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          [Illustration: It did people good to buy of her.]


                                 THE

                           UNKNOWN QUANTITY


                          A Book of Romance

                       And Some Half-Told Tales


                                 _by_

                            HENRY VAN DYKE



              _"Let X represent the unknown quantity."_

                                       _Legendre's Algebra_





                               NEW YORK

                       CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

                                 1921




            _Copyright, 1912, by Charles Scribner's Sons_


        _Published October, 1912. Reprinted October, December,
              1912; July, 1916; May, 1918; March, 1919;
                     December, 1919; July, 1921._

            _Leather Edition, September, 1913; May, 1916;
               February, 1917; June, 1920; May, 1921._

       *       *       *       *       *




Dedicated

IN THANKFULNESS
TO THE MEMORY OF

DEAR DAUGHTER DOROTHEA

RAY OF LIGHT
SONG OF JOY
HEART OF LOVE

1888-1912

       *       *       *       *       *




DOROTHEA


    _A deeper crimson in the rose,
     A deeper blue in sky and sea,
     And ever, as the summer goes,
     A deeper loss in losing thee!_

    _A deeper music in the strain
     Of hermit-thrush from lonely tree;
     And deeper grows the sense of gain
     My life has found in having thee._

    _A deeper love, a deeper rest,
     A deeper joy in all I see;
     And ever deeper in my breast
     A silver song that comes from thee._

_H. v. D._

MOUNT DESERT,

_August 1, 1912_.




PREFACE


There is a chain of little lakes--a necklace of lost jewels--lying in
the forest that clothes the blue Laurentian Mountains in the Province
of Quebec.

Each of these hidden lakes has its own character and therefore its own
charm. One is bright and friendly, with wooded hills around it, and
silver beaches, and red berries of the rowan-tree fringing the shores.
Another is sombre and lonely, set in a circle of dark firs and
larches, with sighing, trembling reeds along the bank. Another is only
a round bowl of crystal water, the colour of an aquamarine,
transparent and joyful as the sudden smile on the face of a child.
Another is surrounded by fire-scarred mountains, and steep cliffs
frown above it, and the shores are rough with fallen fragments of
rock; it seems as if the setting of this jewel had been marred and
broken in battle, but the gem itself shines tranquilly amid the ruin,
and the lichens paint the rocks, and the new woods spring bright
green upon the mountains. There are many more lakes, and all are
different. The thread that binds them together is the little river
flowing from one to another, now with a short, leaping passage, now
with a longer, winding course.

You may follow it in your canoe, paddling through the still-waters,
dropping down the rapids with your setting-pole, wading and dragging
your boat in the shallows, and coming to each lake as a surprise,
something distinct and separate and personal. It seems strange that
they should be sisters; they are so unlike. But the same stream,
rising in unknown springs, and seeking an unknown sea, runs through
them all, and lives in them all, and makes them all belong together.

The thread which unites the stories in this book is like that. It is
the sign of the unknown quantity, the sense of mystery and
strangeness, that runs through human life.

We think we know a great deal more about the processes and laws and
conditions of life than men used to know. And probably that is true;
though it is not quite certain, for it is hard to say precisely how
much those inscrutable old Egyptians and Hebrews and Chaldæans and
Hindus knew and did not tell.

But granting that we have gone beyond them, we have not gone very far,
we have not come to perfect knowledge. There is still something around
us and within that baffles and surprises us. Events happen which are
as mysterious after our glib explanations as they were before. Changes
for good or ill take place in the heart of man for which his intellect
gives no reason. There is the daily miracle of the human will, the
power of free choice, for which no one can account, and which
sometimes flashes out the strangest things. There is the secret,
incalculable influence of one life on another. There is the web of
circumstance woven to an unseen pattern. There is the vast, unexplored
land of dreams in which we spend one-third of our lives without even
remembering most of what befalls us there.

I am not thinking now of the so-called "realm of the occult," nor of
those extraordinary occurrences which startle and perplex the world
from time to time, nor of those complicated and subtle problems of
crime which are set to puzzle us. I am thinking of much more human and
familiar things, quite natural and inevitable as it seems, which make
us feel that life is threaded through and through by the unknown
quantity.

This is the thread that I have followed from one to another of these
stories. They are as different as my lakes in the North Country; some
larger and some smaller; some brighter and some darker; for that is
the way life goes. But most of them end happily, even after sorrow;
for that is what I think life means.

Four of the stories have grown out of slight hints, for which I return
thanks. For the two Breton legends which appear in "The Wedding-Ring"
and "Messengers at the Window," I am indebted to my friend, M. Anatole
Le Braz; for an incident which suggested "The Night Call," to my
friend, Mrs. Edward Robinson; and for the germ of "The Mansion," to my
friend, Mr. W. D. Sammis. If the stories that have come from their
hints are different from what my friends thought they would be, that
is only another illustration of the theme.

Between the longer stories there are three groups of tales that are
told in a briefer and different manner. They are like etchings in
which more is suggested than is in the picture. For this reason they
are called Half-Told Tales, in the hope that they may mean to the
reader more than they say.

Without the unknown quantity life would be easier, perhaps, but
certainly less interesting. It is not likely that we shall ever
eliminate it. But we can live with it and work with it bravely,
hopefully, happily, if we believe that after all it means
good--infinite good, passing comprehension--to all who live in love.

AVALON,

_June 1, 1912_.




CONTENTS


                                        PAGE

_The Wedding-Ring_                       3

_Messengers at the Window_              25

_The Countersign of the Cradle_         43


_The Key of the Tower_                  67

_The Ripening of the Fruit_             73

_The King's Jewel_                      80


_The Music-Lover_                       87

_Humoreske_                            103


_An Old Game_                          139

_The Unruly Sprite_                    144

_A Change of Air_                      156


_The Night Call_                       167

_The Effectual Fervent Prayer_         203

_The Return of the Charm_              235

_Beggars Under the Bush_               249

_Stronghold_                           257

_In the Odour of Sanctity_             266


_The Sad Shepherd_                     287

_The Mansion_                          325




ILLUSTRATIONS


_It did people good to buy of her_             _Frontispiece_
    _From a drawing by Charles S. Chapman._

                                                 Facing page

_The King's Jewel_                                     82
    _From a drawing by Garth Jones._

_The Music-Lover_                                      90
    _From a drawing by Sigismond de Ivanowski._

_The Unruly Sprite_                                   154
    _From a drawing by Garth Jones._

_She flung herself across his knees and put her
   arms around him_                                   230
    _From a drawing by Paul Julien Meylan._

_Stronghold_                                          258
    _From a drawing by Garth Jones._

_So the sad shepherd thanked them for their
   entertainment_                                     314
    _From a drawing by Blendon Campbell._

_Title-page, head and end pieces by Garth Jones_




THE WEDDING-RING


Before Toinette Girard made up her mind to marry Prosper Leclère,--you
remember the man at Abbéville who had such a brave heart that he was
not willing to fight with an old friend,--before Toinette perceived
and understood how brave Prosper was, it seemed as if she were very
much in doubt whether she did not love some one else more than she
loved him, whether he and she really were made for each other,
whether, in short, she cared for him enough to give herself entirely
to him.

But after they had been married six weeks there was no doubt left in
her mind. He was the one man in the world for her. He satisfied her to
the core--although by this time she knew most of his faults. It was
not so much that she loved him in spite of them, but she simply could
not imagine him changed in any way without losing a part of him, and
that idea was both intolerable and incredible to her. Just as he was,
she clung to him and became one with him.

I know it seems ridiculous to describe a love like that, and it is
certainly impossible to explain it. It is not common, nor regular, nor
altogether justifiable by precept and authority. Reason is against it;
and the doctors of the church have always spoken severely of the
indulgence of any human affection that verges on idolatry. But the
fact remains that there are a few women in the world who are capable
of such a passion.

Capable? No, that is not the word. They are created for it. They
cannot help it. It is not a virtue, it is simply a quality. Their
whole being depends upon their love. They hang upon it, as a wreath
hangs from a nail in the wall. If it breaks they are broken. If it
holds they are happy. Other things interest them and amuse them, of
course, but there is only one thing that really counts--to love and to
be loved.

Toinette was a woman of that rare race. To the outward view she was
just a pretty French Canadian girl with an oval face, brown hair, and
eyes like a very dark topaz. Her hands were small, but rather red and
rough. Her voice was rich and vibrant, like the middle notes of a
'cello, but she spoke a dialect that was as rustic as a cabbage. Her
science was limited to enough arithmetic to enable her to keep
accounts, her art to the gift of singing a very lovely contralto by
ear, and her notions of history bordered on the miraculous. She was
obstinate, superstitious, and at times quick-tempered. But she had a
positive genius for loving. That raised her into the first rank, and
enabled her to bestow as much happiness on Prosper as if she had been
a queen.

It was a grief to them, of course, that they had no children. But this
grief did not destroy, nor even diminish, their felicity in each
other; it was like the soft shadow of a cloud passing over a
landscape--the sun was still shining and the world was fair. They were
too happy to be discontented. And their fortunes were thriving, too,
so that they were kept pretty hard at work--which, next to love, is
the best antidote for unhappiness.

After the death of the old _bonhomme_ Girard, the store fell to
Prosper; and his good luck--or his cleverness, or his habit of always
being ready for things, call it what you will--stuck by him. Business
flourished in the _Bon Marché_ of Abbéville. Toinette helped it by her
gay manners and her skill in selling. It did people good to buy of
her: she made them feel that she was particularly glad that they were
getting just what they needed. A pipe of the special shape which
Pierre affected, a calico dress-pattern of the shade most becoming to
Angélique, a brand of baking-powder which would make the batter rise
up like mountains--_v'là, voisine, c'est b'en bon_! Everything that
she sold had a charm with it. Consequently trade was humming, and the
little wooden house beside the store was _b'en trimée_.

The only drawback to the happiness of the Leclères was the fact that
business required Prosper to go away for a fortnight twice a year to
replenish his stock of goods. He went to Quebec or to Montreal, for he
had a great many kinds of things to get, and he wanted good things and
good bargains, and he did not trust the commercial travellers.

"Who pays those men," he said, "to run around everywhere, with big
watch-chains? You and me! But why? I can buy better myself--because I
understand what Abbéville wants--and I can buy cheaper."

The times of his absence were heavy and slow to Toinette. The hours
were doped out of the day as reluctantly as black molasses dribbles
from a jug. A professional instinct kept her up to her work in the
store. She jollied the customers, looked after the accounts, made good
sales, and even coquetted enough with the commercial travellers to
send them away without ill-will for the establishment which refused to
buy from them.

"A little _badinage_ does no harm," she said, "it keeps people from
getting angry because they can't do any more business."

But in the house she was dull and absent-minded. She went about as if
she had lost something. She sat in her rocking-chair, with her hands
in her lap, as if she were waiting for something. The yellow light of
the lamp shone upon her face and hurt her eyes. A tear fell upon her
knitting. The old _tante_ Bergeron, who came in to keep house for her
while she was busy with the store, diagnosed her malady and was
displeased with it.

"You are love-sick," said she. "That is bad. Especially for a married
woman. It is wrong to love any of God's creatures too much. Trouble
will come of it--_voyons voir_."

"But, aunty," answered Toinette, "Prosper is not just any of God's
creatures. He is mine. How could I love him too much? Besides, I don't
do it. It does itself. How can I help it?"

"It is a malady," sighed the old woman shaking her head. "It is a
malady of youth, my child. There is danger in it--and for Prosper too!
You make an idol of a man and you spoil him. You upset his mind. Men
are like that. You will bring trouble upon your man, if you don't take
care. God will send you a warning--perhaps a countersign of death."

"What is that," cried Toinette, her heart shaking within her breast,
"what do you mean with your countersign of death?"

The old woman nodded her head mysteriously and leaned forward,
putting her gnarled hand on Toinette's round knee and peering with her
faded eyes into the girl's wild-flower face.

"It is the word," said she, "that death speaks before he crosses the
threshold. He gives a sign--sometimes one thing, and sometimes
another--before he comes in. Our folk in Brittany have understood
about that for a long time. My grandmother has told me. It always
comes to one who has gone too far, to one who is like you. You must be
careful. You must go to Mass every day and pray that your malady may
be restrained."

So Toinette, having tasted of the strange chalice of fear, went to the
church early every morning while Prosper was away and prayed that she
might not love him so much as to make God jealous. The absurdity of
such a prayer never occurred to her. She made it with childish
simplicity. Probably it did no harm. For when Prosper came home she
loved him more than ever. Then she went to High Mass every Sunday
morning with him and prayed for other things.

After four years there came a day when Prosper must go away for a
longer absence. There was an affair connected with the Department of
Forests and Fisheries, which could only be arranged at Ottawa. Thither
he must go to see the lawyers, and there he must stay perhaps a month,
perhaps two.

You can imagine that Toinette was desolate. The draught of fear that
_tante_ Bergeron had given her grew more potent and bitter in her
simple heart. And the strange thing was that, although she was
ignorant of it, there was apparently something true in the warning
which the old woman had given. For jealousy--that vine with flying
seeds and strangling creepers--had taken root in the heart of Prosper
Leclère.

Yes, I know it is contrary to all the rules and to all the proverbs,
but so it happened. It is not true that the strongest love is the most
jealous. It is the lesser love, the love which receives more than it
gives, that lies open to the floating germs of mistrust and suspicion.
And so it was Prosper who began to have doubts whether Toinette
thought of him as much when he was away as when he was with her;
whether her gladness when he came home was not something that she put
on to fool him and humour him; whether her _badinage_ with the
commercial travellers (and especially with that good-looking Irishman,
Flaherty from Montreal, of whom the village gossips had much to say)
might not be more serious than it looked; whether--ah, well, you know,
when a man begins to follow fool thoughts like that, they carry him
pretty far astray in the wilderness.

Prosper was a good fellow with a touch of the prig in him. He was a
Catholic with a Puritan temperament and a Gallic imagination. The
idolatry of Toinette had, as a matter of fact, spoiled him a little;
it was so much that he weakly questioned the reality of it, as if it
were too good to be true. All the time he was in Ottawa and on the
journey those fool thoughts hobbled around him and misled him and made
him unhappy.

Meantime Toinette was toiling through the time of separation, with a
laugh for the store, and a sigh for the lonely house, and a prayer for
the church. Tired as she was at night, she did not sleep well, and
her dreams were troubled by aunty Bergeron's warning against loving
too much.

In the cold drab dawn of a March morning it seemed to her as if the
church bell had just stopped ringing as she awaked from a dream of
Prosper. She put on her clothes quickly and hurried out. The road was
deserted. In the snowy fields the little fir-trees stood out as black
as ink. Against the sky rose the gray-stone church like a fortress of
refuge.

But as she entered the door, instead of five or six well-known
neighbours, kneeling in the half-darkness, she saw that the church was
filled with a strange, thick, blinding radiance, like a mist of light.
Everything was blurred and confused in that luminous fog. There was
not a face to be seen. Yet she felt the presence of a vast
congregation all around her. There were movements in the mist. The
rustling of silks, the breath of rich and strange perfumes, a low
rattling as of hidden chains, came to her from every side. There were
voices of men and women, young and old, rough and delicate, hoarse and
sweet, all praying the same prayer in many tongues. She could not
hear it clearly, but the sound of their murmurs and sighs was like the
whisper of the fir-wood when the wind walks through it.

She was bewildered and frightened. Part of going to church means
having people that you know near you. Her heart fluttered with a vague
terror, and she sank into the first seat by the door.

She could not see the face of the priest at the altar. His voice was
unfamiliar. The tinkle of the bell sounded from an infinite distance.
The sound of footsteps came down the aisle. It must be some one
carrying the plate for the offering. As he advanced slowly she could
hear the clink of the coins dropping into it. Mechanically she put her
hand in her pocket and drew out the little piece of silver and the
four coppers that by chance were there.

When the man came near she saw that he was dressed in a white robe
with a hood over his face. The plate was full of golden coins. She
held out her poor little offering. The man in the cowl shook his head
and drew back the plate.

"It is for the souls of the dead," he whispered, "the dead whom we
have loved too much. Nothing but gold is good enough for this
offering."

"But this is all I have," she stammered.

"There is a ring on your hand," he answered in a voice which pierced
her heart.

Shivering dumbly like a dog, palsied with pain, yet compelled by an
instinct which she dared not resist, she drew her wedding-ring from
her finger and dropped it into the plate.

As it fell there was a clang as if a great bell had tolled; and she
rose and ran from the church, never stopping until she reached her own
room and fell on her knees beside her bed, sobbing as if her heart
would break.

The first thing that roused her was the clatter of the dishes in the
kitchen. The yellow light of morning filled the room. She wondered to
find herself fully dressed and kneeling by the bed instead of sleeping
in it. It was late, she had missed the hour of Mass. Her glance fell
upon her left hand, lying stretched out upon the bed. The third finger
was bare.

All the scene in the church rushed over her like a drive of logs in
the river when the jam breaks. She felt as helpless as a little child
in a canoe before the downward sweeping flood. She did not wish to cry
out, to struggle--only to crouch down, and cover her eyes, and wait.
Whatever was coming would come.

Then the force of youth and hope and love rose within her and she
leaped to her feet. "Bah!" she said to herself, "I am a baby. It was
only a dream,--the curé has told us not to be afraid of them,--I snap
my fingers at that old Bergeron with her stupid countersigns,--_je
m'en fricasse_! But, my ring--my ring? I have dropped it, that's all,
while I was groping around the room in my sleep. After a while I will
look for it and find it."

She washed her face and smoothed her hair and walked into the kitchen.
Breakfast was ready and the old woman was grumbling because it had
been kept waiting.

"You are lazy," she said, "a love-sick woman is good for nothing. Your
eyes are red. You look bad. You have seen something. A countersign!"

She peered at the girl curiously, the wrinkles on her yellow face
deepening like the cracks in drying clay, and her thin lips working as
if they mumbled a delicious morsel,--a foretaste of the terrible.

"Let me alone with your silly talk," cried Toinette gaily. "I am
hungry. Besides, I have a headache. You must take care of the store
this morning. I will stay here. Prosper will come home to-day."

"_Frivolante_," said the old woman, with her sharp eyes fixed on the
girl's left hand, "why do you think that? Where is your wedding-ring?"

"I dropped it," replied Toinette, drawing back her hand quickly and
letting it fall under the table-cloth, "it must be somewhere in my
room."

"She dropped it," repeated the old woman, with wagging head, "_tiens!_
what a pity! The ring that not even death should take from her
finger,--she dropped it! But that is a bad sign,--the worst of all,--a
countersign of----"

"Will you go? Old babbler," cried Toinette, springing up in anger, "I
tell you to go to the store. I am mistress in this house."

_Tante_ Bergeron clumped sullenly away, muttering, "A mistress without
a wedding-ring! Oh, là-là, là-là! There's a big misery in that."

Toinette rolled up her sleeves and washed the dishes. She tried to
sing a little at her work, because she knew that Prosper liked it, but
the notes seemed to stick in her throat. She wiped her eyes with the
hem of her apron, and went upstairs, bare-armed, to search for her
ring.

She looked and felt in every corner of the room, took up the
rag-carpet rugs and shook them, moved every chair and the big chest of
drawers and the wash-stand, pulled the covers and the pillows and the
mattress off the bed and threw them on the floor. When she had
finished the room looked as if the big north-west wind had passed
through it.

Then Toinette sat down on the bed, rubbing the little white mark on
her finger where the ring had been, and staring through the window at
the church as if she were hypnotised. All sorts of dark and cloudy
thoughts were trooping around her. Perhaps Prosper had met with an
accident, or he was sick; or perhaps the suspicions and unjust
reproaches with which he had sometimes wounded her lately had grown
into his mind, so that he was angry with her and did not want to see
her. Perhaps some one had been telling lies to him, and made him mad,
and there was a fight, and a knife--she could see him lying on the
floor of a tavern, in a little red puddle, with white face and staring
eyes, cold and reproachful. Would he never come back, come home?

In the front of the store sleigh-bells jingled. It was probably some
customer. No, she knew in her heart it was her husband!

But she could not go to him,--he must come to her, here, away from
that hateful old woman. A step sounded in the hall, the door opened,
Prosper stood before her. She ran to him and threw her arms around
him. But he did not answer her kiss. His voice was as cold as his
hands.

"Well," he said, "I come back sooner than you expected, eh? A little
surprise--like a story-book."

She could not speak, her heart was beating in her throat, her arms
dropped at her side.

"You are fond of your bed," he went on, "you rise late, and your
room,--it looks like mad. Perhaps you had company. A party?--or a
fracas?"

Her cheeks flamed, her eyes filled with tears, her mouth quivered, but
no words came.

"Well," he continued, "you don't say much, but you look well. I
suppose you had a good time while I was gone. Why have you taken off
your wedding-ring? When a woman does that, she----"

Her face went very white, her eyes burned, she spoke with her deepest,
slowest note.

"Stop, Prosper, you are unjust, something has made you crazy, some one
has told you lies. You are insulting me, you are hurting me,--but
I,--well, I am the one that loves you always. So I will tell you what
has happened. Sit down there on the bed and be quiet. You have a right
to know it all,--and I have the right to tell you."

Then she stood before him, with her right hand covering the white mark
on the ring-finger, and told him the strange story of the Mass for the
dead who had been too much loved. He listened with changing eyes, now
full of doubt, now full of wonder and awe.

"You tell it well," he said, "and I have heard of such things before.
But did this really happen to you? Is it true?"

"As God lives it is true," she answered. "I was afraid I had loved you
too much. I was afraid you might be dead. That was why I gave my
wedding-ring--for your soul. Look, I will swear it to you on the
crucifix."

She went to the wall behind the bed where the crucifix was hanging.
She lifted her hand to take it down.

There, on the little shelf at the feet of the wounded figure, she saw
her wedding-ring.

Her hands trembled as she put it on her finger. Her knees trembled as
she went back to Prosper and sat beside him. Her voice trembled as she
said, "Here it is,--_He_ has given it back to us."

A river of shame swept over him. It seemed as if chains fell from his
heart. He drew her to him. He felt her bare arms around his neck. Her
head fell back, her eyes closed, her lips parted, her breath came
soft and quick. He waited a moment before he dared to kiss her.

"My dove," he whispered, "the sin was not that you loved too much, but
that I loved too little."




MESSENGERS AT THE WINDOW


The lighthouse on the Isle of the Wise Virgin--formerly called the
Isle of Birds--still looks out over the blue waters of the Gulf of
Saint Lawrence; its white tower motionless through the day, like a
sea-gull sleeping on the rock; its great yellow eye wide-open and
winking, winking steadily once a minute, all through the night. And
the birds visit the island,--not in great flocks as formerly, but
still plenty of them,--long-winged waterbirds in the summer, and in
the spring and fall short-winged landbirds passing in their
migrations--the children and grandchildren, no doubt, of the same
flying families that used to pass there fifty years ago, in the days
when Nataline Fortin was "The Keeper of the Light." And she herself,
that brave girl who said that the light was her "law of God," and who
kept it, though it nearly broke her heart--Nataline is still guardian
of the island and its flashing beacon of safety.

Not in her own person, you understand, for her dark curly hair long
since turned white, and her brown eyes were closed, and she was laid
at rest beside her father in the little graveyard behind the chapel at
Dead Men's Point. But her spirit still inhabits the island and keeps
the light. The son whom she bore to Marcel Thibault was called
Baptiste, after her father, and he is now the lighthouse-keeper; and
her granddaughter, Nataline, is her living image; a brown darling of a
girl, merry and fearless, who plays the fife bravely all along the
march of life.

It is good to have some duties in the world which do not change, and
some spirits who meet them with a proud cheerfulness, and some
families who pass on the duty and the cheer from generation to
generation--aristocrats, first families, the best blood.

Nataline the second was bustling about the kitchen of the lighthouse,
humming a little song, as I sat there with my friend Baptiste, snugly
sheltered from the night fury of the first September storm. The sticks
of sprucewood snapped and crackled in the range; the kettle purred a
soft accompaniment to the girl's low voice; the wind and the rain
beat against the seaward window. I was glad that I had given up the
trout fishing, and left my camp on the _Sainte-Marguérite-en-bas_, and
come to pass a couple of days with the Thibaults at the lighthouse.

Suddenly there was a quick blow on the window behind me, as if someone
had thrown a ball of wet seaweed or sand against it. I leaped to my
feet and turned quickly, but saw nothing in the darkness.

"It is a bird, m'sieu'," said Baptiste, "only a little bird. The light
draws them, and then it blinds them. Most times they fly against the
big lantern above. But now and then one comes to this window. In the
morning sometimes after a big storm we find a hundred dead ones around
the tower."

"But, oh," cried Nataline, "the pity of it! I can't get over the pity
of it. The poor little one,--how it must be deceived,--to seek light
and to find death! Let me go out and look for it. Perhaps it is not
dead."

She came back in a minute, the rain-drops shining on her cheeks and in
her hair. In the hollow of her firm hands she held a feathery brown
little body, limp and warm. We examined it carefully. It was stunned,
but not killed, and apparently neither leg nor wing was broken.

"It is a white-throat sparrow," I said to Nataline, "you know the tiny
bird that sings all day in the bushes, _sweet-sweet-Canada, Canada,
Canada_?"

"But yes!" she cried, "he is the dearest of them all. He seems to
speak to you,--to say, 'be happy.' We call him the _rossignol_.
Perhaps if we take care of him, he will get well, and be able to fly
to-morrow--and to sing again."

So we made a nest in a box for the little creature, which breathed
lightly, and covered him over with a cloth so that he should not fly
about and hurt himself. Then Nataline went singing up to bed, for she
must rise at two in the morning to take her watch with the light.
Baptiste and I drew our chairs up to the range, and lit our pipes for
a good talk.

"Those small birds, m'sieu'," he began, puffing slowly at his pipe,
"you think, without doubt, that it is all an affair of chance, the way
they come,--that it means nothing,--that it serves no purpose for them
to die?"

Certain words in an old book, about a sparrow falling to the ground,
came into my mind, and I answered him carefully, hoping, perhaps, that
he might be led on into one of those mystical legends which still
linger among the exiled children of Britanny in the new world.

"From our side, my friend, it looks like chance--and from the birds'
side, certainly, like a very bad chance. But we do not know all.
Perhaps there is some meaning or purpose beyond us. Who can tell?"

"I will tell you," he replied gravely, laying down his pipe, and
leaning forward with his knotted hands on his knees. "I will tell you
that those little birds are sometimes the messengers of God. They can
bring a word or a warning from Him. That is what we Bretons have
believed for many centuries at home in France. Why should it not be
true here? Is He not here also? Those birds are God's _coureurs des
bois_. They do His errands. Would you like to hear a thing that
happened in this house?"

This is what he told me.


I

My father, Marcel Thibault, was an honest man, strong in the heart,
strong in the arms, but, in the conscience,--well, he had his little
weaknesses, like the rest of us. You see his father, the old Thibault
lived in the days when there was no lighthouse here, and wrecking was
the chief trade of this coast.

It is a cruel trade, m'sieu'--to live by the misfortune of others. No
one can be really happy who lives by such a trade as that. But my
father--he was born under that influence; and all the time he was a
boy he heard always people talking of what the sea might bring to
them, clothes and furniture, and all kinds of precious things--and
never a thought of what the sea might take away from the other people
who were shipwrecked and drowned. So what wonder is it that my father
grew up with weak places and holes in his conscience?

But my mother, Nataline Fortin--ah, m'sieu', she was a straight soul,
for sure--clean white, like a wild swan! I suppose she was not a
saint. She was too fond of singing and dancing for that. But she was
a good woman, and nothing could make her happy that came from the
misery of another person. Her idea of goodness was like this light in
the lantern above us--something faithful and steady that warns people
away from shipwreck and danger.

Well, it happened one day, about this time forty-eight years ago, just
before I was ready to be born, my father had to go up to the village
of _La Trinité_ on a matter of business. He was coming back in his
boat at evening, with his sail up, and perfectly easy in his
mind--though it was after sunset--because he knew that my mother was
entirely capable of kindling the light and taking care of it in his
absence. The wind was moderate, and the sea gentle. He had passed the
_Point du Caribou_ about two miles, when suddenly he felt his boat
strike against something in the shadow.

He knew it could not be a rock. There was no hardness, no grating
sound. He supposed it might be a tree floating in the water. But when
he looked over the side of the boat, he saw it was the body of a dead
man.

The face was bloated and blue, as if the man had been drowned for
some days. The clothing was fine, showing that he must have been a
person of quality; but it was disarranged and torn, as if he had
passed through a struggle to his death. The hands, puffed and
shapeless, floated on the water, as if to balance the body. They
seemed almost to move in an effort to keep the body afloat. And on the
little finger of the left hand there was a great ring of gold with a
red stone set in it, like a live coal of fire.

When my father saw this ring a passion of covetousness leaped upon
him.

"It is a thing of price," he said, "and the sea has brought it to me
for the heritage of my unborn child. What good is a ring to a dead
man? But for my baby it will be a fortune."

So he luffed the boat, and reached out with his oar, and pulled the
body near to him, and took the cold, stiff hand into his own. He
tugged at the ring, but it would not come off. The finger was swollen
and hard, and no effort that he could make served to dislodge the
ring.

Then my father grew angry, because the dead man seemed to withhold
from him the bounty of the sea. He laid the hand across the gunwale
of the boat, and, taking up the axe that lay beside him, with a single
blow he chopped the little finger from the hand.

The body of the dead man swung away from the boat, turned on its side,
lifting its crippled left hand into the air, and sank beneath the
water. My father laid the finger with the ring upon it under the
thwart, and sailed on, wishing that the boat would go faster. But the
wind was light, and before he came to the island it was already dark,
and a white creeping fog, very thin and full of moonlight, was spread
over the sea like a shroud.

As he went up the path to the house he was trying to pull off the
ring. At last it came loose in his hand; and the red stone was as
bright as a big star on the edge of the sky, and the gold was heavy in
his palm. So he hid the ring in his vest.

But the finger he dropped in a cluster of blue-berry bushes not far
from the path. And he came into the house with a load of joy and
trouble on his soul; for he knew that it is wicked to maim the dead,
but he thought also of the value of the ring.


II

My mother Nataline was able to tell when people's souls had changed,
without needing to wait for them to speak. So she knew that something
great had happened to my father, and the first word she said when she
brought him his supper was this:

"How did it happen?"

"What has happened?" said he, a little surprised, and putting down his
head over his cup of tea to hide his face.

"Well," she said in her joking way, "that is just what you haven't
told me, so how can I tell you? But it was something very bad or very
good, I know. Now which was it?"

"It was good," said he, reaching out his hand to cut a piece from the
loaf, "it was as good--as good as bread."

"Was it by land," said she, "or was it by sea?"

He was sitting at the table just opposite that window, so that he
looked straight into it as he lifted his head to answer her.

"It was by sea," he said smiling, "a true treasure of the deep."

Just then there came a sharp stroke and a splash on the window, and
something struggled and scrabbled there against the darkness. He saw a
hand with the little finger cut off spread out against the pane.

"My God," he cried, "what is that?"

But my mother, when she turned, saw only a splotch of wet on the
outside of the glass.

"It is only a bird," she said, "one of God's messengers. What are you
afraid of? I will go out and get it."

She came back with a cedar-bird in her hand--one of those brown birds
that we call _recollets_ because they look like a monk with a hood.
Her face was very grave.

"Look," she cried, "it is a _recollet_. He is only stunned a little.
Look, he flutters his wings, we will let him go--like that! But he was
sent to this house because there is something here to be confessed.
What is it?"

By this time my father was disturbed, and the trouble was getting on
top of the joy in his soul. So he pulled the ring out of his vest and
laid it on the table under the lamp. The gold glittered, and the stone
sparkled, and he saw that her eyes grew large as she looked at it.

"See," he said, "this is the good fortune that the waves brought me on
the way home from _La Trinité_. It is a heritage for our baby that is
coming."

"The waves!" she cried, shrinking back a little. "How could the waves
bring a heavy thing like that? It would sink."

"It was floating," he answered, casting about in his mind for a good
lie; "it was floating--about two miles this side of the _Point du
Caribou_--it was floating on a piece of----"

At that moment there was another blow on the window, and something
pounded and scratched against the glass. Both of them were looking
this time, and again my father saw the hand without the little
finger--but my mother could see only a blur and a movement.

He was terrified, and fell on his knees praying. She trembled a
little, but stood over him brave and stern.

"What is it that you have seen," said she; "tell me, what has made you
afraid?"

"A hand," he answered, very low, "a hand on the window."

"A hand!" she cried, "then there must be some one waiting outside. You
must go and let him in."

"Not I," whispered he, "I dare not."

Then she looked at him hard, and waited a minute. She opened the door,
peered out, trembled again, crossed the threshold, and returned with
the body of a blackbird.

"Look," she cried, "another messenger of God--his heart is beating a
little. I will put him here where it is warm--perhaps he will get well
again. But there is a curse coming upon this house. Confess. What is
this about hands?"

So he was moved and terrified to open his secret half-way.

"On the rocks this side of the point," he stammered, "as I was sailing
very slowly--there was something white--the arm and hand of a
man--this ring on one of the fingers. Where was the man? Drowned and
lost. What did he want of the ring? It was easy to pull it----"

As he said this, there was a crash at the window. The broken pane
tinkled upon the floor. In the opening they both saw, for a moment, a
hand with the little finger cut off and the blood dripping from it.

When it faded, my mother Nataline went to the window, and there on the
floor, in a little red pool, she found the body of a dead cross-bill,
all torn and wounded by the glass through which it had crashed.

She took it up and fondled it. Then she gave a great sigh, and went to
my father Marcel and kneeled beside him.

(You understand, m'sieu', it was he who narrated all this to me. He
said he never should forget a word or a look of it until he died--and
perhaps not even then.)

So she kneeled beside him and put one hand over his shoulder, the dead
cross-bill in the other.

"Marcel," she said, "thou and I love each other so much that we must
always go together--whether to heaven or to hell--and very soon our
little baby is to be born. Wilt thou keep a secret from me now? Look,
this is the last messenger at the window--the blessed bird whose bill
is twisted because he tried to pull out the nail from the Saviour's
hand on the cross, and whose feathers are always red because the blood
of Jesus fell upon them. It is a message of pardon that he brings us,
if we repent. Come, tell the whole of the sin."

At this the heart of my father Marcel was melted within him, as a
block of ice is melted when it floats into the warmer sea, and he told
her all of the shameful thing that he had done.

She stood up and took the ring from the table with the ends of her
fingers, as if she did not like to touch it.

"Where hast thou put it," she asked, "the finger of the hand from
which this thing was stolen?"

"It is among the bushes," he answered, "beside the path to the
landing."

"Thou canst find it," said she, "as we go to the boat, for the moon is
shining and the night is still. Then thou shalt put the ring where it
belongs, and we will row to the place where the hand is--dost thou
remember it?"

So they did as she commanded. The sea was very quiet and the moon was
full. They rowed together until they came about two miles from the
_Point du Caribou_, at a place which Marcel remembered because there
was a broken cliff on the shore.

When he dropped the finger, with the great ring glittering upon it,
over the edge of the boat, he groaned. But the water received the
jewel in silence, with smooth ripples, and a circle of light spread
away from it under the moon, and my mother Nataline smiled like one
who is well content.

"Now," she said, "we have done what the messengers at the window told
us. We have given back what the poor man wanted. God is not angry with
us now. But I am very tired--row me home, for I think my time is near
at hand."

The next day, just before sunset, was the day of my birth. My mother
Nataline told me, when I was a little boy, that I was born to good
fortune. And, you see, m'sieu', it was true, for I am the keeper of
her light.




THE COUNTERSIGN OF THE CRADLE


I cannot explain to you the connection between the two parts of this
story. They were divided, in their happening, by a couple of hundred
miles of mountain and forest. There were no visible or audible means
of communication between the two scenes. But the events occurred at
the same hour, and the persons who were most concerned in them were
joined by one of those vital ties of human affection which seem to
elude the limitations of time and space. Perhaps that was the
connection. Perhaps love worked the miracle. I do not know. I only
tell you the story.


I

It begins in the peaceful, homely village of Saint Gérôme, on the
shore of Lake Saint John, at the edge of the vast northern wilderness.
Here was the home of my guide, Pat Mullarkey, whose name was as Irish
as his nature was French-Canadian, and who was so fond of children
that, having lost his only one, he was willing to give up smoking in
order to save money for the adoption of a baby from the foundling
asylum at Quebec. How his virtue was rewarded, and how his wife,
Angélique, presented him with twins of his own, to his double delight,
has been told in another story. The relation of parentage to a matched
brace of babies is likely to lead to further adventures.

The cradle, of course, being built for two, was a broad affair, and
little Jacques and Jacqueline rolled around in it inextricably mixed,
until Pat had the ingenious idea of putting a board down the middle
for a partition. Then the infants rocked side by side in harmony,
going up and down alternately, without a thought of debating the
eternal question of superiority between the sexes. Their weight was
the same. Their dark eyes and hair were alike. Their voices, whether
they wept or cooed, were indistinguishable. Everybody agreed that a
finer boy and girl had never been seen in Saint Gérôme. But nobody
except Pat and Angélique could tell them apart as they swung in the
cradle, gently rising and falling, in unconscious illustration of the
equivalence and balancing of male and female.

Angélique, of course, was particularly proud of the boy. As he grew,
and found his feet, and began to wander about the house and the front
yard, with a gait in which a funny little swagger was often
interrupted by sudden and unpremeditated down-sittings, she was keen
to mark all his manly traits.

"Regard him, m'sieu'," she would say to me when I dropped in at the
cottage on my way home from camp--"regard this little brave. Is it not
a boy of the finest? What arms! What legs! He walks already like a
_voyageur_, and he does not cry when he falls. He is of a marvellous
strength, and of a courage! My faith, you should see him stand up to
the big rooster of the neighbour, Pigot. Come, my little one, my
Jacques, my Jimmee, one day you will be able to put your father on his
back--is it not?"

She laughed, and Pat laughed with her.

"That arrives to all fathers," said he, catching the little Jacqueline
as she swayed past him and swinging her to his knee. "Soon or late the
_bonhomme_ has to give in to his boy; and he is glad of it. But for
me, I think it will not be very soon, and meantime, m'sieu', cast a
good look of the eye upon this girl. Has she not the red cheeks, the
white teeth, the curly hair, brown like her mother's? But she will be
pretty, I tell you! And clever too, I am sure of it! She can bake the
bread, and sew, and keep the house clean; she can read, and sing in
the church, and drive the boys crazy--_hein_, my pretty one--what a
comfort to the old _bonhomme_!"

"He goes fast," laughed Angélique; "he talks already as if she were in
long dresses with her hair done up. Without doubt, m'sieu' amuses
himself to hear such talk about two infants."

But the thing that amused me most was the beginning-to-talk of the
twins themselves. It was natural that the mother and father should
speak to me in their quaint French _patois_; and the practice of many
summers had made me able to get along with it fairly well. But that
these scraps of humanity should begin their adventures in language
with French, and such French, old-fashioned as a Breton song, always
seemed to me surprising and wonderfully smart. I could not get over
the foolish impression that it was extraordinary. There is something
magical about the sound of a baby voice babbling a tongue that is
strange to you; it sets you thinking about the primary difficulties in
the way of human intercourse and wondering just how it was that people
began to talk to each other.

Long before the twins outgrew their French baby talk the famous cradle
was too small to hold their sturdy bodies, and they were promoted to a
trundle-bed on the floor. The cradle was an awkward bit of furniture
in such a little house, and Angélique was for giving it away or
breaking it up for kindling-wood.

"But no!" said Pat. "We have plenty of wood for kindlings in this
country without burning the cradle. Besides, this wood means more to
us than any old tree--it has rocked our hopes. Let us put it in the
corner of the kitchen--what? Come--perhaps we may find a use for it,
who knows?"

"Go along," said Angélique, giving him a friendly box on the ear, "you
old joker! Off with you, _vieux bavasseur_--put the cradle where you
like."

So there it stood, in the corner beside the stove, on the night of my
story. Pat had gone down to Quebec on the first of June (three days
ahead of time) to meet me there and help in packing the goods for a
long trip up the Peribonca River. Angélique was sleeping the sleep of
the innocent and the just in the bedroom, with the twins in their
trundle-bed beside her, and the door into the kitchen half-open.

What it was that waked her she did not know--perhaps a bad dream, for
Pat had given her a bit of trouble that spring, with a sudden
inclination for drinking and carousing, and she was uneasy about his
long absence. A man in the middle years sometimes has a bit of folly,
and a woman worries about him without knowing exactly why. At all
events, Angélique came wide awake in the night with a sense of fear in
her heart, as if she had just heard something terrible about her
husband which she could not remember.

She listened to the breathing of the twins in the darkness. It was
soft and steady as the falling of tiny ripples upon the beach. But
presently she was aware of a louder sound in the kitchen. It was
regular and even, like the ticking of a clock. There was a roll and a
creak in it, as if somebody was sitting in the rocking-chair and
balancing back and forth.

She slipped out of bed and opened the door a little wider. There was a
faint streak of moonlight slanting through the kitchen window, and she
could see the tall back of the chair, with its red-and-white tidy,
vacant and motionless.

In the corner was the cradle, with the children's clothes hanging over
the head of it and their two ragged dolls tucked away within. It was
rocking evenly and slowly, as if moved by some unseen force.

Her eyes followed the ray of the moon. On the rocker of the cradle she
saw a man's foot with the turned-up toe of a _botte sauvage_. It
seemed as if the smoke of a familiar pipe was in the room. She heard
her husband's voice softly humming:

    "_Petit rocher de la haute montagne,
      Je viens finir ici cette campagne.
      Ah, doux echos, entendez mes soupirs;
      En languissant je vais bientôt mourir!_"

Trembling, she entered the room, with a cry on her lips.

"Ah! Pat, _mon ami_, what is it? How camest thou here?"

As she spoke, the cradle ceased rocking, the moon-ray faded on the
bare floor, the room was silent.

She fell upon her knees, sobbing.

"My God, I have seen his double, his ghost. My man is dead!"


II

In the steep street of Quebec which is called "Side of the Mountain,"
there is a great descending curve; and from this curve, at the right,
there drops a break-neck flight of steps, leading by the shortest way
to the Lower Town.

As I came down these steps, after dining comfortably at the Château
Frontenac, on the same night when Angélique was sleeping alone beside
the twins in the little house of Saint Gérôme, I was aware of a merry
fracas below me in the narrow lane called "Under the Fort." The gas
lamps glimmered yellow in the gulf; the old stone houses almost
touched their gray foreheads across the roadway; and in the cleft
between them a dozen roystering companions, men and girls, were
shouting, laughing, swearing, quarrelling, pushing this way and that
way, like the waves on a turbulent eddy of the river before it decides
which direction to follow. In the centre of the noisy group was a big
fellow with a black mustache.

"I tell you, my boys," he cried, "we go to the Rue Champlain, to the
_Moulin Gris_ of old Trudel. There is good stuff to drink there; we'll
make a night of it! My m'sieu' comes to seek me, but he will not find
me until to-morrow. Shut your mouth, you Louis. What do we care for
the police? Come, Suzanne, _marchons_!"

Then he broke out into song:

    "_Ce n'est point du raisin pourri,
      C'est le bon vin qui danse!
      C'est le bon vin qui danse ici,
      C'est le bon vin qui danse!_"

Even through its too evident disguise in liquor I knew the voice of my
errant Pat. Would it be wise to accost him at such a moment, in such
company? The streets of the Lower Town were none too peaceful after
dark. And yet, if he were not altogether out of his head, it would be
a good thing to stop him from going further and getting into trouble.
At least it was worth trying.

"Good-evening, Pat," I cried.

He turned as if a pebble had struck him, and saw me standing under the
flickering lamp. He stared for a moment in bewilderment, then a smile
came over his face, and he pulled off his hat.

"There is my m'sieu'," he said; "my faith, but that is droll! You go
on, you others. I must speak to him a little. See you later--Rue
Champlain--the old place."

The befogged company rolled away in the darkness and Pat rolled over
to me. His greeting was a bit unsteady, but his natural politeness and
good-fellowship did not fail him.

"But how I am happy to see m'sieu'!" said he; "it is a little sooner
than I expected, but so much the better! And how well m'sieu' carries
himself--in full health, is it not? You have the air of it--all ready
for the Peribonca, I suppose? _Batêche_, that will be a great voyage,
and we shall have plenty of the good luck."

"Yes," I answered, "it looks to me like a good trip, if we get started
right. I want to talk with you about it. Can you leave your friends
for a while?"

His face reddened visibly under its dark coat of tan, and he stammered
as he replied:

"But certainly, m'sieu'--they are not my friends--that is to
say--well, I know them a little--they can wait--I am perfectly at the
service of m'sieu'."

So we walked around the corner into the open square (which, by the
way, is shaped like a triangle), at one side of which there is an
old-fashioned French hotel, with a double _galerie_ across its face,
and green-shuttered windows. There were tables in front of it, and at
one of these I invited Pat to join me in having some coffee.

His conversation at first was decidedly vague and woolly, though
polite as ever. There was a thickness about his words as if they were
a little swollen, and his ideas had loose edges, and would not fit
together. However, he did his best to pull himself up and make good
talk. But his _r_'s rolled like an unstrung drum, and his _n_'s
twanged like a cracked banjo. On the subject of the proper amount of
provisions to take with us for our six weeks' camping trip he wandered
wildly. Without doubt we must take enough--in grand quantity--one must
live well--else one could not carry the load on the portages--very
long portages--not good for heavy packs--we must take very little
stuff--small rations, a little pork and flour--we can get plenty to
eat with our guns and m'sieu's rod--a splendid country for sport--and
those little fishes in tin boxes which m'sieu' loves so well--for sure
we must take plenty of them!

It was impossible to get anything definite out of him in regard to the
outfit of the camp, and I knew it beforehand; but I wanted to keep him
talking while the coffee got in its good work, and I knew that his
courtesy would not let him break away while I was asking questions. By
the time I had poured him the second cup of the black brain-clearer
he was distinctly more steady. His laugh was quieter and his eyes grew
more thoughtful.

"And the bread," said I; "we must carry two or three loaves of good
_habitant_ bread, just for the first week out. I can't do without
that. Do you suppose, by any chance, that Angélique would bake it for
us? Or perhaps those lady friends of yours who have just left
you--eh?"

A look of shame and protest flushed in Pat's face. He dropped his
head, and lifted it again, glancing quickly at me to read a hidden
meaning in the question. Then he turned away and stared across the
square toward the slender spire of the little church at the other end.

"I assure you," he said slowly, "they are not of my friends,
those--those--bah! what do those people know about making bread? I beg
m'sieu' not to speak of those girls there in the same breath with my
Angélique!"

"Good!" I answered. "Pardon me, I will not do it again. I did not
understand. They are bad people, I suppose. But how are you so thick
with them?"

"If they are bad," said he, shrugging his shoulders--"if they are bad!
But why should I judge them? That is God's affair. There are all kinds
of people in His world. I do not like it that m'sieu' has found me
with that kind. But a man must make a little fun sometimes, you
comprehend, and sometimes he makes himself a damn fool, do you see? I
have been with those people last night and to-day--and now I have
promised--I have won the money of Pierre Goujon, and he must have his
revenge--and I have promised that Suzanne Gravel--well, I must keep my
word of honour and go to them for to-night. M'sieu' will excuse me
now?"

He rose from the table, but I sat still.

"Wait a moment," I said; "there is no hurry. Let us have another pot
of coffee and some of those little cakes with melted white sugar on
them, like Angélique used to make." (He started slightly at the name.)
"Come, sit down again. I want you to tell me something about that
pretty old church across the square. See how the moonlight sparkles on
the tin spire. What is the name of it?"

"Our Lady of the Victories," he answered, seating himself
unwillingly. "They say it is the most old of the churches of Quebec."

"It is a fine name," said I. "What does it mean? What victories?"

"The French over the English, I suppose, long ago. It does not
interest me now. I must be on my road to the _Moulin Gris_."

"Will you stop on your way to say a prayer at the door of the church
of Our Lady of the Victories?"

His eyes dropped and he shook his head.

"Well, then, on your way back in the morning perhaps you will stop at
the church and go in to confess?"

He nodded his head and spoke heavily. "Who knows? Perhaps yes--perhaps
no. There may be fighting to-night. Pierre is very mad and ugly. I am
not afraid. But it is evident that m'sieu' makes the conversation to
detain me. We are old friends. Why not speak frank?"

"Old friends we are, Pat, and frank it is. I do not want you to go to
the Gray Mill. You have been drinking--stronger stuff than coffee.
Those people will pluck you, do you up, perhaps stick a knife in you.
Then what will become of Angélique and the twins? Stay here a while; I
want to talk to you about the twins. How are they? You have not told
me a word about them yet."

His face sombered and brightened again. He poured himself another cup
of coffee and put in three spoonfuls of sugar, smiling as he stirred
it.

"Ah," said he, "that is something good to speak of--those twins! It is
easily seen that m'sieu' knows how to make the conversation. I could
talk of those twins for a long time. They are better than
ever--strong, fat, and good--and pretty, too--you may believe it! I
pretend to make nothing of the boy, just to tease my wife; and she
pretends to make nothing of the girl, just to tease me. But they are a
pair--I tell you, a pair of marvels!"

He went on telling me about their growth, their adventures, their
clever tricks, as if the subject were inexhaustible. I offered him a
cigar. But no, he preferred his pipe--with a _pipée_ of the good
tobacco from the Upper Town, if I would oblige him? The smoke wreaths
curled over our heads. The other tables were gradually deserted. The
sleepy waiter had received payment for the coffee and cleared away the
cups. The moon slipped behind the lofty cliff of the Citadel, and the
little square lay in soft shadow with the church spire shining dimly
above it. Pat continued the _mémoires intimes_ of Jacques and
Jacqueline.

"And the cradle," I asked, "that famous cradle built for two--what has
become of it? Doubtless it exists no more."

"But it is there," he cried warmly. "Angélique said it was in the way,
but I persuaded her to keep it. You see, perhaps we might need
it--what? Ha, ha, that would be droll. But anyway it is good for the
twins to put their dolls to sleep in. It is a cradle so easy to rock.
You do not need to touch it with your hand. It goes like this."

He put out his right foot with its _botte sauvage_, the round toe
turned up, the low heel resting on the ground, and moved it slowly
down and up as if it pressed an unseen rocker.

"_Comme ça, m'sieu'_," he said. "It demands no effort, only the
tranquillity of soul. One can smoke a little, one can sing, one can
dream of the days to come. That is a pleasant inn to stay at--the Sign
of the Cradle. How many good hours I have passed there--the happiest
of my life--I thank God for them. I can never forget them."

A crash as of sudden thunder--a ripping, rending roar of swift,
unknown disaster--filled the air, and shook the quiet houses around
our Lady of the Victories with nameless terror. After it, ten seconds
of thrilling silence, and then the distant sound of shrieking and
wailing. We sprang to our feet, trembling and horror-stricken.

"It is in the Rue Champlain," cried Pat. "Come!"

We darted across the square, turned a corner to the right, a corner to
the left, and ran down the long dingy street that skirts the foot of
the precipice on which the Citadel is enthroned. The ramshackle
houses, grey and grimy, huddled against the cliff that frowned above
them with black scorn and menace. High against the stars loomed the
impregnable walls of the fortress. Low in the shadow crouched the
frail habitations of the poor, the miserable tenements, the tiny
shops, the dusky drinking-dens.

The narrow way was already full of distracted people--some running
toward us to escape from danger--some running with us to see what had
happened.

"The Gray Mill," gasped my comrade; "a hundred yards farther--come
on--we must get there at all hazards! Push through!"

When we came at last to the place, there was a gap in the wall of
houses that leaned against the cliff; a horrible confusion of
shattered roofs and walls hurled across the street; and above it an
immense scar on the face of the precipice. Ten thousand tons of rock,
loosened secretly by the frost and the rain, had plunged without
warning on the doomed habitations below and buried the Gray Mill in
overwhelming ruin.

Pat trembled like a branch caught among the rocks in a swift current
of the river. He buried his face in his hands.

"My God," he muttered, "was it as close as that? How was I spared? My
God, pardon for all poor sinners!"

We worked for hours among the houses that had been more lightly
struck and where there was still hope of rescuing the wounded. The
Church of Our Lady of the Victories was quickly opened to receive
them, and the priests ministered to the suffering and the dying as we
carried them in.

As the pale dawn crept through the narrow windows, I saw Pat rise from
his knees at the altar and come down the aisle to stand with me in the
doorway.

"Well," said I, "it is all over, and here we are in the church this
morning, after all."

"Yes," he answered; "it is the best place. It is where we all need to
come. I have given my money to the priest--it was not mine--I have
left it all for prayers to be said for the poor souls of those--of
those--those friends of mine."

He brought out the words with brave humility, an avowal and a plea for
pardon.

"We must send a telegram," I said, putting my hand on his shoulder.
"Angélique will be frightened if she hears of this. We must
tranquillise her. How will this do? 'Safe and well. Coming home
to-morrow to you and twins.' That makes just ten words."

"It is perfectly correct, m'sieu'." he replied gravely. "She will be
glad to get that message. But--if it would not cost too much--only a
few words more,--I should like to put in something to say, 'God bless
you and forgive me.'"




HALF-TOLD TALES


THE KEY OF THE TOWER

THE RIPENING OF THE FRUIT

THE KING'S JEWEL




THE KEY of the TOWER

[Illustration]


So the first knight came to the Tower. Now his name was _Casse-Tout_,
because wherever he came there was much breaking of things that stood
in his way. And when he saw that the door of the Tower was shut (for
it was very early in the morning, and all the woods lay asleep in the
shadow, and only the weather-cock on the uppermost gable of the roof
was turning in the light wind of dawn), it seemed to him that the time
favoured a bold deed and a masterful entrance.

He laid hold of the door, therefore, and shook it; but the door would
not give. Then he set his shoulder to it and thrust mightily; but the
door did not so much as creak. Whereupon he began to hammer against it
with his gloves of steel, and shouted with a voice as if the master
were suddenly come home to his house and found it barred.

When he was quite out of breath, between his shoutings he was aware of
a small, merry noise as of one laughing and singing. So he listened,
and this is what he heard:

    "Hark to the wind in the wood without!
       I laugh in my bed while I hear him roar,
     Blustering, bellowing, shout after shout,--
       What do you want, O wind, at my door?"

Then he cried loudly: "No wind am I, but a mighty knight, and your
door is shut. I must come in to you and that speedily!" But the
singing voice answered:

    "Blow your best, you can do no more;
       Batter away, for my door is stout;
     The more you threaten, I laugh the more--
       Hark to the wind in the wood without!"

So he hammered a while longer at the oaken panels until he was
wearifully wroth, and when the sun was rising he went his way with
sore hands and a sullen face.

"No doubt," said he, "there is a she-devil in the Tower. I hate those
who put their trust in brute strength."

It was mid-morn when there came a second knight to the Tower, whose
name was _Parle-Doux_. And he was very gentle-spoken, and full of
favourable ways, smiling always when he talked, but his eyes were cool
and ever watchful. So he made his horse prance delicately before the
Tower, and looked up at the windows with a flattering face;

"Fair house," said he, "how well art thou fashioned, and with what
beauty does the sunlight adorn thee! Here dwells the wonder of the
world, the lady of all desires, the princess of my good fortune. Would
that she might look upon me and see that the happy hour has come!"

Then there was a little sound at one of the upper windows, and the
lattice clicked open. But the lady who stood there was closely covered
with a jewelled veil, and nothing could be seen of her but her hand,
with many rings upon it, holding a key.

"Marvel of splendour," said _Parle-Doux_, "moon of beauty, jewel of
all ladies! I have won you to look upon me, now let fall the key."

"And then?" said the lady.

"Then, surely," said the knight, "I will open the door without delay,
and spring up the stairs, winged with joy, and----"

But before he had finished speaking, with the smile on his face, the
hand was drawn back, and the lattice clicked shut.

So the knight sang and talked very beautifully for about the space of
three hours in front of the Tower. And when he rode away it was just
as it had been before, only the afternoon shadows were falling.

A little before sunset came the third knight, and his name was
_Fais-Brave_.

Now the cool of the day had called all the birds to their even-song,
and the flowers in the garden were yielding up their sweetness to the
air, and through the wood Twilight was walking with silent steps.

So the knight looked well at the Tower, and saw that all the windows
were open, though the door was shut, and on the grass before it lay a
jewelled veil. And after a while of looking and waiting and thinking
and wondering, he got down from his horse, and took off the saddle and
bridle, and let him go free to wander and browse in the wood. Then the
knight sat down on a little green knoll before the Tower, and made
himself comfortable, as one who had a thought of continuing in that
place for a certain time.

And after the sun was set, when the longest shadows flowed into dusk,
the lady came walking out of the wood toward the Tower. She was
lightly singing to herself a song of dreams. Her face was uncovered,
and the gold of her hair was clear as the little floating clouds high
in the West, and her eyes were like stars. When the knight saw her he
stood up and could say nothing. But all the more he looked at her, and
wondered, and his thoughts were written in his face as if they stood
in an open book.

Long time they looked at each other thus; and then the lady held out
her hand with a key in it.

"What will you do with this key?" said she, "if I give it to you?"

"Is it the key of your Tower?" said he.

"Ay!" said she.

"I will give it back to you," said he, "until it pleases you to open
the door."

"It is yours," said she.

[Illustration]




THE RIPENING OF THE FRUIT

[Illustration]


The righteousness of Puramitra was notorious, and it was evident to
all that he had immense faith in his gods. He was as strict in the
performance of his devotions as in the payment of his debts, nor was
there any altar, whether of Brahma, or of Vishnu, or of Shiva, at
which he failed to offer both prayers and gifts. He observed the rules
of religion and of business with admirable regularity, and enjoyed the
reputation of one whose conduct was above reproach.

But, being a self-contained man, he had not the love of the little
children of the village, to whom he often gave sweetmeats and toys;
and being a very prosperous man, he was not without rivals and
detractors, who liked his prosperity the less the more they marvelled
at it. This was displeasing to Puramitra, though he thought it beneath
him to show it.

"If all were known!" said some people, wagging their heads sagely, as
if they were full of secret and discreditable information.

"If we only had his luck," said others, sighing.

But when Puramitra heard of these things he said, "The fruits of earth
ripen by the will of Heaven and the harvest is on the lap of the
gods."

So saying, he made the sign of reverence, and went his way calmly to a
certain place in his garden, where he was accustomed to practise the
virtue of meditation and to review his inmost thoughts.

Now the inmost thoughts of Puramitra were in the shape of wishes and
strong desires; for which reason, being a religious man, he often
called them prayers. They were concerned chiefly with himself. And
next to that, with two others: Indranu, his friend, and Vishnamorsu,
his enemy.

But the motions of friendship are quiet and slow, and much the same
from day to day; whereas the motions of hatred are quick and stirring,
and changeful as the colors on a serpent. So Puramitra came to think
less and less of his friend, and more and more of his enemy. Every day
he returned at sundown to the retired place in the garden, where an
orange-tree shaded his favourite seat with thick, glossy leaves, and
surrendered himself to those meditations in which his desires were
laid bare to his gods.

At first he gave a thought to Indranu, who had helped him, and served
him, and always spoken well of him; and this thought he called love.
Then he gave many thoughts to Vishnamorsu, who had opposed him, and
thwarted him, and mocked him with bitter words and laughter; and these
thoughts he called just indignation. He reflected upon the many
misdeeds and offences of his enemy with a grave and serious passion.
He considered curiously the various punishments which these
misdemeanours must merit at the hand of Heaven, such as poverty and
pain and disgrace and death, and, after that, all the thirty-nine
degrees of damnation; he turned them over in his mind like a hollow
ball with rings carved within it, and they played one into another
smoothly and intricately, and at the centre of the rings a little
black figure with the face of Vishnamorsu writhed and twisted.

While Puramitra meditated thus upon the justice of the gods and the
ill-deserts of his enemy, the tree grew and flourished above him from
week to month and from month to year, spreading out its arms to hide
and befriend his devotions. The white flowers bloomed and faded with
heavy fragrance. The pale-green fruits formed and fell from the tree
before their time. But of all their many promises one persisted,
clinging to the lowest bough, rounding and ripening among the dark
leaves with strange flame and lustre--a fiery globe, intense and
perfect as Puramitra's thought of his enemy.

"You meditate much, my son," said a Brahman who knew him well and
sometimes visited his garden.

"Holy one," he answered, "I pray."

"For what?" asked the Brahman.

"That the divine will may be done in all ways and upon all things,"
replied Puramitra.

"Then why have you been at pains to poison your tree?" asked the
Brahman.

"I did not know," said the man, "that I had done anything to the
tree."

"Look," said the Brahman, and he touched the fruit with the end of his
staff. A drop oozed from the saffron globe, red as blood; and where it
fell the grass withered as if a flame had scorched it. Then the heart
of Puramitra leaped up within him, for he knew that his inmost
thoughts had passed into the course of nature and fructified upon the
tree.

"Most excellent Brahman," said he, with great humility, "the fruits of
earth ripen by the will of Heaven."

"For whom is this one intended?" asked the Brahman.

"Holiness," said Puramitra, "it is on the lap of, the gods."

So the Brahman pursued his way, and Puramitra his meditations.

The next day he ordered an open path made through his gardens for the
pleasure and comfort of the neighbours. The glistening fruit hung
above the path, ripe and ruddy.

"It is on the lap of the gods," thought Puramitra; "if the evil-doer
stretches forth his hand to it, the justice of Heaven will appear." So
he hid among the bushes at nightfall, and expected the event.

A man crept slowly along the path and stayed beneath the tree. His
face was concealed by a cloak; but the watcher said, "I shall know him
by his actions, for my enemy will not respect that which is mine." Now
the man was thinking shame and scorn of the rich owner of the garden,
and despising the prosperity of wiles and wickedness. So he hated and
contemned the fruit, saying to himself, "God forbid that I should
touch anything that belongs to the wretch Puramitra." And the path
grew darker.

Soon after came another man, walking with uncovered head, but his face
could not be discerned because of the shadow. And the watcher said,
"Now we shall see what the gods intend." The man went freely and
easily, without a care, and when he came to the fruit he put out his
hand and took it, saying to himself, "The benevolent Puramitra will be
glad that I should have this, for he is good to all his friends." So
he ate of the fruit, and fell at the foot of the tree.

Then Puramitra came running, and lifted up the dead man, and looked
upon his face. And it was the face of his friend, the well-beloved
Indranu.

So Puramitra wept aloud, and tore his hair, and his heart went black
within him. And Vishnamorsu, returning through the garden by another
path, heard the lamentable noise, and came near, and laughed. But the
Brahman, passing homeward, looked upon the three, and said, "The ways
of the gods are secret; but the happiest of these is Indranu."

[Illustration]




THE KING'S JEWEL

[Illustration]


There was an outcry at the door of the king's great hall, and suddenly
a confusion arose. The guards ran thither swiftly, and the people were
crowded together, pushing and thrusting as if to withhold some
intruder. Out of the tumult came a strong voice shouting, "I will come
in! I must see the false king!" But other voices cried, "Not so--you
are mad--you shall not come in thus!"

Then the king said, "Let him come in as he will!"

So the confusion fell apart, and the hall was very still, and a man in
battered armour stumbled through the silence and stood in front of the
throne. He was breathing hard, for he was weary and angry and afraid,
and the sobbing of his breath shook him from head to foot. But his
anger was stronger than his weariness and his fear, so he lifted his
eyes hardily and looked the king in the face.

It was like the face of a mountain, very calm and very high, but not
unkind. When the man saw it clearly he knew that he was looking at the
true king; but his anger was not quenched, and he stood stiff, with
drawn brows, until the king said, "Speak!"

For answer the man drew from his breast a golden chain, at the end of
which was a jewel set with a great blue stone. He looked at it for a
moment with scorn, as one who had a grievance. Then he threw it down
on the steps of the throne, and turned on his heel to go.

"Stay," said the king. "Whose is this jewel?"

"I thought it to be yours," said the man.

"Where did you get it?" asked the king.

"From an old servant of yours," answered the man. "He gave it to me
when I was but a lad, and told me it came from the king--it was the
blue stone of the Truth, perfect and priceless. Therefore I must keep
it as the apple of mine eye, and bring it back to the king perfect and
unbroken."

"And you have done this?" said the king.

"Yes and no," answered the man.

"Divide your answer," said the king. "First, the _yes_."

The man delayed a moment before he spoke. Then his words came slow and
firm as if they were measured and weighed in his mind.

"All that man could do, O king, have I done to keep this jewel of the
Truth. Against open foes and secret robbers I have defended it, with
faithful watching and hard fighting. Through storm and peril, through
darkness and sorrow, through the temptation of pleasure and the
bewilderment of riches, I have never parted from it. Gold could not
buy it; passion could not force it; nor man nor woman could wile or
win it away. Glad or sorry, well or wounded, at home or in exile, I
have given my life to keep the jewel. This is the meaning of the
_yes_."

"It is right," said the king. "And now the _no_."

The man answered quickly and with heat.

[Illustration: The King's Jewel]

"The _no_ also is right, O king! But not by my fault. The jewel is not
untarnished, not perfect. It never was. There is a flaw in the
stone. I saw it first when I entered the light of your palace-gate.
Look, it is marred and imperfect, a thing of little value. It is not
the crystal of Truth. I have been deceived. You have claimed my life
for a fool's errand, a thing of naught; no jewel, but a bauble. Take
it. It is yours."

The king looked not at the gold chain and the blue stone, but at the
face of the man. He looked quietly and kindly and steadily into the
eyes full of pain and wounded loyalty, until they fell before his
look. Then he spoke gently.

"Will you give me my jewel?"

The man lifted his eyes in wonder.

"It is there," he cried, "at your feet!"

"I spoke not of that," said the king, "but of your life, yourself."

"My life," said the man faltering, "what is that? Is it not ended?"

"It is begun," said the king. "Your life--yourself, what of that?"

"I had not thought of that," said the man, "only of the jewel, not of
myself, my life."

"Think of it now," said the king, "and think clearly. Have you not
learned courage and hardiness? Have not your labours brought you
strength; your perils, wisdom; your wounds, patience? Has not your
task broken chains for you, and lifted you out of sloth and above
fear? Do you say that the stone that has done this for you is false, a
thing of naught?"

"Is this true?" said the man, trembling and sinking on his knee.

"It is true," answered the king, "as God lives, it is true. Come,
stand at my right hand. My jewels that I seek are not dead, but alive.
But the stone which led you here--look! has it a flaw?"

He stooped and lifted the jewel. The light of his face fell upon it.
And in the blue depths of the sapphire the man saw a star.

[Illustration]




THE MUSIC-LOVER


The Music-Lover had come to his favourite seat. It was in the front
row of the balcony, just where the curve reaches its outermost point,
and, like a rounded headland, meets the unbroken flow of the
long-rolling, invisible waves of rhythmical sound.

The value of that chosen place did not seem to be known to the world,
else there would have been a higher price demanded for the privilege
of occupying it. People were willing to pay far more to get into the
boxes, or even to have a chair reserved on the crowded level of the
parquet.

But the Music-Lover cared little for fashion, and had long ago ceased
to reckon the worth of things by the prices asked for them in the
market.

He knew that his coign of vantage, by some secret confluence of
architectural lines, gave him the very best of the delight of hearing
that the vast concert-hall contained. It was for that delight that he
was thirsting, and he surrendered himself to it confidently and
entirely.

He had arrived at an oasis in the day. Since morning he had been
toiling through the Sahara of the city's noise: arid, senseless,
inhospitable noise: roaring of wheels, clanging of bells, shrieking of
whistles, clatter of machinery, squawking of horns, raucous and
strident voices: confused, bewildering, exhausting noise, a desolate
and unfriendly desert of heard ugliness.

Now all that waste, howling wilderness was shut out by the massive
walls of the concert-hall, and he found himself in a haven of refuge.

But silence alone would not have healed and restored his spirit. It
needed something more than the absence of harsh and brutal and
meaningless noise to satisfy him. It needed the presence of music:
tones measured, ordered, and restrained; varied and blended not by
chance, but by feeling and reason; sound expressive of the secret life
and the rhythmical emotion of the human heart. And this he found
flowing all around him, entering deeply into him, filling all the
parched and empty channels of his being, as he listened to
Beethoven's great Symphony in C Minor.


I

There was nothing between him and the orchestra. He looked over the
railing of the gallery, which shaded his eyes from the lights of the
boxes below, straight across the gulf in which the mass of the
audience, diminutive and indistinguishable, seemed to be submerged, to
the brilliant island of the stage.

The conductor stood in the foreground. There was no touch of carefully
considered eccentricity in hair or costume, no pose of self-conscious
Bohemianism about him. His face, with its clear brow, firmly moulded
chin, and brown moustache, was that of a man who understood himself as
well as music. His figure, in its faultless evening dress, had the
tranquil poise and force of one who obeys the customs of society in
order to be free to give his mind to other things. With slight
motions, easy and graceful as if they came without thought and
required no effort, his right hand, with the little baton, gave the
time and rhythm, commanding swift obedience; while his left hand
lightly beckoned here and there with magical persuasion, drawing forth
louder or softer notes, stirring the groups of instruments to
passionate expression, or hushing them to delicate and ethereal
strains.

There was no labour, no dramatic display in that leadership; nothing
to distract the attention, or to break the spell of the music. All the
toil of art, the consideration of effects, the sharp and vehement
assertion of authority, lay behind him in the rehearsals.

Now the finished work, the noble interpretation of the composer's
musical idea, flowed forth at the leader's touch, as if each motive
and phrase, each period and melody, were waiting somewhere in the air
to reveal itself at his slight signal. And through all the movement of
the _Allegro con brio_, with its momentous struggle between Fate and
the Human Soul, the orchestra answered to the leader's will as if it
were a single instrument upon which he played.

[Illustration: The Music-Lover.]

And so, for a time, it seemed to the Music-Lover as he looked down
upon it from his lofty place. With what precision the bows of the
violins moved up and down together; how accurately the wood-winds came
in with their gentler notes; how regularly the brazen keys of the
trumpets rose and fell, and the long, shining tubes of the trombone
slid out and in. Such varied motions, yet all so limited, so orderly,
so certain and obedient, looked like the sure interplay of the parts
of a wonderful machine.

He watched them as if in a dream, fascinated by their regularity,
their simplicity in detail, their complexity in the mass--watched them
with his eyes, while his heart was carried along with the flood of
music. More and more the impression of a marvellous unity, a
mechanical certainty of action, grew upon that half of his mind which
was occupied with sight, and gave him a singular satisfaction and
comfort.

It was good to be free, for a little while at least, from the
everlasting personal equation, the perplexing interest in human
individuals, the mysterious and disturbing sympathies awakened by
contact with other lives, and to give one's self to the pure enjoyment
of an impersonal work of art, rendered by the greatest of all
instruments--a full orchestra under control of a master.


II

But presently the _Allegro_ came to an end, and with the pause there
came that brief stir in the orchestra, that momentary relaxation of
nerves and muscles, that moving and turning of many heads in different
directions, that swift interchange of looks and smiles and whispered
words between the players, which seemed like the temporary dissolving
of the spell that made them one. And with this general but separated
and uncertain movement a vague thought, an unformulated question,
passed into the mind of the Music-Lover.

How would the leader reassemble the parts of his instrument in a few
seconds, and make them one again, and resume his control over it? How
would he make the pipes and strings and tubes and drums answer to his
touch, though he laid no hand upon them? There must be some strange,
invisible key-board, some secret system of communication between him
and those various contrivances of wood and wire and sheep-skin and
horse-hair and metal (so curiously and grotesquely fashioned, when one
came to consider them) out of which he was to bring melody and
harmony. How should one conceive of this mysterious key-board and its
hidden connections?

How should one comprehend and imagine it? Was it not, after all, the
most wonderful thing about the great instrument on which the symphony
was played?

While the Music-Lover, leaning back in his seat, was idly turning over
this thought, the _Andante_ began, and all definite questioning and
reasoning were absorbed in the calm, satisfying melody which flowed
from the violas and 'cellos.

But now a singular change came over the half-conscious impression
which his eyes received as they rested on the orchestra. It was no
longer a huge and strangely fashioned instrument, intricate in
construction, perfect in adjustment, that he was watching.

It was a company of human beings, trained and disciplined to common
action, understanding one another through the sharing of a certain
technical knowledge, and bound together by a unity of will which was
expressed in their central obedience to the leader. The arms, the
hands, the lips of these hundred persons were weaving together the
many-coloured garment of music, because their minds knew the pattern,
and their wills worked together in the design.

Here was the wonderful hidden system of communication, more magical
than any mechanism, just because it was less perfect, just because it
left room, along each separate channel, for the coming in of those
slight, incalculable elements of personal emotion which lend the touch
of life to rhythm and tone.

The instruments were but the tools. The composer was the
master-designer. The leader and his orchestra were the weavers of the
rich robe of sound, in which alone the hidden spirit of Music,
daughter of Psyche and Amor, becomes perceptible to mortal sense.

The smooth and harmonious action of the players seemed to lend a new
charm, delicate and indefinable, to the development of the clear and
heart-strengthening theme with its subtle variations and its powerful,
emphatic close, like the fullness of meaning in the last line of a
noble sonnet.


III

In the pause that followed, the Music-Lover let himself drift quietly
with the thoughts of peace and concord awakened by this loveliest of
andantes.

The beginning of the _Scherzo_ found him, somehow or other, in a new
relation to the visible image of the orchestra. The weird, almost
supernatural music, murmured at first by the 'cellos and
double-basses, then proclaimed by the horns as if by the trumpet of
Fate itself; the repetition of the same struggle of emotions which had
marked the first movement, but now more tense, more passionate, more
human, the strange, fantastic mingling of comedy and tragedy in the
_Trio_ and the _Fugue_ with its abrupt questions and answers; all this
seemed to him like a moving picture of the inner life of man.

And while he followed it, the other half of his mind was watching the
players, no longer as a group, a unit of disciplined action, but as
individuals, persons for each of whom life had a distinct colour, and
tone, and meaning.

His eyes rested unconsciously on the pale, dreamy face of the second
violinist; the black, rugged brows of the trumpeter; the long, gentle
countenance of the flute-player with its flexible lips and blond
beard.

The grizzled head of the 'cellist bent over his instrument with an air
of quiet devotion. The burly form of the player of the double-bassoon,
behind his rare and awkward instrument, waiting for his time to come
in, had the look of a man who could not be surprised or troubled by
anything. One of the bass-violinists had the rough-hewn figure and the
divinely chiseled, sorrow-lighted face of Lincoln, the others were
children of the everyday. The clarionettist, with his dark beard and
high temples, might have sat for Rembrandt's picture of "The
Philosopher." The rotund kettle-drummer, with his smooth head and
sparkling eyes, restlessly turning his little keys and bending down to
listen to the tuning of his grotesque music-pots, seemed impatient for
the part in the score when he was to build the magical bridge, on
which the symphony passes, without a break, from the third to the last
movement.

"All these persons," said the inner voice of the Music-Lover (he
listening all the while to the entangling and unfolding, dismissing
and recalling of the various motives)--"all these persons have their
own lives and characters. They have known joys and sorrows, failures
and successes. They have hoped and feared. All that Beethoven poured
into this music from his experience of poverty, of conflict with
physical weakness and the cruel limitations of Fate, of baffled
desire, of loneliness, of strong resolution, of immortal courage and
faith, these players in their measure and degree have known.

"Even now they may be in love, in hatred, in friendship, in jealousy,
in gloom, in resignation, in courage, or in happiness. What strange
paths lie behind them; what laughter and what tears have they shared;
what secret ties unite them, one with another, and what hidden
barriers rise between those who do not understand and those who do not
care! There are many stories running along underneath this music, some
of them just begun, some long since ended, some never to find a true
completion: little stories of many lands, humourous and pathetic,
droll and capricious legends, merry jests, vivid romances, serious
tales of patience and devotion.

"And out of these stories, because they are human, has come the
humanity of the players: the thing which makes it possible for them to
feel this music, and to play it, not as a machine would play, grinding
it out with dead monotony, but with all the colour and passion of life
itself.

"Why should we not know something of this hidden background of the
orchestra? Why should not somebody tell one of the stories that is
waiting here? Not I, but some one familiar with this region, who has
trodden its paths and shared in its labours; not a mere lover of
music, but a musician."

Here the inner voice which had been running along through the
_Scherzo_ and the _Trio_ and the _Recapitulation_, died away quietly
with the _pianissimo_ passage in which the double-basses and the drum
carry one through the very heart of mystery; and the Music-Lover found
himself intensely waiting for the great _Finale_.

Now it comes, long-expected, surprising, victorious, sweeping all the
instruments into its mighty current, pausing for a moment to take up
the most delicate and mysterious melody of the _Scherzo_ (changed as
if by magic into something new and strange), and then moving on again,
with hurrying, swelling tide, until it breaks in the swift-rolling,
thunderous billows of immeasurable jubilation.

The Music-Lover drew a long breath. He sat motionless in his seat. The
storm of applause did not disturb him. He did not notice that the
audience had risen. He was looking at the orchestra, already
beginning to melt away; but he did not really see them.

Presently a hand was stretched out from the second row behind him, and
touched him on the shoulder. He turned around and saw the face of his
friend the Dreamer, the Brushwood Boy, with his bright eyes and
disheveled hair. And beside him was the radiant presence of the Girl
Who Understood.

"_Lieber Meister,_" said the Boy, "you are coming now with us. There
is a bite and a sup, and a pipe and an open fire, waiting for you in
our room--and I have a story to read you. _Bitte komm!_"




HUMORESKE

I


They parted at the end of the summer--the boy and the girl--after
having been very happy together for two months and very miserable for
two days. The trouble was that she would not marry him.

This was not altogether strange, for Richard Shafer was only twenty
and had just finished his second year in college. To Carola Brune, who
was a year younger, he seemed perfect as a playmate, but she simply
could not imagine him as a husband. He was too vague, unformed, boyish
in his moods and caprices. She was a strong girl, with quick and
powerful impulses in her nature, and she felt that she would need a
strong man to hold her. What Richard was, what he would be, she could
not clearly see. She loved to make music with him--she at the piano,
he with his violin. She loved to roam the woods with him, and to go
out in a canoe with him on the moonlit river. But she could not and
she would not say that she loved _him_--at least, not enough to
promise to marry him now.

He took her "no" very hard. He argued the case persistently. There
were no real obstacles, that he could see, to their marriage. She was
the daughter of a musician, a Bohemian, who would make no objections
to an unworldly match. He was an orphan with a little patrimony of
four or five thousand dollars, enough to live on until the world
recognised his genius as a poet and his mastery as a violinist.

At this, unfortunately, being a little nervous and overstrained by the
long pleading, she laughed. "Oh, Dick!" she cried. "Swinburne and
Sarasate--two single gentlemen rolled into one!"

Now there is nothing that a boy--or for that matter, a man--dislikes
so much as laughter when he is making a declaration of love. His sense
of humour at that time is in eclipse, and even the gentlest turn of
wit shocks him deeply.

"Very well," he answered, rising from their favourite seat among the
roots of an old hemlock tree overhanging the stream, "let us go back
to the hotel. I have been a silly ass, I suppose, and now it's all
over."

"But why?"--she was tempted to ask him as they walked through the
woods. Why was it all over? Why shouldn't they go on being good
friends and comrades? Couldn't he see that she had only tried to make
a little joke to ease the strain? Didn't he know that she really had a
wonderful admiration for his talents and a large hope for his future?

But something held her back from speaking. She was embarrassed and
slightly ashamed. He was in a strange mood, evidently offended,
absurdly polite and distant, making talk about the concert that was to
come off that evening. She could not bring herself to explain to him
now. She would do it in the morning when the air was clearer and
cooler.

As they entered the hotel, she turned into the music room, saying that
she had to practise for her part in the concert. He held out his hand
with a little formal gesture. "I wish you a big success," said he; "my
part doesn't need any practice." Then he went upstairs to pack his
trunk for the six o'clock train.

An hour later, as he passed out of the door, he heard her still at the
piano. She was playing for her own pleasure now--just to relieve the
tension of her feelings by letting them flow out on the rhythmic
current of music. It was her favourite piece, that magical _humoreske_
by Dvorák, which is like an April day, full of smiles and tears,
pleading and laughter. The clear notes came out under her exquisite
touch with a penetrating charm of airy, graceful fantasy. To the angry
boy at the door it seemed as if they were full of delicate
indifference and mockery. They expressed to him the spirit of a
girl--light, capricious, elusive, yet with a will that can resist all
appeal and evade all attack--an invincible butterfly, a thistle-down
of steel--the thing that a man wants most in all the world and yet can
not have unless she chooses. She stood for his first defeat, his great
disappointment, his discovery that life can refuse; and now she was
playing this quaint, careless, mocking music!

"She does not care," he said to himself, as he climbed into the
stage, "and I will not care. She is only a flirt. All girls are like
that." With this profound generalisation in what he called his mind,
but what was really his temper, he rode sullenly away.

He did not hear how she lingered caressingly over the last phrases of
the _humoreske_, playing them very softly, with her blond head bent
over the piano, as if she were trying to recall something. He did not
know that she put on the frock that he liked best, with the mauve
ribbons, for the concert that night. He did not see her lips quiver
and the look of pained surprise flash into her brown eyes when she
heard that he had gone without even saying good-bye.

Naturally she, thinking him a proud and foolish boy, waited for him to
come back or to write. Naturally he, having classified her as a cold
and heartless flirt, expected her to send him a letter asking him to
return. Naturally neither of these things happened. The little
bank-dividing stream of circumstance flowed between them, ever
broadening, until it seemed like an impassable river.

Each of them said, "It was only an episode." Each of them was sure
that there was nothing in it which could mean a lasting pain, nothing
which time would not obliterate. Each of them repeated a wise phrase
or two about "passing fancies" and "puppy love," and so they went
their ways lightly enough, reasonably resolving not to think of each
other any more.

But it was strange how clearly and brightly the scenes of the summer
itself lived in their memories. To both of them there was a peculiar
and deepening vividness in those pictures of certain places.

The hardwood ridges in the forest, where there was no undergrowth and
they could walk straight ahead, side by side, through the interminable
colonnade of beeches and birches which upheld the green, gold-flecked
roof,--the dark tangled spruce thicket, where one must stoop under the
interlacing lower branches, dead and brittle, and creep over the soft
brown carpet of fallen needles, dry and slippery, in order to reach a
little open glade, moist with springs, where the red wood-lily and the
purple-fringed orchid grew,--the high steep rock that jutted out from
the woods about half-way up the slope of the Dome, as if to make a
narrow view-point of surprise where two people could stand close
together and look down upon the broad valley and the blue hills
beyond,--the old hemlock, with its big, bent knees covered with moss,
ready to hold them comfortably in its lap, while they read poetry or
stories of adventure, and the little river sung its sleepy song at
their feet,--the long stillwater where the canoe floated quietly among
the mirrored stars,--the merry rapids where the moon path spread
before them broad and silvery, luring them to follow it down to
danger,--the twilight hour in the music room, where the piano answered
to the violin, and through the open door and windows the aromatic
breath of the pine-trees and the spicy smell of wild grapes drifted
faintly in,--a certain afternoon when the cool rain-drops beat in
their faces as they tramped home, after a long walk over the hills,
wet and joyous, swinging their clasped hands and chanting some
foolish, endless song of the road,--a certain evening when the
murmuring hemlock above them grew silent, and the whispering water
below them seemed to hush, and a single big star across the river was
softly throbbing in the mauve dusk, and their lips met for a moment as
purely and silently as the twilight meets the night;--these were
pictures that would not fade and dissolve. There was something
unforgettable about them.

Was it the spirit of place that possessed them with a unique
loveliness; or was it that they were illuminated by the charm of a
companionship in which two hearts had tasted together the sweetest cup
in the world, the royal chalice of the pure, uncalculating,
inexplicable joy of living?

Be that as it may, the fact remains that while the boy and the girl
went away from each other, and grew separately to manhood and
womanhood, and had other experiences and joys and troubles, that
summer stayed with them both as something rare and unequalled, set
apart in its delectable perfection, a standard by which,
unconsciously, they measured all happiness and all beauty.

The effect of such an inward standard is peculiar. It is apt to give a
certain detachment, a touch of isolation, to the person who possesses
it. And whether that is a good thing or a bad thing depends upon the
tone which is given to it by an unknown quantity, the way in which the
secret will of the spirit chooses to take and use it.

To Carola Brune it was like the possession of something very precious,
which she had found and which she felt she could never lose. She
followed the path which was marked out for her as a student of music
with tranquil enthusiasm and cheerful industry; she made friends
everywhere by her serene and wholesome loveliness; and she did her
work at the piano so well that when she went to Paris, at the end of
the second year, to continue her studies, she found no difficulty in
being received as a pupil by the great Alberti.

"You have a very happy touch, mademoiselle," said the little gray man
one day at the end of a lesson. He gave his moustache that fierce
upward turn with which he accompanied his rare compliments, and
frowned at her benignly while he went on. "I suppose you know that you
really play better than you know how to play. What right have you to
do that?"

She smiled as she turned around to him, for she had learned to
understand his abrupt ways. "No right, dear master," she said, "only
perhaps it is because I happen to know a little of the meaning of
happiness."

"But you play the sad music too," he continued, "and you let it all
come out."

"That is because I am not afraid of sadness," she answered, with her
clear brown eyes looking quietly up at him.

His voice grew gentle and he laid his hand on her shoulder. "You have
the secret, my child--to know the meaning of happiness, and not to be
afraid of sadness, but to pour it all into the music. That is the
secret, and it will make you a musician,--it will carry you far, I
think,--provided you don't neglect your practising," he added
brusquely.

She shook her head and laughed. "I wouldn't dare do that with such a
tyrant as you, dear master."

"Next week," he went on, giving a new upward twist to his moustache,
"I shall expect you to be letter-perfect with that G major concerto of
Beethoven--no more drum-beats, remember. And mind, you are not to
think of playing in public, at a concert, until I tell you. It may be
a long time,--a year, perhaps,--but I am not going to let them spoil
my sweetest rose by forcing her into bloom too soon."

"Despot," she laughed back as he patted her hand at the door, "if you
only had a kind heart I should love you--a little!"

On the way home to her tiny apartment in the Rue de Grenelle, where
she lived with her aunt and her younger sister, who was a student of
drawing, she walked through the Garden of the Luxembourg, thinking
about a concert. Not one of those which the master had forbidden to
her, but a very simple and foolish and far-away little concert in the
old hotel beside the Delaware. And the deep beauty of the forest came
back to her, and the long-shining reaches of the river, and the hours
of good comradeship with a boy who perfectly shared her joy of living,
and the breath of the pine-trees and the sweetness of the wild grape!
Did she really smell them now? No, it was only the faint fragrance of
the formal beds of hyacinths and tulips and jonquils on the terraces
behind the old palace. In the broad walks, children were running and
playing. Old men were smoking on the benches in a drowsy peace. In the
shady paths under the tall trees, evidently amatory couples were
strolling or sitting close together. Carola enjoyed it all--but there
was a look in her face, half sad, half smiling, as if she remembered
something better.

When she reached home, she laid aside her hat and scarf, and went into
the little _salon_. She sat down at the piano and let her fingers run
idly over the keys, wandering from fragment to fragment of soft music.
Then with a firmer touch she began to play the _humoreske_ of
Dvorák, but with a new phrasing, a new expression. It was full of
an infinite tenderness, a great longing, a sweetness of distant and
remembered joy. It seemed to be singing over again the favourite song
of some one who had died--singing very clearly and distinctly so as
not to lose a single note, a single movement, of the unforgotten
melody of happiness.

The delicate dusk of a May evening gathered slowly in the room. The
windows were wide open. In the narrow, curving street below, already
half-deserted, a young man who was passing with long aimless steps, as
if he felt that he must be going somewhere but did not know exactly
where, stopped suddenly when he heard the music above him, and stood
listening until its last note trembled into silence. Then he strode
away, but in the opposite direction, as if he had changed his mind.


II

The path that had led Richard Shafer into the Rue de Grenelle and
under the windows of Carola Brune without knowing it, was long and
roundabout, and in places rather rough. It was one of the by-ways of
the unknown quantity.

To him, from the first, the thought of the perfect summer had been
like something that he had lost and would never find again. It made
him dissatisfied, fickle, and resentful. He went back to his college
work with a temper which handicapped him in everything. His lessons
seemed like the dullest drudgery to one who felt sure that he had in
him the making of a poet or a musician, he did not quite know
which--perhaps it was both. The fellowship of the other boys, with its
rude and hearty democracy, streaked with funny little social
prejudices and ambitions, was a thing of which he could not or would
not learn the secret.

He tried running with the literary set. But Shorty Burke, who was the
acknowledged college genius, said of him, "Shafer seems to think that
he's the only man since Keats, and all the rest of us are duffers."

He tried running with the fast set. But Duke Jones, who could carry
more strong liquors than any man in the crowd, said of him, "Dick is
no good; when he goes to town with us he's a thousand miles away, and
every glass makes him more stuck-up and quarrelsome."

He tried running with the purely social set, the arbiters of college
elegance. But it bored him immensely, and he took no pains to conceal
it, so they silently cast him out.

The consequence of all this was that he failed to get into any of the
upper-class societies, and consoled himself with the belief that he
was terribly in love with a girl three years older than himself.

She was part of a liberal education, and she was very kind to him
because she liked his really beautiful violin playing. When she told
him, at the beginning of his senior year, that she was going to marry
one of the assistant professors, he added another illustration to his
theory that "all girls are like that," and plunged into a violent
course of study for honours and a fellowship. But it was too late. He
graduated with a fourth group and a firm conviction that college is a
failure.

Then he went to New York, with his violin and with a dozen poems and
half-a-dozen short stories in his trunk, resolved to storm the
magazines or to get a place in one of the great orchestras--he was not
quite sure which of the two short paths to fame it would be.

It was neither. He sold two sonnets and a story which brought him in
$47.50. For a few months he saw life in the Great White Way and other
paths, and found them very dusty. It would not be true to say that
there was no amusement in it. There were times when it was
excessively merry. And for the little _Caffè Fiammella_, where the
fat, bald-headed proprietor used to introduce him as "_l'illustrissimo
violinista Signore Ricardo Sciafèro_," and where the mixed audience
welcomed his music with delight, he had a sincere affection, in spite
of the ineradicable smell of garlic. There was a girl there who was
the living image of Raphæl's _Fornarina_, until she began to talk.

But in all the life that he thus confusedly saw, there was not a
single hour to which he could have said with Faust, "Oh, stay, thou
art so fair!" For behind it all, there was that inward, unconscious
standard of beauty and happiness--the summer which he could not have
forgotten if he would, and would not have forgotten if he could. It
did not console or comfort him at all. It only kept him from being
contented--which, after all, would have been the worst thing in the
world for him at the present stage of his education.

So when the remnant of his patrimony had shrunk to a couple of hundred
dollars, he burned his poems and stories, for which he had conceived a
strong disgust, and took passage on a small French steam-ship for
Bordeaux, to make the "grand tour" of Europe. His violin made him the
most popular person on the ship. He had a facile talent and a good
memory, which enabled him to play almost any kind of music; and when
he could not remember he could improvise. The second officer, a short,
stout man, with a pointed black beard, and a secret passion for the
fine arts, conceived a great fancy for the young American. When they
reached Bordeaux he took Richard to his favourite theatre and
introduced him to the leader of the orchestra, a person with a crinkly
yellow face and a soft heart, whose name was Camembert, for which
reason his intimates called him "the Cheese."

The theatre was about to close for the summer, but four of the
musicians had made a plan for a concert tour in various small cities
and watering-places. When M. Camembert had heard Richard play after a
joyous supper in the famous restaurant of the _Chapon Fin_, he
embraced him with effusion and invited him to join the company.

Nothing could have suited the young man's humour better. They
wandered from one city-in-etching to another,--Angoulême, Poitiers,
Tours, Rennes, Caen,--grey and crumbly towns, white and trim towns.
They visited the rocky resorts of Brittany and the sandy resorts of
Normandy. They played in a little theatre, or in a casino, or in the
ballroom of a hotel. Their fortunes varied, but in the main they were
prosperous. The announcements of "The Renowned Camembert Quintette,
with a celebrated American Soloist" attracted an amused curiosity. And
the music was good, for the old man was a real master, and the
practice was strenuous and persistent. It was hard work, but it was
also good fun, and the great thing for Richard was that he learned
more of the human side of music and of the philosophy of life than he
could have done in ten years of insulated study.

A vein of luck which they struck in Rouen and Dieppe emboldened them
to turn eastward, with comfortably full pockets, and try the Dauphiné
and High Savoy. At Grenoble they had a frost and a heavy loss, but at
the sleepy Baths of Uriage they made a week of good harvest with
afternoon recitals. Chambréy did well for them, and Annécy even
better, so that, in spite of the indifference of Aix, they reached
Geneva in funds. Then they played their way around the Lake of Geneva,
and up into the Rhone Valley, and so over to the Italian lakes with
the autumn.

Here, at Pallanza, in a garden overhanging the Lago Maggiore where the
Borromean Isles sleep in their swan-like beauty on the blue-green
waves, they faced the question of turning homeward or going on to the
south for a winter tour. As they sat around the little iron table,
which held a savoury Spanish omelette and a corpulent straw-covered
flask of Chianti, their spirit was cheerful and their courage high.

"Why not?" asked the valiant Camembert. "Is it that the Italians are
more difficult to conquer than the French? Napoleon did it--my faith,
yes. Forward to the conquest of Italy!"

Richard was immensely amused. He did not really care which way they
went, as long as they went somewhere. His heart was full of a vague
hunger for home,--deep, wild, sheltering woods, friendly hills,
companionable and never-failing little rivers,--he longed to be there.
But he knew that was impossible. So why not Italy? It would certainly
be an adventure.

And so it was. But the conquest was largely a matter of imagination.
They saw the flowing green streets of Venice, the ruddy towers of
Bologna, the grey walls and dark dome of Florence. They saw the
fountains flash in Rome and the red fire run down the long slope of
Vesuvius at Naples. They crossed over to Sicily and saw ivory Palermo
in her golden shell and Taormina sitting high upon the benches of her
amphitheatre. In that sense they conquered and possessed Italy, as any
one who has eyes and a heart may do.

But Italy did not pay much tribute to their music. They had to travel
third-class and sleep in the poorest inns, cultivating a taste for
macaroni and dark bread with pallid butter. Still, they were merry
enough until they reached Genoa, and perceived that there was no
reasonable prospect of their being able to make anything at all in the
over-civilised and over-entertained towns of the Rivièra.

"We must retreat, my children," said the Cheese, crinkling his face
over the sour wine in a musty _trattoria_, "but let us retreat in good
order and while we have the means to do so. How much money in bank?"

They counted their resources and found them hardly enough to pay the
railway fare to Bordeaux. Richard insisted upon putting the remnant of
his private fortune into the common fund, but the others would not
have it.

"No," they said, "you shall not give us money. But you may settle all
the restaurant bills between here and Bordeaux."

"But I am not going to Bordeaux," said he; "I am going to Paris."

At this there was voluble protest and discussion. Richard had no
arguments, but his determination was as fixed as it was unreasonable.
Finally he forced them to take fifty francs as a loan. At Lyons the
quintette dissolved with emotional embraces, the four going westward,
and he northward in the night train.

When he walked out into the stony desert in front of the _Gare de
Lyon_ in the grey chill of a March morning, he had just two hundred
and twenty francs in his pocket, and he felt that he was really adrift
in the world. There was nothing for him to hold fast to, no one who
had need of him.

He found a garret room in the _Rue Cherche Midi_, and looked up two
friends of his who were studying at the _Beaux Arts_. They introduced
him to a newspaper correspondent who threw a bit of work in his way--a
fortnightly letter to an Arkansas paper on French fashions and
society, at five dollars _per_ letter. This did not go very far, but
it retarded the melting away of his estate while he finished two
articles,--one on "The Cradle of the French Revolution," the Chateau
of Vezille, which he had visited during his week at the Baths of
Uriage,--the other on "An Eruption of Vesuvius," which had opportunely
occurred while he was in Naples. For the first time in his life he
wrote directly, simply, and naturally, describing what he had really
seen, and expressing what he had really felt and imagined. He sent the
articles to two American magazines and relapsed into a state of doubt
and despair.

He took what Paris has to give a young man in the way of cheap
diversion, but he found it as dusty as New York. The long rambles
through the older parts of the city, the solitary excursions into the
forests of the environs, really satisfied and refreshed him more.
Meantime the feeling that he was adrift grew upon him and his reserve
of capital disappeared. The wolf scratched at the door of his garret
and short rations were necessary. In the second week of May a
remittance arrived from the Arkansas paper for his last two letters,
with the statement that they were not "snappy" enough to suit the
taste of the community, and that the correspondence had better be
discontinued.

So it was that he strode through the Rue de Grenelle in the May
twilight, with fifty francs in his pocket, resolved to spend it all
that night--and then? Well, it was not very clear in his mind, but
certainly he was not going back to his miserable lodging,--and surely
there must be some way of making an end of it all for a man who felt
that he was adrift and very tired,--there was no one to care much if
he dropped out, and he could see no attractive reason for going on.

It was then that he heard the notes of the _humoreske_ coming down
into the deserted street and stood still to listen. The memories of
the perfect summer floated around him again. Something in the music
seemed to call to him, to plead with him, to try to console and cheer
him with a wonderful, playful tenderness like the pure wordless
sympathy of a child.

"If she had only known how to play it like that," he said to himself;
"if she had only cared enough--she would have called me back. But here
is a woman who does know--and perhaps even for me--well, I will fight
a little longer."

So he turned back to his lonely lodging, guided and impelled by
something that he could not quite understand, and did not even try to
explain. Surely it would be absurd to think that the chance hearing of
a bit of music could have an influence on a man's life.


III

That turn in the Rue de Grenelle seemed like the turn in the tide of
his fortunes. The morning mail brought an order for five hundred
francs, with a letter from the editor of the _Epoch Magazine_, saying
that he liked the article on "The Cradle of the Revolution" very much,
and that he wished the author would do three papers for him on the
"Old Prisons of Paris," A week later came a letter from the editor of
_The World's Wonders_, saying that if the author of the excellent
article on Vesuvius would procure photographic illustrations of it at
their expense, they would be glad to pay a hundred dollars for it, and
asking if he felt like doing two or three articles on "The Little
Chateaux of France" during the summer.

Richard felt, not so much that he was "himself again," but that he was
a new man. The touch of praise for his work refreshed him more than
wine. His friends, the _Beaux Arts_ men and the newspaper
correspondent, noticed the change in him, and accused him of being in
love.

"Not much," he laughed, "but I am at work--two articles accepted and
commissions for five more."

They joyfully gave him all the hints and helps they could, and told
him where to find the books that he needed. He settled down to his
reading bravely and made copious notes for his articles. On Sundays he
went with his three friends to spend the day at some resort in the
suburbs. He played the violin only on these country excursions and at
night in his room when his eyes were tired. The rest of the time he
toiled terribly. His boyish dream that the world lay at his feet was
ended, but instead he felt that he had the power to do something
fairly good, if he worked hard enough. And then, perhaps some day he
might have the good luck to meet that girl whose music he had heard
the evening when the tide turned.

He wondered what she looked like. He had passed the house often,
hoping that he might see her or hear her play again. But nothing of
that kind happened. The windows on the second floor were always
closed. A discreet inquiry at the glass door of the _concierge_ drew
out only the information that Madame Farr, the American lady, had gone
away with her two nieces for their vacation. The name conveyed nothing
to him. It would have been absurd to try to follow such a cobweb
clue, and give up his work to chase after an unknown American lady
and her invisible nieces.

Yet more and more the remembrance of that strain of music lingered
with him, strangely penetrating and significant. He played it often on
the violin. It came to be the symbol of that summer, not as it had
ended in disappointment and deception, but as it had flowed for so
many perfect weeks in pure joy and gaiety of heart. He thought of the
unseen player very kindly. He tried unconsciously to make a picture of
her in his mind--the colour of her hair, her eyes, the shape of her
face. He saw her running through the woods, or sitting between the
knees of the old hemlock beside the river. And always her hair was
blond and soft and loosely curling, her eyes of a brown so bright and
clear that it seemed to glow with hidden gold, and her face a full
oval, tinted like the petal of a great magnolia blossom.

"I am a poor fool," he would say to himself after these reveries; "why
should she have been in the least like Carola? More probably she had
freckles and red hair--but she was a girl who understood."

When August came, Richard's friends went off for a holiday, but he
stuck to his work. The heat of Paris was faint and smothering. On the
first Sunday he went out to St. Germain, loveliest of all the Parisian
suburbs, and wandered all day in the green and mossy forest. He was
lonely and depressed. Not even the cool verdure of the woods, nor the
splendour of the view from the terrace looking out over the curves of
the Seine, and the green rolling hills, and the lines of light that
led to the city beginning to glow with a pale yellow radiance in the
dusk, could console him. The merry, companionable stir of life around
him made him feel more solitary. He turned away from the gay verandah
of the _Pavillion Henry IV_, which was full of dining-parties, and
went back into the town to seek the quieter garden of the _Pavillion
Louis XIV_. There was a big linden-tree there and a certain table at
one side of it where he had dined before. He would go there now for
his solitary repast.

But the garden also was well-patronized that night. The white-aproned
waiters were running to and fro; the stout landlady in black silk and
a lace cap was moving among her guests with beaming face; a soft
babble of talk and laughter rose from every walk and corner. When
Richard came to his chosen table he found it occupied by three ladies.
Disappointed, he was turning to look for another place, when the voice
of Carola Brune called him.

When a thing like that happens, a man does not know exactly where he
is, or how he feels. The largeness and the smallness of the world
amaze him; the mystery of life bewilders him; he is confused in the
presence of the unknown quantity. How he behaves, what he says or
does, depends entirely upon instincts beyond his control.

Richard would have been puzzled to give an account of his introduction
to Mrs. Farr, and of his recognition of the little sister, now grown
to young womanhood. The conversation at the table where he dined with
the family party was very vague in his mind. He knew that he was
telling them about his adventures, as if they were scenes in a comedy,
and that he said a little about the turn of good luck that had come
to him just in time. He knew that Carola was talking of her
music-lessons, and of her dear master and of his sudden promise that
she should have a concert in the early winter. It was all very jolly
and friendly, but it did not seem quite real to him until he asked her
a question.

"Where did you live in Paris last May?"

"In the Rue de Grenelle," she answered; "of course you know that old
street."

He nodded and fell into silence, letting his cigarette go out, as he
sipped his coffee.

"Well," he said, "this has been delightful--it was great luck to meet
you. But I suppose I should be going. The best of friends must part."

"But no," said Carola, flushing faintly, "what reason is there for
that stupid proverb now? My aunt and sister always take a little walk
on the terrace after dinner to see the lights. But you must let me
show you what pretty rooms we have found here for our vacation. I have
to be near the master and to keep up my practising, you know. I have a
heavenly piano. Don't you want to hear whether I have improved in my
playing?"

"I do," he answered, "indeed that is just what I want."

When they came into the little sitting-room above the garden, the
windows were wide and the room was cool and dim and fragrant. Carola
moved about in the shadow, lighting the candles on the mantle-piece
and the tall lamp beside the piano.

"Now," she said, "let us talk a little."

He hesitated a moment, and answered: "I would rather hear you play."

"You are as decided and dictatorial as ever," she laughed; "but this
time you shall have your way. What will you have--a bit of Chopin or
Grieg? Here is plenty of music to choose from."

"No," he said, "something that you know by heart. The piece that you
played in the Rue de Grenelle in the twilight on May the seventh."

She looked at him with startled, wondering eyes, as if about to ask
the explanation of such a curious request. Then her eyes dropped, and
her colour rose, and she sat down at the piano.

The _humoreske_ came from her lightly moving hands as it had come on
that spring evening,--quaint, tender, consoling, caressing,--but now
with a new accent of joy in it, a quicker, almost exulting movement in
the dancing passages. Richard listened, standing close behind her,
watching the play of her firm, rounded fingers, breathing the
fragrance that rose from her hair and her white neck.

When she turned on the stool he was kneeling beside her, and his hands
were stretched out to take hers.

"Let me tell you," he exclaimed, "let me tell you what a fool I have
been."

So she sat very still while he told her of his failure at college, and
how he had gone wild afterward, and how bitter he had been, and how
lonely. The adventure with the travelling musicians had led to
nothing, and his assurance of winning fame with his violin or with his
pen had come to nothing. He was at the edge of the big darkness on
that May evening, when she had brought the turn of the tide without
knowing it. And even now things were not much better, but still he had
a fighting chance to make himself amount to something. He could
write, and he would work at it as a man must work at his calling. He
could play the violin, and he would make it his avocation and
refreshment. She was going on, he knew, to win a great success. He
would rejoice in it--he loved her with all his heart--she must know
that--but he had nothing to offer her. He was too poor to ask her for
anything now.

Her hands trembled as he bent to kiss them. In her shining eyes there
was a strange, sweet, deep smile. She leaned over him, and he felt the
warmth of her breath on his forehead as she whispered: "Richard,
couldn't you even ask me for the _humoreske_?"




HALF-TOLD TALES


AN OLD GAME

THE UNRULY SPRITE

A CHANGE OF AIR




AN OLD GAME

[Illustration]


Three men were taking a walk together, as they said, just to while
away the time.

The first man intended to go Somewhere, to look at a piece of property
which he was considering. The second man was ready to go Anywhere,
since he expected to be happy by the way. The third man thought he was
going Nowhere, because he was a philosopher and held that time and
space are only mental forms.

Therefore the third man walked in silence, reflecting upon the vanity
of whiling away an hour which did not exist, and upon the futility of
going when staying was the same thing. But the other men, being more
simple, were playing the oldest game in the world and giving names to
the things that they saw as they travelled.

"Mutton," said the Somewhere Man, as he looked over a stone wall.

"A flock of sheep," said the Anywhere Man, gazing upon the pasture,
where the fleecy ewes were nipping grass between the rocks and the
eager lambs nuzzled their mothers.

But the Nowhere Man meditated on the foolish habit of eating, and said
nothing.

"An ant-hill," said the Anywhere Man, looking at a mound beside the
path; "see how busy the citizens are!"

"Pismires," said the Somewhere Man, kicking the mound; "they sting
like the devil."

But the Nowhere Man, being certain that the devil is a myth, said
nothing.

"Briars," said the Somewhere Man, as they passed through a coppice.

"Blackberries," said the Anywhere Man; "they will blossom next month
and ripen in August."

But the Nowhere Man, to whom they referred the settlement of the
first round of the game, decided that both had lost because they spoke
only of accidental phenomena.

With the next round they came into a little forest on a sandy hill.
The oak-trees were still bare, and the fir-trees were rusty green, and
the maple-trees were in rosy bud. On these things the travellers were
agreed.

But among the withered foliage on the ground a vine trailed far and
wide with verdant leaves, thick and heavy, and under the leaves were
clusters of rosy stars, breathing a wonderful sweetness, so that the
travellers could not but smell it.

"Rough-leaf," said the Somewhere Man; "gravel-weed we call it in our
country, because it marks the poorest soil."

"Trailing arbutus," said the Anywhere Man; "May-flowers we call them
in our country."

"But why?" asked the Nowhere Man. "May has not yet come."

"She is coming," answered the other; "she will be here before these
are gone."

On the other side of the wood they entered a meadow where a little
bird was bubbling over with music in the air.

"Skunk-blackbird," said the Somewhere Man; "colours the same as a
skunk."

"Bobolink," said the Anywhere Man; "spills his song while he flies."

"It is a silly name," said the Nowhere Man. "Where did you find it?"

"I don't know," answered the other; "it just sounds to me like the
bird."

By this time it was clear that the two men did not play the game by
the same rules, but they went on playing, just as other people do.

They saw a little thatched house beside the brook. "Beastly hovel,"
said the first man. "Pretty cottage," said the second.

A woman was tossing and fondling her child, with kiss-words. "Sickly
sentiment," said the first man. "Mother love," said the second.

They passed a youth sleeping on the grass under a tree. "Lazy hound!"
said the first man. "Happy dog!" said the second.

Now the third man, remembering that he was a philosopher, concluded
that he was wasting his imaginary time in hearing this endless old
game.

"I must bid you good-day, gentlemen," said he, "for it seems to me
that you are disputing only about appearances, and are not likely to
arrive Somewhere or Anywhere. But I am seeking _das Ding an sich_."

So he left them, and went on his way Nowhere. And I know not which of
the others won the game, but I think the second man had more pleasure
in playing it.

[Illustration]




THE UNRULY SPRITE

A PARTIAL FAIRY TALE

[Illustration]


There was once a man who was also a writer of books.

The merit of his books lies beyond the horizon of this tale. No doubt
some of them were good, and some of them were bad, and some were
merely popular. But he was all the time trying to make them better,
for he was quite an honest man, and thankful that the world should
give him a living for his writing. Moreover, he found great delight in
the doing of it, which was something that did not enter into the
world's account--a kind of daily Christmas present in addition to his
wages.

But the interesting thing about the man was that he had a clan or
train of little sprites attending him--small, delicate, aerial
creatures, who came and went around him at their pleasure, and showed
him wonderful things, and sang to him, and kept him from being
discouraged, and often helped him with his work.

If you ask me what they were and where they came from, I must frankly
tell you that I do not know. Neither did the man know. Neither does
anybody else know.

But the man had sense enough to understand that they were real--just
as real as any of the other mysterious things, like microbes, and
polonium, and chemical affinities, and the northern lights, by which
we are surrounded. Sometimes it seemed as if the sprites were the
children of the flowers that die in blooming; and sometimes as if they
came in a flock with the birds from the south; and sometimes as if
they rose one by one from the roots of the trees in the deep forest,
or from the waves of the sea when the moon lay upon them; and
sometimes as if they appeared suddenly in the streets of the city
after the people had passed by and the houses had gone to sleep. They
were as light as thistle-down, as unsubstantial as mists upon the
mountain, as wayward and flickering as will-o'-the-wisps. But there
was something immortal about them, and the man knew that the world
would be nothing to him without their presence and comradeship.

Most of these attendant sprites were gentle and docile; but there was
one who had a strain of wildness in him. In his hand he carried a bow,
and at his shoulder a quiver of arrows, and he looked as if, some day
or other, he might be up to mischief.

Now this man was much befriended by a certain lady, to whom he used to
bring his stories in order that she might tell him whether they were
good, or bad, or merely popular. But whatever she might think of the
stories, always she liked the man, and of the airy fluttering sprites
she grew so fond that it almost seemed as if they were her own
children. This was not unnatural, for they were devoted to her; they
turned the pages of her book when she read; they made her walks
through the forest pleasant and friendly; they lit lanterns for her in
the dark; they brought flowers to her and sang to her, as well as to
the man. Of this he was glad, because of his great friendship for the
lady and his desire to see her happy.

But one day she complained to him of the sprite who carried the bow.
"He is behaving badly," said she; "he teases me."

"That surprises me," said the man, "and I am distressed to hear it;
for at heart he is rather good, and to you he is deeply attached. But
how does he tease you, dear lady? What does he do?"

"Oh, nothing," she answered, "and that is what annoys me. The others
are all busy with your affairs or mine. But this idle one follows me
like my shadow, and looks at me all the time. It is not at all polite.
I fear he has a vacant mind and has not been well brought up."

"That may easily be," said the man, "for he came to me very suddenly
one day, and I have never inquired about his education."

"But you ought to do so," said she; "it is your duty to have him
taught to know his place, and not to tease, and other useful lessons."

"You are always right," said the man, "and it shall be just as you
say."

On the way home he talked seriously to the sprite, and told him how
impolite he had been, and arranged a plan for his schooling in botany,
diplomacy, music, psychology, deportment, and other useful studies.

The rest of the sprites came in to the school-room every day, to get
some of the profitable lessons. They sat around quiet and orderly, so
that it was quite like a kindergarten. But the principal pupil was
restless and troublesome.

"You are never still," said the man; "you have an idle mind and
wandering thoughts."

"No!" said the sprite, shaking his head. "It is true, my mind is not
on my lessons. But my thoughts do not wander at all. They always
follow yours."

Then the man stopped talking, and the other sprites laughed behind
their hands. But the one who had been reproved went on drawing
pictures in the back of his botany book. The face in the pictures was
always the same, but none of them seemed to satisfy him, for he always
rubbed them out and began over again.

After several weeks of hard work the master thought his pupil must
have learned something, so he gave him a holiday, and asked him what
he would like to do.

"Go with you," he answered, "when you take her your new stories."

So they went together, and the lady complimented the writer on his
success as an educator.

"Your pupil does you credit," said she; "he talks very nicely about
botany and deportment. But I am a little troubled to see him looking
so pale. Perhaps you have been too severe with him. I must take him
out in the garden with me every day to play a while."

"You have a kind heart," said the man, "and I hope he will appreciate
it."

This agreeable and amicable life continued for some weeks, and
everybody was glad that affairs had arranged themselves. But one day
the lady brought a new complaint.

"He is a strange little creature, and he has begun to annoy me in the
most extraordinary way."

"That is bad," said the man. "What does he do now?"

"Oh, nothing," she answered, "and that is just the trouble. When I
want to talk about you, he refuses, and says he does not like you as
much as he used to. When I propose to play a game, he says he is tired
and would rather sit under a tree and hear stories. When I tell them
he says they do not suit him, they all end happily, and that is
stupid. He is very perverse. But he clings to me like a bur. He is
always teasing me to tell him the name of every flower in my garden
and give him one of every kind."

"Is he rude about it?"

"Not exactly rude, but he is all the more annoying because he is so
polite, and I always feel that he wants something different."

"He must not do that," said the man. "He must learn to want what you
wish."

"But how can he learn what I wish? I do not always know that myself."

"It may be difficult," said the man, "but all the same he must learn
it for your sake. I will deal with him."

So he took the unruly sprite out into the desert and gave him a sound
beating with thorn branches. The blood ran down the poor little
creature's arms and legs, and the tears down the man's cheeks. But the
only words that he said were: "You must learn to want what she
wishes--do you hear?--you must want what she wishes." At last the
sprite whimpered and said: "Yes, I hear; I will wish what she wants."
Then the man stopped beating him, and went back to his house, and
wrote a little story that was really good.

But the sprite lay on his face in the desert for a long time, sobbing
as if his heart would break. Then he fell asleep and laughed in his
dreams. When he awoke it was night and the moon was shining silver. He
rubbed his eyes and whispered to himself: "Now I must find out what
she wants." With that he leaped up, and the moonbeams washed him white
as he passed through them to the lady's house.

The next afternoon, when the man came to read her the really good
story, she would not listen.

"No," she said, "I am very angry with you."

"Why?"

"You know well enough."

"Upon my honour, I do not."

"What?" cried the lady. "You profess ignorance, when he distinctly
said----"

"Pardon," said the man; "but _who_ said?"

"Your unruly sprite," she answered, indignant. "He came last night
outside my window, which was wide open for the moon, and shot an arrow
into my breast--a little baby arrow, but it hurt. And when I cried out
for the pain, he climbed up to me and kissed the place, saying that
would make it well. And he swore that you made him promise to come. If
that is true, I will never speak to you again."

"Then of course," said the man, "it is not true. And now what do you
want me to do with this unruly sprite?"

"Get rid of him," said she firmly.

"I will," replied the man, and he bowed over her hand and went away.

He stayed for a long time--nearly a week--and when he came back he
brought several sad verses with him to read. "They are very dull,"
said the lady; "what is the matter with you?" He confessed that he did
not know, and began to talk learnedly about the Greek and Persian
poets, until the lady was consumed with a fever of dullness.

"You are simply impossible!" she cried. "I wonder at myself for having
chosen such a friend!"

"I am sorry indeed," said the man.

"For what?"

"For having disappointed you as a friend, and also for having lost my
dear unruly sprite who kept me from being dull."

"Lost him!" exclaimed the lady. "How?"

"By now," said the man, "he must be quite dead, for I tied him to a
tree in the forest five days ago and left him to starve."

"You are a brute," said the lady, "and a very stupid man. Come, take
me to the tree. At least we can bury the poor sprite, and then we
shall part forever."

So he took her by the hand and guided her through the woods, and they
talked much of the sadness of parting forever.

When they came to the tree, there was the little sprite, with his
wrists and ankles bound, lying upon the moss. His eyes were closed,
and his body was white as a snowdrop. They knelt down, one on each
side of him, and untied the cord. To their surprise his hands felt
warm. "I believe he is not quite dead," said the lady. "Shall we try
to bring him to life?" asked the man. And with that they fell to
chafing his wrists and his palms. Presently he gave each of them a
slight pressure of the fingers.

"Did you feel that?" cried she.

"Indeed I did," the man answered. "It shook me to the core. Would you
like to take him on your lap so that I can chafe his feet?"

The lady nodded and took the soft little body on her knees and held it
close to her, while the man kneeled before her rubbing the small,
milk-white feet with strong and tender touches. Presently, as they
were thus engaged, they heard the sprite faintly whispering, while one
of his eyelids flickered:

"I think--if each of you--would kiss me--on opposite cheeks--at the
same moment--those kind of movements would revive me."

[Illustration: The Unruly Sprite.]

The two friends looked at each other, and the man spoke first.

"He talks ungrammatically, and I think he is an incorrigible little
savage, but I love him. Shall we try his idea?"

"If you love him," said the lady, "I am willing to try, provided you
shut your eyes."

So they both shut their eyes and tried.

But just at that moment the unruly sprite slipped down, and put his
hands behind their heads, and the two mouths that sought his cheeks
met lip to lip in a kiss so warm, so long, so sweet that everything
else was forgotten.

Now you can easily see that as the persons who had this strange
experience were the ones who told me the tale, their forgetfulness at
this point leaves it of necessity half-told. But I know from other
sources that the man who was also a writer went on making books, and
the lady always told him truly whether they were good, or bad, or
merely popular. But what the unruly sprite is doing now nobody knows.

[Illustration]




A CHANGE OF AIR


There were three neighbours who lived side by side in a certain
village. They were bound together by the contiguousness of their back
yards and front porches, and by a community of interest in taxes and
water-rates and the high cost of living. They were separated by their
religious opinions; for one of them was a Mystic, and the second was a
Sceptic, and the other was a suppressed Dyspeptic who called himself
an Asthmatic.

These differences were very dear to them, and laid the foundations of
a lasting friendship in a nervous habit of interminable argument on
all possible subjects. Their wives did not share in these
disputations because they were resolved to be neighbourly, and they
could not conceive a difference of opinion without a personal
application. So they called one another Clara and Caroline and
Katharine, and kissed audibly whenever they met, but they were careful
to confine their conversation to topics upon which they had only one
mind, such as the ingratitude of domestic servants.

The husbands, however, as often as they could get together without the
mollifying influence of the feminine presence, continued their debates
with delightful ferocity, finding matter in each event of life, though
clear, and especially in those which had not yet occurred. So they had
a very happy time, and their friendship deepened from day to day.

"I can see your point of view," one of them would say, after an
apparently harmless proposition had been advanced. "Perhaps so," the
other would reply, clinging desperately to the advantage of the first
service in definitions, "but you certainly do not understand it."

Whereupon the third had the pleasure of showing that neither of the
others knew what he was talking about. This invariably resulted in
their combining against him, and usually to his gain, because he was
able to profit by the inconsistencies of their double play.

But of all earthly pleasures, as Sancho Panza said, there cometh in
the end satiety. The neighbours, after several years of refreshing
colloquial combat, felt an alarming decline of virility and the
approach of an anæmic peace. Their arguments grew monotonous, remote,
repetitious, amounting to little more than a bald statement of
position: "Here I stand"--"There you stand"--"There he stands,"--"What
is the use of talking about it?" The salt and pepper had vanished from
their table of conversation, and as each man silently chewed his own
favourite cereal, they all felt as if the banqueting-days were ended
and each must say to the others:

    "Grow old apart from me,
     The worst is yet to be."

One night as they were about to separate, long before midnight,
without a single spirited controversy, they looked at one another
sadly, as men who felt the approach of a common misfortune.

"The trouble is," said the Mystic, who disliked nothing so much as
solitude, "we do not meditate enough, and so the springs of our
inspiration from the Oversoul are running dry."

"The trouble is," said the Sceptic, whose doubts were more dogmatic
than dogmas, "that our fixed ideas are choking the feed-pipes of our
minds."

"The trouble is," wheezed the Asthmatic, whose suppressed dyspepsia
gave him an enormous appetite, "modern life is demoralised, especially
in domestic service. In the last month my wife has had five cooks, and
she whom she now has is not a cook. Hygiene is the basis of sound
thinking."

This sudden and unexpected renewal of the joy of disputation cheered
them greatly, and they discussed it for several hours, arriving, as
usual, at the same practical conclusions from the most diverse
premises.

They all agreed that the trouble _was_.

To cure it nothing could be better than a change of air. So they
resolved to make a little journey together.

They went first to New York, and the size of it impressed them
immensely. The Sceptic was delighted with the Cathedral of St. John
the Divine, because, as he said, it was so unmistakably human. The
Mystic was delighted with the theatres, because, as he said, most of
the plays seemed so super-human. The Asthmatic was delighted with the
subway, because, as he said, the ventilation was so satisfactory. It
was like eating bread-pudding on a steam-boat; you knew exactly what
you were getting; all the microbes were blended, and they neutralised
each other.

Their next point of visitation was Chicago, where they had heard that
a new Literary School was arising with a noise like thunder out of the
lake. They attended many club-meetings, and revolved rapidly in the
highest literary circles, coming around invariably to the point from
which they had started.

"This is tiresome," said the Mystic; "the Oversoul is not in it."

"It is narrowing," said the Sceptic; "these people are the most
bigoted unbelievers I ever saw."

"It is unwholesome," said the Asthmatic, "but I think I could digest
the stuff if I could only breathe more easily. This wind is too strong
for me."

So they agreed to go to Philadelphia for a rest. The clerk in the
colonial hotel to which they repaired assured them that the house was
crowded--he had only one room, a parlour, which he could fit up with
three beds if they would accept it.

The room was large and old-fashioned. A tall bookcase with glass doors
stood against the wall. The three beds were arranged, side by side, in
the middle of the room. "This is like home," cried the neighbours, and
they lay until midnight in a sweet ferocity of dispute over the moral
character of Benjamin Franklin.

A couple of hours later the Asthmatic was awakened from a sound sleep
by a terrible attack of short breathing.

"Open the window," he gasped; "I am choking to death."

The Mystic sprang from bed and groped along the wall for the
electric-light button, but could not find it. Then he groped for the
window and his hand touched the glass.

"It is fastened," he cried; "I can't find the catch. It will not move
up or down."

"I shall die," groaned the Asthmatic, "unless I have air. Break the
window-pane!"

So the Mystic felt for the footstool, over which he had just stubbed
his toes, and used the corner of it to smash the glass.

"Ah," said the Asthmatic, with a long sigh of relief, "I am better.
There is nothing like fresh air."

Then they all went to sleep again.

The morning roused them slowly, and they lay on their backs looking
around the room. The windows were closed and the shades drawn.

But the glass door of the bookcase had a great hole in it!

"You see!" said the Mystic. "It was the faith cure. The Oversoul cured
you."

"Not at all," said the Sceptic. "It was the doubt cure. The way to get
rid of a thing is to doubt it."

"I think," said the Asthmatic, "that it was the nightmare, and that
miscellaneous cooking is the cause of human misery. We have travelled
enough, and yet we have found no better air than we left at home."

So they went back to the certain village and continued their
disputations very happily for the rest of their lives.

[Illustration]




THE NIGHT CALL

I


The first caprice of November snow had sketched the world in white for
an hour in the morning. After mid-day, the sun came out, the wind
turned warm, and the whiteness vanished from the landscape. By
evening, the low ridges and the long plain of New Jersey were rich and
sad again, in russet and dull crimson and old gold; for the foliage
still clung to the oaks and elms and birches, and the dying monarchy
of autumn retreated slowly before winter's cold republic.

In the old town of Calvinton, stretched along the highroad, the lamps
were lit early as the saffron sunset faded into humid night. A mist
rose from the long, wet street and the sodden lawns, muffling the
houses and the trees and the college towers with a double veil, under
which a pallid aureole encircled every light, while the moon above,
languid and tearful, waded slowly through the mounting fog. It was a
night of delay and expectation, a night of remembrance and mystery,
lonely and dim and full of strange, dull sounds.

In one of the smaller houses on the main street the light in the
window burned late. Leroy Carmichael was alone in his office reading
Balzac's story of "The Country Doctor." He was not a gloomy or
despondent person, but the spirit of the night had entered into him.
He had yielded himself, as young men of ardent temperament often do,
to the subduing magic of the fall. In his mind, as in the air, there
was a soft, clinging mist, and blurred lights of thought, and a still
foreboding of change. A sense of the vast tranquil movement of Nature,
of her sympathy and of her indifference, sank deeply into his heart.
For a time he realised that all things, and he, too, some day, must
grow old; and he felt the universal pathos of it more sensitively,
perhaps, than he would ever feel it again.

If you had told Carmichael that this was what he was thinking about as
he sat in his bachelor quarters on that November night, he would have
stared at you and then laughed.

"Nonsense," he would have answered, cheerfully. "I'm no
sentimentalist: only a bit tired by a hard afternoon's work and a
rough ride home. Then, Balzac always depresses me a little. The next
time I'll take some quinine and Dumas: he is a tonic."

But, in fact, no one came in to interrupt his musings and rouse him to
that air of cheerfulness with which he always faced the world, and to
which, indeed (though he did not know it), he owed some measure of his
delay in winning the confidence of Calvinton.

He had come there some five years ago with a particularly good outfit
to practice medicine in that quaint and alluring old burgh, full of
antique hand-made furniture and traditions. He had not only been well
trained for his profession in the best medical school and hospital of
New York, but he was also a graduate of Calvinton College (in which
his father had been a professor for a time), and his granduncle was a
Grubb, a name high in the Golden Book of Calvintonian aristocracy and
inscribed upon tombstones in every village within a radius of fifteen
miles. Consequently the young doctor arrived well accredited, and was
received in his first year with many tokens of hospitality in the
shape of tea-parties and suppers.

But the final and esoteric approval of Calvinton was a thing apart
from these mere fashionable courtesies and worldly amenities--a thing
not to be bestowed without due consideration and satisfactory reasons.
Leroy Carmichael failed, somehow or other, to come up to the
requirements for a leading physician in such a conservative community.
In the judgment of Calvinton he was a clever young man; but he lacked
poise and gravity. He walked too lightly along the streets, swinging
his stick, and greeting his acquaintances blithely, as if he were
rather glad to be alive. Now this is a sentiment, if you analyse it,
near akin to vanity, and, therefore, to be discountenanced in your
neighbour and concealed in yourself. How can a man be glad that he is
alive, and frankly show it, without a touch of conceit and a
reprehensible forgetfulness of the presence of original sin even in
the best families? The manners of a professional man, above all,
should at once express and impose humility.

Young Dr. Carmichael, Calvinton said, had been spoiled by his life in
New York. It had made him too gay, light-hearted, almost frivolous. It
was possible that he might know a good deal about medicine, though
doubtless that had been exaggerated; but it was certain that his
temperament needed chastening before he could win the kind of
confidence that Calvinton had given to the venerable Dr. Coffin, whose
face was like a monument, and whose practice rested upon the two
pillars of podophyllin and predestination.

So Carmichael still felt, after his five years' work, that he was an
outsider; felt it rather more indeed than when he had first come. He
had enough practice to keep him in good health and spirits. But his
patients were along the side streets and in the smaller houses and out
in the country. He was not called, except in a chance emergency, to
the big houses with the white pillars. The inner circle had not yet
taken him in.

He wondered how long he would have to work and wait for that. He knew
that things in Calvinton moved slowly; but he knew also that its
silent and subconscious judgments sometimes crystallised with
incredible rapidity and hardness. Was it possible that he was already
classified in the group that came near but did not enter, an
inhabitant but not a real burgher, a half-way citizen and a lifelong
new-comer? That would be rough; he would not like growing old in that
way.

But perhaps there was no such invisible barrier hemming in his path.
Perhaps it was only the naturally slow movement of things that
hindered him. Some day the gate would open. He would be called in
behind those white pillars into the world of which his father had
often told him stories and traditions. There he would prove his skill
and his worth. He would make himself useful and trusted by his work.
Then he could marry the girl he loved, and win a firm place and a real
home in the old town whose strange charm held him so strongly even in
the vague sadness of this autumnal night.

He turned again from these musings to his Balzac, and read the
wonderful pages in which Benassis tells the story of his consecration
to his profession and Captain Genestas confides the little Adrien to
his care, and then the beautiful letter in which the boy describes the
country doctor's death and burial. The simple pathos of it went home
to Carmichael's heart.

"It is a fine life, after all," said he to himself, as he shut the
book at midnight and laid down his pipe. "No man has a better chance
than a doctor to come close to the real thing. Human nature is his
patient, and each case is a symptom. It's worth while to work for the
sake of getting nearer to the reality and doing some definite good by
the way. I'm glad that this isn't one of those mystical towns where
Christian Science and Buddhism and all sorts of vagaries flourish.
Calvinton may be difficult, but it's not obscure. And some day I'll
feel its pulse and get at the heart of it."

The silence of the little office was snapped by the nervous clamour of
the electric bell, shrilling with a night call.


II

Dr. Carmichael turned on the light in the hall, and opened the front
door. A tall, dark man of military aspect loomed out of the mist, and,
behind him, at the curbstone, the outline of a big motorcar was dimly
visible. He held out a visiting-card inscribed "Baron de Mortemer,"
and spoke slowly and courteously, but with a strong nasal accent and a
tone of insistent domination.

"You are the Dr. Carmichael, yes? You speak French--no? It is a pity.
There is need of you at once--a patient--it is very pressing. You will
come with me, yes?"

"But I do not know you, sir," said the doctor; "you are----"

"The Baron de Mortemer," broke in the stranger, pointing to the card
as if it answered all questions. "It is the Baroness who is very
suffering--I pray you to come without delay."

"But what is it?" asked the doctor. "What shall I bring with me? My
instrument-case?"

The Baron smiled with his lips and frowned with his eyes. "Not at
all," he said, "Madame expects not an arrival--it is not so bad as
that--but she has had a sudden access of anguish--she has demanded
you. I pray you to come at the instant. Bring what pleases you, what
you think best, but come!"

The man's manner was not agitated, but it was strangely urgent,
overpowering, constraining; his voice was like a pushing hand.
Carmichael threw on his coat and hat, hastily picked up his
medicine-satchel and a portable electric battery, and followed the
Baron to the motor.

The great car started easily and rolled softly purring down the
deserted street. The houses were all asleep, and the college buildings
dark as empty fortresses. The moon-threaded mist clung closely to the
town like a shroud of gauze, not concealing the form beneath, but
making its immobility more mysterious. The trees drooped and dripped
with moisture, and the leaves seemed ready, almost longing, to fall at
a touch. It was one of those nights when the solid things of the
world, the houses and the hills and the woods and the very earth
itself, grow unreal to the point of vanishing; while the impalpable
things, the presences of life and death which travel on the unseen
air, the influences of the far-off starry lights, the silent messages
and presentiments of darkness, the ebb and flow of vast currents of
secret existence all around us, seem so close and vivid that they
absorb and overwhelm us with their intense reality.

Through this realm of indistinguishable verity and illusion, strangely
imposed upon the familiar, homely street of Calvinton, the machine ran
smoothly, faintly humming, as the Frenchman drove it with
master-skill--itself a dream of embodied power and speed. Gliding by
the last cottages of Town's End where the street became the highroad,
the car ran swiftly through the open country for a mile until it came
to a broad entrance. The gate was broken from the leaning posts and
thrown to one side. Here the machine turned in and laboured up a
rough, grass-grown carriage-drive.

Carmichael knew that they were at Castle Gordon, one of the "old
places" of Calvinton, which he often passed on his country drives. The
house stood well back from the road, on a slight elevation, looking
down over the oval field that was once a lawn, and the scattered elms
and pines and Norway firs that did their best to preserve the memory
of a noble plantation. The building was colonial; heavy stone walls
covered with yellow stucco; tall white wooden pillars ranged along a
narrow portico; a style which seemed to assert that a Greek temple was
good enough for the residence of an American gentleman. But the clean
buff and white of the house had long since faded. The stucco had
cracked, and, here and there, had fallen from the stones. The paint on
the pillars was dingy, peeling in round blisters and narrow strips
from the grey wood underneath. The trees were ragged and untended, the
grass uncut, the driveway overgrown with weeds and gullied by
rains--the whole place looked forsaken. Carmichael had always supposed
that it was vacant. But he had not passed that way for nearly a month,
and, meantime, it might have been reopened and tenanted.

The Baron drove the car around to the back of the house and stopped
there.

"Pardon," said he, "that I bring you not to the door of entrance; but
this is the more convenient."

He knocked hurriedly and spoke a few words in French. The key grated
in the lock and the door creaked open. A withered, wiry little man,
dressed in dark grey, stood holding a lighted candle, which flickered
in the draught. His head was nearly bald; his sallow, hairless face
might have been of any age from twenty to a hundred years; his eyes
between their narrow red lids were glittering and inscrutable as those
of a snake. As he bowed and grinned, showing his yellow, broken teeth,
Carmichael thought that he had never seen a more evil face or one more
clearly marked with the sign of the drug-fiend.

"My chauffeur, Gaspard," said the Baron, "also my valet, my cook, my
chambermaid, my man to do all, what you call factotum, is it not? But
he speaks not English, so pardon me once more."

He spoke a few words to the man, who shrugged his shoulders and smiled
with the same deferential grimace while his unchanging eyes gleamed
through their slits. Carmichael caught only the word "Madame" while he
was slipping off his overcoat, and understood that they were talking
of his patient.

"Come," said the Baron, "he says that it goes better, at least not
worse--that is always something. Let us mount at the instant."

The hall was bare, except for a table on which a kitchen lamp was
burning, and two chairs with heavy automobile coats and rugs and veils
thrown upon them. The stairway was uncarpeted, and the dust lay thick
under the banisters. At the door of the back room on the second floor
the Baron paused and knocked softly. A low voice answered, and he went
in, beckoning the doctor to follow.


III

If Carmichael lived to be a hundred he could never forget that first
impression. The room was but partly furnished, yet it gave at once the
idea that it was inhabited; it was even, in some strange way, rich and
splendid. Candles on the mantelpiece and a silver travelling-lamp on
the dressing-table threw a soft light on little articles of luxury,
and photographs in jewelled frames, and a couple of well-bound books,
and a gilt clock marking the half-hour after midnight. A wood fire
burned in the wide chimney-place, and before it a rug was spread. At
one side there was a huge mahogany four-post bedstead, and there,
propped up by the pillows, lay the noblest-looking woman that
Carmichael had ever seen.

She was dressed in some clinging stuff of soft black, with a diamond
at her breast, and a deep-red cloak thrown over her feet. She must
have been past middle age, for her thick, brown hair was already
touched with silver, and one lock of snow-white lay above her
forehead. But her face was one of those which time enriches; fearless
and tender and high-spirited, a speaking face in which the dark-lashed
grey eyes were like words of wonder and the sensitive mouth like a
clear song. She looked at the young doctor and held out her hand to
him.

"I am glad to see you," she said, in her low, pure voice, "very glad!
You are Roger Carmichael's son. Oh, I am glad to see you indeed."

"You are very kind," he answered, "and I am glad also to be of any
service to you, though I do not yet know who you are."

The Baron was bending over the fire rearranging the logs on the
andirons. He looked up sharply and spoke in his strong nasal tone.

"_Pardon! Madame la Baronne de Mortemer, j'ai l'honneur de vous
presenter Monsieur le Docteur Carmichael._"

The accent on the "doctor" was marked. A slight shadow came upon the
lady's face. She answered, quietly:

"Yes, I know. The doctor has come to see me because I was ill. We will
talk of that in a moment. But first I want to tell him who I am--and
by another name. Dr. Carmichael, did your father ever speak to you of
Jean Gordon?"

"Why, yes," he said, after an instant of thought, "it comes back to me
now quite clearly. She was the young girl to whom he taught Latin when
he first came here as a college instructor. He was very fond of her.
There was one of her books in his library--I have it now--a little
volume of Horace, with a few translations in verse written on the
fly-leaves, and her name on the title-page--Jean Gordon. My father
wrote under that, 'My best pupil, who left her lessons unfinished.'
He was very fond of the book, and so I kept it when he died."

The lady's eyes grew moist, but the tears did not fall. They trembled
in her voice.

"I was that Jean Gordon--a girl of fifteen--your father was the best
man I ever knew. You look like him, but he was handsomer than you. Ah,
no, I was not his best pupil, but his most wilful and ungrateful one.
Did he never tell you of my running away--of the unjust suspicions
that fell on him--of his voyage to Europe?"

"Never," answered Carmichael. "He only spoke, as I remember, of your
beauty and your brightness, and of the good times that you all had
when this old house was in its prime."

"Yes, yes," she said, quickly and with strong feeling, "they were good
times, and he was a man of honour. He never took an unfair advantage,
never boasted of a woman's favour, never tried to spare himself. He
was an American man. I hope you are like him."

The Baron, who had been leaning on the mantel, crossed the room
impatiently and stood beside the bed. He spoke in French again,
dragging the words in his insistent, masterful voice, as if they were
something heavy which he laid upon his wife.

Her grey eyes grew darker, almost black, with enlarging pupils. She
raised herself on the pillows as if about to get up. Then she sank
back again and said, with an evident effort:

"René, I must beg you not to speak in French again. The doctor does
not understand it. We must be more courteous. And now I will tell him
about my sudden illness to-night. It was the first time--like a flash
of lightning--an ice-cold hand of pain----"

Even as she spoke a swift and dreadful change passed over her face.
Her colour vanished in a morbid pallor; a cold sweat lay like
death-dew on her forehead; her eyes were fixed on some impending
horror; her lips, blue and rigid, were strained with an unspeakable,
intolerable anguish. Her left arm stiffened as if it were gripped in a
vise of pain. Her right hand fluttered over her heart, plucking at an
unseen weight. It seemed as if an invisible, silent death-wind were
quenching the flame of her life. It flickered in an agony of
strangulation.

"Be quick," cried the doctor; "lay her head lower on the pillows,
loosen her dress, warm her hands."

He had caught up his satchel, and was looking for a little vial. He
found it almost empty. But there were four or five drops of the
yellowish, oily liquid. He poured them on his handkerchief and held it
close to the lady's mouth. She was still breathing regularly though
slowly, and as she inhaled the pungent, fruity smell, like the odour
of a jargonelle pear, a look of relief flowed over her face, her
breathing deepened, her arm and her lips relaxed, the terror faded
from her eyes.

He went to his satchel again and took out a bottle of white tablets
marked "Nitroglycerin." He gave her one of them, and when he saw her
look of peace grow steadier, after a minute, he prepared the electric
battery. Softly he passed the sponges charged with their mysterious
current over her temples and her neck and down her slender arms and
blue-veined wrists, holding them for a while in the palms of her
hands, which grew rosy.

In all this the Baron had helped as he could, and watched closely, but
without a word. He was certainly not indifferent; neither was he
distressed; the expression of his black eyes and heavy, passionless
face was that of presence of mind, self-control covering an intense
curiosity. Carmichael conceived a vague sentiment of dislike for the
man.

When the patient rested easily they stepped outside the room together
for a moment.

"It is the _angina_, I suppose," droned the Baron, "hein? That is of
great inconvenience. But I think it is the false one, that is much
less grave--not truly dangerous, hein?"

"My dear sir," answered Carmichael, "who can tell the difference
between a false and a true _angina pectoris_, except by a post-mortem?
The symptoms are much alike, the result is sometimes identical, if the
paroxysm is severe enough. But in this case I hope that you may be
right. Your wife's illness is severe, dangerous, but not necessarily
fatal. This attack has passed and may not recur for months or even
years."

The lip-smile came back under the Baron's sullen eyes.

"Those are the good news, my dear doctor," said he, slowly. "Then we
shall be able to travel soon, perhaps to-morrow or the next day. It is
of an extreme importance. This place is insufferable to me. We have
engagements in Washington--a gay season."

Carmichael looked at him steadily and spoke with deliberation.

"Baron, you must understand me clearly. This is a serious case. If I
had not come in time your wife might be dead now. She cannot possibly
be moved for a week, perhaps it may take a month fully to restore her
strength. After that she must have a winter of absolute quiet and
repose."

The Frenchman's face hardened; his brows drew together in a black
line, and he lifted his hand quickly with a gesture of irritation.
Then he bowed.

"As you will, doctor! And for the present moment, what is it that I
may have the honour to do for your patient?"

"Just now," said the doctor, "she needs a stimulant--a glass of sherry
or of brandy, if you have it--and a hot-water bag--you have none?
Well, then, a couple of bottles filled with hot water and wrapped in
a cloth to put at her feet. Can you get them?"

The Baron bowed again, and went down the stairs. As Carmichael
returned to the bedroom he heard the droning, insistent voice below
calling "Gaspard, Gaspard!"

The great grey eyes were open as he entered the room, and there was a
sense of release from pain and fear in them that was like the deepest
kind of pleasure.

"Yes, I am much better," said she; "the attack has passed. Will it
come again? No? Not soon, you mean. Well, that is good. You need not
tell me what it is--time enough for that to-morrow. But come and sit
by me. I want to talk to you. Your first name is----"

"Leroy," he answered. "But you are weak; you must not talk much."

"Only a little," she replied, smiling; "it does me good. Leroy was
your mother's name--yes? It is not a Calvinton name. I wonder where
your father met her. Perhaps in France when he came to look for me.
But he did not find me--no, indeed--I was well hidden then--but he
found your mother. You are young enough to be my son. Will you be a
friend to me for your father's sake?"

She spoke gently, in a tone of infinite kindness and tender grace,
with pauses in which a hundred unspoken recollections and appeals were
suggested. The young man was deeply moved. He took her hand in his
firm clasp.

"Gladly," he said, "and for your sake too. But now I want you to
rest."

"Oh," she answered, "I am resting now. But let me talk a little more.
It will not harm me. I have been through so much! Twice married--a
great fortune to spend--all that the big world can give. But now I am
very tired of the whirl. There is only one thing I want--to stay here
in Calvinton. I rebelled against it once; but it draws me back. There
is a strange magic in the place. Haven't you felt it? How do you
explain it?"

"Yes," he said, "I have felt it surely, but I can't explain it, unless
it is a kind of ancient peace that makes you wish to be at home here
even while you rebel."

She nodded her head and smiled softly.

"That is it," she said, hesitating for a moment. "But my husband--you
see he is a very strong man, and he loves the world, the whirling
life--he took a dislike to this place at once. No wonder, with the
house in such a state! But I have plenty of money--it will be easy to
restore the house. Only, sometimes I think he cares more for the money
than--but no matter what I think. He wishes to go on at
once--to-morrow, if we can. I hate the thought of it. Is it possible
for me to stay? Can you help me?"

"Dear lady," he answered, lifting her hand to his lips, "set your mind
at rest. I have already told him that it is impossible for you to go
for many days. You can arrange to move to the inn to-morrow, and stay
there while you direct the putting of your house in order."

A sound in the hallway announced the return of the Baron and Gaspard
with the hot-water bottles and the cognac. The doctor made his patient
as comfortable as possible for the night, prepared a sleeping-draught,
and gave directions for the use of the tablets in an emergency.

"Good night," he said, bending over her. "I will see you in the
morning. You may count upon me."

"I do," she said, with her eyes resting on his; "thank you for all. I
shall expect you--_au revoir_."

As they went down the stairs he said to the Baron, "Remember, absolute
repose is necessary. With that you are safe enough for to-night. But
you may possibly need more of the nitrite of amyl. My vial is empty. I
will write the prescription, if you will allow me."

"In the dining-room," said the Baron, taking up the lamp and throwing
open the door of the back room on the right. The floor had been
hastily swept and the rubbish shoved into the fireplace. The heavy
chairs stood along the wall. But two of them were drawn up at the head
of the long mahogany table, and dishes and table utensils from a
travelling-basket were lying there, as if a late supper had been
served.

"You see," said the Baron, drawling, "our banquet-hall! Madame and I
have dined in this splendour to-night. Is it possible that you write
here?"

His secret irritation, his insolence, his contempt spoke clearly
enough in his tone. The remark was almost like an intentional insult.
For a second Carmichael hesitated. "No," he thought, "why should I
quarrel with him? He is only sullen. He can do no harm."

He pulled a chair to the foot of the table, took out his tablet and
his fountain-pen, and wrote the prescription. Tearing off the leaf, he
folded it crosswise and left it on the table.

In the hall, as he put on his coat he remembered the paper.

"My prescription," he said, "I must take it to the druggist to-night."

"Permit me," said the Baron, "the room is dark. I will take the paper,
and procure the drug as I return from escorting the doctor to his
residence."

He went into the dark room, groped about for a moment, and returned,
closing the door behind him.

"Come, Monsieur," he said, "your work at the Château Gordon is
finished for this night. I shall leave you with yourself--at home, as
you say--in a few moments. Gaspard--Gaspard, _fermez la porte à
clé_!"

The strong nasal voice echoed through the house, and the servant ran
lightly down the stairs. His master muttered a few sentences to him,
holding up his right hand as he did so, with the five fingers
extended, as if to impress something on the man's mind.

"Pardon," he said, turning to Carmichael, "that I speak always French,
after the rebuke. But this time it is of necessity. I repeat the
instruction for the pilules. One at each hour until eight
o'clock--five, not more--it is correct? Come, then, our equipage is
always harnessed, always ready, how convenient!"

The two men did not speak as the car rolled through the brumous night.
A rising wind was sifting the fog. The moon had set. The loosened
leaves came whirling, fluttering, sinking through the darkness like a
flight of huge dying moths. Now and then they brushed the faces of the
travellers with limp, moist wings.

The red night-lamp in the drug-store was still burning. Carmichael
called the other's attention to it.

"You have the prescription?"

"Without doubt!" he answered. "After I have escorted you, I shall
procure the drug."

The doctor's front door was lit up as he had left it. The light
streamed out rather brightly and illumined the Baron's sullen black
eyes and smiling lips as he leaned from the car, lifting his cap.

"A thousand thanks, my dear doctor, you have been excessively kind;
yes, truly of an excessive goodness for us. It is a great
pleasure--how do you tell it in English?--it is a great pleasure to
have met you. _Adieu._"

"Till to-morrow morning!" said Carmichael, cheerfully, waving his
hand.

The Baron stared at him curiously, and lifted his cap again.

"_Adieu!_" droned the insistent voice, and the great car slid into the
dark.


IV

The next morning was of crystal. It was after nine when Carmichael
drove his electric-phaeton down the leaf-littered street, where the
country wagons and the decrepit hacks were already meandering
placidly, and out along the highroad, between the still green fields.
It seemed to him as if the experience of the past night were "such
stuff as dreams are made of." Yet the impression of what he had seen
and heard in that firelit chamber--of the eyes, the voice, the hand of
that strangely lovely lady--of her vision of sudden death, her
essentially lonely struggle with it, her touching words to him when
she came back to life--all this was so vivid and unforgettable that he
drove straight to Castle Gordon.

The great house was shut up like a tomb: every door and window was
closed, except where half of one of the shutters had broken loose and
hung by a single hinge. He drove around to the back. It was the same
there. A cobweb was spun across the lower corner of the door and tiny
drops of moisture jewelled it. Perhaps it had been made in the early
morning. If so, no one had come out of the door since night.

Carmichael knocked, and knocked again. No answer. He called. No reply.
Then he drove around to the portico with the tall white pillars and
tried the front door. It was locked. He peered through the half-open
window into the drawing-room. The glass was crusted with dirt and the
room was dark. He was trying to make out the outlines of the huddled
furniture when he heard a step behind him. It was the old farmer from
the nearest cottage on the road.

"Mornin', doctor! I seen ye comin' in, and tho't ye might want to see
the house."

"Good morning, Scudder! I do, if you'll let me in. But first tell me
about these automobile tracks in the drive."

The old man gazed at him with a kind of dull surprise as if the
question were foolish.

"Why, ye made 'em yerself, comin' up, didn't ye?"

"I mean those larger tracks--they were made by a much heavier car than
mine."

"Oh," said the old man, nodding, "them was made by a big machine that
come in here las' week. You see this house 's bin shet up 'bout ten
years, ever sence ol' Jedge Gordon died. B'longs to Miss Jean--her
that run off with the Eye-talyin. She kinder wants to sell it, and
kinder not--ye see--"

"Yes," interrupted Carmichael, "but about that big machine--when did
you say it was here?"

"P'raps four or five days ago; I think it was a We'nsday. Two fellers
from Philadelfy--said they wanted to look at the house, tho't of
buyin' it. So I bro't 'em in, but when they seen the outside of it
they said they didn't want to look at it no more--too big and too
crumbly!"

"And since then no one has been here?"

"Not a soul--leastways nobody that I seen. I don't s'pose you think o'
buyin' the house, doc'! It's too lonely for an office, ain't it?"

"You're right, Scudder, much too lonely. But I'd like to look through
the old place, if you will take me in."

The hall, with the two chairs and the table, on which a kitchen lamp
with a half-inch of oil in it was standing, gave no sign of recent
habitation. Carmichael glanced around him and hurried up the stairway
to the bedroom. A tall four-poster stood in one corner, with a
coverlet apparently hiding a mattress and some pillows. A
dressing-table stood against the wall, and in the middle of the floor
there were a few chairs. A half-open closet door showed a pile of
yellow linen. The daylight sifted dimly into the room through the
cracks of the shutters.

"Scudder," said Carmichael, "I want you to look around carefully and
tell me whether you see any signs of any one having been here lately."

The old man stared, and turned his eyes slowly about the room. Then he
shook his head.

"Can't say as I do. Looks pretty much as it did when me and my wife
breshed it up in October. Ye see it's kinder clean fer an old
house--not much dust from the road here. That linen and that bed's bin
here sence I c'n remember. Them burnt logs mus' be left over from old
Jedge Gordon's time. He died in here. But what's the matter, doc'? Ye
think tramps or burglers----"

"No," said Carmichael, "but what would you say if I told you that I
was called here last night to see a patient, and that the patient was
the Miss Jean Gordon of whom you have just told me?"

"What d'ye mean?" said the old man, gaping. Then he gazed at the
doctor pityingly, and shook his head. "I know ye ain't a drinkin' man,
doc', so I wouldn't say nothin'. But I guess ye bin dreamin'. Why,
las' time Miss Jean writ to me--her name's Mortimer now, and her
husband's a kinder Barrin or some sorter furrin noble,--she was in
Paris, not mor'n two weeks ago! Said she was dyin' to come back to the
ol' place agin, but she wa'n't none too well, and didn't guess she c'd
manage it. Ef ye said ye seen her here las' night--why--well, I'd jest
think ye'd bin dreamin'. P'raps ye're a little under the weather--bin
workin' too hard?"

"I never was better, Scudder, but sometimes curious notions come to
me. I wanted to see how you would take this one. Now we'll go
downstairs again."

The old man laughed, but doubtfully, as if he was still puzzled by the
talk, and they descended the creaking, dusty stairs. Carmichael
turned at once into the dining-room.

The rubbish was still in the fireplace, the chairs ranged along the
wall. There were no dishes on the long table; but at the head of it
two chairs; and at the foot, one; and in front of that, lying on the
table, a folded bit of paper. Carmichael picked it up and opened it.

It was his prescription for the nitrite of amyl.

He hesitated a moment; then refolded the paper and put it in his
vest-pocket.

Seated in his car, with his hand on the lever, he turned to Scudder,
who was watching him with curious eyes.

"I'm very much obliged to you, Scudder, for taking me through the
house. And I'll be more obliged to you if you'll just keep it to
yourself--what I said to you about last night."

"Sure," said the old man, nodding gravely. "I like ye, doc', and that
kinder talk might do ye harm here in Calvinton. We don't hold much to
dreams and visions down this way. But, say, 'twas a mighty interestin'
dream, wa'n't it? I guess Miss Jean hones for them white pillars,
many a day--they sorter stand for old times. They draw ye, don't
they?"

"Yes, my friend," said Carmichael as he moved the lever, "they speak
of the past. There is a magic in those white pillars. They draw you."




THE EFFECTUAL FERVENT PRAYER


"O-o-o! Danny, oho-o-o! five o'clock!"

The clear young voice of Esther North floated across the snowy fields
to the hill where the children of Glendour were coasting. Her brother
Daniel, plodding up the trampled path beside the glairy track with
half a dozen other boys, dragging the bob-sled on which his little
sister Ruth was seated, heard the call with vague sentiments of
dislike and rebellion. His twelve years rose up in arms against being
ordered by a girl, even if she was sixteen and had begun to put up her
hair and lengthen her skirts. She was a nice girl, to be sure--the
prettiest in Glendour. But she might have had more sense than to call
out that way before all the crowd. He had a good mind to pretend not
to hear her.

But his comrades were not so minded. They had no idea of letting him
evade the situation. They wanted him to stay, but he must do it like a
man.

"Listen at your nurse already?" said one of the older lads mockingly;
"she's a-callin' you. Run along home, boy!"

"Aw, no!" pleaded a youngster, not yet master of the art of irony.
"Don't you mind her, Dan! The coast is just gettin' like glass, and
you're the onliest one to steer the bob. You stay!"

"Please, Danny," said Ruth, keeping her seat as the sled stopped at
the top of the hill, "only once more down! I ain't a bit tired."

"Dannee-ee-ee! O _Danny_!" came the sweet vibrant call again. "Five
o'clock--come on--remember!"

Daniel remembered. The rules of the Rev. Nathaniel North's house were
like the law of the Medes and Persians. Daniel had never met a Mede or
a Persian, but in his mind he pictured them as persons with
reddish-gray hair and beards and smooth-shaven upper lips, wearing
white neckcloths and long black broadcloth coats, and requiring
absolute punctuality at meal time, church time, school time, and
family prayers. Esther's voice recalled him from the romance of the
coasting-hill to the reality of life. He considered the consequences
of being late for Saturday evening worship and made up his mind that
they were too much for him.

"Come on, Ruthie," he cried, picking up the cord of her small sled,
which she had forsaken for the greater glory and excitement of riding
behind her brother on the bob. The child put her hand in his, and they
ran together over the creaking snow to the place where their older
sister was waiting, her slender figure in blue jacket and skirt
outlined against the white field, and her golden hair shining like an
aureole around her rosy face in the intense bloom of the winter
sunset.

The three young Norths were the flower of Glendour: a Scotch village
in western Pennsylvania, where the spirits of John Knox and Robert
Burns lived face to face, separated by a great gulf. On one side of
the street, near the river, was the tavern, where the lights burned
late, and the music went to the tune of "Wandering Willie" and "John
Barleycorn." On the other side of the street, toward the hills, was
the Presbyterian church, where the sermons were an hour long, and the
favourite lyric was

    "A charge to keep I have."

The Rev. Nathaniel North's "charge to keep" was the spiritual welfare
of the elect, and especially of his own motherless children. To guide
them in the narrow way, unspotted from the world, to train them up in
the faith once delivered to the saints and in the customs which that
faith had developed among the Scotch Covenanters, was the great desire
of his heart. For that desire he would gladly have suffered martyrdom;
and into the fulfilling of his task he threw a strenuous tenderness, a
strong, unfaltering, sincere affection that bound his children to him
by a love which lay far deeper than all their outward symptoms of
restiveness under his strict rule.

This is a thing that seldom gets into stories. People of the world do
not understand it. They are strangers to the intensity of religious
passion, and to the swift instinct by which the heart of a child
surrenders to absolute sincerity. This was what the North children
felt in their father--a devotion that was grave, stern, almost fierce
in its single-hearted attachment to them. He was theirs altogether. He
would not let them dance or play cards. The theatre and even the
circus were tabooed to them. Novel-reading was discouraged and no
books were admitted to the house which had not passed under his
censorship. All this seemed strange to them; they could not comprehend
it; at times they talked together about the hardship of it--the two
older ones--and made little plots to relax or circumvent the paternal
rule. But in their hearts they accepted it, because they knew their
father loved them better than any one else in the world, and they
trusted him because they felt that he was a true man and a good man.

You see they were not "children in fiction"; they were real
children--and beautiful, high-spirited children too. Esther was easily
the "fairest of the village maids," and the head of her class in the
high-school; Daniel, a leader in games among the boys of his age; even
eight-year-old Ruth with her fly-away red hair and her wide brown eyes
had her devoted admirers among the younger lads. It was evident to the
Rev. Nathaniel North that his children were destined to have the
perilous gift of popularity, and with all his natural pride in them
he was tormented with anxiety on their account. How to protect them
from temptation, how to shield them from the vain allurements of
wealth and folly and fashion, how to surround them with an atmosphere
altogether serious and devout and pure, how to keep them out of reach
of the evil that is in the world--that was the tremendous problem upon
which his mind and his heart laboured day and night.

Of course he admitted, or rather he positively affirmed, according to
orthodox doctrine, that there was Original Sin in them. Under every
human exterior, however fair, he postulated a heart "deceitful above
all things and desperately wicked." This he regarded as a well-known
axiom of theology, but it had no bearing at all upon the fact of
experience that none of his children had ever lied to him, and that he
would have been amazed out of measure if one of them should ever do a
mean or a cruel thing. Yet he believed, all the same, that the mass of
depravity must be there, in the nature which they inherited through
him from Adam, like a heap of tinder, waiting for the fire. It was
his duty to keep the fire from touching them, to guard them from the
flame, even the spark, of worldliness. He gave thanks for his poverty
which was like a wall about them. He prayed every night that no
descendant of his might ever be rich. He was grateful for the
seclusion and plainness of the village of Glendour in which vice
certainly did not glitter.

"Separate from the world," he said to himself often; "that is a great
mercy. No doubt there is evil here, as everywhere; but it is not
gilded, it is not attractive. For my children's sake I am glad to live
in obscurity, to keep them separate from the world."

But they were not conscious of any oppressive sense of separation as
they walked homeward, through the saffron after-glow deepening into
crimson and violet. The world looked near to them, and very great and
beautiful, tingling with life even through its winter dress. The keen
air, the crisp snow beneath their feet, the quivering stars that
seemed to hang among the branches of the leafless trees, all gave them
joy. They were healthily tired and heartily hungry; a good supper was
just ahead of them, and beyond that a long life full of wonderful
possibilities; and they were very glad to be alive. The two older
children walked side by side pulling the sled with Ruth, who was
willing to confess that she was "just a little mite tired" now that
the fun was over.

"Esther," said the boy, "what do you suppose makes father so quiet and
solemn lately--more than usual? Has anything happened, or is it just
thinking?"

"Well," said the girl, who had a touch of the gentle tease in her,
"perhaps it is just the left-over sadness from finding out that you'd
been smoking!"

"Huh," murmured Dan, "you drop that, Essie! That was two weeks
ago--besides, he didn't find out; I told him; and I took my medicine,
too--never flinched. That's all over. More likely he remembers the
fuss you made about not being let to go with the Slocums to see the
theatre in Pittsburgh. You cried, baby! I didn't."

The boy rubbed the back of his hand reminiscently against the leg of
his trousers, and Esther was sorry she had reminded him of a painful
subject.

"Anyway," she said, "you had the best of it. I'd rather have gone, and
told him about it, and taken a whipping afterward."

"What stuff! You know dad wouldn't whip a girl--not to save her life.
Besides, when a thing's done, and 'fessed, and paid for, it's all over
with dad. He's perfectly fair, I must say that. He doesn't nag like
girls do."

"Now _you_ drop _that_, Danny, and I'll tell you what I think is the
matter with father. But you must promise not to speak to him about
it."

"All right, I promise. What is it?"

"I guess--now mind, you mustn't tell--but I'm almost sure it is
something about our Uncle Abel. A letter came last month, postmarked
Colorado; and last week there was another letter in the same
handwriting from Harrisburg. Father has been reading them over and
over, and looking sadder each time. I guess perhaps Uncle Abel is in
trouble or else----"

"You mean father's rich brother that lives out West? Billy Slocum
told me about him once--says he's a king-pin out there, owns a mine a
mile deep and full of gold, keeps lots of fast horses, wins races all
over the country. He must be great. You mean him? Why doesn't father
ever speak of him?"

The girl nodded her head and lowered her voice, glancing back to see
that Ruth was not listening.

"You see," she continued, "father and Uncle Abel had a break--not a
quarrel, but a kind of a divide--when they were young men. Lucy Slocum
heard all about it from her grandmother, and told me. They were in a
college scrape together, and father took his punishment, and after
that he was converted, and you know how good he is. But his brother
got mad, and he ran away from college, out West, and I reckon he has
been--well, pretty bad. They say he gambled and drank and did all
sorts of things. He said the world owed him a fortune and a good time.
Now he's got piles of money and a great big place he calls Due North,
with herds of cattle and ponies and a house full of pictures and
things. I guess he's quieted down some, but he isn't married, and
they say he isn't at all religious. He's what they call a
free-thinker, and he just travels around with his horses and spends
money. I suppose that is why father does not speak of him. You know he
thinks that's all wrong, very wicked, and he wants to keep us separate
from it all."

The boy listened to this long, breathless confidence in silence,
kicking the lumps of snow in the road as he trudged along.

"Well," he said, "it seems kind of awful to have two brothers divided
like that, doesn't it, Essie? But I suppose father's right, he 'most
always is. Only I wish they'd make it up, and Uncle Abel would come
here with some of his horses, and perhaps I could go West with him
some time to make a start in life."

"Yes," added the girl, "and wouldn't it be fine to hear him tell about
his adventures. And then perhaps he'd take an interest in us, and make
things easier for father, and if he liked my singing he might give the
money to send me to the Conservatory of Music. That would be great!"

"Yes," piped up the voice of Ruth from the sled, "and I wish he'd take
us all out to Due North with him to see the ponies and the big house.
That would be just lovely!"

Esther looked at Dan and smiled. Then she turned around.

"You little pitcher," she laughed, "what do you have such long ears
for? But you must keep your mouth shut, anyway. Remember, I don't want
you to speak to father about Uncle Abel."

"I didn't promise," said Ruth, shaking her head, "and I want him to
come--it'll be better'n Santa Claus."

By this time the children had arrived at the little red brick
parsonage, with its white wooden porch, on the side street a few doors
back of the church. They stamped the snow off their feet, put the sled
under the porch, hung their coats and hats in the entry, and went into
the parlour on the stroke of half past five.

Over the mantel hung an engraving of "The Death-Bed of John Knox,"
which they never looked at if they could help it; on the opposite wall
a copy of Reynolds's "Infant Samuel," which they adored. The pendent
lamp, with a view of Jerusalem on the shade and glass danglers around
the edge, shed a strong light on the marble-topped centre-table and
the red plush furniture and the pale green paper with gilt roses on
it.

On Saturday evening family worship came before supper. The cook and
the maid-of-all-work were in their places on the smallest chairs,
beside the door. On the sofa, where the children always sat, their
Bibles were laid out. The father was in the big arm-chair by the
centre-table with the book on his knees, already open.

The passage chosen was the last chapter of the Epistle of James. The
deep, even voice of Nathaniel North sounded through that terrible
denunciation of unholy riches with a gravity of conviction far more
impressive than the anger of the modern muck-raker. The hearts of the
children, remembering their conversation, were disturbed and vaguely
troubled. Then came the gentler words about patience and pity and
truthfulness and the healing of the sick. At the end each member of
the house-hold was to read a sentence in turn and try to explain its
meaning in a few words. The portion that fell to little Ruth was this:

"_The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much._"

She stumbled over the two longer words, but she gave her comment
clearly enough in her childish voice.

"That means if we obey Him, God will do anything we ask, I suppose."

The father nodded. "Right, my child. If we keep the commandments our
prayers are sure of an answer. But remember that the people in the
first part of the chapter have no such promise."

There was an unusual fervour in the prayer which closed the worship
that night. Nathaniel North seemed to be putting his arms around the
family to shield them from some unseen danger. The children, whose
thoughts had wandered a little, while he was remembering the Jews and
the heathen and the missionaries, in the customary phrases, felt their
hearts dimly moved when he asked that his house might be kept from the
power of darkness and the ravening wolves of sin, kept in unbroken
purity and peace, holy and undefiled. The potent sincerity of his love
came upon them. They believed with his faith; they consented with his
will.

At the supper-table there was pleasant talk about books and school
work and games and the plan to make a skating-pond in one of the lower
fields that could be flooded after the snow had fallen. Nathaniel
North, with all his strictness, was very near to his children; he
wished to increase and to share their rightful happiness; he wanted
them to be separate from the world but not from him. It was when they
were talking of the coming school exhibition that Ruth dropped her
little surprise into the conversation.

"Father," she said, "will Uncle Abel be here then? Oh, I wish he would
come. I want to see him ever so much!"

He looked at her with astonishment for a moment. Esther and Daniel
exchanged glances of dismay. They did not know what was coming. A
serious rebuke from their father was not an easy thing to face. But
when he spoke there was no rebuke in his voice.

"Children," he said, "it is strange that one of you should speak to me
of my brother Abel when I have never spoken of him to you. But it is
only natural, after all, and I should have foreseen it and been more
frank with you. Have other people told you of him?"

"Oh, yes," they cried, with sparkling looks, but the father's face
grew darker as he noticed their eagerness.

"Let me explain to you about him," he continued gravely. "He was my
older brother--a year older--and as boys we were very fond of each
other. But one day we had to part because our paths went in opposite
directions. He chose the broad and easy way, and I was led into the
straight and narrow path. How can two walk together except they be
agreed? For ten years I tried to win him back, but without success. At
last he told me that he wished me never to address him on the subject
of religion again, for he would rather lose both his hands and his
feet than believe as I did. He went on with his reckless life,
prospering in this world, as I hear, but I have never seen him since
that time."

"But wouldn't you like to see him?" said Esther, dropping her eyes.
"He must be quite a wonderful man. Doesn't he write to you?"

Her father's lip twitched, but he still spoke sadly and gravely.

"I see you have guessed the answer already. Yes, a letter came from
him some time ago, proposing a visit, which I discouraged. Another
came this week, saying that he was on his way, driving his own horses
across the country, and though he had received no reply from me, he
hoped to get here late Saturday--that is, to-night--or Sunday morning.
Of course we must welcome my own brother--if he comes."

"Why, he may get here any minute," cried Daniel eagerly; "he's sure to
change his wagon for a sleigh in Pittsburgh, and he won't have to
drive 'way round by the long bridge, he can cross the river on the
ice. I wonder if he's driving that famous long-distance team that
Slocum told me about. Oh, that'll be simply great."

"I must go upstairs right away," exclaimed Esther, with brightening
face, "to see that the guest room is ready for him when he comes."

"I'll go to help" cried Ruth, clapping her hands. "What fun to have a
real uncle here. I guess he'll bring a present for each of us."

"Wait, my children," said the father, lifting his hand, "before you go
I have something more to say to you. Your uncle is a man of the world,
and you know the world is evil; we have been called to come out of it.
He does not think as we do, nor believe as we do, nor live as we do,
according to the Word. For one thing, he cares nothing for the
sanctity of the Sabbath. Unless he has changed very much, he is not
temperate nor reverent. I fear the effect of his example in Glendour.
I fear his influence upon you, my children. It is my duty to warn you,
to put you on your guard. It will be a hard trial. But we must receive
him--if he comes."

"If he comes?" cried Esther, evidently alarmed; "there's no doubt of
that, is there, since he has written?"

"My dear, when you know your uncle you will understand that there is
always a doubt. He is very irregular and uncertain in all his ways.
He may change his mind or be turned aside. No one can tell. But go to
your tasks now, my children, and to bed early. I have some work to do
in my study."

Each of them kissed him good-night, and he watched them out of the
room with a look of tender sternness in his lined and rugged face,
anxious, troubled, and ready to give his life to safeguard them from
the invisible arrows of sin. Then he went into his long, narrow
book-room, but not to work.

Up and down the worn and dingy carpet, between the walls lined with
dull grey and brown and black books, he paced with heavy feet. The
weight of a dreadful responsibility pressed upon him, the anguish of a
spiritual conflict tore his heart. His old affection for his brother
seemed to revive and leap up within him, like a flame from smothered
embers when the logs are broken open. The memory of their young
comradeship and joys together grew bright and warm. He longed to see
Abel's face once more.

Then came other memories, dark and cold, crowding in upon him with
evil faces to chill and choke his love. The storm of rebellion that
led to the parting, the wild and reckless life in the far country, the
gambling, the drinking, the fighting, the things that he knew and the
things that he guessed--and then, the ways of Abel when he returned,
at times, in the earlier years, with his pockets full of money to
spend it in the worst company and with a high-handed indifference to
all restraint, yet always with a personal charm of generosity and
good-will that drew people to him and gave him a strange power over
them--and then, Abel's final refusal to listen any more to the
pleadings of the true faith, his good-humoured obstinacy in unbelief,
his definite choice of the world as his portion, and after that the
long silence and the growing rumours of his wealth, his extravagance,
his devotion, if not to the lust of the flesh, at least to the lust of
the eyes and the pride of life--all these thoughts and pictures rushed
upon Nathaniel North and overwhelmed him with painful terror and
foreboding. They seemed to loom above him and his children like black
clouds charged with hidden disaster. They shook his sick heart with an
agony of trembling hatred.

He did not hate his brother--no, never that--and there was the
poignant pain of it. The bond of affection rooted in his very flesh,
held firm and taut, stretched to the point of anguish, and vibrating
in shrill notes of sorrow as the hammer of conviction struck it. He
could not cast his brother out of his inmost heart, blot his name from
the book of remembrance, cease to hope that the infinite mercy might
some day lay hold upon him before it was too late.

But the things for which that brother stood in the world--the
ungodliness, the vainglory, the material glitter and the spiritual
darkness--these things the minister was bound to hate; and the more he
hated the more he feared and trembled. The intensity of this fear
seemed for the time to blot out all other feelings. The coming of such
a man, with all his attractions, with the glamour of his success, with
the odours and enchantments of the world about him, was an
incalculable peril. The pastor agonised for his flock, the father for
his little ones. It seemed as if he saw a tiger with glittering eyes
creeping near and crouching for a spring. It seemed as if a serpent,
with bright colours coiled and fatal head poised, were waiting in the
midst of the children for one of them to put out a hand to touch it.
Which would it be? Perhaps all of them would be fascinated. They were
so eager, so innocent, so full of life. How could he guard them in a
peril so subtle and so terrible?

He had done all that he could for them, but perhaps it was not enough.
He felt his weakness, his helpless impotence. They would slip away
from him and be lost--perhaps forever. Already his sick heart saw them
charmed, bewildered, poisoned, perishing in ways where his imagination
shuddered to follow them.

The torture of his love and terror crushed him. He sank to his knees
beside the ink-stained wooden table on the threadbare carpet and
buried his face in his arms. All of his soul was compressed into a
single agony of prayer.

He prayed that this bitter trial might not come upon him, that this
great peril might not approach his children. He prayed that the
visitation which he dreaded might be averted by almighty power. He
prayed that God would prevent his brother from coming, and keep the
home in unbroken purity and peace, holy and undefiled.

From this strange wrestling in spirit he rose benumbed, yet calmed, as
one who feels that he has made his last effort and can do no more. He
opened the door of his study and listened. There was no sound. The
children had all gone to bed. He turned back to the old table to work
until midnight on his sermon for the morrow. The text was: "_As for me
and my house, we will serve the Lord._"


II

But that sermon was not to be delivered. Mr. North woke very early,
before it was light, and could not find sleep again. In the gray of
the morning, when the little day was creeping among the houses of
Glendour, he heard steps in the street and then a whisper of voices at
his gate. He threw his wrapper around him and went down quietly to
open the door.

A group of men were there, with trouble in their faces. They told him
of an accident on the river. A sleigh crossing the ice during the
night had lost the track. The horses had broken into an air-hole and
dragged the sleigh with them. The man went under the ice with the
current, and came out a little while ago in the big spring-hole by the
point. They had pulled the body ashore. They did not know for sure who
it was--a stranger--but they thought--perhaps----

The minister listened silently, shivering once or twice, and passing
his hand over his brow as if to brush away something. When their
voices paused and ceased, he said slowly, "Thank you for coming to me.
I must go with you, and then I can tell." As he went upstairs softly
and put on his clothes, he repeated these words to himself two or
three times mechanically--"yes, then I can tell." But as he went with
the men he said nothing, walking like one in a dream.

On the bank of the river, amid the broken ice and trampled yellow
snow, the men had put a couple of planks together and laid the body of
the stranger upon them turning up the broad collar of his fur coat to
hide his face. One of the men now turned the collar down, and
Nathaniel North looked into the wide-open eyes of the dead.

A horrible tremor shook him from head to foot. He lifted his hands, as
if he must cry aloud in anguish. Then suddenly his face and figure
seemed to congeal and stiffen with some awful inward coldness--the
frost of the last circle of the Inferno--it spread upon him till he
stood like a soul imprisoned in ice.

"Yes," he said, "this is my brother Abel. Will you carry him to my
house? We must bury him."

During the confusion and distress of the following days that frozen
rigidity never broke nor melted. Mr. North gave no directions for the
funeral, took no part in it, but stood beside the grave in dreadful
immobility. He did not mourn. He did not lament. He listened to his
friends' consolation as if it were spoken in an unknown tongue.
Nothing helped him, nothing hurt, because nothing touched him. He did
no work, opened no book, spoke no word if he could avoid it. He moved
about his house like a stranger, a captive, shrinking from his
children so that they grew afraid to come close to him. They were
bewildered and harrowed with pity. They did not know what to do. It
seemed as if it were their father and not their uncle who had died.

Every attempt to penetrate the ice of his anguish failed. He gave no
sign of why or how he suffered. Most of the time he spent alone in his
book-room, sitting with his hands in his lap, staring at the
unspeakable thought that paralysed him, the thought that was entangled
with the very roots of his creed and that glared at him with monstrous
and malignant face above the very altar of his religion--the thought
of his last prayer--the effectual prayer, the fervent prayer, the
damnable prayer that branded his soul with the mark of Cain, his
brother's murderer.

The physician grew alarmed. He feared the minister would lose his
reason in a helpless melancholia. The children were heart-broken. All
their efforts to comfort and distract their father fell down hopeless
from the mask of ice, behind which they saw him like a spirit in
prison. Daniel and Ruth were ready to give up in despair. But Esther
still clung to the hope that she could do something to rescue him.

One night, when the others had gone to bed, she crept down to the
sombre study. Her father did not turn his head as she entered. She
crossed the room and knelt down by the ink-stained table, laying her
hands on his knee. He put them gently away and motioned her to rise.

"Do not do that," he said in a dull voice.

She stood before him, wringing her hands, the tears streaming down her
face, but her voice was sweet and steady.

"Father," she said, "you must tell me what it is that is killing you.
Don't you know it is killing us too? Is it right for you to do that? I
know it is something more than uncle's death that hurts you. It is sad
to lose a brother, but there is something deeper in your heart. Tell
me what it is. I have the right to know. I ask you for mother's
sake."

He lifted his head and looked at her. His eyelids quivered. His secret
dragged downward in his breast like an iron hand clutching his
throat-strings. His voice was stifled. But no matter what it cost him,
to her, the first child of his love, his darling, he must speak at
last.

"You have the right to know, Esther," he said, with a painful effort.
"I will tell you what is in my soul. I killed my brother Abel. The
night of his death, I knelt at that table and prayed that he might be
prevented from coming to this house. My only thought, my only wish was
that he must be kept away. That was all I asked for. God killed him
because I asked it. His blood is on my soul."

He leaned back in his chair exhausted, and shut his eyes.

The girl stood dazed for a moment, struck dumb by the grotesque horror
of what she had heard. Then the light of Heaven-sent faith flashed
through her and the courage of human love warmed her. She sprang to
her father, sobbing, almost laughing in the joy of triumph. She flung
herself across his knees and put her arms around him.

[Illustration: She flung herself across his knees and put her arms
around him.]

"Father, did you teach us that God is our Father, our real Father?"

The man did not answer, but the girl went bravely on:

"Father, if I asked you to kill Ruth, would you do it?"

The man stirred a little, but he did not open his eyes nor answer, and
the girl went bravely on:

"Father, is it fair to God to believe that He would do something that
you would be ashamed of? Isn't He better than you are?"

The man opened his eyes. The light of his old faith kindled in them.
He answered firmly:

"He is infinite, absolute, and unchangeable. His Word is sure. We dare
not question Him. There is the promise--the effectual fervent prayer
of a righteous man availeth much."

The girl did not look up. She clung to him more closely and buried her
face on his breast.

"Yes, father dear, but if what you asked in your prayer was wrong,
were you a righteous man? Could your prayer have any power?"

It was her last stroke--she trembled as she made it. There was a dead
silence in the room. She heard the slow clock ticking on the mantel,
the wind whistling in the chimney. Then her father's breast was
shaken, his head fell upon her shoulder, his tears rained upon her
neck.

"Thank God," he cried, "I was a sinner--it was not a prayer--God be
merciful to me a sinner!"




THE RETURN OF THE CHARM

I


"Nor I," cried John Harcourt, pulling up in the moon-silvered mist and
clapping his hand to his pocket, "not a groat! Stay, here is a crooked
sixpence of King James that none but a fool would take. The merry
robbers left me that for luck."

Dick Barton growled as he turned in his saddle. "We must ride on,
then, till we find a cousin to loan us a few pounds. Sir Empty-purse
fares ill at an inn."

"By my sore seat," laughed Harcourt, "we'll ride no farther to-night.
Here we 'light, at the sign of the Magpie in the Moon. The rogues of
Farborough Cross have trimmed us well; the honest folk of Market
Farborough shall feed us better!"

"For a crooked sixpence!" grumbled Barton. "Will you beg our
entertainment like a pair of landlopers, or will you take it by force
like our late friends on the road?"

"Neither," said Harcourt, "but in the fashion that befits
gentlemen--with a bold face, a gay tongue, and a fine coat well
carried. Remember, Dick, look up, and no snivelling! Tell your
ill-fortune and you bid for more. 'Tis Monsieur Debonair that owns the
tavern."

Their lusty shouts brought the hostler on the trot to take their
steaming horses, and the landlord stood in the open door, his broad
face a welcome to such handsome guests. They entered as if the place
belonged to them, and called for the best it contained as if it were
just good enough. The whole house was awake and astir with their
coming. The smiling maids ran to and fro; the rustics in the long room
stared and admired: the table was spread with a fair cloth and loaded
with a smoking supper; and afterward there were pots of ale for all
the company, and a song with a chorus. The landlord, with his thumbs
in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, patted himself to see his business
go so merrily. But the landlady came to the door, now and then, and
looked in with anxious eyes.

"Mark the mistress," whispered Barton; "she has her suspicions."

"Her troubles," answered Harcourt, "and that I relish not. I will have
all happy around me, else my spirit sinks and the game is lost. I'll
talk with her."

He beckoned her to his side with a courteous gesture.

"A famous supper, Mistress," said he, "but your face is too downcast
for the maker of such a masterpiece. What is it that ails you?"

"It is my child," she answered; "kind sir, my little Faith is ill of
fever, and the physician has been called away. He has left her a
draught, but she grows worse, and the fever holds her from sleep. It
may be that you know something of the healing art."

"As much as any man," said Harcourt, confidently. "You see in me,
despite my youth, a practitioner of the oldest school in the world, a
disciple of Galen's grandfather. Let me go with you to look at the
child."

The little girl lay in a close room. Her curls were tangled on the
pillow and her thin, brown arms tossed on the hot counterpane. By her
side was a glass of some dark medicine, and her black eyes held more
of rebellion than of fever as she gazed at the stranger.

He leaned over her with a smile, smoothing her wrists lightly, with
slow, downward touches, and whispering in her ear. The sound of the
singing below came through the door ajar, and the child listened to
her visitor as if he were telling her a wonderful tale.

"Open the window," he said, after a while, to the mother, pulling the
sheet softly over the child's shoulders, "the air to-night is full of
silver threads which draw away the fever."

Then he threw the black draught out of the window. And the child,
watching him, laughed a little.

"It is the wrong medicine," said he. "Bring me paper and pen."

He wrote by the light of the flickering candle, hiding the words with
his other hand: _Fortune favour Faith_.

Then he slipped the crooked sixpence into the paper, folded it
carefully, tucking the ends one into the other, and marked it with a
cross.

"Hold it tight," he said to the child, closing the fingers of her
right hand upon the little packet. "It will let you into the Garden of
Good Dreams. And now your carriage is ready, and now your horses are
trotting, gently, gently, quickly, softly along the white moon-road to
the Land of Nod. Will you go--are you going--are you gone?"

Her eyelids drooped and fell, and she turned on her right side with a
sigh, thrusting her brown fist under the pillow. Harcourt drew the
mother to the door.

"Hush," he whispered; "leave the window wide. Your Faith holds an
ancient potent charm, thousands of years old, better than all
medicines. Do not speak of it to any one. If you open it, you will
lose it. Let her sleep with it so, and bring it me on the morrow."

In the morning, when the landlord had served breakfast with his own
hands, Harcourt called boldly for the bill; and Barton stared at him,
but the landlord was confused.

"My wife," he stammered--"you must excuse her, gentlemen, nothing will
do but she must speak with you herself about the reckoning. I'll go
call her."

She came with a wonder of gladness in her face, and the little girl
clinging to a fold of her mother's dress by the left hand and pressing
the other brown fist close to her neck.

"You see," said the mother. "She is well! Run, Faith, and kiss the
gentleman's hand. Oh, sir, there can be no talk of payment between
us--we are deep in your debt; but if my child might keep this ancient
potent charm?"

The question hung in her voice. Harcourt delayed a moment, as if in
doubt, before he answered, smiling:

"I am loath to part from it," he said at last, "but since she has
proved it, let her keep it and believe in it for good--never for evil.
Come, little Faith, kiss me good-bye--no, not on the hand!"

When they were alone together, Barton turned upon his companion with
reproachful looks.

"What is this charm?" he asked.

"A secret," answered the other curtly.

"I like it not," said Barton, shaking his head; "you go too far, Jack.
You put a deception on these simple folk."

"Who knows?" laughed Harcourt. "At least I have done them no harm. We
leave them happy and ride on. How far to your nearest cousin?"


II

"The next case is a strange one," said Sir Richard Barton, Justice of
the Peace, sitting on the bench by his friend, the famous Judge who
was holding court for Market Farborough.

"How is it strange?" asked the Judge, whose face showed ruddy and
strong beneath his white wig.

"It is an accusation of witchcraft," answered Sir Richard, "and that
is a serious thing in these days. Yet it seems the woman has a good
heart and harms nobody."

"Beneficent witchcraft!" said the Judge--"that is a rarity indeed.
What do you make of it?"

"I am against all superstition," said Sir Richard solemnly; "it brings
disorder. For religion we have the clergy, and for justice the
lawyers, and for health the doctors. All outside of that partakes of
license and unreason."

"Yet outside of that," mused the Judge, "there are things that neither
clergy nor lawyers nor doctors can explain. Tell me, what do people
think concerning this witch?"

"The strict and godly folk," answered Sir Richard, "reckon her a
scandal to the town and an enemy of religion. They are of opinion that
she should be put away, whether by hanging or drowning, or by shutting
her in a madhouse. But many poor people have an affection for her,
because she has helped them."

"And you?" asked the Judge.

Sir Richard looked at him keenly. "I can better tell," said he, "when
you have seen her yourself and heard her story."

"That is plainly my duty," said the Judge. "Clerk, call the next
case."

As the clerk read the name of the accused and the charge against her,
the eyes of the Judge were fixed curiously upon the prisoner at the
bar, as if he sought for something forgotten.

Tall and dark, with sunburned face and fearless eyes, she stood
quietly while her way of life was told; her dwelling, since the death
of her parents, in a cottage on the heath beyond the town; her comings
and goings among the neighbours; her wonderful cures of sick animals
and strange diseases, but especially of little children. There were
some who testified that she was wilful and malicious; yet it appeared
they could only allege she had withheld her cure, saying that it was
beyond her power. The doctor was bitter against her, as an unlawful
person; and the parson condemned her, though she came often to church;
"for," said he, "the Scripture commands us, 'Thou shalt not suffer a
witch to live.'"

The face of the Judge was troubled. "Tell me," he said, leaning
forward and speaking gravely, "are you a witch?"

"Not for evil, my Lord," answered the woman simply, "but I have a
healing gift."

"How do you work your cures?" he asked. "What do you to the children?"

"I open the windows of the room where they lie," she answered.

The face of the Judge relaxed, and his eyes twinkled kindly. "And
then?" said he.

"I throw the black draught out of the window and tell the children a
tale of the Garden of Good Dreams."

"Is that all?" said the Judge, shading his face with his hand.

"No, my Lord," replied the woman. "When the children are near to
sleep, I put my charm in their hands."

"Whence had you this charm?" he said. "And what is it?"

"I pray your Lordship," cried the woman, "ask me not, for I can never
tell."

"Let me see it," said the Judge, with a smile.

So the woman, trembling and reluctant, drew a dark-red ribbon from her
breast, and at the end of it a packet of fine linen bound closely with
white silk. She laid it before the Judge. He broke the silken thread
and unrolled the linen, fold after fold, until he came to a yellow
piece of paper with writing on it, and in the paper a crooked sixpence
of King James.

The coin and the scrap of paper lay in his hand as he looked up and
met the shrewd questioning eyes of Sir Richard.

"Yes," answered the Baron Harcourt in a low voice, "you have seen the
coin before, and now you may read what is written on the paper."

"Now I know," said Sir Richard, shaking his head, "what charm you gave
to the woman and her child forty years ago. Was I not right? It was a
deception."

"Who knows?" said the Baron Harcourt cheerfully. "It has not failed
to-day. Fortune has favoured Faith."

He turned to the clerk. "Make record that this case is dismissed for
want of evidence against the accused. The woman has done no harm. The
court is adjourned."

"And my charm," said the woman eagerly--"oh, my Lord, you will give me
back my charm?"

"That I must keep for you," he said with kindness, as to a child. "But
you may still open the windows, and throw out the black draught, and
tell the children of the Garden of Good Dreams. Trust me, that will
work wonders."




HALF-TOLD TALES


BEGGARS UNDER THE BUSH

STRONGHOLD

IN THE ODOUR OF SANCTITY




BEGGARS under the BUSH

[Illustration]


As I came round the bush I was aware of four beggars in the shade of
it, counting their spoils.

They sat at their ease, with food and a flagon of wine before them and
silver cups, for all the world like gentlefolk on a picnic, only
happier. But I knew them for beggars by the boldness of their asking
eyes and the crook in their fingers.

They looked at me curiously, as if to say, "What do you bring us?"

"Nothing, gentlemen," I answered, "I am only seeking information."

At this they moved uneasily and glanced at one another with a crafty
look of alarm. Their crooked fingers closed around the cups.

"Are you a collector of taxes?" cried the first beggar.

"Certainly not," I replied with heat, "but a payer of them!"

"Come, come," said the beggar, with a wink at his comrades, "no insult
intended! Only a prudent habit of ours in these days of mixed society.
But you are evidently poor and honest. Take a chair on the grass.
Honesty we love, and to poverty we have no objection--in fact, we
admire it--in others."

So I sat down beside them in the shade of the bush and lit my pipe to
listen.

In the hot field below, a man was ploughing amid the glare of the sun.
The reins hung about his neck like a halter, and he clung to the
jerking handles of the plough while the furrows of red earth turned
and fell behind him like welts on the flank of the hill.

"A hard life," said the second beggar, draining his cup, "but healthy!
And very useful! The world must have bread."

"Plenty of it," said the third beggar, "else what would become of
that?"

He nodded down the valley, where tall spires pointed toward the blue
and taller chimneys veiled it with black. The huddled city seemed to
move and strain and quiver under the dusky curtain, and the fumes of
its toil hung over it like steam from a sweating horse.

"It is a sad sight," said the fourth beggar, waving his hand with the
gesture of an orator. "Shakespeare was right when he said, 'God made
the country and man made the town.' Admit for the present that cities
are necessary evils. The time is coming when every man must have his
country-place. Meanwhile let us cultivate the rural virtues."

He smacked his lips and lifted the flagon.

"Right," said the first beggar, "a toast! To the simple life!"

So the four quaffed a cupful of wine--and I a puff of smoke--to the
simple life.

In the bush was a bird, very busy catching flies. He perched on a
branch, darted into the air, caught his fly, and fluttered to another
branch. Between flies he chirped and twittered cheerfully.

"Beautiful bird," said the first beggar, leaning back, "a model of
cheerful industry! What do they call him?"

"A warbler," said I, "because he has so little voice."

"He might sing better," observed the second beggar, "if he did not
work so hard catching flies."

But the fourth beggar sighed and wiped the corner of his left eye, for
he was a tender-hearted man on one side.

"I am thinking," said he, "of the poor flies!"

"Bet you a hundred to ten he doesn't catch the next one," said the
third beggar.

"Done," cried the others, but before the stakes were counted out, the
bird had flown.

"Tell me, sirs," I began, when they had stripped the gilded bands from
their cigars and lighted them, "what it is that makes you all so
innocently merry and contented in this troublous world?"

"It is a professional secret," said the first beggar. "If we tell it,
you will give it away."

"Never," I answered. "I only want to put it into a poem."

The beggars looked at one another and laughed heartily. "That will do
no harm," said they, "our secret will be safe there."

"Well, then," said the first beggar gravely, "it is religion. We
approve the conduct of Providence. It must be all right. The Lord is
on our side. It would be wicked to ask why. We practise the grace of
resignation, and find peace."

"No," said the second beggar smiling, "religion is an old wives' tale.
It is philosophy that makes us contented. Nothing could be unless it
was, and nothing is different from what it has to be. Evolution goes
on evolving all the time. So here we are, you see, in the best world
possible at the present moment. Why not make the most of it? Pass me
the flagon."

"Not at all," interrupted the fourth beggar loudly, "I will have none
of your selfish religion or your immoral philosophy. I am a Reformer.
This is the worst world possible, and that is why I enjoy it. It gives
me my chance to make orations about reform. Philanthropy is the secret
of happiness."

"Piffle!" said the third beggar, tossing a gold coin in the air. "You
talk as if people heard you. The secret of happiness--religion,
philosophy, philanthropy?--poppycock! It is luck, sheer luck. Life is
a game of chance. Heads I win, tails you lose. Will you match me,
Master Poet?"

"You will have to excuse me," I said. "I have only a penny in my
pocket. But I am still puzzled by your answers. You seem of many
minds, but of one spirit. You are all equally contented. How is this?"

The eyes of the beggars turned to the piles of booty in front of them,
and they all nodded their heads wisely as if to say, "you can see."

A packet of papers lay before the first beggar and his look lingered
on them with love.

"How came you by these?" I asked.

"An old gentleman gave them to me," he answered. "He said he was my
grandfather. He was an unpleasant old fellow, but God rest his soul!
These are all gilt-edged."

The second beggar was playing with a heap of jewels. He was a handsome
fellow with fine hands.

"How did you get these pretty things?" said I.

"By consenting to be married," he replied. "It was easy enough. She
squints, and her grammar is defective, but she is a good little
thing."

The third beggar ran his fingers through the pile of gold before him,
and took up a coin, now and then, to flip it in the air.

"How did you earn this?" I asked.

"Earn it!" said he scornfully, "do you take me for a labouring man?
These fellows here lent me something, and I bet on how much corn that
fellow down there with the plough would raise--and the rest--why, the
rest was luck, sheer luck!"

"And you?" I turned to the fourth beggar who had a huge bag beside
him, so full of silver that the dimes and quarters ran from the mouth
of it.

"I," said he loftily, "am a Reformer. The people love me and give me
whatever I want, because I tell them that these other beggars have no
right to their money. I am going to be President."

At this they all burst into shouts of laughter and rolled on the
grass. Even the Reformer chuckled a little.

While they were laughing, the ploughman came up with an axe and began
to chop at the bush.

"What are you doing to our bush?" cried the beggars.

"Chopping it down," said the ploughman.

"But why?" cried they.

"I must plough this field," said he.

So the beggars grabbed their spoils and scuttled away to other
countries, and I went on over the hill.

[Illustration]




STRONGHOLD

[Illustration]


It rose upon the rock like a growth of nature; secure, commanding,
imperturbable; mantled with ivy and crowned with towers; a castle of
the olden time, called Stronghold.

Below it, the houses of the town clung to the hillside, creeping up
close to the castle wall and clustering in its shadow as if to claim
protection. In truth, for many a day it had been their warden against
freebooter and foreign foe, gathering the habitations of the humble as
a hen gathers her chickens beneath her wings to defend them from the
wandering hawk.

But those times of disorder and danger were long past. The roaming
tribes had settled down in their conquered regions. The children of
the desert had learned to irrigate their dusty fields. The robber
chiefs had sobered into merchants and money-lenders. The old town by
the river had a season of peace, labouring and making merry and
sleeping and bringing forth children and burying its dead in
tranquillity, protected by forts far away and guarded by ships on
distant waters.

Yet Stronghold still throned upon the rock, proudly dominant; and the
houses full of manifold life were huddled at its foot; and the voices
of men and women and little children, talking or laughing or singing
or sobbing or cursing or praying, went up around it like smoke.

[Illustration: Stronghold.]

Now the late lord of the castle, in the last age of romance, had
carried off a beautiful peasant girl with dove's eyes, whom he married
on her death-bed where she gave birth to their son. The blood of his
father and of his mother met in the boy's body, and in his soul their
spirits were mingled, so that he was by times haughty and gentle, and
by turns fierce and tender, and he grew up a dreamer with sudden
impulses to strong action. To him, at his father's death, fell the
lordship of the castle; and he was both proud and thoughtful; and he
considered the splendour of his ancient dwelling and the duties of his
high station.

The doors of Stronghold, at this time, were always open, not only for
the going out of the many retainers and servants on their errands of
business and mercy and pleasure in the town, but also for the citizens
and the poor folk who came seeking employment, or demanding justice,
or asking relief for their necessities. The lord of the castle had
ordered that none should be denied, and that a special welcome should
be given to those who came with words of enlightenment and counsel, to
interpret the splendour of Stronghold and help its master to learn the
duties of his high station.

So there came many men with various words. Some told him of the days
when Stronghold was the defence of the land and the foreign foe was
broken against it. Some walked with him in the long hall of portraits
and narrated the brave deeds of his ancestors. Some explained to him
the history of the heirlooms, and showed him how each vessel of
silver and great carved chair and richly faded tapestry had a meaning
which made it precious.

Other men talked to him of the future and of the things that he ought
to do. They set forth new schemes of industry by which the castle
should be changed into a central power-house or a silk-mill. They
unfolded new plans of bounty by which the hungry should be clad, and
the naked fed, and the sick given an education. They told him that if
he would do these things, in the course of a hundred years or so all
would be well.

But the trouble was that their counsels were contradictory, and their
promises were distant, and the lord of the castle was impatient and
bewildered in mind. For meantime the manifold voices of the town went
up around him like smoke, and he knew that underneath it some fires of
trouble and sorrow must be burning.

Then came two barefaced and masterful men who told him bluntly that
the first duty of his high station was to abandon it.

"What shall I do then?" he asked.

"Work for your living," they shouted.

"What do you do for your living?" he inquired.

"We tell other men what to do," replied they.

"And do you think," said he, "that your job is any harder than mine,
or that you work more than I do?" So he gave order that they should
have a good supper and be escorted from the castle, for he had no time
to waste upon mummers.

But the confusion in his mind continued, because the spirits of his
father and his mother were working within him, and the impulse to
sudden action gathered force beneath his dreams. So he was glad when
the next visitor came bearing the marks of evident sincerity and a
great purpose.

His beard was untrimmed, his garb was rude, his feet were bare, like
an ancient prophet. His voice was fiercely quiet, and his eyes burned
while he talked, as if he saw to the root of all things. He called
himself John the Nothingarian.

The lord of the castle related some of the plans which his counsellors
had made for his greater usefulness.

"They are puerile," said the Nothingarian, "futile, because they do
not go to the root."

Then the young lord spoke of the legends of his forefathers and the
history of Stronghold.

"They are dusty tales," said the Nothingarian, "false, because they do
not go to the root."

"How shall we get to the root?" asked the young lord, trembling with a
new eagerness.

"There is only one way," answered the prophet. "Come with me."

As they went through the outer passageway the old man pressed hard
with his hands against one of the stones in the wall, and a little
door slid open.

"The secret stair," said he, "by which your fathers brought in their
stolen women. Your Stronghold is honeycombed with lies."

The young lord's face was red as fire. "I never knew of it," he
murmured.

In the vaulted crypt beneath the castle the old man found a lantern
and a pickaxe. He went to an alcove walled with plaster and picked at
it with the axe. The plaster fell away. On the floor of the alcove lay
two crumpled bodies of men long dead; the clothes were rotting upon
the bones and a dagger stuck fast in each back.

"They were stabbed as they sat at meat," said the old man, "for the
gain of their gold. Your Stronghold is cemented with blood."

The young lord's face grew dark as night. "I never knew of it," he
muttered.

"Come," said the other, "I see we must go a little deeper before you
know where you stand."

So he led the way through the long vaults, where the cobwebs trailed
like rags and the dripping pendules of lime hung from the arches like
dirty icicles, until he came to the foundation of the great tower.
There he set down the lantern and began to dig, fiercely and silently,
close to the corner-stone, throwing out the rubble with his bare
hands. At last the pick broke through into a hollow niche. At the
bottom of it was the skeleton of a child about five years old, and the
cords that bound her little hands and feet lay in white dust upon the
sunken bones.

"You see!" said the old man, wiping his torn hands on his robe. "The
corner-stones were laid for safety on the body of a murdered
innocent. Your Stronghold is founded on cruelty. This is the root."

The young lord's face went white as death. "Horrible!" he cried. "But
what to do?"

"Do away with it!" said the Nothingarian. "That is the only thing.
Come!"

He went out into the night and the young lord followed him, the sudden
impulse to strong action leaping in his heart and pounding in his
temples and ringing in his ears, like a madness.

They passed around behind the great tower, where it stood close to the
last pinnacle of the rock and rose above it, bolted to the high crest
of stone by an iron bar.

"Here is the clutch of your Stronghold," said the old man urgently.
"Break that and all goes down. Dare you strike to the root?"

"I dare," he cried, "for I must. A thing built on cruelty, cemented
with blood, and worm-eaten with lies is hateful to me as to God."

He lifted the pick and struck. Once! and the castle trembled to its
base and the servants ran out at the doors. Twice! and the tower
swayed and a cry of fear arose. Thrice! and the huge walls of
Stronghold rocked and crashed and thundered down upon the sleeping
town, burying it in wild ruin!

Dead silence for an instant--and then, through the cloud of dust that
hung above the flattened houses, came a lamentable tumult. Voices of
men and women and little children, shrieking in fear, groaning with
pain, whimpering for pity, moaning in mortal anguish, rose like smoke
from the pit beneath the wreck of Stronghold.

The young lord listened, dizzy and sick with horror. Then he looked at
the Nothingarian whose eyes glittered wildly. He swung up the pickaxe
again.

"Curse you," he cried, "why didn't you tell me of this?" And he split
his head down to the beard.

[Illustration]




IN the ODOUR of SANCTITY

_Mortem suscepit cantando_

[Illustration]


Last of all, the crouching plague leaped upon the Count Angelo (whose
women and boon companions already lay dead around him in his castle of
Montefeltro), and dragged him from the banquet-hall of many delights
into the dim alley of the grave. There he looked, as it were through a
door half open, into the shapeless horror of the face of Death, which
turns all desires into stone. But even while he looked, the teeth of
the black beast that gripped him were loosened, and he crept back into
life as one returning from a far country.

His castle was empty save for the few terror-stricken servants who
lingered because they knew not whither to flee. In the garden withered
the rose and the lily, untended and unplucked. The chairs and couches
where he had seen the faces of his friends were vacant. On the pillows
of his great bed there were no curls of tangled gold, nor plaited
tresses of long black spread out beside him in the morning light.

The world in which he had revelled away his youth was void; and in the
unknown world, from whose threshold he had painfully escaped, but
whither he knew he must one day return, there dwelt only a horrible
fear and a certain looking for of judgment.

So Count Angelo came to life again. But all desires and passions which
had hitherto warmed or burned him were like dead embers. For the flame
of them all had gone into one desire--the resolve to die in the odour
of sanctity, and so to pass into Paradise safely and unafraid.

Therefore he put aside the fine garments which his trembling servants
brought, and clad himself in sackcloth with a girdle of rope about his
loins. Thus apparelled he climbed on foot to the holy mountain of La
Verna, above the Val d'Arno, which mountain the Count Rolando of
Montefeltro had given, many years before, to St. Francis the minstrel
of God and his poor little disciples of the cross, for a refuge and a
sanctuary near the sky. At the door of the Friary built upon the land
of his forefathers the Count Angelo knocked humbly as a beggar.

"Who is there?" said the door-keeper from his loophole.

"A poor sinner," answered Angelo, "who has no wish left in life but to
die in the odour of sanctity."

At this the door-keeper opened grudgingly, supposing he had to do with
some outcast seeking the house of religion as a last resort. But when
he saw the stranger he knew that it was the rich and generous Count of
Montefeltro.

"May it please your lordship to enter," he cried; "the guest-chamber
awaits you, and the friars minor of St. Francis will rejoice in the
presence of their patron."

"Not so," replied Angelo; "but in the meanest of your cells will I
lodge. For I am come not to bestow, but to beg, and my request is the
lowest place among the little servants of poverty."

Whereupon the door-keeper was greatly astonished, and led Angelo to
the Warden, to whom he unfolded his purpose to strip himself of all
worldly gear and possessions and give his remnant of life solely to
the preparation of a saintly death. This proposal the Warden and the
other brethren duly considered, not without satisfaction, and Angelo
was received as a penitent and a novice.

The first year of his probation he passed as a servant of the cattle
and the beasts of burden, cleansing their stables and conversing only
with them. "For," said he, "the ox and the ass knew their Lord in the
manger, but I in my castle was deaf to his voice."

The second year of his probation he laboured in the kitchen, washing
the dishes and preparing the food for the friars, but he himself ate
sparingly and only of the crusts and crumbs which the others had
despised. "For," said he, "I am less worthy than that lad who brought
the few loaves and small fishes to feed the multitude, and for me it
is enough to eat of the fragments that remain."

In all this he was so diligently humble and self-denying that in the
third year he was admitted fully to the order and given the honourable
office of sweeping and cleansing the sacred places.

In this duty Angelo showed an extraordinary devotion. Not content with
this, he soon began to practise upon himself particular and extreme
asperities and macerations. He slept only upon the ground and never
beyond an hour at one space, rising four and twenty times a day to his
prayers. He fasted thrice in the week from matins to matins, and
observed the rule of silence every six days, speaking only on the
seventh. He wore next to his naked skin a breastplate of iron, and a
small leather band with sharp points about his loins, and rings of
iron under his arms, whereby his flesh was wasted and frayed from his
bones like a worn garment with holes in it, and he bled secretly. By
reason of these things his face fell away into a dolorous sadness, and
the fame of his afflictions spread through the Friary and to other
houses where the little brothers of St. Francis were assembled.

But the inward gladness of Angelo did not increase in measure with his
outward sadness and the renown of his piety. For the ray and the flame
of divine Consolation were diminished within him, and he no longer
felt that joy which he had formerly in the cleansing of the stables,
in the washing of the dishes, and in the sweeping of the holy places,
from which he was now relieved by reason of bodily weakness. He was
tormented with the fear that his penances might not sufficiently atone
for the sinful pleasures of his past life, of which he had a vivid and
growing remembrance. The thought was ever present with him that he
might not be predestined to die in the odour of sanctity.

In this anguish of heart he went forth one day into the wood which
lies on the top of the mountain of La Verna, beyond the Friary, and
ran up and down, stumbling among the roots of the trees and calling
aloud with sighs and tears, "Little wretch, thou art lost! Abominable
sinner Angelo, how shalt thou find a holy death?"

To him, in this distraction, comes the Warden with three of the elder
friars and asks him what has befallen him.

"The fear of dying in my sins," cries Angelo.

"You have the comfort of the Gospel, my son," says the Warden.

"It is not enough for me," sobs Angelo, beating his wounded breast.
"You know not how great were my pleasures in the world!"

With that he starts away again to wander through the wood, but the
Warden restrains him, and soothes him, and speaks comfortably to him;
and at last Angelo makes his request that he may have a certain cave
in the woods for his dwelling and be enclosed there as a recluse to
await the coming of a holy death.

"But, my son," objects the Warden, "what will the Friary do without
the example of your devotion and your service?"

"I will pray for you all," says Angelo; "night and day I will give
myself to intercession for the order of friars minor."

So the Warden consents, and Angelo, for the time, is satisfied.

Now, the top of the mountain of La Verna is full of rude clefts and
caverns, with broken and jagged rocks. Truly, it were a frightful
place to behold but for the tall trees that have grown up among the
rocks, clasping them with their roots, and the trailing vines and
gentle wild flowers and green ferns that spring abundantly around them
as if in token of kindness and good-will and bounty.

All these were much beloved of St. Francis, who heard every creature
cry aloud, saying "God made me for thee, O man." So great was his
affection for them that he would not have his little friars cut down a
whole tree for firewood, but bade them only lop the branches and let
the tree live in joy. And he taught them to make no garden of
pot-herbs only, but to leave room always for the flowers, for love of
One who was called "the rose of Sharon," and "the lily of the valley."

But this was not the mind of Angelo, who stumbled to his reclusery
blindly, intent only on the thought of his death, and never marking
the fine lace-work of the ferns that were broken by his passing nor
the sweet fragrance of the flowers crushed beneath his feet.

The cave which he had chosen lay a little beyond that most sacred
cavern where St. Francis had fasted and where the falcon had visited
him every morning, beating her wings and singing to rouse him softly
to matins, and where at last he had received in his body the marks of
the Holy Cross.

It was on the side of the mountain looking toward the west, and in
front of it was a narrow, deep, and terrible chasm, which could only
be crossed by a log laid in the manner of a bridge. But the cave
itself looked out beyond into the wide and fruitful Val d'Arno, with
the stream of silver coiling through it, and on the other side the
wooded mountains of Valombrosa and Pratomagno.

Of this Angelo saw nothing, as he passed by the log bridge into the
cave. The three friars who went with him walled up the entrance with
stones, except for an opening at the height of a man's breast; and
they returned, taking away the log at his request and casting it down
the cliff. After that the food of Angelo was thrown across the chasm
into the opening of the cave, and to drink he had a small spring of
water trickling among the rocks a drop at a time, and he lived as a
recluse considering only how to make a saintly end.

His thoughts were thus fixed and centred upon his own great concern,
to a degree that made the world turn to nothing around him. Even the
Friary seemed to lie at an infinite distance, and the prayers which he
had promised to offer for it were more in word than in desire. There
was no warmth in them, for all the fire of his soul had burned into
one thought which consumed him. Day and night he cried, "O wicked
life, let me go into a holy death!"

But he came no nearer to his goal, nor could he find any assurance
that he was elect and chosen to attain it. On the contrary his anxiety
increased and misery became his companion. For this reason: in his
dreams he dwelt continually upon the most sinful pleasures of his past
life, and they grew upon him; but in his waking hours he considered
and measured the greatness of his penances, yet without ever arriving
at the certainty that they balanced his offences.

Now, you are not to suppose that the past life of Angelo, though vain
and worldly and streaked with evil, had been altogether woven of black
threads. For he had been of an open and kindly heart, ready to share
with others in the joy of living, greatly pleased to do a good turn to
his neighbours, compassionate and gentle-natured, a lover of music and
of little children. So there were many things in his youth of which he
had no need to be ashamed, since they were both innocent and merry,
and the white and golden threads of a pure and grateful happiness were
not wanting in the fabric of his loom.

But of these he would not think, being set upon recalling only the
sinful hours that needed repentance. And of these he thought so
constantly that in the visions of the night they lived again, twining
their limbs about him and pressing their burning lips upon his. But
when he awoke he was filled with terror, and fell to counting the
severities and privations which he had endured for an atonement. So it
came to pass that he was strangely and dreadfully merry dreaming, but
strangely and desperately sad waking. And between the two he found no
peace, nor ever escaped from the trouble and anguish of himself.

After a twelvemonth or more of this life, very early in the morning he
awoke from a hot dream with horror, and groaned aloud, "If I die, I am
damned."

"How so, little sheep of God," said a voice near at hand; "who has led
thee into the wilderness?"

Fra Angelo lifted his head and looked at the opening of the cave, but
there was no one there. Then he looked behind him, and on both sides,
but he saw no one. Yet so clear and certain was the sound of the voice
that he could not rest, but went to the entrance and thrust out his
head.

On the shelf of the rock in front of the cave he saw a short and spare
brother dressed in the habit of a friar minor, with a thin black
beard, and dark simple eyes, kindled with gentle flames. In his right
hand he held a stick of wood, as it were the bow of a viol, and this
he drew across his left arm, singing the while in French a hymn of joy
for the sun, his brother, and for the wind, his companion, and for
the water, his sister, and for the earth, his mother.

At this Fra Angelo was astonished and confused, for these songs had
not been heard in the Friary since many years, and it seemed as if
some foreign brother must have come from France with strange customs.
But when he looked more closely he saw that the long and delicate
hands of the little brother were pierced in the palm, and his feet
were wounded as if a nail had passed through them. Then he knew that
he saw St. Francis, and he was so ashamed and afraid that he clung to
the rocks and could not speak.

Then the little brother turned from looking out upon the morning in
Val d'Arno and looked at Fra Angelo. After a long while he said, very
softly, "What doest thou here in the cave, dearest?"

"Blessed father," stammered the recluse, "I dwell in solitude, to
atone for my worldly life and find a holy death."

"That is for thyself," said the little brother in the sun; "but for
others what doest thou?"

Angelo thought a moment and answered, humbly, "I give them an ensample
of holiness."

"They need more," said the little brother smiling, "and thou must give
it."

"Blessed father," cried Angelo, "command me and I will obey thee, for
thou art in heaven and I am near to hell."

"Listen, then, thou lost sheep," said the little brother, "and I will
show thee the way. Climb over the wall. Lay aside the breastplate and
rings of iron--they hinder thee. Come near and sit beside me. In a
certain city there is a poor widow whose child is sick even unto
death. Go unto her with this box of electuary, and give it to the
child that he may recover. I command thee by Obedience."

So saying he laid in the hand of Angelo a box of olive-wood, filled
with an electuary so sweet that the fragrance of it went through the
wood. But Angelo was confused.

"How shall I know the way," said he, "when I know not the city?"

"Stand up," answered the little brother with the wounded hands, "and
close thine eyes firmly. Now turn round and round as children do,
until I bid thee stop."

So Fra Angelo, fearing a little because the shelf of rock was narrow,
shut tight his eyes and, stretching out his arms, turned round and
round until he was dizzy. Then he fell to the ground, and when he
looked up the little brother of the sun was gone.

But the head of Fra Angelo lay toward the city of Poppi on the other
side of the valley, so he knew that this was the way, and he went down
from the mountain.

As he went, his bodily weakness departed and the pains of his worn
flesh left him, and he rejoiced in the brightness of the world. The
linnets and blackbirds that sang in the thickets were the children of
those that had been brothers of the air to St. Francis, and the larks
that bubbled up from the fields wore the same sad-coloured garments
and chanted the same joyous music that he had commended. The primroses
and the violets and the cyclamens had not forgotten to bloom because
of sin, and the pure incense of their breath went forth unto gladness.

So Fra Angelo made his journey with a light heart, quickly, and came
to the city of Poppi. There he found the poor widow with her child
sick unto death, and he gave them the olive-wood box. The child took
the electuary eagerly, for it was pleasant to the taste, and it did
him good more than if it had been bitter. So presently the fever left
him, and the mother rejoiced and blessed St. Francis and Fra Angelo.
And he said, "I must be going."

Now, as he went and returned toward La Verna, he passed through a
village, and in the field at the side of it he saw many children
quarrelling.

"Why do you fight," said Angelo, laying hands on two of them, "when
you might be playing?"

"Because we know not what to play," they answered; and some shouted
one thing and some another.

"Let the older ones play at Fox and Geese," said Angelo; "and look,
here is a plank! We will put it over this great stone and I will play
at seesaw with the little ones."

Then the children all laughed when they saw a friar playing at seesaw;
but he went up and down merrily, and they were all glad together.
After a while they grew weary of the games, and Angelo asked what
they would do next.

"Dance," cried the children; "dance and sing!"

"But where is the music?" said Angelo.

So one of the boys ran away to a house in the village and came back
presently with an old viol and a bow. Angelo fingered the instrument,
and tuned it, for he had been a skilful musician.

"Now I will teach you," said he, "a very sweet music that I heard this
morning. And do you all sing as I teach you, and between the songs
take hands and dance around."

Then he sat down upon a grassy hillock, with the children in a circle
about him, and he taught them the songs that were sung by the little
brother of the sun and of the wind and of the water and of the
birds--even by that minstrel of God who came to the cave with the
morning light. Between the verses the children, holding hands, danced
in a ring around Fra Angelo, while he played upon the old viol.

As he played thus, he was aware of a hand upon his shoulder, and
supposed it to be one of the children.

"Go back," he said, "go back to your place, dearest naughty one; the
song is not finished."

"It is finished," said a voice behind him. "This is the right ending
of the song."

And Angelo, looking up in amazement, saw the face of an angel, and the
bow dropped from his fingers.

When the music ceased, the children broke their ring and ran to Angelo
where he lay upon the grass. They wondered to see him so still and
pale, yet because his face was smiling they were not afraid.

"He is weary," they cried; "the good friar has fallen asleep--perhaps
he has fainted. Let us run and call help for him."

But they did not understand that the messenger of Holy Death had
passed among them and called Angelo in the odour of sanctity.

[Illustration]




THE SAD SHEPHERD

I

DARKNESS


Out of the Valley of Gardens, where a film of new-fallen snow lay
smooth as feathers on the breast of a dove, the ancient Pools of
Solomon looked up into the night sky with dark, tranquil eyes,
wide-open and passive, reflecting the crisp stars and the small, round
moon. The full springs, overflowing on the hillside, melted their way
through the field of white in winding channels, and along their course
the grass was green even in the dead of winter.

But the sad shepherd walked far above the friendly valley, in a region
where ridges of gray rock welted and scarred the back of the earth,
like wounds of half-forgotten strife and battles long ago. The
solitude was forbidding and disquieting; the keen air that searched
the wanderer had no pity in it; and the myriad glances of the night
were curiously cold.

His flock straggled after him. The sheep, weather beaten and dejected,
followed the path with low heads nodding from side to side, as if they
had travelled far and found little pasture. The black, lop-eared goats
leaped upon the rocks, restless and ravenous, tearing down the tender
branches and leaves of the dwarf oaks and wild olives. They reared up
against the twisted trunks and crawled and scrambled among the boughs.
It was like a company of gray downcast friends and a troop of merry
little black devils following the sad shepherd afar off.

He walked looking on the ground, paying small heed to them. Now and
again, when the sound of pattering feet and panting breath and the
rustling and rending among the copses fell too far behind, he drew out
his shepherd's pipe and blew a strain of music, shrill and plaintive,
quavering and lamenting through the hollow night. He waited while the
troops of gray and black scuffled and bounded and trotted near to him.
Then he dropped the pipe into its place again and strode forward,
looking on the ground.

The fitful, shivery wind that rasped the hill-top, fluttered the rags
of his long mantle of Tyrian blue, torn by thorns and stained by
travel. The rich tunic of striped silk beneath it was worn thin, and
the girdle about his loins had lost all its ornaments of silver and
jewels. His curling hair hung down dishevelled under a turban of fine
linen, in which the gilt threads were frayed and tarnished; and his
shoes of soft leather were broken by the road. On his brown fingers
the places of the vanished rings were still marked in white skin. He
carried not the long staff nor the heavy nail-studded rod of the
shepherd, but a slender stick of carved cedar battered and scratched
by hard usage, and the handle, which must once have been of precious
metal, was missing.

He was a strange figure for that lonely place and that humble
occupation--a branch of faded beauty from some royal garden tossed by
rude winds into the wilderness--a pleasure craft adrift, buffeted and
broken, on rough seas.

But he seemed to have passed beyond caring. His young face was as
frayed and threadbare as his garments. The splendour of the moonlight
flooding the wild world meant as little to him as the hardness of the
rugged track which he followed. He wrapped his tattered mantle closer
around him, and strode ahead, looking on the ground.

As the path dropped from the summit of the ridge toward the Valley of
Mills and passed among huge broken rocks, three men sprang at him from
the shadows. He lifted his stick, but let it fall again, and a strange
ghost of a smile twisted his face as they gripped him and threw him
down.

"You are rough beggars," he said. "Say what you want, you are welcome
to it."

"Your money, dog of a courtier," they muttered fiercely; "give us your
golden collar, Herod's hound, quick, or you die!"

"The quicker the better," he answered, closing his eyes.

The bewildered flock of sheep and goats, gathered in a silent ring,
stood at gaze while the robbers fumbled over their master.

"This is a stray dog," said one, "he has lost his collar, there is not
even the price of a mouthful of wine on him. Shall we kill him and
leave him for the vultures?"

"What have the vultures done for us," said another, "that we should
feed them? Let us take his cloak and drive off his flock, and leave
him to die in his own time."

With a kick and a curse they left him. He opened his eyes and lay
quiet for a moment, with his twisted smile, watching the stars.

"You creep like snails," he said. "I thought you had marked my time
to-night. But not even that is given to me for nothing. I must pay for
all, it seems."

Far away, slowly scattering and receding, he heard the rustling and
bleating of his frightened flock as the robbers, running and shouting,
tried to drive them over the hills. Then he stood up and took the
shepherd's pipe from the breast of his tunic. He blew again that
plaintive, piercing air, sounding it out over the ridges and distant
thickets. It seemed to have neither beginning nor end; a melancholy,
pleading tune that searched forever after something lost.

While he played, the sheep and the goats, slipping away from their
captors by roundabout ways, hiding behind the laurel bushes, following
the dark gullies, leaping down the broken cliffs, came circling back
to him, one after another; and as they came, he interrupted his
playing, now and then, to call them by name.

When they were nearly all assembled, he went down swiftly toward the
lower valley, and they followed him, panting. At the last crook of the
path on the steep hillside a straggler came after him along the cliff.
He looked up and saw it outlined against the sky. Then he saw it leap,
and slip, and fall beyond the path into a deep cleft.

"Little fool," he said, "fortune is kind to you! You have escaped from
the big trap of life. What? You are crying for help? You are still in
the trap? Then I must go down to you, little fool, for I am a fool
too. But why I must do it, I know no more than you know."

He lowered himself quickly and perilously into the cleft, and found
the creature with its leg broken and bleeding. It was not a sheep but
a young goat. He had no cloak to wrap it in, but he took off his
turban and unrolled it, and bound it around the trembling animal. Then
he climbed back to the path and strode on at the head of his flock,
carrying the little black kid in his arms.

There were houses in the Valley of the Mills; and in some of them
lights were burning; and the drone of the mill-stones, where the women
were still grinding, came out into the night like the humming of
drowsy bees. As the women heard the pattering and bleating of the
flock, they wondered who was passing so late. One of them, in a house
where there was no mill but many lights, came to the door and looked
out laughing, her face and bosom bare.

But the sad shepherd did not stay. His long shadow and the confused
mass of lesser shadows behind him drifted down the white moonlight,
past the yellow bars of lamplight that gleamed from the doorways. It
seemed as if he were bound to go somewhere and would not delay.

Yet with all his haste to be gone, it was plain that he thought little
of where he was going. For when he came to the foot of the valley,
where the paths divided, he stood between them staring vacantly,
without a desire to turn him this way or that. The imperative of
choice halted him like a barrier. The balance of his mind hung even
because both scales were empty. He could act, he could go, for his
strength was untouched; but he could not choose, for his will was
broken within him.

The path to the left went up toward the little town of Bethlehem, with
huddled roofs and walls in silhouette along the double-crested hill.
It was dark and forbidding as a closed fortress. The sad shepherd
looked at it with indifferent eyes; there was nothing there to draw
him.

The path to the right wound through rock-strewn valleys toward the
Dead Sea. But rising out of that crumpled wilderness, a mile or two
away, the smooth white ribbon of a chariot-road lay upon the flank of
a cone-shaped mountain and curled in loops toward its peak. There the
great cone was cut squarely off, and the levelled summit was capped
by a palace of marble, with round towers at the corners and flaring
beacons along the walls; and the glow of an immense fire, hidden in
the central court-yard, painted a false dawn in the eastern sky. All
down the clean-cut mountain slopes, on terraces and blind arcades, the
lights flashed from lesser pavilions and pleasure-houses.

It was the secret orchard of Herod and his friends, their
trysting-place with the spirits of mirth and madness. They called it
the Mountain of the Little Paradise. Rich gardens were there; and the
cool water from the Pools of Solomon plashed in the fountains; and
trees of the knowledge of good and evil fruited blood-red and
ivory-white above them; and smooth, curving, glistening shapes,
whispering softly of pleasure, lay among the flowers and glided behind
the trees. All this was now hidden in the dark. Only the strange bulk
of the mountain, a sharp black pyramid girdled and crowned with fire,
loomed across the night--a mountain once seen never to be forgotten.

The sad shepherd remembered it well. He looked at it with the eyes of
a child who has been in hell. It burned him from afar. Turning
neither to the right nor to the left, he walked without a path
straight out upon the plain of Bethlehem, still whitened in the
hollows and on the sheltered side of its rounded hillocks by the veil
of snow.

He faced a wide and empty world. To the west in sleeping Bethlehem, to
the east in flaring Herodium, the life of man was infinitely far away
from him. Even the stars seemed to withdraw themselves against the
blue-black of the sky. They diminished and receded till they were like
pin-holes in the vault above him. The moon in mid-heaven shrank into a
bit of burnished silver, hard and glittering, immeasurably remote. The
ragged, inhospitable ridges of Tekoa lay stretched in mortal slumber
along the horizon, and between them he caught a glimpse of the sunken
Lake of Death, darkly gleaming in its deep bed. There was no movement,
no sound, on the plain where he walked, except the soft-padding feet
of his dumb, obsequious flock.

He felt an endless isolation strike cold to his heart, against which
he held the limp body of the wounded kid, wondering the while, with a
half-contempt for his own foolishness, why he took such trouble to
save a tiny scrap of the worthless tissue which is called life.

Even when a man does not know or care where he is going, if he steps
onward he will get there. In an hour or more of walking over the plain
the sad shepherd came to a sheep-fold of grey stones with a rude tower
beside it. The fold was full of sheep, and at the foot of the tower a
little fire of thorns was burning, around which four shepherds were
crouching, wrapped in their thick woollen cloaks.

As the stranger approached they looked up, and one of them rose
quickly to his feet, grasping his knotted club. But when they saw the
flock that followed the sad shepherd, they stared at each other and
said: "It is one of us, a keeper of sheep. But how comes he here in
this raiment? It is what men wear in kings' houses."

"No," said the one who was standing, "it is what they wear when they
have been thrown out of them. Look at the rags. He may be a thief and
a robber with his stolen flock."

"Salute him when he comes near," said the oldest shepherd. "Are we not
four to one? We have nothing to fear from a ragged traveller. Speak
him fair. It is the will of God--and it costs nothing."

"Peace be with you, brother," cried the youngest shepherd; "may your
mother and father be blessed."

"May your heart be enlarged," the stranger answered, "and may all your
families be more blessed than mine, for I have none."

"A homeless man," said the old shepherd, "has either been robbed by
his fellows, or punished by God."

"I do not know which it was," answered the stranger; "the end is the
same, as you see."

"By your speech you come from Galilee. Where are you going? What are
you seeking here?"

"I was going nowhere, my masters; but it was cold on the way there,
and my feet turned to your fire."

"Come then, if you are a peaceable man, and warm your feet with us.
Heat is a good gift; divide it and it is not less. But you shall have
bread and salt too, if you will."

"May your hospitality enrich you. I am your unworthy guest. But my
flock?"

"Let your flock shelter by the south wall of the fold: there is good
picking there and no wind. Come you and sit with us."

So they all sat down by the fire; and the sad shepherd ate of their
bread, but sparingly, like a man to whom hunger brings a need but no
joy in the satisfying of it; and the others were silent for a proper
time, out of courtesy. Then the oldest shepherd spoke:

"My name is Zadok the son of Eliezer, of Bethlehem. I am the chief
shepherd of the flocks of the Temple, which are before you in the
fold. These are my sister's sons, Jotham, and Shama, and Nathan: their
father Elkanah is dead; and but for these I am a childless man."

"My name," replied the stranger, "is Ammiel the son of Jochanan, of
the city of Bethsaida, by the Sea of Galilee, and I am a fatherless
man."

"It is better to be childless than fatherless," said Zadok, "yet it is
the will of God that children should bury their fathers. When did the
blessed Jochanan die?"

"I know not whether he be dead or alive. It is three years since I
looked upon his face or had word of him."

"You are an exile, then? he has cast you off?"

"It was the other way," said Ammiel, looking on the ground.

At this the shepherd Shama, who had listened with doubt in his face,
started up in anger. "Pig of a Galilean," he cried, "despiser of
parents! breaker of the law! When I saw you coming I knew you for
something vile. Why do you darken the night for us with your presence?
You have reviled him who begot you. Away, or we stone you!"

Ammiel did not answer or move. The twisted smile passed over his face
again as he waited to know the shepherds' will with him, even as he
had waited for the robbers. But Zadok lifted his hand.

"Not so hasty, Shama-ben-Elkanah. You also break the law by judging a
man unheard. The rabbis have told us that there is a tradition of the
elders--a rule as holy as the law itself--that a man may deny his
father in a certain way without sin. It is a strange rule, and it must
be very holy or it would not be so strange. But this is the teaching
of the elders: a son may say of anything for which his father asks
him--a sheep, or a measure of corn, or a field, or a purse of
silver--'it is Corban, a gift that I have vowed unto the Lord'; and so
his father shall have no more claim upon him. Have you said 'Corban'
to your father, Ammiel-ben-Jochanan? Have you made a vow unto the
Lord?"

"I have said 'Corban,'" answered Ammiel, lifting his face, still
shadowed by that strange smile, "but it was not the Lord who heard my
vow."

"Tell us what you have done," said the old man sternly, "for we will
neither judge you, nor shelter you, unless we hear your story."

"There is nothing in it," replied Ammiel indifferently. "It is an old
story. But if you are curious you shall hear it. Afterward you shall
deal with me as you will."

So the shepherds, wrapped in their warm cloaks, sat listening with
grave faces and watchful, unsearchable eyes, while Ammiel in his
tattered silk sat by the sinking fire of thorns and told his tale with
a voice that had no room for hope or fear--a cool, dead voice that
spoke only of things ended.


II

NIGHTFIRE

"In my father's house I was the second son. My brother was honoured
and trusted in all things. He was a prudent man and profitable to the
house-hold. All that he counselled was done, all that he wished he
had. My place was a narrow one. There was neither honour nor joy in
it, for it was filled with daily tasks and rebukes. No one cared for
me. My mother sometimes wept when I was rebuked. Perhaps she was
disappointed in me. But she had no power to make things better. I felt
that I was a beast of burden, fed only in order that I might be
useful; and the dull life irked me like an ill-fitting harness. There
was nothing in it.

"I went to my father and claimed my share of the inheritance. He was
rich. He gave it to me. It did not impoverish him and it made me free.
I said to him 'Corban,' and shook the dust of Bethsaida from my feet.

"I went out to look for mirth and love and joy and all that is
pleasant to the eyes and sweet to the taste. If a god made me,
thought I, he made me to live, and the pride of life was strong in my
heart and in my flesh. My vow was offered to that well-known god. I
served him in Jerusalem, in Alexandria, in Rome, for his altars are
everywhere and men worship him openly or in secret.

"My money and youth made me welcome to his followers, and I spent them
both freely as if they could never come to an end. I clothed myself in
purple and fine linen and fared sumptuously every day. The wine of
Cyprus and the dishes of Egypt and Syria were on my table. My dwelling
was crowded with merry guests. They came for what I gave them. Their
faces were hungry and their soft touch was like the clinging of
leeches. To them I was nothing but money and youth; no longer a beast
of burden--a beast of pleasure. There was nothing in it.

"From the richest fare my heart went away empty, and after the wildest
banquet my soul fell drunk and solitary into sleep.

"Then I thought, Power is better than pleasure. If a man will feast
and revel let him do it with the great. They will favour him and
raise him up for the service that he renders them. He will obtain
place and authority in the world and gain many friends. So I joined
myself to Herod."

When the sad shepherd spoke this name his listeners drew back from him
as if it were a defilement to hear it. They spat upon the ground and
cursed the Idumean who called himself their king.

"A slave!" Jotham cried, "a bloody tyrant and a slave from Edom! A
fox, a vile beast who devours his own children! God burn him in
Gehenna."

The old Zadok picked up a stone and threw it into the darkness, saying
slowly, "I cast this stone on the grave of the Idumean, the
blasphemer, the defiler of the Temple! God send us soon the Deliverer,
the Promised One, the true King of Israel!" Ammiel made no sign, but
went on with his story.

"Herod used me well--for his own purpose. He welcomed me to his palace
and his table, and gave me a place among his favourites. He was so
much my friend that he borrowed my money. There were many of the
nobles of Jerusalem with him, Sadducees, and proselytes from Rome and
Asia, and women from everywhere. The law of Israel was observed in the
open court, when the people were watching. But in the secret feasts
there was no law but the will of Herod, and many deities were served
but no god was worshipped. There the captains and the princes of Rome
consorted with the high-priest and his sons by night; and there was
much coming and going by hidden ways. Everybody was a borrower or a
lender, a buyer or a seller of favours. It was a house of diligent
madness. There was nothing in it.

"In the midst of this whirling life a great need of love came upon me
and I wished to hold some one in my inmost heart.

"At a certain place in the city, within closed doors, I saw a young
slave-girl dancing. She was about fifteen years old, thin and supple;
she danced like a reed in the wind; but her eyes were weary as death,
and her white body was marked with bruises. She stumbled, and the men
laughed at her. She fell, and her mistress beat her, crying out that
she would fain be rid of such a heavy-footed slave. I paid the price
and took her to my dwelling.

"Her name was Tamar. She was a daughter of Lebanon. I robed her in
silk and broidered linen. I nourished her with tender care so that
beauty came upon her like the blossoming of an almond tree; she was a
garden enclosed, breathing spices. Her eyes were like doves behind her
veil, her lips were a thread of scarlet, her neck was a tower of
ivory, and her breasts were as two fawns which feed among the lilies.
She was whiter than milk, and more rosy than the flower of the peach,
and her dancing was like the flight of a bird among the branches. So I
loved her.

"She lay in my bosom as a clear stone that one has bought and polished
and set in fine gold at the end of a golden chain. Never was she glad
at my coming, or sorry at my going. Never did she give me anything
except what I took from her. There was nothing in it.

"Now whether Herod knew of the jewel that I kept in my dwelling I
cannot tell. It was sure that he had his spies in all the city, and
himself walked the streets by night in a disguise. On a certain day he
sent for me, and had me into his secret chamber, professing great
love toward me and more confidence than in any man that lived. So I
must go to Rome for him, bearing a sealed letter and a private message
to Cæsar. All my goods would be left safely in the hands of the king,
my friend, who would reward me double. There was a certain place of
high authority at Jerusalem which Cæsar would gladly bestow on a Jew
who had done him a service. This mission would commend me to him. It
was a great occasion, suited to my powers. Thus Herod fed me with fair
promises, and I ran his errand. There was nothing in it.

"I stood before Cæsar and gave him the letter. He read it and laughed,
saying that a prince with an incurable hunger is a servant of value to
an emperor. Then he asked me if there was nothing sent with the
letter. I answered that there was no gift, but a message for his
private ear. He drew me aside and I told him that Herod begged
earnestly that his dear son, Antipater, might be sent back in haste
from Rome to Palestine, for the king had great need of him.

"At this Cæsar laughed again. 'To bury him, I suppose,' said he, 'with
his brothers, Alexander and Aristobulus! Truly, it is better to be
Herod's swine than his son! Tell the old fox he may catch his own
prey.' With this he turned from me and I withdrew unrewarded, to make
my way back, as best I could with an empty purse, to Palestine. I had
seen the Lord of the World. There was nothing in it.

"Selling my rings and bracelets I got passage in a trading ship for
Joppa. There I heard that the king was not in Jerusalem, at his Palace
of the Upper City, but had gone with his friends to make merry for a
month on the Mountain of the Little Paradise. On that hill-top over
against us, where the lights are flaring to-night, in the banquet-hall
where couches are spread for a hundred guests, I found Herod."

The listening shepherds spat upon the ground again, and Jotham
muttered, "May the worms that devour his flesh never die!" But Zadok
whispered, "We wait for the Lord's salvation to come out of Zion." And
the sad shepherd, looking with fixed eyes at the firelit mountain far
away, continued his story:

"The king lay on his ivory couch, and the sweat of his disease was
heavy upon him, for he was old, and his flesh was corrupted. But his
hair and his beard were dyed and perfumed and there was a wreath of
roses on his head. The hall was full of nobles and great men, the sons
of the high-priest were there, and the servants poured their wine in
cups of gold. There was a sound of soft music; and all the men were
watching a girl who danced in the middle of the hall; and the eyes of
Herod were fiery, like the eyes of a fox.

"The dancer was Tamar. She glistened like the snow on Lebanon, and the
redness of her was ruddier than a pomegranate, and her dancing was
like the coiling of white serpents. When the dance was ended her
attendants threw a veil of gauze over her and she lay among her
cushions, half covered with flowers, at the feet of the king.

"Through the sound of clapping hands and shouting, two slaves led me
behind the couch of Herod. His eyes narrowed as they fell upon me. I
told him the message of Cæsar, making it soft, as if it were a word
that suffered him to catch his prey. He stroked his beard and his look
fell on Tamar. 'I have caught it,' he murmured; 'by all the gods, I
have always caught it. And my dear son, Antipater, is coming home of
his own will. I have lured him, he is mine.'

"Then a look of madness crossed his face and he sprang up, with
frothing lips, and struck at me. 'What is this,' he cried, 'a spy, a
servant of my false son, a traitor in my banquet-hall! Who are you?' I
knelt before him, protesting that he must know me; that I was his
friend, his messenger; that I had left all my goods in his hands; that
the girl who had danced for him was mine. At this his face changed
again and he fell back on his couch, shaken with horrible laughter.
'Yours!' he cried, 'when was she yours? What is yours? I know you now,
poor madman. You are Ammiel, a crazy shepherd from Galilee, who
troubled us some time since. Take him away, slaves. He has twenty
sheep and twenty goats among my flocks at the foot of the mountain.
See to it that he gets them, and drive him away.'

"I fought against the slaves with my bare hands, but they held me. I
called to Tamar, begging her to have pity on me, to speak for me, to
come with me. She looked up with her eyes like doves behind her veil,
but there was no knowledge of me in them. She laughed lazily, as if it
were a poor comedy, and flung a broken rose-branch in my face. Then
the silver cord was loosened within me, and my heart went out, and I
struggled no more. There was nothing in it.

"Afterward I found myself on the road with this flock. I led them past
Hebron into the south country, and so by the Vale of Eshcol, and over
many hills beyond the Pools of Solomon, until my feet brought me to
your fire. Here I rest on the way to nowhere."

He sat silent, and the four shepherds looked at him with amazement.

"It is a bitter tale," said Shama, "and you are a great sinner."

"I should be a fool not to know that," answered the sad shepherd, "but
the knowledge does me no good."

"You must repent," said Nathan, the youngest shepherd, in a friendly
voice.

"How can a man repent," answered the sad shepherd, "unless he has
hope? But I am sorry for everything, and most of all for living."

"Would you not live to kill the fox Herod?" cried Jotham fiercely.

"Why should I let him out of the trap," answered the sad shepherd. "Is
he not dying more slowly than I could kill him?"

"You must have faith in God," said Zadok earnestly and gravely.

"He is too far away."

"Then you must have love for your neighbour."

"He is too near. My confidence in man was like a pool by the wayside.
It was shallow, but there was water in it, and sometimes a star shone
there. Now the feet of many beasts have trampled through it, and the
jackals have drunken of it, and there is no more water. It is dry and
the mire is caked at the bottom."

"Is there nothing good in the world?"

"There is pleasure, but I am sick of it. There is power, but I hate
it. There is wisdom, but I mistrust it. Life is a game and every
player is for his own hand. Mine is played. I have nothing to win or
lose."

"You are young, you have many years to live."

"I am old, yet the days before me are too many."

"But you travel the road, you go forward. Do you hope for nothing?"

"I hope for nothing," said the sad shepherd. "Yet if one thing should
come to me it might be the beginning of hope. If I saw in man or woman
a deed of kindness without a selfish reason, and a proof of love
gladly given for its own sake only, then might I turn my face toward
that light. Till that comes, how can I have faith in God whom I have
never seen? I have seen the world which he has made, and it brings me
no faith. There is nothing in it."

"Ammiel-ben-Jochanan," said the old man sternly, "you are a son of
Israel, and we have had compassion on you, according to the law. But
you are an apostate, an unbeliever, and we can have no more fellowship
with you, lest a curse come upon us. The company of the desperate
brings misfortune. Go your way and depart from us, for our way is not
yours."

So the sad shepherd thanked them for their entertainment, and took the
little kid again in his arms, and went into the night, calling his
flock. But the youngest shepherd Nathan followed him a few steps and
said:

"There is a broken fold at the foot of the hill. It is old and small,
but you may find a shelter there for your flock where the wind will
not shake you. Go your way with God, brother, and see better days."

Then Ammiel went a little way down the hill and sheltered his flock in
a corner of the crumbling walls. He lay among the sheep and the goats
with his face upon his folded arms, and whether the time passed slowly
or swiftly he did not know, for he slept.

He waked as Nathan came running and stumbling among the scattered
stones.

[Illustration: So the sad shepherd thanked them for their
entertainment.]

"We have seen a vision," he cried, "a wonderful vision of angels. Did
you not hear them? They sang loudly of the Hope of Israel. We are
going to Bethlehem to see this thing which is come to pass. Come
you and keep watch over our sheep while we are gone."

"Of angels I have seen and heard nothing," said Ammiel, "but I will
guard your flocks with mine, since I am in debt to you for bread and
fire."

So he brought the kid in his arms, and the weary flock straggling
after him, to the south wall of the great fold again, and sat there by
the embers at the foot of the tower, while the others were away.

The moon rested like a ball on the edge of the western hills and
rolled behind them. The stars faded in the east and the fires went out
on the Mountain of the Little Paradise. Over the hills of Moab a gray
flood of dawn rose slowly, and arrows of red shot far up before the
sunrise.

The shepherds returned full of joy and told what they had seen.

"It was even as the angels said unto us," said Shama, "and it must be
true. The King of Israel has come. The faithful shall be blessed."

"Herod shall fall," cried Jotham, lifting his clenched fist toward the
dark peaked mountain. "Burn, black Idumean, in the bottomless pit,
where the fire is not quenched."

Zadok spoke more quietly. "We found the new-born child of whom the
angels told us wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. The
ways of God are wonderful. His salvation comes out of darkness. But
you, Ammiel-ben-Jochanan, except you believe, you shall not see it.
Yet since you have kept our flocks faithfully, and because of the joy
that has come to us, I give you this piece of silver to help you on
your way."

But Nathan came close to the sad shepherd and touched him on the
shoulder with a friendly hand. "Go you also to Bethlehem," he said in
a low voice, "for it is good to see what we have seen, and we will
keep your flock until you return."

"I will go," said Ammiel, looking into his face, "for I think you wish
me well. But whether I shall see what you have seen, or whether I
shall ever return, I know not. Farewell."


III

DAWN

The narrow streets of Bethlehem were waking to the first stir of life
as the sad shepherd came into the town with the morning, and passed
through them like one walking in his sleep.

The court-yard of the great khan and the open rooms around it were
crowded with travellers, rousing from their night's rest and making
ready for the day's journey. In front of the stables half hollowed in
the rock beside the inn, men were saddling their horses and their
beasts of burden, and there was much noise and confusion.

But beyond these, at the end of the line, there was a deeper grotto in
the rock, which was used only when the nearer stalls were full. Beside
the entrance of this cave an ass was tethered, and a man of middle age
stood in the doorway.

The sad shepherd saluted him and told his name.

"I am Joseph the carpenter of Nazareth," replied the man. "Have you
also seen the angels of whom your brother shepherds came to tell us?"

"I have seen no angels," answered Ammiel, "nor have I any brothers
among the shepherds. But I would fain see what they have seen."

"It is our first-born son," said Joseph, "and the Most High has sent
him to us. He is a marvellous child: great things are foretold of him.
You may go in, but quietly, for the child and his mother Mary are
asleep."

So the sad shepherd went in quietly. His long shadow entered before
him, for the sunrise was flowing into the door of the grotto. It was
made clean and put in order, and a bed of straw was laid in the corner
on the ground.

The child was asleep, but the young mother was waking, for she had
taken him from the manger into her lap, where her maiden veil of white
was spread to receive him. And she was singing very softly as she bent
over him in wonder and content.

Ammiel saluted her and kneeled down to look at the child. He saw
nothing different from other young children. The mother waited for him
to speak of angels, as the other shepherds had done. The sad shepherd
did not speak, but only looked And as he looked his face changed.

"You have suffered pain and danger and sorrow for his sake," he said
gently.

"They are past," she answered, "and for his sake I have suffered them
gladly."

"He is very little and helpless; you must bear many troubles for his
sake."

"To care for him is my joy, and to bear him lightens my burden."

"He does not know you, he can do nothing for you."

"But I know him. I have carried him under my heart, he is my son and
my king."

"Why do you love him?"

The mother looked up at the sad shepherd with a great reproach in her
soft eyes. Then her look grew pitiful as it rested on his face.

"You are a sorrowful man," she said.

"I am a wicked man," he answered.

She shook her head gently.

"I know nothing of that," she said, "but you must be very sorrowful,
since you are born of a woman and yet you ask a mother why she loves
her child. I love him for love's sake, because God has given him to
me."

So the mother Mary leaned over her little son again and began to croon
a song as if she were alone with him.

But Ammiel was still there, watching and thinking and beginning to
remember. It came back to him that there was a woman in Galilee who
had wept when he was rebuked; whose eyes had followed him when he was
unhappy, as if she longed to do something for him; whose voice had
broken and dropped silent while she covered her tear-stained face when
he went away.

His thoughts flowed swiftly and silently toward her and after her like
rapid waves of light. There was a thought of her bending over a little
child in her lap, singing softly for pure joy,--and the child was
himself. There was a thought of her lifting a little child to the
breast that had borne him as a burden and a pain, to nourish him there
as a comfort and a treasure,--and the child was himself. There was a
thought of her watching and tending and guiding a little child from
day to day, from year to year, putting tender arms around him, bending
over his first wavering steps, rejoicing in his joys, wiping away the
tears from his eyes, as he had never tried to wipe her tears
away,--and the child was himself. She had done everything for the
child's sake, but what had the child done for her sake? And the child
was himself: that was what he had come to,--after the nightfire had
burned out, after the darkness had grown thin and melted in the
thoughts that pulsed through it like rapid waves of light,--that was
what he had come to in the early morning,--himself, a child in his
mother's arms.

Then he arose and went out of the grotto softly, making the three-fold
sign of reverence; and the eyes of Mary followed him with kind looks.

Joseph of Nazareth was still waiting outside the door.

"How was it that you did not see the angels?" he asked. "Were you not
with the other shepherds?"

"No," answered Ammiel, "I was asleep. But I have seen the mother and
the child. Blessed be the house that holds them."

"You are strangely clad for a shepherd," said Joseph. "Where do you
come from?"

"From a far country," replied Ammiel; "from a country that you have
never visited."

"Where are you going now?" asked Joseph.

"I am going home," answered Ammiel, "to my mother's and my father's
house in Galilee."

"Go in peace, friend," said Joseph.

And the sad shepherd took up his battered staff, and went on his way
rejoicing.




THE MANSION

I


There was an air of calm and reserved opulence about the Weightman
mansion that spoke not of money squandered, but of wealth prudently
applied. Standing on a corner of the Avenue no longer fashionable for
residence, it looked upon the swelling tide of business with an
expression of complacency and half-disdain.

The house was not beautiful. There was nothing in its straight front
of chocolate-coloured stone, its heavy cornices, its broad, staring
windows of plate glass, its carved and bronze-bedecked mahogany doors
at the top of the wide stoop, to charm the eye or fascinate the
imagination. But it was eminently respectable, and in its way
imposing. It seemed to say that the glittering shops of the jewellers,
the milliners, the confectioners, the florists, the picture-dealers,
the furriers, the makers of rare and costly antiquities, retail
traders in the luxuries of life, were beneath the notice of a house
that had its foundations in the high finance, and was built literally
and figuratively in the shadow of St. Petronius' Church.

At the same time there was something self-pleased and congratulatory
in the way in which the mansion held its own amid the changing
neighbourhood. It almost seemed to be lifted up a little, among the
tall buildings near at hand, as if it felt the rising value of the
land on which it stood.

John Weightman was like the house into which he had built himself
thirty years ago, and in which his ideals and ambitions were
incrusted. He was a self-made man. But in making himself he had chosen
a highly esteemed pattern and worked according to the approved rules.
There was nothing irregular, questionable, flamboyant about him. He
was solid, correct, and justly successful.

His minor tastes, of course, had been carefully kept up to date. At
the proper time, pictures by the Barbizon masters, old English plate
and portraits, bronzes by Barye and marbles by Rodin, Persian carpets
and Chinese porcelains, had been introduced to the mansion. It
contained a Louis Quinze reception-room, an Empire drawing-room, a
Jacobean dining-room, and various apartments dimly reminiscent of the
styles of furniture affected by deceased monarchs. That the hallways
were too short for the historic perspective did not make much
difference. American decorative art is _capable de tout_, it absorbs
all periods. Of each period Mr. Weightman wished to have something of
the best. He understood its value, present as a certificate, and
prospective as an investment.

It was only in the architecture of his town house that he remained
conservative, immovable, one might almost say Early-Victorian-Christian.
His country house at Dulwich-on-the-Sound was a palace of the Italian
Renaissance. But in town he adhered to an architecture which had moral
associations, the Nineteenth-Century-Brownstone epoch. It was a symbol of
his social position, his religious doctrine, and even, in a way, of his
business creed.

"A man of fixed principles," he would say, "should express them in the
looks of his house. New York changes its domestic architecture too
rapidly. It is like divorce. It is not dignified. I don't like it.
Extravagance and fickleness are advertised in most of these new
houses. I wish to be known for different qualities. Dignity and
prudence are the things that people trust. Every one knows that I can
afford to live in the house that suits me. It is a guarantee to the
public. It inspires confidence. It helps my influence. There is a text
in the Bible about 'a house that hath foundations.' That is the proper
kind of a mansion for a solid man."

Harold Weightman had often listened to his father discoursing in this
fashion on the fundamental principles of life, and always with a
divided mind. He admired immensely his father's talents and the
single-minded energy with which he improved them. But in the paternal
philosophy there was something that disquieted and oppressed the young
man, and made him gasp inwardly for fresh air and free action.

At times, during his college course and his years at the law school,
he had yielded to this impulse and broken away--now toward
extravagance and dissipation, and then, when the reaction came,
toward a romantic devotion to work among the poor. He had felt his
father's disapproval for both of these forms of imprudence; but it was
never expressed in a harsh or violent way, always with a certain
tolerant patience, such as one might show for the mistakes and
vagaries of the very young. John Weightman was not hasty, impulsive,
inconsiderate, even toward his own children. With them, as with the
rest of the world, he felt that he had a reputation to maintain, a
theory to vindicate. He could afford to give them time to see that he
was absolutely right.

One of his favourite Scripture quotations was, "Wait on the Lord." He
had applied it to real estate and to people, with profitable results.

But to human persons the sensation of being waited for is not always
agreeable. Sometimes, especially with the young, it produces a vague
restlessness, a dumb resentment, which is increased by the fact that
one can hardly explain or justify it. Of this John Weightman was not
conscious. It lay beyond his horizon. He did not take it into account
in the plan of life which he made for himself and for his family as
the sharers and inheritors of his success.

"Father plays us," said Harold, in a moment of irritation, to his
mother, "like pieces in a game of chess."

"My dear," said that lady, whose faith in her husband was religious,
"you ought not to speak so impatiently. At least he wins the game. He
is one of the most respected men in New York. And he is very generous,
too."

"I wish he would be more generous in letting us be ourselves," said
the young man. "He always has something in view for us and expects to
move us up to it."

"But isn't it always for our benefit?" replied his mother. "Look what
a position we have. No one can say there is any taint on our money.
There are no rumours about your father. He has kept the laws of God
and of man. He has never made any mistakes."

Harold got up from his chair and poked the fire. Then he came back to
the ample, well-gowned, firm-looking lady, and sat beside her on the
sofa. He took her hand gently and looked at the two rings--a thin band
of gold, and a small solitaire diamond--which kept their place on her
third finger in modest dignity, as if not shamed, but rather
justified, by the splendour of the emerald which glittered beside
them.

"Mother," he said, "you have a wonderful hand, and father made no
mistake when he won you. But are you sure he has always been so
inerrant?"

"Harold," she exclaimed, a little stiffly, "what do you mean? His life
is an open book."

"Oh," he answered, "I don't mean anything bad, mother dear. I know the
governor's life is an open book--a ledger, if you like, kept in the
best book-keeping hand, and always ready for inspection--every page
correct, and showing a handsome balance. But isn't it a mistake not to
allow us to make our own mistakes, to learn for ourselves, to live our
own lives? Must we be always working for 'the balance,' in one thing
or another? I want to be myself,--to get outside of this everlasting,
profitable 'plan,'--to let myself go, and lose myself for a while at
least,--to do the things that I want to do, just because I want to do
them."

"My boy," said his mother, anxiously, "you are not going to do
anything wrong or foolish? You know the falsehood of that old proverb
about wild oats."

He threw back his head and laughed. "Yes, mother," he answered, "I
know it well enough. But in California, you know, the wild oats are
one of the most valuable crops. They grow all over the hillsides and
keep the cattle and the horses alive. But that wasn't what I meant--to
sow wild oats. Say to pick wild flowers, if you like, or even to chase
wild geese--to do something that seems good to me just for its own
sake, not for the sake of wages of one kind or another. I feel like a
hired man, in the service of this magnificent mansion--say in training
for father's place as major-domo. I'd like to get out some way, to
feel free--perhaps to do something for others."

The young man's voice hesitated a little. "Yes, it sounds like cant, I
know, but sometimes I feel as if I'd like to do some good in the
world, if father only wouldn't insist upon God's putting it into the
ledger."

His mother moved uneasily, and a slight look of bewilderment came into
her face.

"Isn't that almost irreverent?" she asked. "Surely the righteous must
have their reward. And your father is good. See how much he gives to
all the established charities, how many things he has founded. He's
always thinking of others, and planning for them. And surely, for us
he does everything. How well he has planned this trip to Europe for me
and the girls--the court-presentation at Berlin, the season on the
Riviera, the visits in England with the Plumptons and the
Halverstones. He says Lord Halverstone has the finest old house in
Sussex, pure Elizabethan, and all the old customs are kept up,
too--family prayers every morning for all the domestics. By-the-way,
you know his son Bertie, I believe."

Harold smiled a little to himself as he answered: "Yes, I fished at
Catalina Island last June with the Honorable Ethelbert; he's rather a
decent chap, in spite of his in-growing mind. But you?--mother, you
are simply magnificent! You are father's masterpiece." The young man
leaned over to kiss her, and went up to the Riding Club for his
afternoon canter in the Park.

So it came to pass, early in December, that Mrs. Weightman and her two
daughters sailed for Europe, on their serious pleasure trip, even as
it had been written in the book of Providence; and John Weightman, who
had made the entry, was left to pass the rest of the winter with his
son and heir in the brownstone mansion.

They were comfortable enough. The machinery of the massive
establishment ran as smoothly as a great electric dynamo. They were
busy enough, too. John Weightman's plans and enterprises were
complicated, though his principle of action was always simple--to get
good value for every expenditure and effort. The banking-house of
which he was the brain, the will, the absolutely controlling hand, was
so admirably organised that the details of its direction took but
little time. But the scores of other interests that radiated from it
and were dependent upon it,--or perhaps it would be more accurate to
say, that contributed to its solidity and success,--the many
investments, industrial, political, benevolent, reformatory,
ecclesiastical, that had made the name of Weightman well known and
potent in city, church, and state, demanded much attention and careful
steering, in order that each might produce the desired result. There
were board meetings of corporations and hospitals, conferences in Wall
Street and at Albany, consultations and committee meetings in the
brownstone mansion.

For a share in all this business and its adjuncts John Weightman had
his son in training in one of the famous law firms of the city; for he
held that banking itself is a simple affair, the only real
difficulties of finance are on its legal side. Meantime he wished the
young man to meet and know the men with whom he would have to deal
when he became a partner in the house. So a couple of dinners were
given in the mansion during December, after which the father called
his son's attention to the fact that over a hundred million dollars
had sat around the board.

But on Christmas Eve father and son were dining together without
guests, and their talk across the broad table, glittering with silver
and cut glass, and softly lit by shaded candles, was intimate, though
a little slow at times. The elder man was in rather a rare mood, more
expansive and confidential than usual; and, when the coffee was
brought in and they were left alone, he talked more freely of his
personal plans and hopes than he had ever done before.

"I feel very grateful to-night," said he, at last; "it must be
something in the air of Christmas that gives me this feeling of
thankfulness for the many mercies that have been bestowed upon me. All
the principles by which I have tried to guide my life have been
justified. I have never made the value of this salted almond by
anything that the courts would not uphold, at least in the long run,
and yet--or wouldn't it be truer to say and therefore?--my affairs
have been wonderfully prospered. There's a great deal in that text
'Honesty is the best'--but no, that's not from the Bible, after all,
is it? Wait a moment; there is something of that kind, I know."

"May I light a cigar, father," said Harold, turning away to hide a
smile, "while you are remembering the text?"

"Yes, certainly," answered the elder man, rather shortly; "you know I
don't dislike the smell. But it is a wasteful, useless habit, and
therefore I have never practised it. Nothing useless is worth while,
that's my motto--nothing that does not bring a reward. Oh, now I
recall the text, 'Verily I say unto you, they have their reward.' I
shall ask Doctor Snodgrass to preach a sermon on that verse some day."

"Using you as an illustration?"

"Well, not exactly that; but I could give him some good material from
my own experience to prove the truth of Scripture. I can honestly say
that there is not one of my charities that has not brought me in a
good return, either in the increase of influence, the building up of
credit, or the association with substantial people. Of course you have
to be careful how you give, in order to secure the best results--no
indiscriminate giving--no pennies in beggars' hats! It has been one of
my principles always to use the same kind of judgment in charities
that I use in my other affairs, and they have not disappointed me."

"Even the check that you put in the plate when you take the offertory
up the aisle on Sunday morning?"

"Certainly; though there the influence is less direct; and I must
confess that I have my doubts in regard to the collection for Foreign
Missions. That always seems to me romantic and wasteful. You never
hear from it in any definite way. They say the missionaries have done
a good deal to open the way for trade; perhaps--but they have also
gotten us into commercial and political difficulties. Yet I give to
them--a little--it is a matter of conscience with me to identify
myself with all the enterprises of the Church; it is the mainstay of
social order and a prosperous civilisation. But the best forms of
benevolence are the well-established, organised ones here at home,
where people can see them and know what they are doing."

"You mean the ones that have a local habitation and a name."

"Yes; they offer by far the safest return, though of course there is
something gained by contributing to general funds. A public man can't
afford to be without public spirit. But on the whole I prefer a
building, or an endowment. There is a mutual advantage to a good name
and a good institution in their connection in the public mind. It
helps them both. Remember that, my boy. Of course at the beginning you
will have to practise it in a small way; later, you will have larger
opportunities. But try to put your gifts where they can be identified
and do good all around. You'll see the wisdom of it in the long run."

"I can see it already, sir, and the way you describe it looks
amazingly wise and prudent. In other words, we must cast our bread on
the waters in large loaves, carried by sound ships marked with the
owner's name, so that the return freight will be sure to come back to
us."

The father laughed, but his eyes were frowning a little as if he
suspected something irreverent under the respectful reply.

"You put it humourously, but there's sense in what you say. Why not?
God rules the sea; but He expects us to follow the laws of navigation
and commerce. Why not take good care of your bread, even when you give
it away?"

"It's not for me to say why not--and yet I can think of cases--" The
young man hesitated for a moment. His half-finished cigar had gone
out. He rose and tossed it into the fire, in front of which he
remained standing--a slender, eager, restless young figure, with a
touch of hunger in the fine face, strangely like and unlike the
father, at whom he looked with half-wistful curiosity.

"The fact is, sir," he continued, "there is such a case in my mind
now. So I thought of speaking to you about it to-night. You remember
Tom Rollins, the Junior who was so good to me when I entered college?"

The father nodded. He remembered very well indeed the annoying
incidents of his son's first escapade, and how Rollins had stood by
him and helped to avoid a public disgrace, and how a close friendship
had grown between the two boys, so different in their fortunes.

"Yes," he said, "I remember him. He was a promising young man. Has he
succeeded?"

"Not exactly--that is, not yet. His business has been going rather
badly. He has a wife and little baby, you know. And now he has broken
down,--something wrong with his lungs. The doctor says his only chance
is a year or eighteen months in Colorado. I wish we could help him."

"How much would it cost?"

"Three or four thousand, perhaps, as a loan."

"Does the doctor say he will get well?"

"A fighting chance--the doctor says."

The face of the older man changed subtly. Not a line was altered, but
it seemed to have a different substance, as if it were carved out of
some firm imperishable stuff.

"A fighting chance," he said, "may do for a speculation, but it is not
a good investment. You owe something to young Rollins. Your grateful
feeling does you credit. But don't overwork it. Send him three or four
hundred, if you like. You'll never hear from it again, except in the
letter of thanks. But for Heaven's sake don't be sentimental.
Religion is not a matter of sentiment; it's a matter of principle."

The face of the younger man changed now. But instead of becoming fixed
and graven, it seemed to melt into life. His nostrils quivered with
quick breath, his lips were curled.

"Principle!" he said. "You mean principal--and interest too. Well,
sir, you know best whether that is religion or not. But if it is,
count me out, please. Tom saved me from going to the devil, six years
ago; and I'll be damned if I don't help him to the best of my ability
now."

John Weightman looked at his son steadily. "Harold," he said at last,
"you know I dislike violent language, and it never has any influence
with me. If I could honestly approve of this proposition of yours, I'd
let you have the money; but I can't; it's extravagant and useless. But
you have your Christmas check for a thousand dollars coming to you
to-morrow. You can use it as you please. I never interfere with your
private affairs."

"Thank you," said Harold. "Thank you very much! But there's another
private affair. I want to get away from this life, this town, this
house. It stifles me. You refused last summer when I asked you to let
me go up to Grenfell's Mission on the Labrador. I could go now, at
least as far as the Newfoundland Station. Have you changed your mind?"

"Not at all. I think it is an exceedingly foolish enterprise. It would
interrupt the career that I have marked out for you."

"Well, then, here's a cheaper proposition. Algy Vanderhoof wants me to
join him on his yacht with--well, with a little party--to cruise in
the West Indies. Would you prefer that?"

"Certainly not! The Vanderhoof set is wild and godless--I do not wish
to see you keeping company with fools who walk in the broad and easy
way that leads to perdition."

"It is rather a hard choice," said the young man, with a short laugh,
turning toward the door. "According to you there's very little
difference--a fool's paradise or a fool's hell! Well, it's one or the
other for me, and I'll toss up for it to-night: heads, I lose; tails,
the devil wins. Anyway, I'm sick of this, and I'm out of it."

"Harold," said the older man (and there was a slight tremor in his
voice), "don't let us quarrel on Christmas Eve. All I want is to
persuade you to think seriously of the duties and responsibilities to
which God has called you. Don't speak lightly of heaven and hell.
Remember, there is another life."

The young man came back and laid his hand upon his father's shoulder.

"Father," he said, "I want to remember it. I try to believe in it. But
somehow or other, in this house, it all seems unreal to me. No doubt
all you say is perfectly right and wise. I don't venture to argue
against it, but I can't feel it--that's all. If I'm to have a soul,
either to lose or to save, I must really live. Just now neither the
present nor the future means anything to me. But surely we won't
quarrel. I'm very grateful to you, and we'll part friends. Good-night,
sir."

The father held out his hand in silence. The heavy portiere dropped
noiselessly behind the son, and he went up the wide, curving stairway
to his own room.

Meantime John Weightman sat in his carved chair in the Jacobean
dining-room. He felt strangely old and dull. The portraits of
beautiful women by Lawrence and Reynolds and Raeburn, which had often
seemed like real company to him, looked remote and uninteresting. He
fancied something cold and almost unfriendly in their expression, as
if they were staring through him or beyond him. They cared nothing for
his principles, his hopes, his disappointments, his successes; they
belonged to another world, in which he had no place. At this he felt a
vague resentment, a sense of discomfort that he could not have defined
or explained. He was used to being considered, respected, appreciated
at his full value in every region, even in that of his own dreams.

Presently he rang for the butler, telling him to close the house and
not to sit up, and walked with lagging steps into the long library,
where the shaded lamps were burning. His eye fell upon the low shelves
full of costly books, but he had no desire to open them. Even the
carefully chosen pictures that hung above them seemed to have lost
their attraction. He paused for a moment before an idyll of Corot--a
dance of nymphs around some forgotten altar in a vaporous glade--and
looked at it curiously. There was something rapturous and serene about
the picture, a breath of spring-time in the misty trees, a harmony of
joy in the dancing figures, that wakened in him a feeling of half
pleasure and half envy. It represented something that he had never
known in his calculated, orderly life. He was dimly mistrustful of it.

"It is certainly very beautiful," he thought, "but it is distinctly
pagan; that altar is built to some heathen god. It does not fit into
the scheme of a Christian life. I doubt whether it is consistent with
the tone of my house. I will sell it this winter. It will bring three
or four times what I paid for it. That was a good purchase, a very
good bargain."

He dropped into the revolving chair before his big library table. It
was covered with pamphlets and reports of the various enterprises in
which he was interested. There was a pile of newspaper clippings in
which his name was mentioned with praise for his sustaining power as a
pillar of finance, for his judicious benevolence, for his support of
wise and prudent reform movements, for his discretion in making
permanent public gifts--"the Weightman Charities," one very
complaisant editor called them, as if they deserved classification as
a distinct species.

He turned the papers over listlessly. There was a description and a
picture of the "Weightman Wing of the Hospital for Cripples," of which
he was president; and an article on the new professor in the
"Weightman Chair of Political Jurisprudence" in Jackson University, of
which he was a trustee; and an illustrated account of the opening of
the "Weightman Grammar-School" at Dulwich-on-the-Sound, where he had
his legal residence for purposes of taxation.

This last was perhaps the most carefully planned of all the Weightman
Charities. He desired to win the confidence and support of his rural
neighbours. It had pleased him much when the local newspaper had
spoken of him as an ideal citizen and the logical candidate for the
Governorship of the State; but upon the whole it seemed to him wiser
to keep out of active politics. It would be easier and better to put
Harold into the running, to have him sent to the Legislature from the
Dulwich district, then to the national House, then to the Senate. Why
not? The Weightman interests were large enough to need a direct
representative and guardian at Washington.

But to-night all these plans came back to him with dust upon them.
They were dry and crumbling like forsaken habitations. The son upon
whom his complacent ambition had rested had turned his back upon the
mansion of his father's hopes. The break might not be final; and in
any event there would be much to live for; the fortunes of the family
would be secure. But the zest of it all would be gone if John
Weightman had to give up the assurance of perpetuating his name and
his principles in his son. It was a bitter disappointment, and he felt
that he had not deserved it.

He rose from the chair and paced the room with leaden feet. For the
first time in his life his age was visibly upon him. His head was
heavy and hot, and the thoughts that rolled in it were confused and
depressing. Could it be that he had made a mistake in the principles
of his existence? There was no argument in what Harold had said, it
was almost childish, and yet it had shaken the elder man more deeply
than he cared to show. It held a silent attack which touched him more
than open criticism.

Suppose the end of his life were nearer than he thought--the end must
come sometime--what if it were now? Had he not founded his house upon
a rock? Had he not kept the Commandments? Was he not, "touching the
law, blameless"? And beyond this, even if there were some faults in
his character--and all men are sinners--yet he surely believed in the
saving doctrines of religion--the forgiveness of sins, the
resurrection of the body, the life everlasting. Yes, that was the true
source of comfort, after all. He would read a bit in the Bible, as he
did every night, and go to bed and to sleep.

He went back to his chair at the library table. A strange weight of
weariness rested upon him, but he opened the book at a familiar place,
and his eyes fell upon the verse at the bottom of the page.

    "_Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth._"

That had been the text of the sermon a few weeks before. Sleepily,
heavily, he tried to fix his mind upon it and recall it. What was it
that Doctor Snodgrass had said? Ah, yes--that it was a mistake to
pause here in reading the verse. We must read on without a pause--_Lay
not up treasures upon earth where moth and rust do corrupt and where
thieves break through and steal_--that was the true doctrine. We may
have treasures upon earth, but they must not be put into unsafe
places, but into safe places. A most comforting doctrine! He had
always followed it. Moths and rust and thieves had done no harm to his
investments.

John Weightman's drooping eyes turned to the next verse, at the top of
the second column.

    "_But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven._"

Now what had the Doctor said about that? How was it to be
understood--in what sense--treasures--in heaven?

The book seemed to float away from him. The light vanished. He
wondered dimly if this could be Death, coming so suddenly, so quietly,
so irresistibly. He struggled for a moment to hold himself up, and
then sank slowly forward upon the table. His head rested upon his
folded hands. He slipped into the unknown.


II

How long afterward conscious life returned to him he did not know. The
blank might have been an hour or a century. He knew only that
something had happened in the interval. What it was he could not tell.
He found great difficulty in catching the thread of his identity
again. He felt that he was himself; but the trouble was to make his
connections, to verify and place himself, to know who and where he
was.

At last it grew clear. John Weightman was sitting on a stone, not far
from a road in a strange land.

The road was not a formal highway, fenced and graded. It was more like
a great travel-trace, worn by thousands of feet passing across the
open country in the same direction. Down in the valley, into which he
could look, the road seemed to form itself gradually out of many minor
paths; little footways coming across the meadows, winding tracks
following along beside the streams, faintly marked trails emerging
from the woodlands. But on the hillside the threads were more firmly
woven into one clear band of travel, though there were still a few dim
paths joining it here and there, as if persons had been climbing up
the hill by other ways and had turned at last to seek the road.

From the edge of the hill, where John Weightman sat, he could see the
travellers, in little groups or larger companies, gathering from time
to time by the different paths, and making the ascent. They were all
clothed in white, and the form of their garments was strange to him;
it was like some old picture. They passed him, group after group,
talking quietly together or singing; not moving in haste, but with a
certain air of eagerness and joy as if they were glad to be on their
way to an appointed place. They did not stay to speak to him, but they
looked at him often and spoke to one another as they looked; and now
and then one of them would smile and beckon him a friendly greeting,
so that he felt they would like him to be with them.

There was quite an interval between the groups; and he followed each
of them with his eyes as it passed along the ribbon of the road rising
and receding across the wide, billowy upland, among the rounded
hillocks of aerial green and gold and lilac, until it came to the high
horizon, and stood outlined for a moment, a tiny cloud of white
against the tender blue, before it vanished over the hill.

For a long time he sat there watching and wondering. It was a very
different world from that in which his mansion on the Avenue was
built; and it looked strange to him, but most real--as real as
anything he had ever seen. Presently he felt a strong desire to know
what country it was and where the people were going. He had a faint
premonition of what it must be, but he wished to be sure. So he rose
from the stone where he was sitting, and came down through the short
grass and the lavender flowers, toward a passing group of people. One
of them turned to meet him, and held out his hand. It was an old man,
under whose white beard and brows John Weightman thought he saw a
suggestion of the face of the village doctor who had cared for him
years ago, when he was a boy in the country.

"Welcome," said the old man. "Will you come with us?"

"Where are you going?"

"To the heavenly city, to see our mansions there."

"And who are these with you?"

"Strangers to me until a little while ago; I know them better now. But
I have known you for a long time, John Weightman. Don't you remember
your old doctor?"

"Yes," he cried--"yes; your voice has not changed at all. I'm glad
indeed to see you, Doctor McLean, especially now. All this seems very
strange to me, almost oppressive. I wonder if--but may I go with you,
do you suppose?"

"Surely," answered the doctor, with his familiar smile; "it will do
you good. And you also must have a mansion in the city waiting for
you--a fine one, too--are you not looking forward to it?"

"Yes," replied the other, hesitating a moment: "yes--I believe it must
be so, although I had not expected to see it so soon. But I will go
with you, and we can talk by the way."

The two men quickly caught up with the other people, and all went
forward together along the road. The doctor had little to tell of his
experience, for it had been a plain, hard life, uneventfully spent for
others, and the story of the village was very simple. John Weightman's
adventures and triumphs would have made a far richer, more imposing
history, full of contacts with the great events and personages of the
time. But somehow or other he did not care to speak much about it,
walking on that wide heavenly moorland, under that tranquil, sunless
arch of blue, in that free air of perfect peace, where the light was
diffused without a shadow, as if the spirit of life in all things were
luminous.

There was only one person except the doctor in that little company
whom John Weightman had known before--an old book-keeper who had spent
his life over a desk, carefully keeping accounts--a rusty, dull little
man, patient and narrow, whose wife had been in the insane asylum for
twenty years and whose only child was a crippled daughter, for whose
comfort and happiness he had toiled and sacrificed himself without
stint. It was a surprise to find him here, as care-free and joyful as
the rest.

The lives of others in the company were revealed in brief glimpses as
they talked together--a mother, early widowed, who had kept her little
flock of children together and laboured through hard and heavy years
to bring them up in purity and knowledge--a Sister of Charity who had
devoted herself to the nursing of poor folk who were being eaten to
death by cancer--a schoolmaster whose heart and life had been poured
into his quiet work of training boys for a clean and thoughtful
manhood--a medical missionary who had given up a brilliant career in
science to take the charge of a hospital in darkest Africa--a
beautiful woman with silver hair who had resigned her dreams of love
and marriage to care for an invalid father, and after his death had
made her life a long, steady search for ways of doing kindnesses to
others--a poet who had walked among the crowded tenements of the great
city, bringing cheer and comfort not only by his songs, but by his
wise and patient works of practical aid--a paralysed woman who had
lain for thirty years upon her bed, helpless but not hopeless,
succeeding by a miracle of courage in her single aim, never to
complain, but always to impart a bit of her joy and peace to every one
who came near her. All these, and other persons like them, people of
little consideration in the world, but now seemingly all full of great
contentment and an inward gladness that made their steps light, were
in the company that passed along the road, talking together of things
past and things to come, and singing now and then with clear voices
from which the veil of age and sorrow was lifted.

John Weightman joined in some of the songs--which were familiar to him
from their use in the church--at first with a touch of hesitation, and
then more confidently. For as they went on his sense of strangeness
and fear at his new experience diminished, and his thoughts began to
take on their habitual assurance and complacency. Were not these
people going to the Celestial City? And was not he in his right place
among them? He had always looked forward to this journey. If they
were sure, each one, of finding a mansion there, could not he be far
more sure? His life had been more fruitful than theirs. He had been a
leader, a founder of new enterprises, a pillar of Church and State, a
prince of the House of Israel. Ten talents had been given him, and he
had made them twenty. His reward would be proportionate. He was glad
that his companions were going to find fit dwellings prepared for
them; but he thought also with a certain pleasure of the surprise that
some of them would feel when they saw his appointed mansion.

So they came to the summit of the moorland and looked over into the
world beyond. It was a vast green plain, softly rounded like a shallow
vase, and circled with hills of amethyst. A broad, shining river
flowed through it, and many silver threads of water were woven across
the green; and there were borders of tall trees on the banks of the
river, and orchards full of roses abloom along the little streams, and
in the midst of all stood the city, white and wonderful.

When the travellers saw it they were filled with awe and joy. They
passed over the little streams and among the orchards quickly and
silently, as if they feared to speak lest the city should vanish.

The wall of the city was very low, a child could see over it, for it
was made only of precious stones. The gate of the city was not like a
gate at all, for it was not barred with iron or wood, but only a
single pearl, softly gleaming, marked the place where the wall ended
and the entrance lay open.

A person stood there whose face was bright and grave, and whose robe
was like the flower of the lily, not a woven fabric, but a living
texture.

"Come in," he said to the company of travellers; "you are at your
journey's end, and your mansions are ready for you."

John Weightman hesitated, for he was troubled by a doubt. Suppose that
he was not really, like his companions, at his journey's end, but only
transported for a little while out of the regular course of his life
into this mysterious experience? Suppose that, after all, he had not
really passed through the door of death, like these others, but was
walking in a vision, a living man among the blessed dead. Would it be
right for him to go with them into the heavenly city? Would it not be
a deception, a desecration, a deep and unforgivable offence? The
strange, confusing question had no reason in it, as he very well knew;
for if he was dreaming, then it was all a dream; but if his companions
were real, then he also was with them in reality, and if they had died
then he must have died too. Yet he could not rid his mind of the sense
that there was a difference between them and him, and it made him
afraid to go on. But, as he paused and turned, the Keeper of the Gate
looked straight and deep into his eyes, and beckoned to him. Then he
knew that it was not only right but necessary that he should enter.

They passed from street to street among fair and spacious dwellings,
set in amaranthine gardens, and adorned with an infinitely varied
beauty of divine simplicity. The mansions differed in size, in shape,
in charm: each one seemed to have its own personal look of loveliness;
yet all were alike in fitness to their place, in harmony with one
another, in the addition which each made to the singular and tranquil
splendour of the city.

As the little company came, one by one, to the mansions which were
prepared for them, and their Guide beckoned to the happy inhabitant to
enter in and take possession, there was a soft murmur of joy, half
wonder and half recognition; as if the new and immortal dwelling were
crowned with the beauty of surprise, lovelier and nobler than all the
dreams of it; and yet also as if it were touched with the beauty of
the familiar, the remembered, the long-loved. One after another the
travellers were led to their own mansions, and went in gladly; and
from within, through the open doorways, came sweet voices of welcome,
and low laughter, and song.

At last there was no one left with the Guide but the two old friends,
Doctor McLean and John Weightman. They were standing in front of one
of the largest and fairest of the houses, whose garden glowed softly
with radiant flowers. The Guide laid his hand upon the doctor's
shoulder.

"This is for you," he said. "Go in; there is no more sickness here,
no more death, nor sorrow, nor pain; for your old enemies are all
conquered. But all the good that you have done for others, all the
help that you have given, all the comfort that you have brought, all
the strength and love that you have bestowed upon the suffering, are
here; for we have built them all into this mansion for you."

The good man's face was lighted with a still joy. He clasped his old
friend's hand closely, and whispered: "How wonderful it is! Go on, you
will come to your mansion next, it is not far away, and we shall see
each other again soon, very soon."

So he went through the garden, and into the music within. The Keeper
of the Gate turned to John Weightman with level, quiet, searching
eyes. Then he asked, gravely:

"Where do you wish me to lead you now?"

"To see my own mansion," answered the man, with half-concealed
excitement. "Is there not one here for me? You may not let me enter it
yet, perhaps, for I must confess to you that I am only----"

"I know," said the Keeper of the Gate--"I know it all. You are John
Weightman."

"Yes," said the man, more firmly than he had spoken at first, for it
gratified him that his name was known. "Yes, I am John Weightman,
Senior Warden of St. Petronius' Church. I wish very much to see my
mansion here. I believe that you have one for me. Will you take me to
it?"

The Keeper of the Gate drew a little book from the breast of his robe
and turned over the pages.

"Certainly," he said, with a curious look at the man, "your name is
here; and you shall see your mansion if you will follow me."

It seemed as if they must have walked miles and miles through the vast
city, passing street after street of houses larger and smaller, of
gardens richer and poorer, but all full of beauty and delight. They
came into a kind of suburb, where there were many small cottages, with
plots of flowers, very lowly, but bright and fragrant. Finally they
reached an open field, bare and lonely-looking. There were two or
three little bushes in it, without flowers, and the grass was sparse
and thin. In the centre of the field was a tiny hut, hardly big enough
for a shepherd's shelter. It looked as if it had been built of
discarded things, scraps and fragments of other buildings, put
together with care and pains, by some one who had tried to make the
most of cast-off material. There was something pitiful and shamefaced
about the hut. It shrank and drooped in its barren field, and seemed
to cling only by sufferance to the edge of the splendid city.

"This," said the Keeper of the Gate, standing still and speaking with
a low, distinct voice--"this is your mansion, John Weightman."

An almost intolerable shock of grieved wonder and indignation choked
the man for a moment so that he could not say a word. Then he turned
his face away from the poor little hut and began to remonstrate
eagerly with his companion.

"Surely, sir," he stammered, "you must be in error about this. There
is something wrong--some other John Weightman--a confusion of
names--the book must be incorrect."

"There is no mistake," said the Keeper of the Gate very calmly; "here
is your name, the record of your title and your possessions in this
place."

"But how could such a house be prepared for me," cried the man with a
resentful tremor in his voice--"for me, after my long and faithful
service? Is this a suitable mansion for one so well known and devoted?
Why is it so pitifully small and mean? Why have you not built it large
and fair, like the others?"

"That is all the material you sent us."

"What!"

"We have used all the material that you sent us," repeated the Keeper
of the Gate.

"Now I know that you are mistaken," cried the man with growing
earnestness, "for all my life long I have been doing things that must
have supplied you with material. Have you not heard that I have built
a school-house; the wing of a hospital; two--yes, three--small
churches, and the greater part of a large one, the spire of St.
Petro----"

The Keeper of the Gate lifted his hand.

"Wait," he said; "we know all these things. They were not ill done.
But they were all marked and used as foundations for the name and
mansion of John Weightman in the world. Did you not plan them for
that?"

"Yes," answered the man, confused and taken aback, "I confess that I
thought often of them in that way. Perhaps my heart was set upon that
too much. But there are other things--my endowment for the college--my
steady and liberal contributions to all the established charities--my
support of every respectable----"

"Wait," said the Keeper of the Gate again. "Were not all these
carefully recorded on earth where they would add to your credit? They
were not foolishly done. Verily, you have had your reward for them.
Would you be paid twice?"

"No," cried the man, with deepening dismay, "I dare not claim that. I
acknowledge that I considered my own interest too much. But surely not
altogether. You have said that these things were not foolishly done.
They accomplished some good in the world. Does not that count for
something?"

"Yes," answered the Keeper of the Gate, "it counts in the world--where
you counted it. But it does not belong to you here. We have saved and
used everything that you sent us. This is the mansion prepared for
you."

As he spoke, his look grew deeper and more searching, like a flame of
fire. John Weightman could not endure it. It seemed to strip him naked
and wither him. He sank to the ground under a crushing weight of
shame, covering his eyes with his hands and cowering, face downward,
upon the stones. Dimly through the trouble of his mind he felt their
hardness and coldness.

"Tell me, then," he cried, brokenly, "since my life has been so little
worth, how came I here at all?"

"Through the mercy of the King"--the answer was like the soft tolling
of a bell.

"And how have I earned it?" he murmured.

"It is never earned; it is only given," came the clear, low reply.

"But how have I failed so wretchedly," he asked, "in all the purpose
of my life? What could I have done better? What is it that counts
here?"

"Only that which is truly given," answered the bell-like voice. "Only
that good which is done for the love of doing it. Only those plans in
which the welfare of others is the master thought. Only those labours
in which the sacrifice is greater than the reward. Only those gifts
in which the giver forgets himself."

The man lay silent. A great weakness, an unspeakable despondency and
humiliation were upon him. But the face of the Keeper of the Gate was
infinitely tender as he bent over him.

"Think again, John Weightman. Has there been nothing like that in your
life?"

"Nothing," he sighed. "If there ever were such things, it must have
been long ago--they were all crowded out--I have forgotten them."

There was an ineffable smile on the face of the Keeper of the Gate,
and his hand made the sign of the cross over the bowed head as he
spoke gently:

"These are the things that the King never forgets; and because there
were a few of these in your life, you have a little place here."

       *       *       *       *       *

The sense of coldness and hardness under John Weightman's hands grew
sharper and more distinct. The feeling of bodily weariness and
lassitude weighed upon him, but there was a calm, almost a lightness
in his heart as he listened to the fading vibrations of the silvery
bell-tones. The chimney clock on the mantel had just ended the last
stroke of seven as he lifted his head from the table. Thin, pale
strips of the city morning were falling into the room through the
narrow partings of the heavy curtains.

What was it that had happened to him? Had he been ill? Had he died and
come to life again? Or had he only slept, and had his soul gone
visiting in dreams? He sat for some time, motionless, not lost, but
finding himself in thought. Then he took a narrow book from the table
drawer, wrote a check, and tore it out.

He went slowly up the stairs, knocked very softly at his son's door,
and, hearing no answer, entered without noise. Harold was asleep, his
bare arm thrown above his head, and his eager face relaxed in peace.
His father looked at him a moment with strangely shining eyes, and
then tiptoed quietly to the writing-desk, found a pencil and a sheet
of paper, and wrote rapidly:

"My dear boy, here is what you asked me for; do what you like with it
and ask for more if you need it. If you are still thinking of that
work with Grenfell, we'll talk it over to-day after church. I want to
know your heart better; and if I have made mistakes----"

A slight noise made him turn his head. Harold was sitting up in bed
with wide-open eyes.

"Father!" he cried, "is that you?"

"Yes, my son," answered John Weightman; "I've come back--I mean I've
come up--no, I mean come in--well, here I am, and God give us a good
Christmas together."

       *       *       *       *       *




BY HENRY VAN DYKE

The Valley of Vision
Fighting for Peace
The Unknown Quantity
The Ruling Passion
The Blue Flower

Camp-Fires and Guide-Posts
Out-of-Doors in the Holy Land
Days Off
Little Rivers
Fisherman's Luck

Poems, Collection in one volume

Golden Stars
The Red Flower
The Grand Canyon, and Other Poems
The White Bees, and Other Poems
The Builders, and Other Poems
Music, and Other Poems
The Toiling of Felix, and Other Poems
The House of Rimmon

Studies in Tennyson
Poems of Tennyson

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

       *       *       *       *       *