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  _The Hypnotic
  Experiment of
  Dr. Reeves_

  _And other Stories_


[Illustration]




                                  THE
                          HYPNOTIC EXPERIMENT
                                   OF
                               DR. REEVES
                           And other Stories


                                   BY

                       _CHARLOTTE ROSALYS JONES_


                                 London
                        BLISS, SANDS AND FOSTER
                         CRAVEN STREET, STRAND
                                  1894




                                   I.
                 The Hypnotic Experiment of Dr. Reeves.


Dr. Edward Reeves, the celebrated Rheumatism Specialist, is not a
favourite with the members of his profession. His methods of treatment
being unknown, coupled with his refusal as yet to divulge them, have
given his enemies and rivals a chance to accuse him of charlatanism; but
to the great rheumatic public he has become a demi-god; and as long as
our changeable climate continues to nurture this disease, his
idiosyncrasies will be overlooked by the multitudes whom he relieves.

In his genial moods, the doctor tells many curious anecdotes, and how
some of his daring experiments were made under rather romantic
circumstances. One of the strangest of them can best be told in his own
language:

“Some time ago, I had, among my patients, a young man who interested me
from the first. He came to my private hospital for treatment of a severe
form of rheumatism of the heart; he was attended by a younger brother,
whose devotion struck me as remarkable, until I became better acquainted
with the invalid, and discovered how worthy he was of it all. He seldom
spoke of himself, except his one great desire to get rid of the subtle
disease that overshadowed his life, and he seemed anxious to aid me in
every way with the treatment Evidently wealthy, gifted, and just about
eight-and-twenty, it seemed almost impossible to believe his bright
young life was constantly threatened by the convulsive attacks which had
become more and more frequent.

“Unlike most of my patients afflicted by the same trouble, he did not
respond to the usual remedies; and I realized that if his life were
saved at all it must be by employing heroic measures. However, sure that
the disease was lessening its hold in general, and only needed driving
away from a vital point, I awaited developments.

“Late one evening, as I was seated in my study, puzzling my brain with
some questions of hypnotic influence over patients at critical moments,
my night bell rang. I went to the door myself, and found there the nurse
of my young friend, who told me my presence was desired at once, as the
most alarming symptoms had reappeared. Stepping back for my hat, my eyes
fell upon the book of _Experiments in Hypnotism_, which an old Professor
in Paris had sent me, remembering my absorbing interest in Charcot’s
specialty, and a certain power I had developed when a student in the
Latin quarter. This power I had used to tranquillise nervous patients,
or to play practical jokes on my friends, after the manner of most young
medical students who discover they have any skill in this direction. An
idea occurred to me—Why not inoculate my patient with the powerful
amount of virus required to drive the disease finally from the dangerous
region of the heart, _while he is in a hypnotic condition_?

“In an instant after, all the perils of the situation presented
themselves: Do remedies act if the patient is under this influence? Will
the final result be the desired one? Providing the pain be temporarily
stilled, would it re-occur after the hypnotic influence had been
removed?

“These and other doubts so disturbed me, that on my way to the hospital
I determined to avoid taking any such measures, unless I found the
patient actually dying.

“As I entered, I was met by the brother. He seemed plunged in despair.

“‘He is going fast, doctor,’ he said. ‘Can you do nothing?’

“Without a word I stepped to the bedside. I found my worst fears
realized. At a glance I saw he would not survive the night unless the
frightful spasms that were fast sapping his strength were arrested.

“As I took his hand and felt his pulse, he looked up past me at his
brother, and gasped the one word ‘Annie.’

“‘Whom does he want?’ I asked.

“‘His _fiancée_, doctor. My brother was to have been married in a month;
but when he knew that he was threatened with a probably fatal disease,
he begged me to help him quite secretly to try this last chance for
recovery; and so, although he is within a mile of his own house and that
of his intended wife, no one but myself and his faithful servant is
aware of it. To all our friends we are hundreds of miles away, looking
after business interests. And now it has grown worse and worse, until he
is dying, absolutely within reach of Annie, to whom he is madly
devoted.’

“‘Will you be calm, and help me to make one last great trial?’ I asked.

“‘Great heavens! What can I do?’ he replied.

“‘Take my carriage; it is at the door; tell the coachman to drive his
fastest to Annie’s house. Bring her back with you; and, above all,
explain to her the situation, so that I can count on perfect calmness.’”

“Without a word he was gone, and as I heard the wheels leaving the door,
I turned back to collect my thoughts for a moment before returning to
the sick-room. I had to count on at least half-an-hour’s delay, and
meanwhile to quiet this horrible pain and wait for Annie to help me.

“Once back in my patient’s presence, I took his hand, looked fixedly at
him until his eyes caught mine. Then I said, ‘You must sleep now; Annie
is coming, and you must be strong to see her.’

“At once a look of surprise, of joy, followed by one of despair, passed
over his face. ‘I am dying, and you have sent for her,’ he murmured.

“‘Sleep,’ I said, this time completely fixing his gaze. Almost instantly
the spasms ceased, and he sank back among his pillows like a tired
child. Not noticing the look of astonishment in the face of the nurse
(who was a faithful old valet of the invalid), I ordered him to send me
the assistant-surgeon and a bright young woman nurse, whom I often
selected for urgent cases. They came at once. It was the work of a few
moments to inoculate the greatest quantity of the powerful poison that I
had ever used at any one time. I then made the usual passes, and awoke
the patient, resolved not to risk any unnecessary complications. I knew
if his strength could be kept up for three, or at the most four hours,
the battle was ours. But could he fight it out alone? I did not dare to
guarantee the usual result of the virus if he were asleep. I could only
count on Annie’s support to help him out, for he seemed at last ready to
give up the fight. Even now the impression that his sweetheart was
coming, added to the rest secured by the little respite from pain,
seemed to be sustaining him, and all I dreaded was that he would be too
feeble to bear the effects of the remedy in its later processes, when
the convulsive attacks were liable to be especially violent, as if they
knew they were losing their power over their victim.

“A half hour passed, then three quarters, and I heard the wheels stop
outside. I opened the door, went softly into the hall, and met the
brother, pale, anxious, and—alone!

“‘She is not at home, doctor. She is at a ball, believing my brother
well and hundreds of miles away. I explained all to her father. He has
gone to fetch her. Am I too late?’

“Just then a moan from the adjoining room told that my patient was
suffering. I returned quickly to his bedside, and found the old symptoms
reviving. Again the temptation beset me. I argued: ‘I influenced him
easily, he certainly feels no pain while hypnotised, he cannot live
unaided through another convulsive attack. To be sure, I have to fear
that he can never be awakened, and that the final effects of the remedy
may be lessened. At least two hours must elapse before he is safe,
providing no new complications set in; and meanwhile what an opportunity
to see if hypnotism prevents or aids inoculation! He has no other
chance. The plan of fighting it out on natural lines, aided by his own
desire to live for his love’s sake, has failed.’

“I hesitated no longer. Again taking his hand, I uttered the magic word
‘sleep,’ and he sank back as before.

“‘Now for the great _coup_,’ I said, and, turning to my young nurse, I
ordered her to take off her cap, put on a hat and cloak, and follow
exactly the few directions I gave her. She seemed to grasp my idea, and
left me free to follow out my experiment.

“‘Annie is coming,’ I said, looking straight into the poor fellow’s
eyes. ‘In a few minutes she will be here.’ I hesitated even as I spoke.
Can a hypnotised patient be made to believe that a _substituted_ person
is the one he expects to see? But even as the thought flashed across my
mind the door opened and the brother entered, with the young nurse on
his arm dressed in walking costume.

“‘Here is Annie,’ I said. There was a moment of horrible suspense. Then
at a sign from me the young woman approached the bed, sank down on her
knees, and took both his hands in hers. A look of incredulity, of
wonder, of hope, and then one of ineffable peace shone on his face.

“‘Annie, dearest, I tried to keep it from you and to come back to you
free from this terrible trouble,’ he whispered.

“‘Yes, dear. You must not talk to me. See, I am with you, I shall not
stir.’

“‘Kiss me once,’ he murmured.

“The woman reached gently over and kissed him, and with his hands still
in hers he relapsed into unconsciousness. In an hour more the danger
would be over, but I must then awaken him, and unless the real Annie
were present the shock might ruin everything. The moments went by—the
sick man sleeping, the tireless nurse kneeling in her strained position
by his bed, the brother pacing up and down outside the door, and I,
watch in hand, dreading the last act in this exciting night’s drama.

“Fifteen minutes more and I heard a rustle, a murmur of voices broken by
sobs, and then silence. Suddenly and quickly the door opened; a
beautiful woman in ball costume, with jewels gleaming in her hair and on
her neck, glided like a spirit to the bedside. The nurse, with a woman’s
quick intuition, softly withdrew her hands; the other knelt and took her
place, and with her eyes fixed on the face of him whom she had thought
far away and in perfect health, she waited. ‘She is worthy of him,’ I
thought, as I saw her attitude and her wonderful self-possession.

“Now for the test. Motioning the others to leave the room, I awoke the
sleeper. His gaze instantly fell upon his Annie’s loved face. ‘Hush!’
she said; ‘you have been very ill; I know all about it; but the danger
is over; all will be well, and I shall not leave you.’ A puzzled look
swept over his countenance. Then he feebly whispered, ‘I was dreaming
you were here; but you had your hat on, dear; you had just come in from
the street and found me.’

“‘I am _really_ here,’ Annie replied, ‘and you must reward me by not
saying another word.’ She smiled at him, a brave smile, through the
tears that were coming now. This time, with a satisfied look, he fell
into a natural sleep. I knew the danger was over, and that I could
safely leave him with his own.

“As I passed out into the early misty morning, I confess the thought of
the success of my part of the experiment was rather swallowed up by my
admiration for that woman, and for the love, the great unselfish,
protecting love, she had won from that man. Visions of lost happiness
came before me, and it seemed to me I had missed something which might
have been mine, had I been less absorbed in other ways; but just then I
reached my own door, and caught sight of the name on the small silver
plate, _Dr. Edward Reeves_. And I thought of the material I had
collected for a medical paper on that night’s work, so I dropped the
sentiment, and went in to make a record of the facts in the case (which
has interested the scientific world ever since) of a patient actually
getting the full benefit of a remedy while in an undisturbed, hypnotized
state, despite all theories to the contrary.”




                                  II.
                      An International Courtship.


In seven minutes the great steamer _Lahn_ would slip her moorings and
sail for Southampton.

Already the more cautious friends of the departing passengers had left
the ship, and were finding places on the dock whence they might wave
their final messages. The decks were clearing fast, leaving mournful
groups of travellers, who were beginning to realize how soon they would
form a little world of their own; and so they were making quiet
observations of each other.

A tall, sturdy, young Englishman was leaning over the rail, looking a
trifle amused at the scene about him, and occasionally waving his hand
to two men on the wharf, who were evidently “seeing him off.” He did not
look particularly sad, or as if he had any especial interest in the
voyage beyond reaching his destination. That he was distinctly a
well-bred Englishman, who knew his London well, one could not doubt;
that he was also a trifle obstinate, might be surmised from the pose of
the intellectual head upon the square shoulders, and the determined look
about the firm, well-shaped mouth. Just now, he has screwed an eye-glass
into his eye, and is looking at two ladies who have crossed the plank,
and are being greeted by two elderly gentlemen, each of whom presents
them with bunches of flowers.

Something about them strikes the young man’s fancy; perhaps he is
interested in seeing that they seem quite oblivious of the fact that the
warning bell is ringing, and he is wondering if the two men are to sail
also, when suddenly, just as the gangway is to be removed, he sees them
all shake hands, and the two women are left standing alone.

After a final look at his friends on the dock, he takes a turn about the
steamer, and far off on the side, quite removed from the harbour, he
sees the younger woman standing, looking out—not behind, at what she is
leaving, but before her. _Why_ it is that he cares at all what a
perfectly unknown young woman is doing or thinking puzzles Mr.
Gordon-Treherne. In his five-and-thirty years, he has known a great many
of the fair sex; he has had several rather close love affairs—with
various results. He was rescued from what might have terminated in an
unfortunate marriage when in Cambridge. The Gordon-Trehernes considered
that the heir of the family had no right to throw himself away upon a
modest little English girl, even if she were the daughter of the rector,
and deeply in love with the fascinating young collegian.

After that experience, young Mr. Gordon-Treherne, or “The Arab,” as his
chums called him, from his love of travel, determined not to hurry
himself about marrying. One or two charming Frenchwomen almost destroyed
this resolution, and once he was decidedly fascinated with the daughter
of an English general out in India. But he had travelled the length and
breadth of the United States, and never felt inclined to fall in love
with an American girl. Several of his friends had married American
belles; and when young Lord Clanmore’s engagement was announced to the
beautiful and wealthy Miss Lawson, of New York, everyone envied him; but
Treherne had not cared to enter the lists, although he knew Miss Lawson
well. Women said he was a man with a history, but he was all the more
fascinating for that. Men called him a good fellow, and said “The Arab”
was the best shot and the coolest rider in the club, only he was always
running off to some outlandish place, where his accomplishments were
lost.

Just now his friends might have been surprised to see him arranging a
steamer chair for the elder of the two women who had caught his
attention on the dock. The steamer has left the quay only a half hour,
and already an opportunity has presented itself to make their
acquaintance. Etiquette at sea is very elastic, and it only needed the
usual attentions to the comfort of the elder woman to attract the notice
of the younger. She has turned now, and with her hands still full of
flowers, comes toward them—a tall, slim girl, possibly four-and-twenty
he thinks. He is dimly conscious that both ladies are quietly but
elegantly dressed. Americans, he fancies; and then the elder woman
speaks,—“Thanks, so much.” The voice is low and musical. She must be
French, he thinks. She is a brunette, and he decides that she cannot be
the mother of the tall, fair girl who seats herself next to her.

“Let me arrange your rug also,” Mr. Gordon-Treherne says, as he raises
his hat.

“Oh, thank you; that is very comfortable.”

And again he is struck with the well-modulated tones, which he scarcely
associates with American voices.

Still they must be Americans, the young man argues to himself, but no
longer finding an excuse to tarry in their vicinity, he moves off, and
they meet no more till dinner-time.

Meanwhile, with the philosophy of an old traveller, Mr. Gordon-Treherne
has interviewed the head steward, and, foregoing the honour of sitting
at the captain’s table, he has asked to be placed at a small one with a
sofa-seat. Experience during previous voyages has taught him that there
are certain comforts not to be despised in a side seat under a strong
light. He sees several prospective lonely evenings, when he may not feel
inclined to hunt about for a good place to read.

At dinner Mr. Gordon-Treherne notices two elderly men and a small boy at
his table, and remarks two vacant places. Presently his two interesting
acquaintances of the morning appear, and he has just time to read the
cards on the plates on either side of him—“Mrs. Barry” on one, and “Miss
Stuyvesant” on the other—and to comprehend that by some blunder he is
separating them, and that he can only remedy the matter by giving up his
cherished seat, when the two ladies arrive at their places. There is a
moment’s hesitation, and Mr. Gordon-Treherne remarks, “Allow me to
change my place.” Suiting the action to the word, he steps past and
allows Mrs. Barry to take his seat, which brings him opposite Miss
Stuyvesant. Both ladies express their thanks, and then, naturally, they
fall into conversation. They speak of the steamers; Mr. Gordon-Treherne
prefers a larger boat, and refers to several “ocean greyhounds” he has
personally known. Curiously enough the ladies have made the same
crossings, but prefer even smaller steamers than the _Lahn_. “Americans,
surely; ‘Globe Trotters,’” he thinks.

He mentions that he has just been to the Exhibition at Chicago. Miss
Stuyvesant says that in point of exhibits she preferred the Paris
Exposition of ’89, and so on, until it seems as if there were no place
this young woman had not seen and about which she had not formed her
conclusions. He doesn’t care for it though, Arab that he is; he likes to
travel, but the women of his family have never expressed a desire to go
beyond Paris, and he thinks promiscuous sight-seeing outside a woman’s
province. He shows a little of this in his manner, for as he leaves the
table, the elder woman says:

“How glad I am, Helen, that you do not believe in International
marriages. Now here is a well-bred, intelligent Englishman, yet he shows
insensibly what narrow ideas he has about women. I admit he is polite,
and careful in small details of manner, but an American girl of spirit
could never be happily married to him. Their ideas of life are too
opposed.”

Miss Stuyvesant has evidently not thought much about him, for she only
smiles in a vague way, and says she has learned not to quarrel with the
old-fashioned notions of English people.

“Why, I pride myself in actually leading them, when they start in a
tirade against the very things I do myself!” she said.

“You are a sadly worldly young woman,” Mrs. Barry rejoins, “and I wish
you would marry and settle in your own country.”

Meanwhile Mr. Gordon-Treherne was idly pacing the deck, smoking his
cigar, and wondering if the self-possessed young woman would appear
later on. “If ever I marry,” he resolves, “it will be to some woman who
has _not_ been everywhere and seen everything. I should feel as if I
were travelling with an animated guide-book. I wonder if that girl has a
home?”

Then it occurred to him that Miss Stuyvesant had merely answered his
questions, and as these had been restricted to quite impersonal topics,
he only knew her name after all.

That she was good-looking, agreeable, and witty, he had already
observed, but she did not seem to thrust any information about herself
upon him, as he had supposed an American girl would. He did not see her
again that day, nor till the next afternoon, when she was walking up and
down the deck with the captain of the steamer, and as she passed him
with a little nod of recognition he heard her speaking German.

“Surely American,” he thinks, “knows the captain already, and speaks his
language.”

At dinner Mrs. Barry was missing, but Miss Stuyvesant appeared looking
as calm and “well-groomed” as if a heavy sea were not tossing everything
about, and obliging the passengers to eat over racks.

“You are an old sailor, I see,” began Mr. Gordon-Treherne, “but I fear
Mrs. Barry is ill.”

“Yes, quite seriously ill,” Miss Stuyvesant replied. “It is always an
ordeal for her to cross the ocean.”

“And has she done so frequently?” he asked.

“Nine times with me,” the young woman coolly replied.

“Really,” he said with a smile, “one might infer you had some designs on
her life, did you not look so anxious about her.”

“Oh, no, we usually have some excellent reason, we do not take this
voyage in order to martyrize Mrs. Barry,” she replied.

“I shall have to ask her nationality outright,” he thought.

“Then you do not live in America all the time?” he said.

“Not now, we are ‘birds of passage,’ and, like them, follow the
spring-time; our habitation is usually settled by the climate.”

“And do you know England?” he asked.

“Quite well, I was at school in England, and some of my dearest friends
are living there.”

“Some church school,” he mentally remarked.

“Ah, then, perhaps you do not altogether despise our little island, and
look down upon us from your bigness with the scorn that most of your
compatriots do?”

“He is trying to make sport. I shall foil him,” she thought, and quite
calmly said—

“Look down upon a country upon whose possessions ‘the sun never sets’?
Besides, the fact that I stay so much in England ought to prove how much
I admire most of its institutions.”

“Clever girl!” he thought, “trying to be a little satirical, and doesn’t
commit herself as to _all_ of our ‘institutions.’ I must make her angry
to get her real opinion.”

And then he said, “You should see our English home-life. I am sure
_that_ appeals to every American woman.”

There was a patronising tone about this remark that Mr. Gordon-Treherne
felt would effect his purpose.

“Indeed,” she said slowly, and went on eating, as if the conversation
were beginning rather to bore her. Now, why Mr. Gordon-Treherne should
assume that Miss Stuyvesant had not seen this phase of England as well
as others cannot be imagined; but there he overstepped the line, and
soon after the decidedly cool “Indeed,” Miss Stuyvesant left the table
to look after her _chaperone_.

“An egotistical man,” she thought, as she went to her state-room. She
had liked Mr. Gordon-Treherne’s appearance, and being a cosmopolitan
young woman, was prepared to find him agreeable. Now she thinks him
distinctly aggressive, with his old conservative ideas of women and
English superiority.

He, for his part, feels he does not understand this American girl, who
refused to quarrel with him, but suddenly turned and left him. He knows
he has not shown himself in his most brilliant colours.

The days passed rapidly. Mr. Treherne and Miss Stuyvesant saw each other
at table, walked the deck together, and to the casual observer seemed to
be mutually entertained. But although they were in so many ways
companionable, they both felt an intangible barrier between them in the
national prejudice that their first conversation had developed—a
prejudice probably latent in every person, however cultivated or
travelled, although in this particular case both of these young people
flattered themselves that they were singularly broad-minded.

The last evening of the voyage, as they were walking up and down the
deck, Mr. Gordon-Treherne determined to broach the subject which he felt
they had both avoided.

A larger acquaintance had brought out the fact that Miss Stuyvesant had
read for honours at an English University, and Mr. Treherne was obliged
to admit that in this case the higher education of women (which never
strongly appealed to him), had not detracted from her personal charm.
She, on the other hand, discovered that he knew a great deal about _her_
country, and considered its possibilities almost unlimited; but she felt
that he looked down upon its newness, and she resented his opinion of
American men, whom he described as clever and agreeable in their
relations with each other, but servile in their attitude toward women.
The dangerous topic of national characteristics had not been touched
upon until to-night.

Now Mr. Treherne is saying, “I hope you have forgiven my frankness in
telling you exactly what my impressions were of America. I could not
help seeing how charming and bright the women were, and I wondered if
they did not despise the slavishness of their husbands and lovers. While
the men are toiling to get rich, their families come abroad, their wives
thus educating themselves beyond their husbands, and returning home,
find themselves less than ever in sympathy with their surroundings. I
never wonder when an American girl, who has had a chance to see the
world, marries a foreigner of family and education.”

If Mr. Treherne had been closely observing his companion, he might have
remarked an ominous expression crossing her face, but she only said—

“I have had several friends in Europe whose fathers’ fortunes have found
them titles, and on the occasions that I have stayed with them, they did
not seem wildly enthusiastic over the equality of companionship. The
head of the house had generally gone to town, or was taking a run over
to Paris, and I wondered if it suited a woman very well who had been
accustomed to have a small court about her at home, to find herself
restricted to a husband so little her companion that she scarcely ever
saw him.”

“But then you see, Miss Stuyvesant, she knows he is not down in Wall
Street, or in some exchange, staking all his fortune on the rise and
fall of stocks.”

“No,” she rejoined; “in the cases of my friends the women have to
consider that their husbands are probably at Monte Carlo or Ostend. But
really, why should we discuss it, Mr. Treherne? No one would ever fancy
_you_ admiring an American woman, and I, for my part, if I marry at all,
would only marry an American man.”

With which delightfully feminine declaration, Miss Stuyvesant says
“Good-night,” and abruptly leaves the astonished Treherne to realise
that he has not made a good finish. Not that he cares seriously for Miss
Stuyvesant; but Treherne is accustomed to find that women like him, and
this girl, his instinct warns him, does _not_ approve of him and his
opinions. He feels annoyed, but there seems to be nothing to explain;
his training and the circumstances of his life have made him
conservative. He does not wish to love, nor does he especially approve
of a young woman, however attractive, whose ideas differ from his own so
materially.

And so next day, when he bids a formal “good-bye” to Mrs. Barry and Miss
Stuyvesant, he tries to feel that in England he has more manly
occupations than doing the agreeable to a young woman, and that woman an
American. This is exactly what Mr. Treherne does _not_ feel, nor does he
mean to indicate it by his manner at parting. And so he goes off,
consoling himself with the reflection that he certainly has found Miss
Stuyvesant a pleasant companion for a sea voyage.

Three weeks later, in London, when the season is at its height, Miss
Stuyvesant, who is looking radiant in a French gown, meets Mr.
Gordon-Treherne at Lady Clanmore’s ball. She is on the arm of the
American ambassador, and as she crosses the room with that unconscious
grace of hers he feels that every man present would be glad to know her,
to talk with her as he has talked, and something at that moment tells
him that she interests him more than any woman has ever interested him
before. Just then she sees him, and he fancies that a rather annoyed
look crosses her face. Then she smiles, and he comes over and speaks to
her and to her escort, who seems to know everyone.

“Will you give me a dance, Miss Stuyvesant?”

“Yes, but I have only this one waltz left. You see, you Englishmen _do_
think that American girls are good partners—in a ball-room,” she adds
slyly.

“I see I am not forgiven,” he says; and then the waltz begins.

What a waltz! Gordon-Treherne has had many good partners in his day, for
he has always been a dancing man; but never has he seen anyone dance
like this girl. When they stop she is scarcely out of breath, and he has
only time to say, “Let me thank you.” For her next partner had already
claimed her, when she turned back and mischievously remarked, “And you,
you dance extremely well—for an Englishman.”

It occurred several times afterward to Miss Stuyvesant that he could do
a great many things extremely well; and if he had only been born in
America she might have preferred him to honest Jack Hamilton, who had
loved her since she was a school girl, and who was doing exactly what
Mr. Treherne had described in that last obnoxious conversation—staking
his fortune in an Oil Exchange, hoping that some day he could induce
Miss Stuyvesant to give up her Bohemian life for the luxuries of a
wealthy American home. In an indefinite way she had thought she might do
so in the end, but, while she gave no promise, she was sure that Jack
would never change. And so she had drifted on pleasantly and
thoughtlessly, caring nothing for the men she met until this one, with
his strong opinions, crossed her path, and for _him_ she believed she
entertained the most indifferent feelings. He had simply disturbed her.
She did not think his ideas correct, but there was a sense of justice in
the girl that made her think herself narrow and bigoted for not being
able to judge things from other standpoints than her own. It was exactly
what she was criticizing in Mr. Gordon-Treherne.

“It will be better to avoid any more discussions,” she thought, and so
the two did not meet again until one glorious autumn morning, when the
house party at Lady Clanmore’s rode out to the first meet of the season.
Miss Stuyvesant headed the cavalcade, escorted by Lord Clanmore, and as
they came up to the meet she saw Mr. Gordon-Treherne, who was riding a
restive thoroughbred, and looking what he was—an excellent rider. He was
talking to a handsome woman, beautifully gowned, who was driving a
perfectly appointed trap.

“That is Lady Diana Gordon,” Lord Clanmore is saying. “She is Treherne’s
cousin, and rumour has it that the old estates of Gordon and Treherne
are liable to be joined.”

Miss Stuyvesant feels for a moment as if she were slipping from her
saddle, and then Treherne sees her. He raises his hat, and she smiles
back an odd, unconsciously sad little smile, which he has only time to
remark, when the hounds move off. And now all the recklessness in the
girl is aroused; she knows she rides as few women can, and during the
run she follows her pilot, Lord Clanmore, so straight that the whole
field is lost in admiration of her.

Treherne alone has noticed the set look in her face. “Is she ill?” he
wonders, and he determines to keep her well in view. He has hard work,
for she is on a vicious little mare which she insisted upon riding, and
as she takes fence after fence Treherne grows more and more anxious. The
hounds have come to a check just beyond a clump of trees in the next
field. Miss Stuyvesant turns her horse’s head, and Treherne sees she
intends to take a short cut through a dangerous low-boughed copse which
intervenes. “Stop!” he calls, but she does not hear him, and he knows
his only plan is to head her off, if possible. Turning sharply, he
enters the field from the other side; as he does so, he hears the
crashing of boughs, and sees Miss Stuyvesant’s mare coming straight
towards him. Each moment he expects to see her swept from her saddle,
but she keeps her seat bravely. He calls out to her to turn to the
right, for before her in her present path is a strong low-hanging branch
of an old oak, which Treherne knows she cannot pass safely. An instant
after, he sees she has lost control over the mare, and he heads his own
horse straight towards her. With a quick, skilful motion he grasps her
bridle just as the horses meet. There is a mad plunge, and Mr. Treherne,
still clinging to the other reins, has dropped his own and is dragged
from his saddle. He helps the girl to dismount from her now subdued, but
trembling animal. Miss Stuyvesant looks very white, and Mr. Treherne is
offering her his hunting flask, when Lord Clanmore gallops back to them.

“Your empty saddle gave us a great scare, Treherne. Are you hurt?”

For Mr. Treherne, too, has suddenly grown very pale.

“It’s nothing, Clanmore, just a little wrench I gave my arm; that’s
all.”

And Miss Stuyvesant remembers how skilfully that arm had lifted her from
her saddle. In that moment she knows she loves him. Every vestige of
national prejudice is swept away, and poor Jack Hamilton’s chances are
gone for ever.

The next day Mr. Treherne managed to write a few words with his left
hand and send them back by Miss Stuyvesant’s messenger, who came to
enquire after him. He said—

  “DEAR MISS STUYVESANT,

  “Many thanks for your kind enquiries. I shall be restricted to using
  my left hand for a time, but I must tell you how plucky I thought
  you yesterday. The stupid doctor has forbidden me to leave the
  house, but unless you wish to increase my feverish symptoms please
  send me some token by this messenger to assure me you have forgotten
  my first impressions of your country. As soon as I am able I shall
  beg you in person to reconsider your decision about marrying ‘only
  an American.’ My happiness depends upon your marrying an Englishman
  who is

                                                   “Entirely yours,
                                                 “E. GORDON-TREHERNE.”

When Miss Stuyvesant read this note she took two beautiful little silk
flags—one a Union Jack, the other the Stars and Stripes, and tying them
together with a lover’s knot she sent them to Treherne.

                  *       *       *       *       *

In after years Mr. and Mrs. Gordon-Treherne’s friends remark the
deference which they pay to each other’s ideas; and the entwined
banners, which occupy a conspicuous place in the library, are called the
“FLAGS OF TRUCE.”




                                  III.
                    One Woman’s History out of Many.


“Sister Faithful” she was called by the Edgecombe people. Her name was
really Faithful Farrington, but no one ever said “Miss Farrington.” She
had been born in the old Manor House, where for fifty years she had
spent the most of her time. Her father, old Nathan Farrington, had been
content to live the life of a recluse after his wife’s death, finding
his greatest happiness among his books, and in directing the education
of his two children. Francis Farrington, the son, had gone out to India
in early life, and had risen high in the Civil Service. He had lost his
young wife, and after many years of valuable work had returned, an
invalid, to Edgecombe, where he found in his sister the most tender and
sympathetic of companions. He was content enough to allow the whole
responsibility of the estate to rest upon her patient shoulders. She,
for her part, grew up to know a great deal about science and literature,
but absolutely nothing of society or the world. When she was thirty her
father died, and, besides her brother out in India, and a distant
cousin, who was a Professor in some London college, she had no one
nearer than the old nurse who had tried to fill the place of a mother to
her.

Having a considerable fortune, she lived on in her old home, attended by
the same faithful servants, exactly as she had always done, except that
when the long winter evenings became tedious, and books failed her, she
invited some of her townswomen in to tea and played a rubber of whist.
Her days were filled with good works; every cottager in the
neighbourhood knew her, and she knew them and sympathized with all their
sorrows. Wise in her charities, she was the vicar’s most invaluable
assistant, and it is to be doubted whether he, in his _rôle_ of
spiritual adviser, was as much loved and revered as “Sister Faithful,”
whose tireless hands constructed wonderful garments for the babies, and
whose name was borne by half the children in consequence.

No breath from the outside world had ever touched this woman. Once she
had gone to Paris with her father, but it remained in her mind simply a
lovely picture, a little larger and more daring in colour than the
pictures she had seen at the Louvre. She had been up to London several
times, but that was to make notes at the British Museum. Her life was in
no way different from that of most of the women she had known.

Once she had seen an item in a journal that struck her forcibly; it
mentioned that there were eight hundred thousand more women than men in
Great Britain, and that a good proportion of them were matrimonially
eligible women as regarded property and accomplishments, but that they
were of the middle classes, where marriage was most infrequent. Sister
Faithful had remarked then that she knew a great many attractive women
who were not liable to marry. She wondered why, for her education had
made her logical. And then she reviewed her own life. All the male
members of the families of her friends had gone to larger towns as soon
as they were old enough; the girls, after a touch of boarding-school,
had come home to assume simple household duties, and, an occasional
curate excepted, they did not often meet young men.

“Sister Faithful,” having for her constant companion a man who lived in
books, had rather a better-trained mind than most women. It had not been
allowed to wander, and her greatest weakness was her way of bestowing
charity. She did not like to account to anyone for it, and so tired
mothers, who sent their offspring to her for a holiday, were apt to have
them returned in new and wholesome garments, which showed that a heart
calculated by nature to be a motherly one was bestowing its bounty
quietly on other women’s children. Strange to say, Sister Faithful had
not given any thought to marriage for herself. That she should ever
leave her father, marry, and have children of her own seemed impossible.
She was quite content to accept life as she found it, and improve the
morals and manners of the children of the lower classes about her. And
now she was fifty, and until her brother’s return she had lived alone.

She had remembered yesterday that it was her birthday and had celebrated
it by inviting the school children to tea in her garden, which was in
its loveliest summer dress. In the evening she had received a letter
from her distant and unknown cousin, the Professor, whom she had only
met in those long ago excursions to London, saying he was “tired”—“worn
out,” his doctor said—and he had written to see if his cousin would take
him in for a few weeks’ vacation. “I shall live out-of-doors,” he wrote,
“and I promise in no way to disturb your life. I want only my books, and
to wander about over your beautiful country.” She wondered if she had
been hasty when she wrote back to bid “welcome to our nearest of kin and
our father’s friend.” She remembered that after all he was really a
cousin once removed, and a little younger than herself, and that when
her father had liked him he was very young indeed. A glance at the
mirror re-assured her. She was very free from vanity, and she realized
she was no longer young. The villagers called her beautiful, but perhaps
their sensibilities, sharpened by the lack of beauty about them, were
keener in detecting their benefactress’ fine points.

Thanks to her healthy, regular life, Sister Faithful at fifty was very
good to look upon. The soft hair, worn lightly back from the low,
well-shaped forehead, was only faintly tinged with grey, and her skin
was as smooth and fresh as that of a woman of half her age. It was not
the firm, quiet mouth, nor even the gentle, sweet brown eyes that
attracted one most; it was the unconsciousness of the woman, the very
annihilation of self, as it were, without affectation, that made one
long to know _why_ she was constantly giving without any question of
return. No man had ever told her she was beautiful; her father’s friends
had approved of her, but then she ministered to their comfort, when they
came to stay at Edgecombe. She attended to everyone’s wants, and seemed
to have gone through life without dreaming that in some larger sphere
she would have been considered a very attractive woman. Not that she was
perfect; she had her idiosyncrasies—as who has not? but she had a
disciplined, well-trained, unselfish nature, that overbalanced any
faults. Even now her one consideration was for Cousin Emerson, who was
to arrive the following day. Would he be comfortable in Edgecombe? Would
he not be lonely with her and only an invalid host to look after him?
These, and other doubts crossed her mind, and, as a relief, she spent
the entire day overlooking the sweeping and dusting of the already clean
house.

Next day, the evening train brought Cousin Emerson. As he alighted from
the carriage, Sister Faithful thought him only an older edition of the
intellectual-looking man she had met in London. He was evidently still
ill, and looked as if he had burned too much midnight oil. Her practical
mind immediately swept over the entire list of nourishing dishes that
she might concoct for him. He, half-an-hour later, glanced over his
well-appointed room, and thanked fortune that it had occurred to him to
stay with his good cousins.

After dinner this occurred to him again as he stretched himself on the
comfortable library lounge, and let the smoke of his cigar curl up in
slow, bewitching rings about his head, while Cousin Faithful read aloud
in that well-modulated voice of hers.

And so the days went on, bringing health and strength to Cousin Emerson,
and great, unspeakable content to “Sister Faithful,” as he too called
her.

“Somehow,” he said, after he had been at Edgecombe for several weeks,
“it seems as if we were more than cousins. I shall reverse your name;
you shall be my Faithful Sister, as you have been nurse and friend.”

At first he had accompanied her in her long afternoon walks, when she
visited her cottage people, but after a while he persuaded her to take
all sorts of short excursions on foot, or again they would drive over
the hills about the estate.

The evenings were perhaps the sweetest of all to Sister Faithful, for
then her interests in the outer world ceased, and, until her cousin
came, she had often felt very lonely. Now, they read aloud, played a
friendly game of cribbage, or strolled about the garden when the nights
were fine. Autumn was drawing near. Cousin Emerson’s visit had
lengthened to two months, and still he said nothing about going. He was
quite strong again, and seemed to have lost the melancholy that at first
overshadowed him. Faithful’s heart rejoiced as she looked at him, and
she did not allow herself to think that it might end.

One morning, in early September, the post brought several letters. They
were breakfasting. Faithful remembered every detail afterwards. The
pungent odour of chrysanthemums always carried her back to that morning.
Cousin Emerson had gathered for the breakfast-table the splendid bunch
that adorned it.

Suddenly a look of intense happiness lighted up his face. “Faithful
Sister,” he said, looking across at her, “I want you to be the first to
congratulate me. At last the woman whom I adore, for love of whom I have
been so miserable, has consented to marry me. I doubt whether, if I had
not fallen into your dear hospitable hands, I could have struggled so
well to recover.”

In his excitement, Cousin Emerson did not notice the pallor that swept
over Faithful’s face. Her voice was steady as she said, “Why have you
not let us sympathize with you all along?”

“Oh, it all seemed so hopeless,” he said, “and I could not bear to open
the old wound; but I am to go up to London at once, and I shall bring my
bride straight to Edgecombe, if I may.”

That night he left, after many cordial expressions of gratitude, and
Sister Faithful, apparently unmoved, saw him go; but afterward she had
no mind to wander about the garden, or read a favourite book. She went
quietly to her room, and, for the first time, wept.

She knew she had been companionable to this man; that in her society he
had found peace and content. And yet—in a moment—he had forgotten it
all; he had gone to win some other woman, impelled by what he called
love. Was it love she felt for him? Even then, in her loneliness, with a
grey-skyed future before her, and no prospect of change, she felt only
her own inconsistency. “He was my kinsman and guest; he never asked me
to love him, and he never knew my feeling for him,” she argued, and so
the night passed, a night of unselfish sorrow for the lonely woman,
while the man was being whirled towards the one being who engrossed
_his_ thoughts.

Afterward, when Cousin Emerson and his wife came to Edgecombe to visit,
he remarked, in the privacy of their room, that Cousin Faithful had aged
terribly; but to the poor people she seemed more saintly than ever, for
after that one happy summer—the only time she had ever allowed herself
any personal happiness—she had returned to her charities as if she
wished to make up for some neglect. And when the villagers called her
“Sister Faithful,” she felt it almost as a reproach that she had dared
hope for any other name.




                                  IV.
                        Miss Cameron’s Art Sale.


Katherine Cameron was spending her third winter in Paris. The first year
she had led a quiet, uneventful student’s life. The second season she
launched out a little into society as represented by the English and
American colonies, and now she was spoken of as that “clever and rich
Miss Cameron,” whom the English-speaking residents remembered to have
seen at various _musicales_ the year before.

On her return from America, with the reputation of added wealth, she
found herself invited everywhere. Everyone wondered that she did not
marry, for she was a young woman whom men admired apart from her money
and accomplishments. But although she went out a great deal, and was
usually surrounded by a little court of struggling tenors and
impecunious titles, she seemed unmoved by all the attention she
received, and apparently was not even greatly amused.

The truth was, Katherine Cameron, being a clever girl, had seen through
the artificiality of it all, and still could not bear to give up the
illusion she had cherished all her life, that she should find her _real_
sphere in the society she would meet in Paris; it might be among her own
country people, but they would be broadened by travel and study until
all desirable and agreeable qualities would be blended into a harmonious
whole.

When she decided to pass the winter with her aunt, Mrs. Montgomery, it
was with the sweet hope that she should be able to realise her dreams of
a little “Salon”—a revival of that delightful French institution and
formulated on the same lines, but having American cleverness and
adaptability added to it. It seemed feasible. Mrs. Montgomery had lived
in Paris for years, and she knew all the resident society people, the
rest of the “floating population” were usually provided with letters of
introduction to her. Her “Tuesdays At Home” were delightful functions.
Katherine Cameron had great respect for her aunt’s discrimination, which
often seemed prophetic, and caused uninitiated people to wonder _how_
Mrs. Montgomery happened to have “taken up” some artist or singer who
afterwards became famous.

Still Katherine was not entirely satisfied. Men liked her, but thought
her cold; at any rate, she never fulfilled any promise of a flirtation
that her agreeable manners might suggest. Women said she was ambitious,
that she would only marry some distinguished foreigner, and yet Miss
Cameron, who sometimes used forcible expressions, had been heard to say,
“She would marry a ‘Hottentot’ if she loved him.” She was honestly
trying to get some good out of her surroundings, and was perfectly
willing to fall in love, or to gratify her intellectual tastes, just as
it might happen. Up to this time, however, she had been distinctly
heart-whole, and aside from an occasional charming man or woman whom she
met in society, or the interesting art students whom she knew (and liked
best of all), it seemed to her clear and practical mind that there was a
great deal of “padding,” as she expressed it.

She resented, as a patriotic American woman of culture and refinement,
that the so-called “exclusive” circles in the American quarter accepted
some of the families who would not occupy conspicuous positions in their
own free and enlightened country. She could not help comparing certain
wealthy young society women with a clever but poor friend of hers, whose
artistic talent had been recognized by her own warm-hearted Southern
townspeople, who had contributed a sufficient sum to send Miss Paterson
abroad, confident that her brush would one day repay them. The two young
women had met at the studio of a common friend, and Miss Cameron, who
professed to know nothing of art, had asked such intelligent questions
of the young student that Miss Paterson, with a woman’s quick intuition,
had surmised that her fashionable countrywoman had a more artistic
nature than she admitted. A friendship was begun, and Katherine Cameron
became the _confidante_ and admirer of the rising young artist.

Just now she has returned from a musicale at the hotel of one of the
famous teachers, and she is describing it to Miss Paterson, who has come
in for a chat and a quiet cup of tea.

“It makes me so indignant,” she is saying, “when I think what an
impression we must make on intelligent French people. Why this
afternoon, at Madame de la Harpe’s, it was simply one medley of
disputing mothers and jealous pupils. Madame herself is so distinctly a
lady, that when two irate mothers appealed to her as to which of their
daughters should sing _first_, she shrugged her shoulders in true French
fashion and said, ‘They will both sing many times; they will sing so
well that it will be doubtless required’—a diplomatic answer! She knew
her audience, and felt that a programme of twenty-three numbers could
not admit of many encores in one afternoon. I noticed she did not
deviate from the original plan. Then that vulgar Mrs. Booth, from
somewhere out west, who has the gorgeous apartment, and the family of
extremely pretty daughters, asked me if I would join their French class.
‘We have an actor, M. de Valle, to teach us,’ she said, ‘he is just
splendid—so handsome and so polite; only he will make us _congregate_
verbs.’ To my horror, Mr. Vincent, of the English Embassy, who is so
coldly critical of everything American, overheard her, and I saw him
trying to suppress a smile, which made me indignant, so I impulsively
replied, ‘I shall be charmed, Mrs. Booth—so kind of you to ask me.’ And
now I shall have to extricate myself from that situation, for, although
I have a certain appreciation of the ludicrous, I cannot sacrifice one
night of every week, even to show Mr. Vincent that I despise his
criticism.”

“But I have rather thought Mr. Vincent one of your admirers,” Miss
Paterson returns.

“Admirer? He sees in me a young person who will not be apt to make any
very ridiculous blunders, and as he _has_ to appear occasionally, being
in the diplomatic service, he talks to me as a sort of compromise
between the tourist element and his own fixed aristocracy. I _love_ to
shock him. Why, to-day, he said, in that deliberate tone he employs when
he wishes to be particularly patronizing, ‘I suppose you go in for all
sorts of things, Miss Cameron. I hear you are artistic, and know the
Latin Quarter better than this side of the river. When do you get it all
in?’ I told him to behold a young person positively unique in Paris—one
who was actively pursuing _nothing_. And then he actually remarked that
‘in an age where all the young women were running mad with _fads_ it was
refreshing to find one so confessedly idle.’ He aggravates me so that I
always lose my head, and get the worst of the argument. But here I am
talking away, and forgetting that I am to hear all about you and your
plans.”

Miss Cameron soon proved that she could listen as well as talk, for she
was most attentive while Miss Paterson told her about a letter which she
had received that day, and which had disturbed her not a little. In the
midst of their displeasure both girls saw the ludicrous side of it, for
it was nothing less than a letter from Miss Paterson’s townspeople
_forbidding_ her marriage to the penniless young sculptor with whom she
had fallen in love.

“What impertinence!” Miss Cameron remarks; “talk about the tyranny of
European courts! Here you are, an orphan, without a relative in the
world to restrain you, and these people fancy they _own_ you, and can
control your liberty just because they have furnished you with funds
which they ought to know will be returned to them.”

“But there _is_ a moral obligation,” Miss Paterson replied. “I shall
send them back every penny of their money as soon as possible, and I
shall always feel a debt of gratitude which no pecuniary remuneration
can cover.”

“Little saint!” Miss Cameron exclaims, but she respects her brave little
countrywoman all the more, because she is so visibly distressed at the
situation.

“Let us go over the facts,” adds Miss Cameron. “Here they are briefly: A
number of your townspeople, seeing in you evidences of talent, raised a
sum of money and sent you to Paris two years ago. Two of these people
selected your masters (fortunately they made no mistake there); you have
worked faithfully and conscientiously, and have accomplished more than
most art students do in twice the time. This year two of your studies
have been in the Salon, one of them was bought by a Frenchman of
critical taste; and you have a number of charming saleable studies,
besides your large picture of the garden-party intended for next year’s
Salon, in which festive scene your humble servant poses as the hostess
serving tea to a group of _fin-de-siècle_ society people. You are sure
to make a hit with that, so many of the figures are actual portraits,
and Paris dotes on personalities. It is conceded that merit no longer
wins, but to be ‘received’ one must be a friend of some member of the
jury, or paint the people whose vanity moves them to pull some wire, so
that they may gaze down from the Salon walls upon an inquisitive and
envious public.”

“And in this case can I count on _you_ or some of your admirers to pull
the wires, Katherine?” Miss Paterson mischievously asks.

“Yes; that picture shall hang ‘on the line,’ even if I have to lobby for
it; but you know all the artists think it splendidly treated,” said Miss
Cameron.

“I hoped it would be received this year, but, do you know, I have been
considering all day whether I had better not sell it now, and send back
as much money as I can raise immediately; for I intend to marry Edgar
McDowald, with the benediction of my patrons if possible—without it if
necessary,” emphatically declares Miss Paterson.

“And I shall aid and abet you, especially if you intend to show them
that ‘love laughs at locksmiths’—and creditors. But, seriously, why not
have an art sale? I am off to a musicale at that extraordinary Mrs.
Smyth’s (formerly spelt with an i), who begins every Monday morning
sending letters, followed during the week by three-cornered notes marked
‘_pressée_,’ in which she ‘begges’ her dear friend, whoever it may be,
to run in Saturday afternoon, and casually remarks that some ‘celebrated
musicien’ will perform. The joke is they usually do, and we all find
ourselves there once or twice a season. To-night the American Minister
has promised to be present, and I shall profit by the occasion to invite
everyone to your studio next week to see some charming studies which
will be for sale.”

Miss Paterson knew Miss Cameron’s influence, and felt that she was quite
safe in letting her friend have her way; so after talking over the
details they separated.

That evening Miss Cameron succeeded in quietly scattering the
information through the crowded rooms that a very charming friend of
hers, the Miss Paterson, who occasionally received with her, would have
a little private art sale the following week. Among the attentive
listeners was Mr. Vincent, who casually asked if Miss Paterson had
finished her Salon picture which she had described to him.

“She has,” Miss Cameron replied, and suddenly added, “And you know, Mr.
Vincent, I cannot offer my friend money, nor would she sell me so
important a picture as her large one, for she would think I did it to
help her; now, I want to ask you, as the person she would think of as
being the last one connected with me (here Mr. Vincent smiled a rather
melancholy but affirmative smile), to buy two of her studies for me in
some other name. I can easily dispose of them as presents, and she will
never be the wiser.”

“Miss Cameron’s wishes are my commands. I will call on Miss Paterson
before Wednesday, and on the day when the exhibition takes place, you
can be sure that at least two pictures will be marked ‘Sold.’”

“That will give a business-like air to the whole arrangement, Mr.
Vincent, and suggest to any possible buyers that other equally
attractive studies are for sale. This must be a profound secret. Do you
promise?”

“Certainly,” Mr. Vincent replied, and Miss Cameron knew she could trust
him.

“He is really very likeable, when one sees him alone,” Miss Cameron
soliloquizes; and then she reflects that it is decidedly her fault that
she does not see Mr. Vincent more frequently in his best light; she
remembers various occasions when she has made their duet a trio by
addressing some third person, thus preventing a possible tête-à-tête.

The afternoon selected by Miss Paterson arrived, and as Miss Cameron
alighted from her coupé in the humble street where art and poor students
hold sway, she remarked with pleasure a goodly line of private
carriages, and knew that her scheme had succeeded, and that Miss
Paterson was the fashion—at least of the hour. The question was, Would
they buy her pictures? And then she added to herself, “They must be
sold, even if I have to find other agents, and buy them all in.” But the
loyal girl might have spared herself any anxiety. As she entered the
room, which was artistically draped and hung with numerous
strongly-executed sketches, she saw the magic word “Sold,” not only on
several of the small studies, but conspicuously placed at the base of
the largest canvas, Miss Paterson’s salon picture, in which Miss Cameron
is the central and principal figure.

“Isn’t it too delightful, dear?” Miss Paterson whispers to her. “An
Englishman, a friend of Mr. Vincent’s, came here with him yesterday, saw
my canvas, liked it, asked my price, and actually took it. Mr. Vincent
also bought two other studies, and several have gone to-day. Edgar has
lost no time. He has disappeared now to cable to my esteemed
benefactors, ‘_Marriage will take place; cheque for full amount on
way_.’ Extravagant of us, I know, and of course it’s extremely
‘_previous_,’ but we really see our way clear to happiness, and I shall
always feel _you_ did it all.”

As Miss Cameron shook hands with Mr. Vincent that day she told him that
he had been instrumental in making two deserving people happy.

“It was so thoughtful to bring your friend here, who bought the large
picture,” she says. And then she adds, “Did I ever see him?”

“I think you have seen him,” Mr. Vincent replies. Something in his
manner betrays him, and Miss Cameron, guessing the truth, impulsively
says:

“You bought it yourself, Mr. Vincent.”

“Hush!” he softly whispers, with his finger on his lips. “We are
fellow-conspirators, and cannot betray each other.”

Next year, when a great American city gave Edgar McDowald the order for
a State monument, the beauty of his designs having distanced all
competitors, Parisians remarked that Mrs. Montgomery’s discrimination,
as regarded celebrities, seemed to have fallen upon her niece.

Mr. and Mrs. McDowald delight in telling of their romantic courtship,
and how Miss Cameron’s scheme of an art sale brought about their
marriage; but Miss Cameron always affirms that its success was not due
to her, but to Mr. Vincent’s tact in exhibiting that expensive canvas to
his friend.

Miss Cameron, being a worldly-wise young woman, tries to feel that Mr.
Vincent’s motives were wholly generous and disinterested; but if what
rumour says is true, Mr. Vincent would do more than that for the
charming central figure in Mrs. McDowald’s Salon picture, which now
looks down from a good position in the library of his own English home,
and which never hung “on the line” after all.




                                   V.
                          A Complex Question.


There were a half-dozen or more good riders in Tangier that winter, but
Bob Travers was the acknowledged leader. At every annual race-meeting he
proved to his backers that their confidence in him was not misplaced,
for, brave fellows as they were, none of them rode so hard, or cared to
take the risks which Bob cheerfully ran.

Robert MacNeil Travers, familiarly known as “Bob,” was spending his
second season in Africa. The first time he had run across from “Gib” to
look up something in the way of horseflesh, and once there he had easily
fallen in with a set of men whose society he enjoyed extremely. They
were dashing fellows, several of them young English noblemen, who found
the free, bold life they could lead in this lawless place too
fascinating to leave. It was very agreeable in that delicious winter
climate to dash off over the wild country on a surefooted Barb horse, or
to join some caravan for a few weeks’ excursion in the interior, while
in England everyone was freezing, or at least imbedded in fog.

They had their little glimpses of civilization—the Tangerines—for the
few resident Europeans were very glad to entertain any interesting
visitors from the outside world. Bob Travers was as much liked by the
wives and sisters of his friends as any gallant, well-bred Englishman
deserves to be, and every one was pleased when his engagement was
announced to pretty Mabel Burke, the sister of Boardman Burke, the
artist, whose Eastern scenes, painted under the clear skies of Morocco,
have won for him the reputation of being one of the foremost exponents
in the new “Impressionist School.”

The occasions were rare when Bob Travers was not included, whether it
was for a boar hunt, a day with the fox hounds, or a little dance, at
any one of the half-dozen hospitable European houses.

One night he was late in arriving at a dinner-party given in honour of
some Americans, whose yacht had appeared in Tangier Bay that day; they
were already seated at the table when Bob slipped quietly in, and, at a
little nod from Miss Burke, found his place beside her. He was conscious
that his other neighbour was a woman—a young and attractive one. He had
time to observe that, when his obliging hostess, in reply to his
apologies, said, “You are punished enough, for you have lost at least
ten minutes of Miss Schuyler’s society.” This, with a knowing little
look at Miss Burke, which seemed to say, “To be sure he is your
property, but if you are engaged to the most presentable man in Tangier,
you must pay the penalty, and give him up to occasional and fastidious
visitors.”

Modest little Mabel Burke, who simply basked in “Bob’s” smiles, and
wondered at her own good luck in ever winning his love, gave her hostess
a proud, happy glance that spoke volumes for her sense of security.

A closer look at Miss Schuyler convinced Mr. Travers that he had never
met anyone at all like her; she was so self-possessed and clever that
they were soon talking as freely as if they had been old acquaintances.
She was not so pretty as his _fiancée_, but she was very fascinating (a
charm that even Bob had not attributed to Miss Burke), and her
versatility amazed him. It did not seem to matter whether they discussed
horses, religion, or politics—Miss Schuyler had her opinions, and she
expressed them without conceit or aggressiveness. During the fortnight
that the smart little yacht _Liberty_ was anchored in the waters of
Tangier Bay, and its merry party were devoting their days to long
country rides, excursions to Cape Spartel, or cantering along the sandy
beach, Travers found Miss Schuyler the most interesting of companions;
he seemed to have become her acknowledged escort, and (since one night,
when he had nearly killed his best horse by galloping several miles for
a doctor to come to the rescue of one of the ladies who had broken her
arm while the party were making an excursion) Miss Schuyler had singled
him out for all sorts of delicate favours. He, on the other hand,
discovered that this woman, with her grace and culture, was just such a
woman as he had pictured he should eventually take to Travers Towers as
its mistress. For in less than a fortnight he realized that in his
happy-go-lucky way he had drifted into that engagement with the pretty
sister of his dearest friend. What could be more natural? All the
conditions had favoured his courtship, and until he saw Miss Schuyler it
had seemed very agreeable to possess the affections of the nicest girl
in Tangier.

He knew she was not the wife he had dreamt of, but then, he reasoned,
one never marries one’s ideal. Mabel Burke was sweet and good, and loved
him; so one delicious, star-lit night, after a cosy dinner, he found
himself alone with her in the quiet little Moorish court of the Burkes’
villa, and as Mabel gave him his second cup of coffee he looked at her
approvingly, and on the impulse of the moment told her he should like to
have her always with him. He meant it then; and after that it was all
easy sailing, for Boardman Burke was delighted to give his sister to a
man whom he already loved as a brother. The gossip of the town had not
reached the visitors in the yacht, and Miss Schuyler only heard
accidentally that Mr. Travers was engaged to Miss Burke, for Bob had
felt a reluctance to tell her—had supposed someone else would—and,
finally, seeing she believed him to be free, he had _dreaded_ to tell
her. And so their relations progressed undisturbed, and, like all things
under an Oriental sun, developed rapidly.

They had been taking tea at Mr. Boardman Burkes and looking at his
pictures, when suddenly the artist said:

“I must show you the one I am doing for Travers’ wedding present.”

And when someone remarked that he could take his time to finish the
painting, Boardman Burke had said very distinctly:

“Oh, no! I expect to have to give my sister, as well as that best
picture of mine, to Travers before the year is out.”

It is just possible that Mr. Burke thought it wise to make this
statement, for occupied though he was in his work, he had observed that
his sister looked troubled. Although Travers dropped in every day, he,
too, seemed pre-occupied, or was in a hurry, and he was seen constantly
riding with Miss Schuyler. Little Mabel was too seriously in love with
him, and believed in him too deeply, to admit that he had been the least
remiss in his attentions to her, but she felt relieved, all the same, to
hear that the _Liberty_ would hoist anchor and go over to Gibraltar the
next morning, and from there continue her course along the coast of
Spain and the Riviera. Even when she heard Travers and the American
Consul accept an invitation to go to Gibraltar with the party, she felt
no uneasiness, for he would return the following noon by the regular
steamer. So she let her accepted lover stroll off with Miss Schuyler,
only saying a quiet “good-bye.”

When she looked out from her window the next morning the pretty little
yacht had disappeared, and all day she fancied Bob buying up supplies,
which he said he wanted for an expedition into the interior.

In reality, when Mr. Travers had glanced at Miss Schuyler, after the
announcement made by Mr. Burke of his engagement, he thought she looked
a trifle pale, but then there is such a peculiar light when the African
sun comes down into a Moorish garden through the waving palms that one
gets strange impressions.

Miss Schuyler was very silent on her way to the beach, and Travers did
not see her again till morning, when he crossed on the yacht to
Gibraltar. During the night a sense of all he had lost flashed upon him;
he could see no way out of it. He was a man who prided himself upon
keeping his word; that word was given to Miss Burke, whom he liked and
respected, but whom he now knew he did not love. And he had allowed
himself to drift on through two happy weeks, devoting himself to this
stranger, who in return must certainly despise him for his cowardice.
Distinctly, it was an awkward position. He felt confident that, given
his freedom, he might win the woman of his choice, for she was the kind
of woman to inspire him to do his best, and Bob Travers’ best was very
good indeed, but his freedom was just what he could not ask for, so he
finally decided to tell Miss Schuyler the exact truth, and thus at least
feel he had her respect.

On the yacht he told her his story, and she listened, as a woman listens
who has had many disillusionments, and accepts them as necessities.

He thought her very cold when she only said:

“We have been very good friends, Mr. Travers. It will be enough to tell
you first that I should have preferred to hear of your plans from your
own lips. It all seemed so natural in Tangier, so far from the
conventional outside world, that I allowed myself to give way to
impulses which I thought under perfect discipline.”

“But you must know, you _shall_ know, that my heart is yours, that you
are my _ideal_ woman, the one I should have married,” Travers earnestly
pleaded.

“If that is so, let it encourage you to be strong. Go back, marry your
little girl, and forget one who has suffered too much to judge anyone.”
Then Travers went down the side of the yacht into a small boat, and
could only say “God bless you” over her extended hand before the steps
were pulled up, and the yacht steamed out on her way to Malaga.

A few days after at Marseilles the papers were brought on board, and an
article in them instantly attracted their attention. It graphically
described a fatal accident that had befallen Robert MacNeil Travers, who
had just landed from a yacht at Gibraltar evidently in perfect health.
He had gone up to the summit of the rock, and stood at the edge of its
dangerous eastern face. His companion, the American Consul at Tangier,
had stopped a moment to look out to sea with his glass, and when he
turned round poor Travers had disappeared, “probably seized with
vertigo,” the paper said; for Mr. Travers was heir to a large estate,
and about to be married to the sister of the celebrated artist, Boardman
Burke, so no idea of suicide was entertained.

Who shall say whether Miss Schuyler believed this newspaper version?
Perhaps she remembered Travers’ last impassioned word, “You _shall_ know
my heart is yours,” and he had taken this way, the only possible way, to
show her his devotion without being dishonourable.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Poor little Mabel Burke wept grievously, but she is again engaged, this
time to a man who is far more domestic than poor Travers.

And Miss Schuyler? She continues to be Miss Schuyler, although she is as
fascinating as ever. A woman who has tested one man’s affection to the
death and not found it wanting, is not easily won!


                               PLYMOUTH:
                        WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON,
                               PRINTERS.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.