena?" 
 
 "Have I ever deceived you, Chilon? No! And I never 
 shall ! My husband knows that I love your memory bet- 
 ter than all else in life. It would not be news to him." 
 
 "But to think," he said, "in all the years to come while 
 I search and labor, to lie awake and think of his arms 
 about you, his lips touching yours, I cannot! I cannot!" 
 She bowed her head in silence. 
 
 "I cannot understand it!" he raved, pacing the floor. 
 "I cannot understand such surrender! Men have de- 
 spised the wanton woman in all ages, and none more than 
 those of this age who take pay in carriages, and jewels 
 and clothing riding the streets to advertise their shame ! 
 For believe me, believe me, a woman may deceive herself, 
 but she cannot deceive the world. The world knows 
 when she does and when she does not love the man who 
 supports her, and people laugh over the situation and in 
 secret take her name in vain. I can pity and even respect 
 the woman whose necessities drive her to ruin, but the 
 others! They are below even the notice of, a convict!" 
 He paused abashed, amazed at his own words. He knelt 
 by her side and took her hands again. "Forgive me, for- 
 give me," he said, "I did not know what I was saying!" 
 
 "Therefore it came honest from your heart!" she an- 
 swered sadly. "Had you known, you would have spared 
 me spared yourself; for you should utter no reproach, 
 Chilon; but no, I will spare you." He covered his face 
 with his hands; she had not spared him. "You have not
 
 WHERE LOVE AND SORROW MEET. 75 
 
 told all, not all. Who is most likely in all the world to 
 make a mistake? I think it is the girl, Chilon! Her 
 strength is in her weakness and her weakness is her glory ; 
 because she is strongest in her power to love and weakest 
 when she does love. And love is the glory of woman- 
 hood! Oh, Chilon, you see only the man's side. You 
 should see twenty-four hours of the life of a woman sit- 
 uated as I am. You would not blame me; you would 
 pity me, you would save me, you would not tempt me! 
 Do you not know that I am crushing my own heart every 
 minute; that if I yielded to my heart I would go out of 
 this house to-night with you anywhere you might choose, 
 to share your fate, your labor, your danger; that I would 
 work for you by night or day ; would be anything, every- 
 thing, to you? That is the impulse I am fighting every 
 minute. Help me, Chilon; help me to remember! I 
 am the woman and you the man. You should be strong 
 enough for both. You boast that you would protect me, 
 you swore you would! Protect me against myself!" She 
 was again wringing her hands. "Do not oh, do not 
 I implore you make it so hard, so hard for me!" Shame 
 and remorse overwhelmed him for the moment. 
 
 "Here is your father's house " he began. 
 
 "And you!' she answered, shaking her head. He 
 looked down upon her with quick comprehension. 
 
 "You mean that you cannot come because I have re- 
 turned!" She would not answer. "Then," he said 
 sadly, "I shall help you, Lena. To-morrow I go for- 
 ever." 
 
 "No! no! no! Not yet, Chilon, not yet. It has been 
 so long; it will be so long again. Don't go yet, not yet!" 
 
 "You wish me to stay?" he cried, gladness in every 
 feature and tone of voice. 
 
 "Yes. Because I know you will pity me. You will 
 protect me!" And presently as he held her hands tightly: 
 "No; it is best that you go, Chilon; it is best! But not 
 now; wait a little while, my life, my love. Let me see 
 your dear face again. Come to me; it must soon end.
 
 76 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 Then you will go to clear your name and make a home 
 for me. You will, will you not? You will leave no stone 
 unturned to find your good name again and wear it with 
 honor and pride." 
 
 These passionate outbursts brought for the moment ex- 
 ultant happiness. 
 
 But always the shadow came back. She was to re- 
 turn to that other man, and take up her old life; and the 
 months, years perhaps, were to slip by. When she came 
 back to him some day, it would be with all freshness, all 
 sweetness gone; not the girl he had loved, but a woman 
 of the world. The girl he had loved would have per- 
 ished. Had she already perished? Would the proud, 
 high-minded girl that dared all for him at seventeen, de- 
 fied father and friends and kindred would she, if she 
 were living, hesitate? No! She would leave even the 
 child itself for him. 
 
 Something of this burst from him in his agony. She 
 shook her head. 
 
 "The girl that you loved is not dead; but she is a 
 mother; and a mother must sacrifice everything, if neces- 
 sary, for her child. Yes, if the child's future demands it, 
 if shame were part of its inheritance, she must stand 
 ready to sacrifice even a mother's rights and tear her 
 heart out by the roots. Ah, Chilon, no man has ever 
 known any woman ! I am true to you when I am true to 
 myself!" 
 
 "If you were true to yourself you would not be the 
 wife of Richard Marbeau!" 
 
 "And I am not!" she said proudly. "You have forgot- 
 ten soon! I am waiting a sacrifice to the laws of so- 
 ciety the victim of civilization." He bent over her 
 hand. 
 
 "I believe you," he said. "Forgive my words. I think 
 that suffering has already crazed me. I take your last 
 words as a pledge, sacred as that you gave to me in the 
 presence of God. It makes me happy; happier than I 
 believed I might ever again be. I shall go out to begin
 
 WHERE LOVE AND SORROW MEET. 77 
 
 my work with a light heart, fearing no failure. I cannot 
 fail now!" 
 
 He was radiant and triumphant and she smiled wist- 
 fully to see him so happy. 
 
 "I believe that you love me," she said simply. For 
 reply he knelt, and clasped her in his arms again and 
 pressed his burning kisses upon her lips, her cheeks, her 
 brow, her eyes. 
 
 Out toward the west a crown of jewels overhung the 
 city, and silence, broken only by the rhythmic pulse in 
 the valley and the monotone of the waterfall, enveloped 
 the scene. 
 
 Slowly the beautiful stars of heaven sank toward the 
 horizon. It was no new sight for them a man and 
 woman in the grasp of a power as strong as that which 
 held themselves in place. And God made all! 
 
 With the morn they would pass away from view and 
 the sun would tempt into the open again the crafty, the 
 lying, the hypocritical, the false and vicious serpents 
 that bask in its heat lives that curse life and make hope 
 a mockery. 
 
 But the star will come again, and love is immortal. 
 One holds the lost light of a vanished sun; the other is 
 the light of God's own smile upon the soul, that shining 
 once, shines on through all eternity.
 
 78 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 THE FATAL LETTER. 
 
 But Chilon did not go that week nor the next, nor the 
 next thereafter. He thought to go. He said to her sad- 
 ly each time that she returned to the city: "When you 
 come again I shall say 'farewell.' " And when she came 
 he would go to sit at her feet and tell her of his love and 
 make her swear her faith unchanged, over and over. 
 
 And she, the woman; she could not send him away 
 into the world; nor could she resist his appeals to come 
 again. 
 
 For he had found a way to communicate with her. 
 Love always finds a way! Coming back at daylight one 
 morning from an expedition down the river, he crossed a 
 public road and saw a postman taking letters from a little 
 home-made box nailed to a tree. The carrier rode daily 
 from points below and this impromptu arrangement was 
 a mere matter of convenience to the neighborhood, it be- 
 ing well understood that no valuable letters would be 
 posted at that point. He made the discovery with great 
 delight and immediately utilized it. With his uncle's sta- 
 tionery and postage stamps at hand it was an easy matter. 
 
 And it was soon arranged between them that answers 
 to his letters would be left in the cavity of a certain syca- 
 more near the house ; for it often happened that she could 
 ride out during the day when circumstances prevented 
 her staying over night. 
 
 Into these letters he poured his passion without re- 
 straint, addressing them to her number and street, leaving 
 all unsigned for safety ; and in her absence from the house 
 it gave employment for his thoughts. And he could look 
 forward to her answers. 
 
 But she came often; so often that the colonel grew 
 almost young again in his pleasure. 
 
 "Your roses are coming back at last," he said, pat-
 
 THE FATAL LETTER. 79 
 
 ting her cheek; and then they bloomed in reality. Her 
 step grew quicker and eye brighter. Love long delayed 
 and baffled held her in his grasp. But she wore his flow- 
 ers, not his chains, and carried her head proudly. 
 
 Constant risk made Chilon careless. The heat of sum- 
 mer was at hand and the cabin in its low situation was 
 exposed to mosquitoes. He suffered greatly from them. 
 The time came when an unused room upstairs at Ravens- 
 wood was in a measure fitted up for him, and there, in- 
 stead of seeking his old quarters when the hour of parting 
 arrived, he would retreat, getting glimpses of the woman 
 he loved during the day, and supplied with food surrep- 
 titiously. These stolen moments gave a zest to life that 
 was new to him; and her companionship made him de- 
 liriously happy. Necessarily the care of the room fell 
 to her also, and the knowledge of her gentle ministry and 
 solicitude brought him still greater happiness. Grad- 
 ually, from her own purse she had supplied him with all 
 that he needed, and he no longer felt the discomforts of 
 want. 
 
 It was a summer idyl, too beautiful to last. The end 
 came in a way they had not dreamed. The blow fell with 
 crushing force, and in one brief moment all of sweetness 
 went out of life. 
 
 She had been absent from Ravenswood a week with 
 her child, who was ill, and everything else gave place to 
 this demand. The life Chilon was leading, exposure to the 
 swamp air by night, irregular and often improper food 
 and the constant mental excitement, told upon him. For 
 a few days he resisted the encroachment of the enemy 
 and during that time, depressed and lonely, he wrote a 
 letter that should have gone straight to her hands and 
 then to the flames. 
 
 It reached neither. And night after night Chilon vain- 
 ly searched for her light and her letter in the old familiar 
 places. At length he succumbed to the fever, raving in 
 his delirium of her falseness and neglect. 
 
 Richard Marbeau's mind was fertile ground for sus-
 
 8o THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 picions. Engrossed in important court cases he had only 
 noticed that his wife had grown younger and brighter and 
 that in her manner toward him, even, there was a shade of 
 cordiality not before known. He noticed also that her fond- 
 ness for Ravenswood increased, and last of all, that when 
 going to spend the night there, always she left the little 
 girl at home. These points came to him gradually, and 
 finally he grew suspicious. But try as he might, he could 
 not suggest a satisfactory explanation. So many years 
 had passed since Chilon's departure and so firmly was he, 
 himself, fixed in his possession, he did not dream of dan- 
 ger in that direction. At first, remembering the will, 
 Lena's visits had pleased him, but the suspicions came 
 and stayed with him. Several times he had followed her 
 out to Ravenswood and watched her closely, but to no 
 effect. She was the same in her uncle's library as at home. 
 And this was natural, since she had but to place the light 
 in a certain window of her room to warn Chilon. 
 
 And she never for a moment left the man who claimed 
 her while he was at Ravenswood. 
 
 And she always went back to the city with him, her 
 only exhibitions of nervousness being that drive home- 
 ward. 
 
 On these occasions Chilon walked the grove outside, 
 consumed with jealous rage. 
 
 The climax came during the little girl's convalescence. 
 Richard had returned to the house from his office. At 
 the door, as he entered, the postman handed him a letter. 
 The half-familiar handwriting, the local stamp, filled him 
 with curiosity, and his suspicions returned with renewed 
 force. No one had seen him receive it; he placed it in 
 his pocket. When back again within his office, he opened 
 and read the foolish, fatal epistle, and knew that it came 
 from Chilon. 
 
 "Why have you deserted me," it read. "Night after 
 night I have waited and watched for you, imagining a 
 thousand evils and distressed beyond expression. Lena, 
 it is inconceivable that you should treat me so cruelly. I
 
 THE FATAL LETTER. 8l 
 
 have been tempted over and again to take my departure 
 without waiting for you. I am haunted with the thought, 
 always, that you no longer love Chilon ; that you pity him 
 and you cannot break all the old ties ; that while with me 
 you do love me, but when you go back to your old life 
 you wish that this were ended and you might be left alone. 
 Oh, Lena, why are you not frank and open with me? 
 There is something behind it all, something that you have 
 never told to me. 
 
 "Last night I went to your room ; the light was not at 
 the window, but I entered the house anyway, thinking 
 that perhaps there might be some mistake. I went to your 
 room; it was as you had left it; but its glory had departed. 
 Oh, love, come back to me; my heart cannot stand much 
 more. Laws and customs were made by men for their 
 own selfish purposes ; you are still my wife in the sight of 
 heaven ! Life anywhere else for you is sin, and you know 
 it. But I shall not urge this if you will come. I shall be 
 satisfied still to look into your dear eyes, to feel your 
 kisses upon my lips, your hand in mine; and to know 
 that then at least you do love me and me alone. Come 
 back and save me from myself. I cannot endure this for 
 many days. 
 
 "I shall look for your light Wednesday night. If I do 
 not find it then, or a letter in the old place, God have 
 mercy upon us all!" 
 
 Richard Marbeau had never loved his wife. He sim- 
 ply valued her. He was a man of strong passions, and 
 the greatest of these were greed and ambition ; a desire for 
 wealth and political honors. From his youth he had un- 
 derstood that Lena Marbeau was to be his wife, and that 
 Ravenswood, with all its traditions and loveliness and 
 with wealth to back it, would come with her. This meant 
 high social position; and power in business a'nd political 
 circles. His aspirations had already been partly realized. 
 It was current gossip in advance of the will, an accepted 
 fact, that Colonel Marbeau's daughter would succeed to 
 his property ; and if coming events cast their shadows be- 
 6
 
 82 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 fore, the coming sunrise lights the east in advance. Busi- 
 ness came to him, political patronage and a growing in- 
 fluence. It was accepted that he was "logically" the next 
 Democratic congressman for his district. 
 
 But while there was no love between his wife and him- 
 self, he was nevertheless capable of intense jealousy. He 
 knew her superiority. His honor was at stake, and loss 
 of this meant loss of power. 
 
 And his fortune also was at stake. 
 
 He had grown cold and careless at home, secretly de- 
 spising the moods of the woman bound to him by law 
 and custom; unsympathetic, and, in his total lack of con- 
 sideration, really cruel. His selfish nature, his insolent 
 self-conceit, were totally at variance with all the char- 
 acteristics that she possessed; but they had be,en, in a 
 measure, his salvation. He was ignorant of the finer 
 shades of a woman's love, and did not miss them. It had 
 never occurred to him that a defect lay in him ; his mind 
 had never risen far enough above the petty affairs of life 
 to become conscious that there was a broader life about 
 him. He closed the door upon himself when he per- 
 petrated the cruel fraud upon his cousin's wife and built 
 his future upon a lie. 
 
 But there was another reason. The low cunning of 
 the man showed in his actions when he had read this let- 
 ter. After the first burst of astonishment and rage that 
 the revelation brought to him, a smile overspread his 
 face 
 
 "So," he said, "so, my pretty, hightoned, immaculate 
 little saint, this is the explanation! Oh, woman, woman, 
 there is no limit to your iniquity! But I think when this 
 matter is ended your wings will have been clipped." The 
 thought that came to him was not one of pity; it was a 
 joyful realization that at length he had her in his power. 
 He knew instinctively, he realized from the letter; indeed, 
 he had never doubted but that his wife still loved and 
 would always love the man whom he had wronged; the 
 man who had wronged him, he always argued, since Chi-
 
 THE FATAL LETTER. 83 
 
 Ion had robbed him first. The matter had not reached 
 the irremediable condition. It should end where it was. 
 But Lena Marbeau would be his slave from that day. 
 Pride would bend her will, and he held the proofs. Tri- 
 umph now outweighed all other feelings. 
 
 But did he hold clear proofs? He read the letter over 
 and over. It contained only the ravings of a lover; there 
 was no proof to convict the woman. Chilon had been 
 her husband; he was yet her cousin. Their parting had 
 been under peculiar circumstances, and it was natural 
 that she should be kind to him, especially if he had come 
 back in want. That letter was her defense, if read closely. 
 
 But suppose she kept the proposed appointment! He 
 looked at his watch; it was yet time to catch the after- 
 noon delivery. Taking a plain white envelope, similar to 
 that which he had opened, he enclosed the letter, iftade a 
 creditable imitation of the address and rang for his office 
 boy to put it in a mail box. 
 
 The smile of satisfaction had not passed from his lips 
 when the door opened and a servant brought him a large 
 square envelope, which bore his name in the angular style 
 of fashionable chirography. Opening it, he drew forth 
 the inclosure and read: 
 
 Dear Dick: What has become of you? You have failed me 
 twice and I am uneasy. What has transpired anything that 
 affects me? Come Wednesday night without fail. If I do not 
 hear from you, I shall be miserable and positively frightened. 
 Yours, BIJOU. 
 
 P. S. I am "broke" again. Better send me a check. B. 
 
 "Always a check," he said to himself, still smiling. 
 "Poor little schemers!" He wrote hurriedly upon a sheet 
 of paper, tearing off the business head: 
 
 Darling: I have been overwhelmed with work. Child very 
 sick. Ought not to have neglected you, but thought you could 
 trust me. My checks are all gone, so I am obliged to send 
 bills, which I hope will answer. Can't come on Wednesday 
 night; won't be in the city. Yours truly, D.
 
 84 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 After the messenger took his departure, the lawyer 
 stood watching the door. A queer idea had come to him. 
 "Suppose by any chance that letter should fall in Lena's 
 hands?" so ran the thought. "It is different with men," 
 he answered, and with a slight shrug of his shoulders 
 turned to his desk. 
 
 But not to work. Only a general plan had been 
 framed ; the details were still to be worked out. 
 
 That night he found the little girl at her music in the 
 sitting room, the wife silent and thoughtful by the win- 
 dow. 
 
 "Thinking of your husband, I suppose?" he said care- 
 lessly, as he busied himself about some trivial matter. 
 She looked at him quickly, and then away. 
 
 "Yes," she said simply, "I believe that I was." 
 
 "Thanks," he called back maliciously. "I do not dare 
 to ask what was the tenor of the thought. But perhaps," 
 he said, pausing a moment to deliver the pun, ''there was 
 no tenor there only the bass." 
 
 The little girl had left her playthings and had gone to 
 stand by her mother's side. She looked toward the open 
 door a moment, then, kissing her, resumed her play. She 
 had felt a discord somewhere.
 
 THE HEART OF LENA MARBEAU. 85 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 THE HEART OF LENA MARBEAU. 
 
 During her enforced stay at home, Lena had thought 
 long and deeply upon her situation and that of the man 
 she now knew she loved more than life itself. His con- 
 dition appealed to her at all hours and she pictured him 
 going regularly for the letter and to gaze upon her win- 
 dow. "He will understand," she thought. "It cannot 
 be possible that he will doubt me now. He will know 
 that some insurmountable obstacle has intervened and 
 that I will come when I can. But his future!" 
 
 She knew that dissipation was a family weakness ; more 
 than one of them had filled drunkards' graves, and Chi- 
 lon's ruin had sprung from drink. He possessed that 
 peculiar nervous, excitable temperament that finds in 
 alcohol its support. He belonged to the singular class of 
 men who, in the hours of excitement and danger, or sud- 
 den trouble, when the heart is beating fiercely out of time 
 and the brain whirling, crave yet more stimulant; for 
 these consume a vital fluid and set up a new demand. 
 With Chilon, she knew that a return to the habit, inter- 
 rupted by his long confinement, meant death, perhaps 
 family ruin. Something must be done for him. If he 
 went out into the world upon his almost hopeless task, 
 he would never withstand temptation. She read it in 
 the abandonment of self-control which she had already 
 witnessed. But what could she do? Her money was in 
 the control of her husband; she could not get it without 
 explanation. And if Chilon went, he must have money; 
 she would not permit him to go impoverished and with 
 not a friend to help him. 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears that afternoon as she sat by 
 the window. Oh, if she could only appeal to her hus- 
 band ; if there were in him nobility and generosity, but 
 no; she could not do that. Who, then, would help her?
 
 86 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 "My father," she murmured softly at last. "He is a 
 man a gentleman; he will understand. I will make him 
 understand. He owes me something. He has spoken of 
 Chilon kindly; I think he will be glad. And, oh, if he 
 gives his full aid, all will be well!" 
 
 The thought made her happier than she had been in 
 many a day. 
 
 A servant brought her a letter, and she looked to the 
 handwriting. It was like, and yet unlike, Chilon's. What 
 was the matter? She studied it long, after the fashion of 
 woman, and then broke the seal. Her eyes overflowed 
 with tears as she read the lines. 
 
 "My poor boy," she said. "How he must suffer. Sick! 
 Oh, God, Chilon sick alone in that cabin no comforts 
 no nurse, only that half-demented old woman ! Chi- 
 lon sick and calling for me." 
 
 She almost cried out in her sudden pain. But no, he 
 says that he will come Wednesday night day after to- 
 morrow! He has left me a day for preparations. Yes, 
 Chilon, I shall come! I shall come if it wrecks the life of 
 your Lena! A woman's highest duty is to the man she 
 loves. She must not give him up to despair! No one 
 will stop me. Let no one dare to stop me!" 
 
 Her excitement attracted the little girl. 
 
 "What is it, mamma?" she asked; "are you ill, 
 mamma?" 
 
 "No, my baby; not ill! I am simply tired!" 
 
 "Good mamma! Sweet mamma!" The little one came 
 and put up her arms. 
 
 "Do you think so, sweetheart? Do you think mamma 
 is good?" 
 
 "Are you not good, mamma?" The little eyes opened 
 wide. 
 
 "I don't know; I don't know, my precious! I hope so. 
 God alone knows ! But I try to be." 
 
 She sent the child to play again. She was studying the 
 address of the letter, and wondering if the forced 
 style proved that Chilon was indeed ill, when she heard
 
 THE HEART OF LENA MARBEAU. 87 
 
 her husband's step. In a moment she was herself again, 
 the little weakness which attacks so many lonely women 
 at twilight, gone. 
 
 Chilon must have help; her father must furnish it; but 
 how reach him? And would Chilon be angry with her 
 if she told his secret? Oh, for a woman's love and sym- 
 pathy ! 
 
 It came to her then, as a revelation, that the friend 
 she needed now was Celeste, her sister-in-law. But she 
 would consult Chilon first. They could trust her to give 
 her aid and counsel without ever asking a question. The 
 setret would be safe with her. Who, next to herself, 
 would have his interest at heart more than his only sister? 
 
 Her plan rapidly shaped itself. She would go boldly 
 to Ravenswood and effect a reconciliation. If she could 
 succeed in this and get Celeste over for the night she 
 might put her in the room that had been fixed for Chilon, 
 and when he came, unfold the plan and get his consent. 
 Then Celeste might be brought in, and her cool judgment 
 would clear away the difficulties. 
 
 She ordered out her pony carriage early on Wednes- 
 day, and with injunctions of more than usual minuteness 
 to the old nurse, who had followed her from Ravens- 
 wood, set out for the country. Her husband saw her go, 
 a sardonic smile upon his face, and went calmly to his 
 office. 
 
 It was a beautiful summer morning, full of the odors 
 of pines and wild flowers, and the songs of the mocking 
 birds. Overhead were the blue skies, with here and there 
 a thin cloud afloat like the lost veil of a bride. Her heart 
 beat hopefully. She had now a definite plan in mind at 
 last, something to take hold upon, to cling unto; a new 
 object in life. She saw in fancy the mists cleared away 
 from Chilon's future, and he vindicated and established 
 somewhere. She imagined his letters coming to her full 
 of hope and love and thankfulness, and then, some day 
 perhaps life might become unbearable she and her 
 husband might agree for once, agree to disagree ; and she
 
 88 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 would be free. Would Chilon love her then as now? 
 Would he? Yes, she was sure of it. 
 
 The little mare skimmed the hard clay roads and the 
 wheels sang merrily underneath. She found herself sing- 
 ing also, a little melody of long ago. She laughed over 
 the discovery, she, Lena Marbeau, singing! The mare 
 turned under a shaded avenue and soon paused at the lit- 
 tle gate in front of the Ravenswood mansion. The glad 
 old man came down the walk and took the young woman 
 in his arms. In after years he thought often of that 
 morning, the brightness of her eye and the color upon 
 her cheeks. 
 
 "I was afraid you had deserted me, my child. I was 
 about to send in 
 
 "Little Lena has been ill, papa; but she is well now. I 
 came as soon as I could. Are you well quite well?" 
 
 "Quite. Even an old soldier, full of wounds, must 
 acknowledge the compliments of such a season as this 
 and keep himself in harmony with nature. Look up and 
 around," he said, "does it not seem that all the world 
 should be at peace on such a day? If I have enemies I 
 pray their mercy," he continued gaily, as he led her in. 
 
 "And if there are those to whom you are an enemy?'' 
 she said, smiling. 
 
 "I forgive them all. I want to be at peace to-day. Let 
 us sit here upon the porch ; it is too good to go inside the 
 house. Did you bring the morning paper? Our mail 
 doesn't come until noon, you remember." 
 
 "Yes, here it is. Papa, Uncle Francis was your fav- 
 orite brother, wasn't he?" 
 
 "Yes. But what are you thinking of now?" 
 
 "Wasn't he killed at Gettysburg on just such a day as 
 this? Do you mind telling me about it again? It has 
 been so long since I heard it. He must have been very 
 brave; and his picture is so good-looking." 
 
 "Just such a day," he said, sadly. Then his eye kindled 
 as memory brought the scene. "We of Pickett's brigade 
 lay waiting for the word to charge. All the morning we
 
 THE HEART OF LENA MARBEAU. 89 
 
 had listened for the command, and overhead thundered 
 the shot and shell of all our artillery, focused on the 
 heights before us. Then our ammunition died out and 
 our general rode to Longstreet. I learned afterwards 
 that he said: 'General, shall I charge?' 
 
 "Longstreet, who felt in advance the coming disaster, 
 turned away his face and was silent. 
 
 " 'Then I charge,' said Pickett, and rode away. 
 
 "I think the world must have held its breath that day. 
 It was the crest of the war wave that had been rolling 
 higher and higher for years, and it broke over that hill 
 with a shock that shook the earth and sent a thrill to the 
 heart of civilization. Amid the wreck, the drift that lay 
 beyond the enemies' guns, was your Uncle Frank." 
 
 The old man was silent, his head bowed. 
 
 "He sent you a message, papa. Do you remember it?" 
 
 Her lips were white and trembling now. 
 
 "Yes. To Robert Aubren, now your Cousin Robert, 
 he gave his sword as he, also wounded, came staggering 
 by him. 'Tell Charles,' he said, 'to keep my sword and 
 my children from dishonor.' Child, child! what would 
 you have?" 
 
 He had caught sight of her agitated face. 
 
 "Oh, papa, this: Let us lea.ve Chilon out, now; but 
 Celeste! Papa, I want you to take her back to your heart; 
 love her, let her come to you ! We are so few, now, papa, 
 and time is passing. Just say the word; there will be no 
 scene, no explanations. She will come. What was it 
 you said, papa dear, just now, about forgiveness and 
 peace? Did you mean it?" 
 
 Who could resist the appeal of those eyes;^that frank, 
 loving, tender face; that voice, the incarnation of melody. 
 Not he. 
 
 "I meant it," he said, "and I am glad that you have 
 entrapped me. Frank's child shall come and be wel- 
 come." She threw herself into his arms and kissed him. 
 It was so much like the olden way that he trembled with 
 delight.
 
 90 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 "Stay here," she said, running away from him. "I am 
 going right over and tell her. And, papa, you do not 
 understand me now, but some day you will think that 
 God put it into your heart to be kind to the best woman 
 He has let live on earth." 
 
 "I am glad now," he called to her, "that He sent the 
 message by one of His angels." 
 
 She waved her hand to him in reply. 
 
 The little mare sped away, her pace, for the first time, 
 stimulated by the whip. 
 
 Taking a little by-road, the young woman paused be- 
 fore an ancient tree and opened a note she had carried in 
 her bosom. It read: 
 
 "Have been kept at home by Lena's illness. Will remain to- 
 night at Ravenswood. With kisses, lovingly, L." 
 
 She thrust it into the hollow of the tree, under a stone 
 left there, and resumed her journey. Long afterwards, 
 passing the spot, she found it blackened and undeciphera- 
 ble, all except the words, "with kisses, lovingly, L.," and 
 placed it again in her bosom.
 
 LENA AT ROSE COTTAGE. 91 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 LENA AT ROSE COTTAGE. 
 
 The young woman drove rapidly three miles, crossed 
 the Ravenswood line and turned her mare into the well- 
 kept road that circled among the hollies and dogwoods 
 and broadened before a picturesque cottage nestling 
 between two giant magnolias. Clematis climbed 
 in and out through a great Lamarque rose that, 
 beginning at the corner of the low veranda, had traveled 
 its whole length, letting down, among the purple discs of 
 the vine, its clusters of white blossoms. Beds of gerani- 
 ums, scarlet and salmon, blazed under the morning sky, 
 and giant sunflowers, overrun with morning glories, nod- 
 ded in the new-found sunlight, a mass of blue and gold. 
 In the dark green of the magnolias shone the immense 
 and snowy blossoms, and, as if nature had not been prodi- 
 gal of tints and hues already, a peacock, for the moment, 
 startled by the new arrival, spread his wonderful feathers 
 and stood on exhibition. 
 
 Into the life that had planned all this loveliness must 
 have come some wonderful harmony, for beauty is never 
 an accident. 
 
 As Lena tied her horse and entered, a little boy came 
 out of the hallway and stood waiting for her a slender, 
 dark-haired little fellow, with a complexion like a nun's, 
 and brown eyes that held a strange lambent flame. She 
 knelt quickly and took him in her arms, pressing him 
 again and again to her bosom. A smile overspread his 
 face, a happy little glint of moonshine. 
 
 "Aren't you glad to see me, Chilon?" she asked, hold- 
 ing him at arm's length. 
 
 "Yes, Aunty," he said, "I am always glad to see you." 
 A wistful smile lingered upon his lips as he stood watch- 
 ing her. She caught him to her breast again and the
 
 92 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 eyes that closed above him closed over the gathering 
 tears. 
 
 "See, what aunty has brought you," she said quickly, 
 "come to the carriage." She turned her face from him 
 suddenly and drew him with her. The package taken 
 from under the seat was large. 
 
 "Now, guess what it is!" Smiling down into his grave 
 little face she held it out of reach. 
 
 "A book," he said. 
 
 "Wouldn't you wish it something else, Chilon, mar- 
 bles a game toys ?" He shook his head. "Nothing 
 but books, books, books! Well, a book it is; and such a 
 book!" They went and sat upon the steps and she took 
 out not one but three volumes. "See, here are your 
 friends, the flowers," she said, pitching her voice in that 
 confidential tone so thrilling to eager little ears, "all in 
 their own colors, with their every-day and Sunday names ; 
 and here in one, all the butterflies, beetles and lacewings, 
 and ugh ! Look at the horrible worms! And here," she 
 continued triumphantly, "are all the birds you love so 
 well! see the blue jay! Isn't he natural; and up above 
 him is a mocking bird building her nest " 
 
 "But she would have run the jay away!" he said, open- 
 ing his eyes wide. 
 
 "She will, as soon as she sees him!" laughed the 
 woman, hurrying on. "And look at the wrens and blue 
 birds, and indigo birds and swallows; but take them! 
 they are yours, Chilon!" He took them, dividing the 
 burden under his arms and with a brighter face than she 
 had seen often, put up his lips to kiss her. 
 
 "I am much obliged ! You are good, Aunty." 
 
 "Do you think so, Chilon?" 
 
 "Why, yes! Aren't you good, Aunty?" His eyes 
 opened wide and his voice grew a trifle weaker with ap- 
 prehension. 
 
 "I don't know. Sometimes I think I am not!" The 
 other scene at home flashed into memory; the little girl,
 
 LENA AT ROSE COTTAGE. 93 
 
 the same question. "God knows!" she murmured, and 
 turned from him. 
 
 "And I know, Lena!" A woman was standing in the 
 doorway smiling upon the little scene; a woman about 
 her own height but older, a trifle stouter and with a face 
 so radiantly pure and beautiful that the younger woman 
 paused for an instant to gaze into it. "We all know, 
 dear!" A moment more and they were in each other's 
 arms. 
 
 Lena freed herself with sudden return of the excitement 
 that had moved her all the morning. 
 
 "Celeste, Celeste!" she cried, "such news, such good 
 news!" her voice broke and she shook her head, the scene 
 swimming in tears, "Papa has told me to come and 
 bring you Oh, Celeste I can't tell you!" She threw 
 herself into her cousin's arms; and Celeste, her own eyes 
 grown dim, held her tightly. The little boy was looking 
 thoughtfully upon the scene. 
 
 "Well, Lena, to bring me where, and for what?" 
 
 "To him. Don't you understand? He is willing 
 glad to let all the past be forgotten between you two! 
 He is old, Celeste, and needs you and me. I am doing 
 my best and you must forgive and forget. Come with 
 me, now. We won't have any scene; we'll just kiss all 
 
 around and be good friends again, and " Celeste had 
 
 ceased her caresses and was looking thoughtfully upon 
 the little boy. Her face had suddenly paled, and the pres- 
 sure of a deep emotion, hardly restrained, had set her 
 limbs trembling. "Why,^ Celeste! what is the matter? 
 Are you not glad?" Lena's eyes followed the direction 
 of the cousin's gaze and encountered the boy's. Misun- 
 derstanding her, Lena continued: "Don't let's think of 
 that, dear! That, too, will all come right. You must go 
 to papa; it would be cruel not to go. I have a special 
 reason for wishing you with me to-night. You are to 
 come and spend the night, and I have something to tell 
 you that affects us all deeply; you must not refuse. In-
 
 94 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 deed, if you do, the results may haunt you all your life! 
 1 have something to tell you of " 
 
 "Chilon!" whispered the other. "You have heard 
 from him; he is coming! Oh, Lena!" The eyes of the 
 older woman sought her face and studied it. She saw 
 the brightened face and rising color and marked the ex- 
 cited manner. For a moment she stood with drooping 
 lids, silent and thoughtful. Again she let her gaze wan- 
 der over the radiant woman before her. 
 
 "I shall come," she said. "I think it is my duty. As 
 for the other, Uncle Charles has no warmer friend than I. 
 He has not treated me kindly, and he misjudged me cruel- 
 ly; but he is only a man, a poor, weak man," she added, 
 smiling again, "and men are so helplessly impractical I 
 have long since forgiven him!" 
 
 "Why haven't you gone to him and told him so?" 
 
 "I do not think he has needed me; and I have had noth- 
 ing to gain and much to lose!" For the first time Lena 
 understood the sudden agitation that her greeting 
 brought. 
 
 "There is no danger of that, Celeste; none while Lena 
 lives!" The other comprehended and shook her head. 
 
 "You think so, and I hope so. Let us not be unhappy 
 about it. I am so glad to see you. Come, Chilon, and 
 let us go over the books with you. Aunty will want you 
 with her while she is here!" They went into the broad, 
 cheery sitting-room, redolent and bright with flowers and 
 gorgeous tinted fruits, and taking his favorite position, 
 his elbows on the floor and chin in hand, Chilon began 
 his tour of delight. Presently, household demands called 
 Celeste, and Lena was left with the boy. She had gone 
 down by him, prone upon the floor, and as she turned 
 the pages she gave half her attention to him and half to 
 the books, smiling over his grave comments upon birds 
 and insects and the serious expression of his young face. 
 Her hand reached out and toyed with his brown locks, 
 smoothing and arranging them. Watching their artistic 
 effects against the whiteness of his brow, her own face
 
 LENA AT ROSE COTTAGE. 95 
 
 grew wistful and tender the while. Presently the last 
 page was turned, the last gay picture of nature's wild chil- 
 dren examined, and her arm drew him closer to her, his 
 head against her breast. 
 
 "Are you a happy little boy, Chilon? Do you always 
 feel well and happy?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, with decision. "Mamma is so good and 
 sweet she would make anybody happy!" The eyes of 
 the woman wore a troubled expression, and the half-smile 
 died upon her lips. 
 
 "Wouldn't you be glad if you might come home with 
 me, Chilon, and stay a long, long time, and have all the 
 books and toys you wish, and visit the beautiful stores 
 and see little children dressed so prettily; have a pony 
 to ride?" 
 
 "Would mamma go, too?" 
 
 "She would come often to see you; whenever she 
 wished to come." 
 
 "I would rather stay here," he said, with his grave, 
 unchildlike manner. "I am afraid mamma would miss 
 me when she wakes in the night. Don't you think she 
 would, Aunty?" She buried her face suddenly in the 
 folds of her sleeve and was silent. He wondered at this 
 emotion, too deep for his mind, but he saw that he had in 
 some way distressed her, and was silent. Gently her hand 
 returned to its rhythmic stroke upon his head. The si- 
 lence, the nooning summer day, the soft, sympathetic 
 touch overcame him. He slept and lay upon her breast. 
 
 Lena looked up to find Celeste standing in the doorway 
 gazing down upon her with an expression so singular 
 that for the moment she thought something serious had 
 occurred; but the next instant the well-known smile 
 came back, the face grew radiant, and crossing the room 
 she drew the curtain to bar a ray of sunshine that, creep- 
 ing upon the little boy's brown hair, must soon have trou- 
 bled his eyes. Then she passed out. 
 
 And so the last hour of morning wore away and high
 
 96 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 noon came with its return of life from the fields. The 
 little hoy opened his eyes. 
 
 "Mamma," he whispered. A whisper came back from 
 the breast upon which he lay. 
 
 "Yes, dear, I am here!" He lifted his head and looked 
 upon her with recognition. 
 
 "I thought you were mamma, Aunty," he said. And in 
 the woman's eyes two crystal drops were shining
 
 THE TRAGEDY AT RAVENSWOOD 97 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 THE TRAGEDY AT RAVENSWOOD. 
 
 Celeste came to Ravenswood that summer night and 
 entered the library before any one knew of her arrival. 
 With quiet dignity she approached her uncle as he arose 
 hurriedly, placed her arms about him, and kissed him 
 upon the lips. He could find no words to express him- 
 self other than 
 
 "Welcome, my child; welcome!" 
 "Why, I know that, Uncle Charles, without your try- 
 ing to tell me. And, indeed, do you know, I am glad 
 to come; to see you looking so well again. And Lena, 
 here!" turning to her cousin "how nice it is to have 
 her in the old home! It makes me feel young again!" 
 She led them away from their thoughts skilfully, and 
 told of what they were doing at Rose Cottage, of the 
 peaches that were immense and bringing good prices, 
 of the watermelons, worth a small fortune, and of the 
 cotton whitening in the fields. For sturdy Robert Au- 
 bren was a good farmer and attended to his business. 
 
 Gradually all restraint passed away under the match- 
 less charm of the two women and their loving devo- 
 tion. The colonel found himself aroused and happier 
 than he had ever expected to be again. They opened 
 the organ and sung for him some of the old-time melo- 
 dies he loved so well, suggestive of the days before the 
 war "Suwanee River," "Massa's in the Cold, Cold 
 Ground," and "Nelly Ely." Then came the southern 
 soldier's favorites, "Girl I Left Behind Me," and "Dixie." 
 But a page in the old music book held "Lorena," and 
 when the colonel's eye caught sight of it he was full of 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 "It brings back the campfires and those Virginia 
 nights so vividly. There was in camp a young fellow 
 who would stand up in the firelight every night and 
 1
 
 98 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 close the singing with that song. Poor boy, he died 
 alone in prison. Sing it, girls; let me hear it once 
 again." 
 
 Celeste was playing the accompaniment and she be- 
 gan the simple ballad, so pathetic in its sentiment 
 
 The years glide slowly by, Lorena, 
 Since last I held thy hand in mine. 
 
 The once powerful voice of the old soldier rang out 
 strongly again, sometimes drowning both Celeste's voice 
 and accompaniment. He did not notice that Lena was 
 not singing, nor that she had drawn back into the 
 shadow and was trying desperately to check her emo- 
 tion. Celeste did, and realized their mistake. The best 
 possible course, then, was to complete it, and give Lena 
 time to compose herself. This she succeeded in with 
 difficulty. Scarce would she conquer her tears and draw 
 back silently to the instrument before some line that 
 seemed to have been planned for her would ring out 
 and start her grief anew. 
 
 "Thank you, girls!" exclaimed the old man, fervently; 
 "it has done me so much good. War is a terrible thing, 
 but it wakes a nation's heart. And I sometimes think, 
 if we could have our loved ones back from the battle- 
 fields and burial grounds, we could spare all the treas- 
 ure lost and call the price a small one. And even grief 
 brings us something. We are better people when we 
 have suffered, even if we never forget." 
 
 This was a new vein for the old soldier. Lena had 
 glided from the room at the close of this sentence, and 
 when she came again no trace of her conflict re- 
 mained. 
 
 So passed the evening. Celeste had kept up her chess 
 with her grandfather at Rose Cottage and now chal- 
 lenged her uncle for a game. He accepted, and was 
 beaten over and over, much to his surprise. 
 
 "My child, I used to beat you without effort!" he 
 cried, nonplussed. "Have I, indeed, fallen off so in my 
 game?"
 
 THE TRAGEDY. AT RAVENSWOOD. 99 
 
 "Oh, no! Your game is the same, Uncle, but mine 
 is not. Try again! I am going to experiment with a 
 new gambit and give you a chance. There, I will open 
 with the King's Knight's pawn. Now I am weak until 
 the fourth move, and you have your opportunity!" 
 He saw it and won, much to his delight. 
 Eight, nine, ten; the evening was ended. Flushed 
 and excited, Lena stood waiting. Good-nights were 
 said, and resuming his paper for an hour's reading, the 
 colonel let them go. 
 
 A summer storm was brewing, foretold by gusts of 
 wind and the rumble of distant thunder. 
 
 The two women went to the room prepared for Ce- 
 leste, and whispered their plans, while steadily in her 
 window burned Lena's lamp. They did not hear a man's 
 quick step upon the porch, his entrance into the library ; 
 but Richard Marbeau arrived and gave a business ex- 
 cuse. For some time the men sat and talked, and then 
 the younger saw the elder to his room and extinguished 
 the lamp in the library. 
 
 The house was now dark and quiet; only the ticking 
 of the clock on the stairs and the slight tapping of a 
 chinaberry limb against a distant shutter broke the 
 silence. 
 
 No one ever knew Richard Marbeau's full intention 
 that night. He passed noiselessly upstairs along the 
 hall, and placed his hand upon the knob of his wife's 
 door. It turned and the latch yielded. Opening the 
 door quickly he stepped inside, closed it and stood with 
 his back against it, looking eagerly about him. Lena 
 had returned, and at sound of his entrance had arisen, a 
 glad smile upon her face. When she recognized him 
 and noted his quick, searching glance about the room, 
 her heart gave one great throb, and she reeled in her 
 tracks. Her first words were, to the visitor, a confes- 
 sion: 
 
 "Is it you?" she gasped, one hand clasping her breast, 
 the other a chair.
 
 100 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 This, the deathly pallor, the agitation and staring eyes 
 were enough. He was merciless. 
 
 "Yes, it is I! Whom did you expect?" he asked sar- 
 castically. She threw her hands to her temples. 
 
 "Go back! Go back!" she cried. "For God's sake! 
 you don't know what you do! Go back before it is 
 too late!" 
 
 She was frantic now. 
 
 "Let me go!" she cried, as he resisted her efforts to 
 move him from his position, "let me go and you stay! 
 Give me the key quick before it is too late!" 
 
 He seized her by the shoulders and with brutal force 
 hurled her headlong across the room. Stunned and 
 bruised, she struggled to her feet only to see him draw 
 the key from the lock, step outside, replace it and close 
 the door. Then the bolt slid. She flew to the knob and 
 seized it; the door was locked beyond doubt. She 
 thought of the transom; a chair might enable her to 
 reach it and plunge through; and she would have tried 
 desperately, but at that moment she saw the lamp. With 
 one bound she reached it and rushed with it to the 
 other window. A cry of triumph burst from her and 
 she sank upon her knees, sending up thanks to heaven 
 for her deliverance. Richard was safe now. If Chilon 
 came he would see the danger signal and keep away; 
 he would not enter and ruin his life and hers. Would 
 it not be better to extinguish the lamp altogether. Yes! 
 But no! He came once when the light was out; he had 
 said so in his note, and might come again. Yet she 
 had written that she would remain; and he might not 
 notice the position of the lamp. She turned down the 
 flame and blew it out. The man in the hall saw the light 
 through the transom die out and smiled; and still he 
 waited, while inside the woman peered from the window 
 trying to fathom the shadow with her straining eyes. 
 The lightning was now incessant and the thunder deaf- 
 ening. Minutes passed. Would he never come inside, 
 the man in the hall waiting so patiently for he knew
 
 THE TRAGEDY AT RAVENSWOOD. IOI 
 
 not what? Would the night drag its horror over her 
 until dawn came? What was that? A footfall? Ha! a 
 struggle in the hall. A shriek burst from her: 
 
 "Merciful Heaven, he has come! Chilon! Chilon! 
 Stop, for my sake, for Lena's sake! Chilon, wait! I 
 will explain it all! Don't strike him, Chilon, don't 
 strike!" 
 
 She seized the door knob in her frantic terror and 
 screamed to her father for help. Her cries rang out 
 from the room like the cries of madmen in padded cells. 
 They were followed by the sharp report of a pistol, a 
 strange, fearful cry, and the fall of a body. A vivid 
 flash of lightning and a thunder-burst seemed to swallow 
 up both sounds. But light shone in the hallway and 
 Celeste's voice was heard in one heart-rending appeal. 
 Then the light seemed to flicker, that came through the 
 transom, and went out, and all was still and dark, ex- 
 cept when the electric fluid tore the night and the re- 
 treating thunder echoed from the hills. Gasping now 
 with terror, unable to utter a sound, she leaned against 
 the door. Faintly she seemed to hear her father's hur- 
 ried step. He tried the door, then unlocked it and 
 rushed in, candle in hand. She was unable to retain her 
 balance, and fell heavily to the floor. 
 
 "Where is Richard where is your husband?" he 
 asked excitedly, lifting her to her feet. 
 
 Slowly and fearfully she pointed toward the hall. 
 
 "Dead!" she whispered. She turned and sank by the 
 bed, burying her face in the cover. He passed rapidly 
 into the hall. Celeste lay in a dead faint near her door, 
 the extinguished candle by her hand. He touched her 
 cold face upon which the wind was blowing. Shading 
 his candle he advanced to the open door of the corner 
 room and entered. Familiar with death as he had been, 
 the sight that met his eyes froze the blood in his veins. 
 Lying upon his back, his ghastly eyes widely opened, 
 was Richard, bathed in blood that seemed creeping 
 everywhere. The whole story was written there. A long,
 
 102 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 keen knife lay on the floor, the dead hand still clasped 
 a pistol and bloody tracks led to an open window. 
 
 For a moment Colonel Marbeau stood in silence look- 
 ing into the mute face and reading the signs about him. 
 The man had heard a sound, had come from his room 
 into the dark, had fired and, following the intruder too 
 closely, they had come together in the little room. The 
 knife had done its deadly work. 
 
 The old man's features worked convulsively; there 
 had been no great love between them, but Richard was 
 Lena's husband! He closed the door, and went back, 
 with Celeste in his arms, to the bedroom, where he soon 
 succeeded in restoring her to consciousness. Lena still 
 knelt motionless by the bed, her form shaken by dry, 
 soundless sobs. 
 
 "Lena," he said, "rise, my child, and calm yourself. I 
 will go and send Nancy to you. It is a terrible night; 
 a terrible ending of a happy night. I wish I could com- 
 fort you His voice gave way. 
 
 "Papa! Papa! " The girl's eyes questioned him in 
 anguish. 
 
 "It is true!" he said. "He died like a Marbeau 
 should, in defense of his wife and home!" 
 
 Celeste stood leaning against the mantel, silent, her 
 face as white as the marble itself. They looked into each 
 other's eyes, and came together in each other's arms. 
 The face of the older woman did not change expres- 
 sion. 
 
 "Chilon may come. We must be careful," she said. 
 Lena started. 
 
 "Chilon/' she cried. "Have you not seen him?" 
 
 "I saw a tramp!" said Celeste proudly. "Chilon has 
 not been here yet." Lena looked upon her a moment 
 and dropping to her knees seized and kissed the hand 
 of her cousin. The words burst from her: 
 
 "Good Celeste, true-hearted, noble Celeste! I thank 
 you! I thank you!" But when with trembling fingers 
 she relit her lamp she did not place it before either 
 window.
 
 BACK FROM THE GRAVE. 103 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 BACK FROM THE GRAVE. 
 
 Chilon lay watching the little flame which, summer 
 and winter, flickered upon Silvy's hearth. In after years 
 he could recall every detail of the scene, so strongly 
 sometimes do little things stick in memory. There was 
 the white ash, still holding the shape of the wood that 
 had vanished; there were the half-concealed coals with 
 the blue smoke curling above and underneath, the little 
 flame thrusting above outward and upward and drawing 
 back its tongue, the tongue of a serpent, it seemed to 
 him. He made no effort to think. It did not seem 
 strange to him that he should be there in bed in the 
 day time without inclination to move; without curiosity 
 or desire to talk. He had been very tired and rest was 
 delicious. He saw old Silvy kneel between him and the 
 blaze and begin to scratch the sand from around two 
 hearth bricks, and presently her claw-like fingers lift 
 one from its bed. There was nothing strange in that; 
 it seemed perfectly natural that Silvy should be down 
 there tearing up her hearth. He saw her, without even 
 a moment of surprise, draw from the cavity an old stock- 
 ing and empty a collection of coins and bills into her 
 lap, and lift her head to listen for footsteps. If Silvy 
 had done this in his presence every day her action now 
 could not have been less remarkable. He even dozed 
 off again for a few minutes while she was thus busy. 
 
 But when he awoke he began to ask himself if he 
 should get up. He had an engagement after dark; per- 
 haps the sun was descending. He was sure that he had 
 an engagement; but where? He was to go to his uncle's 
 house and meet Lena; he had promised. A doubt 
 flashed into his mind. Had he promised? Was it all 
 a dream, those meetings, the memory of which was ris- 
 ing, slowly, within him? He had come to Silvy's cabin
 
 104 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 from up the river; he was tired and exhausted. He had 
 slept, oh, so long, and so hard, and the sleep had been 
 full of visions. Lena had been with him in their old 
 room. She had let him take her in his arms and kiss 
 her and tell her that he loved her, over and over. It 
 \vas a beautiful dream; and she was to have met him 
 on Wednesday night. He had waked too soon. 
 
 His gaze concentrated upon a man's clothing hang- 
 ing against the wall. That was not the suit that he had 
 worn when he was a fugitive. In his dream Lena had 
 gotten it for him, just that particular suit of dark gray, 
 the shade that she loved to well in the long ago time 
 before he went away. Yes, that was the suit; and how 
 could the dream vanish, leaving such a matter of fact 
 feature upon the cabin wall? Was it a dream? 
 
 A feeble rush of blood responded to the thrill which 
 the doubt awoke; feeble, but sufficient to vitalize the 
 brain again and to lift the veil. All flashed before him 
 then; the experiences of the last few weeks. It was not 
 a dream. He had been with her, touched her hand and 
 felt her kisses upon his lips; and she was to come on 
 Wednesday night! It was time that he should rise and 
 dress. 
 
 For once the brain gave command and there was 
 mutiny in all the little army of nerves that waited upon 
 him. Not one moved. He felt then, for the first time, 
 that he was held down by some strange, resistless power; 
 not a weight, but an attraction stronger than himself. 
 He knew that health was measurable by one's ability to 
 resist the law of gravitation and that death marks the 
 point of total disability. What had happened? Where 
 were his arms and legs and hands? 
 
 "Mammy!" He called to the old woman, but his voice 
 died in his throat; it did not amount to an infant's wail. 
 In desperation now, he tried again and must have suc- 
 ceeded, for she turned her head and looked toward him. 
 But he was then too sleepy, too tired to talk; and when 
 his eyes opened again night had descended,
 
 BACK FROM THE GRAVE. 105 
 
 Thus came back the world to Chilon. He soon found 
 out the trouble with his limbs and voice. Swamp fever 
 had carried him to the brink of the grave and five weeks 
 had watched the efforts of the grim spectre to bury him 
 there. When he became conscious of these facts his 
 mental troubles began. Lena! Why had not she come 
 to him? Why this cruel neglect? He, Chilon, the man 
 she loved, the only man she had ever loved, sick almost 
 unto death in this lonely cabin; and never a word, a 
 visit! She could have come, he reasoned. She knew 
 the way in days gone by and Silvy was her friend. She 
 could have found excuse and have come. He would 
 have gone to her. Five weeks! It was an eternity. 
 
 And then he remembered the days that had passed 
 before his illness long days and nights of mental an- 
 guish, in which he had waited and watched for her in 
 vain. She had not answered his note; she had not 
 come. He had written her at last that if she did not 
 come on Wednesday night what? He could not re- 
 member; but it seemed to him that something terrible 
 was to have occurred if she failed him then. Perhaps 
 she came. Perhaps she waited and watched for him all 
 the lonely night. He questioned the old woman. She 
 laughed softly, and, touching his head, told him to 
 sleep; and he slept. He could not resist the pressure 
 of those gray eyes upon his lids. 
 
 Then, gradually, out of the mists that overhung him, 
 he saw figures rise and felt himself the actor in a drama 
 so wild, so weird and awful that he could scarcely endure 
 to contemplate it. Hour after hour it came to him, one 
 detail upon another, with gaps here and there, but form- 
 ing always a consistent history. He remembered tossing 
 on that pallet hot with fever, calling for Lena one mo- 
 ment and water the next, blessing her, cursing, praying 
 to her through miserable hours, the aged black weaving 
 in and out of his visions like some fantastic, human 
 shuttle, tossed by a gigantic hand. Again she would 
 come and stand above him, waving to and fro, holding
 
 106 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 him spellbound with her eyes. In her hand she bore an 
 awful black drink from which he shrunk, pleading 
 against, rejecting it, writhing in the agony of his utter 
 antipathy; but always accepting at last. Then, as he 
 drank, her face no longer wore its imbecile grin. With 
 head erect and tread timed to the music of his pulse, she 
 sang her wild melodies. 
 
 Revenge, hatred, triumph blended in that fateful song. 
 And whenever he was about to escape from these, when 
 he had planned to rush into the cool, dark, silent swamp, 
 she would come and bend over him, holding him, com- 
 manding him with her eyes, against which he could not 
 prevail, and forcing again the black, bitter, acrid juice 
 between his teeth. All other horrors were' swallowed up 
 in this one; it was not a woman who reigned there; it 
 was a demon that had stolen her form, and now held 
 him in his power. 
 
 And this happened; the fiend waved its arms above 
 him and visions came; he saw Richard Marbeau seize 
 upon and carry off his wife; he heard her calling to him 
 for help with hands reaching madly to touch his. He 
 saw his enemy's arms about her, his lips to hers and then 
 a frightful struggle. The woman-fiend danced before his 
 eyes and sang her songs of war. She seized the long 
 knife from the chimney and handed it to him; "Go and 
 save her!" she said; "go and avenge the blow!" She 
 had torn open her dress, and there, upon the shoulder, 
 was the open wound, its lips moving in dumb agony 
 like a thing of life at sight of death lips that prayed 
 to him for revenge; that twisted themselves in sinuous 
 lines and smiled and laughed, cursed and uttered blas- 
 phemies. She lifted him and pushed him from the door, 
 and he went away from those awful lips obedient to her 
 will. As he slipped forth into the night one great hiss- 
 ing, scorching, blinding flame from hell flashed behind 
 him and exploded in the swamp, leaving of all the 
 myriad things of life no living thing. In that awful 
 light, as he looked back, he saw her transformed; no
 
 BACK FROM THE GRAVE. 107 
 
 woman was there, but a being resplendent with awful 
 glories, the incarnation of fearful majesty, pointing loft- 
 ily the way. He fled, the lightning keeping him com- 
 pany, hollowing out the wall of night ahead and drip- 
 ping like molten gold from the naked blade within his 
 hand. But he fled not away from her! for the awful 
 form of the old woman was there, slipping by him in the 
 dark woods, crawling like an animal of the night along 
 the roadside, clinging like a shadow to his heels. Afar 
 off, moving light crossed his vision. He knew then, 
 that he did not dream, for these were the lights of 
 Ravenswood. He thought no more of concealment; he 
 came bounding with the storm like a panther; he came 
 in a whirlwind of debris and stormdrift, and, knife be- 
 tween his teeth, he scaled the lashing tree and plunged 
 headlong into a room. A man's hand was upon him; 
 they fell, and when he arose the lightning trembled over 
 all. He saw a woman that looked like Celeste reel back 
 into the shadowy hall. There at his feet, with staring 
 eyes fixed upon him, lay Richard Marbeau. Oh, the 
 horror, the agony, the piteous pleading of the still, white 
 face; those fixed, sad eyes! One instant only the scene 
 shone there; the flash expired and deafening thunder 
 came. He reached the cabin, but how he could not re- 
 member. The old woman was there, her song grown 
 wilder as she wiped the blood from his hands, feet and 
 clothing. She had asked him no questions; there was 
 no need. She had slipped back her dress from the 
 shoulder; the wound was gone. In its place was a 
 smiling scar. 
 
 Was it all a dream a fever vision? He looked to 
 the chimney for the knife. It had vanished. 
 
 "Come! Come!" he argued with himself after this, 
 smiling over his terror; "you will never get well if you 
 excite yourself in such a manner! All fever patients 
 have dreams and yours are no worse than others. A lit- 
 tle brain cell took impressions of your resolution to kill 
 Richard if you met words spoken in rage and sworn to.
 
 108 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 Under the influence of fever or the medicine you have 
 been taking, the little cell has exposed its picture and all 
 its connections have run themselves out into story form. 
 Sleep! Dreams go by opposites." 
 
 And he slept! But he could not rid himself of the 
 conviction that Silvy was a changed woman.
 
 CHILON'S DESPAIR. 109 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 CHILON'S DESPAIR. 
 
 So his mind passed again to Lena, forking over the 
 old mass of thought and still seeking an explanation. 
 Perhaps she, too, had been sick! Oh, yes, that was it. 
 Lena was sick, and this being true, she could not pos- 
 sibly communicate with him without discovery. 
 
 And they would not let her read his notes. The 
 thought alarmed, but made him happier. 
 
 Days passed. From somewhere old Silvy was pro- 
 curing delicacies that assisted his convalescence. He was 
 soon able to walk about and the exercise did him good. 
 The time came when he could utilize the mails again and 
 he wrote to Lena a few lines, doubting that they would 
 reach her, but asking her to communicate with him in 
 some way. There was no answer; and no light shone in 
 the Ravenswood windows. Then he wrote again that 
 he had been desperately ill for weeks and needed her. 
 Would she not come to him? He took this note to the 
 city after dark, in his desperation, and sent it by a boy 
 to her number. The boy came and said there was no 
 answer. Dumfounded and griefstricken, he returned to 
 the cabin. That night he sought to enter the mansion, 
 thinking to read the papers for information. If any- 
 thing serious had happened, if even the family had gone 
 away from the city, it would be recorded in the press. 
 But the window by which he had entered was nailed up. 
 The house seemed vacant. 
 
 Chilon could arrive at but one conclusion then. His 
 return had been discovered. Richard had succeeded, 
 and he would never see Lena again. There had been 
 explanations; perhaps an agreement that was necessary 
 for her and fatal to him. Perhaps she had thrown him 
 over. In his despair this seemed most likely. The 
 dream had been dismissed as a mere fever fugue.
 
 HO THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 After this last disappointment, Chilon fell into a mel- 
 ancholy that amounted almost to complete despair. He 
 could neither eat with appetite nor sleep with comfort. 
 Always there lay upon his mind a weight that seemed 
 to crush every instinct of manhood, every ambition and 
 resolution. The end had come. The years of waiting, 
 a few weeks of delirious happiness, mixed with wild and 
 ungovernable fears, jealousies, longings, and regrets, and 
 now the end! He wished that he understood better the 
 feminine mind. How could this woman loving him 
 have left him so heartlessly? Did she love him? Or was 
 his influence a species of fascination, a mild hypnotism 
 that ended with separation? He reviewed his early ex- 
 perience with her; there had, even in the old days, been 
 something he could never fathom in her character, a rest- 
 less, unsettled, unsatisfied element. But that was natural 
 under the circumstances. He tried to reason out the 
 mood which now governed her. "She has a child," he 
 said, "and will sacrifice herself and me, if necessary, for 
 it. I am, I can be, nothing to her, and every moment 
 here with me is perilous. Heroic measures must be 
 adopted. She will crush my very desire to see her. I 
 must go away and leave her to her fate and let her 
 take up the old life again." 
 
 And then he would rebel against this cold-blooded 
 worldliness: "To be choked off, shaken off like an im- 
 portunate beggar; to be left with no comforting word, 
 no message of hope and sympathy! Oh, it was cruel, 
 cruel, heartless and cruel! The Lena of long ago would 
 not have done so unkind, so cruel an act! She was dead, 
 the little Lena that loved him dead! The woman who 
 remained was simply a but no! He would coin no 
 epithet; the woman was still dear to him. He drew out 
 her picture, the miniature, and looked upon it; the sweet 
 face and loving eyes made his heart ache! They would 
 make it ache in all the long years to come, and unless 
 he intended to yield to fate and die by his own hand, he 
 must part from it.
 
 CHILON'S DESPAIR. Ill 
 
 But there was a stimulus to action that, dormant all 
 these days, awoke his manhood at last. Revenge! If 
 he should lie down and die two men in the world, two 
 men who had wronged him fatally, would be happy. 
 Carl Garner and Richard Marbeau! He would not yield 
 until he met them face to face and had his revenge; and 
 have it he would, even should it lead him to the gal- 
 lows, or back to a felon's cell. A man who does not 
 value his life makes a dangerous enemy! 
 
 The time had come for him to depart, and he began 
 to make preparations. He had no money, nor friends, 
 but the world was wide and work plentiful. At the 
 mouth of his river lay vessels, some of which were usual- 
 ly short-handed. He would go, leaving his old life fin- 
 ished, closed up; the woman he had loved and who had 
 proven herself narrow and scheming would be nothing 
 to him. She had been everything to him once, but 
 scarcely was he out of the way before another man won 
 her, body and soul. He laughed bitterly to think how 
 cheap was all that he had staked his happiness upon. He 
 drew out the picture and gazed upon it for the last time, 
 and then he wrote a dozen notes, carrying them in his 
 pockets and reading them over and over, always to be 
 destroyed in the end. He would not reproach or wound 
 her. He would pass out of her life the same Chilon that 
 entered it, incapable of deliberately inflicting pain upon 
 her. Whatever she might be, there were excuses; but 
 as for him, he would carry with him through life the 
 memory of a last act of gentleness to her. So he wrote 
 at length : 
 
 "In your silence I read all and more than you would 
 wish, and to-day I leave you forever. This little picture 
 would keep me from meeting the issue as a man should, 
 and so I have decided to ask you to put it aside for 
 little Lena. It is the only picture of my Lena in exist- 
 ence, and some day when the little girl is grown and is 
 told that Chilon Marbeau once loved her mother, she 
 may look upon it and find the justification. In the back
 
 112 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 of the medallion are the violets you gave to me at Ra- 
 venswood ten years ago. Let them remain there, buried 
 with the girl who, while she lived, loved no one else on 
 earth as she did me, and whom I loved, love, and will 
 love better than life always. 
 
 "You and I may never meet again. I do not think 
 that we will, and this is the last message that will ever 
 pass between us. Remember always that I am your 
 friend, and I will try to forget that your last act toward 
 me was unkind, contemptuous, at a time when I needed, 
 above all things, a loving word from you. 
 
 "C. M." 
 
 On the morrow he would go. The hour was almost 
 at hand. He placed his little package in the mail box 
 and returned. He thought sadly of the future; it held 
 nothing for him. If only he had one friend in the outer 
 world to whom he could go! If the gentle mother who 
 left him in childhood were there! Her sweet face came 
 back to him often and very clearly upon his last day. She 
 was buried in the little cemetery above the city where 
 green slopes ran down into the waters, and a white mon- 
 ument stood over her, recording her virtues and those of 
 her soldier husband asleep among the Pennsylvania hills 
 in an unknown grave. Dear little mother! His heart 
 grew tender as he thought over the old ties. Then came 
 an impulse to visit her grave and lay an orphan's tribute 
 there. It should be the last act of his old life. 
 
 Careless now of discovery, he went into the swamp 
 and gathered wild flowers, terrestrial orchids, azaleas, 
 lilies, amaryllis and holly, and when twilight came piled 
 them in his boat. The moon rose over the horizon as he 
 reached the river and silvered his upward path. In the 
 frozen splendor of that streaming way, he seemed to be 
 journeying back into childhood, where his mother await- 
 ed him. The idea was so sweet, so novel that he lifted 
 his face, bright with the first smile it had known in many 
 a year. From the banks where the shadows had with- 
 drawn, whippoorwills were calling to each other, and
 
 CHILON'S DESPAIR. 113 
 
 sleepless Orpheus of the southern glades, him of the 
 gray-barred wings, was pouring invisible pearls into the 
 lap of the night. The pyramid of flowers upon the craft's 
 low bow, all beaded with the diamonds of the dew, their 
 fragrance shed, as dreamily the brooding boatman found 
 the way; and steering up the perfumed currents of the 
 air the sphinx moths came on ghostly wings and kissed 
 them even there! 
 
 Noiselessly the little boat touched land beside the 
 wharfless city of the dead, and Chilon saw his mother's 
 tomb rise white before him. With moist eyes, he stood 
 there and with loving care discharged his mission. He 
 closed his eyes and let memory bring back her face 
 again. Again he caught from the far-away time upon 
 the broken lyre of his heart her cradle songs and lulla- 
 bies; and then arose that chill and lonely day when, 
 smiling in the face of death, they bore her away. He was 
 older as he stood there than she had been; but he remem- 
 bered with the heart of a boy.
 
 114 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 THE FLIGHT. 
 
 He had turned to depart, his silent farewells said, when 
 his attention was attracted by a stately shaft of marble 
 in the adjoining plat. It was the burial place of one of 
 his uncles, and no such shaft was there when last he 
 visited the spot. He approached it with curiosity, and 
 then observed that the soil at his feet was not grass- 
 grown as elsewhere. In the dim light he could not 
 easily have read the inscription, but with the aid of his 
 forefinger he traced upon the shaft the words: 
 
 RICHARD MARBEAU. 
 
 Died 
 August 20, 1890. 
 
 Richard dead! The cause of Lena's absence was 
 plain. 
 
 For a moment only as he stood he felt rush over him 
 a thrill, a pulse of joy. Fate had smoothed the way. 
 The next, ashamed, he withdrew his hand. 
 
 And then he saw her, the woman, in receipt of his 
 package! It was a sad mistake. It was too late. He 
 sat upon the coping and condemned himself. It had 
 been a cruel act; she was in distress and he had inflicted 
 pain upon her. Richard Marbeau dead! The man had 
 wronged him cruelly, but he was dead! and Lena was 
 free. In this one fact died all animosity all hatred. 
 Free! The future was bright. A wild, delirious joy 
 filled him. He arose again, remorseful that at such a 
 time, in such a place, he should be rejoicing. He would 
 leave it with a clear conscience. He would do a gen- 
 erous act to prove himself a man. He stood over the 
 lonely grave with bowed head and whispered there: 
 "Richard, you wronged me; but I do not bear you any
 
 THE FLIGHT. 1 15 
 
 malice now. In my heart of hearts I have forgiven you 
 as I hope God will forgive me. And if He so wills that 
 I shall find my wife again, I will be a father to your 
 child." 
 
 He fancied then that gazing down into the grave he 
 would see the still white face open its eyes and look up 
 to him. They were indeed open; he could see them, but 
 what a strange expression upon that face within those 
 eyes! Frozen horror! And there was blood all about 
 him, and blood upon Chilon's hands! The dream had 
 returned. With a cry of anguish and fear that filled 
 the dread spot with echoes that returned to mock him 
 from all sides, he rushed down the slope and threw 
 himself into the boat. He crouched there, wet with cold 
 perspiration, while the current, seizing it, drew it swiftly 
 away. But ever as he went voices came and the dead 
 man's eyes followed him with their stare. 
 
 Chilon was aroused by his boat colliding with a pier. 
 The little accident helped him to recover his calmness. 
 He held his boat there in the shadow and thought upon 
 the situation. Was he losing his mind? He, Chilon 
 Marbeau, who counted himself a man, frightened by a 
 fever phantom an hallucination of the sick room! He 
 tried to smile, to laugh it off; but that stony stare clung 
 to memory! He could not rid himself of it. A desper- 
 ate desire seized upon him; he would go to Lena and 
 hear from her lips his dismissal; would say farewell, if 
 need be. He would settle with himself and her for once 
 and for all time. It was right and just. He owed it to 
 both. He would not sneak back into that world which 
 awaited him, misjudged and unblessed. He was a man, 
 after all! 
 
 He acted upon this idea. He found the number of 
 her house and rang the bell. A caretaker came, and, see- 
 ing him, drew back in sudden fright; but he answered 
 the hurried questions. Mrs. Marbeau was away; had 
 been away since the funeral : was expected home on the 
 morrow. That was all.
 
 Il6 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 While Chilon pondered, the nervous agent gently 
 closed the door. Puzzled, his mind still not clear, Chilon 
 retraced his steps. A hotel reading room, opening upon 
 a broad porch, attracted him, and no one seemed to be 
 there. Silently he made his way within the room. The 
 newspaper files hung convenient. 
 
 "Died August 2Oth," were the words his ringer had 
 traced in the moonlight; and so he looked for the issue 
 of the 2 1 st. He could not have overlooked the informa- 
 tion he sought. One-half of the first two columns were 
 black with "scareheads" setting forth the murder of Rich- 
 ard Marbeau. Bending over the table he read it through, 
 fascinated, his heart almost pulseless, his limbs trembling 
 and the world receding. 
 
 The details of the awful item unfolded and lay bare 
 before him. There was much that he had no need to 
 read. The counterpart was in his own mind and mem- 
 ory. It was all clear to him at last. In his frenzy, 
 fevered, crazed, he had arisen and gone forth, carried 
 away by the resolution formed in advance for that night, 
 as one who resolves to wake at dawn will so awaken, 
 had gone, knife in hand, obedient to his resolution to 
 kill ! He was not guilty. He cried out the protest to an 
 inward self; he began at once the defense which was 
 to last so long. 
 
 But he had killed; he was a murderer! The press was 
 full of it; the country rang with it, and the police were 
 waiting, watching for the man who struck that fateful 
 blow in the dark! His head swam and ached. He took 
 off his hat to press his numbed, chilled brow; he 
 looked fearfully around. One side of the room was a 
 mirror, but he was not conscious of the fact. There was 
 a man across there staring at him with wild, pale eyes; 
 a man with gray, stubbled beard and snow white hair. 
 He had his hat off and was going to leap upon him 
 with manacles and bear him to the floor. He would 
 have to be quick; he would have to fight a bitter fight, 
 thought the desperate man, edging toward the door. The
 
 THE FLIGHT. 117 
 
 other moved and imitated him even to thrusting a hand 
 into a hip pocket. Now for it! With one leap Chilon 
 darted out and fled, his footsteps echoing in the street, 
 fled into the shadow and through alleys until, breathless, 
 he reached the boat and thrust it into the stream. To 
 his disordered brain the bells of the city rang for pur- 
 suit, and the river swarmed with boats. He bent to his 
 task, he distanced them, he turned into the little bayou 
 and neared the cabin site, a faint glow lighting the way. 
 But the cabin was gone ; in its place were beds of coals 
 and smoking rafters. Among them, face down upon the 
 hearth, lay the voodoo, alone with her awful doom. 
 Breaking through the barricade of fire and smoke he 
 took her in his arms and staggered out. Gone now were 
 the fearful fancies of the night. One person in all the 
 world had succored and sustained him; one had been 
 his friend. He would not desert her! And so, under 
 the glaring eyes of frightened negroes fleeing back into 
 the night, he brought her out of the furnace and laid her 
 in his boat. Her fading eyes gave him gratitude. Her 
 shriveled fingers gave more, as, relaxing, they let fall at 
 his feet that which she had died in saving the treasure 
 from her hearth, the little hoardings of fifty years. 
 
 And so all down the hours of that moon-lit night, be- 
 tween the walls of cane and through the shadowy grot- 
 toes of the spreading cypress and the gums, the strange- 
 ly burdened craft drew on. In the stern sat the pale- 
 eyed, white-haired man, chilled with the realization of 
 his tragedies ; in the bow lay the yellow woman ; her dim 
 eyes staring into the skies. As before he had journeyed 
 into childhood, freighting the night winds with the 
 breathings of his flowers, so now he turned his back on 
 youth, facing eternity; that which he saw before him a 
 breathless mass that might have stood for grief, remorse, 
 lost hope and unsatisfied longings. Something of this 
 came to him as hour by hour they floated on. He must 
 rid himself of the load if he would face life again; he 
 must sink it beneath the waters forever. Could he do
 
 Il8 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 it? He tried; he crept forward, but when he stretched 
 forth his hand it fell back palsied and useless. For as 
 it hung above her, there came a hush in all the depths 
 about him and a cloud concealed the moon. He had no 
 power over it; that dead, inert mass, whose eyes looked 
 on the skies with the eloquence of supreme despair, was 
 stronger than he. 
 
 Suddenly out of the night there arose the friendly 
 skeleton of a bridge flung across the silvered stream. 
 With a shudder, as the spell of horror broke before this 
 human evidence, he leaped upward and clung among the 
 timbers. Slowly the boat and the Thing that lay with- 
 in it dissolved into the silence and the vagueness while 
 the silvered stream went on. Naught remained but this. 
 Yet, as he waited there, upon the air a strange, sad 
 cry came past like bird on wings, and left him trembling 
 and alone. Something had died in the night; something, 
 he knew not what.
 
 THE CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. 119 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 THE CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. 
 
 Four years after the burning of Silvy's cabin on the 
 margin of that southern swamp, in the twilight of a late 
 spring evening the elevator of one of the up town hotels 
 in New York made the ascent for a single passenger 
 who took from the boy in charge an unstamped letter, 
 leisurely fitted his key to a door on the fourth floor and 
 entered a small parlor that looked down upon Broad- 
 way. He put aside his light top coat, removing from a 
 pocket a number of unopened letters, and took off his 
 gloves, glasses and hat with a composure that amounted 
 almost to laziness. He was getting a chair in position 
 before his reading table when he turned with a slight 
 frown, as though some irritating thought had for the 
 moment ruffled him. 
 
 "Overdone!" he said. Thereupon he clad himself in 
 his impedimenta and went through the process of lay- 
 ing it aside again. "Better," was his single comment 
 upon this. Then he permitted himself to take his mail. 
 For an hour or more he sat at his table opening and 
 answering letters. From several he took remittances of 
 checks or drafts and into several placed bills, some of 
 them of large denomination. To no letter did he attach 
 any signature, when the letter received an enclosure; 
 but to such as required acknowledgment he attached the 
 name Robt. Underbill, the opening phraseology being 
 invariably, "I am instructed by 'W.' to say," etc. He 
 made no copies of his letters, but entered in a little pocket 
 memorandum book a record of the several amounts re- 
 ceived and disbursed, with a cipher note opposite each. 
 As he finished reading a letter, he held it against a 
 lighted taper that stood at his elbow and laid it, burning, 
 upon a little metal tray near-by, so that when he reached 
 his last, that only remained in sight. It was the letter
 
 120 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 that he had received on the elevator. He broke its seal 
 and opened it. 
 
 The manner of this grave, isolated agent had up to 
 this moment been steadily deliberate, but, at sight of the 
 communication within, all of his nonchalance and com- 
 posure disappeared. That he received it with great sur- 
 prise and read it with intense interest was manifest. The 
 letter within was addressed to the well known head of 
 a detective bureau, and read as follows: 
 
 "Ravenswood . 
 
 "My Dear Sir: I have business of importance which I wish 
 to intrust to the right person and have been advised by a friend 
 to address a letter to you, asking that you correspond with me 
 upon the subject. The matter is not one that can be entered 
 into without a personal interview. I shall be pleased to see 
 and consult anyone you may send to me, and will hold myself 
 liable for all expenses and charges. I am, sir, with great res- 
 pect, Your obedient servant, 
 
 "CHARLES MARBEAU. 
 "Reference: Chemical National Bank, New York City." 
 
 Across the back of this was a brief but polite expres- 
 sion of regret that the officer had missed Mr. Underhill 
 and a promise that he would call at 10 o'clock next 
 morning upon the business suggested by Mr. Marbeau's 
 letter. 
 
 The reader of this letter at length placed it before him 
 upon the table and regarded it with an expression so 
 altered that he scarcely seemed the same man. The 
 name he gazed upon escaped his lips in a whisper: 
 
 "Charles Marbeau!" The brief communication seemed 
 to fascinate him. He read it over and over, his mental 
 disturbance increasing with each perusal. Finally he 
 drew a sheet of paper to him and wrote a note stating 
 that "W." would be of no assistance to Mr. Marbeau 
 and was reinclosing the Marbeau letter with it, when 
 doubts again assailed him. He arose and began to walk 
 the room, his pace increasing as he reflected, until, when
 
 THE CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. 121 
 
 consciousness of his environment returned, his cigar was 
 chewed to pieces and he was moving to and fro like a 
 caged animal upon the approach of feed time. His ex- 
 citement was further indicated by the rapid opening and 
 closing of his hands and the nervous stroking of the hair 
 upon his temples. But at length, as though emerging 
 from some unpleasant dream, he stopped short, and 
 shook his head angrily. 
 
 "Four years!" he exclaimed. "And what does it 
 amount to when an accidental letter can undo all? It is 
 easier to die to the world than to stay dead!" With a 
 return of his old lazy manner, he shut off the light, drew 
 his chair to the open window and putting his feet upon 
 the casement, calmly lit a fresh cigar. Here was a mat- 
 ter to be decided, and he could think best alone and in 
 the dark. It was a habit! 
 
 The hours passed; a steady spark burned at the open 
 window against the darkness behind it, and a slender coil 
 of smoke unwound itself in the outer air, spread into a 
 thin veil and dissolved; and still the silent man reflected. 
 But when, for the second time after midnight, in some 
 faraway steeple, the hour was struck, and the roar of life 
 in the streets below sank to a murmur, he cast his cigar 
 outward. 
 
 "I accept the challenge!" he said, with a yawn, and 
 slept. 
 
 When the murmur of life in the great monster out- 
 side deepened slowly to a sullen roar, and the sunlight 
 streamed down upon him, he was still sleeping, and this 
 is what the sun beheld: A face as pallid as any nun's, 
 with that peculiar transparent complexion sometimes 
 born of organic disease, a white mustache and fine white 
 hair clustering in ringlets about a well-shaped head, dark 
 eyebrows and eyelashes, a mouth whose lines indicated 
 both the suffering and resolution that blend in melan- 
 choly, a straight, slender nose, a light, compact and ac- 
 tive rather than muscular figure, and the delicate hands 
 and feet that often come with good blood. Over all,
 
 122 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 more apparent, perhaps, while the man slept, was an air, 
 a suggestion, that clung to, that surrounded him, which 
 would be read differently, as the temperament and ex- 
 perience of those who might behold .it, varied. One 
 might term it the aftermath of dissipation and reform; 
 another the record of night work and great responsi- 
 bilities demanding mental effort without rest. And oth- 
 ers, still looking back into their own lives, would say 
 that, born for one thing, fate had hurried this man to its 
 opposite and left him with all his protests made visible. 
 And they would have been the more convinced in this 
 if at the moment he opened his eyes, which he did when 
 seven o'clock rang from so many brazen throats, they 
 had been looking closely. At that moment these were 
 simply pale gray, paler than the coldest sky of winter, 
 and lusterless. The change came when resolution super- 
 seded consciousness. When he arose and returned to 
 the letter upon his desk all estimates would have been 
 changed. That which makes the man, at last, had come 
 back into the casket, and nowhere did the change show 
 so strongly as in the then wide-open eyes, for in them 
 burned a flame so distinct, so electrical, that no one 
 could view them once and say that aught of his powers 
 was dissipated, or that mental pressure had consumed 
 his nervous force, or that fate had laid upon him burdens 
 greater than could be borne in triumph. The light that 
 rose and fell therein was not reflected, but direct, a ray 
 projected, its intensity dependent upon the mental ac- 
 tivity beyond. This effect was heightened by two condi- 
 tions, the darkness of brow and lashes, and the pallor of 
 the face. 
 
 But as he stood over the smoking letter in its tray, 
 the letter last written, the expression of his face and 
 eyes was marked and pathetic, for the light that gleamed 
 so strongly the moment before, now shrunk to a mere 
 glow seen dimly under the drooping lids. Whatever 
 was the thought, it passed and the man was again cold, 
 calm and alert. He glanced about the room; everything
 
 THE CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. 123 
 
 was in order. On the desk not a scrap of paper was to 
 be seen. The daily records of his life were written in, 
 except to him, undecipherable language upon the pages 
 of a book a few inches long; and in that mysterious 
 chamber lit by the flame that lit his eyes. 
 
 Taking his letters he passed to the inner room. An 
 hour later, upon the elevator, he said to the boy in 
 charge: 
 
 "A gentleman will call to see me at 10 o'clock. Let 
 him into my parlor and say that I will be detained a half 
 hour."
 
 124 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 THE INFORMATION BUREAU. 
 
 The four years that had passed over Chilon Marbeau 
 since he floated upon a moonlit river with the corpse of 
 his benefactress facing him in the boat, had left a clear 
 imprint upon his mental and his physical constitution. 
 Physically he was improved, for freedom and diversity 
 of scenes and occupation had done much to restore what 
 confinement had effaced. His frame was again erect, his 
 step firm and confident, and in that unfathomable air 
 which distinguishes each individual from his fellows there 
 was something even of the spirit that marked his young- 
 er manhood. But mentally he was neither the boy who 
 went blindly to his fate nor the man who came back to 
 Ravenswood, passionate, impotent, unreasoning and 
 fevered by desire for revenge. That man, too, was dead ; 
 the last stepping stone for the new man who came with 
 one object in life; but calmer, colder, more determined 
 and consistent, careless of danger and ready to sacrifice 
 everything to accomplish his purpose. He now had but 
 one ambition, the finding of Carl Garner. 
 
 It cannot be said of Chilon that at this time he had 
 absolutely no thought of the years at Ravenswood and 
 of Lena. He had bitter memories that came in the night 
 time and kept their vigils even as he slept; but habit 
 had helped him to conquer these, for, come when they 
 might, he resolutely turned his back upon them before 
 they enslaved his will and found in action, quick, cease- 
 less action, a foil. The old dream of love, he realized, 
 was impossible. He felt that Lena could never, would 
 never, clasp the hand that had murdered her husband, 
 hated and despised even though he had been. For her 
 the past must have been reduced to one night and a 
 chamber of horrors. 
 
 Remorse he had known until his mind reacted, and
 
 THE INFORMATION BUREAU. 125 
 
 renewed health filled his blood with the elements of 
 strength. That dead face looked into his for many 
 weeks, but the time came when that, too, passed. He 
 still felt that the acts of one crazed by fever, controlled 
 by a mental suggestion emanating from another, and 
 dazed by drugs, carried no responsibility. But he knew, 
 also, that no statement of these causes could remove from 
 the mind of the woman he had loved the impression of 
 that night's bloody work. He had sworn to kill Richard 
 Marbeau if they met. They had met, and Richard was 
 dead. She would not split hairs over the mental con- 
 dition of his murderer. The certainty that such a crime 
 was possible to him under any conditions would be suf- 
 ficient. 
 
 He put aside that part of his life as best he could 
 and took up his mission with a fierce but quiet satisfac- 
 tion. When the object of all this effort was accom- 
 plished, and Carl Garner had suffered for his crimes, 
 then he would go back to Ravenswood and call a family 
 convocation. In the presence of his kindred he would 
 tell his story proudly and exhibit such proofs as he might 
 gather. Then he would go away; where, he had never 
 determined. That one hour of satisfaction was all the 
 reward he desired, and to gain it he had bent, and was 
 bending, every energy and every talent that he could 
 bring into play. 
 
 There is no need in this history to follow Chilon Mar- 
 beau after his wild flight from Ravenswood. A lumber 
 vessel bore him to Norway; another brought him to 
 New York. Sustained by less than a keen sense of his 
 wrongs and the losses he had incurred, he might have 
 run the gamut of crime and have become linked to the 
 irredeemables. He did indeed mix with them; he made 
 his life among them, finding several whom he had once 
 known, without revealing his history! but in that direc- 
 tion lay his life's work. He began in that field, not the 
 study of crime, but of criminals, and had the good fortune 
 to bring about the arrest of a noted absconder, and find
 
 126 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 himself in funds again; for Silvy's little savings were 
 well nigh exhausted. In this arrest he was not known; 
 he simply pointed out the criminal. Other successes 
 upon the same line followed, the credit going elsewhere, 
 while he kept in the background. Publicity would have 
 destroyed his opportunities and have endangered his 
 main object; for the plan that Chilon had gradually 
 evolved, acting upon the suggestions of his accidental 
 success, was an acquaintance with the skilled criminals 
 of America, either personal or through agents. 
 
 Chilon Marbeau had no ambition to be a detective, 
 nor was he ever one. The business that he built up 
 with marvelous skill was based simply upon business 
 principles and deep insight into human nature. It was 
 a business that would have been successful, administered 
 with equal genius, in any country and any age. He 
 had no induction theory like delightful Mr. Sherlock 
 Holmes, nor did he believe that every crime leaves its 
 marks by which the guilty can be identified. He knew 
 on the contrary, that the majority of criminals, pursued 
 by the best detectives the world over, escape the law, 
 and that great robberies are simply the outcome of ex- 
 perience gained in safety. His system was to keep in 
 touch with the criminal society of all great cities, begin- 
 ning with New York, through those secret lines of crim- 
 inal news current in all the under circles. He had dis- 
 covered that always at least one man not actually en- 
 gaged therein knew the principals in every great pre- 
 meditated crime, either before or after its commission. 
 He knew also that men who will rob banks and rich dwell- 
 ing houses, and murder to escape arrest, need money, 
 and when men of that character need money it was with 
 them a question simply of how to get it without arous- 
 ing suspicion in their own circles against themselves. He 
 discovered also that the theory of "honor among thieves" 
 was a fiction, born largely of the yellow back novels, and 
 did not exist except, apparently, in the division of spoils, 
 and that then the absolute necessity of leaving every
 
 THE INFORMATION BUREAU. 127 
 
 sharer satisfied was the controlling motive; that even 
 principals in crime were ready, for a consideration-, to 
 give up valuable information. 
 
 In brief the system was simply a bureau for the safe 
 and profitable handling of information bearing upon 
 crime. It was not a system planned in advance, but 
 one that developed, in which few men engaged knew 
 more than one other man therein, or that there was any 
 other besides his principal; or that even such a system 
 existed outside his own little entourage. The informer 
 who received a rich reward for his information himself 
 became soon a quiet searcher with underworkers, there 
 being go-betweens all the way down. 
 
 Not many of this secret order, whose ramifications ex- 
 tended into most great centers of population, had ever 
 seen or heard of Chilon Marbeau, or Robert Underhill, 
 as he chose to be known. In the earlier days of the busi- 
 ness, in order to avoid contact with the authorities, he 
 kept himself as much in the background as was possible. 
 As the head and front of it, attention would necessarily be 
 attracted toward him ; but not so if he was the agent only 
 of the highest power. And this great imaginary unknown 
 he veiled under the simple initial "W.," a letter that had 
 for all members of his family a peculiar significance. 
 
 But Chilon was the head and front, the man who at 
 last made the exchange of knowledge for money and 
 passed the larger part, sometimes all, to the proper per- 
 son. His custom in these matters was rigid; every man 
 who dealt with him was known only by a number which 
 was signed to his communication, and as money, and not 
 drafts, were remitted back through the mails, no clue 
 was left. The safety of this plan, and the good faith, skill 
 and honesty of its head, made the business profitable 
 for those engaged in it. 
 
 In this enterprise, Chilon, in the background, received 
 no notice from the press. But if no advertisement of his 
 work went abroad, the people who make the study of 
 crime a business appreciated his skill and mysterious pow-
 
 128 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 er. The bureaux that exist for the detection of criminals 
 knew him in a business way without knowing even that 
 he possessed an established system, or whom he repre- 
 sented, and were well satisfied always by the credit of 
 success and a portion of the rewards earned. The few 
 people with whom he came in contact in his business 
 were too sensible to even admit of his existence. 
 
 Some of Chilon's performances along his chosen line 
 were, to even the detective bureau, simply marvelous. At 
 six o'clock one afternoon he addressed a note to a police 
 chief informing him that a certain bank would be attacked 
 at one o'clock after midnight. The bank was watched, and 
 burglars arrested. On another occasion the mur- 
 der of a prominent official in New England was fol- 
 lowed the next afternoon by the arrest of the criminal in 
 New York. A great financial institution was told that its 
 bookkeeper was "short." An entire counterfeiting outfit 
 was seized before the plates had been used ; and an insur- 
 ance company that contemplated paying a death loss run- 
 ning up to half a hundred thousand received information 
 of the existence of the alleged defunct policy holder. But 
 his greatest coup was the finding of a bank officer who 
 had, without the public hearing of it, carried away nearly 
 the entire assets of his institution. Within a week the 
 matter was compromised and the institution, the stock 
 of which contained a personal liability clause, was saved. 
 For this he received a sum so large as to place him with 
 his savings beyond the reach of want, and enable him to 
 save his under agents from crime through necessity.
 
 HOME YEARNING. 129 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 HOME YEARNING. 
 
 In the prosecution of this work Chilon found excite- 
 ment and occupation but not what he worked for above 
 all things Carl Garner. The man, bold and skillful as 
 he knew him to be, ought, in the years he had watched, 
 to come to the surface somewhere. But no arrest in the 
 United States, in all that time, furnished the slightest 
 trace of Carl Garner. No photograph of any gallery of 
 rogues held his face since the crime, for which he had 
 been imprisoned, was expiated. That he had been re- 
 formed was impossible; men of his temperament never 
 reform. He was dead or in some state prison, or had 
 left the country. So Chilon reasoned. Garner's convic- 
 tion had been accomplished in Chicago; if still in the 
 United States he should be found in New York or Phila- 
 delphia, for men of his tastes and history would not be 
 content anywhere else. Chilon's watch upon these two 
 cities had been close and he had for his assistants the 
 whole detective and police system of both. Not the slight- 
 est trace of Carl Garner could be found. 
 
 These were the circumstances of the case, and his en- 
 vironment, when Chilon gave the greater part of that May 
 night to thought. He had, when he accepted the chal- 
 lenge of fate, determined to risk an interview with Charles 
 Marbeau, his uncle. Before doing this, however, he had 
 already determined to take a greater risk and forever 
 put at rest any doubt as to the thoroughness of his own 
 disguise. Time had given him great confidence in the 
 changes that had been wrought in his personal appear- 
 ance. He had been in the presence of more than one who 
 had known him, without attracting notice, and one of 
 these was a detective who had testified in his trial. The 
 chief representative of the secret service of the United 
 
 9
 
 130 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 States, who had been present at that trial, was now occu- 
 pying a commanding position in the same branch of gov- 
 ernment service at Washington, and the determination 
 he had arrived at was to place himself in a business way 
 before this man. He had carefully gone over every feat- 
 ure of his case as he sat at the window, and he felt assured 
 that with sufficient nerve to back him, he could not be 
 identified, even if suspected. The worst that could hap- 
 pen to him, if he did not break down, would be a tem- 
 porary inconvenience. There was but one weak point in 
 his defense his handwriting. He could not recall any 
 specimen of his handwriting in existence within reach of 
 the government, except his prison signature, and the 
 statement filed upon his trial. If he emerged successfully 
 from the conflict in Washington he would continue south- 
 ward. 
 
 Chilon had a definite and important object in making 
 the second venture. The sight of the well-known hand- 
 writing of his uncle had brought a rush of memories that 
 almost overwhelmed him. He gave way to it for once; 
 as he faced the stars, smoking in that open window, his 
 mind recalled the old house and all its lovely surround- 
 ings. It was May, the roses were blooming and the lilies 
 were opening on the lake. All the grand old trees were 
 green again and vocal with the songs of birds. The smell 
 of magnolias seemed to float in upon and disarm him. 
 What were they all doing down there? Who were there? 
 Was Lena? His heart leaped once more at the sugges- 
 tion. And if she were, could he face her? He did not 
 know. It would be a test, indeed. She must, if suspicious 
 of his identity, remain in doubt, if he showed no sign; 
 and he would show none. But it was not likely that the 
 house which contained the memory of that tragedy would 
 be her home again. And yet, perhaps she was there; he 
 
 might go and stand and see her face again, . He 
 
 turned, however, from the thought, resolutely. If that 
 were all, he would not go back. But there was more. He
 
 HOME YEARNING. I3 1 
 
 had often been doubtful of his course should he ever 
 meet Carl Garner. He did not desire to stain his hands 
 with the man's blood. His intention was to consign him 
 to the fate he himself had endured, and, to this end, he 
 had accumulated a store of counterfeit bills. When ar- 
 rest should be made these bills would be found in Gar- 
 ner's possession and under the circumstances which had 
 caused his friend's ruin, he would go to a living death. 
 In the consummation of this scheme he saw poetic jus- 
 tice, and it was perfect even in another way. When, with 
 Garner, he stopped at Silvy's cabin, the former had given 
 to her one of the bills just printed. In the savings of the 
 old negress Chilon had found that bill. 
 
 This bill should be the instrument of his conviction. It 
 was the last cent he had saved of her little hoard. 
 
 But this justice, though poetic, was commonplace, and 
 with his new profession had come a pride. His return 
 for the injury should be more perfect, and would, he be- 
 lieved, have a potent effect if ever he made an effort to 
 remove the shadow from his life; he desired to go to 
 Ravenswood for the plates. With them again in his pos- 
 session, he would wreak a revenge when the time came 
 that would leave nothing to be desired. His mind was 
 made up when he burned the letter. 
 
 When Chilon returned to his room at the appointed 
 hour he paused at the door, his hand upon the knob. He 
 bore with him a letter. In his efforts to undo nature's 
 work in his own case he had for four years attacked im- 
 pulse as his most dangerous foe. In the analysis of him- 
 self and the causes that led up to his ruin, he readily rec- 
 ognized that the acts done under impulse were the begin- 
 ning of all his troubles. As he stood by the door, balanc- 
 ing the letter in his hand, his face grave and stern again, 
 he asked himself the test question, "Is this from impulse?" 
 He debated both sides of the question in silence; was he 
 really advancing the cause for which he had labored so 
 long? Was he not risking all for something that was not
 
 132 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 essential to the success of his plans? Were not the plates 
 safer at Ravensvvood than anywhere else? Suppose Gar- 
 ner had been spotted, might he not then go for and obtain 
 the plates? And was it wise to awaken the watchdogs of 
 the treasury? "Let sleeping dogs lie," came to his mind. 
 On the other hand the plates might never again be ac- 
 cessible. He lost his opportunity four years ago in those 
 few weeks of passionate despair, and this was the first that 
 had appeared since. His uncle might die, the property 
 change hands, and the rubbish be cleared away. It was 
 a contingency that had worried him not a little. He 
 would make the venture. 
 
 But again the little mentor within asked a question. 
 He did not reply. Opening the door, he entered his 
 room.
 
 WAKING THE SLEEPING DOGS. 133 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 WAKING THE SLEEPING DOGS. 
 
 Chilon found himself face to face with a small, quiet 
 man who wore glasses and looked like a chief clerk. They 
 had met before. Their greetings were stiff and formal. 
 
 "We received your letter," said Chilon, simply, "but 
 are at a loss to know why we should have been applied 
 
 "I know, Mr. Underbill," the other replied, smiling, 
 "you keep no information unused; you have no force to 
 call upon for detail work. You have repeatedly told us 
 that. But we are extremely anxious to oblige Mr. Mar- 
 beau in this matter and are taking all the chances. Your 
 friend, 'W,' has done so many surprising things that we 
 simply cannot neglect him. If he says no, why that ends 
 it; but he has not said no, yet.'' Chilon studied the face 
 of his visitor. There was nothing behind the statement; 
 he had none but the facts as stated. 
 
 "What is the case?" he asked, at length. The visitor 
 seemed relieved, and drew his chair to the window, 
 at the same time producing his memoranda. 
 
 "Mr. Marbeau," he began, "is a very warm friend of 
 our friends here and they have made us an urgent appeal 
 in his behalf. The case is simply one of disappearance. 
 He quarreled with his nephew seventeen years ago and 
 the latter left home, and has not been heard of since. He 
 is now extremely anxious to find him." 
 
 "Why does he wish to find him?" 
 
 "That, we have not ascertained. Mr. Marbeau, or Col- 
 onel Marbeau, as he is called, is one of the old school 
 southerners, impractical and chivalrous, the soul of honor 
 and always wrong in politics about as difficult a man 
 to do business with as one can imagine, from what 1 
 hear. We sent our ablest man to him, and his report 
 reads like an adventure."
 
 134 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 "What possible cause could there be for the young 
 man's silence if he is not dead or in prison?'' 
 
 "That is what we asked, and that question brought on 
 the storm," continued the visitor, laughing. "The old 
 gentleman raved over the idiocy of his New York friends 
 who had sent a man a thousand miles at his expense to 
 insult him. He declared that whatever justification there 
 might be in the theory of his nephew's death, there could 
 be none in a theory of crime; that the young man, while 
 wild and high-tempered, was the soul of honor or he 
 wouldn't have been a Marbeau." 
 
 "Well," said Chilon, coldly, "I fail to see anything 
 humorous in that. What progress have you made?" 
 
 "Absolutely none." Chilon thought a moment. 
 
 "And the name of this boy?" 
 
 "Was Chilon." 
 
 "Married?" 
 
 "He had been." 
 
 "Wife living?" His heart almost stood still under the 
 strain placed upon it. 
 
 "That we did not ascertain. She obtained a divorce 
 and remarried." 
 
 "I see!" And then, after a moment's thought "I have 
 written your people a letter which I wish to deliver here. 
 I shall be glad if you will read it. You will understand 
 why I have interrupted you in the other matter." The 
 visitor, much surprised, opened the letter, which was ad- 
 dressed to his agency. It stated the past services of "W 
 and asked that an opinion upon the bill inclosed be ob- 
 tained from the treasury at Washington. It also stated 
 that if the bill were counterfeit it would mark the begin- 
 ning of one of the most important cases undertaken by 
 the treasury. The writer, it added, had information which 
 could not be imparted to the Treasury as yet, but might 
 some day. 
 
 The visitor looked carefully upon the bill and then the 
 man.
 
 WAKING THE SLEEPING DOGS. 135 
 
 "But it is not counterfeit!" he said. 
 
 "It is, however. The best counterfeit the world has 
 ever seen!" The interest of the professional was now 
 fully aroused. If this were true if this new bill 
 were indeed counterfeit, it meant business of the highest 
 order. 
 
 "Have you got the men spotted?" he asked, suppressing 
 his eagerness. 
 
 "The reason why I have brought up this matter," said 
 Chilon, disregarding the question, "is this: If the Treas- 
 ury cares to see me, I shall go south from Washington for 
 a few weeks upon business and for recreation and will call 
 on Mr., or Colonel Marbeau, in person to oblige you. I 
 can then determine if anything may be done." 
 
 "The Treasury will want to see you, Mr. Underbill." 
 The detective smiled over some thought that had risen 
 in mind, a smile that did not escape Chilon. "I am greatly 
 obliged by your decision to let this matter come up 
 through us. I think that you will be wired for to-morrow ! 
 And in the case of Colonel Marbeau you have taken a 
 load off my mind. You will hear from me !" 
 
 Chilon stood a moment, looking at the closed door. 
 
 "What will be the end?" he asked himself. For reply 
 the door reopened and the visitor looked in. 
 
 "By the way, Mr. Underbill, did you get a report from 
 us in the old Garner case?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You will, then. Carl Adams, or Grant, was in 
 New York a week ago. He disappeared again, but we 
 think we can reach him." 
 
 A cry, half uttered, half suppressed, rang out in the 
 room. Instantly, however, Chilon stood calm and white. 
 He saw the astonishment in the face that was turned to 
 him. With a slight gesture he concluded carelessly: 
 
 "Add one thousand dollars to the reward."
 
 136 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 THE DEPARTURE. 
 
 Chilon stood to depart from an uptown school of 
 acting, his friend, the professor, swinging his glasses be- 
 tween two fingers and speaking with animation : 
 
 "I have found you, my dear Mr. Underhill, the most 
 conscientious, the most satisfactory pupil to whom I have 
 ever given voice culture. Your attendance upon the gym- 
 nasium, your daily open air exercise, your work here 
 have all been perfect, your attention scrupulous and your 
 efforts gratifying. You ask my opinion of the results; 
 well, I give it with pleasure. Your control of voice is re- 
 markable; in your recitation and reading of those selec- 
 tions which call for deliberation and eh eh a sort of 
 lassitude, give me the word; I mean the opposite of 
 nervous haste, your delivery there is simply marvelous. 
 In other respects you are beyond praise. In short, while 
 you, of course, lack the dramatic training, I think that I 
 may say no man on the American stage has better control 
 of his voice. As for the voice itself, there are few like it. 
 You southerners " 
 
 "You still persist in that opinion, I see. You make me 
 southern nolens volens!" 
 
 "Excellent, my dear Mr. Underhill. That tone, that ex- 
 pression! You are giving me back my training! But 
 pardon me ; I did not intend to intrude. I will finish my 
 sentence another way. Generally speaking, the cold cli- 
 mate of the north seems to make taut the vocal chords 
 by contracting the muscles that engage them; and all 
 northern nations show the effect in their voices. The 
 southerners, however, have naturally that which we find 
 so hard to teach others, perfect relaxation of all the 
 muscles of neck, throat and mouth. Their bronchial sys- 
 tem being generally perfect they make good subjects,
 
 THE DEPARTURE. 137 
 
 The very best of them, I think, are of French extraction, 
 who unite with this general muscular relaxation a nervous 
 force and quickness that fits them for dramatic work. 
 Of course there are exceptions," he quickly added, with 
 fine tact, fancying that a shade of annoyance showed 
 upon his pupil's face; "northern people occasionally come 
 to me well equipped; but the heredity of such as I have 
 traced, leads back into southern blood." 
 
 "And now," said Chilon, extending his hand, "I am off 
 for a bit of travel and must say good-bye. If some day 
 you hear that I am charming the fickle public for a few 
 brief weeks as Monte Cristo, or Dundreary, you will, I 
 know, be pleased. And if you do not hear anything, con- 
 sole yourself with the reflection that you have made life 
 pleasanter for me. But, by the way, we were speaking 
 some time ago of the possibilities of the human voice; 
 would it be possible for a man to so change his voice and 
 voice-tones as to deceive his best friends, even his own 
 family?" 
 
 "Yes! If his whole personal appearance were changed, 
 it would be possible; but if his outer disguise were not 
 perfect it would be next to impossible. It would require 
 visible changes so extensive and complete as to prevent 
 the accidental reversion to old voice-tones and accents 
 from setting up a connection with his true self in the mem- 
 ory of his friends. But, if you are going to try such an 
 experiment, don't use the voice in song. You must leave 
 off your singing for the time being. No man can change 
 his voice beyond discovery in singing." They parted, and 
 speaking to himself, as he watched the retreating form of 
 his late pupil, the professor concluded: "I should like to 
 know the name of the character he has been acting for, 
 the last year!" 
 
 But the actor's mind was upon other things. It was 
 to be his last day in New York for an indefinite period. 
 The Treasury had sent him an urgent call. A down-town 
 car landed him near the United States Court, where he
 
 138 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 soon stood waiting. His quiet dignity and self-possession 
 secured him prompt attention. 
 
 "I desire," he said, in the calm, gentle voice that was 
 everywhere a guarantee of courteous treatment, "to look 
 at the papers in the case of Carl Garner, convicted in 
 
 this court on the day of counterfeiting, if they 
 
 can be conveniently reached." He presented a card that 
 bore a penciled open sesame as he spoke. The files were 
 soon found and the papers placed upon a desk for his ex- 
 amination. As he sat with his back to the office force he 
 apparently made notes of the trial, and then with thanks 
 passed back the package, neatly tied, and with "good- 
 morning, gentlemen," took his departure. 
 
 "Life would be endurable," said a voice from a mass of 
 papers, as Chilon disappeared, "if all men were like that. 
 Actually tied up the papers with a bow knot. Think of 
 it!" 
 
 "Too polite!" The rejoinder was from a veteran. 
 "Chances are the government has lost a paper!" 
 
 Chilon had just time to catch the Washington express 
 from Jersey City, where his baggage had already been 
 sent. He soon stood oblivious to his company on the for- 
 ward deck of the ferry boat. Something had oppressed 
 him since the waking hour. DelicateV sensitive to 
 influences, he was almost a believer in the theory of men- 
 tal telegraphy. Many times during the four years of dis- 
 cipline and struggle through which he had passed he had 
 been sensible in advance of important events, a thing 
 laughed at by many practical men who are unable to give 
 an explanation for less than half the decisions they form 
 in business. The feeling was strong upon him that day. 
 He had, however, ample cause for it; despite the philo- 
 sophic deliberateness of his movements, he had within the 
 previous twenty-four hours formed a momentous decis- 
 ion, and was severing old ties again. Besides, he was 
 venturing upon dangerous grounds, and he was at last 
 ready to admit that his judgment was not satisfied. It
 
 THE DEPARTURE. 139 
 
 was too late, however, to turn back even if he had so 
 desired. He drew from his pocket a document; read it 
 curiously, tore it into infinitesimals and gave it to the 
 ocean breeze. The shiny bits of paper sailed and dipped 
 in whirling air, sinking one by one and blending in the 
 foamy water. 
 
 The hoarse shriek of the boat's whistle recalled him 
 from his dream, and he looked up to behold a steamship 
 veering off in front, its funnels pouring out volumes of 
 black, volcanic smoke. A hundred faces looked down 
 upon him and handkerchiefs waved in the air towards the 
 distant dock where parting friends still gave their fare- 
 wells. But for him there was no friend behind, in front 
 nor beside him; and yet he was crossing a gulf wider 
 than the ocean and facing a danger worse than death. 
 From what shores had his bark of life been sailing so 
 long, so stormily? To what harbor would it return? Or 
 would it sink in the depths, leaving no sign? 
 
 Little tugs rushed to and fro over the blue waters, and 
 white sails were fading into the haze of the bay like child- 
 hood dreams half seen upon awaking. The white sunlight 
 fell upon and glorified the liberty goddess on Bedloe's Is- 
 land; life, color and motion filled the scene. He felt 
 rather than observed all these; he was facing southward 
 again, and he was unsatisfied. He cast one farewell, im- 
 patient look about him ; the scene had changed in a mo- 
 ment. Or was it his mood? The tall buildings across the 
 river behind stood like monuments; some, seen from the 
 rear, bare of decorations, seemed prisons; and silence 
 overhung them all. Down the river the black mass of the 
 passing ocean liner with its volumes of smoke had ob- 
 scured the goddess. The oracles would have bid him turn 
 back; but in this age men believe chiefly in themselves!
 
 140 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE DUEL. 
 
 When Chilon, upon the morning after his arrival in 
 Washington, entered the presence of the government's 
 representative in the secret service division of the Treas- 
 ury, returned the courteous greeting accorded him, slowly 
 put aside his coat and hat and drew off his gloves, he had 
 very much the appearance of a duelist making his last 
 preparations for conflict. He felt, without observing the 
 keen, close questioning scrunity to which he was being 
 subjected ; he knew that the examination was being made, 
 if for the reason only that had their positions been re- 
 versed, he would have seized eagerly upon the oppor- 
 tunity as the only one likely to occur. Therefore, when 
 he completed his preparations and took the seat that 
 had been indicated, 'he was prepared to find the other's 
 attention elsewhere, as it was. He was adjusting the pa- 
 pers upon his desk. 
 
 The examination had been, though brief, complete. The 
 officer was naturally interested in the personality of one, 
 or the representative of one who, although unknown to 
 the press, 'had accomplished more in four years in the 
 suppression and exposure of crime, than any living man; 
 who took no credit for his services, nor fees aside from 
 the rewards that were offered; who held himself as far as 
 possible aloof from police and detective bureaus; and 
 whose own life history and antecedents, as well as those 
 of his principal, were veiled in profound mystery. He 
 knew of this man imperfectly as an interesting phenome- 
 non, a living, but very useful mystery. He was the mouth 
 piece, the vade mecum of "W." Who was "W." and who 
 was Robert Underbill? Where there is a mystery in the 
 life of any man there is a reason ; and generally the reason 
 is not creditable. So argued the government's servant,
 
 THE DUEL. 141 
 
 who, the necessities of this history require, shall be desig- 
 nated by other than his proper title. Described as The 
 General, he loses only his name. 
 
 By that intuition which marks the successful man the 
 world over,. Chilon knew the tenor of his antagonist's 
 thought for antagonist he considered him. And he knew 
 that the mere fact that he was himself unknown would 
 make the examination a close one. The conflict toward 
 which he had for years looked forward as inevitable was 
 at hand; he was as nearly ready as he would ever be. 
 His disguise would never be more perfect; nor his powers 
 under better control. Neither fame nor distinction would 
 reward him if he succeeded; his future was not assured. 
 If he failed a living death awaited him. 
 
 The faintest smile marked his pale face as his eyes met 
 those of the other. 
 
 "I am directed to say that your message was received 
 promptly by the gentleman to whom it was addressed, 
 and who still prefers to remain unknown ; that he is not 
 accustomed to consult with any one, being not open to 
 business engagements, but ready at all times, from pa- 
 triotic motives, to assist the government. I represent 
 him with full power to act, and you may speak frankly in 
 conference!" 
 
 The General reflected a moment, his eyes still upon the 
 visitor's face. 
 
 At length he began: 
 
 "I must admit, Mr. Underbill, that we are greatly dis- 
 turbed and puzzled over the counterfeit bill that has come 
 into our possession through you gentlemen," he nodded 
 to a typewriter sitting near, who immediately withdrew. 
 "Four years ago there escaped from us a man named 
 Carl Garner, convicted in 1874 of counterfeiting. He and 
 his gang, no other member of which was ever arrested 
 
 "There was no gang," said Chilon, "but pardon me, 
 proceed."
 
 142 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 "You know of the case, then?'' 
 
 "Somewhat I know that you convicted an innocent 
 man. But I shall be glad to hear all the particulars." 
 
 "This man, after his escape, disappeared as completely 
 as though swallowed up by the earth. Nothing has been 
 heard of him, not the slightest clew or trace found until 
 recently." 
 
 "Indeed!'' 
 
 "Personally, I was rather pleased to think that the poor 
 fellow recovered his freedom, for I was present, as it hap- 
 pened, at the trial in New York, and was inclined to think 
 that he was victimized." 
 
 "He was victimized," said Chilon, softly, his eyes half- 
 closing and the look of interest deepening on his face. 
 He advanced his chair a little. "Do you not still think 
 so?" 
 
 "You were present at the trial, also?" 
 
 "My principal was. I have read and heard several ac- 
 counts of it, and I would be a poor judge of human na- 
 ture, General, which I am not, if I did not believe in his 
 innocence." The General's face wore a look of surprise. 
 He continued: 
 
 "The trouble is, that not only have the plates never been 
 recovered " 
 
 "Ah, I had not heard that!" Again the visitor smiled. 
 
 "But they are being used again." Chilon's face did not 
 change expression. 
 
 "It is impossible!" he said, with decision. "For then 
 assuredly he would have been guilty!" 
 
 "He was guilty, Mr. Underbill. The government must 
 arrest him and secure those plates." 
 
 "You argue that " 
 
 "The country will otherwise be flooded with the most 
 dangerous counterfeit ever put forth. You may possibly 
 remember that the so-called experts were everywhere de- 
 ceived. The bill was so nearly perfect that only the closest 
 comparison could reveal the counterfeit. The worst
 
 THE DUEL. 143 
 
 of it is, even an ordinary engraver could, by a few lines, 
 make the plate so correct as to deceive even the Treas- 
 ury." 
 
 "Have you the bill? And do you mind showing me 
 the defects?" Chilon moved his chair against the desk 
 and adjusted his glasses. 
 
 "This bill," said the other, opening his papers, "which 
 was sent us from New York a few days since, is new and 
 the only one detected since the trial and conviction of 
 Garner." 
 
 "Is it possible!" Chilon took the bill and noted the 
 number. It was, of course, from Silvy's little hoard. 
 
 "You perceive it is a new bill or has never been in 
 circulation. You are not at liberty to say how it was dis- 
 covered, I suppose?" 
 
 "I am not. Where is the defect in it, General?" he asked, 
 after a brief inspection. 
 
 "There is a difference in the feeling, to begin with, so 
 the Treasury people say; something that neither you nor 
 I, probably, can detect; a difference arising from the 
 fact that a light hand-press was used for the counterfeit, 
 and a heavy machine press for the genuine. Here is a 
 genuine bill of the same issue. Look closely and you will 
 note that in the bad bill the little curl to the treasurer's sig- 
 nature is too short and the shading in the drapery of the 
 figure and on the face in the medallion is a trifle too light. 
 With these exceptions, the plate is, for all practical pur- 
 poses, perfect, the most marvelous counterfeit the world 
 ever saw, and consequently the work of an artist of the 
 highest order. Carl Garner is not the engraver ; and yet 
 the plates were not in use during his imprisonment. It 
 would seem from this that he certainly controls them." 
 
 "If, then, the original artist, or one of fairly good skill, 
 should take these plates, add the curl to the signature, 
 deepen the shading on the face of the medallion and print 
 the bills on the right kind of paper and the right kind of 
 press, the product would pass even the Treasury !"
 
 144 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 "It would be necessary to call in and destroy every bill 
 of that issue! And that would not cure the evil. We 
 would never know when they were all in." 
 
 The chief laid aside the bill. He lifted his eyes and they 
 met those of his visitor. For ten seconds, perhaps, they 
 gazed at each other. The government officer's face grew 
 pale and then flushed with the sudden return of blood. 
 Not a muscle of the cold, white face confronting him 
 changed, but the gray eyes were lit with a marvelous 
 flame, and they carried a message across the table. In 
 that moment The General knew that the man he wanted 
 was before him, and Chilon knew that he was recognized.
 
 AT BAY. 145 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 AT BAY! 
 
 The General fingered his papers uneasily and moved in 
 his chair, while a quiet smile hovered about the mouth of 
 his visitor. Presently the latter drew from his pocket a 
 little silver case and leisurely exposed a half dozen slender, 
 Spanish cigars. 
 
 "Is it permitted?" he asked, carelessly. The General 
 nodded his head quickly. "I may then offer you one; 
 you will find them above the ordinary." 
 
 "I do not smoke." The General spoke absently, the 
 look of perplexity still clouding his fine face. Chilon 
 lighted a wax match and held it a moment against the to- 
 bacco. He felt again the keen, swift look of scrunity, and 
 rising, walked off slowly to where he might drop the 
 match in a cuspidor. Over the face of the government 
 officer suddenly flashed a new look. 
 
 "Magnificent," he murmured. Then aloud: 
 
 "You have had a romantic history, Mr. Underhill!" 
 Chilon paused as he was about to seat himself. 
 
 "You are acquainted with my history, then?" 
 
 "Well, not exactly. You are aware, perhaps, though, 
 that even the most secretive men are not always un- 
 known." 
 
 "Ah!" Chilon smoked tranquilly. He left no encour- 
 agement, but The General made a bold plunge. 
 
 "Leading the life that you do " 
 
 "You also know the life I lead?" 
 
 "Again, not exactly. But I know that you are a won- 
 derful discoverer of evidence, Mr. Underhill, and it is easy 
 to infer the life you lead. I was going to ask you what 
 section has the honor of claiming your birthplace?" 
 
 "None, I am afraid !" And then, "but, really, I remem- 
 ber nothing beyond my third year, looking backwards." 
 10
 
 146 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 "Which means?'' 
 
 "That in my present occupation the less one reveals of 
 himself the greater his powers. The public likes a mys- 
 tery especially the public I look to. And I merely rep- 
 resent another, as you seem to forget." 
 
 "I see. No one, then, knows your history, nor that of 
 'W.'?" 
 
 "No one knows me but God," was the grave answer. 
 The General looked up quickly. 
 
 "Are you sure?" he asked, smiling, this time, himself. 
 
 "Quite sure, sir!" 
 
 "You forget that the government has many keen eyes ! 
 Perhaps more of your history is known than you imag- 
 ine!" Chilon met the smile with one that, accompanied 
 by his reply, might have passed for a covert sneer. He 
 carelessly lifted the counterfeit bill and laid it down again. 
 The General nodded his head. 
 
 "Well answered," he said. "I see, Mr. Underbill, that 
 you are bound to preserve your, mystery, and I beg 
 your pardon if I have seemed over-inquisitive; but 'W, 
 care of Robert Underbill' and 'W, through Robert Un- 
 derhill, informs the government,' etc., have puzzled me 
 more than any mystery I have ever encountered. The 
 government is bound to admit the value of your assist- 
 ance, especially in the arrest of the other counterfeiters, 
 and gave substantial proof, if I remember." 
 
 "Entirely satisfactory, I believe, sir!" 
 
 "That case, and the information leading to the arrest 
 
 of the defaulting postmaster of , and the whereabouts 
 
 of the murderer of the Tennessee revenue officer, cases 
 so diverse and in places so far apart, argue a system al- 
 most too wonderful to admit. It would be worth a great 
 deal to the government." 
 
 "Absolutely nothing!" said Chilon, gravely; "absolute- 
 ly nothing under any other management!" The General 
 was silent, still regarding with admiration the firm, pale 
 face before him.
 
 AT BAY. 147 
 
 Chilon sat looking down in silence. 
 
 "I am not at liberty to say as much, General, on this 
 subject as you wish, but I will tell you one naked fact, 
 upon your word of honor as to secrecy!'* 
 
 "You have it, of course!'' 
 
 "It has never been told before. The system, such a 
 system as you suspect, really exists. Its head and front 
 is 'W! I am simply the connecting link between him 
 and the world. No other man knows him. It is a system 
 widely extended, and reaching where no detective could 
 penetrate." 
 
 "May I ask upon what the system is founded?" 
 
 "The weakness of human nature! We simply repre- 
 sent a bureau for handling profitably criminal informa- 
 tion. Through us the friends of the rogue, the murderer, 
 the thief, the counterfeiter, the defaulter, his partners in 
 crime, even the women who wear his jewels, may sell him 
 to justice with perfect safety. They sell him. That is 
 all! We do not detect, we do not arrest, we are unknown. 
 A few heads of detective bureaus know me ; a few chiefs 
 of police, and occasionally a government officer. You 
 once offered us a case ; we declined it because we would 
 not know where to begin. If information does not come 
 to us, we simply do not get it. If it does come and is good, 
 he receives it, to whom it is most useful! No man in any 
 prison would recognize me if I walked among them !" It 
 was an accidental ending. He looked up to find The 
 General watching 'him, fascinated. He saw the impres- 
 sion he had made, and continued: "That is the secret; 
 all of it, practically, except the name of the man I repre- 
 sent, and that is of no service to you, even were I per- 
 mitted to use it. It may strike you as strange that I 
 come here and reveal this to you in a business conversa- 
 tion, but, frankly, I have a good reason for it, which will 
 presently appear. In the meantime, what can we do for 
 you, in the case in hand?"
 
 148 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 "We want Carl Garner and the plates from which this 
 bill was printed." 
 
 "Have you a description of him?" 
 
 "Here it is!" 
 
 "You will kindly read it aloud. I wish to compare it 
 with a picture in my mind." 
 
 "Height, five feet nine inches; weight, 146 pounds; dark 
 complexion, hair brown, and curly when not cropped; 
 face clean shaven, mouth well formed and sensitive, nose 
 slender and straight and teeth white, even and perfect; 
 carries himself with slight stoop, is quick of speech and 
 of nervous temperament. That was Carl Garner seven- 
 teen years ago. Of course, time must have wrought many 
 changes; and he has had four years in which to assist. 
 He may be gray by now and have a mustache. By per- 
 sistent effort he may have changed his method of speech 
 and have subdued his nervousness." He spoke this slow- 
 ly, and upon concluding fixed a piercing look upon his 
 vis-a-vis. Chilon, with half-closed eyes, was leaning back, 
 tapping thoughtfully with his pencil upon his even white 
 teeth. He took up where the other left off. 
 
 "But in all likelihood he still has his dark complexion 
 and brown eyes." Opening his own, he sat upright and 
 looked The General full in the face. The confidence of 
 that officer received a severe shock. 
 
 "Well, it would seem so, it would seem so!" he said, 
 hastily ; "brown eyes would hardly turn to gray, at least." 
 Again the quiet smile returned to the visitor's face for an 
 instant, and then vanished. 
 
 "There is one other thing forgotten. Have you a speci- 
 men of this man Garner's handwriting?" 
 
 "No, we have not! But, stay!" 
 
 From his papers, with excitement well-suppressed but 
 still evident, he took up the newspaper clipping and read 
 it carefully. "A specimen can be obtained." He reached 
 his hand toward the electric button, but paused, a look of 
 exultation upon his face, in spite of his efforts. "Do you
 
 AT BAY. 149 
 
 mind writing me a telegram while I look over these pa- 
 pers more carefully? Perhaps I have " 
 
 "Certainly not." Chilon took up a pen and drew a blank 
 toward him, The General, as he handled his papers, dic- 
 tating: 
 
 "Clerk of U. S. Dist. Court, New York City In re 
 Carl Garner, convicted counterfeiting, April, 1874; send 
 original of prisoner's statement." 
 
 Chilon passed over the message for signature. 
 
 "Thanks, Mr. Underhill. Excuse my troubling you !" 
 
 Chilon nodded, carelessly. 
 
 "It is hardly necessary to send that," he said quietly. 
 "I can always see it there. In fact, I saw it yesterday. I 
 took occasion to make some notes upon Garner's case, 
 as I will presently explain, and went over that statement 
 with the other papers !" 
 
 Again the two men faced each other. Again The 
 General read aright the smiling eyes fixed upon him. 
 With a grave bow he laid the telegram with the papers in 
 the case and put them aside. 
 
 "I will consider the matter," he said. "You inferred, 
 then, that it was about Garner I wished to see you ; may 
 I ask why?" 
 
 "First, General, let me go on with the main question. 
 What do you want of us?" 
 
 "Briefly, then, to find Carl Garner." 
 
 "I have already shown that finding people whose where- 
 abouts we do not know already is out of our line; but 
 that is not my answer. What are your terms, sir?" 
 
 "The terms I offer, Mr. Underhill, are subject to rati- 
 fication. For information leading to the arrest of Garner 
 we will pay one thousand dollars." 
 
 "One thousand!" The inflection, the surprise, was per- 
 fect. "Small, is it not? Very little for a man who can 
 make such five dollar bills as that?"
 
 150 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 "For the plates the government will pay ten thousand, 
 if necessary." 
 
 "Cheap plates, cheap plates !" said Chilon, shaking his 
 head slowly. "Garner would do better to cure the few 
 defects in them and print his own rewards!" 
 
 The General arose suddenly and looked down angrily 
 upon his visitor. Then he began to pace the room. He 
 paused at intervals, staring fixedly at Chilon and debat- 
 ing a question in his mind. If this were indeed Garner, he 
 should not be allowed to leave that room a free man. But 
 if he were arrested how could he be held? Upon a writ 
 of habeas corpus he would regain his freedom in twenty- 
 four hours. The description did not fit him, and the bur- 
 den of proof was on the government. And would arrest 
 secure the plates? It had already failed once. He dis- 
 missed the idea. Long experience and Chilon's manner 
 convinced him that there was a better course. 
 
 "Mr. Underbill," he said, finally, "I believe you are the 
 man for this enterprise. The government will ratify any- 
 thing in reason that I promise or you claim in the sur- 
 render of these plates. What would you propose?" 
 
 He returned to his chair. Chilon arose, and carrying 
 his cigar to the cuspidor, stood a moment in thought. 
 
 "General," he said, "forgive me if I seem to have trifled 
 with you in this matter; I have not. My profession has 
 made me the receiver of information, and I wanted to 
 hear the case as it appeared to you. I know Garner's al- 
 ready from his own lips." 
 
 The General regarded him steadily without reply. 
 
 "So far as Garner himself is concerned, he will never 
 be sent back to prison, and the plates cannot be bought 
 for money.'* 
 
 "What, then, does he want?" 
 
 "Briefly, the right to walk among his fellow-men, free, 
 with the stains upon his character removed. He offered 
 them for this once, and now he renews the offer after 
 twelve years' imprisonment."
 
 AT BAY. 151 
 
 "In the meantime he has gone to work and printed bad 
 money again!" 
 
 "He has not. I shall now tell you his story. Apply 
 to it the simple rules of common sense and judge if he 
 be not honest and fair ! Garner, as I will call him, for that 
 is the name under which this great government baptized 
 him with a ceremony so cruel that it seems to belong to 
 an age of barbarism rather than to the liberty-blessed en- 
 lightenment of the nineteenth century; Garner, soon after 
 his escape, began life again with one supreme object 
 the finding of the man who betrayed him, innocent, to a 
 living tomb. I have heard the story of his former life, 
 and it went to my heart. It was obliged to be true ; it is 
 true ! That betrayal cost him home, name, family, friends, 
 inheritance, and, wife. When he returned, after the 
 twelve years of silence all were gone lost forever!" 
 
 The form of the speaker wavered a moment, but his 
 flashing eyes still held their light bravely. 
 
 "The blow would have killed a dozen men ; it made a 
 man of him ; a man without fear of life or death or aught 
 that lies between. It made him as tender at heart as a 
 young mother, in some respects ; a tiger worse, a hyena 
 in others. For if the man who ruined, who robbed his 
 life of the possibilities of happiness and murdered his 
 youth were dead and buried, he would tear open his grave 
 with naked hands and scatter his bones to the beasts of 
 the night!" 
 
 With a mighty effort he restrained his voice, the fury be- 
 coming too apparent, and with infinite pathos took up 
 the story again. 
 
 "His sufferings touched my heart. I believed his story. 
 I knew that in his trial he spoke God's holy truth if human 
 lips ever spoke it, and that his sacrifice was as noble as 
 ever man has witnessed. 
 
 "Chances, as he sought his destroyer, put him in pos- 
 session of information valuable to the government. He
 
 152 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 gave it through us. You received and acted upon it!" 
 
 "Is it possible?" 
 
 "I swear it! The reward, most of it, went to others. 
 Again and again, and yet again, he served you through 
 us! Does that look as if your prisoner your escaped 
 convict is an enemy to law and order? 5 ' 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "And he is ready to serve you again! He has printed 
 no bills. That which lies before you on the table is the 
 last of the original lot, printed then only to sell the 
 plates. That was true, too. He sent it through us to you 
 to emphasize his case and to prove his innocence in fact, 
 to bring about this interview." 
 
 The General thought a moment in silence, his eyes fixed 
 still upon the strange figure before him. Again he mur- 
 mured: 
 
 "Magnificent! Magnificent!" 
 
 "There is one defect, my friend," he said, very gently, 
 touched more deeply than he would have admitted to 
 himself. "Garner could have shown his sincerity in a 
 very simple way. He could have returned the plates at 
 any time during the last four years. He offered to get 
 them if restored freedom; when he secured his freedom 
 it would have established his sincerity had he done so !" 
 
 Chilon shook his head, sadly. 
 
 "You have not allowed for human passion. With those 
 plates gone from his control, he might have had no way 
 to bring upon his betrayer the fate he himself suffered. 
 It was his design to have the real criminal arrested with 
 that bill and those plates in his possession. They would 
 have been placed there. He has waited four years for the 
 opportunity. In that time he has had the advantage of ev- 
 ery power we possess ; not a criminal of note in the great 
 cities has been arrested but has been investigated by 
 photograph or description. You are aware of the close- 
 ness of our watch, and can appreciate that some powerful 
 reason has kept the man from making his appearance.
 
 AT BAY. 153 
 
 We are satisfied that he is dead or in some state or foreign 
 prison." 
 
 "Do I understand that Garner has given up at last?" 
 
 "No. But we make you this proposition; hands off, 
 and if in sixty days we do not deliver to you the real crim- 
 inal in the old case we will deliver the plates. In the mean- 
 time, you may be assured that there will be no use made 
 of the latter. For this we will ask that, quietly, a pardon 
 be given our client. Is it unreasonable?" 
 
 "I think not. Still, I do not like the plates to be out." 
 
 "My dear sir, you cannot help that. And if the plates 
 have remained unused during seventeen years, they 
 are not likely to be put to work during the next sixty 
 days." 
 
 "I will guarantee the pardon for the immediate de- 
 livery of the plates. That, with the services rendered" 
 Chilon quivered with sudden rage and excitement. The 
 General had arisen with something like a threat upon his 
 own face, and they met before the desk. They looked 
 steadily into each other's eyes. By a supreme effort the 
 visitor controlled himself. 
 
 "Sir," he said, gently, "you have asked my assistance 
 and I have offered it free of cost because of my friendship 
 for the man you call Carl Garner. If you decline the 
 proposition I have made for him little enough, God 
 knows I shall advise him to renew it and claim a $100,- 
 ooo bonus! He is a friend to his country; do not make 
 him an enemy!" The General stood silent a few mo- 
 ments, his eyes searching the face of his visitor. Then he 
 very slowly extended his hand, saying: 
 
 "I agree to your terms, subject to ratification; and 
 of this I will advise you in a few hours. Let me add for 
 myself, my friend, that I believe the story of Carl Garner 
 is true. He has nothing to fear from me during the sixty 
 days he claims. And I take this occasion, Mr. Underbill, 
 to personally thank you, and him, for your services to the
 
 154 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 government to express my admiration for you as a man 
 of genius and courage. What is your address?" 
 
 "The same as before. I thank you, both for myself 
 and Carl Garner, for your kind words and your belief in 
 him. They will probably constitute the first that have 
 reached him in many a year. They will teach him, I think, 
 sir, that there are a few bright spots left in the world, a 
 few hearts upon which light is still shining." The General 
 held the hand of his visitor a moment more, flushed and 
 looked down. Then he pressed it in silence.
 
 RAVENSWOOD. 155 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 RAVENSWOOD. 
 
 Within the few hours, as promised, Chilon received a 
 brief note from the government's representative confirm- 
 ing the contract that had been made, namely: Robert Un- 
 derhill and his principal were, within sixty days, to deliver 
 to the government the original Carl Garner and plates 
 if possible. Failing in that, they were to deliver the plates. 
 For this, Carl Garner, as convicted, was to receive a 
 pardon, with such public reparation as he might require. 
 
 For the first time in many a year Chilon walked forth a 
 free man. He took the Southern Express an hour later. 
 
 Time had made great changes in the city of his youth. 
 Not only had ambitious buildings sprung into existence, 
 but the craze for colored paints had swept away the dig- 
 nity of many old mansions, and the calm restfulness of the 
 broad streets had fled before the whirring wheels of elec- 
 tric cars. It scarcely seemed to be the same city. He 
 walked the streets absolutely alone, meeting many famil- 
 iar faces, grown older; missing more. No one knew him. 
 
 But his interest in life had not, as he tried to persuade 
 himself, narrowed down to Carl Garner. He could not, 
 impatiently as he tried, repress a certain feeling of 
 eagerness when he looked into the faces of the women 
 who met him and gazed into the many carriages brought 
 out by the perfection of that May morning. It was with 
 a feeling almost boyish, yet inexpressibly sad, that he 
 temporized openly, at last, and sought the neighborhood 
 of the late Richard Marbeau's residence. He passed it 
 by on the opposite side; flowers were in the windows, 
 little children were riding their bicycles about the yard, 
 a stout lady was clipping rose bushes, and an old man 
 read his paper in a shady corner of the veranda. A post- 
 man was hurrying past, but stopped to answer a question.
 
 156 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 "Marbeau? No, sir! No such family has lived there 
 since I came on this route three years since. Colonel Mar- 
 beau lives seven miles out." 
 
 "Yes, I know. Thank you!" He passed on. What did 
 it matter! She had gone away somewhere to educate her 
 child. It was better so. But the beauty went out of the 
 day. The voices of romping children, the sight of the 
 fresh, southern faces in car and carriage wearied, palled 
 upon him. He hurried to a stable and took a vehicle. 
 He had not announced the day of his arrival. 
 The bureau through which the request for assistance had 
 reached him had merely written that Mr. Robert Under- 
 bill, who was traveling for health in the south and upon 
 whose advice in many important matters they relied im- 
 plicitly, would soon, at their request, call upon him. The 
 letter also advised against any suggestions upon the part 
 of Colonel Marbeau looking to compensation for this 
 service, as Mr. Underbill was not in business as a detec- 
 tive, and rendered it as a matter of accommodation to 
 them. 
 
 So Chilon returned home. The last time it had been 
 as a fleeing criminal in the shadows of the woods and 
 streams, unknown, and poor. This time he came openly, 
 bearing the guarantee of his government and a name that 
 was powerful. 
 
 Saddened and depressed though he was, he would not 
 have been human had he not nevertheless felt the perfec- 
 tion of the day and the splendor of those skies. The air 
 was full of sweets, and vibrant with the rapture of birds 
 and the tuneful chorus of negroes in the cotton fields, 
 whose threads of green stretched away into the dizzy dis- 
 tances. As he passed one of these groups, their hoes ris- 
 ing and falling with rhythmic precision, he caught the 
 words of an old, familiar hymn : 
 
 Hold the candle, Sister Mary, 
 
 Hold the candle, my sister, 
 
 Hold the candle till I look over Jordan.
 
 RAVENSWOOD. 1 57 
 
 The days are so long 
 And the people are so wicked 
 I don't want to stay here 
 No longer! 
 
 A memory came to him of the sweet face of his mother, 
 set within a mass of wavy hair; and of the prayers he 
 used to say at her knees, he and Celeste! How strange, 
 how far it all seemed! His way had been a tortuous one. 
 Thank God, she had fallen asleep out of sight of it all. 
 
 The song had faded in the distance. Looking back he 
 saw the regular flash of the polished hoes, and knew that 
 it still went on. 
 
 Through the old, familiar archway of the gate at Rav- 
 enswood the vehicle rolled. It was there, when she came 
 home that day from school, the shy little convent girl, 
 that he had kissed her impulsively and said, "Welcome to 
 Ravenswood!" To-day how was it? 
 
 "Drive on," he said, quickly, to the man with the lines; 
 "we are losing time." 
 
 And last of all there was the old sycamore, with its half- 
 concealed hollow. This time he turned his face away and 
 ground his teeth together with inward rage at his own 
 weakness. The vehicle had stopped when he recovered 
 his self-possession. Looking hurriedly, he saw the old, 
 familiar home, with the familiar figure of its owner 
 standing upon the porch awaiting him. 
 
 Chilon took occasion, before reaching the steps, to 
 measure the effects of time upon the man he was to meet. 
 He was a little grayer, a little heavier, with just a slight 
 settling of the erect figure that was all. There were 
 the same bright eye and open face, the same easy dress 
 and courteous attention. He rose to his level with slow, 
 deliberate steps, and they met. He felt the swift, search- 
 ing glance and noted the slight expression of bewilder- 
 ment upon his uncle's face. He spoke first: 
 
 "Colonel Marbeau, I believe! I am Mr. Underbill." 
 The next instant they were shaking hands and the Col- 
 onel was leading the way into the library. A girl of prob-
 
 158 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 ably twelve or thirteen years of age was curled up in the 
 great leather chair asleep over her books. Chilon was 
 to receive many tests, but few would appeal to him more 
 forcibly! It had been the favorite attitude of Lena from 
 childhood up. Startled and deeply affected, fascinated, 
 he paused before the beautiful picture. Colonel Marbeau 
 noticed the action with surprise, and following the direc- 
 tion of the other's gaze saw, in the rather dimly-lighted 
 room, the little figure. He smiled. 
 
 "Study, upon such mornings as these, comes peculiarly 
 hard to a child, Mr. Underbill. You will have to excuse 
 the young lady. Lena! Lena!" he continued, touching 
 the smooth cheek of the sleeper; "jump up, my dear. See, 
 here is a gentleman who wishes to meet you." In an in- 
 stant the child was on her feet, looking upon the stranger 
 from under long lashes that almost hid the loveliness of 
 her dark, brown eyes. 
 
 "This is my granddaughter, Lena, Mr. Underbill; as 
 fine a sleeper as ever sat in a chair. Eh, Lena? You were 
 literally caught napping that time, weren't you?'' 
 
 The child extended to the visitor her little hand. 
 
 "Yes, Grandpa! I hope Mr. Underbill will excuse me. 
 I had so tired of study." 
 
 Chilon had passed his hand across his eyes for a second, 
 almost blinded by the rush of blood to the head. He had 
 discounted by imagining all scenes and trials that seemed 
 possible, but not this vivid reproduction of a picture from 
 the past. Face, figure, voice and manner; {hey were 
 the same. Lena Marbeau was not dead. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir!" He vaguely realized that 
 Colonel Marbeau was speaking "you are ill faint! 
 
 Run, daughter, and bring Mr. Underbill a glass of water 
 >> 
 
 "A passing dizziness, only," said Chilon, smiling weak- 
 ly. "The day is a little warm for a northerner. And the 
 long ride " 
 
 "Naturally. I beg that you will be seated, sir. Take
 
 RAVENSWOOD. 159 
 
 this chair near the window. And here is a fan of the old 
 kind. Lena, this way, dear. And, Mr. Underhill" 
 as Chilon surrendered and accepted the silver dipper "I 
 will guarantee, sir, that you have never had such a 
 draught! It comes from the best of springs!" 
 
 "It is certainly refreshing," said Chilon, handing back 
 the dipper. "It has been many years since I read poetry 
 life for us, Colonel, has but little poetry but just now two 
 lines come out of my youth I forget even the author, 
 but it matters not 
 
 " 'A sweeter draught from fairer hands was never quaffed!' " 
 
 "Well said!" exclaimed his host, "and well chosen!'' 
 Lena looked at them with her grave, questioning eyes, 
 and bowed in embarrassment. 
 
 "This is your first visit south, Mr. Underhill?" 
 
 "Oh, no! I have occasionally passed through the 
 southern states. But it has been some years since I was 
 last in this section." 
 
 "Gentlemen of your profession but I forget; you are 
 not, I believe, connected with any " 
 
 "Detective system? None. I have no profession.'' 
 
 Colonel Marbeau looked a little bewildered. He regard- 
 ed the now calm and collected man before him with deep 
 interest. 
 
 "No profession; but yet " Chilon had anticipated 
 
 this. 
 
 "But yet I have friends who make it their business to 
 unravel mysteries. I have called upon you at the request 
 of one of them. I have never before left my office for a 
 consultation with any one; but it suits me to spend a few 
 weeks in the south." 
 
 "That is fortunate," said the Colonel, warmly. "I beg 
 that you will honor us with your company as long as you 
 feel disposed. We have a good country here, and just 
 enough of the old south to make it worth while for a 
 visitor who feels interested to study our institutions. The
 
 160 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 shooting season is passed, but our fishing is good. Un- 
 fortunately, I am obliged to take care of my eyes just now, 
 or I might offer personally to accompany you. Some of 
 my wounds are a little troublesome, too." 
 
 "You are very kind, Colonel. I shall not trouble you 
 to that extent; but if a few days, a week, perhaps, would 
 not inconvenience you 
 
 "Why, dear me, nothing could make me happier. And 
 in that time we may discuss our business at leisure. Sad 
 business, it is, Mr. Underbill, sad business!" 
 
 "Ah, indeed. Unfortunately, I hear but little else, Col- 
 onel." 
 
 "I suppose so. I regret to add to your store of un- 
 pleasant experiences. But yet this has only sad features; 
 it is entirely within the family, sir, and of course nothing 
 criminal." 
 
 "That is fortunate, indeed." 
 
 "It is a case of disappearance, sir, only; we 
 will go over it after a while. I will not mar 
 such a day as this ; oh, my child, my child !" as Lena en- 
 tered with a little silver waiter and two golden mint 
 juleps; "you will make a toper of your grandfather yet. 
 Now, Mr. Underbill, loyal as I am to the old spring at 
 the foot of the hill, I am bound to admit that at 1 1 :3O a. 
 m. a mint julep, based upon it, is an improvement." 
 
 "I commend your judgment," said Chilon, "and will 
 break a rule in honor of our fair waitress, and the name 
 of your place is " 
 
 "Ravenswood !" 
 
 "Of Ravenswood!" 
 
 "That drink," said the Colonel, nodding, well pleased 
 and holding the goblet aloft, "would make any man a bi- 
 metallist. Behold, sir, how the arctic silver is blended 
 with the liquid gold ! Fresh from the mint, it is the best 
 circulating medium that I know of." 
 
 "Excellent, Colonel, excellent! You southerners know 
 how to say such things. You spoke of a disappearance
 
 RAVENSWOOD. 161 
 
 a few moments ago," Chilon continued, lifting- his lips 
 from his glass at length and speaking carelessly "a child 
 was it?" 
 
 "No. A nephew of mine; seventeen years ago. The 
 circumstances were extremely distressing." 
 
 "Ah! He bore your family name?" 
 
 "Yes ; the only son of a dead brother. Chilon was his 
 name. Chilon Marbeau." 
 
 The visitor lifted his glass and finished his drink in 
 silence. 
 
 "You spoke of him as though he were very young, Col- 
 onel; was he married?" 
 
 "Well yes. But we will go into it all after awhile." 
 
 11
 
 162 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 LOST CHORDS. 
 
 It was not a matter for surprise that Colonel Marbeau 
 did not recognize his nephew in Robert Underbill. The 
 changes that seventeen years had wrought would have 
 been sufficient to confuse any memory; but these, added 
 to the circumstances of his return, rendered the disguise 
 complete. In two respects, however, there had been 
 none; the tone of voice was, though fuller and deeper, the 
 same. A man may change his inflection, his name, his 
 manner of speech, his voice tunes for the simplest ex- 
 pression used in speech is a species of song but his tone, 
 once established, unless affected by accident, is ever the 
 same. He thinks in words, and his own ego is the sound 
 of his voice. Age scars the face with wrinkles, alters the 
 angles, whitens the hair and bends the figure; nay, it 
 even adds quavers to the voice and changes its pitch. To 
 the man himself there is no change in the tone. 
 
 Chilon, for a long time, started at the sound of his own 
 voice at Ravenswood. He could not understand how 
 anything so natural was not recognized by every one who 
 had known him. 
 
 The other point in which he had not suffered change 
 was the eye ray, the remarkable light that darted from his 
 pupils. He did not realize this, because no eye can be 
 fully conscious of its own brightness, even with a mirror 
 to assist. It cannot reflect a ray less bright than that 
 which illuminates it. 
 
 So it was his eye and voice carried with them some 
 vague suggestion that Colonel Marbeau could not inter- 
 pret, disarmed as he was whenever he contemplated the 
 cold, white face turned toward his. There was no ring- 
 ing laugh, no ready smile, nor nervous rush of words to 
 carry on the thought until Chilon came back to memory;
 
 LOST CHORDS. 163 
 
 only that white face with gray ringlets curved along its 
 brow; and a man of deliberate movements and impas- 
 sable dignity. 
 
 He released his guest at high noon ; habit is a lord with 
 men nearing sixty, and while Chilon accepted the sugges- 
 tion and strolled out into the open, the Colonel laid a fan 
 over his face and yielded to habit and the hour. 
 
 Chilon observed the little girl in the garden, lovingly 
 lifting and fondling the splendid roses there. During 
 the interview within doors he had been haunted by a 
 vague fear. What if Lena Marbeau were, after all, at 
 Ravenswood! He had tried himself and knew now that 
 surrounded as he was by so many memories, he was weak. 
 He eagerly embraced the opportunity presented. Unac- 
 customed to children though he had been, there was yet 
 something about him that impressed this child upon their 
 first meeting. Perhaps they hear first of all the note of 
 suffering. 
 
 He went toward her slowly, a rare smile upon his 
 face. 
 
 "May I not have a rose?" he said. 
 
 "Certainly, sir!" without a change of expression she 
 laid her hand upon a Devoniensis ; and then, with a grav- 
 ity equal to his own, "would you like a crimson one?" 
 So had the other stood, her hand upon a crimson rose, 
 when he gazed down from yonder window ; and, startled 
 by the picture, he looked up suddenly. 
 
 Was there a face at that window, too? 
 
 "I cannot," he whispered. "I cannot endure it." He 
 let the little lady pin the rose upon his lapel, a sudden 
 agony crushing his heart as he saw her white hands 
 there, and the great, brown, questioning eyes lifted to his 
 again. 
 
 "Thank you, my child; you are very kind," he whis- 
 pered; "very, very kind!" He laid his hands upon her 
 curls reverently. "What beautiful hair you have. Was 
 your mamma's like this, soft and curly?"
 
 164 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Do you have to leave her when you come to visit 
 grandfather at Ravenswood?" 
 
 "I never talk about mamma, sir. Grandfather does not 
 wish me to." 
 
 "Never talk about mamma! She is not dead, child! 
 not dead !" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Thank God !" he exclaimed, and seeing her face lifted 
 and eyes filled with sudden tears, he added, "for your 
 sake! She is your best friend. Many a poor girl and 
 many a poor boy might have been spared untold misery 
 if God had spared their mothers. So it seems to us!" 
 
 "Papa is dead," she said, gravely. "He was killed by a 
 tramp in the house yonder!" 
 
 Chilon stood as though carved of stone. He lifted his 
 hands from the orphan's head gently. He had forgotten 
 for the moment in the rush and pressure of other mem- 
 ories. It was a desecration, an insult to her purity, her 
 loyalty, to let her stand there in ignorance, with the hand 
 of his murderer upon her head. He would defend her 
 against himself. 
 
 And yet was he a murderer! Were words spoken in 
 the agony of his wrong and ruin, words which were but 
 the ebullition of his wrath, entered up against him? Had 
 he, in cold blood, met Richard Marbeau face to face, un- 
 armed or armed, would he have deliberately sought his 
 life? He would not. And was he guilty when the act 
 was committed in the insanity of fever? No! Fate had 
 made him a blind executioner. He was not a murderer. 
 No one had ever called him that. No one knew his act ! 
 So he reasoned. 
 
 "He did not mean to kill him, though," she said. "Papa 
 would not let him get away. The man was poor and 
 probably starving in despair, and papa tried to shoot him. 
 If he had been caught he would have had to go to prison,
 
 LOST CHORDS. 165 
 
 oh! so many years. And so I pray to God that he will 
 forgive him and make him good!" 
 
 Chilon's hand trembled as he placed it again upon the 
 little head. 
 
 "Who taught you that?" he whispered. 
 
 She did not reply. "God bless her, whoever she was; 
 God bless her!" 
 
 She stood with eyes cast down, her long, dark lashes 
 upon her fair cheek, a picture that would never have 
 wearied him. Her fingers, in her embarrassment, were 
 stripping an unplucked rose, the crimson petals falling at 
 her feet. 
 
 "Have you a little girl?" she asked presently. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "Neither wife nor child on earth or in heaven." 
 
 There was silence a moment, her brown eyes searching 
 his face in wonder. 
 
 "I am sorry," she said simply. "You must sometimes 
 be lonely. Grandfather says he is lonely when I am 
 away." 
 
 He had turned aside a moment and was watching a 
 great black and yellow butterfly balancing himself upon 
 a blossom. How long it seemed since even that little 
 vision had blessed his eyes. Seeing his interest, she 
 joined him. 
 
 "That is the papilio turnus. Chilon knows all about 
 him he knows all about everything." 
 
 "Chilon!" The name escaped him unconsciously 
 why what a strange name! And who is Chilon, my 
 child?" 
 
 "Oh, Chilon is my cousin." 
 
 "Your cousin!" 
 
 "Yes. Aunt Celeste Aubren is his mother. I think 
 you would like Chilon; he is so wise. I think 
 you must be wise too, sir; you look like Chilon!" Her 
 face brightened and for the first time he saw her smile. 
 Her eyes were fixed on something beyond him. "Here
 
 166 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 he comes now." Slowly, as though fearing another shock, 
 and yet prepared, the man turned his head and saw coming 
 toward them a boy of about fifteen. He caught almost 
 every detail of his appearance in one glance. Tall and 
 slender, straight as an arrow, clad in knickerbockers and 
 a creamy muslin shirt, a scarlet handkerchief knotted at 
 the throat and on his head a slanting straw hat, the youth 
 presented a striking appearance. The face was better re- 
 vealed as he came nearer, with a quick nervous movement 
 that marked the existence of some absorbing motive. 
 But as the boy's face grew clearer by near approach, the 
 man shrank back a little. In the rather delicate, but not 
 diminutive features, the poise of head, the set of mouth, 
 something familiar cried out from the past. And when 
 the clear, bright brown eyes met his and seemed to search 
 his soul, and the voice in response to Lena's introduction 
 greeted him in low, sweet tones, he realizezd that the 
 Chilon of a generation past confronted him. 
 
 He controlled himself by a supreme effort and extended 
 his hand. What he intended to say he did not know. 
 What he did say, was: 
 
 "I am glad to meet you, my boy. Little Lena has 
 been telling me of you." The two children exchanged 
 glances. He saw then a difference, a wide difference be- 
 tween the phantom of the past the meeting had called up, 
 and this new personification. The momentary excitement 
 gone, the boy's face resumed what was, evidently, its 
 habitual expression, a thoughtfulness that was almost 
 sadness. The light, too, sank far away into his eyes. He 
 shrank perceptibly toward the girl. 
 
 "Chilon sees so few strangers," she said in explanation; 
 and then quite as a matter of course she took his hand. 
 
 "I think I am keeping you from play," said the man. 
 "I would not wish to do that." 
 
 "Chilon has come to practice his music," said the girl 
 quickly. 
 
 "Music!"
 
 LOST CHORDS. 167 
 
 "Yes, sir! He is learning the organ from me." 
 
 "And of course you are a musician, too, then." 
 
 "I only play a little, but I know enough to teach him. 
 I have been taught ever since I was a baby. We practice 
 together. Do you play?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, softly, "sometimes." The children's 
 faces brightened with interest. 
 
 "The organ?" 
 
 "Yes." They were never strangers again. They 
 moved nearer to him, excitement at once showing in the 
 boy's eyes. The little girl looked wistfully into his face, 
 saying: 
 
 "Would you mind playing a little for us? So few peo- 
 ple play who come." He found himself charmed and in- 
 terested. And the organ stood in the room where the 
 plates were hidden. 
 
 "Would I? No, indeed. But Grandfather is taking 
 his nap." 
 
 "Oh, we shall not disturb him. The organ is down in 
 the parlor, and we can shut the door. Besides, Grand- 
 father dearly loves the organ. He says it always soothes 
 him." 
 
 Chilon took a hand of each and went in doors. The 
 old-fashioned southern parlor with its mohair mahogany 
 furniture, solemn portraits and heavy hangings lost its 
 gloom on this occasion. For the costly vases had been 
 filled with roses and the sunlight was, in defiance of an 
 important canon of southern civilization, pouring a flood 
 of light into the crimson counterfeits upon the carpeted 
 floor. The tall pipe organ was thrown open, and as one 
 coming home again, Chilon seated himself upon the fa- 
 miliar bench and let his hands stray over the keys in 
 search of a melody suited to his mood. Gradually the 
 notes arranged themselves and he found himself playing 
 that sadly beautiful fancy of Sullivan's, "The Lost Chord.'' 
 His lips framed no words, but in his heart the poem grew 
 with the melody. The exquisite conception, reproduced
 
 168 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 by one born of harmony and possessed of rare technique, 
 filled the room and stole forth into the faultless day, al- 
 most a living spirit. Player and listeners were lost to the 
 hour and the situation, and when the pipes sang almost 
 the words of the closing lines: 
 
 It may be that somewhere in heaven 
 I shall hear that chord again 
 
 Chilon found his eyes moist. No sound broke the silence 
 that succeeded the close. After a few moments he re- 
 membered and looked upon his audience. Lena's woman- 
 ly face was lit with a strange, sweet light, and with lips half 
 parted, she was regarding him, startled and entranced. 
 But the boy, his figure rigid from some powerful emotion, 
 sat with his eyes half closed and tears upon his cheeks. 
 The little girl turned quickly and saw them. Dropping 
 to her knees, she took his hands in hers. 
 
 "Chilon, Chilon," she said, "look up, dear. It is I, 
 Lena!" He lifted his face almost in awe, and fixed his 
 luminous eyes upon those of the player. What message, 
 what signal, had passed from man to boy? We do not 
 know; the next century will understand. Rising, he 
 came to the side of the musician and laid his arms about 
 him. 
 
 "I love you," he said, and Lena, her own eyes dim with 
 tears, came too, and stood by them, with wistful face up- 
 lifted. 
 
 In the doorway, until then unobserved, was Colonel 
 Marbeau, his martial figure erect, and a look of intense 
 interest upon his face. For a few moments only he re- 
 mained silent, contemplating the little group. 
 
 "You are a performer, Mr. Underbill, of no small skill. 
 I am not a musician, but all Marbeaus are born with a 
 keen appreciation of music. It makes us all impractical, 
 they say, but that matters little. Impractical people sow 
 the seeds of progress if they never reap." 
 
 "Sometimes they reap, Colonel, and a sad harvest it is. 
 This truth has been forced upon me many times, but I
 
 LOST CHORDS. 169 
 
 agree with you. These young people, by your test, are 
 true Marbeaus, I perceive; they have music in them!'' 
 He placed an arm around each and drew them closer. 
 
 Lena's gift is her voice. I think with training it will be 
 above the ordinary. Daughter, sing one of your little 
 songs for Mr. Underbill." 
 
 "Certainly, Grandfather. Which one?" 
 
 "Any will do. I want Mr. Underbill to tell me what he 
 thinks of your voice." She thought a moment, and then 
 sang in a clear, soft-toned soprano, exquisitely modulated: 
 
 Somewhere tonight, I know that thou art weary, 
 
 A shadow falls upon my heart, 
 And thou art thinking of me only, 
 
 Withdrawn from thy dear friends apart, 
 Striving with the fervor of thy love to be 
 At home, at home again with me. 
 
 Before the dying coals I see thee kneeling 
 While twilight deepens in thy silent room, 
 
 And darkness from thy wistful face is stealing 
 All but the whiteness of its bloom. 
 
 Oh, love, close ear and eye, that thou mayst hear and see, 
 
 Open thy arms, I come to thee! 
 
 The beautiful melody died away, and silence, strange 
 and awkward, followed. The boy stood looking down, his 
 chest rising and falling rapidly. The man at the organ 
 sat with his hands resting upon the keys, his head bent 
 forward. He had not played a note. 
 
 "What a strange, sad song," he said gently, "and how it 
 suits her voice!" 
 
 "It is a strange, sad song, too sad for a day like this. 
 Why she should have chosen it I can't imagine. It was 
 written by the Chilon Marbeau of whom we were speak- 
 ing. But what of her voice, Mr. Underbill ?" 
 
 "She might win fame and fortune, sir, if she would. 
 She is a born singer." 
 
 "Thank you, sir. But a woman's fame is broad enough 
 when it fills the circle of her friends ; and as for fortune, 
 why I will attend to that." And with this slight discord 
 the old gentleman whirled about and sought his den.
 
 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 
 
 The southern country dinner is a noon-day affair and 
 not ceremonious. Colonel Marbeau brought forth some 
 excellent cigars after the meal. 
 
 "Mr. Underbill, take your choice; finish the day with 
 the children out of doors, or stay here and be bored by an 
 old man. However, I will decide for you since I see that 
 you have a fondness for the little folks and they for you. 
 Lena shall show you about and to-morrow we may discuss 
 our matters. A souvenir or two of Virginia campaigns, 
 in the shape of bullets in my left hip and thigh, compel me 
 to keep within reach of the house here. Where is Chilon, 
 daughter?" 
 
 "In the library!" The boy was found lying face down 
 upon the floor before the bookcase, absorbed in an illus- 
 trated volume of natural history, too large to be handled 
 easily. He came willingly and stood silent by Lena's side 
 while plans were discussed. 
 
 "I think," said the girl. "Chilon is most interested to- 
 day in insects and botany." 
 
 "Then," said the guest, quickly yielding to the superior 
 claim, "we will follow him !" 
 
 Their way led by the mill, whose whirring rocks were 
 adding a monotonous note to the hour. The boy was 
 soon separated from them, oblivious to everything else, 
 in his occupation ; the others found a shady log near the 
 water and the visitor took from her hands Lena's sketch 
 book. 
 
 "I suppose I may look," he said with deference. 
 
 "You are an artist!" she replied, quickly. 
 
 "Why do you think so?" She reflected a moment: 
 
 "You would not have asked if you were not. You
 
 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. I7 1 
 
 would have just looked. So my teacher once told a gen- 
 tleman !" 
 
 "A keen observation. You are right; it is the un- 
 taught person who opens an artist's book without per- 
 mission but I am still waiting." 
 
 "You may look," she said, smiling, "I don't think you 
 will criticize." The pictures were crude, but bold, the 
 points of view well chosen and perspective good. He 
 noted these points quickly. "I will return your compli- 
 ment," he said, "you are an artist." 
 
 "Why do you think so?'' and then, "You see I have re- 
 turned your question, Mr. Underhill." 
 
 "Well, the effect is what you seem to seek, rather than 
 mere detail ; and young as you are, it shows in your work. 
 I think, my child, you should be classed as a juvenile im- 
 pressionist. The wind in these bushes along the mill 
 dam is very apparent, and this pigeon, while he violates 
 all the canons of pigeonhood as accepted, is evidently try- 
 ing to alight after a long flight." Her face flushed a lit- 
 tle, and she looked up from under her dark lashes with 
 embarrassment. 
 
 "I am afraid you are laughing at me, sir." 
 
 "Laughing? No, indeed. You have more to start 
 with my child than many artists acquire in half a life- 
 time. Some ancestor has passed his genius to you. You 
 must now learn to use your hand. Sit still on your end of 
 the log and let me see if I have forgotten." Rapidly he 
 sketched the little figure in profile, the background a 
 stretch of smooth water with the old mill and deep green 
 of the woods beyond. The heavy shadows gave him 
 chance for strong contrasts. The likeness was easy; he 
 but copied from within. The child's grave face and clus- 
 tering curls, her hat hanging loosely, and her hands 
 clasped carelessly in her lap, formed an exquisitely beauti- 
 ful picture. When he had finished he watched her a mo- 
 ment, with inexpressible sadness. She brightened at once 
 at sight of the picture.
 
 172 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 "And is that of me?" she asked in wonder. "How 
 beautifully it is drawn, and how quickly! Oh! Why, 
 
 sir, I have a picture in a scrap book! " She stopped 
 
 abruptly. But she did not need to finish the sentence. 
 A shadow fell upon the man's face. He understood and 
 was greatly disturbed. 
 
 "I think then I shall let you give me this one," he said, 
 quickly. 
 
 "Oh, do you want it, sir? I ; the other is not mine, 
 you know!'' 
 
 "Then keep it child, I can draw another from memory." 
 After all what did it matter. Chilon, the boy, came up 
 then. 
 
 "See, Lena, I've got him at last. Not a leg broken!" 
 He held a spider between thumb and finger, the black legs 
 of the little beast spreading two inches in every direction, 
 his mandibles clicking ominously. She drew back in 
 alarm. 
 
 "Take care, my son, that is an ugly looking customer," 
 said her companion. 
 
 "Not poisonous," said the boy simply. "He belongs to 
 the riparians. It is hard to get one perfect; their legs 
 drop off like dead leaves from a tree." In a little per- 
 forated box that he drew from his pocket, was heard a 
 faint buzzing. The box was attached to a larger one by a 
 wire in the bottom. Placing the open end of this one to 
 his ear the boy listened intently, a pleased expression 
 upon his thoughtful face. 
 
 "There is an ichneumon fly in there." 
 
 "Dirt-dauber," said Lena, seeing their guest's puzzled 
 expression. 
 
 "He builds his little mud nests under the mill. The 
 note he makes with his wings is the same as the note made 
 by the mill." 
 
 "True," said the man, taking the cup and listening. 
 "Many octaves above, but the same note." 
 
 "He also builds up in our garret and at night when the
 
 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. I?3 
 
 wind hums up there, it makes the same note. Would you 
 say that they go to the garret and the mill because they 
 like the sound, or do they take their note from the place 
 they build in?" 
 
 "I am not a scientist," said the man, smiling, and speak- 
 ing to Lena, "so you see you children have me at a disad- 
 vantage at last. What do you think, my boy?" 
 
 "I think that their wings vibrate more easily when they 
 vibrate with the air around them." 
 
 "Maybe so; but I have a suspicion that your friend, the 
 dirt-dauber, as Lena calls him, frequents garrets and mills 
 because the spiders do. They are, as you probably know, 
 mortal enemies. The fly catches the spider, paralyzes 
 him by stinging back of the head, and tucks him away in 
 the little dirt nest where he puts an egg. The warmth of 
 the spider helps to hatch the egg and then the little grub 
 feeds upon him. Am I right? That is my recollection, 
 for I used to watch them when I was a little boy." 
 
 "Yes," said the child positively, "that is what the books 
 say; but he does not sting the spider. He tickles him un- 
 til he is asleep. All the family can be tickled to sleep, 
 from the crab down to the wood-tick. I will find a tick 
 sometime and show you. Try these big spiders and you 
 will see them roll up and sleep. I have tried them.'' 
 
 "Chilon is finding out the note that every flying insect 
 makes," said Lena, her eyes following her playmate as he 
 passed on. "We try them with the organ. But he can 
 tell nearly always from memory. He says that if we 
 could hear better hear well enough to find one of these 
 insects a hundred yards away, there would be so much 
 noise in the world people would have to talk by signs." 
 The elder Chilon shook his head. 
 
 "Where does he get such ideas? It would be better 
 for him to play more and let brain work alone." 
 
 "Oh, Chilon never plays. He will not ride, or swim, or 
 row ; I wish he would. Sometimes he worries me," said 
 the little woman. "He not only hears insects' wings, but
 
 174 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 he hears voices around him when I can't. He says it is 
 because he can hear better than I can; that there is some- 
 thing in him that answers to vibrations too fine for me. 
 Do you believe that, sir?" 
 
 "It may be true," said Chilon. "I am sure he must be- 
 lieve it." 
 
 "Yes, indeed. He could not tell a falsehood. Why, 
 sometimes when it is lightning he declares that he hears 
 it or feels it, he doesn't know which. You saw how he 
 watched you this morning? He told me after you left 
 the parlor that he had heard your voice somewhere many 
 and many a time. But that couldn't be, I know. He 
 said, too, that when I was singing this morning, he kept 
 thinking about a girl who looked like me but wasn't, and 
 believed that Mr. Underhill was thinking of the same 
 girl. He is very strange sometimes, but he is good and 
 loves me. Sometimes he calls me little sister. I think 
 that I must understand him better than anybody. Aunt 
 Celeste never did understand him, but she loves him very 
 much." So the wise little tongue discoursed upon its fa- 
 vorite topic : Chilon. She did not notice that the man by 
 her side was startled and almost breathless for an instant. 
 
 "Hasn't Chilon been away to school yet?'' 
 
 "Oh, no, sir! Aunt Celeste's grandfather has been 
 teaching him until this year, when he died. And, oh, he 
 taught him everything! all about the gods and goddess- 
 es of the old times you know; and Chilon says they were 
 all real. It wasn't any trouble to teach Chilon; he says 
 he came into the world educated and all they had to do 
 was to remind him of what he had forgotten. Isn't that a 
 funny idea?" 
 
 "Very. The poor little fellow seems very grave for 
 one so young." 
 
 "Oh, he is not now. But sometimes he is so sad; and 
 if I did not sing to him, I don't know what would become 
 of him. He goes off in the woods and fields and stays all 
 day, sometimes lying upon his back and watching the
 
 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 175 
 
 clouds, and sometimes watching them in the lake. He 
 sometimes is lonely in the night and can't sleep, and then 
 he gets out quietly and comes over here, but not to come 
 in. A lamp burns all night in one of the rooms up- 
 stairs; did you speak?" 
 
 "No, no, my child! You were saying !" 
 
 "He says he doesn't feel lonely when he can see that 
 light, and after awhile he goes back home and sleeps." 
 
 "Strange! Strange!" 
 
 "And I feel so sorry for Chilon. Sometimes, before I 
 go to bed, I stand at the window and sing a song, because 
 my singirfg always quiets him, and I think maybe he will 
 hear me and go home to sleep. Please don't tell anyone 
 about Chilon. I don't know why I told you ; but if they 
 found it out over home his mother might make him prom- 
 ise her to stay there and that would make him more un- 
 happy ; for Chilon never breaks a promise." 
 
 "You may trust me. I will not tell ! But does he come 
 here often, now? in the day time?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. Grandfather lets him come to get books 
 and study music with me. I think he is more interested 
 in studying vibration than the music itself. Do you re- 
 member how many vibrations one can hear; isn't it 
 thirty-six thousand to the second? Chilon told me but I 
 have forgotten." 
 
 "Something like that, I believe." 
 
 "Well, Chilon says, and he knows, that after we 
 lose the vibrations at thirty-six thousand we never know 
 anything more about them until they come so fast they 
 form light, many hundred millions to the second; and 
 between the last sound we can hear and the first light we 
 can see with our ears and eyes, is the unknown world. 
 If we could hear all the way up or see all the way down 
 we would know everything. He can hear a great many, 
 twice as many vibrations as I can ; and so he says many 
 things come to him that no one else knows; only he isn't 
 able to understand them yet."
 
 .176 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 "You will be educated on a queer line if you stick to 
 Chilon, my dear. He is a dreamer. It will be hard for 
 him when he must put aside all these ideas and face the 
 world. I wonder if he ever thinks of that!" 
 
 "No, sir. Chilon hasn't ever been further than the city 
 and says that he will never go back there again. It's too 
 noisy for him. 
 
 "I don't know what will become of the little fellow. 
 His future is not apt to be a bright one." Chilon came up 
 at that moment and looked questioningly into their faces. 
 
 "I think I must be going," he said finally. Lena took 
 his hand. 
 
 "We were only saying nice things of you, Chilon, dear." 
 
 "Come and tell me about vibration, my boy," said the 
 elder Chilon; "perhaps I may interest you." The boy 
 nodded and lifting his hat, turned away. But the next in- 
 stant he was back again. 
 
 "Will you say that again?" he asked earnestly, "just as 
 you said it before?" The man smiling, repeated the sen- 
 tence. The boy looked long and steadily into his face, 
 shook his head slowly and disappeared in the wood.
 
 "LOOKING BACKWARD." 177 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 "LOOKING BACKWARD." 
 
 The full moon rose grandly, its white light striking 
 across the corner of the veranda where the chairs of the 
 gentlemen had been placed. Little Lena came to them and 
 leaned lightly upon Colonel Marbeau's shoulder as he 
 smoked and listened to the stranger who spoke upon the 
 topics of the day. The latter possessed for her a singular 
 fascination, and ever as he turned his gaze upon her, 
 standing in the splendor of the moon, he found her eyes 
 resting upon him. But when 9 o'clock came she went 
 away with a kiss for one and a courtesy for the other of 
 the two men. Chilon noticed, however, that instead of 
 entering the house at once she paused and stood gazing 
 thoughtfully into the shadowy depths of the woods. If 
 she listened for any unusual sound she apparently heard 
 none. Only the monotonous thump of the water-ram, 
 the drone of the falls and the shrill chorus of the crickets 
 came to them. 
 
 When she had gone within, silence fell upon the little 
 group. One of the two was busy with memories, the 
 other revolving in mind the case which he wished to pre- 
 sent. 
 
 Chilon spoke first, his train of thoughts having led up 
 to the same subject. 
 
 "I am afraid, Colonel, you are going to find it difficult 
 to give me just such a statement concerning your nephew 
 as I may wish. Few people possess the power of clearly 
 stating orally a case and presenting all the features of it in 
 proper order, and fewer still possess the mind to hold and 
 reproduce it without confusion. In the little time that I 
 have been enabled to think upon this subject it has oc- 
 curred to me that I shall need a calm, dispassionate his- 
 tory in writing, and I believe you will prefer to give it to 
 12
 
 178 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 me that way, when you have considered all the circum- 
 stances well." 
 
 "I like your idea, sir. It will give me a better oppor- 
 tunity, as you say. And, besides, I wish just such a his- 
 tory preserved. I have, in view of the uncertainty which 
 attends the fate of my nephew, made notes which will be 
 of use." 
 
 "I trust, then, that you will make it as full as possible. 
 Much that you may consider useless might be valuable to 
 one who has to create in mind a person and determine 
 whither his controlling characteristics have led him. 
 There is but one place to begin, and that is the beginning; 
 and there is involved in this disappearance not only ac- 
 quired mental and moral characteristics, but inherited 
 ones. Heredity has much to do with us; the disaster, 
 mortification, or wounded pride that one man would for- 
 get in a month would last another a lifetime. Your fam- 
 ily is of French extraction? The name would so indi- 
 cate." 
 
 "Yes. The first of the name came to this country, 
 about the middle of the eighteenth century, under pecu- 
 liar circumstances. Do you know the history of the Saltz- 
 burgers? I presume not. It was a colony of very re- 
 markable people who came to this state from Austria. 
 Persecuted for religion's sake, exiled, they made their way 
 through Germany to England, and thence to Georgia. 
 Their moral strength, their devotion to each other, their 
 faith in each other, were almost unparalleled. They are 
 still in this state a distinct people, blindly devoted to each 
 other, and fearless in defense of principles and priv- 
 ileges. Religious as they were, and still are, they never 
 made an enemy of a friend, nor a friend of an enemy " 
 
 "So that if your family has a Saltzburger strain, we may 
 expect to find something of these characteristics in this 
 generation?" 
 
 The Colonel was silent a moment.
 
 "LOOKING BACKWARD." 
 
 "That had not occurred to me directly, but I believe the 
 characteristics remain." 
 
 "But your name is French?" 
 
 "It was this way: Our ancestor was a Huguenot ref- 
 ugee in Germany when these people were fleeing from 
 persecution. Gay, highborn and careless, he was just 
 such a man as would dazzle and captivate a young woman 
 austerely raised. He met his fate in Lena Zegler. By 
 chance he was enabled to protect her from insult and thus 
 gained an acquaintance. She, modest as she was beauti- 
 ful, and beautiful beyond comparison, enslaved his fancy. 
 He was a younger son, with no home nor any ties to bind 
 him. Parting he found impossible, and so he cast in his 
 lot with the Austrians and came to Georgia. His services 
 gained him the respect and gratitude of the colonists and 
 his bride. 
 
 "But it was not long before he found himself out of 
 harmony with the life about him, for nothing could pre- 
 sent a greater contrast than a noble Frenchman and an 
 Austrian peasant. Family changes abroad put him in 
 better financial condition. He went back to France, 
 children were born, and when he came here again he took 
 up city life. His children laid the foundation of this 
 home." 
 
 "So, then again, if heredity controls, the Marbeaus are 
 restless and eccentric, with devoted and beautiful women 
 in all generations, and men light-hearted or top-heavy as 
 the French or Austrian predominates." 
 
 "A novel presentation," said Colonel Marbeau, "but not 
 bad. Our family record, now unfortunately mislaid, 
 shows this to be true. But we have had Austrian rein- 
 forcement more than once, and the latest was the mother 
 of the young man who is gone Chilon Marbeau, son of 
 my brother Francis." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 "The world never knew a grander woman than the wife 
 of Francis." The old man bowed his head as if in rever-
 
 l8o THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 ence to some visions he beheld. "She made her choice 
 it was Francis or me. She chose the better of the two. 
 Francis fell at Gettysburg. She did not long survive." 
 
 The silence was at length broken by the guest. 
 
 "You say this Chilon was a young man?" 
 
 "Twenty, I think. And it was seventeen years ago that 
 he left us." 
 
 "You believe him dead?" 
 
 "I do. But circumstances force me now to make an ef- 
 fort to find him." 
 
 "Circumstances?" 
 
 "Which I may not relate. They can have no bearing 
 upon the case that would affect the search." 
 
 "I regret your position in this matter very much," said 
 Chilon after a pause. "The very circumstances to which 
 you refer might furnish the clue we need. But I appre- 
 ciate your difficulty ; and, after all, the failure affects you 
 most, if fail we must." 
 
 "The circumstances cannot be considered," said the 
 other quietly. "They are simply too painful besides, 
 they involve " 
 
 Chilon waited, but the sentence was never finished. 
 
 "I see now," he said, "that my suggestion was a good 
 one. The case has many roots and branches. Give it to 
 me in writing. With this to study upon, I may advise 
 you by letter if I am called away. I only request that 
 you give me every detail that you feel at liberty to use, in 
 connection with your nephew's life, and the reason for this 
 search. In other words, give me his life story and the 
 lives of those with whom he was thrown their former 
 and after history." Colonel Marbeau nodded without 
 speaking. But, after reflection, he said: 
 
 "If in this, Mr. Underbill, I write my own history to 
 some extent, you will please bear in mind that Charles 
 Marbeau of the present and of the past, are two different 
 men. Haunted by the sorrows and tragedies of my life, 
 I have studied all the causes of my affliction, and from the
 
 "LOOKING BACKWARD." 
 
 181 
 
 people about me I have secured the missing links of the 
 story. My errors have been great, but my sorrows are 
 greater.'' His hearer turned away his face quickly. 
 
 "I regret, almost, sir, that I have placed this task upon 
 you.'' 
 
 "Say no more. It will, in many respects, be a satis- 
 faction for me to write this story. I may require several 
 days, but you will not lose in the end. You said that in- 
 somnia and the habit of night work had made you an in- 
 convenient guest, and so with your convenience in view 
 I have had you assigned to the room in the rear of the 
 parlor. It opens on the side veranda and will afford you 
 perfect freedom. And there is the parlor, with the or- 
 gan ; Lena and the woods. She is young, but will inter- 
 est you; and you have won her, already. Now, my 
 health depends upon a certain amount of sleep and if 
 you will excuse me " 
 
 "Why, certainly. Good night, sir!" 
 
 "Good night, and pleasant dreams, Mr. Underbill. If 
 you wish to remain up why the front door is not often 
 closed. And if you desire music, you will disturb no one. 
 Music is the Marbeau anodyne. Good night."
 
 182 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 THE DREAMS THAT COME. 
 
 Chilon sat long after his uncle had retired. Although 
 his approach to his new situation had been deliberate and 
 gradual, now that the events of the few days that had in- 
 tervened since his departure from New York were behind 
 him, he seemed only to have just stepped from his hotel 
 into sacred memories. One figure was gone, however, 
 the glory of them all. And he, the new Chilon, did not 
 seem to belong there. He was an intruder, an interloper. 
 
 As he sat in thought he heard in the distance some 
 simple melody and thought of little Lena and her strange 
 story. Obeying an impulse, he went forth into the woods 
 and stood where he might view that window once so eag- 
 erly watched four years before. She was there, the girl, 
 singing, while in the window upon her right a lamp was 
 burning. It was so real, so vivid a reproduction, he 
 could scarcely refrain from crying aloud to the singer. 
 In the moonlight the figure of the girl seemed womanly, 
 and in the still night her voice was a woman's indeed. The 
 song, the tones, the scene, overcame him. He almost ran 
 from the spot. But once he paused to listen; surely, no 
 child's voice possessed that strength and compass? None 
 but a woman who had lived and loved could produce 
 those tones? He shook his head and resolutely passed 
 from the place out of sound of the singer. 
 
 But Chilon, in yielding once to his heart, had lost self 
 control. He no longer sought to avoid thoughts of the 
 past. By the lakeside, that night, upon its glassy surface, 
 in the little boat, and in the dark avenues so well known 
 to his wandering feet, he gave himself up to memory and 
 to grief. It was the last time, perhaps. He did not care; 
 each spot had its memory; it was like a resurrection for 
 him to be there. Where the swinging muscadines fell
 
 THE DREAMS THAT COME. 183 
 
 in festoons, he stood and dreamed of the summer when 
 they climbed and swung among them. Where the grassy 
 log ran out and sank its moss in the waters, he bent his 
 head in anguish ; the picture he had drawn of her was clear 
 cut within his brain. By the dank, dark margins where 
 grow the azaleas and the jessamine he saw her covered 
 and wreathed with nature's spring triumphs, and in the 
 silvery moonlit waters her face smiled up into his own; 
 the hour was full of bitter sweets. Over all hung the 
 remembrance of his eternal loss! 
 
 Chance brought him near to the old sycamore, their 
 postoffice, and there, unable to throw off his fantasies or 
 longer command himself, he felt the tears rise up and 
 creep upon his cheeks. It was yesterday, only, that he 
 found there her little letters her pledges of love and af- 
 fection. Would she ever come again? Would she? 
 
 Nervous, depressed and trembling, he saw through the 
 mist in his eyes a vision so real, so life-like, that he almost 
 cried aloud. A woman, dressed in some light fabric that 
 half revealed and half concealed her girlish form, stood 
 by the hollow tree and, looking about cautiously, thrust 
 her hand within. For a time she waited, in deep 
 thought, apparently, and then began slowly to retreat 
 into the dark recesses behind her. At this moment, so it 
 seemed, a slender boy came and, touching the woman's 
 arm, looked into her eyes. She bent and kissed his fore- 
 head, and, with her arm about him, slowly disappeared. 
 
 Chilon found himself standing with both hands grasp- 
 ing a small sapling, his face deluged with perspiration. 
 He had not the slightest superstition. He accepted the 
 scene as the evidence of a brain disordered. Long brood- 
 ing had achieved his destruction. The next phenomenon 
 would be paresis. Life would end for him in a hospital 
 or private retreat among strangers. But his work was 
 not done. Resolutely, revived by this remembrance, he 
 threw off his mood and returned to the house. 
 
 But Chilon was not to escape so easily. As he placed
 
 I&4 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 his foot upon the gravel walk, the figure of the woman 
 glided across the veranda and disappeared through a par- 
 lor window. 
 
 In his room he spent hours contemplating his new peril. 
 At length, he slept, awakening with a start, thrilled by 
 that singular sensation which the presence of another per- 
 son in a darkened room produces upon sensitive nerves. 
 Again he beheld the same figure. This time it passed 
 from his window and as, with bursting veins, he followed, 
 he saw it vanish again within the parlor. He slept no 
 more that night. The warning of the old voodoo re- 
 turned "dreams will come; some of them won't go." 
 No further visions came that night, but once he fancied 
 that he heard again, somewhere above him, the sound of 
 the girl's voice lifted in song. He had, however, ceased 
 to trust his senses. 
 
 As Chilon lay oppressed by his thoughts and the new- 
 fear upon his mind, he was sensible of a keen regret that 
 he had ever given his consent to make the experiment. 
 He had not been equal to the task set for himself. His 
 old life with its passions and sentiment was not dead. 
 
 But could he retreat? Yes, fortunately, he had asked 
 for the Colonel's statement in writing. He would have 
 with it the history of his people, and perhaps all the mys- 
 teries unfolded. He might plead a telegraphic summons 
 and go. He felt that it was beyond his philosophy to en- 
 dure another night in that house, and disguise it as he 
 might, there was within him a great disappointment, al- 
 though the object of his coming had not been as yet 
 even sought. The plates! 
 
 Chilon aroused himself. The thought was a clarion 
 call to duty, or revenge. He passed into the hall and up- 
 stairs to the old ball room. The door was locked. As 
 he stood dismayed and perplexed, the swish of a woman's 
 garment passed him and a slight breath of air fanned his 
 cheek. Impulsively, he stretched out his hand and 
 touched someone, holding on until two hands deliber-
 
 THE DREAMS THAT COME. 185 
 
 ately, and, it seemed to him, with resistless strength, un- 
 did his fingers' clasp. When he caught madly again at 
 the object, nothing but air was there. Footsteps, light 
 quick footsteps, fled down the hall, and a low, sweet laugh 
 floated back.
 
 186 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 THE GHOSTS OF RAVENSWOOD. 
 
 Chilon escaped from the house at early dawn and by a 
 plunge in the lake restored to his nerves their accustomed 
 steadiness. He returned for breakfast, and, early as it 
 was, found Colonel Marbeau engaged upon his writing. 
 The elder gentleman, stimulated by the circumstances 
 surrounding him, threw himself with all the ardor of an 
 excitable temperament into the recital of the romance 
 that had involved so many of his family, and, true to his 
 agreement, sought to let no detail escape him. Family 
 pride with him, as with many men late in life, was almost 
 a weakness, and brooding over the story of his household 
 had prepared him for a volume. Early after the morning 
 meal he excused himself and left his guest to his own de- 
 vices. Lena came to the rescue, and the two soon drifted 
 into the parlor, where, behind closed doors, he drew from 
 the organ such music as the girl had but rarely heard. 
 He tempted her to sing her little ballads, and once even 
 added his tenor. This was in their last song, "My Lady's 
 Bower," and when the sweet strains died away, they 
 turned to find the boy, Chilon, leaning against the win- 
 dow frame thoughtfully listening to them. Aroused, he 
 fixed upon the face of the musician a sad, penetrating 
 gaze. The boy's mood conquered the other's; the man 
 soon realized that it was the highest expression of the 
 conversational art to furnish entertainment for such a na- 
 ture, and found himself silent. The little fellow spoke at 
 length. 
 
 "We have met before, haven't we?'' 
 
 "Never, until yesterday. That is, not in this life at 
 least," said the other, smiling. 
 
 "Then in some other,'' replied the boy, conclusively. 
 
 "You are a theosophist, then, my little friend a rein- 
 carnationist."
 
 THE GHOSTS OF RAVENSWOOD. 187 
 
 "We have met many times before ; we will meet again, 
 perhaps. In some way, I know that we have been friends 
 once ; but where, I can't remember." There was no hesi- 
 tation in this. It seemed to the man cruel to disturb such 
 faith in a theory. But the child's next remark was start- 
 ling. "Why are you unhappy, Mr. Underbill?" 
 
 "Why should you think me unhappy?" 
 
 "Because music changes your look." 
 
 "Chilon is that way," said Lena, in explanation. "I 
 call them music shadows, for when I sing to him, his eyes 
 grow dark and beautiful. They are lighter when he is 
 alone and thinking." 
 
 "And so does yours change," said the boy to the strang- 
 er. "They are light and like the winter sky ; but when you 
 have been singing and playing as you were just now, they 
 are dark and almost brown." 
 
 "Did you notice such a change?" said the startled man, 
 turning to Lena. ".How are they now?'' 
 
 "Yes, sir. But they are light again." He looked from 
 one to the other of his companions, amazed. It was im- 
 possible to connect such faces with jest or deceit. He 
 arose, greatly agitated. One of his defenses was gone. 
 The children had unwittingly done him a service, the val- 
 ue of which was beyond estimate. He turned to the open 
 air for quiet. 
 
 The three friends wandered away to the fields and 
 woods, the children, in their own ways, happy in the com- 
 panionship of the man who could play and sing and draw 
 so well, and who could enter so easily into their lives. 
 For him, in some mysterious way, they felt an irresistible 
 attachment. Something like happiness that morning 
 came to him. In them he seemed to be living over again 
 the life of both himself and the woman who had loved 
 him. 
 
 Their amusements were novel. This time it was the 
 boy who taught him. They found a colony of ants in a 
 piece of clay ground and wondered at their numbers.
 
 188 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 Little Chilon told him how he first saw them in the early 
 Spring come forth from under a rock and march almost 
 two and two for hundreds of yards; how he timed them, 
 finding their speed to be at the rate of a mile and a half 
 per day ; and how their march left a pathway in the sand 
 over which came stragglers with unerring accuracy. The 
 little fellow took his magnifying glass and showed him 
 how they met, touched and passed on. Did they touch? 
 Did they speak? Could they behold such objects as 
 men? Or were their senses inverse to man's, taking up 
 sight, sound, smell and sensation at the points where his 
 left off? And if the human being were invisible to the 
 ant, might not we be surrounded by beings just out of 
 reach of our senses? Such were the ideas the little fellow 
 put forth with face flushed and eyes sparkling, driving 
 the wise guest to the corner of ignorance and the humilia- 
 tion of defeat. 
 
 Little Lena looked on, proud and happy that her com- 
 panion knew so much. 
 
 "Chilon says," she put in, when a break occurred, "that 
 he used to study the stars with his Grandfather Pierre un- 
 til he found out that the world was just as big the other 
 way, and as his grandfather had a microscope and didn't 
 have a telescope, he let the stars go and took up the little 
 things." The man found himself laughing naturally for 
 the first time in many a year. 
 
 "Just as big the other way! That is a novel idea, in- 
 deed. But it recalls the lines: 
 
 "Big fleas have little fleas 
 
 To worry and to bite 'em, 
 And little fleas have lesser fleas 
 
 And so ad infinitem." 
 
 The boy was charmed. 
 
 "That is it. And just as there is no end to division, so 
 there can be no end to nature. Grandfather said that 
 when we reach what men call the simple elements, we 
 simply reach something that we have not learned how
 
 THE GHOSTS OF RAVENSWOOD. 189 
 
 to divide, and that even the atoms are theoretically divisi- 
 ble." The guest fanned himself with his hat, and drew a 
 long breath, at which Lena laughed. Instantly the boy's 
 manner changed and he became grave and silent. Life 
 was to him intensely real, and its mysteries perplexing. 
 He had never developed a sense of humor. 
 
 They strode on silently together; but presently Lena 
 slipped her hand in his and he lost his constraint. 
 
 They were approaching the swamp, and presently what 
 seemed to have been the din of distant cowbells grew so 
 loud and close at hand that the man, lifting his face, ex- 
 claimed with sudden recognition: 
 
 "The bell locusts! Is it possible!" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the boy, with interest again. "This is 
 the first year that I have heard them. You know they 
 come every seventeenth year." 
 
 The senior Chilon had turned his face away. 
 
 "Seventeen years! Is it possible! It seems but yes- 
 terday and almost upon this spot." 
 
 "You have heard them before, sir?" 
 
 "Yes, my boy, I have heard them." 
 
 "There is a legend in our family," said Lena, "about the 
 letter 'W.' The old French had no 'W you know, and 
 after we came to this country no one ever married into 
 the family, who had the letter in his name; and so it 
 doesn't appear in the family tree. The old legend says in 
 rhyme: 
 
 "When the 'W enters the Marbeau tree, 
 Happy will the next bride be." 
 
 "Grandfather says that I am to be the next bride ; that 
 all trees down here are Marbeau trees, and every locust 
 in them has a ' W on his wing." 
 
 Little Chilon had caught one. 
 
 "See! there it is on each wing," he said. "People used 
 to think that they meant 'War 5 and 'Want.' But the 
 housefly has the same mark." 
 
 The man was not listening. Standing there seventeen
 
 190 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 years before he had promised his fair bride happiness, 
 using the argument of the locust's wings. 
 
 Upon that spot! It was full of strange memories. 
 Within sight of it were the burned and blackened logs of 
 a ruined cabin protruding from masses of vines and 
 weeds. Their feet had paused in an overgrown path that 
 led to the waters of the creek. Seeing his interest, Lena 
 said briefly: 
 
 "Aunt Silvy used to live there. She was a very old wo- 
 man and a witch doctor, the negroes say. Did you ever 
 hear about her death, Mr. Underbill? I don't believe it, 
 but some of the people here say that Satan carried her 
 off." 
 
 "I have never heard of it," said he, gently. "Tell me 
 the story." 
 
 "Well, you will laugh, I know; but it isn't my story. 
 The swamp here was once haunted by an old gray man 
 who would ride up and down the creek in the night and 
 scream and moan ; and people said that Aunt Silvy knew 
 all about him, and that he brought her medicines that 
 killed people or made them crazy; or cured them, just 
 as she wanted it. They say she sold herself when she 
 was young to Satan, and he was to let her live until she 
 was ninety years old and then come for her. Well, when 
 she was ninety, one night some men who had been out 
 possum hunting saw her house on fire while she was inside 
 digging up the hearth with the coals falling all over her; 
 but she didn't mind the fire a bit. They were all afraid to 
 go in or near the house, because she had drawn a ring 
 around it, and anybody that crossed that line would die in 
 a year. So they stood and watched. All at once the 
 gray man rushed up out of the swamp and into the fire. 
 When he came out he had old Aunt Silvy and they dis- 
 appeared in the swamp again. That was the last ever 
 seen of her around here ; but a man sitting upon the river 
 bank, fishing, saw a white boat come down the river in the 
 night with the old gray man in it, and stretched out be-
 
 THE GHOSTS OF RAVENSWOOD. IQ* 
 
 fore him was old Aunt Silvy, dead. He just caught one 
 glimpse of them and then the air was full of the smell of 
 burning sulphur, and he ran away. Grandfather says it's 
 all bosh ! Old Aunt Silvy caught on fire and fell into the 
 creek and was drowned. He had the creek dragged for 
 her body, but they never found her. Anyway, you can't 
 get a negro to come down here again in the night time. 1 ' 
 
 "It is not true," said the man, sadly; "it is not true." 
 And then, seeing the child's surprise: "There are no 
 ghosts except the ghosts of ourselves. As we grow old 
 we change the poet says we rise on stepping stones of 
 our dead selves. These 'dead selves' are the people we 
 used to be, and they live in our own and the memory of 
 people who knew us. That is all." The boy looked up 
 quickly. 
 
 "You do not know. There are beings about us who 
 are only sometimes visible. It all depends upon the 
 acuteness of your vision. Men used to see better than 
 now, and mythology was real then." 
 
 "I have never seen one," said the man, a troubled look 
 upon his face as he noted the intense earnestness of the 
 little fellow. "My life is full of ghosts ghosts of memory 
 the people that I have known who died and whom I 
 killed." 
 
 Lena was startled. 
 
 "Have you ever killed anybody?" 
 
 The fearful night upon which he had gone forth from 
 the spot where they stood floated back upon his memory. 
 Again he saw the dead face of Richard looking up to him. 
 He turned away quickly from the child's searching eyes. 
 Controlling himself, he explained his meaning. 
 
 "But I," said Chilon, softly, "have seen a person who 
 used to live on earth and is dead. And I have heard 
 many more." 
 
 The elder Chilon shook his head gravely. 
 
 "It is impossible. 'Tis a bad plan to dwell upon such 
 matters, my boy!" 
 
 "It is true, though ! I have seen a woman who was, in
 
 192 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 some other life, my mother. She comes to me in the night 
 when I go into the woods and puts her arm about me, and 
 then tells me of herself. She is always very sad, but she 
 loves me, and I believe her. If only she would let me 
 see her face!" 
 
 The little girl had gone to gather a lily and the two 
 Chilons were alone. Thrilled by the recital and his young 
 companion's manner the elder waited. "I have never told 
 anybody about this," continued the little fellow, "but I 
 cannot help but tell you. You will believe me, I know. 
 She says if any one finds out about her she can't come to 
 me any more ; and I would be very sorry, for I love her, 
 and she must love me." 
 
 "Where do you find her, my son?" 
 
 "I miss her sometimes, but she writes me little letters 
 then, and puts them in a hollow tree. She calls me her 
 darling, see, here is one of them." He passed a note to 
 the other. 
 
 At sight of the writing Chilon felt the scene waver 
 around him, but as he read the lines, passionate bursts of 
 love and affection and endearments, the tears streamed 
 from his eyes. 
 
 "Lena!" he whispered. Amazement succeeded his 
 emotion. 
 
 "Tell me," he exclaimed in awe, "what it is that she says 
 to you !" 
 
 "She says that I was stolen away from her years ago 
 and kept from her. Sometimes she seems to think that I 
 am grown and sometimes that I am a baby. She calls me 
 her baby often; but oftener it is Chilon; and then she 
 tells me of times in that other life when we used to be to- 
 gether in these woods and in the house, and loved each 
 other very dearly.'' 
 
 A fear, a great horror, suddenly filled the heart of the 
 man. With trembling hand he clasped the boy's shoul- 
 der. 
 
 "I will keep your secret," he said "Leave me the let- 
 ter! Both are safe with me!"
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY. 193 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY. 
 
 The colonel began to read his story one morning in the 
 cool library, his guest before him, his little table by his 
 side: 
 
 "In the year 1863, Francis, my older brother, yielded 
 up his life among the guns of Doubleday at Gettysburg. 
 Bold, handsome, possessed of many talents and a pas- 
 sionate energy that carried all before him, whether the 
 game was love or war, he was universally esteemed in 
 the circles that knew him, and at home the idol, the beau 
 ideal, of the family. To him had descended a fair share 
 of the Marbeau wealth, but Ravenswood, with most of the 
 family relics, came to me. Richard, our half brother and 
 the oldest of the family, cold, phlegmatic and all for busi- 
 ness, was already established in his chosen profession, the 
 law, and had made his home in the city. He took but 
 little interest in family matters. The other brother, Gas- 
 ton, much older than Francis and myself, had become in- 
 terested in some family affairs abroad and made his home 
 in England. But of him, more anon. 
 
 "Francis and his inheritance soon parted company, but 
 when I found that the woman I loved preferred him, I cut 
 off from Ravenswood a good portion, built thereon a 
 house to his liking, saw him happily married and settled 
 the whole upon his wife and children. I have already 
 explained that this lady was a descendant of the Austrian 
 colony that had drifted across the Atlantic. Francis, 
 when passing the soldiers' last ditch in the thunders of 
 Gettysburg, saw bending over him the familiar face of 
 Robert Aubren, one of his tenants, a very distant connec- 
 tion of his wife, a strong, stolid young man from the class 
 known as the peasantry in other countries, the class that 
 furnished so much brawn and muscle and patriotism 
 
 13
 
 194 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 that helped to make the private soldier of the Confederacy 
 the wonder of the age. To this man, then scarcely in his 
 majority, himself grievously wounded also, he consigned 
 his sword and a message to me that read like a line from 
 some medieval romance. Soon after peace dawned upon 
 America, the gentle little wife of Francis fell a victim to 
 anxiety and mental depression, through long waiting and 
 hope deferred. For there had come rumors during 
 many months of a Marbeau in hospital and prison in some 
 far away northern state. But time brought no confirma- 
 tion of these rumors. One day the family burial ground 
 received the little mother, and her devoted spirit went 
 home again. 
 
 "Then it was that I undertook to carry out my broth- 
 er's trust. I took to my home the two orphans, Celeste 
 and Chilon, and hung the unstained sword of the soldier 
 on the library wall. The cottage was leased with its 
 holdings to Robert Aubren. 
 
 At time of his coming to Ravenswood Chilon was 
 about ten years of age, and Celeste probably a year older. 
 A teacher was engaged for them, and they began life 
 anew under happier conditions than their war-shadowed 
 childhood had known. But another change followed: 
 my wife, their invalid mother by adoption, passed out of 
 life also, leaving the household consisting of Celeste, 
 Chilon and my Lena, their cousin, the latter but six. For 
 good reasons, chiefly because my wife, who had been a 
 Catholic, had made it a dying request, I placed the latter 
 in the care of convent sisters, keeping with me only the 
 nephew and the niece. 
 
 "It was about this time that my brother, Gaston, came 
 from England to Ravenswood, a strange, quiet gentleman 
 devoted to etching, to engraving and to music, which 
 with him amounted almost to a passion. All gayety had 
 of course long since passed from the home, and for the 
 convenience of Gaston the ball room upstairs was par- 
 tially cleared of its rubbish and turned into a studio and
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY. 195 
 
 workshop. His life had been full of shadow, and I re- 
 solved to try to brighten its decline. 
 
 "In this room Gaston gradually gathered everything 
 demanded by his art, and these, prouder of his talents 
 than I would have admitted, I supplemented with an or- 
 gan of great sweetness and power, the organ now in the 
 parlor. 
 
 "Celeste soon developed the characteristics which 
 marked her after life. She possessed the beauty of her 
 saintly mother, and all the moral qualities of the Austrian 
 blended with the spirit of the French side of the family. 
 It was not long before her quiet dignity and quick decis- 
 ion placed her practically at the head of the household, 
 then without a feminine director, and this she accom- 
 plished while still attending closely to her lessons and 
 studies. Possessed of none of the talents which for gen- 
 erations had cropped out among the Marbeaus she yet 
 possessed the genius for home-making which is the rarest 
 of all feminine gifts. Confusion sank into order where 
 she walked, and the light touch of her hand here and there 
 made the dark and dusty rooms bright with sunlight and 
 the flowers. Hers was simply a deep, reverential nature, 
 born probably of artistic and moral sense in preceding 
 generations. 
 
 But if Celeste possessed none of the talents, Chilon had 
 enough for both. Impatient of restraint, an enemy to 
 system and application, but capable of intense effort and 
 prodigious labor, where the mental and psychological 
 bents were involved, he was at once, even in childhood, 
 artist, mechanic and musician. His conception of form 
 and color made him the friend of pen, pencil, brush and 
 tools and his desire for expression of that which these 
 could not express brought forth his voice and drew his 
 fingers to the ivories of the organ. The coming of that 
 uncle so like him in many things seemed to have been 
 preordained of fate ; and the long workshop of the artist 
 soon became the playhouse of the boy. As Gaston bent
 
 196 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 above his plates, transferring to the metal the forms of 
 nature and her shadowed light, Chilon labored by him 
 upon the same lines or played the simpler melodies on the 
 organ, at times accompanying these with his sweet tenor 
 voice. This development brought him into high favor 
 with his uncle, and gained for him a careful instruction 
 that would have otherwise been practically impossible. 
 So it was that when Chilon was ready for college he was 
 in reality ready for the serious work of an artist or musi- 
 cian abroad. 
 
 "But as for Celeste, she calmly declined to entertain 
 the thought of going away to school, and as calmly set- 
 tled down to supplement the education which had been 
 imparted to her by special studies and reading. And she 
 strongly opposed the sending of Chilon elsewhere than to 
 a school of art. In this she was ably seconded by Gaston, 
 holding that what he learned in the modern college from 
 books would not offset that which a boy of his tempera- 
 ment would gather from companions, tastes that would 
 militate against the higher development of his artistic 
 nature. So, after many months' discussion, it was de- 
 cided that Chilon should remain at Ravenswood until 
 eighteen or nineteen, and then go to Paris with his Uncle 
 Gaston, who had agreed to stay with him there until his 
 future was assured. 
 
 "But destiny, or men's passions, as the case may be, 
 swept aside this little house of cards as a breath of wind 
 removes a dead leaf. To Celeste, as I realized afterwards, 
 one man in the world had, from the day he came back 
 from the war, possessed a powerful attraction. Robert 
 Aubren was her ideal. To those who understood the 
 heart of such a girl as Celeste I did not understand it 
 then its predilection was very natural. He possessed 
 that stolidity of character, that quiet, dogged determina- 
 tion which appealed to her most strongly. It is possible 
 that her own character took its shape somewhat from his. 
 Combined with perfect honesty was an absolute fearless-
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY. 197 
 
 ness of demeanor and a manliness that, while 
 unyielding, was gracefully deferential to all about 
 him. And above all, he had followed her soldier father 
 to his fate 'among the guns of Doubleday,' and brought 
 back his message. Robert's was the last friendly hand 
 that touched his, and with such a girl the fact was eternal 
 consecration. Upon his hearing had fallen the last words 
 to home and friends. She has told me since that she 
 was accustomed to stand in the library under her father's 
 picture and think of the scene, the loyal, brave, intrepid 
 boy, bleeding from desperate wounds, kneeling beside his 
 dying officer upon that fatal field, while through the 
 smoke that rolled above them death was darting a myriad 
 of fiery tongues. And sometimes she would lift her tear- 
 dimmed eyes to see the hero of her dreams standing with- 
 in the library, hat in hand. 
 
 "Well, it was the old, old story. The business of Rob- 
 ert Aubren brought him to the mansion often, and oftener 
 his inclination found business where there was none. Love, 
 founded upon gratitude and mutual sympathy, bloomed 
 as naturally as a rose in the Ravenswood garden. By 
 this time Celeste was a tall, well grown girl, with a figure 
 straight as an Indian's, and a poise of head that was su- 
 perb. She moved ever with a gentle grace, queenlike in 
 its simple dignity, and her voice was very sweet to the 
 ears of youth." 
 
 "You have the gift of description, Colonel." 
 "Ah, my dear sir, in describing the girl I describe the 
 mother. But to continue. The difference in their sta- 
 tions never seemed to her an objection, and Robert was 
 Austrian, too. She looked upon the man alone, and 
 thought him more than her equal. So, when one day 
 Robert Aubren, meeting her in the twilight under the 
 pines as she came slowly home from a visit to old Silvy, 
 spoke to her simply of his love and hopes, she looked 
 upon him with moist eyes and lips that trembled, and told 
 him that she had loved him ever since the battle smoke
 
 198 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 lifted above the dead at Gettysburg, and would love him 
 while life for her remained. Those were her words as 
 she told them to me. A season of delightful confidence 
 succeeded this meeting, full of love and plans for the fu- 
 ture; and then Robert came to me with his declaration. 
 There was a violent scene and an emphatic denial, fol- 
 lowed by bitter reproaches ; but that was all. The simple 
 dignity of the suitor, his fine reserve, and the remem- 
 brance that he had gone over the heights of Gettysburg 
 for less than he now sought, would have checked any 
 personal violence. Robert simply bowed his head and 
 withdrew. His conduct was that of a polished, high- 
 born gentleman. But Celeste was a Marbeau, and on 
 equal terms, and the scene between us developed a fiery 
 passion that filled me with consternation. We parted; I 
 pledged never to recognize her again, even if she were 
 forced to beg her bread in the streets, and she not to 
 enter my doors again unless I were dying and wished for 
 her forgiveness. 
 
 "Pride is a very foolish thing, Mr. Underhill." 
 
 The reader adjusted his glasses. 
 
 "Well, she packed her trunks, rode away wdth Robert, 
 and Rose Cottage knew a loving wife again. Then I 
 made another mistake. I have been making them all my 
 life," he added, looking up. 
 
 "Lena had been at school in the convent all these years, 
 but allowed to come home in the summer. She returned 
 now to become a part of the household. A shy, little 
 dark-eyed girl, she drifted naturally to Celeste's side and 
 chose her for all time for her confidences ; and the moth- 
 er-heart of the older girl took her in. But if Celeste be- 
 came her guardian, to a certain extent, Chilon was her 
 playmate. The only boy she had ever known ; handsome, 
 winning and full of talents, he exerted over the child from 
 the first an influence that was, even under the circum- 
 stances, remarkable. They were companions during these 
 golden summers, the happiest days of life for them. Am
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY. 199 
 
 I wearying you, Mr. Underbill? This part of the story, 
 so beautiful to me, has grown so only through many 
 years. It may possess no interest for you." 
 
 The guest spoke very gently: "Read on, my dear Col- 
 onel. Every man has had his romance." 
 
 Colonel Marbeau looked to him with a quick sympathy, 
 and continued: 
 
 "For, whether Chilon moved upon the lake or fished 
 in the cool depths of the shady creeks, or gathered fruit, 
 or played upon the organ, or painted and drew pictures, 
 the little wide-eyed girl was with him. The older artist 
 grew young again when she was at home, and never tired 
 of her company. Those were famous days for the three, 
 when they could pack lunch-baskets and go abroad for 
 their sketches; and many the woodland scenes that live 
 now in black and white and in colors, with the child Lena 
 in the foreground. For in the thus recorded memories 
 of these two, her admirers, she sleeps with her head upon 
 the cool, green moss, under giant oaks; and runs with 
 hand outstretched for golden butterflies; and by the side 
 of cool, dark waters plaits into wreaths for her hat the 
 long-stemmed lilies; and walks demure in the colonnade 
 of pines; and sits with her bonnet on her knee and face 
 upturned unto the crimson sunset where homing swal- 
 lows circle in the air. 
 
 "If you will look into that portfolio over there, Mr. Un- 
 derhill, some day when you have an hour, I think you will 
 be charmed. It contains the Lily of Ravenswood, painted 
 day by day, as she bloomed under her southern sky." 
 
 He pointed with his glasses to a mahogany stand, not 
 seeing with his unassisted eyes the white face turned reso- 
 lutely toward his own, and hands clenched upon the chair- 
 arm. He lifted a page, and continued: 
 
 "They were faithful lovers, then, these two, the old 
 man and the boy. And if a judge had been there to pro- 
 nounce a verdict, he would have said the elder loves her 
 as his life ; the younger, in a careless, happy, unrealizing,
 
 200 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 unreasoning way; and she! Why, she loves him, the 
 elder, very tenderly and truly; but he, the younger, is her 
 life itself." 
 
 The old man's manner was pathetic and deprecating, 
 and a sad smile flitted across his face. 
 
 "Pardon my diffusion, Mr. Underhill. We old folks 
 of the south must live in the past; the present has little 
 for us; the future nothing." 
 
 He waited a moment, and began again : 
 
 "And then, broken-hearted, she would go away to The 
 Sisters and take up the tiresome, cheerless life, so unlike 
 that of Ravenswood. 
 
 "I speak of her now before her final return, while she 
 was writing to Chilon long, sweet letters, full of girlish 
 love. And he would tell of the sunny days at home again, 
 of trout that struck his hook on the lake and quail that 
 fell before his gun ; of the songs he had written and pic- 
 tures painted songs and pictures that held her memory. 
 I have them, gathered and preserved blue ribbons, with- 
 ered flowers, and all. Upon the margin of his pages, as 
 he wrote, he would put little sketches of his uncles, and 
 himself, that made home real for her. 
 
 "You see, Mr. Underhill, I have lived over all this so 
 often, have had it from Lena so vividly, it has become 
 like some beautiful dream of my own youth; but, per- 
 haps you have guessed it already; so, as a boy, did I 
 love the mother of Celeste; so did I write her passionate 
 letters from the heart of Ravenswood." 
 
 "You loved him, too, then; Chilon?" 
 
 The man sitting in the shadow spoke but little above a 
 whisper: 
 
 "Loved him !" Colonel Marbeau lifted a hand as though 
 to emphasize some thought; but he changed his mind. 
 "I did not know how much, then; I was saving the coun- 
 try and immersed in politics; fighting a phantom outside 
 and harboring ruin at home. 
 
 "Then came the day when she returned home to stay.
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY. 2OI 
 
 Imagine how slowly for the dear girl the train dragged 
 its weary way across the hills and plains, how long the 
 nights in the stuffy sleeper, how tiresome the everyday 
 people around her, idling over papers and their eternal 
 lunches. She pitied them, she told me once, their lives 
 were tame and colorless ; they held no Ravenswood, no 
 Chilon! 
 
 "He went to meet her in the city, Chilon did, happy 
 over her home-coming, happier over her happiness. Too 
 fast, then, the steady mare ; oh, how much too fast ! And 
 so they came to the great gate at home and entered the 
 avenue; and so Chilon placed his arm about her, and 
 kissing her upon the lips, said: 'Welcome home to Rav- 
 enswood!' Imagine the scene, Mr. Underhill, and the 
 girl from convent life! Startled, she looked into his 
 steady brown eyes bent upon her, and read the secret 
 beyond. Chilon loved her! Oh, what a place then was 
 Ravenswood! And I, meeting her at the door, a little 
 grayer, a little sadder, a little colder, perhaps for pride, 
 not sympathy, was the life-note then, took her in my 
 arms and kissed her, too. My God!" he exclaimed, pas- 
 sionately snatching his glasses from his eyes, "Why, why 
 did not some one warn me? why was I permitted to see 
 all only through the perspective of sad, of bitter years 
 and the mists of tears?" 
 
 Chilon arose quickly and walked away, too much agi- 
 tated for words. Remembering, he came back, and stood 
 near the speaker, who, half-ashamed of his outburst, was, 
 apparently, looking for the next line of his narrative. 
 
 "My life has been a lonely one, Colonel! Every heart 
 has its echoes; something in your story has awakened 
 mine." The Colonel reached forth his hand, and pressed 
 his companion's.
 
 202 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY CONTINUED. 
 
 When Colonel Marbeau looked up, he continued the 
 narrative without reading: "I come now, Mr. Underhill, 
 to a part of the story that is full of misery for me, for 
 while I did my duty, as I saw it, I suffered myself to be 
 deceived by a base nature, and I broke the hearts of those 
 dearest to me. 
 
 "The one flaw in the happiness of our young people 
 in those summer days was Richard Marbeau. Already a 
 man grown and established, not questioning the sound- 
 ness of the family arrangement touching the future of 
 Lena, he invaded Ravenswood at all times. The char- 
 acter of this man, this beast, but no; he was born 
 my kinsman. I expose his character because its exposure 
 defends others who were blameless. He had begun early 
 to press his suit ; for Ravenswood was a fortune in itself. 
 I know his object now. Little presents found their way 
 to the convent, and he himself lost no opportunity to visit 
 it when going north. During vacations he frequently 
 took time to come out for a day, and that day, 'by the 
 young people here, was counted lost.'' 
 
 The Colonel picked up his sheets, and resumed: 
 
 "Lena had not, at that time, reached the point of dis- 
 puting the validity of the family arrangement in any re- 
 spect, and so they were obliged to take the unwelcome 
 guest into their plans, whatever they might be, and omit 
 Uncle Gaston. For the latter would have nothing to 
 do with the city Marbeau. His self-importance, his loud 
 dress and assumption, and his narrowness, palled upon 
 Gaston's artistic nature. After one or two efforts to be 
 polite, he simply abandoned the field and betook himself 
 to work that permitted no interruption. Left to the two 
 cousins, Lena, on such occasions, had a miserable day
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY CONTINUED. 203 
 
 of it, for on one side was Richard, with his clumsy sel- 
 fishness and unsympathetic voice, and on the other, the 
 laughing Chilon, ready to tease her over the absurdity 
 of the whole proceedings. For Chilon, young as he was, 
 knew that oil and water would blend before there would 
 be any love between Richard and Lena; and marriage 
 without love was something that never entered his mind 
 in connection with Lena Marbeau. He did not value cor- 
 rectly the reaction of a loving and disappointed nature. 
 He did not know life ! 
 
 "And well might Chilon smile over the absurdity of 
 the situation at that time; for the confidence between 
 himself and the girl had become as near perfect as may 
 be. He had entered his nineteenth year and she her sev- 
 enteenth, and the passionate love of the girl for the hand- 
 some boy was almost idolatry. He returned this devo- 
 tion with love less only to the extent that his art and 
 music gave him other vents for emotion; for in these she 
 found rivals, while with her, life held but one thing worth 
 loving; Chilon. Their last year at Ravenswood was an 
 idyl, too perfect to endure. Long walks in the woodlands, 
 boat rides for lilies, and sketching tours filled up many 
 a day; and at night what was happier fate for her than 
 to lie upon the leather lounge in the library and have 
 Chilon read in musical tones of others who loved as they 
 in olden days of romance; or to sit in the moonlight of 
 the porch while he sang, an accomplishment in which 
 she could furnish a sweet soprano to his tenor; or to wait 
 in the dim, old ballroom upstairs, curled up on a dilapidat- 
 ed chair, while he awoke the grand, old melodies of the 
 masters with the touch and inspiration of the artist-mu- 
 sician. They were golden days and nights, holy in their 
 unbroken happiness. 
 
 "I saw none of this, then; or saw it unsympathetically. 
 
 "Absorbed in the political campaign and a series of 
 articles that I had promised our local paper upon the ag- 
 gressiveness of corporations, I saw only a boy and girl
 
 204 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 in the house amusing themselves as boys and girls will; 
 and when one day my attention was rudely called to the 
 situation by Richard, whose cunning mind scented alarm, 
 1 hooted at the thought of love between them. But Rich- 
 ard was persistent; and so one day I got Lena into the 
 library and spoke seriously of her approaching life. 
 
 ' 'You are now in your seventeenth year, my child,' I 
 said, 'and should begin to contemplate the time when you 
 will become a wife. Richard is eager to make the interval 
 as short as possible, and probably when you are eighteen, 
 I shall be forced to give you up. Women in our family, 
 you know, are married early in life, and while, if the cir- 
 cumstances permitted it, I would be glad to have you a 
 year or two in society first, we shall have to trust to you 
 to find your gayety afterwards as a young wife. Remem- 
 ber, now, that as the new dignity approaches you should 
 begin to lay aside something of your girlish life, and be- 
 come a woman. Your cousin Chilon is a bright, happy- 
 hearted fellow, but he is only your cousin at last; and, 
 even to him, under the circumstances, you must begin to 
 show a certain amount of reserve. Richard is coming to- 
 morrow to talk with you, and I wish very much for you 
 two to arrive at a clear understanding.' The poor child's 
 face rises before me as I read, Mr. Underbill. Abashed, 
 frightened, with a pain at her heart, Lena crept back into 
 the workroom and told Chilon all about it. The long- 
 dreaded issue was at hand. What was to be done? Chilon 
 was too furious for good judgment; he wished to go at 
 once to the library, God bless him, and protest against 
 the inhumanity of this contract; or he would wait until 
 to-morrow and insult the expectant bridegroom and give 
 him choice of pistols out under the pines. No ; Chilon's 
 method would only hasten the catastrophe, she argued. 
 There was good old Uncle Gaston ; she would go to him ; 
 and go she did, finding herself in five minutes sobbing in 
 his loving arms. There, instead of with me, she poured 
 out her soul; not only the hatred she bore to the officious
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY CONTINUED. 205 
 
 Richard, but the tender love that it held for dear, sweet 
 Chilon. Old Gaston blinked madly over this recital, I 
 was told, and rested his forehead upon her tresses so long 
 that she ceased to weep and wondered. When he spoke, 
 his playful manner was gone; she hardly recognized his 
 calm, earnest tones; he said to her: 'My child, do not 
 cry ; you will not marry Richard Marbeau until you wish 
 it. Is that sufficient?' She took his face in her hands, 
 ecstatically happy. 'Yes, indeed,' she cried. 'Because,' 
 said he, with something like his old playfulness come 
 back, 'if it isn't, I promise also that you shall marry Chilon 
 whenever you wish.' Think of that. And yet I love Gas- 
 ton the better for it. 'But,' said he, 'the chances are you 
 may have to marry him before you wish, to escape the 
 other!' She went away, blissfully happy, my poor, little 
 girl, happy to escape from me; and, putting aside his 
 tools, Gaston descended to the library. What happened 
 there, nobody will ever know; but Gaston went back 
 with a set look upon his face so different from its usual 
 placidness, that the two sweethearts, waiting in the turn 
 of the stairs, feared the worst had come. He would not 
 be questioned, but the next day he took Chilon into the 
 woods. 
 
 " 'I will arrange everything,' said the true-hearted old 
 fellow. 'Prepare Lena!' Chilon went home, and in the 
 quiet of her own room, where they crept for uninterrupt- 
 ed confidences, told her of their plans. There was no 
 mother to advise, and her little heart was sorely tried by 
 fear for the future. She knelt before her youthful lover, 
 and laid her head in his lap, her eyes overflowing with al- 
 most hysterical tears. 'I have no one but you, Chilon; 
 tell me what to do?' And Chilon, dear boy, as honest 
 and true as she, with unhesitating confidence of youth, 
 told her, painting life as he dreamed it. One day, the 
 three only walked a little further, and a country justice 
 made Chilon and Lena man and wife, and gave a pledge 
 to secrecy, that to his honor be it said, he never broke.
 
 206 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 "Upon the same day Gaston received a letter that dis- 
 turbed and distressed him beyond measure. With a few 
 hasty preparations he disappeared, enjoining upon Chilon 
 that he should wait until his return, which would not be 
 more than two weeks later, and they would then go to- 
 gether and acquaint me with the fact that Lena positively 
 refused longer to consider Richard Marbeau as a prospec- 
 tive husband, and abide the consequences. If then there 
 seemed to be a chance to substitute Chilon, a year or two 
 abroad would end the complication. If there was no 
 chance, then his stay might be longer; but Lena, in either 
 case, was safe. 
 
 "Two weeks passed, and many another; and still no 
 news of Gaston. Then a letter came from England, urg- 
 ing Chilon to face the issue alone, and communicate the 
 result by mail ; circumstances rendered his, Gaston's, re- 
 turn a matter of uncertainty. After many weeks of hap- 
 piness, almost delirious, the time came when Chilon was 
 forced to plead his cause. And well did he plead it, but 
 he did not name the marriage. We quarreled; I was 
 high-tempered in those days, Mr. Underbill we quar- 
 reled and I struck him with my whip ; struck him, and 
 the boy ran me through with his father's sword." 
 
 "Oh but it was in a blind rage, a burst of temper 
 he did not he could not you must know, sir, that it was 
 unintentional." 
 
 The guest had arisen in his excitement. A sudden fury 
 seemed to animate the old man. 
 
 "Unintentional! Sir, that wound is one of many, but 
 I value it above all the rest. They record only the de- 
 fense of home and property, while that one represents 
 the defense of family honor. If it had been accident, I 
 would have disowned him. Understand, sir, you slander 
 him ! God bless the boy, he did it a-purpose !" 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said the other, gently, "I cer- 
 tainly did not intend to offend " 
 
 "Of course not, of course not! Pardon my excitement,
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY CONTINUED. 20; 
 
 Mr. Underbill." He stretched forth his hand, which Chil- 
 on took and pressed gently. 
 
 "Well, the boy plunged out of the house, and hung 
 around until he found I wasn't going to die, and then 
 started, we think, to join Gaston in England; but he 
 never reached there. Lena endured life at Ravenswood 
 for two weeks, forced almost daily to receive Richard. 
 And I I was obstinate, too, in those days, Mr. Under- 
 bill, I, determined to keep my promise to Richard's 
 father, went to work to conclude the contract. The poor 
 child, unable to endure the torment any longer, left the 
 house and quietly took refuge with her cousin, Celeste, 
 whose arms were outstretched gladly when she heard her 
 story. Loyal Celeste ! She, too, faced me oh, they were 
 not afraid of me she drew down upon her devoted head 
 another storm. Both of us had broken our promises! I 
 did recognize her, and she came back without the asking. 
 We parted again ; I full of rage, and she quietly scornful, 
 the friend of her brother's wife. But I anticipate.
 
 208 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY CONTINUED. 
 
 "Richard Marbeau was a Marbeau in one thing, at 
 least; he never knew when he was defeated. If he was 
 such in any other respect, he dated back into other gen- 
 erations, for there had been evil Marbeaus, or this story 
 would not have been written. Certain it is that his hered- 
 ity was not of recent lives for, as this age knew them, 
 while sometimes wicked as the world goes, they esteemed 
 honor highly and fought in the open. Richard did not 
 lack courage, but ambition and avarice were with him 
 passions strong enough to bend any means to suit his 
 needs. It is impossible that he could have loved Lena 
 Marbeau at the time of her marriage. There was no 
 common meeting-point for their natures, no association, 
 no sympathy. That which constituted the mainspring of 
 her action was something strange to him; and his char- 
 acter was one to be abhorred the more it developed within 
 her knowledge. But Lena meant Ravenswood, and he 
 loved Ravenswood with a force and a lust beyond expres- 
 sion. When, responding to a message from me, he was 
 informed of the demand made by Chilon, he almost 
 laughed aloud in his triumph; the strangeness of it all, 
 even then, affected me. 
 
 " 'I need not remind you, Uncle,' he said, with affected 
 humility, 'that I feared this complication long ago. The 
 point now is to guard against future danger, and I beg to 
 urge an early marriage. That once accomplished, you 
 may leave the rest to me.' 
 
 " 'My views entirely,' I said to him. 'You speak of an 
 early marriage; what do you say to thirty days?' 
 
 " To-day would be better, Uncle, but I think we must 
 defer somewhat to Lena?' In this manner we proceeded 
 to dispose of the poor girl, who was anxiously waiting
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY CONTINUED. 209 
 
 upstairs for the results of this conference. But when ac- 
 quainted with the decision in her affairs, she, for the first 
 time, showed open rebellion. She would not even con- 
 sider it, she declared. Argument, promises of large wealth, 
 pleadings for family pride, persuasions, threats, and even 
 my towering passion, could not daunt or move her. 
 The family spirit had been roused, and both of us knew 
 then that difficulties were before us. Days of harassment 
 followed, of affectionate pleadings; again, of argument 
 upon argument; and days of coldness and almost cruel 
 reproach. To no end. The girl stood out bravely. She 
 could do no less, of course. 
 
 "One day, after a more than usual strain upon her 
 nerves, she came to the library pale and agitated. 
 
 " 'Father,' she said, 'it is a hard thing to say to you, 
 but home has now become purgatory to me. I had hoped 
 to be here with you always; to take the place of mother, 
 and be your comfort when old age descended upon you, 
 but that is now impossible. You urge me to do that 
 to which death a hundred times over is preferable. I will 
 never consent, not while Chilon lives; and I think if he 
 were dead, I would lie down and die, too, rather than be- 
 come the wife of Richard. I cannot stay here with that 
 decision; you would not permit it; and so while I am 
 well enough and strong enough to keep my faith, I am 
 going to leave you. Let us not part in anger, 
 father. Kiss me good-bye.' Dumfounded at a 
 decision that I had not thought her capable of form- 
 ing, I sat gazing straight ahead, too much affected to 
 trust my voice. 'Good-bye, then, father!' she said. She 
 bent over me, and touched my forehead with her lips, and 
 was gone." Colonel Marbeau's voice had faltered. His 
 hearer sat with his face in his hands. Presently he re- 
 sumed: "I could not for some time believe it. She was 
 only frightening me; she would go a little way, and come 
 back, crying, to be forgiven. She did not come back, and 
 night descended. When, thoroughly aroused, I was mak- 
 
 14
 
 210 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 ing preparations to follow her, a message came from 
 thoughtful Robert Aubren, saying that Lena was with 
 Celeste, and Rose Cottage would be her home until she 
 chose to leave it. The relief gave me a chance to rage, 
 and rage I did, finding a sympathetic auditor in Richard. 
 But when I swore that I would disinherit her, oh, then 
 his sympathies were touched. 'Give her more time,' he 
 pleaded ; 'she will come around some day.' He believed 
 it himself. 
 
 "From that day, however, Richard probably dated his 
 admiration for Lena Marbeau as a woman. He could 
 never love her, in the sense that love is an intellectual 
 phenomenon ; he was incapable of that form of love, un- 
 der any circumstances; but he could love as the mere 
 man loves; and possessing that idiosyncrasy of mind 
 which despises the easily-won honor, he was ready now 
 to devote himself, heart and soul, to the conquest of the 
 defiant woman. He felt that his personality had not been 
 given a fair chance; the unhappy contract ought never 
 to have been broached to the girl. She would have loved 
 him but for that; she must love him in spite of it. As 
 for Chilon, he was a mad boy, and soon to be forgotten. 
 In which conclusion Richard justified a current saying, 
 that everybody knew the Marbeaus except the Mar- 
 beaus. 
 
 "I can imagine his action as he rode slowly home- 
 ward that night. The lawyer's mind began to cast about 
 for the next move in the game already half lost. What 
 should first be done? Time and absence are fearful con- 
 spirators against young love, he reasoned, smiling; the 
 first thing to be done is to isolate Lena. He decided then 
 to ask me to intercept and withhold from her any letters 
 that might come from Chilon, and I told him that he 
 might count with certainty upon that being done; but 
 he desired also to get at the contents of those letters, to 
 arm himself with the information of Chilon's movements, 
 and this, he soon learned, could not be expected through
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY CONTINUED. 211 
 
 me; for a true Marbeau, sir, is too high-born to break the 
 seal of a letter addressed in confidence to another. 
 
 "There was another way, and it came to him as an in- 
 spiration. His political power was already such as to 
 entitle him to patronage, and he had only to secure the 
 service of a tool in office to have withdrawn from the 
 Ravenswood mail all letters addressed to Lena. They 
 came fast enough, at first; passionate outbursts of love, 
 plans for the future, roseate dreams ! But the poor young 
 wife, bearing her burdens, received none of them." The 
 face of the guest was lifted a moment, and his lips moved 
 silently. The old gentleman did not perceive the act, 
 for his own eyes were dim. 
 
 "Oh, those days of waiting and watching for Chilon! 
 But if long for me, how dreary for Lena! Not a sun arose 
 but brought hopes of letters or of his coming; not a sun- 
 set but left her disappointed. Grief-stricken, afflicted with 
 a settled melancholy, she took up a woman's burden. 
 Richard came again and again, until finally she totally 
 refused to see him. She sent the message by a negro 
 woman, and his conduct that day indicated the man; he 
 lashed this woman with his rawhide whip; an innocent, 
 defenseless, old woman, obeying orders. And still he 
 persisted, until one day a letter from Chilon betrayed the 
 marriage. He was too late. He went at once to the or- 
 dinary's office; there was the record of the license. 
 
 " 'Who authorized the issuance of this license,' he 
 asked, scarcely able to suppress his rage. 
 
 " 'Why, it was issued to your uncle, old Mr. Gaston 
 Marbeau, if I remember correctly/ said the clerk, in sur- 
 prise. 'Nothing irregular, I trust?' 
 
 " 'Nothing,' said the unhappy man, promptly. 'Please 
 be kind enough to forget my question. Do you under- 
 stand?' The office was elective; the officer understood. 
 The ordinary told me this recently. 
 
 "Before Richard's vision, as he walked back to his 
 rooms, was doubtless a dissolving view. It was Ravens-
 
 212 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 wood, carrying with it Congress and all political prefer- 
 ment. For Richard, the heir, and expectant bridegroom, 
 was a man for royal treatment, and Richard the deserted, 
 was a man for street-corner jests and squibs in opposi- 
 tion journals. All that had saved him so far was the 
 public's total ignorance of the given name of his expec- 
 tant bride, and the fact that a hundred licenses had been 
 issued to Marbeaus of the African kind since the war. 
 For the family negroes chose their master's name. As it 
 stood, he was the only possessor of all the facts outside 
 the actual participants in the tragedy, for tragedy it 
 seemed to him. 
 
 "But when his disturbed mind settled back into the old 
 grooves he began to ask himself if all were indeed lost! 
 There had been a marriage, but it was a foolish, childish 
 affair, and could be set aside by the girl's natural guar- 
 dian. Could it be set aside without her consent? Doubt- 
 ful. Then her consent must be had. Fortunately for 
 him, husband and wife were isolated and separated. He 
 held the commanding position. He noticed with grim 
 satisfaction that Chilon reproached her for failure to 
 write, and soon these reproaches deepened into what was 
 almost rage." 
 
 "Oh, the infamy of it!" The guest could not restrain 
 it. 
 
 "No other word describes it," said the Colonel, sadly. 
 And then, continuing to read: "Was it possible that 
 Chilon had found other means to communicate with her? 
 Richard, although repulsed, and finally denied admission 
 to Rose Cottage, to settle this point, determined to try 
 once more for an interview. He wrote a note to the un- 
 happy girl that he had a communication of the utmost 
 importance to make concerning Chilon, and sent it to her. 
 She invited him to call, and he did so, his manner grave, 
 deferential and sympathetic. He was a good actor. 
 
 ' 'I come to you to-day, Lena,' he said, 'as your cousin 
 only ; all of the old hopes I entertained are dead. I know
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY CONTINUED. 213 
 
 your secret.' She waited breathlessly, the poor little 
 woman. 'I have accidentally discovered that you married 
 Chilon. No one else knows it, and I pledge you my word 
 of honor that I will not reveal it until you consent.' His 
 manner, I am told, his air and sincerity seemed perfect, 
 and therein, Mr. Underhill, lies a mystery; how may we 
 boast of the talents and genius of our kin as hereditary 
 and escape the artistic rascality which now and then crops 
 out? Even Lena was impressed and deceived. 'What I 
 desire of you now,' he said, 'is Chilon's address. Give me 
 that and I may help you.' What was her reply? 'I thank 
 you, Richard; I think that I must have misjudged you. 
 You are kind, very kind, to me!' She could not control 
 her tears, he had touched her so deeply. She did not 
 know the address and said so. He was amazed, of course. 
 But he prepared the way for his next move. 'I am afraid,' 
 he murmured, 'there is something wrong.' He reflected 
 a moment. 'Lena,' he said, 'you have been distrustful of 
 me without cause. If you will look back you will perceive 
 that the arrangement made for us was no more my doing 
 than yours. I only sought to carry out my share honor- 
 ably and sincerely. When I found opposition, I met it 
 like a man, not knowing it was so serious. From to-day 
 I am your cousin and defender; if I can win back your 
 husband and smooth away your difficulties over yonder 
 at Ravenswood, I will do it. Will you trust me?' 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Underhill, when you judge this poor girl, 
 think of her defenselessness. To have discredited him 
 would have been to accuse him of a baseness impossible 
 to any human being with a heart in him, it seemed to her. 
 Covering her face, down which the tears were now stream- 
 ing, she gave him her free hand. 'I do trust you, cousin,' 
 she said, 'and I am sorry to have caused you pain and 
 disappointment. But I was not to blame if I loved Chil- 
 on; I could not help it. I will always love him.' He 
 pressed her hand. It was well for his plan that his face
 
 214 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 did not betray the triumph which must have filled him 
 when she finished. 
 
 "He then unfolded his scheme; he would employ de- 
 tectives and trace out the fugitive, re-establish her at 
 home and get his uncle's blessing. He made a beautiful 
 picture of the end and left her full of hope. His one mis- 
 take was in urging her to return, meanwhile, to Ravens- 
 wood. She met this with a passionate refusal.
 
 THE STORY CONCLUDED. 215 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 THE STORY CONCLUDED 
 
 "The plot into which Richard had now entered was to 
 him simply a game, the stake, Ravenswood and a senti- 
 mental wife, who would, in society, soon forget her little 
 romance. In this game Chilon was his opponent; a man 
 who had wronged him deeply. 'All is fair in love and 
 war,' he argued with me once, talking over his successes, 
 'and this being both love and war, I am doubly justified.' 
 And, God forgive me, I smiled at his wit. But it is diffi- 
 cult to imagine what his next step would have been had 
 not an accident, so timely as to seem the contribution of 
 a malignant fate, assisted him. He had employed detec- 
 tives, but when they came to look up Chilon at the ad- 
 dress given, he had disappeared, leaving no trace. With 
 him had been a man named Charles Adams, he learned, 
 and this man, too, was missing. The pair had betaken 
 themselves to some distant place, in all likelihood, but 
 their object and their distination were not revealed to him. 
 In the meantime, the months glided by, Lena still holding 
 with patient dignity to the secluded life she had chosen 
 all communications with Ravenswood severed. She had 
 developed well, and her girlish figure had now merged 
 into that of the youthful matron, so dear to home lovers. 
 She still received Richard kindly, and heard his reports of 
 progress and lack of progress with alternate moods of 
 hope and despair; but ever she maintained her unbroken 
 faith in Chilon. 'If alive, he will come back,' she said; 
 'he trusts me and I will not doubt him.' The seeming 
 accident of fate was this paragraph, which appeared in the 
 columns of a Chicago paper, and was forwarded by the 
 detective bureau: 
 
 " 'Chilon Marbeau, a young man of prepossessing ap- 
 pearance, was arrested yesterday in this city for com-
 
 2l6 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 plicity in the train robbery at Butte on the 3rd inst. His 
 name and description were given in the confession of the 
 wounded robber. He admits being present during the 
 attack upon the train, but claims that he took no part in 
 it. He is of a well-known southern family.' Even Richard 
 Marbeau did not care to present this news item in person 
 at Rose Cottage. He inclosed the paper by mail, mark- 
 ing the fatal lines, and sent a sympathetic note, declaring 
 his belief in the innocence of Chilon, and his intention to 
 go to his rescue when the trial took place. He urged 
 the utmost secrecy. When next he called, Lena received 
 him with unchanged dignity. 'Some one has stolen Chil- 
 on's name/ she said, simply. 'Crime with him is impos- 
 sible.' But she was deeply grateful when Richard came 
 to tell her of his early departure, and, holding his hand 
 long, kissed it impulsively when he left. 
 
 "And Richard did so. He saw the accused tried and 
 convicted and condemned to ten years' imprisonment; a 
 man of Chilon's size, but older, who adhered to his name, 
 boldly, even when Richard revealed his own identity. He 
 started home with a copy of the condemned man's photo- 
 graph bitterly disappointed. It was while on this re- 
 turn trip that he hatched up the diabolical plot that worked 
 so successfully. He called upon Lena and informed her, 
 with tears in his eyes, that the story was true and Chilon's 
 fate sealed, showing complete certified copies of court 
 proceedings; and he delivered this message: Tell Lena 
 I think that I must have been crazy at Ravenswood. I 
 was flattered by her love, but I did not love her. I realize 
 now that she ruined my life. But for her I would have 
 been a success in art. I am now only a convict.' " A deep 
 groan caused the Colonel to look quickly to his guest. 
 "Infamous, infamous," he heard him say. "Then, and then 
 only," continued the reader, with emotion, "did the girl's 
 heart break ; and then began the wearing process. This 
 terrible secret brought her nearer to Richard, and one day 
 he persuaded her to ride with him here. I received her
 
 THE STORY CONCLUDED. 217 
 
 gladly, and with such love and affection as quite won her 
 again. Again and again she returned. Then came the 
 old arguments over and over; expediency and filial duty; 
 and then family honor. This must be preserved; and 
 they came not only from Richard, but from me. Divorce 
 was easy; no one would blame her, and she was not a 
 Catholic then. It was a mere matter of form, a seven 
 days' wonder, that really would make her even a more 
 interesting figure in society. And Richard had been so 
 true, so noble! God save the mark! And then came 
 old, austere Mrs. Marbeau, Richard's mother, to take her 
 abroad for a few months, away from her sad associa- 
 tions. 
 
 "So was the crime completed. Lena, dazed, heart- 
 broken, and caring little what happened, yielded. Papers 
 were signed, and before she returned the divorce had 
 been secured. Richard met them in New York, and an 
 immediate and quiet marriage was arranged and consum- 
 mated. She must go back home under his protection, he 
 said. And Richard Marbeau had stolen his cousin's wife 
 by an infamy that was almost unparalleled in the history 
 of crime. 
 
 "But, skillful as he was, the whole plot at one time 
 trembled in the balance. The Chicago item drifted south, 
 and was copied into the home paper, coming at once be- 
 neath my eye. Such a slur upon the family could not be 
 suffered to endure unquestioned. I sent for Richard, and 
 was overjoyed to learn the truth; but what Richard had 
 not counted upon was my immediate demand that the 
 truth be published, and I would listen to no excuse. I 
 prepared a statement, setting forth the facts, and published 
 it with a cut of the real criminal, attaching my own signa- 
 ture and the certificate of identity that had been placed on 
 the photograph. This ended the matter; and Richard 
 forestalled defeat by meeting his mother in New York 
 and consummating the marriage without consulting me. 
 
 "Upon their return, some weeks later, Lena settled
 
 2l8 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 down to a life that was absolutely colorless. The mask 
 was now thrown aside, and the true character of Richard 
 Marbeau became revealed to her. He made no effort to 
 keep up the devotion that had won his point. The wom- 
 an now his wife was too gentle, shrinking and sad-eyed 
 to fill the demands of his life; too unresponsive. Gradu- 
 ally he drifted back to former affiliations, and the one 
 woman he came nearer to loving than any other, the wom- 
 an who shall appear in this record only as Bijou. It is 
 assumed that to her he unburdened himself of many 
 things which in caution he would have kept secret. The 
 old paper, that came, marked, to Lena, just after the birth 
 of her daughter, containing the certificate and picture 
 that vindicated Chilon, was directed in a hand the sight 
 of which drew from Richard a gush of profanity. It was 
 probably Bijou's return for a temporary slight. But if 
 he had deemed Lena too shrinking and meek, he had 
 cause then to change his mind. When she realized the 
 cruelty of the deceptions practiced upon her, and how 
 she had been led to forsake Chilon and betray his faith, 
 she could cheerfully have slain the man who laughed at 
 her transports. Without more ado, she took her babe 
 and went to Rose Cottage. Celeste heard the whole of 
 the sad story, forgave her, as she never thought to do, 
 and took her back to her old place again. Weeks passed, 
 and to save her child, for he made her think it would be 
 taken from her, she dried her tears and returned to the 
 city and to Richard. But before she went, she came here, 
 and gave me the saddest experience of my life. I 
 heard the story from her lips, the story of his infamy; 
 and I heard my child accuse me of conspiracy to ruin her 
 life. I kept her and sent for Richard. He gave an ex- 
 cuse and did not come. I went to his office, and, stand- 
 ing over him, made him write my vindication as I dictated 
 it. Then I gave him my opinion of his conduct, without 
 reservation. 
 
 "Lena now devoted herself to the little girl, going often
 
 THE STORY CONCLUDED. 219 
 
 to Rose Cottage and sometimes coming here. On these 
 visits she nearly approached happiness; but she would 
 not stay. Over all hung the memory of Chilon, and the 
 possibility of his return. 
 
 "Well, I am almost done. Her loneliness finally drove 
 her to me. We loved each other too much to be enemies. 
 She came, and she made me bring in Celeste, too. And 
 then came the tragedy!" 
 
 "Tragedy!" 
 
 "The night we all met, a burglar entered my house 
 through an upper room. Richard had come unexpectedly 
 for the night, and met him in the hall. He attempted to 
 capture the fellow, shot at him, was stabbed and killed 
 instantly. It was a terrible shock, but I learned to look 
 upon it finally as a dispensation of mercy. God, I 
 thought, meant to solve a vexed problem. Only, " 
 
 A long pause followed. 
 
 "Only?" said Chilon, inquiringly. 
 
 "The problem is not solved. Chilon is still missing." 
 
 "And the lady, Lena?" 
 
 "She waits." 
 
 The simple dignity of the answer should have been 
 conclusive, but Chilon could not endure the silence 
 longer. 
 
 "Where is she?" 
 
 The Colonel did not appear to hear. For a few mo- 
 ments he was silent. Then he looked quickly to his guest. 
 
 "Oh, she is an invalid; an invalid. Is there any detail 
 I have omitted?" 
 
 "You have spoken often of Gaston; where is he?" 
 
 "Manchester, England." 
 
 "Perhaps Chilon is there, or he may know of him. 
 But of course you have considered that!" 
 
 "Yes. But he is not there ; has never been." 
 
 "You spoke of Gaston's studio; may I see the room? 
 I shall study your manuscript and may, perhaps, have a 
 few questions more. I would be glad to see this studio."
 
 220 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 "Certainly. Come with me!" 
 
 The two made their way upstairs and entered the long 
 room. Nearly all of the artist's belongings had been re- 
 moved. Chilon looked about him in alarm." 
 
 "It is no longer a studio!" 
 
 "No. Gaston sent for his plunder last week. A strange 
 fancy, for the stuff was not worth freight. But artists are 
 artists ; which is another way of saying they are imprac- 
 tical. And a man's Lares and Penats must be respect- 
 ed." 
 
 Chilon laid his hand weakly upon an old desk. 
 
 "A queer piece of furniture, this. It would charm a 
 hundred people dealers that I know!" 
 
 "Mere rubbish ! This way to the end of the room, and 
 I will show you Gaston's favorite view from the window." 
 
 The Colonel's back was turned for an instant as he led 
 the way. Chilon touched the spring and a secret drawer 
 opened. The plates were safe. But how obtain them? 
 He looked about him hurriedly. At the door stood a tall 
 mulatto woman, whose gray eyes held him spell-bound!
 
 THE SECRETS OF THE DESK. 221 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 THE SECRETS OF THE DESK. 
 
 Colonel Marbeau, his eyes resting lovingly upon the 
 beautiful prospect afforded by the open window, was not 
 mindful of the fact that his companion was standing 
 amazed and in silence by the desk. Chilon recovered 
 himself just in time to hear the footfalls of his host nearby, 
 and his good-natured words: 
 
 "But you are more interested, I perceive, in old furni- 
 ture than in nature. Well, you would hardly find an 
 odder specimen. This desk was presented to my father 
 by a foreign relative, who valued it because it was an heir- 
 loom. My father was not greatly impressed with heir- 
 looms in the form of furniture, and it drifted about the 
 house until Gaston rescued and brought it here. It has, 
 among other oddities of construction,several secret apart- 
 ments, a fashion in the Elizabethan days, I believe. This 
 one, for instance, is the first," he opened the well-known 
 drawer, "and was generally supposed to be the only 
 one. But within it is a spring which controls another 
 there, I believe I have found it. And, by the way, Gaston 
 seems to have left here, in the first drawer, some of his 
 old plates and papers. Now, let me see how that second 
 scheme worked. Oh, yes; the top rises on grooves. 
 There you are." The top was now lifted, showing a space 
 a few inches deep, but extending across the whole length 
 and breadth of the desk. Chilon was facing the woman 
 at the door. He saw her gaze eagerly upon the desk as 
 these features were pointed out, and start violently. The 
 Colonel, following the direction of his gaze, saw her 
 also. He instantly excused himself and went to her. 
 Chilon looked to the plates; he even put his hand upon 
 them. Would he ever have another opportunity, if he
 
 222 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 neglected this one? He turned toward the door; the 
 woman's eyes had never left him. Then he saw Colonel 
 Marbeau coming, and laid the plates back. 
 
 "You were saying," he began. 
 
 "Oh, about the secret apartments. Now, inside this 
 cavity is a spring that controls another space, which con- 
 trols another; and so on. The desk is simply honey- 
 combed with hidden spaces. I have forgotten the loca- 
 tion of this one" he was feeling in the second apartment, 
 and now withdrew his hand. In it was a long, queer-look- 
 ing document, a sheepskin covered with drawings, num- 
 bers and names. A look of delight flushed his face, and 
 he trembled with suppressed excitement. 
 
 "How remarkable," he exclaimed. "Here is our family 
 record, lost these forty years! Mr. Underbill, you are a 
 mascot!" 
 
 With almost childish delight he spread the parchment 
 before them, revealing its great array of records. Gone 
 now from his mind was everything else. "You cannot 
 imagine, my dear sir, how pleased I am. This document, 
 although of no practical value, has been searched for, ad- 
 vertised for, through two continents. It has entailed a 
 large expense upon me, and at one time I offered a small 
 fortune for it." 
 
 "I congratulate you, sir! And I may add that, perhaps, 
 having been the means indirectly of restoring the tree, I 
 may also become the instrument for restoring its lost 
 branch." 
 
 "Well said; I believe you will! My father had been 
 dead some years before we had occasion to use this rec- 
 ord, and then it was the search began. None of us thought 
 of this hiding place, or, if we did, overlooked the docu- 
 ment. Until Gaston came, I was about the only person 
 who had access to it. I must take it down and complete 
 the record, for my generation is the last that has been 
 entered there. There are three brothers of us, Mr. Under- 
 hill, and one half-brother; but there it all is better than
 
 THE SECRETS OF THE DESK. 223 
 
 I can explain." The part of the diagram pointed out was 
 as follows: 
 
 2817- 
 
 2818 2819 2820 2821 
 
 "We keep only the Marbeaus and the direct line, the 
 names being scheduled upon the back and margins of 
 this document, as you perceive, with the names of the fe- 
 males who have entered the family by marriage. Rich- 
 ard, number 2818, was the half-brother, and 2819, 2820, 
 2821 stand for Gaston, Francis and myself.'' He bent 
 over the yellow record with deep interest. Chilon's mind 
 reverted to his own difficulty, and he could not arouse 
 himself to the necessary attention. Who was that strange, 
 half-remembered woman at the door? Her face haunted 
 him ! And the plates ! In a few moments they would go 
 out of the room and the door would be locked. But, no, 
 was it locked when they came to it? He heard, absently, 
 the voice of his companion: 
 
 "There is a little legend, Mr. Underbill, connected with 
 the Marbeaus which this record recalls. In all the long list 
 of names you will not find a 'W.' An Edward there was, 
 and a William, away back, but that was before 'W' was 
 used in the French. They appear as Edouard and Gil-
 
 224 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 laume. Some one noticed this a long time ago, and soon 
 we had a legend. How it originated I do not know, but 
 the rhyme ran: 
 
 When "W" enters the Marbeau tree 
 Happy will the next bride be. 
 
 "There have not been many children, and it has so hap- 
 pened that they have been given family names. Nobody 
 has seemed to care enough for the next bride to forcibly 
 thrust a 'W upon a child." And then Colonel Marbeau 
 looked curiously upon his silent companion. 
 
 "You were saying," began Chilon, with a start; and 
 then, remembering: "Yes, little Lena has given me the 
 rhyme, and your prophecy that the locusts on the Mar- 
 beau trees have fulfilled the conditions. I trust you are 
 right." 
 
 A dozen times over there had been upon his lips the 
 inquiry, "Where is the wife of this Chilon, who has dis- 
 appeared?'' but he restrained it. The temptation was 
 strong at that moment, but while he was waiting, Colonel 
 Marbeau folded his precious manuscript and turned to 
 him. It was evident that the interview was at an end, 
 and the old man anxious to get back to the library with 
 his treasure. 
 
 At the door, Chilon said : 
 
 "Pardon me ; I will close the door for you." He did 
 so. The key was there, but he did not turn it. But as 
 Colonel Marbeau seated himself in his great chair, he 
 stood by the entrance a moment, resolved. 
 
 "There was one point in your strange story you seem 
 to have omitted ; it may not be pertinent to the problem 
 that we are to study and discuss, and yet it may be; your 
 
 daughter, the wife of this Chilon Marbeau, is she ' 
 
 His voice sounded strange and faraway from himself. His 
 affected carelessness was a failure. The old man looked 
 up in surprise, and for a moment did not reply. Then he 
 said, simply:
 
 THE SECRETS OF THE DESK. 225 
 
 "She is living. Did I not mention the fact?" Nothing 
 more. 
 
 Chilon waited a moment and withdrew. 
 
 "I believe you did!" he said. The elder man gave his 
 attention to the document, but something clung to his 
 memory that would not be put aside; something sug- 
 gested by sight of the man who had gone out of the 
 room ; a peculiar movement, or poise of head, or gesture, 
 or outline, as he vanished through the doorway. Or was 
 it the tone of his voice? An echo from a faraway time had 
 sounded within him. 
 
 "It was very strange," he said, presently. But the docu- 
 ment was a new delight. The thought, whatever it was, 
 lost its importance. 
 
 ]5
 
 226 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 THE VOICE FROM THE PAST. 
 
 Chilon went forth into the woods and fields. "What 
 next?" he asked of himself. His uncle's story had been 
 told in detail, except upon the very point on which he 
 most desired to be informed; and the plates were safe. 
 But were they in reach. He would know that night. 
 There was no longer anything to be gained by staying at 
 Ravenswood. There had come to him in his mail no tid- 
 ings of the man he sought. If he had appeared in New 
 York as reported, he had disappeared with equal sudden- 
 ness. For himself, there was nothing more but to carry 
 out his contract at Washington, and that he would do. 
 He was obliged not only by his promise, but by a new 
 danger, for he was now known at headquarters, and while 
 his safeguards still existed, he realized that this renewal 
 of life among old scenes had filled him with much of the 
 old misery and restored him to the mental condition of 
 the man who had escaped from prison. The man who 
 had faced the chief representative of the government se- 
 cret service no longer existed. He had lost his nerve. The 
 hand of an officer on his shoulder a week ago would have 
 meant nothing; but now! His appearance would be a 
 confession. He would go; and the sooner the better. 
 
 As he wandered on, his mind returned to Lena and the 
 mystery that overhung her life. What was the meaning 
 of his uncle's silence, of the boy Chilon's hallucination, 
 of that strange, gray-eyed mulatto? Could it be that 
 Lena was at Ravenswood and had recognized him? Was 
 he known to both of them, father and daughter? It was 
 a wonderful coincidence that he, of all men, should have 
 been summoned to find himself. 
 
 No ! It was impossible. Colonel Marbeau was no ac-
 
 THE VOICE FROM THE PAST. 227 
 
 tor. And Lena would have come to him. She was sim- 
 ply an invalid, as stated, probably abroad or in some hos- 
 pital. Only why this silence about her? And how ex- 
 plain the note? 
 
 One thing cheered him momentarily. The belief was 
 general that a burglar had slain his cousin Richard. No 
 one could suspect him but Lena; and possibly she did 
 not. And so, happier than he would have believed, he 
 came back to Ravenswood. 
 
 The evening passed slowly. Little Lena, curled up in 
 a great chair in the parlor, was watching the swift hands 
 of the visitor upon the ivories of the organ, and listening, 
 entranced, to the sounds he awoke. Strain after strain, 
 chord upon chord, harmony upon harmony, in infinite 
 combinations, filled the room. Child as she was, the girl's 
 eyes grew wet with tears. Some voice, some influence, 
 some strange power, was at work in her young heart. Oh, 
 if little Chilon were there with her! Colonel Marbeau, 
 moved by the strange outburst of feeling, made known 
 upon the vibration of the columned air, sat with his face 
 in his hands, dreaming. The player's mood was inex- 
 plicable, unless the life that he had lived over that day, 
 under the spell of his uncle's eloquence, was still with him. 
 Unconsciously, after one great climax of emotion, while 
 the echoes still filled the house, his fingers strayed absent- 
 ly into the notes of the plaintive little song that the child 
 had sung to him. A voice from the past hovered near to 
 sing. The duet began between the man who played and 
 the voice that came vibrant from the vox humana of the 
 organ. The beautiful combination at once aroused his 
 listeners. It was a new experience, and never to be re- 
 peated, for one life would scarcely hold two such coinci- 
 dences. For the man who played was before them, with 
 compressed lips, pouring a torrent of passionate feeling 
 from a man's heart ; and the voice that sung was a boy's 
 voice, clear and sweet, and full of the joy of loving, seek- 
 ing expression through the hidden chords of his life,
 
 228 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 joined by touch of hand and beat of heart to the vibrant 
 air. It was 'a duet between the two natures of one man. 
 
 At the conclusion Chilon paused, exhausted. No music 
 remained in him; the effort had been supreme. The 
 room grew still, and the impassioned air within the pipes 
 dozed off into vibrations too fine for human grasp unless 
 that sweetly-solemn rest that succeeds fine music is the 
 overtone of it all caught by a sense as yet undefined. He 
 seemed to feel a light touch upon his face. Lifting his 
 bowed head, he saw, standing by the door, Lena Mar- 
 beau, the woman. Her eyes met his and caressed him 
 with infinite love and tenderness. Then, as she stood, 
 the love-look died out of her face as the sunlight from a 
 twilight cloud. Her features became agitated. Swifter 
 changes succeeded, until, distorted with fear and horror, 
 it lost all beauty. She threw her hands above her head, 
 and uttered a piercing shriek. Almost instantly the tall 
 mulatto stood by her side, seized her wrists and drew her 
 away. Chilon sprang from his seat, and caught blindly 
 for support at the objects which swam in the scene about 
 him. He felt himself seized and heard his uncle's low, 
 sad voice: 
 
 "It was enough to startle any one, my dear friend. We 
 owe you a thousand apologies.'' 
 
 "It was real, then !" Chilon shivered and looked toward 
 the door. 
 
 "Yes. The lady is the wife of the man we seek to find, 
 Chilon Marbeau. The air you played was a favorite with 
 them both, and has drawn her from her apartments while 
 her attendant, perhaps, slept." 
 
 "Her attendant! Does she require? " 
 
 "Yes. She is insane." 
 
 "It cannot it cannot be true !'' The agony in his voice 
 touched the old man deeply. 
 
 "It is true!" He could say no more for a moment, and 
 then Chilon Marbeau, as in a dream, while he stood with 
 the perspiration streaming from every pore, heard these
 
 THE VOICE FROM THE PAST. 229 
 
 words: "Now you will understand why we must find 
 Chilon Marbeau. For the best of medical experts have 
 said that if his presence does not right her mind she 
 cannot escape the asylum. I had not thought to betray 
 her misfortune, and our most sacred sorrow; but it was 
 unavoidable. I trust now to your honor." The old man 
 turned away, abruptly. Chilon, with his hand upon his 
 throat, almost rushed from the room. 
 
 His presence had crazed her anew. 
 
 Whither he wandered, or how long, he never knew. 
 His first realization was that he stood before Rose Cot- 
 tage, his clothing soiled and torn, and Celeste was there, 
 sewing by candlelight.
 
 230 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 CHILON, THE BOY. 
 
 Two powers quarreled good-naturedly over the boy- 
 hood of little Chilon at Rose Cottage. Pierre, Celeste's 
 maternal grandfather, out of fashion as a private teacher 
 of the dead languages, had come soon after the tragedy 
 at Ravenswood to make his home with her. A gentle, pa- 
 tient, impractical enthusiast, his instinct nevertheless rec- 
 ognized the singular purity and power of the boy's 
 mind and its natural bent; and he determined to clothe 
 it with all the beauties that he could command. It was to 
 be his last work on earth, the dying effort of an intellect 
 to perpetuate itself. Robert Aubren, sturdy and strong, 
 had, for the sake of Celeste, taken the boy to his big 
 heart. "Let him be a soldier," he said. "The country 
 will need him some day." But later, he said to Pierre, 
 sadly, "You have taught his mind ahead of the arm. He 
 will never be a soldier." The prophecy was fulfilled, as 
 was the prophecy of Pierre, \vhen he foresaw in the slen- 
 der limb and shapely head the beauty of Apollo. Beauti- 
 ful, he grew, but his was more the beauty of the Apollo 
 of the angels. 
 
 In the heart of Celeste love for the lonely child grew 
 into an endless song that thrilled all life with subtle mur- 
 murs. Yet at all times there was a minor chord, a vague 
 dread. She never chided him for his weird fancies. She 
 could not divest her mind of the idea that somewhere 
 around her watched an ever-present spirit. His strange 
 eyes, that looked with intelligence and interest into the 
 space of field and woodland, filled her with wonder, some- 
 times alarm. She dared not ask him if he saw anything 
 there concealed from her. She half thought he did. It 
 was at such times only that he smiled. A fleeting, delicate 
 change came over his face, flickered, and was gone, as
 
 CHILON, THE BOY. 231 
 
 suddenly as though the shadow of a passing bird had 
 swept it. 
 
 Pierre was not so forbearing. He rebuked the child 
 for his silence and his fancies. Yet with strange incon- 
 sistency he fed the mind on fancies. Chilon, as he grew, 
 drunk in knowledge from the lips of the old teacher with 
 a readiness and understanding almost incredible. Latin 
 and Greek were nothing to him except that they held the 
 treasure of the past. He resolutely declined to apply 
 himslf to their acquisition. He was the sole auditor of 
 an old man who himself delighted in them. At thirteen 
 Chilon knew the Latin poets and had absorbed the beau- 
 tiful fables of the Greek by word of mouth. In these he 
 found his greatest charm. Mythology was at his tongue's 
 end and he knew every god and goddess as other children 
 knew fairy tales. Did he believe them? Implicitly. He 
 dwelt upon Olympus and soon he found a little ^Egean 
 sea. 
 
 But Pierre did not have the problem many years 1 ; 
 death sent him to the immortals, and Chilon, the boy, 
 grew sadder, quieter, paler, as the reality of life dawned 
 upon him. The mysterious wave of theosophy that had 
 swept the country reached him and found him ready. The 
 world became to him the playground of the mind, the 
 crucible of the spirit. 
 
 It was upon the death of Pierre that the boy's character 
 became more clearly revealed. In the hours of agony 
 through which the dying teacher crept to eternal sleep 
 he stood by the bedside, gazing into the eyes of him whose 
 lips had broken the seals of his mystery and led him 
 through the twilight of a bygone age. He did not leave 
 the bedside while breath was in the pain-racked body, 
 nor shed tears even when the light forsook the eyes fixed 
 for the last time upon him. He turned away quietly and 
 went forth then into the fields and forest. For three days 
 they saw but little of him. The hearse came from the city 
 and the body of old Pierre was laid away to rest by the
 
 232 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 river. Celeste, in the solemn hours of that parting, had 
 little time to bestow upon even the boy, but when all was 
 over and the sunshine crept again around the silent cot- 
 tage, she noticed him. He came and knelt by her side 
 and laid his arms about her. Her heart was full. It had 
 been a habit of his in childhood; but long since put aside. 
 Looking down into his eyes instinct revealed to her some- 
 thing deeper than mere grief. Unconsciously, as of old, 
 when he used to wake and listen in the long nights, she 
 began to sing to him. Then the old passion deepened in 
 his eyes, and his head, with its clustering ringlets, sank 
 slowly, and rested on her breast. In that moment the 
 soul of the woman and the strange, sad soul of the boy 
 drew closer than ever before. Somehow she felt that he 
 was more human than she had dreamed. It was not 
 often that she questioned him of his wanderings; they 
 were always innocent, and generally the insect or flower 
 that he bore upon returning, told a straight story; but 
 to-day, in sympathy over the loss that had fallen heaviest 
 upon him, she asked him where he had been. 
 
 "At Ravenswood, generally," he said. 
 
 "Ravenswood!" She could not suppress the ex- 
 clamation nor conceal her surprise almost terror. "And 
 what were you doing there?" 
 
 "I went to see Lena." Here was a revelation. 
 
 "Did you enter the house?" 
 
 "No, mother. I only go to the lake and the grove." 
 
 "And how did you meet Lena?" 
 
 "She came. I knew she would come." 
 
 For a long time the woman sat motionless except that 
 her hand gently stroked the boy's hair. It was not en- 
 tirely selfishness that had caused her to keep her boy 
 from Ravenswood. A strange dread of the first meeting 
 between him and her uncle postponed the hour. And 
 there had been no difficulty in the avoidance. The recon- 
 ciliation begun upon that fatal night, died in its incep- 
 tion by the perversity of the man. She soon found that
 
 CHILON, THE BOY. 233 
 
 the wife, but not the husband, was to be welcomed at 
 Ravens wood. The old aristocrat could not brook the 
 thought of meeting Robert Aubren on equal terms; and 
 her loyal heart took up arms again. 
 
 Lena, the woman, came from time to time and watched 
 the boy develop, sitting by the hour often with her sad 
 eyes resting upon him. And then a strange thing hap- 
 pened. There came a time when the sight of him drew 
 forth floods of tears and passionate caresses, followed 
 soon by a revulsion and a fear that was pitiful. There was 
 soon a consultation at Ravenswood. "Nervous prostra- 
 tion," they called it. And a year before the death of 
 Pierre, Lena had been taken to Uncle Gaston's in Eng- 
 land for a complete change. After a while her uncle 
 came back with the child; and Lena had been so much 
 benefited, it had been thought best to leave her. So it 
 was announced, the information after many days drifting 
 to Rose Cottage. 
 
 What was now to become of her boy? Celeste asked 
 herself the question as she sat over him that day. "Un- 
 fitted for companions or manual labor, without his teach- 
 er, and their library insignificant, what was he to do?" 
 She met the issue bravely when she found that it must be 
 met. 
 
 "Would you not like to go to the house, Chilon? There 
 are great books, hundreds of them there that tell of many 
 beautiful women and strange dreams " 
 
 "May I read them?" he asked, eagerly. 
 
 "We shall see." She smiled sadly over his enthusiasm. 
 
 But when Robert was consulted he shook his head and 
 made a suggestion so in keeping with her old fear that she 
 keenly regretted for the moment her decision. Still, hav- 
 ing awakened the boy's hopes, she would not disappoint 
 him. She dispatched a note to her uncle, stating her 
 wish, and it brought a hearty response: 
 
 "Let the boy come. The books are his to read, as 
 many as he likes."
 
 234 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 She dressed him on the morrow in the suit that fitted 
 his slender form so well, clasped her belt with the silver 
 buckle about his waist, and crowned his curls with his 
 jaunty cap. And so Chilon, the boy, came to Ravens- 
 wood. 
 
 It was a day of sunshine and beauty. Little Lena had 
 not heard of his coming; with intuitive wisdom she had, 
 from words profane dropped from time to time, gathered 
 that the Aubrens did not stand well in Colonel Marbeau's 
 opinion; and her acquaintance with the boy had not been 
 mentioned. She knew, however, that in him there could 
 be no blame. 
 
 Old Jerry answered Chilon's summons, took one look 
 at him, and drew back as from a ghost: 
 
 "Lord, hab mussay!'' he exclaimed; and then, "who 
 you, honey; and what you want hyah?" 
 
 "I have come to see Colonel Marbeau," said the boy 
 with dignity, "you will tell him that Chilon Aubren is 
 here." 
 
 "No, I won't, honey! Ain' gwine tell 'im no Aubren 
 hyah! You go in dat room deir whar de liberry is, an' 
 tell 'im yo'sef." And Jerry, pointing the way, beat a re- 
 treat. The boy entered and stood in the broad doorway 
 of the library, seeking with his grave eyes, fresh from the 
 sunlight, to pierce the shadows. He stood for the mo- 
 ment, one foot half raised, his cap in hand. The silence 
 deepened, and then the paper in Colonel Marbeau's hand 
 rattled to the floor, and he arose. His face was pallid, and 
 his eyes fixed in a stare upon the young form before him, 
 while his labored breathing revealed a deep agitation. 
 At that moment a girl's voice in song rang through the 
 house, and, smiling, Chilon turned his face to listen. 
 
 "Speak," said the man, hoarsely, "who are you?" 
 
 "I am Chilon Aubren, sir!" Colonel Marbeau sank 
 slowly into his chair and covered his face with his hands. 
 A low groan escaped his lips. From time to time he 
 lifted his head and gazed upon the slender figure.
 
 CHILON, THE BOY. 235 
 
 "And your name is Chilon !" 
 
 "Yes, sir." The man nodded. 
 
 "Why, of course ! You are Celeste's boy, I remember. 
 Books? As many as you wish, my son; there they are all 
 along the walls. I am not well, and cannot help you 
 much, but you are welcome, very welcome. Come clos- 
 er and let me see you! Ah," he exclaimed, resting his 
 hand upon Chilon's shoulder, "straight, well-formed, 
 but rather light for a soldier!" Chilon submitted to the 
 examination in silence. The Colonel stroked his curly 
 hair gently, and gazed tenderly into his eyes. 
 
 "You are like him, very like him! The uncle for 
 whom you were named!" he said. Rising again he 
 limped from the room. At the door, he turned. 
 
 "Excuse me, my son, and make yourself at home! I 
 will send Lena to entertain and help you. Lena! Chil- 
 on!" He repeated the names. His chin sank upon his 
 breast, as he turned away. 
 
 Lena came with glad, quick steps, and took both his 
 hands. 
 
 "I am so happy," she began, and, noticing his eyes, 
 "What is it, Chilon? Something is troubling you!" 
 
 "I do not know," he said, looking about him slowly, "I 
 seem to hear voices." She listened intently. 
 
 "I do not hear them." He was gazing then intently 
 upon her face. 
 
 "I seem to have stood here once before with you," he 
 said, thoughtfully. She smiled at his words as she an- 
 swered, confidently: 
 
 "That could not have been. But you will be here often 
 now, and that is better!"
 
 236 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 DREAMS AND THE DREAMER. 
 
 With the assistance of his young friend Chilon drew 
 down the volumes, and plunged into their mysteries. It 
 was not long before he found congenial themes. A great 
 book lay open to him, the wanderings in Egypt of that 
 oldest of historians, Herodotus. With hands pressed to 
 his temples, and his slender figure extended upon the 
 floor in his favorite attitude, he read while the sunlight 
 crept across the window sills, and the hum of the outer 
 life quieted into midday repose. Little Lena would not 
 interrupt him at first, but as time passed on she spoke. 
 He did not seem to hear. Smiling over his absorption 
 and happy in his interest, she wandered away. She threw 
 open the organ and seated herself to play. Her highest 
 talent would always be in music, and from infancy she 
 had been taught by the best instructors. Few girls of her 
 tender age, unless born for the art, would have equaled 
 her execution. But behind her acquired technique was a 
 strong heredity, a nature cast in harmonies, and to-day a 
 peculiar environment. The silence, the presence of her 
 strange companion, who had already begun to affect her 
 sympathies powerfully; the memory of their woodland 
 meetings and his sad spirit all unanalyzed though they 
 were lent their influence to the hour. Her repertoire 
 was not large nor difficult, but it embraced low, sweet 
 and simple nocturnes, reveries and wordless songs mu- 
 sic that suited her best. As she played, unconsciously 
 her soul went into the themes. The boy, the situation, 
 and all were forgotten. Slowly, measure by measure, 
 the mystery unfolded, wailed and died away, to rise again 
 as her fancy changed. It deepened sometimes to sorrow; 
 it sometimes rose to happier thoughts, it ended in a lulla- 
 by that seemed to sing itself asleep. To her listener, the
 
 DREAMS AND THE DREAMER. 237 
 
 imaginative boy, the music held the song of birds, the 
 murmur of the forests, the wailing of the winds, the rip- 
 pling brooks. They came and passed, obedient to the 
 touch of her magic fingers. Nay, more; the spirits that 
 had first spoken there came back and filled the room, dim, 
 gray specters that moved with the stateliness of the val- 
 ley mists, that turned their veiled faces upon him and 
 seemed about to speak, but never did. Something held 
 their lips dumb; they faded out in silence. 
 
 What had happened? Only this, the music had ceased. 
 
 And then, attracted beyond his power to resist, he went 
 quietly and stood by the girl, who was resting one hand 
 upon the organ, the fingers of the other slowly playing a 
 soundless melody upon the still ivories. She looked up 
 and met his gaze with a wistful smile. 
 
 "What is it, Chilon?" she asked. 
 
 "Sister!" He rested his hand upon her head and 
 looked away with a troubled face. 
 
 "Oh, that is good of you, Chilon. I will be your sis- 
 ter." A faint smile flitted upon his face, but her eyes 
 were wet. 
 
 "Mother told me once once when she thought I was 
 lonely but crying as she said it, that some day I would 
 have a sister. She always speaks the truth always. 
 Maybe this is what she meant!" 
 
 The girl smiled back happily to him. 
 
 "And I will be the best sister! Oh, Chilon, I am so 
 glad !" His hand still rested upon her curls. 
 
 "Sister Lena!" he said, gently. "What a beautiful 
 name. Shall I tell you what I dreamed while you were 
 playing?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You remember the day I was listening to the waters 
 that sung down in the valley I could not tell you then. 
 You were not my sister then." 
 
 "The day you went away so sad? Oh, yes. You 
 didn't even say, 'Good-bye, Lena.' "
 
 238 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 "It all came back to-day, for your music was the falling 
 water and the ripple in the grass. They spoke to me as 
 they did then." 
 
 "I could hear nothing," she said, sadly, shaking her 
 head. "I never hear the voices that come to you. I 
 wish that I could." 
 
 "But I can always tell you, my sister; and that is bet- 
 ter." 
 
 "I don't know. The organ the waters, have pleasant 
 voices. I think, if they speak words, they must tell of 
 pleasant things always. Do they not?" 
 
 "That day," he said, "as I lay I heard my name called. 
 At first I thought it came from the wind, but I knew soon 
 it was the brook. I bent and listened. Then it seemed 
 to speak again. 'I know you, Chilon; many times your 
 shadow has dwelt upon me, and many a time I have 
 shadowed you. Do you remember when you were lying 
 upon the grass in the field reading, the shadow of a cloud 
 crept over you? It came with the wind that whispered, 
 and, thinking something called you from the shadow you 
 followed it until it crept over Ravenswood. It was a 
 weary chase I led you that day, Chilon, but it brought you 
 to the sister you have wished for so long. I am changed 
 now. I fell upon the hills and have sought you through 
 all the forests in vain. I have a message from a woman 
 who came and dwelt one day with me. She loved you 
 well, Chilon ; better than you know. As we passed over 
 you that day, and you followed the shadow, she wept, 
 saying "he has followed shadows long, but it will not be 
 always. Love will complete the dream." You thought 
 her tears upon your face were raindrops.' That is what 
 the waters said." 
 
 For a few moments neither spoke. Lena was thinking 
 over his words, trying to reach their hidden meaning. 
 Chilon was thinking only of the last words of the strange 
 message he had received. 
 
 "Love completes the dream," he repeated, "but what
 
 DREAMS AND THE DREAMER. 239 
 
 is love?" She thought gravely upon this ancient propo- 
 sition, and answered him. 
 
 "I don't know how to tell it, but I think, Chilon, if of all 
 things the choice were ours to keep some forever, love 
 would teach us how to choose." He nodded, well 
 pleased at the reply. 
 
 "And you, Lena, what would you choose?" 
 
 She smiled confidently, looking into his brown eyes 
 without embarrassment. 
 
 "I should choose Mamma and you!" 
 
 "I think, then, I must love you, Sister Lena. I would 
 choose the same way!" She lifted her face, her eyes fill- 
 ing again, but a radiant smile chasing away the shadows. 
 
 "Perhaps, then, this is what the brook meant when it 
 said, 'love completes the dream.' Are you happy now?" 
 
 "Happy?" He repeated the word softly. "I don't 
 know what it means, Sister Lena; I think I will never 
 know until the winds and the birds are silent, and the 
 shadows do not fall." She did not answer this. Pres- 
 ently, noticing her abstraction, he said: 
 
 "And you you are happy?" 
 
 "Yes. I am happy nearly always, and happiest when 
 the breezes bring the bird's song and move the shadows 
 on the ground; happiest now, when I am with you, and 
 there are no troubles in your eyes." 
 
 "Why are you happy?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know that! But I am not happy when 
 Grandfather scolds me, and oh, so unhappy when I do not 
 meet you. Did your Grandfather scold you?" 
 
 "Sometimes; but I went into the woods and soon for- 
 got it." Presently she asked him, her voice sunk to a 
 whisper: 
 
 "Do you ever hear his voice, Chilon?" 
 
 "Not to-day." 
 
 "Would you be afraid to die, Chilon?'' 
 
 "No." He looked up, surprised. 
 
 "I would. It seems so strange to think of dying; so
 
 240 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 lonely, maybe. We are here with our friends; we die; 
 we go, then, maybe, among strangers somewhere, and 
 look for the poor we used to know in this life; we 
 maybe can hear their voices, and feel them thinking 
 about us, but we can't find them, and they can't find us." 
 He looked at her, astonished and flushed with excite- 
 ment. Without thought he placed his arm about her and 
 drew her to him. 
 
 "You are the only one I have ever found, my sister." 
 
 "You think you knew me, then, in some other life. Oh, 
 Chilon, is it, could it be true?" 
 
 "It is true!" he said, simply. He bent over her and 
 pressed his lips silently to her forehead. "We will not 
 lose each other again while we live." 
 
 So into the life of the little woman, had Chilon come; 
 and as the weeks passed Celeste questioned him. What 
 if some day he never came back from Ravenswood? For 
 the son of Robert Aubren was in the eyes of the world a 
 very different personage from the grandson of Charles 
 Marbeau. And when the day came for her to decide be- 
 tween her heart and the future of the boy, how would she 
 decide?
 
 THE TIGRESS AND HER YOUNG. 241 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 THE TIGRESS AND HER YOUNG. 
 
 Little Chilon had long been a visitor to Ravenswood. 
 Celeste was in the cozy sitting room at Rose Cottage sew- 
 ing by the light of a candle, that being sufficient for the 
 work in hand. Lamps are oppressive on southern sum- 
 mer evenings. She was alone, her husband having been 
 detained, as sometimes happened upon his necessary vis- 
 its to the city. But, while lonely, she was not nervous, 
 for although many years had passed since the war, and 
 some sections suffered from the uncontrolled forces so 
 suddenly emancipated, the negroes of the neighborhood 
 were orderly and industrious. She was accustomed, too, 
 to solitude and watching since death had removed her 
 older companions. In the light of her candle, her dark 
 oval face, with its fine, firm features, her black hair loos- 
 ened for the night, her strong, supple form stood out of the 
 shadow like a figure in some old Dutch painting. Grown 
 older, she had not aged; time and the cares of wifehood 
 and motherhood had only ripened all the promises of her 
 girlhood. Woman as she was, and full of womanly 
 weakness, her life had formed itself about passions as 
 strong as chains of steel. Passions that at times sus- 
 tained her when most women would have failed. Love 
 was the controlling influence of her nature. 
 
 To-night as she sat at work her mind played host to 
 memory. She thought of Lena. Many days had passed 
 since she had sat with arms about her, seeking to recall 
 again the confused and wandering mind, failing always, 
 except to soothe and quiet. A stranger was at the house, 
 his purpose unknown to her, and she disliked strangers. 
 Her life had been spent in a narrow circle, and those who 
 dwelt by her were sufficient. Instinctively she feared 
 change and innovation. Nothing good to her could 
 
 16
 
 242 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 come of change, and much might that would not be good. 
 
 While thus engaged, a slight sound drew her attention 
 toward the open door, and there she saw standing, a man 
 of soiled and disheveled dress and reckless expression. 
 Astonished, and for the moment doubtful, she arose and 
 stood waiting. The stranger glanced quickly about the 
 room and entered. 
 
 "Pardon me, madame," he said, his speech nervous and 
 hurried, "is this the home of Madame Aubren Celeste 
 Aubren?" 
 
 She did not move, nor for the moment reply. One 
 clinched hand went quickly to her temple and remained 
 pressed there tightly, a feminine gesture born of terror 
 and peculiar to southern races. She looked about her; 
 there was no escape outward, since the man was at the 
 door. But it was not escape she sought. Her eyes re- 
 turned to his face and remained fixed upon him, fascinat- 
 ed. 
 
 "Who are you?" she whispered, her bosom rising and 
 falling in increasing agitation. The stranger averted his 
 face for a moment, bringing the profile into view. When 
 he looked again he was startled by the change in the wo- 
 man. She now stood erect as though responding to a sud- 
 den call for decision and action, her eyes blazing with 
 dread and excitement. 
 
 "You have come back," she said, her voice still reduced 
 to a whisper, intensified by the feeling it carried. Chil- 
 on's decision had been but half formed; he hardly knew 
 clearly why he had come to her. Indefinitely he had 
 thought to see Celeste. Despair had brought him, as in 
 the olden time unhappiness was wont to bring the boy. 
 At the last moment the necessity for disguise had flashed 
 over him, and he had made the effort weakly. 
 
 Her prompt discovery of his identity, due to his voice 
 and profile, and the concealment by the shadows of his 
 changed appearance, disconcerted and defeated him for
 
 THE TIGRESS AND HER YOUNG. 243 
 
 the time. He was momentarily speechless and embar- 
 rassed. 
 
 The revulsion that followed was natural to such a na- 
 ture as his. It was due to relief. The load had slipped 
 from him, and, although defeated in his plans, he was 
 free to talk upon his life and its embarrassments. It is 
 true even that for the moment, so marked was the change 
 of feeling that came over him, he was almost happy. A 
 half smile lit his handsome face, the ghost of the smile it 
 used to wear, and, advancing, he stretched himself in a 
 chair. He was Chilon the old Chilon again. 
 
 But at the same time, his approach towards the light 
 had revealed the lines, the changes which to her were 
 autobiographies. She read as by a flash-light of long 
 years of abandonment, of neglect, of heartlessness, of dis- 
 sipation. She read also no good purpose in this home 
 coming, no honorable return. It was not so, that her 
 brother should come in the night, soiled and ruffled and 
 in disguise. Alarmed and shocked, her heart was in 
 arms against him at once. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "and a strange greeting, considering 
 that this is our first meeting in seventeen years." 
 
 His action, the easy nonchalance of his manner, for 
 some reason, intensified Celeste's excitement. She glided 
 across the room, and by a swift motion closed the door of 
 the other apartment. Then, with her hand over her 
 heart, she came back slowly to her chair, and stood by it. 
 
 He surveyed her bitterly, in silence, as she struggled for 
 self-possession. Not a word of welcome, no touch of 
 hands, even ! She turned her face to his, and he saw that 
 it was full of fear and distress, and that she was still 
 trembling. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked, in genuine surprise. "What is' 
 troubling you so?" 
 
 With a supreme effort, she replied : 
 
 "I thought you were dead." And then, in a voice
 
 244 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 full of agony, "Oh, Chilon, Chilon! why have you come 
 back? Why have you come back?" 
 
 His amazement increased. 
 
 "Why? Well, why should I not come back? Do you 
 know of any reason? Is there any reason why I should 
 not come?" 
 
 And then, more gently: 
 
 "It may be that I have come back to see Lena my 
 wife. And, Celeste, I have come as soon as circum- 
 stances would permit. Is there anything in a man's com- 
 ing back to his wife after a long absence to call for sup- 
 posing and heroics?" 
 
 Celeste regarded him in amazement. 
 
 "Your wife! To see your wife?" 
 
 "Why not? She is, in the sight of heaven, my wife ! It 
 has been many years, but I have come at last. I have 
 come to you first She shuddered and turned away. 
 Her sufferings began to affect him. He leaned back, and 
 presently, in a vain effort to conceal his fejelings, rolled a 
 cigarette and touched it to the candle. Celeste had hid- 
 den her face in her hands; he waited for her to speak. As 
 thus he sat, his eyes took in the furnishings of the little 
 room. Many articles were familiar and suggestive of the 
 unchanging conditions of the woman's life; the little 
 clock that had been his mother's, the quaint vases, the 
 few prints upon the wall. Among these he found a little 
 photograph of himself as a young man, holding her in- 
 fant, taken by a strolling artist in the olden days. As he 
 studied it, the smoke disappeared from his mouth and the 
 spark on the cigarette in the hand resting carelessly upon 
 the table vanished in the gray ash. 
 
 "Your child," he said, gently, "where is your child?" 
 She shuddered, but did not look up. 
 
 "In there," she said, in a whisper. The effort was pain- 
 ful. He could not guess her trouble, but he would calm 
 her by forcing the conversation in that direction. Talk
 
 THE TIGRESS AND HER YOUNG. 245 
 
 to mothers of their children ; he remembered the aphor- 
 ism. 
 
 "Was it a boy or girl let me see; I have forgotten?'' 
 She did not reply for a moment. 
 
 "A boy," she said at length, "a boy." Her words were 
 just audible. She was trembling violently. 
 
 "Celeste," he continued, "what is the matter with you? 
 I do not see why my presence should cause all this display 
 of emotion. I came to you because well, because I am 
 in despair, and I had reason to believe you would still 
 love your only brother your nearest relative. I came 
 to you for information, because I knew you were Lena's 
 friend, and would know of her condition now. I have 
 just heard I have been told there is no cause of alarm!" 
 He pressed his hand to his face an instant and looked 
 away. Celeste was now unable to keep her seat She 
 stood up suddenly, something of terror in her own eyes. 
 She had misunderstood, and, bounding past him, placed 
 her back against the dividing door. He watched her with 
 undisguised astonishment. What was in that room? 
 Why should she guard the door? Bewildered, his gaze 
 wandered about him once more. Again it fell upon the 
 little photograph. He looked from it back to her. Some- 
 thing told him the connection was there. 
 
 "I thought," he said, "it was a girl." And then, pres- 
 ently; "Why, Celeste, it was a girl! You named her 
 Eloise for mother! Why! what is the matter?" She was 
 just able to keep erect. Their eyes met. An idea never 
 before entertained leaped into his mind along the hidden 
 lines, and it seemed to her that she saw it dawn upon him. 
 
 He came to her quickly, white with excitement. His 
 grasp, his passion, hurt her. The cry that escaped from 
 her lips was a wordless expression of agony, mental and 
 physical. It was, too, a confession. 
 
 But what a paradox is the woman heart! The cry of 
 despair was instantly followed by calmness. It was as 
 though she had suddenly emerged into a new light, a new
 
 246 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 scene. She was no hypocrite; she could not dissemble; 
 but she had blood within her that could fight. 
 
 The long-dreaded hour had come, and she had a wea- 
 pon. She did not recognize his claim. He had been 
 neither husband nor father, and the child was hers. She 
 had raised it, had nested it in a motherhood as broad and 
 as deep as love extends. As she had guarded it in the 
 past, so would she now, and in the future. It should not 
 be torn from her. The heartlessness, the violence of the 
 man, although he was her brother, was apparent in his 
 conduct to-night. Should her boy, her beautiful, tender, 
 delicate and sensitive Chilon, be turned over to become a 
 wanderer with this rogue, this criminal, grown gray in 
 vice and dissipation? 
 
 Such were the thoughts that crowded tumultuously 
 into her brain. He saw the change come over her; he 
 did not fully realize it, but for the moment the woman was 
 gone and a tigress stood guard above her young. 
 
 "Well," she said, answering the unasked question, "and 
 if so, what of it?" Her face had lost the youthful lines; 
 its fullness of contour was gone; it was square, almost, 
 in determination and cruelty. The Austrian zealot had 
 dawned upon a new century. As they gazed into each 
 other's eyes, they seemed for a moment almost alike, one 
 a darker reproduction of the other. He recognized him- 
 self, the uncompromising element of himself, in her, and 
 unconsciously withdrew his grasp. She turned the key 
 in the lock, placed it in her bosom, and went back to her 
 seat. 
 
 Chilon witnessed this transformation with amazement, 
 followed by admiration. But he was dazed and uncer- 
 tain. 
 
 "It was true, then?" he said, in a whisper; it all seemed 
 so strange, so awful. Never until then had he fully real- 
 ized the ruin he had wrought. She made no reply. "It 
 was true, then!" He answered his own question and
 
 THE TIGRESS AND HER YOUNG. 247 
 
 looked upon her, the wonder, the astonishment growing 
 as he thought. 
 
 "Well," said she, coldly, "what of it?" 
 
 "What of it? What of it?" And then, bitterly: "A 
 man returns after many years to find himself a father, and 
 is asked 'what of it.' I came here to-night to see you, to 
 talk of Lena, of whose illness I have but recently been in- 
 formed " Celeste started violently and lifted her eyes 
 
 toward heaven. She was the only witness except Robert 
 "a man without prospects particularly bright, and I 
 find myself a father, the legal guardian of an heir to a for- 
 tune, perhaps." His words and reckless manner crystal- 
 ized her mood; she saw in this chance speech an inten- 
 tion he did not entertain. Her life had been too sweet 
 and holy, too steadfast, to measure the weakness, the sor- 
 row of his. Her whole manner showed her contempt. 
 She had suddenly become in point of force as in all things 
 else, the superior of the man. 
 
 "There is no fortune for the child," she said, quietly, 
 "except such as Robert and I will leave. It is my child, 
 and no one can prove it is not when I say it is." 
 
 He looked at her in astonishment. 
 
 "You would be the witness when the time comes," he 
 said, quietly. Again she misunderstood him. 
 
 "You will hardly try that," she replied. "In the first 
 place, the child is really mine, placed in my arms by its 
 mother, and all claims released. In the second, I would 
 perjure myself, if necessary; yes, if necessary to save my 
 child, and if I were put upon the witness stand, I would 
 hang you!" Poor Celeste! It was the agony of the 
 mother striking blindly at the unseen dangers of the dark ! 
 
 Chilon's astonishment was complete. 
 
 "You threaten me!" he began; but suddenly his face 
 grew whiter, for she had arisen and was looking down 
 upon him with a terrible menace in her eyes. 
 
 "Let me give you a piece of history," she said, with a 
 forced calmness. "The child you once hoped for, but
 
 248 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 deserted in advance, was born. There was no way to in- 
 form you at that time, for you had also deserted its poor, 
 little loving mother. Your cruelty proved her ruin. You 
 gave them a chance to say you were base, and Richard 
 Marbeau took advantage of it. He deceived Lena, and, 
 by working upon her sympathies, accomplished his pur- 
 pose and married her. You know how they deceived her 
 with the false reports of your crime. The little boy's com- 
 ing had been concealed. He took the place of my poor 
 little Eloise " 
 
 "God in heaven! Chilon!" The man buried his face in 
 his hands a moment, and then looked up quickly. 
 
 "Yes, Chilon! We could not make him a criminal's 
 son; and after Lena married again when the shameful 
 deception practiced upon her became plain well, she 
 would not go before the world with the child and an ex- 
 planation. Besides, he was mine. It would have killed 
 me to lose him!" She sobbed a moment and returned to 
 the subject with renewed passion. 
 
 "The time came when you returned to Lena, bringing 
 her a new sorrow. She was happy for a while, though, 
 and in her joy she brought about a truce meeting between 
 uncle and me. She hoped for so much! I arranged to 
 go to Ravenswood to meet you after that awful night, 
 and did go." 
 
 "You!" Her face in that dark hall flashed again be- 
 fore him. 
 
 "Oh, Chilon! I need not complete the story!" 
 
 "Go on ! Go on ! Tell me all !" 
 
 "She gave me the room across the hall from your old 
 room, and I was to wait until she had seen you and ob- 
 tained your consent before coming in. We were going 
 to plan your life over again, Chilon ; we would have made 
 you happy! But it was not to be. While I waited, I 
 heard you struggling in the hall! I heard a pistol shot 
 and that fearful cry and running out I saw, framed in
 
 THE TIGRESS AND HER YOUNG. 249 
 
 the open window of your room, the most fearful picture 
 a sister ever beheld. On the floor lay Richard, with blood 
 already pouring across it, and over him were you with a 
 knife in your hand! The lightning, which had been al- 
 most continuous, went out for a moment. When it 
 flashed again you were gone, and lying there was only 
 that cold dead thing that had a minute before been a man ; 
 while I, Celeste Marbeau I who had loved you oh, how 
 I have loved you, I was sister to a murderer!" she stood 
 over him as she uttered these last words, her hands up- 
 lifted, her distorted face seeking to hold his. 
 
 Chilon trusted himself to look but once into the accus- 
 ing eyes. He crept out from under them and picked up 
 his hat. He fingered this absently, almost with imbecil- 
 ity. Then he looked back to her again. She was touched 
 by the fearful face he had turned upon her; but she was 
 pitiless. It was the tigress still whose cub was threatened. 
 
 "I know," she said, panting, and pointing her finger at 
 him, "two of us have carried the scene in the memory for 
 these four years; two of us will carry it to the grave! 
 There was another there waiting for you; and she is still 
 waiting, waiting in the dark ; for the horror of that deed, 
 your deed, put out the light of her mind and left her to 
 insanity. You would hardly recognize her, but the beau- 
 ty of that face survives. Would you like to see it again? 
 Hush!" Her voice sank to a whisper. "Come! She 
 lives in the child, my child! God confirmed him to me 
 for my share in that night's work. See, the door is open 
 now. I will light the way. You can look into that face 
 and maybe it will smile up to you again, as it used to in 
 the old days. See, the way is clear now!" She threw 
 open the bedroom door and caught up the candle. 
 
 Chilon, holding by the table, dazed and silent, was re- 
 garding her helplessly. "Come," she urged, showing her 
 white teeth in a smile that froze his blood again, "if you 
 are not the murderer of his mother and of Richard Mar-
 
 250 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 beau, you need fear nothing!" And then, vehemently, "I 
 challenge you to look upon that face!'' 
 
 But her unanswered challenge marked the limits of her 
 rage. Her life had been devoted to loving ministry. 
 Something overcame her, some memory, or the immortal 
 tenderness of womanhood. Her fury died before his 
 speechless surrender. With a sudden revulsion she cast 
 the candle to the floor and falling upon her knees, 
 clasped her arms about him. 
 
 "Oh, Chilon ! Chilon ! To think that it was you you 
 who used to kneel with me that it was you who brought 
 about all this ruin, this misery; you whom she loved and 
 trusted, and left home and father for oh, Chilon 
 She broke down and sobbed piteously. 
 
 The lighted candle was sputtering and dying upon the 
 floor, but the moon shining through the window fell upon 
 his ashen face. His voice was scarcely audible when he 
 spoke again. It was as a voice heard calling from a 
 storm. 
 
 "A murderer! A murderer! A murderer! It is 
 known!'' 
 
 He seemed to awake. Looking about him suddenly 
 for the woman, he found her clasping his knees. He tore 
 her arms from him with a strength she could not defeat, 
 and glided out into the night. That one word, the word 
 he had repeated, seemed to remain a thing of form of 
 vision, of actual being in the room. It seemed to take 
 the man's place. When she lifted her head and looked 
 about her, she was surprised to find him gone. Tremb- 
 ling, she arose, and tottered into the little room and sank 
 on the bed, her arms about the child. And as if awaking 
 from a hideous dream, her terror left her. She buried 
 her face by the little sleeper's in the pillow. 
 
 "Chilon," she whispered. 
 
 "What is it, Mamma?" 
 
 "Nothing, darling. Go back to sleep," and, slipping an
 
 THE TIGRESS AND HER YOUNG. 251 
 
 arm about her as she knelt, he slept again. So Robert 
 Aubren found them when he came. 
 
 She had not seen the white face of her brother at the 
 window nor its agony, as, with her arms about the little 
 fellow, she spoke his name.
 
 252 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 HEART TO HEART. 
 
 When Chilon left Rose Cottage, he had but one object 
 in mind; escape from the accusing eyes and lips of his 
 sister. The realization that she had been a witness of the 
 tragedy at Ravenswood, and that to her he was simply an 
 assassin, and, as such, forever an outcast, came with re- 
 sistless force. The subject had long since been put aside; 
 he had explained to, had forgiven himself. He knew 
 that except for the fatal resolution which had in his mo- 
 ment of irresponsibility arisen and taken possession of 
 him, he was guiltless. And the resolution itself was hu- 
 man. What man would have rested under such wrongs? 
 Now, two people shared this secret with him, two from 
 whose minds he might never hope to explain away the 
 fearful fact of the death. One had accused and denounced 
 him ; and the other? He stopped in his wild flight, and 
 threw himself down at the foot of a tree, burying his face 
 in his hands to shut out the memory that came to him. 
 He had destroyed with Richard's life the mind of his wife. 
 Was not that what Lena said? It was true. She had 
 gazed upon him from the parlor door, and the sight of 
 him had evidently revived the horrors of that night. 
 
 There is a limit to the powers of misfortune. The mind 
 finds at last a refuge in inability to receive impressions. 
 If it does not give way it staggers blindly beneath its 
 weight, seeing, hearing, accepting nothing until it 
 had adjusted its burden anew. And so with the 
 self-convicted man that night in the wilds of 
 Ravenswood. Dimly, as he waited, almost in awe, for 
 doubts of his own sanity had thrilled him, the facts of his 
 life came out of the shadows and confronted him. He 
 was a murderer, and Lena was crazed. She had had but 
 one chance; she was to be confronted with the lover-
 
 HEART TO HEART. 253 
 
 husband of her earlier youth, and if there was no revulsion 
 strong enough to set up again the landmarks for her 
 mind, it would wander forever. This was her chance. 
 It had failed. To her in the one brief moment as she 
 stood at the door, he had returned, not, however, in the 
 halo of the sweet old romance, but cloaked in a tragedy 
 too fearful for contemplation. What, then, was left for 
 him at Ravenswood! What in all the world! 
 
 His mind, grown calmer, reverted to that closed and 
 silent room at Rose Cottage. His son was there; her 
 son! The thought moved him with a sudden joy. He 
 was not to be alone forever. How he would work for, 
 plan for, live for Lena's boy! He should never know 
 what horrors lurked in his father's past. He would take 
 him away, far beyond the reach of old associations, and 
 teach him what? The wretched man sank back again 
 to the sod, from which in his excitement he was rising. 
 He was a convict, an assassin! There was no escape 
 from fate. Where next? Where turn for safety? For 
 murder will sometimes out! The large reward was still 
 standing. It came to him then that the prison from 
 which he had fled was a refuge. In comparison, its old 
 life, with no responsibilities, seemed sweet and restful. 
 The world outside was dead to him; the prison was his 
 best home. 
 
 But Garner! Instantly with that name his soul arose 
 in rebellion. It was once more the saving stimulus. 
 
 It was midnight and the moon's broad disc now over- 
 hung the scene. Into the shrill chorus of the crickets and 
 the monotone of the dewdrops from the leaves, there 
 came a sudden hush, and then the slow sweep of garments 
 upon the grass. He saw, standing near him, a woman, 
 her white gown in reach of his hand. Was it some 
 wraith, some phantom from a disordered mind? Who 
 could come to him in that lonely place but the ghost of 
 one of those dead friends he had helped to slay, waked 
 from her grave in the fields of memory by the conflict
 
 254 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 about her? He reached out his hand and touched the 
 garment. It was soft and yielding. Still holding to it he 
 lifted his eyes slowly, fearfully, until they rested upon her 
 hand. It clasped a letter. With the other she was 
 searching the depths of a hollow in the tree; and then his 
 eager face was lifted higher, and he saw the pensive 
 beauty of hers lit by the splendor of the moon. He 
 reached forth and touched her hand, as he would have 
 touched a lily. 
 
 "Lena!" She did not start or withdraw from him, but 
 cast her eyes downward, as, kneeling, he leaned from the 
 shadow of the tree and pressed his hot lips upon her hand. 
 
 "At last, Chilon; you have come at last!" 
 
 "At last!" His frame shook with the sobs he could 
 not restrain at sound of her voice. 
 
 "It has been long; oh, so long, Chilon! You should 
 not have treated me so. It was cruel. I loved you too 
 well to have been treated so!" Her mind had lost the 
 memory of its horror, but it might return at any moment. 
 
 "Ah," he said, "I, too, have suffered, Lena. God alone 
 knows how I have suffered!" She rested her free hand 
 upon his head. 
 
 "Your hair, it used to be black. Why is it changed so?" 
 Her soft fingers lifted the locks gently and stroked them 
 into place again. "It is true; you must have suffered. 
 And yet suffering doesn't always destroy. Look how 
 mine holds its blackness. Not a thread of white!" She 
 took her hair in both hands, held it out at arms' length, 
 right and left, and released it slowly. It fell behind her 
 out of the moonlight like an escaping shadow. "You 
 once thought it beautiful, Chilon!" Awed by her ap- 
 pearance, and the solemnity of this contact with insanity, 
 the man arose and stood looking upon her. She laid 
 both white arms upon his shoulders and placed her face 
 near his. He could only fold his arms about her in si- 
 lence and struggle to restrain himself. Any excitement
 
 HEART TO HEART. 255 
 
 might be fatal. She seemed to be searching his face for 
 a record. 
 
 "It is you, and not you," she said, puzzled. 
 
 "It is I, Chilon. Time has left its mark, but it is the 
 same Chilon that has always loved you, Lena!'' 
 
 "Loved me! You do love me! You will never love 
 any one but Lena! I had a dream last night, Chilon, 
 such a dream ! I thought you came back and sang to me, 
 sang the old songs we loved so; but when I looked for 
 you I saw not you, but some one else there at the organ. 
 I had so much to tell you, dear. You know that I am 
 not always myself, my mind is sometimes confused, and 
 I imagine such awful things !" 
 
 "Hush," he said, quickly, fearing that her excitement 
 was returning. "Don't think of them to-night. Put 
 away all troubles and let us talk of the happy days." 
 
 "Happy days!" she laughed softly. "Do you remem- 
 ber, Chilon, the day I came from school, and you met me; 
 how we rode together from the city, and as we entered 
 under the arch, you kissed me and said, 'Welcome again 
 to Ravens wood?' That was a happy day. Happy? Ah, 
 Chilon, Chilon, there is a happy day coming for you, 
 too!" 
 
 "For me, Lena? Never, never again for me!" 
 
 "What! Come, follow me, and I will tell you some- 
 thing that will make you happy, Chilon. Come! come! 
 come!'' She glided away, lifting her skirts from the 
 leaves, and beckoning eagerly. 
 
 "Lena, be careful ! " 
 
 "Come! come! come!" She eluded his grasp, and he 
 could but follow, distressed and fearful. Once she waited 
 with her finger upon her lips, a hand outstretched toward 
 him. 
 
 "No, not here," she said. "No one must know, no one 
 but you, Chilon!" She passed on quickly down to the 
 lake, he following her light, sure footsteps until the water
 
 256 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 was reached and she entered a little boat. Reasoning was 
 of no avail. He tried persuasion. She was obstinate. 
 
 "I must; I must," she said; "don't vex me, Chilon, 
 when I am going to make you happy! You will be hap- 
 py, dear, will you not?" 
 
 "Yes, Lena. It is happiness to be with you!'' Happi- 
 ness! 
 
 She had the paddle, and with something of her old 
 skill and ease, sent the boat gliding through the lily pads 
 and moss far out, and up the lake; and ever as she dipped 
 the blade she sang softly a lullaby, keeping time with her 
 task. Her voice rose sweetly in the night, wailed and 
 died away, and the paddle slipped from her Hand and float- 
 ed off, unheeded. She stood up; the frail craft rocked 
 dangerously a moment, but it did not alarm her! 
 
 "Hark!" she said, "did you not hear him cry?" 
 
 "Lena, Lena! Of whom are you talking?" 
 
 "My baby, my poor little baby," she said, twisting her 
 fingers together nervously. "Oh, you did not know, 
 Chilon ! Chilon !" She threw herself down at his feet, and 
 buried her face in his lap. 
 
 "You never told me!" he said, hoarsely, "you never 
 told me!" 
 
 "How could I? You never came, you never came! 
 Oh, Chilon ! he was a beautiful child, and I named him for 
 you; nobody ever knew but Celeste. I gave him to Ce- 
 leste good, loving, beautiful Celeste. And so I lost 
 him. I don't know, I can't remember why I lost him. 
 They told me I must, and Celeste was so sweet and true. 
 But now he is gone! Oh, Chilon, my love, my life, save 
 me from myself! save my child! Bring back my heart, 
 my brain, my soul! Everything is drifting away from 
 me! I do not see anything but you; but you and the 
 dear God's stars!" She was almost beyond control as she 
 trembled in his arms. 
 
 "Listen," he said at last, in desperation. "I have seen 
 him!"
 
 HEART TO HEART. 257 
 
 "You! You have seen him? Why, Chilon, how could 
 you have seen my boy, my beautiful boy?" 
 
 "To-night I went to Celeste, and we talked of the past, 
 Lena, and of you. We talked of the good old days when 
 we were children in these woods and upon these waters." 
 
 He turned away his face, overcome by the remem- 
 brance of the real scene. 
 
 "Well " 
 
 "And she told me all. Then I went and stood above 
 his bedside, little Chilon's, and knew she spoke the 
 truth." The woman clasped her hands, and leaned for- 
 ward. 
 
 "You saw him! He was well? He did not lack any- 
 thing? He did not call for me?" 
 
 "He dreamed of you, I think, for, as we stood he stirred, 
 a smile came upon his face, and I heard him whisper 
 'Mamma.' " 
 
 "Did he? did he?" she exclaimed in an ecstacy of emo- 
 tion. "My boy has not forgotten my boy has not for- 
 gotten me! Bless you, Chilon, for those words. God 
 bless and love and keep you, dear, in the hollow of his 
 hand for the mercy, the tenderness, the beauty of those 
 words !" 
 
 She was upon her knees with her arms about him, her 
 emotion swaying them both. 
 
 Chilon sat with the tears streaming down his cheeks, 
 too deeply moved to speak. He pressed her in his arms 
 and gradually, by touch of hair and cheek, and mute 
 caress of her drooping eyelids, he calmed her excite- 
 ment. Presently she lay still in his arms, and relaxing 
 them, her white face was revealed as carven marble in 
 the strong, soft light of the moon. 
 
 A faint breeze was drifting the boat. He gave him- 
 self up to the hour and held her until it found a grassy 
 harbor. He stepped forth then, and bore her toward the 
 house. But at the edge of the grove he stopped and 
 gazed upon that pale sweet face. Would he ever in this 
 
 17
 
 258 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 life behold it again? Perhaps not. It were better not! 
 Kneeling as he held her in his arms, he pressed his lips 
 to hers, and then a moment rested his cheeks against 
 the whiteness of her brow. No word was spoken, but 
 in that moment his soul had said farewell. 
 
 The house was still. In an upper room burned a 
 shaded light. Rising, he went in through the window of 
 his room, up-stairs to her well known room, pushed 
 open the door and entered. No one was within. The 
 attendant's couch was there but had not been disturbed. 
 He placed the sleeping woman upon the bed, removed 
 the damp slippers from her feet and gently withdrew. 
 
 But at the head of the stair, the strangeness of it all 
 forced itself back upon him. What should he do? Was 
 Lena safe? Should he not inform his uncle? 
 
 A ray of light rested upon the wall near at hand. It 
 streamed from the keyhole of the ballroom. 
 
 Chilon went to his room and gave himself up to 
 thought. Events and emotions had crowded upon him 
 swiftly and left him in confusion. It was difficult for 
 him to realize that his meetings with Celeste and Lena 
 had been real; that the climax of long years of waiting 
 and planning had come and there was now nothing left 
 for him but flight, silence and exile. The end was at 
 hand. 
 
 His mind reverted to that inanimate form upstairs, his 
 sleeping wife. He thought of her always as his wife. 
 Was she still sleeping, and had that strange dark woman 
 returned? Where was she? Ah! The ray of light! And 
 the plates must be secured! 
 
 And so his mind came back to the demands of life. He 
 arose and went softly up to Lena's room. The door was 
 still ajar. He looked .in. She still slept. The couch was 
 still undisturbed. And then he went softly to the ball 
 room door and listened. He could hear no sound. 
 Alien, stranger, fugitive though he was, yet he was in 
 his uncle's house. No one had a right to be in that 
 room at such an hour but his uncle, and his own duty
 
 HEART TO HEART. 259 
 
 was plain. Bending, he looked through the keyhole. 
 Seated in front of the old desk, seemingly examining 
 the papers thereof, her profile clearly revealed, was the 
 mulatto woman. Chilon drew back amazed and alarmed. 
 A sense, a thrill of a threatening danger came to him. 
 Indignant he stood, and uncertain. The intrusion of a 
 menial into the papers of his uncle Gaston, the neglect 
 of Lena, called for action, but how could he act without 
 betrayal of himself? In the eyes of the household what 
 business had he to be wandering about upstairs after 
 midnight, or at any time? There was one thing he 
 might do. He might wait and perchance see what she 
 brought from that room. Posting himself in the dark- 
 ness below, and yet within easy reach of his own room, he 
 stood on guard. Just before break of day the ray of light 
 disappeared. He heard the door open and faint footfalls, 
 with the swish of a woman's garments. She had passed 
 out in the dark. He heard the closing of another door 
 Lena's he judged; then came silence. But just as 
 he was entering his own room baffled, again the light 
 flashed in the hall. The dark woman came down the 
 steps as though searching for something. In her hand 
 she held one of Lena's slippers. She touched a mud 
 stain on the carpet with her finger, and seemingly satis- 
 fied, returned, and all was still again. 
 
 The indefinable apprehension continued. He had 
 never felt it except when danger threatened him or some 
 one in sympathy with him. What was it now? Was 
 there some one near him in the hall, or was Lena in 
 danger? The moonlight was visible through the front 
 door's side glasses. Had anyone passed between him 
 and them he would have known it. Slipping off his 
 shoes, he went rapidly up the stairs. The ball room was 
 locked. He listened at Lena's door; there was a con- 
 fused murmur of voices, and it seemed to him he could 
 hear Lena's in pleading tones. For the second time in 
 his life he found a chair and, standing upon it looked 
 through the transom. Lena lay in bed, but she had half
 
 260 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 raised herself upon one elbow. Her face was not entire- 
 ly visible, but her manner was that of a person con- 
 trolled by fear and mental agony. Her eyes were fixed 
 upon the face of the mulatto. This woman stood front- 
 ing the door, her every feature distinct in the light of 
 the lamp that she held. She was pressing upon her re- 
 cumbent patient a glass half filled with black liquid, her 
 whole interest and attention fixed upon the upturned 
 face. The scene was a striking one, but connecting itself 
 as it did instantly with a memory, to Chilon it was in- 
 tensely vivid. In this memory, the woman with the black 
 draught took the place of Silvy, and the pleading, shrink- 
 ing form in the bed was his own. He looked again into 
 the mulatto's face, fascinated. The sick woman shrank 
 in horror from the dose physical nature, overruled, 
 overwhelmed as it was, in her being, shrank and protested 
 with all its power against what? Something utterly at 
 war with it. But mere physical nature submitted to a 
 power exerted through a perverted reason. The king 
 was dead, but habit sat on his throne. Chilon knew what 
 would follow : the fragile form upon the bed would shiver 
 and be convulsed, the face would turn away sickened and 
 distorted; but at last the hand would arise obedient to the 
 will of the woman who stood, and receive the drink. So 
 it had been with him; and so it would be with the sick 
 woman. Then into her mind, as she slept, would come 
 fancies and visions. Hallucinations would distress and 
 tumult yes, that was how it had been with him always. 
 And when the woman had subdued her to a mere autom- 
 aton, she would put her finger on some old resolution, 
 hidden away in her brain cells and awake it to life and 
 revenge. 
 
 He shook his head angrily that his mind should so out- 
 run his judgment at such a time and in the presence of 
 such a scene. Lena was sick with a nervous malady. 
 The woman was her nurse and attendant and must per- 
 force administer medicines. He was preparing to with- 
 draw from his position when he received a shock that
 
 HEART TO HEART. 261 
 
 almost caused him to lose his hold; Lena, on the bed, fell 
 back, tossed her arms feebly and lay throwing her head 
 from side to side; but the mulatto woman, relaxing her 
 fixed gaze, looked down upon her, laughing silently. The 
 wretched man, his blood chilling in his veins, and covered 
 with a cold perspiration, descended, trembling, from his 
 chair and crept down to his room. He locked the door 
 and lit his lamp. Seating himself, he looked fearfully 
 about him. One word had flashed into his mind and lay 
 at the base of this new mood. The word was "poison." 
 
 And then began a mental struggle that was to continue 
 for many hours. Why should this strange woman at- 
 tempt the destruction of Lena Marbeau? She was a 
 skilled and trained nurse, probably engaged at large ex- 
 pense. There was positively no grounds for suspicion. 
 And yet why should the sad scene he had witnessed bring 
 a smile, a flash of triumph, of pleasure, to her face? 
 
 There was something dark and mysterious in the situa- 
 tion; but he was powerless. It flashed upon him, too, 
 again, that the strain upon his mind might have unbal- 
 anced it for the time being. After all, was it a smile, a 
 silent laugh upon the old woman's face? He had seen 
 persons administer medicines and unconsciously imitate 
 the gagging and choking of their patients. That was 
 the explanation. 
 
 But yet! And so the mental battle went on. 
 
 "My dear sir," said Colonel Marbeau at breakfast, "you 
 will pardon me, but your insomnia is playing havoc with 
 you. Is there anything I can suggest? ' 
 
 "Nothing, thank you. The fact is, I thought the quiet 
 would affect me pleasantly. It has the opposite effect. 
 If you had a few busses to run up and down the road, 
 some street cars and a lot of people to tramp around, 
 perhaps it would help." Chilon forced a smile to ac- 
 company this. 
 
 The colonel was interested. 
 
 "I can arrange it, if noise is all you wish; I think a cou- 
 ple of wagons outside; but that will not do. Quiet is
 
 262 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 absolutely necessary, Mr. Underbill, I had forgotten." 
 The old gentleman's sadness returned. "You under- 
 stand?" 
 
 "Perfectly." And then, after an awkward silence: 
 "Colonel, I wish to ask you a question, but am afraid you 
 will think me intrusive; still if, " 
 
 "Proceed, sir. I will determine afterwards." 
 
 "This nurse who has charge of, the lady; is she a 
 foreigner?" 
 
 "She came back with her from England, yes." Col- 
 onel Marbeau looked curiously at his guest. 
 
 "And this insanity; is it persistent, no lucid inter- 
 vals? I do not question from idle curiosity, but you have 
 given me a great problem, and the answer may come 
 from things overlooked, perhaps." 
 
 "There are not exactly lucid intervals, I think ; but there 
 are times when my child seems clearer. That is all!'' 
 
 "When you took her abroad was she this way?" 
 
 "No; or else it was in the earlier stages. She was very 
 nervous and suffered from indigestion and insomnia. All 
 physicians advised a trip abroad. We went to England 
 and to my brother's. It was there we engaged this 
 nurse." 
 
 "And then she grew worse?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "So much so that you had to bring the woman with her 
 when you came back?" 
 
 "Yes! yes!" 
 
 "Do you know anything of the history of the woman?" 
 
 "Well, sir! well, sir! what else?" The colonel arose 
 impatiently, but instantly his mood changed. He 
 turned quickly and offered his hand. 
 
 "Mr. Underbill, I am an old man! Nothing more 
 should be necessary in the way of apologies. We all 
 have our weaknesses. No man before ever asked me 
 three questions about my family affairs in succession and 
 got a polite answer to the last, and I have answered a
 
 HEART TO HEART. 263 
 
 dozen for you. Come, let's go out and smoke!" Chilon 
 shook the proffered hand and bowed gravely. 
 
 "Enough, Colonel," he said, "but if you knew why I 
 asked the questions you would forgive them, I am sure, 
 and answer them!" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "If I answer that you will ask a more difficult one; but 
 if you will be content to wait before asking the second 
 until the day I leave you, I shall answer it." 
 
 "It is agreed." 
 
 "Then," said Chilon, earnestly, "as I stand before you 
 and must some day stand before my Maker, I believe that 
 were your daughter taken from the company of the 
 mulatto woman, she would recover." 
 
 "Why" 
 
 "I may not answer that; and you were not to ask." 
 
 "It is impossible, impossible, im " The word grew 
 fainter and fainter upon the ofd man's lips. Chilon had 
 walked to the end of the veranda to avoid the difficulty 
 pending. When he turned, Colonel Marbeau, supporting 
 himself with a chair, was looking toward him, his face 
 pale and drawn. 
 
 "Well!" he said. His companion's lips moved but 
 made no sound.
 
 264 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 NATURE'S CLARION CALL. 
 
 The two men avoided each other that day. Some sat- 
 isfactory course of reasoning restored Colonel Marbeau's 
 equilibrium, if not his peace of mind. He was quiet, but 
 thoughtful and watchful, going several times to the room 
 upstairs, a proceeding so unusual that it attracted every 
 one's attention. He returned each time more assured. 
 
 Chilon gave himself up to the woods, seeking quiet for 
 his nerves and mind. How could he secure those plates, 
 to him so vital? He would not go without them, and go 
 he must. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, he came upon little Lena and the 
 boy. Below the dam, the sun was shining through the 
 spray where the waters going over made a rainbow; and 
 there they were wisely settling the philosophy of the phe- 
 nomenon to suit themselves. They greeted him, the 
 girl, with a smiling face, but her companion with a gravity 
 that was almost embarrassing. Upon him, Chilon gazed 
 with profound emotion and sadness. He read confirm- 
 ation of the truth that had been told. Indeed nature her- 
 self on his every outline and feature, in the movement 
 of his limbs and the poise of his head confessed to him. 
 For there with himself he saw, blended so perfectly that 
 analysis was impossible, the vision of the past that for so 
 many years had haunted his dreams. He bowed his 
 head in silent depression. When he roused himself both 
 children were regarding him intently, expectantly. He 
 forced a smile and said: 
 
 "The sight of you, my young friends, happy in each 
 other's company, recalled to mind scenes of my own 
 youth. I, too, was a boy in the country once, and my 
 best friend, the friend who best loved me, was a little 
 girl, just your size, Lena. We were very happy, very
 
 NATURE'S CLARION CALL. 265 
 
 happy then." He looked away, having said more than 
 he intended. 
 
 "Where is she now?" asked the girl. 
 
 "I lost her," he said softly. "She passed out of my 
 life." 
 
 "Did you love her, Mr. Underhill? You must have 
 loved her, though." She was looking compassionately 
 upon him as she spoke. 
 
 "Yes. I loved her!" Chilon came and stood by him, 
 with grave, questioning eyes fixed on his. He did not 
 speak, but his slender hand slipped gently into the man's. 
 The little action, the quick, pure sympathy, almost lost 
 the man his presence of mind. He restrained himself, 
 and turned the subject. 
 
 "You were looking at the rainbow. Isn't it strange that 
 the ancients could ever have been superstitious about it 
 when every waterfall possessed one?" 
 
 "You should see this one by moonlight," said the boy. 
 "It is then a ghost. The beautiful colors are faint and 
 all you see clearly is the salmon, the colors in the ring 
 around the moon. The vibrations of the other colors 
 are not visible." 
 
 "Still vibration," said Chilon, smiling, "you are com- 
 mitted to your subject, I see. Well, it is a beautiful 
 study." 
 
 "Sometimes it is not," said the boy. "Vibration de- 
 stroys as well as beautifies. This dam here has been hurt 
 by it. Where the water falls on the boards below the 
 gates there is a trembling that has opened cracks. Look 
 yonder, sir, how some of them leak. See the bottom 
 one; the water there is muddy." The man looked and 
 was instantly impressed. Years had passed, but the ex- 
 perience of his own youth returned. He recognized in 
 that muddy jet, a serious and pressing danger to the dam. 
 The jets of clear water escaping between the wood work 
 meant nothing, but muddy water boiling underneath was 
 a different matter. 
 
 "That must be seen to," he said gravely, "and at once.
 
 266 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 The gates should be opened to their fullest and the 
 pressure relieved. Wait and I will get help. Thirty 
 minutes may cost the price of a dam, to say nothing of 
 damage to crops below." He looked with alarm at the 
 twelve-foot head of water pressing upon the weak spot, 
 and hurried off toward the house for help. 
 
 "Keep out of the way," he called back; "there is danger 
 below the dam." 
 
 The young people stood aside and waited. The min- 
 utes passed rapidly and with each the boiling leak in- 
 creased. All the clear water below the dam was now tur- 
 bid and discolored. The leak had found a voice, too, and 
 disaster hung in the air. 
 
 "The gates must be opened," said the girl quietly. 
 "There is no one else to do it; let us try, Chilon!" He 
 drew her back with quick and anxious protest, walked 
 bravely out upon the bridge, and, adjusting a lever, made 
 an effort to lift a gate. It was the work of two men; he 
 could not move it. He was looking about for a longer 
 lever, when without warning, the wood work which 
 blocked the thirty-foot opening gave way. The great 
 beams and timbers plunged downward, ripping and 
 crashing, standing on end or thrown back into the air; 
 and Chilon disappeared in the wreck. The man return- 
 ing upon the run, stood for a moment opposite the little 
 girl, their faces white as death, the tumultuous flood pour- 
 ing between them. Their lips moved, but made no sound 
 that was audible above the roar of the flood. She knelt 
 in agony and tears, and pointed down the valley, and 
 looking there, the man saw a forest of small gums a hun- 
 dred yards away bending and dipping as the flood roared 
 among them; and clinging there bravely, mutely, des- 
 perately, the slender lad. For the first time he heard 
 within him that clarion call of nature, never sounded 
 except when danger threatens an offspring. It was a 
 new, a wild alarm! He did not cry out; he cast himself 
 into the flood and passing grasped his son. The shock 
 broke his frail hold and man and boy went down the
 
 NATURE'S CLARION CALL. 267 
 
 black valley together. What happened in that frightful 
 journey he never knew. When consciousness came back 
 to him he was kneeling in the mud and debris, gazing 
 helplessly into the boy's face, over which the blood was 
 pouring from a temple wound. The negroes came run- 
 ning to his help and then he saw the little girl bending, 
 awestruck and remorseful, above her companion, but 
 calmly and with the deliberation of a hospital nurse, bind- 
 ing up the wound with her apron. The dam had broken. 
 It all came back upon him. He turned and looked up 
 the valley strewn with the wreckage left by the receding 
 waters. How could he have lived through it with that 
 boy in his arms? How could either 
 
 Had the boy indeed lived? 
 
 With a cry that thrilled the rude but sympathetic hearts 
 about him, he threw himself upon the inanimate boy and 
 implored him to come back to life, to love, to him. It 
 was a torrent of feeling poured forth. The barriers with- 
 in had broken away and the flood swept all before it. The 
 little crowd stood about looking down upon him and his 
 grief in amazement and silence. They pitied him for his 
 suffering; they loved him for his sorrow. In the pres- 
 ence of that tumult little Lena's grief was hushed. It was 
 secondary. She could not understand the cause, but 
 there was no mistaking the fact. Insensibly drawn to 
 him she placed her hand in his, nervous and trembling. 
 The boy coughed and choked, then sighed back into 
 silence. In an instant more, with a strange, inarticulate 
 cry, Chilon had him in his arms and was rushing toward 
 the house. At the brow of the hill he met Colonel Mar- 
 beau, greatly distressed, and they went in, together. But 
 as, bearing the senseless form, Chilon crossed the rose 
 garden, a woman appeared for an instant at the upper 
 window and gazed with straining eyes upon the burden 
 he bore. The boy's white face was upturned, his wet 
 hair hanging down in disorder, his clothing torn and 
 bloody. A piercing shriek rang through the house, fol- 
 lowed by another and another, and then the sound of a
 
 268 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 sharp, fierce struggle. A moment later, when the wound- 
 ed boy had been carried into the guest's chamber, with 
 disheveled hair and face full of fear and horror, Lena, the 
 woman, burst into the room, crying: 
 
 "My boy! My beautiful boy. Who has done this? Who 
 has killed my child?" She cast off the pitying hands that 
 both men placed upon her and threw herself down by the 
 little fellow's side, calling upon him frantically to speak 
 to her, his mother. And ever as she called upon him her 
 lips covered his face and hands with kisses and pleaded 
 with him to look upon, to speak to her. Tears were 
 streaming from the eyes of the two men who witnessed 
 the scene and from those of the servants who crowded 
 around the door silent and sympathetic. Only Chilon 
 understood. With the others it was insanity. The tall 
 mulatto woman angrily forced her way through groups 
 at the door and advanced to the side of her patient; but 
 at that moment the boy, opening his eyes, had fixed them 
 in wonder upon the face above him. The light in them 
 grew soft and melting and a rare smile came unto his 
 lips. Acting instantly upon a mental suggestion, Chilon, 
 the man, stepped to the bedside and put aside the nurse's 
 hand, pressing her back. The woman stood looking 
 upon him amazed and indignant, but he paid no attention 
 to her, except that for the third time she attempted to 
 reach the kneeling woman, with unconscious violence he 
 thrust her far away. 
 
 "Look!" he said to the colonel, whose face was turned 
 to him in surprise. He pointed to the woman and boy as 
 he spoke. Some powerful change had come over her 
 at sight of the new, the loving intelligent look in his eyes. 
 "Will some one bring 'me camphor and a towel?" she 
 said in calm and natural tones; and when these were hand- 
 ed she began to bathe the discolored face and wipe it dry 
 at the same time giving, calmly, directions, for further 
 service. 
 
 "Go to the little room and bring me the blankets from 
 the closet. Jerry, bring me a basin of warm water and
 
 NATURE'S CLARION CALL. 269 
 
 some clean linen cloths tear a sheet if you can find 
 nothing else." And soon, removing the bloody band- 
 ages, she began intelligently to cleanse the wound and 
 dress it. 
 
 The two men standing guard over her looked into each 
 other's eyes joyful and triumphant. The mulatto seized 
 this moment to catch Lena's eye and attention. 
 
 "Come," she said, with quiet authority. Shivering, 
 Lena looked upon her, distressed and uncertain, but be- 
 fore she moved, Chilon, taking the woman by both shoul- 
 ders, whirled her out of the room through the group of 
 astonished spectators and forced her up the stairs. 
 
 ''Do you know me?" he asked sternly, almost savagely, 
 as he released her. 
 
 "I do not," she said, unterrified and defiant. 
 
 "It does not matter," he added, excitedly; "but I 
 shall stand on these steps to-night and if you descend 
 them you do it at the peril of your life! He was 
 full of emotion and hardly conscious of what he was say- 
 ing. The woman looked upon him in wonder and with- 
 drew. Chilon reached the bend of the stairs; there was 
 an outcry below, and Celeste, an unchained tigress, burst 
 in upon the company. "Where is he? Where is my 
 child?" she cried, her voice ringing through the house 
 and thrilling them with the fear and pain it carried. 
 
 Chilon drew back and waited. Here was an issue he 
 had not foreseen. He dared not go below. 
 
 The little girl going up to change her dress, passed and 
 he did not see her, as for the moment he sat upon the 
 stair, his face within his hand. She paused a moment by 
 his side and then, respecting his grief, continued on. In 
 her mother's room she found the lamp by the window 
 for it was then dark without and taking it went into 
 her own little room adjoining and began her toilet. Her 
 clothing was wet and stained with mud and the blood of 
 her little friend. She had scarcely finished, when the 
 mulatto woman entered hurriedly from somewhere and 
 angrily seizing the lamp, restored it to the other room 
 and its first position.
 
 270 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 THE MULATTO. 
 
 When Celeste rushed into the room below she gave one 
 quick glance at the scene and threw herself down beside 
 the bed, seizing the limp hand of the boy and straining 
 her eyes into his blank white face. By this action Lena 
 was displaced. 
 
 "Celeste!" she said, her voice full of emotion and re- 
 proach, "Celeste! Celeste!" 
 
 "He is mine," said the woman, fiercely. "No one 
 shall take my place! Chilon, my child, my precious, my 
 little love, look up, darling, ah, see, he knows me he 
 lives !" The boy indeed opened his eyes at that moment 
 and gazed affectionately into her face. And then turn- 
 ing, he let them rest with love and awe upon that of the 
 other woman. A smile swept aw r ay the uncertainty, the 
 confusion. Closing them again he breathed deep and 
 slept. Lena buried her face in the bedding and gave her- 
 self up to sobs, dry and inarticulate sounds, and except 
 for these, silence fell upon the room. 
 
 And then came Chilon to the door and beckoned Col- 
 onel Marbeau outside. 
 
 "The boy!" he said and could ask no more. 
 
 "He is all right, I think." The other man's lips moved 
 in prayer. 
 
 "Do not disturb her," he said at length, pointing to the 
 sobbing woman. "I believe it is the crisis. If she does 
 not come forth clear from this, she has no chance." 
 
 "We shall see," said the colonel. "I have sent for phy- 
 sicians. You may be right." 
 
 Chilon went back to the bend of the stairs in the shad- 
 ow. It was his safest place while Celeste was there. 
 
 An old struggle in the mind of Celeste was renewed as, 
 her fears decreased by the boy's sleep, she knelt and wait-
 
 THE MULATTO. 271 
 
 ed. She knew that the little fellow was separated from 
 his inheritance as long as she held his secret, and that 
 never, unless she took the initiative, would there be an 
 explanation. She was the stronger of the two women. 
 If she pressed upon Lena the interests of the boy and in- 
 sisted with determination that he be given his rights; 
 nay, if she but released Lena of her promise his history 
 would be told regardless of the facts in the life of Chilon, 
 the elder. She alone of all the world, stood between him 
 and his welfare. It was a cruel thought. What had she 
 done in all the long years to reap such a sorrow. What 
 indeed! Only those years with their weight of love for 
 the boy rose before her. She was innocent; yet she real- 
 ized that the finger of fate in tracing his, had written sor- 
 row across her life. She tried to picture him living at 
 Ravenswood, and coming to visit her. She saw in fancy 
 the visits, frequent at first, grow less so. She saw the 
 love that bound him to her weakened and supplanted by 
 new pleasures and dignities, and by other loves as time 
 went on. It was ruin for her! 
 
 "Not yet! Not yet! Oh, not yet!" she cried aloud, and 
 clasped the boy to her heart again. 
 
 Then came little Lena, grave, silent, and alone She 
 passed the group about the door and standing between 
 the two women, looked lovingly upon the face of her 
 friend. It was a compromise. They did not repel her. 
 Celeste, giving up her place, went around and reclined 
 upon the bed, her cheek next to the moist hair of her 
 boy. As she lay she watched the little girl's face, beauti- 
 ful in that dimly lighted room. Strange thoughts came, 
 memories that shook her heart. Tears came, too, and 
 fell upon the pillow. Little Lena saw them. 
 
 "I think he is sleeping, Cousin Celeste," she said. "He 
 does not suffer!" Celeste turned gratefully toward the 
 little comforter. 
 
 "Yes, I know, dear. But I was not thinking of that!" 
 The elder Lena had fallen asleep, her face hidden in her 
 arms. It was the reaction of excitement. Psychologists
 
 272 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 might have attributed it to the same power that soothed 
 the sufferer. 
 
 "She is tired," said Celeste, softly looking upon the 
 silent mother. "Do not wake her. Are you not tired, 
 my child?" 
 
 "Oh, no. But you are, Cousin Celeste! Leave him 
 with me. I will awake you if he should stir and need 
 anything. I am not at all tired." 
 
 "I will wait with you, dear. The doctor will come 
 soon." 
 
 Satisfied that the danger had passed the group about 
 the door dissolved slowly and quiet reigned. The 
 gentle soughing of the winds in the trees was distinctly 
 audible, the first murmur of a storm. It seemed to little 
 Lena that they called Chilon's name. The candle burned 
 dimly and no sound broke the stillness of the room ex- 
 cept the sleeper's low breathing. It was very still and 
 solemn. After a while she did that which those who 
 move in the cold, false world outside would have smiled 
 over. She ran one arm under the boy's neck so gently 
 that the action did not awaken him, and laid her cheek 
 by his, on the pillow. Looking into Celeste's eyes pres- 
 ently she smiled and closed her own. 
 
 The candle burned itself dimly into its socket. Celeste 
 presently arose, and tenderly as a mother lays her baby 
 to sleep, she unclasped the little girl's arms, lifted her 
 tired frame in her own, took her across the hall and 
 placed her upon the library lounge. Coming back, she 
 spoke gently to Lena. 
 
 "Lie down beside him, dear. He is all right now." 
 There was in the air the stillness of repose and Lena, 
 looking once about her, succumbed to the new, sweet 
 peace that soothed her senses, and sinking beside her boy, 
 slept again. The other woman, her face radiant with 
 the light of a great soul triumphant, kept watch above 
 them. 
 
 Assured by occasional visits of the safety of the little 
 patient, Colonel Marbeau, upon the porch in his great
 
 THE MULATTO. 273 
 
 rocker, dozed and awaited the long delayed physician. 
 Robert Aubren had come and received assurance of the 
 boy's safety, but declined a cordial invitation to remain. 
 
 The physician arrived at last, dressed the wound more 
 carefully, and administered an opiate. With quiet and 
 repose all would be well. He adjourned to the veranda 
 for a cigar with Colonel Marbeau. It was too late to re- 
 turn to the city. A storm had developed. The patter of 
 raindrops had begun and the vivid lightning was burst- 
 ing asunder the darkness of the glades. The wind mur- 
 murs had deepened. In the far distance the approaching 
 storm rolled its sullen warning. 
 
 In the meantime, Chilon kept watch at the turn of the 
 stairs. Twice the mulatto attempted to descend, but 
 each time was sternly repulsed. She pleaded the duties 
 of a nurse and the necessity for administering medicine 
 without avail. Then she gave way to rage, shifting the 
 shawl upon her arm and glaring at him like a chained 
 beast. His quick eye caught sight of a dangerous knife 
 half revealed. Catching her wrist he wrenched the wea- 
 pon from her grasp and held her. Baffled, she stood 
 silent, looking upon him, and then, with one fierce, quick 
 struggle that would have succeeded had his strength been 
 tripled, broke his hold and disappeared in the shadows 
 above him. 
 
 Chilon was now in a predicament, from which he knew 
 not how to escape. To face Celeste would be fatal to his 
 plans. He was uncertain as to Lena. Yet either might 
 at any moment ascend the stair. On the other hand, 
 if he abandoned it, he abandoned his protection of Lena; 
 for her safety, he was convinced, depended upon his 
 breaking the chains that in some way had been forged 
 for her by the yellow woman. 
 
 The situation could not remain unchanged much long- 
 er. In the morning what would happen? 
 
 The house grew quiet, except for the monotonous 
 sound of the men's subdued voices on the veranda. In 
 his own room all was stillness, for Celeste sat brooding 
 is
 
 274 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 above the sleeping forms of mother and child, their faces 
 almost touching upon the pillow. If any one else 
 was up about the house the quiet was not disturbed. 
 
 But others were up. Chilon, sitting on the stair, was 
 suddenly made conscious of the fact by the flashing on 
 the wall of that telltale ray through the keyhole of the 
 ballroom. Again that strange woman was at work with 
 his uncle's papers, searching. This time he would ascer- 
 tain her motive. He would not wait until the light was 
 extinguished, but go in boldly upon her regardless of 
 consequences. If she dared to raise an alarm it would be 
 worse for her than for him, when the master came. But 
 while he was debating and deciding the light went out. 
 He sprang up the steps a moment too late. Again near 
 him he heard the rolls of thunder, the opening of the 
 door, the low swish of a woman's garments and then 
 her almost inaudible footsteps, as she passed away. He 
 turned and followed. There was no need for quiet. 
 The storm was at hand. 
 
 The woman preceded him down the hall past Lena's 
 door. He saw her distinctly in the sudden glare of the 
 electric fluid, and hesitating but a moment, he followed 
 on. Then the door of his own old room opened and 
 the woman entered. It was a room that for him held 
 both sweet and awful memories ; but now it held a mys- 
 tery besides. For what possible purpose could the 
 mulatto be entering that room? He had put his hand to 
 the plow and would not turn back. Throwing the door 
 wide open he stepped boldly inside.
 
 MEMORY'S FLASHLIGHT. 275 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 MEMORY'S FLASHLIGHT. 
 
 For the moment it was as dark as a moonless mid- 
 night; but dimly through the open windows he saw the 
 lashing trees. Could it be possible that the woman had 
 issued that way? He ran to the window; but at that 
 moment there were behind him quick footsteps. He 
 turned, quivering with excitement and dread. The hour, 
 the scene, the thought of that night four years before, 
 combined, destroyed his nerve and suspended judgment. 
 The approaching footsteps thrilled him. Before he had 
 whirled in his tracks he knew that an enemy was there 
 and upon him. He had turned, panic-stricken, unpre- 
 pared for any danger. What he saw in the transient 
 flame of the lightning was a man, knife in hand, rushing 
 toward him. He himself had a weapon; the one taken 
 from the woman. In the dumb weakness of his amaze- 
 ment and terror, he raised his arm. He could not have 
 struck; mind and body were almost paralyzed. The weak 
 action was mechanical, a mere instinctive effort of the 
 animal. This the stranger could not have known, but 
 he was apparently merciful. He hesitated one instant 
 at what he saw, struck down the hand with a quick, sharp 
 blow, dashing the weapon to the floor. Springing 
 through the window he rushed across the narrow roof, 
 cast back one quick, frightened look upon the scene he 
 was leaving, and plunged headlong through the tree to 
 the ground. Chilon made no attempt to follow; he stood 
 looking upon the fallen knife which, now open, was shim- 
 mering mute echoes of the incessant lightning. The like- 
 ness of the scene to that of memory was perfect. The 
 man was there a man? Had any one passed him? Did 
 he dream, or had reason fled? His quick, full pulse beat
 
 276 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 fiercely in his bruised and swollen hand. That was no 
 dream. 
 
 Then upon the palimpset of the mind where fate was 
 writing anew, shone vividly the lines of an old record 
 once almost effaced. He gave forth a great wordless, 
 meaningless sound, a cry that rang through the house 
 and brought the watchers below to their feet. Again 
 and again it sounded, and fearfully they came to where 
 he knelt. They found him, his face white in the light 
 of their candles. The two women, after the first moment, 
 stood looking upon him, Celeste mute and determined; 
 but Lena, uttering his name, and hesitating a moment 
 longer as though doubting the vision, threw herself upon 
 him, repeating it again and again. 
 
 "I am innocent, innocent!" he cried. "Celeste, I was 
 not the man! He was here; I have seen him! Again 
 he struck my knife to the floor! I am innocent, inno- 
 cent!" 
 
 "What is this? Chilon? Who calls Chilon? Who 
 are you, sir, that answers? Celeste, take your cousin to 
 her room!" 
 
 Greatly agitated, the colonel was advancing, feeling for 
 his glasses as he came. 
 
 "Let no one touch her; I answered to the name. Time 
 and misfortune have left but little of the Chilon you once 
 knew, but I am he. Lena, look up! It is indeed Chilon, 
 unchanged in the love he bore you all unchanged in 
 that!" 
 
 The colonel laid his hand upon his sho,ulder and looked 
 intently into his face. 
 
 "You you are Chilon Marbeau?" 
 
 And then in the silence that fell upon them all as the 
 old man sadly studied the face, again came his conclusion. 
 "If it is true, you have paid a debt, my boy; the record 
 is there." 
 
 "And a debt that bankrupted youth, uncle. I came 
 back to your house because the temptation to be with 
 you all again, to see this dear one here, and hear her
 
 MEMORY'S FLASHLIGHT. 277 
 
 sweet voice, was irresistible. I came to you unknown, 
 as I came four years ago unknown to this room, this 
 spot" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean that, a fugitive, I lay in old Silvy's cabin, de- 
 lirious with fever, my mind full of the wrongs done to me 
 by Richard Marbeau " 
 
 "No, no! Speak quick you did not, you did not! " 
 
 "Urged on by her suggestion, armed by her, crazed 
 and fearful for Lena, I came here to this room and when 
 I recovered my senses for a moment, I stood above the 
 body of Richard, my knife by his side upon the floor. I 
 fled. When reason returned it was all like a dream to 
 me, the tragedy, the scene. I seemed to have killed him. 
 Others thought me guilty; I fled back into the world. 
 But to-night I followed here the woman nurse, taking 
 from her this weapon, which she would perhaps have 
 used upon me. As I turned back from the window, a 
 man rushed upon me, struck down the weapon and com- 
 pleted the memory of that terrible night. For, as heaven 
 is my judge, I saw him dimly then as I saw him to-night ; 
 and when I stooped to pick up the knife I touched Rich- 
 ard's blood. It is true Celeste Lena Uncle I swear 
 to you it is true!" 
 
 "I believe you, dear! Lena believes you!" 
 
 "Lena!" They crowded about her in wonder and 
 gazed into each other's faces, doubtful, but rejoicing. The 
 reaction had come to the bent and wearied mind. Its 
 shadows were gone. 
 
 "I believe you, dear. I have known it a long time. 
 Celeste told me it was not you." 
 
 "Celeste!" The brother looked quickly to the poor 
 woman. She knelt before him. 
 
 "But not in time. Forgive me, Chilon; forgive me! 
 I could not give him up then! You owe me forgiveness, 
 brother! I have been a mother to your son; no child 
 ever had a more loving, a more devoted mother! When 
 I deceived her, I seemed to be defending him. And
 
 278 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 while you did not strike the blow, you were with him!" 
 
 "You, too, saw the man, then?" He could not realize 
 it. 
 
 "Yes! For one instant! As you entered the window 
 and lifted your hand to strike, Richard fell dead and this 
 man dashed you aside and escaped. It is true! I told 
 them a tramp did it; but I let Lena think I was shielding 
 you. I deceived you. You would have taken my boy! 
 I have suffered." He lifted her and passed his free arm 
 about her. 
 
 "Who am I, sister, to forgive? Say no more!" 
 
 The colonel was speechless over these rapid develop- 
 ments, but one sentence set him trembling with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 "His son? Chilon's son! Where is Chilon's son?" 
 Lena, breaking away from Chilon's clasp, threw herself 
 upon his breast and hid her face there. 
 
 "And yours?" he whispered. "Chilon's and yours?" 
 
 He read the truth in the faces about him. 
 
 "Where is this child?" 
 
 "Oh, father," said the woman, "it is not clear to me; 
 but if I have not been with him to-night, if I have not lain 
 by his side, his cheek to mine, then indeed am I lost!" 
 
 "What! The boy Chilon! Do you mean the little 
 boy?" 
 
 "Yes. It is her son, uncle," said Celeste; "born in that 
 first sad year of her married life. She gave him to me 
 because well, because she thought it for the best. And 
 after awhile it was for the best. You would have known 
 it some day; I would have told you!" 
 
 Lena, with sudden return of memory, for the boy's 
 condition, had glided out of the room; and, still a little 
 uneasy on her account, Chilon followed. They entered 
 the room below together. Little Lena, with pale face 
 and eyes full of unsubdued terror, knelt by the sleeping 
 boy, her arm under his head. In the few minutes of her 
 mother's absence she had earned her share of suffering. 
 
 There was a whispered consultation between the phy-
 
 MEMORY'S FLASHLIGHT. 279 
 
 sician and the gentlemen, and Lena was persuaded 
 to retire. This she would only agree to do by the side 
 of her boy. No argument could induce her to ascend the 
 steps again. Mention of the mulatto brought on an agi- 
 tation that alarmed them all again. In the tumult this 
 woman had been forgotten. She was found in the old 
 ball room, sitting in sullen and silent dignity. She re- 
 fused to answer any question, and when released pro- 
 ceeded at once to pack up her things. Search among 
 them prior to her departure revealed an old will, written 
 by Gaston Marbeau years before, which, worthless in the 
 south, in England might have been of great value. So 
 she believed, and she had acted in accordance, for when 
 these events came to the knowledge of old Gaston, he 
 took occasion to look for his revised will. It was never 
 found.
 
 280 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 GARNER'S CONFESSION. 
 
 When the storm passed a sad scene was unfolded to 
 the moon that shone down through the spaces of the old 
 cedar. A man's white face was turned upward, and for 
 hours his lips moved in dumb agony as his eyes searched 
 for rescue. This came only at dawn. The men had dis- 
 cussed the events of the night over and over, Chilon silent 
 upon some things. Who was the stranger and what was 
 his purpose? And what connection could he have had 
 with the silent, sullen woman upstairs? But at dawn 
 they knew. When they walked around under the cedar 
 to examine for traces of his flight, they found him; and 
 criminal, murderer as he was, they gave him aid. As 
 gently as possible the negroes who were called lifted him 
 from the wet ground, chilled and agonized, and bore him 
 in doors. There was considerable commotion and the 
 mulatto woman came to the head of the stairs to look 
 upon the scene. Then she glided down, doubting, shud- 
 dering, lingering on the way, clinging to rail and newel 
 until her eyes found his face. She threw herself down by 
 the side of the litter and filled the house with her lament- 
 ations. There was no need then to ask the connection; 
 there is no grief that compares with the grief of a woman 
 for her offspring. And to Chilon, who assisted, a great 
 deal more was explained when from the dying man's 
 pockets they took the counterfeit plates. 
 
 For only then did he recognize Carl Garner. 
 
 The hand of science did all that was possible for the 
 wretched man, but the physician warned him that if there 
 was aught that should be arranged, it would be well to 
 attend to it immediately; that his chances were slender. 
 This information depressed him frightfully ; but he rallied 
 after some hours.
 
 GARNER'S CONFESSION. 281 
 
 Colonel Marbeau, for some reason, had precipitately 
 departed from the scene, but Chilon had been looking 
 upon the stranger from time to time. Revenge was now 
 impossible; he was not thinking of revenge. The dumb 
 despair and suffering disarmed him completely. The 
 years of bitterness and anguish fell away from him as 
 bad dreams shed at dawn. No man had been more 
 wronged ; a week ago and he could not have stood calm- 
 ly, pityingly looking upon such an enemy. He 
 would have been tempted to trample him as a scotched 
 and dying snake beneath his heel; he would have thrilled 
 with joy to see life fade out from dimming eye and re- 
 laxing limb. But gentle hands had been leading him 
 back to peace, although he did not know it. 
 
 The wounded man seemed to be trying to communi- 
 cate with him; a message waited in his straining eyes. 
 Chilon knelt silently and placed his ear by his lips. A 
 single word escaped them: 
 
 "Priest!" That was all. To have drawn back then 
 and awaited in silence the end, to have seen the soul go 
 out unshrived, would have been an exquisite revenge. 
 He was not capable of it. He nodded, consenting. 
 Again their eyes met with quick understanding. 
 
 "You mean that it would benefit me?" he said. Again 
 for a moment the dying man closed his eyes. "Do you 
 wish to confess all?" And to this the same eloquent as- 
 sent was given. 
 
 Chilon turned away, but came back and knelt by the 
 dying man's side. 
 
 "If you will do that if you will speak the truth for 
 me; but no, let it be without conditions. As I myself 
 hope for forgiveness, I have, in my heart, forgiven you." 
 
 A faint smile came upon the lips of the other. He 
 closed his eyes and turned his face. 
 
 "I believe and thank " he began, and stopped, ex- 
 hausted. Then Chilon went forth and drove as for his 
 own life, leaving the physician to keep his enemy alive. 
 The priest returned with him, and the dying man, under
 
 282 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 the support of powerful stimulants, made his confession, 
 little by little, slowly, painfully. Then they left him alone 
 with that dark-skinned, silent mother. Some hours later 
 she came out* and said calmly: 
 
 "He is dead!" 
 
 There was no tear nor outcry then; but in the look 
 that she bestowed upon Lena and Chilon as she passed 
 them was so much malignity and threatening, that it was 
 thought best to remove her from the house as soon as 
 possible. Chilon made an effort to secure a portion of 
 the medicine that she had been using upon her patient, 
 but the bottle was found to be empty and cleansed. 
 There was a suggestion of prosecution, but Colonel Mar- 
 beau instantly opposed it. He sent her back to England 
 immediately after the burial of her son. 
 
 Chilon faced his uncle in the old library some days after 
 the tragedy by which Carl Garner, as he was still known 
 to the family, lost his worthless life. The boy had re- 
 covered rapidly, and safe and happy with Lena and her 
 mother had gone for the day to Rose Cottage; but that 
 day, holy though it is in its love and self-renunciations, 
 in its tears and tender pledges, has no place in these 
 chronicles. The tangled skein unwinds at Ravenswood. 
 
 Wounded deeply in his tenderest spot, shocked and 
 confused by the rapidly shifting scenes, and torn by con- 
 flicting emotions, Colonel Marbeau was long in recover- 
 ing his dignity and calmness. When he succeeded in 
 this, he was at once the head of the family, bent upon 
 preserving its good name, and a merciless judge of him 
 who had so grossly threatened and abused his hospitality. 
 Chilon knew that such a meeting was inevitable and pre- 
 pared himself. 
 
 Rapidly the old man summed up the charges against 
 him, growing more and more excited as the list length- 
 ened, and the awful consequences unfolded. He expected 
 a defense; there was none. The younger man rose at 
 length, when, worn out, his accuser sank in his great 
 chair exhausted by the passion that had exhausted itself.
 
 GARNER'S CONFESSION. 283 
 
 "You have spoken the truth, uncle. I have no de- 
 fense; but I declare to you that no stain through me rests 
 upon your name. I have sinned, but I have paid the 
 penalty." 
 
 He held in his hand a document which he began to un- 
 fold. "It is the confession of Carl Garner," he said in 
 explanation, "as prepared by the priest from his notes. 
 He writes me that the language is his own, but every fact 
 is authorized; that the dying man's sentences were dis- 
 jointed and disconnected, and could not be produced ver- 
 batim. I wish to read it to you, uncle. Will you hear 
 it? I think that after you have heard it you will not 
 judge me harshly." The colonel looked quickly upon 
 the paper and seemed about to protest. After a moment's 
 thought he said: 
 
 "Proceed, I will listen." The younger man began to 
 read, his voice filling the room with its suppressed pas- 
 sion as the story grew : 
 
 "My name, as generally known, is Carl Garner and I 
 was born in France, the son of the woman Merta, who 
 is here to-night. Let my father speak for himself when 
 he chooses. I was born in disgrace. I have lived in dis- 
 grace, and so I die. Let no man blame me'too much. I 
 became acquainted early in life with my circumstances; I 
 despaired. That life has been one of error. It has cost 
 my mother her soul, if she has one. It has cost my 
 father his happiness and honor, besides the greater por- 
 tion of his fortune. I made them pay for all that I had 
 lost. 
 
 "A change in my father's circumstances drove me from 
 England, where we were then living. My mother had 
 long been no more than his housekeeper. 
 
 "He married at last and she was pensioned. I began 
 life in America by crime. A skilled penman and fairly 
 good engraver, I tried my hand at counterfeiting and 
 succeeded. I soon had companions by the dozen. They 
 called me a genius; but the labor was enormous, and I 
 was getting but little profit. About this time, attracted
 
 284 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 by his name Marbeau familiar to me, I met Chilon 
 and would have been devoted to him but that accident 
 had put him in possession of a counterfeit of marvelous 
 perfection that rendered me almost insane with envy. 
 
 "It seemed to me that I had the best claim to it. He 
 was in disgrace, in need of money and greatly distressed. 
 I suggested that we print specimen bills and show them 
 to the government, offering to produce the plates for 
 a snug sum. He yielded after a while, when I assured 
 him that no law was to be broken, and I accompanied 
 him to Ravenswood. We entered through his former 
 room and seizing an opportunity used the plates upon a 
 hand press. I had brought paper. We then returned, 
 I supposing that he had the plates in his bag. He had, 
 however, secreted them, having become suspicious of my 
 sincerity; and with reason, for I had not intended to in- 
 form the government. We quarreled. There was al- 
 ready a reward out for Carl Garner, and I stood in with 
 another party and sacrificed the boy. He was arrested 
 as Garner and the counterfeits found in his satchel. I 
 did it without fear. I knew him well enough to be as- 
 sured that he would die before he would peach. I did it, 
 too, for revenge upon the maker of those plates. He was 
 tried, convicted and sentenced to twenty years in the peni- 
 tentiary, when the truth and delivery of the plates would 
 have saved him." 
 
 When this statement was complete the colonel, hav- 
 ing roused himself violently, was sitting upright in his 
 chair with a scared, white face, turned to the reader. 
 
 "But you did not go my boy you " 
 
 "I went for twelve years. I have eight yet to serve, for 
 I am an escaped convict." The expression of his uncle's 
 face was indescribable. His trembling fingers undid his 
 cravat slowly and reached out for the glass of water upon 
 his table. Chilon did not seem to see him. He was gaz- 
 ing upon the writing. 
 
 "Escaped convict! You, Chilon Marbeau! You are 
 playing upon my feelings, sir it is impossible it can-
 
 GARNER'S CONFESSION. 285 
 
 not " There was a minute's silence before he found 
 
 his voice again. The appearance of the other man re- 
 futed him. Written there was the sentence executed. 
 The sight of him standing there, the mute, changed being 
 who had gone so recklessly in the hot passion of youth 
 from that room, struck through the iron of his pride. 
 For a moment pity, a wondering pity, ruled. "Why did 
 you not tell them who you are? We have friends in New 
 York! Why did you not wire me?" 
 
 "Because," said Chilon, quietly, "the money was print- 
 ed in your house; the plates were still here. I could not 
 get them without a disclosure. They wanted the plates. 
 I offered them my promise, but they would not take it. I 
 could do no more." 
 
 A low cry escaped from the old man's lips. 
 
 "And then 
 
 "And then, as Carl Garner, I went to prison for twelve 
 years until I escaped." The colonel had arisen, and now 
 he came forward and, laying his hand upon his nephew's 
 shoulder, looked into his face. A new light, the reflec- 
 tion of a great joy was there. 
 
 "Do you mean that your real name has never been 
 used in this matter?" 
 
 "Never! When I had Garner's name fastened upon 
 me, he took mine. His mouth was closed." The Colonel 
 turned away and paced the room in agitation. Coming 
 again he held out his hand, looking tenderly into the 
 other's eyes. 
 
 "Chilon!" 
 
 "Uncle!" 
 
 "I have wronged you in thought for seventeen years, 
 but I tell you now that there has been but one nobler 
 Marbeau, the one who lost his name at Gettysburg in de- 
 fense of his country!" Chilon pressed the hand in his. 
 
 "I owe you much, uncle, but I have not brought dis- 
 honor upon your name. The plan I had in connection 
 with the plates was the act of a thoughtless boy, unac- 
 quainted with the vigorous laws touching a counterfeit.
 
 286 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 My wrong doing ended there. I have paid for it with my 
 youth, with my wife." The emotion he had struggled to 
 restrain showed in his voice. 
 
 "She is yours still, my boy. Her heart has always been 
 yours." 
 
 "You forget! I am an escaped convict. Fortunately 
 the boy and girl do not know me as yet; I have attended 
 to that ! They will not know until I come back with my 
 right name. I have the plates and the. promise of an 
 honorable man. I will come back free. And this time 
 my right name will be a safe asylum for the wretched 
 Garner!" 
 
 "You should have come to me, boy; you owed it to me 
 to come!" 
 
 "No, uncle; I think not. I have learned that Lena had 
 such a plan in mind, she and Celeste. I could not have 
 consented. I could not let you see the unhappy Chi- 
 lon 
 
 "I think you would not," said his uncle, simply. 
 
 "And after Richard's death feeling that I had caused 
 it that Lena looked upon me as an assassin again I 
 could not!" After a while he remembered and took up 
 the papers. "You will recall that you heard me say I 
 had seen the man who killed Richard, listen: 
 
 "Upon the night that Richard Marbeau met his death 
 at my hands, I came to the cabin of the negress Silvy, 
 bent upon one more effort to secure the plates. I was 
 desperate then; but with them I held the future in my 
 control. I had just ended my term for implication in a 
 train robbery and needed money. The woman had aged 
 rapidly since my first visit, and I am not certain that she 
 remembered me. I found Chilon there sick. He was 
 delirious with fever and I guessed that he was an 'escape.' 
 I wore a watch charm, a flat piece of amber, about the 
 size and shape of a silver dollar, that was covered with 
 hieroglyphics and queer drawings, very neatly engraved. 
 It had been my mother's and was said to be of African 
 origin. A member of the Archaeological society once
 
 GARNER'S CONFESSION. 287 
 
 told me that it seemed to indicate the name of certain 
 plants that had marked effects upon the mind and that it 
 was probably the fetish of some tribal voodoo or herb 
 doctor. At sight of this the old woman was transformed. 
 She snatched it away and was aroused to a pitch of ec- 
 stacy or fury, I could not tell which. I believe though 
 she would have embraced me if I had permitted. This 
 old woman seemed to have a blood feud to settle with 
 Richard Marbeau, and producing an awful looking knife 
 urged me to kill him, and to humor her I took it when I 
 came in the storm to this house four years ago. By a 
 strange fatality it did its work. I entered the house and 
 reached the old ball-room safely, which I searched in 
 vain. It was there we had used the little press, and there I 
 had thought to find the plates. I became alarmed present- 
 ly at the number of people who had come to the house, for 
 it was lit up, and there was singing and instrumental mu- 
 sic below, with footfalls frequently upon the stair. I had 
 almost despaired, but the room through which we had 
 entered was Chilon's, and there was a chance that in 
 passing out he had concealed the plates there. If I failed, 
 then I would wait and force the needed information from 
 the sick man. It was even possible that he had the plates, 
 something that had not until then occurred to me. 
 
 "The house was dark at length and quiet, and I was 
 feeling my way through the upper hall when I ran against 
 a man who waited by a bedroom door. We grappled ; I 
 threw him off and rushed for the corner room, and en- 
 tered there. I collided with Chilon who, in his delirium, 
 I believe, had followed me. The shock checked me for a 
 moment. Richard fired, and I killed him with one blow 
 of the knife and escaped, passing Chilon in the dark. It 
 occurred to me then that the crime would be fastened 
 upon him and that again he would be the victim of cir- 
 cumstances; but I would take no chances. I passed the 
 cabin and left as I had come, by the river. That was my 
 only murder; it was forced upon me; it was not premedi-
 
 288 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 tated. But, murder as it was, it did not compare with the 
 wrong I had done to Chilon Marbeau. My last visit to 
 this fatal spot was due to a plot of my mother's. She 
 knew my wish, and had no love for the Marbeaus. She 
 was willing to help me, and only longed for an opportun- 
 ity to visit the home again. Forty odd years had passed 
 since she was in it. She had been taught in her youth 
 that Gaston Marbeau's will made her his sole legatee by 
 trust, but that will had disappeared. She believed it had 
 been carried to America with his effects when he went 
 there to live. Chance gave her an opportunity to destroy 
 his second, and the possession of the first would, upon his 
 death, have made her independent, for he is moderately 
 rich. 
 
 "It was while planning to accomplish this end that 
 Colonel Marbeau brought Lena to our village for change 
 and a visit to his brother. Time had modified many sor- 
 rows, and my mother, then quietly ministering to the 
 wants of the common people with her herbs and simple 
 remedies, went to see the new-comers. She received kind 
 treatment, and gradually they began to rely upon her to 
 nurse the sick woman. She saw in her the means of re- 
 turn to America and the accomplishment of her purpose, 
 and with the use of a decoction whose secret was one of 
 her inheritances from an African ancestry, she filled the 
 poor woman's mind with vagaries and hallucinations; she 
 made herself a necessity; she pleaded a desire to see her 
 native land again; there was no harm, the past was 
 sealed; and so they took her. I will not judge my own 
 mother in this, my last hour, but I owe her nothing, and 
 to others I owe something. She has the old will of Gas- 
 ton Marbeau, and her purpose is accomplished; but if it 
 had not been found Lena Marbeau would have died, in 
 my opinion ; for by the new will she was the heir." 
 
 "Stop!" said the colonel, rising slowly, and painfully. 
 "I cannot take in all the damnable villainy, let me see 
 that paper."
 
 GARNER'S CONFESSION. 289 
 
 He came and took the sheet and reread the last page. 
 Presently he handed it back. He did not return to his 
 chair. He motioned to Chilon to bring it; and his bent 
 form leaned forward to meet it as it came. 
 
 "Will you let me bring you a glass of water, uncle?" 
 
 "No. Proceed. Providence only discloses the full 
 wickedness of the world to the old. It helps them to re- 
 sign it without regret. Proceed, sir." 
 
 "My destruction is due to my mother, but I hold her 
 guiltless. By accident she discovered the secret places of 
 the old desk and all that she searched for. I was waiting 
 in the city to hear from her, and came occasionally for 
 consultation. A message that she had succeeded brought 
 me when the house was full of people, but I was reckless. 
 The rest, is known. In my hurried flight the sight of 
 Chilon standing where in memory I had seen him ten 
 thousand times filled me with momentary terror. I 
 looked back while on the roof, and this is the end ! The 
 hours in which I lay under that tree, unable to move or 
 cry out, suffering agony indescribable, has made this con- 
 fession possible; has brought me to direct that it shall be 
 furnished over your sacred certificate to Chilon Marbeau, 
 to whom I will it, as my only possible reparation." 
 
 The Colonel was looking intently upon the reader. 
 
 "You omitted a page," he said, quietly. 
 
 "It contains," said Chilon, "information of Lena Mar- 
 beau so astounding, so unexpected, that I prefer not to 
 read it. If it is not true, you would not wish to have it 
 read. If it is, there is no need." 
 
 "It states that she is not my daughter, in fact," said the 
 Colonel, sadly and gently, "it is true. If it tells you that 
 she is the daughter of Gaston Marbeau, it is true." 
 
 "That is what it reveals," said Chilon. He looked sadly 
 and tenderly upon the old man. He seemed to be strik- 
 ing from him the prop and mainstay of his old age. 
 
 "There is no long story, my boy, and no good one to be 
 told. The only child ever born to old Silvy was this wo- 
 
 19
 
 290 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 man Merta. Both in their youth were beautiful, and 
 youth is blind. Well, we sent Gaston to study abroad; 
 and " with a slight gesture "it did no good. He was 
 lost to us for many years. But later, under the stimulus 
 of a lofty nature set free, he put aside his errors and mar- 
 ried a dear woman we loved. Lena is the child for 
 whom she gave her life. Then Gaston suffered from 
 loneliness and despair. Merta found him disarmed by the 
 reaction, an easy victim again. My wife and I easily per- 
 suaded him to give us the child for her own good, and it 
 followed as we planned. He came to us oh, my boy, 
 those were happy days when Gaston was here and you 
 children stormed the house." 
 
 "Does Lena know?" said the young man. 
 
 "No. I pledged my honor to Gaston. To reveal the 
 fact would be to reveal the cause. He was proudest in 
 his degradation!" 
 
 "She will not know from me. And now, sir, my task 
 is ended. I have found for you Chilon Marbeau. I go 
 away to clear his name, and if I come again, I come free 
 and with honor." 
 
 "Chilon! Chilon! Boy, I go with you " 
 
 "No, uncle. Leave it to me. Your face must not 
 appear, your name be handled. I go to see what the 
 promise of a man who has honesty written in his every 
 feature, is worth. This confession you will keep. I will 
 procure a statement such as may be needed that will not 
 contain the family name. Farewell! If we meet no 
 more, remember always that Chilon Marbeau loved his 
 home too well to return !" 
 
 "But Lena and the boy!" Chilon stood with down- 
 cast face. 
 
 "It is better this way," he said simply. "I have talked 
 with her. She understands." They clasped hands and 
 looked into each other's faces. Then silently Chilon re- 
 leased the hand in fiis and turned away.
 
 CONCLUSION. 291 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Colonel Marbeau sat all alone in his cool library. 
 Upon his table lay spread the old sheepskin which held 
 the names and record of his family. He had adjusted 
 his glasses, and, pen in hand, was ready to complete it. 
 His own generation closed the old record, and other 
 Marbeaus now awaited recognition. He was no drafts- 
 man and a problem had arisen. As thus he waited, 
 there was a quick, manly step upon the veranda and in 
 the hall. With head erect, Chilon Marbeau, the elder, 
 entered the room. His uncle read in his face the glad 
 tidings that had made the soul within him happy. The 
 two men stood again as they had parted a week before, 
 with clasped hands, gazing into each other's face. 
 
 "It is true," said the younger man; "I am free!" 
 
 "Chilon!" 
 
 "I found great souls great, honest hearts. They 
 broke down all technicalities." The promise was faith- 
 fully kept. A pardon was issued to Carl Garner, 'for 
 good and sufficient reasons,' and the plates went into the 
 possession of the treasury, to become a seven days' won- 
 der and then mere metal. No human being knew 
 Carl Garner, pardoned, merged into Chilon Marbeau, 
 except one man, and he, more than all the world, was 
 most interested in the family honor. Robert Underbill's 
 disappearance was a mystery that has never been solved 
 in New York. After a while his mail went back un- 
 claimed, and the men who waited in the dark corners 
 of great cities cursed him; but it was of little moment 
 then." 
 
 Two men gave themselves up to the joy of the hour. 
 For both, life had taken on new colors. The wanderer 
 was home again. Under its skies and in the loving com- 
 pany of his people vengeance fled and remorse was hal- 
 lowed into repentance. Scarcely less bright the old
 
 292 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 man's skies. Lena and Chilon were at home, and 
 Ravenswood had a male heir. What else could he wish? 
 Nothing, except their company and that of the lovers 
 estranged so long. They planned it out that day. Uncle 
 Gaston must come, and Celeste with Robert Aubren. 
 This was Chilon's ultimatum. The colonel surrendered. 
 
 "Put away your writing, uncle. Let us be going; no 
 time like the present, and time enough for that!" 
 
 "No, sir. I take your suggestion as applying to this. 
 I am not willing to falsify the record, my boy, and Lena's 
 must be straight. She will have to know some day, and 
 you can keep the document secret till then. The trouble 
 is the cousinship between you has made a cross record 
 necessary, and I am not draftsman enough to fix it. 
 This has occurred, you will note, many times, but never 
 under the same circumstances." 
 
 The young man looked upon the record sadly, and 
 then in silence drew the lines of descent, and handed it 
 back to his uncle. 
 
 "You can add dates, uncle, and it will be complete." 
 
 The old man stood gazing intently upon the result. 
 Then he uttered a low cry. 
 
 "What is it?" asked Chilon in surprise, rising to stand 
 by his side. The record complete was thus: 
 
 I I I I 
 
 2818 2819 2820 2821 
 
 2822 282S 2824 2823 
 
 W 
 
 2827 2826
 
 CONCLUSION. 293 
 
 2818 Richard (4th). 
 2819 Gaston. 
 2820 Francis. 
 2821 Charles. 
 2822 Richard (5th). 
 2823 Celeste. 
 2824 Chilou (3rd). 
 2825 Lena (4th). 
 2826 Chilou (4th). 
 2827 Lena (5th). 
 
 "The 'W has come at last," said Colonel Marbeau, 
 smiling. And he repeated the jingle musingly: 
 
 "When 'W enters the Marbeau tree, 
 Happy will the next bride be." 
 
 "I think the old prophecy will be fulfilled/' said 
 Chilon. "The next bride we shall make her happy; 
 shall we not, uncle?" 
 
 "You will not need my help, boy!" 
 
 L'ENVOI. 
 
 The sun shone bright over Ravenswood. The White- 
 hall boat upon the lake held a happy party. Chilon and 
 Lena, side by side, on the broad rear seat, in low tones 
 planned the future for the lives blooming so sweetly be- 
 neath their eyes. The little girl in -front held a bunch 
 of fair lilies drawn by little Chilon for her from the placid 
 waters on which they were drifting. Upon one blossom 
 a great butterfly had settled, his broad wings rising and 
 falling gently as he searched for honey. Glass in hand, 
 the boy was studying the marvels of the little visitor and 
 counting the slow vibrations of his wings. 
 
 "Twenty to the minute, Lena,'* he said, "just the num- 
 ber of my respirations." And presently looking into the
 
 294 THE MARBEAU COUSINS. 
 
 loving eyes of his new found sister, he said, with odd 
 gallantry: "Perhaps that respiration is the vibration of 
 my soul's wings as she waits through life above her lily." 
 She smiled up to him. 
 
 "Her lily, Chilon?" He turned quickly and touched 
 his lips to hers. 
 
 "The Lily of Ravenswood, sister. It will never have 
 another.'' 
 
 Behind them, the man and woman exchanged glances. 
 
 "The Lily of Ravenswood!" exclaimed he. "How 
 strange. It is like a voice from our youth !" 
 
 "Yes," said the woman, tenderly, "each lily has its 
 little day. Look, the waters are white with them. They 
 were white with them in our times, too, Chilon!" 
 
 "The Lily of Ravenswood!" he repeated absently. 
 The shadows were deep and melting within his eyes as 
 they rested upon her. The children would have said 
 that he listened to the strains of some old song. 
 
 THE END.
 
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