Ellice Quentin, and other stories

By Julian Hawthorne

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Title: Ellice Quentin, and other stories

Author: Julian Hawthorne

Release date: August 21, 2025 [eBook #76710]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Chatto & Windus, 1885

Credits: Aaron Adrignola, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELLICE QUENTIN, AND OTHER STORIES ***





                            ELLICE QUENTIN

                          _AND OTHER STORIES_

                          BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE

                        AUTHOR OF 'GARTH' ETC.

                            _A NEW EDITION_

                                London
                      CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY

                          LONDON: PRINTED BY
                SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
                         AND PARLIAMENT STREET




                              _PREFACE._


Conciseness, as distinguished from mere brevity, is a literary virtue;
and the novelist who can and will pack his stories into the smallest
space compatible with the adequate development of his idea, deserves
especially well of his readers. For he has a twofold temptation to
do otherwise. In the first place, diffuseness is easy to the writer;
it relieves him from the strain of too closely fixing his attention
upon the matter in hand; he may approach it gradually and tentatively,
and, as it were, teach himself what he wants to say by talking about
it. In the second place, the existing conditions of publication and
remuneration render it inadvisable, from a business point of view,
to aim at compactness; on the contrary, immediate profit is best
consulted by inflexibly diluting whatever idea may present itself,
into the largest bulk consistent with its remaining a recognisable
idea at all--or even, at a pinch, a little beyond this limit. Nor are
these the only objections that might be urged against short stories.
That novelist must be empty-headed indeed, who, in the course of a
thousand pages, does not occasionally generate something poignant and
effective; whereas, if he confine himself to fifty or a hundred, he may
conceivably escape the utterance of a single word worth listening to.
Again, the ordinary novel-reader, accustomed, in view of the shortness
of human life, to glance only at the heads and tails of paragraphs, and
to take the rest as read, may chance inadvertently to observe the same
practice with the short story; the consequence of which would be that
the most conscientiously condensed tale would appear the most vacuous
and insignificant.

Nevertheless, short story writing is a branch of the literary art
worth cultivating, if only to confirm the fact that many stories
which now appear long, would, if honestly written, turn out as short
as the shortest. It is not too much to say that nine-tenths of the
three-volume novels now published, if stripped of matter purely
superfluous and impertinent, would shrink into less than one-tenth
their present dimensions. The best hope for modern fictitious
literature, especially that written in the English language, lies in
the incontinent and unsparing application of the pruning-knife; not
only to relieve the increasing mental dyspepsia of readers, but to
discover to writers what their work is worth, when extricated from its
voluminous conventional wrappings.

The five stories comprised in the following pages were written, some
long ago, some recently, as the lack of homogeneity in their style
and conception sufficiently indicates. No writer who values his art
will permit himself to produce work which (at the time at least) he
would desire to see forgotten. As his mind grows, however, and his
experience widens, he constantly detects imperfections in that which
he had before deemed passable, and the impulse arises in him to blot
out or ignore everything anterior to what he now regards as his best
period. My critics would doubtless spare me the trouble of saying that
little harm would have resulted, in the present instance, had that
impulse been yielded to. But an author may, in some measure, justify
his soft-heartedness towards his offspring by pleading, first, that he
is not always the person best qualified to pronounce judgment on the
comparative merits of this or that child of his brain; and secondly,
that there is a faculty of youth as well as a faculty of maturity, and
that the former may occasionally evolve something which, though crude
in form, shall in substance be sounder than the products of later
years. It may furthermore be remarked that stories contributed (as all
of the present collection have been) to magazines, are liable, except
in special cases, to pass out of the author's control; whence it can
happen that material which he himself might feel inclined to reject,
may nevertheless make its appearance upon the responsibility of other
judges. It only remains for him in that case to hope that the public
will not see with his eyes.

                                                LONDON: _August, 1880_.




                               CONTENTS.


                            ELLICE QUENTIN

                          THE COUNTESS'S RUBY

                      A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIMSELF

                            KILDHURM'S OAK

                           THE NEW ENDYMION




                            ELLICE QUENTIN.


                                  I.

A man about thirty-four years of age was sitting a few years ago in his
bachelor rooms in one of the inns of court. It was a spring afternoon,
warm for the season; the window was open, and above the high-shouldered
brick buildings a glimpse of eastern sky appeared, with a pinkish flush
upon it, reflected from the sunset clouds in the opposite quarter of
the heavens. Through the window were also visible the boughs of a
tree upon which the bright green buds were beginning to unfold; and
a couple of sparrows were chirping to one another as they fluttered
from twig to twig. A muffled hush was in the air, peculiar to these
London enclosures, into which horses and vehicles seldom enter; the
roar of the great thoroughfare, though only a few rods distant, being
almost inaudible to the occupant of this quiet chamber; while the light
ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece, and the twittering of the
birds, were both perceptible to him.

He sat heavily and motionlessly in his chair--a tall, powerfully-built
man with gloomy brow and a thick dark beard. In his right hand he
held an envelope, which had been torn open; but, after reading the
enclosure, he had mechanically put it back. The envelope bore the name
of Geoffrey Herne, in a woman's handwriting, and the London postmark.
About half an hour had gone by since Herne read the letter, during
which time he had been sitting as he was now, plunged in thought. His
meditations had not, however, been occupied all that time with the
subject of the letter; but certain passages in his past life had been
passing in review before his mind: passages in which Ellice Quentin
was the central figure. She was a slender girl when he first knew her,
looking taller than she was, with strange grey-green eyes, and a clear
but bright colour in her cheeks. Her face was very attractive to some
people, though it had no pretensions to regular beauty; the features
were delicately but oddly formed, indicating a refined and talented but
wayward and unaccountable nature. In her ordinary home life, and also
when she was in the company of those she did not like, she was silent,
repellent, and cold; but she not seldom in favouring circumstances
kindled into brilliance of talk and action; and there was a vein of
passion in her which was itself the secret of her frequent coldness.
Her lips, red as blood, were gracefully moulded and were perfectly
under her control; by subtle modulations she could render them
expressive of any emotion. Her figure was slight at this time, and
scarcely as fully developed as that of most girls of her age; but she
never made an ungainly movement, or fell into an awkward position; and
she had such a genius for costume that whatever she put on straightway
seemed to become an organic part of her. Her wrists were slender and
long, and her fingers tapered almost to a point: Geoffrey Herne had
felt their touch upon his face as soft as the thrill of delight that
at the same moment swept his heart. But that was not until many months
after their first meeting, which was unromantic enough; Mr. Quentin
having invited him to dinner to discuss some professional business
(Herne was a barrister). Ellice had treated him on this occasion with
undisguised superciliousness, somewhat to Herne's amusement at first;
for Mr. Quentin--an obese and ineffective elderly gentleman--though
he boasted of blue blood somewhere in his veins, was far from being
in a prosperous or dignified worldly condition; was very poor, in
fact, and thought of nothing but obtaining possession of some property
to which he had a very questionable claim. Meanwhile tradesmen used
to present their bills with annotations at the bottom, intimating a
desire more or less urgent to have them settled at once. Hereupon poor
Mr. Quentin would wince and splutter; but Ellice, leaning back in her
chair, with her hands folded on her lap, would meet his eye coldly
and narrowly, with a sarcastic smile curling one side of her lips.
Mr. Quentin would rather face a score of insolent creditors than that
little smile of his daughter's. For Ellice was a natural aristocrat
far more than an hereditary one--she was born for a life of luxury and
fastidious refinement, and her father could not help recollecting, at
these moments, that he had thrown away eighty thousand pounds of money
which should have been hers upon the turf; nor had he the consolation
of reflecting that Ellice was ignorant of this fact. Ignorant of
it! He sometimes shuddered to think how many facts discreditable to
him that cold, silent girl probably knew. She was not always silent
either; she could utter agonising remarks in a semi-jocose way. But
let us do the young lady justice. It was within Mr. Quentin's memory
that once, when he had returned home late at night, after a miserably
unsuccessful interview with his lawyers, and had let himself into the
house noiselessly with his latch-key, dreading to encounter Ellice's
unsympathetic look, he had suddenly felt two slender arms drawn tightly
about his neck in the darkness, and a hot and wet cheek pressed against
his own. At that the unfortunate man had broken into sobs; Ellice had
tried to soothe him, and sitting on his knee, with her head against his
shoulder, had spoken to him such words as he had not heard since he and
his dead wife were young. But after awhile she had fallen silent, and
in the midst of an incoherent monologue of his on the subject of his
wrongs and misadventures, she had risen abruptly and left him, with
only a curt good-night. She was a strange girl.

Geoffrey Herne's first impression of Ellice had not been particularly
favourable, and if she had behaved as most young ladies would have done
under the circumstances, he might probably have never bestowed a second
thought upon her. But her gratuitous arrogance, after amusing him for
awhile, began to pique him; and being possessed of an exceedingly keen
tongue and wit of his own, he was tempted to enter into conversation
with her. The dialogue which followed was probably worthy of a listener
more intelligent than Mr. Quentin; the upshot of it being (so far
as Herne was concerned) that he found it would require all his wit,
and more than all his temper, to hold his own fairly against this
oblique-eyed young lady, with her curving scarlet lips. They parted
that night on terms of almost open hostility, and Herne, as he went
homewards, more than once found his brows drawing together and his
lips compressed at the recollection of the things she had said to him.
'She is a lady, though--confound her impudence!' was the sum of his
mental comments. Her image was very vivid in his memory--unpleasantly
so, indeed; not only that, but the intonation of her voice--her way
of lifting back her head with a kind of haughty surprise when he
addressed her; the gesture of her hands and shoulders--all were present
to him. Moreover he recalled one or two instances in which she had
unmistakably had the better of him in the duel of words, and his face
grew hot anew with a really disproportionate vexation. He would rather
have made a fool of himself before the Lord Chief Justice of England
than before that slender girl of twenty. He then resolved that he
would avoid seeing her for the future; but he finally modified his
determination so far as to tell himself that he would first give her
such evidence of his superior qualities as should make her regret ever
having had the temerity to provoke him.

As it turned out, this was a much longer and more arduous enterprise
than he had anticipated; insomuch that after several months had
gone by he did not seem much nearer the consummation than at first.
The antagonism between him and Ellice had been--superficially, at
least--constant and unrelenting; but meanwhile he had incidentally come
to know her well, and he was too clear-sighted a man not to perceive
that she was beginning to be indispensable to him. The discovery
occasioned him much anxiety and inward struggle. His predilections
had for years been against marriage, and he certainly had little
encouragement to think that Ellice would ever dream of marrying him.
One day, however, after a peculiarly bitter passage-at-arms, he rose
and took up his hat to depart. He had something to say first, though,
which had been on his mind for a week or two past.

'You are going?' she said indifferently, or, rather, with an air as of
relief.

'Yes, I am going; and, as I shall probably not see you again, I will
say good-bye.'

'Oh! You have had enough of it at last?'

'I am going to Australia.'

She looked slowly up at him as he stood near her chair, and looked
slowly down again, while the colour gradually deepened in her cheeks.
'This is really the most entertaining thing I have heard from you in a
long time,' she said lightly after awhile.

'It is the part of wisdom not to outstay one's best witticism,'
returned Geoffrey in the same tone; 'so I'll be off at once. Good-bye.'
He held out his hand.

'Good-bye,' she answered coldly. But she did not look up, or move her
own hand.

'You won't shake hands?'

'What is the use, since we are never to meet again? If you are going,
you can go without that.'

'Well, I suppose I can,' said he; and after standing a moment, during
which she made no sign except to draw one deep breath, he turned and
walked with a heavy tread to the door.

'Mr. Herne!' he heard her say as he laid his hand upon the latch. He
looked round without speaking. She beckoned him to her with a movement
of the head and hand.

'Excuse me,' she said, 'but I think you--you have left something. Will
you come back here a moment?' There was a vibration in her voice that
was new to Geoffrey. He came back.

'You were going away without shaking hands,' she said, looking up at
him with a curious smile.

'You said that----'

'Oh, well, don't let us quarrel any more; I am tired of it. Here is my
hand.'

Geoffrey took it. How soft it was--and how cold! It lay lightly in the
embrace of his fingers, but he could perceive a slight tremulousness in
it, which seemed also to pervade her whole body.

'You spoke of my having left something----' he began at length.

Her hand suddenly became alive in his, and grasped it tightly. She
drew it to her cheek, that was as smooth as the petal of a lily; then
slowly turned her face until her lips rested on it. All the blood flew
tumultuously through Geoffrey's veins and sang in his ears. He was
on his knee beside her, and looking in her eyes, which met his for a
moment, and then sank.

'Now go to Australia!' she said in a whisper.

'Ellice--Ellice! Were you the thing I was leaving behind, my dear?' he
said, bending forwards till his lips touched hers.... After that there
could be no more misunderstandings.

Geoffrey Herne did not go to Australia, either alone, as he had
arranged to do, or with Ellice as his wife, as he perhaps might have
done; for at this time she would have followed him anywhere in the
world--or out of it. But it was decided that they should remain in
England, where Geoffrey had good practice as a barrister, in addition
to his settled income of six hundred pounds, and be married in
May--that is, in about six months. Mr. Quentin put on a portentous
aspect when he was first informed of the affair, protruding his under
lip and rubbing slowly behind his ear with his middle finger. He sighed
and muttered something about having once anticipated a 'more brilliant
future--no offence to you, Herne, of course--for his dear Ellice.' But
as a matter of fact he was by no means averse to the match, if he had
not actually done what he could to promote it. There is apt to be a
good deal of humbug inwoven in the characters of elderly men who have
seen better days and are not resigned to worse ones. Geoffrey perceived
that Mr. Quentin desired to make a merit of doing what really was
pleasing to him; and it was not in an expectant son-in-law's heart to
object to that. So matters on that side went smoothly.

To make the same remark regarding his relations with Ellice would be
a triumph of understatement. These two found heaven in each other. 'I
was made to love and to be loved,' she once said to him, as they sat
together in the little parlour on Christmas Eve. 'Be sure you make me
love you enough!'

'If you had told me to be sure to love you enough----'

She smiled and said, 'Never mind about that: that will be my affair.
But I must love so as to forget everything!' He was sitting on a low
stool at her feet, his head leaning against her side. She let one arm
fall about his neck, and her soft hand caressed his bearded cheek. 'As
I love you at this moment,' she continued, in a tender murmur.

He took her hand in his and kissed the soft palm. 'What is it you wish
to forget?' he asked presently.

'To tell you would be to remember.'

'But I wish to know.'

'I am not your wife yet: I shall not tell you.... I wish to forget that
I have only three dresses, and that you are not the eldest son of an
earl.'

Geoffrey leant back his head till he could see her face, and laughed.

'Don't! Worse things have happened,' she said quickly.

'Worse than what?'

'Nothing. Do you think me beautiful?'

'I love you too much to know whether you are beautiful or not. I used
to think you were beautiful some time ago, I believe.'

'You do not know what I can be yet. Loving you will make me seem
beautiful--even to you!'

'Is that why you want to love me?'

'I don't know. It suits me. I wanted it. I wanted many things, but that
most--at least now. Don't you sometimes think it would be wise to die?'

'I haven't thought so since I thought of going to Australia.'

'That isn't what I meant. This is a heavenly happiness; there cannot be
another so good; and yet I ... we might try others. Sometimes I feel as
if all the world would be too little for me.'

'I shall never want any other kind of happiness; I shall only want
more of this kind,' remarked Geoffrey, who did not know that Ellice
was opening to him deeper glimpses of her inner self than anyone--than
even she herself--had ever before been in the way of getting. He did
not know, and therefore, in the security of his well-being, he did not
look. But long afterwards he understood.

The weeks and the months went by, and the lives of the lovers grew to
be more than ever one delicious life. Ellice's prophecy proved true:
she did become more beautiful, in every way. Her moods, her silences,
her coldness, were gone; she was even-tempered, blithe and tender; her
singular eyes glowed with luxurious light; the curving of her lips was
eloquent of refined enticement.

'Did any woman ever love as I do?' she sometimes asked. 'Do I overflow
your heart?'

Geoffrey could have but one answer to such questions; and then she
would add, 'This is my world, darling; keep me in it!' When they parted
in the evening she would whisper to him, 'I do not like to have you
leave me; something might happen....' And Geoffrey, as he made his
nightly way back to London from the little Putney villa, would image
his coming married life in bright colours upon the darkness, and smile
to himself at what he took to be Ellice's wayward or superstitious
forebodings. 'I am not going to be one of those sentimental dastards
who are afraid of their own good luck,' he said comfortably to himself.
'Ellice is in the unsubstantial idealism of love as yet; when we really
come together she will forget her premonitions. Earthquakes do not
seek people out merely because they are happy; and it would be more
reasonable to suppose that those persons attract the lightning into
whose souls the iron has already entered. Ha! that is rather a neat
figure. I think that would be a good subject for a sonnet.'

This last observation will enable the reader to comprehend how
hopelessly in love Geoffrey must have been. But he was not even
embarrassed at his condition; he prided himself on it, as if no one
had ever thoroughly sounded the depths of the master passion before
him. No; neither poetry, romance, nor history were able to furnish
him with a parallel to his love; he had practically invented it. 'Not
that I take any credit to myself for that,' he would protest modestly
to solitude; 'no doubt there have been plenty of fellows who had as
much capacity for love as I--or nearly as much. But then I always have
the advantage of them in this--that I love Ellice! and that is enough
to make a Titan out of a pigmy.' In short, Geoffrey was well content,
and convinced that the universe must have been after all created by a
personal and benevolent God; though in his former days he had shared
the doubts of the late Mr. Mill and others on that subject. He even
found latent charms in poor old Mr. Quentin, who was the father of
all fascination, and must therefore have it in him somewhere. Mr.
Quentin talked about his 'claim' after dinner, with a sort of sapient
vapidity of tone and phrase; and pointed out to Geoffrey how probable
it was, after all, that his long-baffled hopes would be realised.
Geoffrey said that no doubt it was probable enough. He was thinking of
Ellice, and arguing that a world which could produce her could surely
produce so comparatively contemptible a miracle as the success of Mr.
Quentin's suit. It would be little less than a miracle if it occurred.
Geoffrey, who, from friendly motives, had at one time investigated
the matter almost as thoroughly as a solicitor could have done, knew
enough about it to know that. Nevertheless, he now, in the opulence
of his felicity, agreed with Mr. Quentin, that all might turn out as
he wished. Mr. Quentin, who had great faith in the judgments of those
who agreed with him, mentioned what Geoffrey had said to Ellice the
next morning. Ellice, who was lifting spoonfuls of coffee from her cup
and letting them trickle back again, replaced her spoon quietly in the
saucer on hearing this, and became meditative, with chin on hand and
downcast eyes.

'What would you do if you got this property, father?' she enquired
after a while.

'Take you up to London, and present you to our gracious Sovereign,
and let you mingle among those to whose rank in life you were born,'
replied he eloquently. 'As for myself,' he continued, lifting up his
double chin and settling his stock, 'I shall--should enter Parliament
and--and----'

'Give the State the benefit of your experience of unpaid tradesmen's
bills,' interposed Ellice sarcastically. It was the old tone, unused
by her since her betrothal; but a change seemed all at once to have
come over her. Her father's under lip fell, and he stared at her in a
piteously crest-fallen way. She pushed back her chair from the table,
folded her arms, and gazed intently at the fire. The silence lasted
some time. At length she said slowly, still keeping her eyes on the
fire, 'I hope, for both our sakes, you will never get it.'

'For both our sakes----?' began Mr. Quentin, with a remonstrative
emphasis on 'both'; but his daughter again interrupted him.

'When I say "both," I do not mean myself and you. But what absurdity
it all is!' she broke off with a short mocking laugh. 'I might as well
hope that the Queen will not come out here this afternoon, and take a
cup of tea with us.'

'Well, I must say, Ellice, that I don't understand all this,' exclaimed
Mr. Quentin, clearing his throat and pulling down his waistcoat with
the air of a man who feels he has been unfairly attacked. 'If you
care nothing for ease and dignity yourself, that is no reason why you
should grudge your father the means of--hm--comfort and consideration
appropriate to advancing years. And hereafter, when I am gone----'

Ellice put up her hand, and a curious smile crossed her lips. 'You
are too imaginative, father,' she said, in a quiet, but no longer
antagonistic, voice. 'I am very matter-of-fact, and I can see that if
what you wish came to pass, it would be the ruin of my happiness. And
I daresay you remember that when I am not in a good humour I am not
pleasant company. For heaven's sake do not let us mention this foolish
subject any more.'

She got up and went out of the room; and Mr. Quentin, after standing
for several minutes with his back to the fire, now putting his hands
beneath his coat tails, now thrusting them in his pockets, and now
inserting his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat in the jerky
manner of one whose composure and self-esteem have been exasperated,
pulled from his breast-pocket a large leather-covered memorandum-book,
opened it, and applied his thick nose diligently to its contents. After
a prolonged investigation, he closed it, and ejaculating 'Fifteen
thousand a year! and got by a fluke! Why mayn't a fluke transfer it
to me?--and then, I fancy, I should see my way to a better match for
Ellice than this affair with Herne,'--he buttoned his coat, took a
cheroot from the stand on the mantelpiece, lit it, sighed, and walked
out.

It is always a question whether, after all our efforts, calculations,
and precautions, the issue of events does not remain precisely as
much beyond prediction as would have been the case had we forborne to
disquiet ourselves. One grey, moist morning, towards the end of May,
and about three weeks before the predicted wedding-day, Ellice was
walking along one of the suburban roads that lead towards London, in
a state of unusual excitement. Her eyes were fixed in preoccupation,
her colour was high, and her lips occasionally moved, as if under the
influence of vivid thought. Presently the figure of Herne appeared
coming along in the opposite direction at his customary long, measured
stride. It was his habit when he took a holiday to walk out from London
to the Quentins' villa in Putney; and Ellice had expected to meet
him. To Geoffrey, however, the encounter was an unlooked-for pleasure;
and when he recognised Ellice from afar, he began to make gestures
expressive of satisfaction. He did not notice that she made no response
to them.

When they met he took her hand and kissed it. The road was only half a
country one; several houses were within sight, and he probably thought
that a warmer greeting would be open to objection. But Ellice raised
her eyes to his with a curiously intent look, in which there was a
subtly enlightening expression, readable only to a lover, and which
informed Geoffrey that he might follow the dictate of his heart. He was
not the man to neglect such a permission, and he stooped and kissed her
lips. At the same time he apprehended that some wheel or other must
be out of gear: women are seldom heedless of conventionality if their
minds are serene.

'Have you come to carry me home with you?' he asked jocosely.

'Let us walk towards London,' answered Ellice, slipping her hand
through his arm and causing him to turn. 'I am not going to be at home
to-day.'

'Where shall we go, then?'

'Anywhere! I don't care where. To London.'

'By all means. But then there is no necessity for walking. The train
will be quicker.'

'No; I prefer to walk--for the present,' said Ellice, speaking quickly
and nervously, and pressing her companion's arm between her hands.

'And how long may we be away?'

'I never wish to go back!'

Geoffrey's face suddenly became grave. Her tone and her whole manner
now confirmed him in his first suspicion--that something was wrong. He
glanced down at Ellice, rapidly passing in mental review all probable
or possible causes of the difficulty. At length he said:

'Have you had a row with your father?'

'Yes--no; that is no matter. I want to talk only about ourselves. Do
you love me?'

'If we are going to talk about that, it will take some time. One day is
not long enough for me to tell you how much I love you.'

'Do you love me enough to do anything for me, or with me?' She moved
her free hand down his sleeve to his hand, and repeated, 'Anything?'

'I love you: there is no stronger word or thing that I know of,'
replied Geoffrey, feeling, indeed, an immense gush of tenderness in his
heart, which his anxiety deepened.

She made no immediate answer, but Geoffrey felt that she was full of
restrained excitement, and he insensibly prepared himself for some kind
of shock. In this short space he recognised that there might be much
in Ellice which he had never known or comprehended.

'But there are so many things in the world!' she broke out suddenly
and vehemently. 'Why are they there unless we were meant to have some
relation to them? Wealth, and society, and power, and fame; to be able
to go where you like and do what you will; to carry out all that is in
your mind, without any hindrance from mean and contemptible obstacles
that degrade you as well as imprison you! How can one even love with
one's whole heart if all those things are wanting? Are you sure you
could, Geoffrey?'

'I don't expect to have perfection in everything,' replied he,
beginning to feel relieved; 'but the question is, whether all these
things you speak of are better worth having than love. Of course, it
would be pleasant to have both; but, as a matter of fact, most people
seem to get either the one or the other, and not both--except those
poor devils who get neither.'

'Oh, I know it--I know it. That is perfectly true, though I don't know
why it should be so--I don't think it ought to be so.' She relinquished
his arm, and began feverishly to pull off her gloves. 'It is hateful to
have to choose,' she added.

'Luckily, we are spared that pain, at all events,' remarked Geoffrey
with a smile.

Ellice stopped in her walk, and turning a little towards him, looked at
him attentively. She had the air of mentally putting some alternative
before herself, and deciding which course she would pursue. She then
walked on more slowly, with her eyes downcast.

'One thinks what one would do in such and such a case, even when it
does not actually come to pass,' she said. 'A great fortune is a great
thing--it is something real. Suppose you had to choose between a great
fortune and me?'

'It would be choosing between a great fortune and a greater. Of
course I should take the greater,' returned Geoffrey, feeling a
certain intellectual satisfaction in his answer. But Ellice pressed
her scarlet lips together, as if rejecting any merely complimentary
or epigrammatical evasion of her enquiry. She was, in fact, more in
earnest than he was, because he had come to the conclusion that she
was merely disquieting herself, as women sometimes will, about an
imaginary, not to say impossible, contingency. The best way to treat
such conduct was to laugh at it.

'But you are a man,' she resumed presently, 'and it would be different
with you, because when a man has not got a fortune, he always thinks he
can make one. But if you were a woman?'

'In that case I should get the man to decide for me.'

She came close to his side and once more took his arm. 'Yes,' she
said, speaking rapidly, 'yes, to feel that a thing is done and cannot
be undone. It is so terrible to wait, Geoffrey; something might
happen--you might die, or----Geoffrey, I wish it were done.'

'You wish what were done?' demanded he, looking down at her, while his
heart gave a bound.

She made no other reply than to meet his eyes intently, the colour
gradually overspreading her face.

'That we were married?' he asked at length, in a low tone.

She gave a sudden sigh; then a smile trembled across her lips for a
moment, but without affecting the earnestness of her brow.

'Then something has happened?' said Geoffrey, heavily and gravely.
'Tell me.'

'I have told you. What more can I say? I am afraid: I want to be safe!'

'I would have married you six months ago if you would have had me,'
said Geoffrey, almost coldly; for he dreaded lest passion should hurry
him on to do something which, while for the moment satisfying Ellice,
might in the end lead her to reproach him. It was difficult to think
clearly at such a juncture, and yet something must be thought and said
at once, for no lover can endure to seem in need of stimulus from his
mistress. 'Does your father know of this?' he asked.

'No; he would prevent it,' she answered excitedly. 'Geoffrey, do not
stop to think whether this is wise or foolish. Do not ask me.... We are
together. This is the time.'

'But unless we have a special licence--and that is impossible!'

'Impossible?'

'Ellice--you are not of age.'

She turned very pale, and slowly let go his arm. 'You should not have
thought of that--you do not love me.' She turned away, and her hands
fell to her sides.

Geoffrey made no reply; for, man of the world and strong though he was,
he was trembling all over, and could not trust his voice to speak.

'Good-bye,' said Ellice presently, still keeping her face averted.

'Look at me, my girl!' he exclaimed, taking hold of her wrist: and
at his touch she did look up at him for a moment with a singular
expression, half wayward and half winning, which he remembered vividly
for a long time afterwards. He continued: 'We cannot break the law. If
we love each other we can marry in three weeks----'

She raised her other hand quickly, and he stopped. After a pause she
said, 'Geoffrey, look at me--look in my eyes, dear. I love you--not in
three weeks, but--now.'

The tone in which the words were spoken made Geoffrey feel as if
his ordinary life were taken away from him, and a new, perverted,
delirious life put in its place. Instinctively, he sought self-defence
in incredulity; but it was in vain--there was no mistaking what her
eyes said, whatever construction might be forced upon her words. For
an instant, a fire sprang up in his own eyes; but then, with a savage
effort of the will, he dropped her wrist and said huskily:

'No!'

'Well, it is fate!' returned Ellice with a light sigh. Presently
she bit her lip, and gave a little laugh. 'How seriously we have
been taking things: anybody would suppose that we--meant something.
Good-bye, Geoffrey.'

'What do you mean by good-bye?'

'Nothing; only that I am going home, and that you are not to come
with me. Oh, you need not look solemn, or angry. But I must go alone,
really.'

'What----'

'And I will write to you to-morrow, and tell you why. Good-bye; we must
not do more than shake hands on this street corner, with that chemist's
shop opposite, and the waggon coming along. Good-bye until to-morrow.'

'This is strange!' was all that Geoffrey could mutter. She went away
from him, walking lightly and swiftly, turning her head towards the
right or the left occasionally, but never looking back. Presently he
saw something fall from her dress and flutter to the ground without her
noticing it; and after she had passed out of sight he walked slowly to
it, and picked it up. It was a little black bow. Geoffrey pinned it
inside his coat. The next day he received the following letter:

    'You were quite right, Geoffrey, and I thank you. But I am going
    to make you hate me and despise me even more than you did then. We
    shall not marry in three weeks, or ever. It is better so. I suppose
    I was destined to experience both--the love of the world as well
    as your love; to try them both, I mean. I daresay I should never
    have been contented else. I am a strange girl, as I have told you
    before. It seems to me I have loved you as much as a woman can ever
    love a man; and if yesterday--never mind, we will forget that. I
    have not changed either, only that somehow yesterday seems ages
    away from me. I do not understand myself, and I don't think I want
    to. Perhaps marriage would not have come up to my ideal of it; and
    I could not have borne to be disappointed in it--with you. Perhaps
    I have had the sweetest that love can give. The other cannot be so
    sweet, I know; but I must try it, too. It is fate!

                                                               'ELLICE.

'The person with whom we have been having the lawsuit about the
property died last week, and left the property to us, on condition that
I married his nephew.'

And at the bottom of the page was added: 'Do not hate me always.'

Geoffrey Herne took this shock with a serenity that surprised himself.
Indeed, he got so far as to say, after a few days, that he was glad
it had turned out so. Of course he never answered the letter, and he
never spoke to anyone of the episode of his engagement to Miss Quentin.
It had been known to but few of Herne's acquaintances; and if they
learnt the sequel they were all too considerate, or too cautious, to
discuss the matter with him, or in his presence. To tell the truth, he
was not a very genial companion. He had always had a biting tongue,
and now it had become almost venomous. Whenever he saw an opening for
saying a cruel witty thing, he said it unhesitatingly, and without
compunction, no matter if it were at the expense of his dearest friend.
'I must have my little joke,' he would reply if any remonstrance were
attempted. The men in his club began to fight rather shy of him; no
one could get the better of him in repartee, and he was noted for
never forgetting or forgiving a slight or an ill-turn, even if it
were unintentional. 'Herne will have his revenge if he waits a year
for it,' used to be said of him in reference to such affairs. It was
worth nobody's while to be his enemy, and nobody knew how to be his
friend. He saw very little of society; but he worked with vigour at his
profession, and every month added to his reputation as a barrister. 'He
will be Q.C. before he's forty if he keeps on,' was prophesied of him
by a certain learned judge, not given to reckless predictions. It was
evident, therefore, that his love-disappointment had done him no harm.

One day, contrary to his usual custom, he accepted an invitation to
a garden-party at Lady Feuilleton's suburban villa. It was a gentle
June afternoon, a year and a month after his last interview with Ellice
Quentin. A broad rectangular lawn, soft and deep to the foot, was
surrounded with tall limes and elms, whose voluminous leafiness cast
grateful shadows athwart the turf. Beneath the trees a path lay in
sunshine-fretted gloom. The house, with its balcony and open windows,
stood at one end of the lawn; at the opposite end a marquee had been
set up; a large sheet of canvas had moreover been pinned down upon an
area of the level turf as a dancing floor. Chairs of designs more or
less fantastic were placed in straggling groups along the shady side of
the lawn, and these were occupied by men and women in summer attire--it
was very warm--and bright-coloured parasols and fans made the scene
lively as well as lovely. When the music began the charm was complete.

Geoffrey Herne, however, appeared to feel particularly morose, and
spoke in a tone which, though punctiliously courteous, had a covert
sneer underneath it. In reality, he was perhaps not morose; on the
contrary, he may have felt a piteous forlornness at the heart, of
which he was ashamed, and which he desired to conceal. His hostess,
a vivacious, Parisian-looking little lady, was paying him special
attention, and chatted to him inveterately. At last Herne said he must
go home; Lady Feuilleton expostulated volubly, and ended by proposing
that he should accompany her into the house, and drink a glass of iced
claret-punch with her. Herne thought that would be as good a way as any
of preparing his escape, and therefore he complied. They entered the
parlour arm-in-arm. The change from sunlight to gloom rendered objects
almost undistinguishable, and Geoffrey tripped over something which
turned out to be the skirt of a lady's dress, and he made his apologies
without discerning the features of the lady to whom he was making them.
She had been sitting down--she rose hurriedly, but said nothing in
reply.

'Have you come for a freshener, too, Lady Feuilleton?' said a man's
voice, which, for some reason, immediately inspired Geoffrey with a
feeling of aversion and contempt.

'Who are you, pray?--Why, Mr. Amidon, I declare!' exclaimed the
hostess. 'And who is this with you? surely not your wife?'

'Incredible, but true!' replied the other, with a short cackling laugh.

'Dear me! what is society coming to! I'm so delighted--so good of you
to come. How do you do, dear? Oh! and let me introduce my friend Mr.
Geoffrey Herne--Mrs. Amidon. You ought to get on capitally together;
you are both so sarcastic! We came to get some iced punch: have you had
any? Well, you must join us. Dear me! Mr. Herne, can you lift that
jug? it's so heavy. Just a glass all round, and then I must run back to
my guests. What a lovely dress, dear!'

'Capital punch, upon my soul!' said Mr. Amidon, as he set down his
emptied glass. He and Lady Feuilleton chatted together for a minute
or two, laughing and fencing. He was a youngish-looking man, with a
flaxen moustache and pale grey eyes, rather red round the edges. His
complexion was not good, and when he laughed his chin retreated towards
his throat and he twisted his shoulders. Geoffrey stood looking at him
in silence. Mrs. Amidon had again sat down in a chair beside the table
and was fanning herself. Presently Mr. Amidon expressed an intention
of accompanying Lady Feuilleton back to the garden, and they went
out, leaving Mrs. Amidon and Geoffrey to 'become acquainted,' as Lady
Feuilleton put it. When they were gone, Mrs. Amidon closed her fan and
looked up.

'Will you sit down by me for a moment, Geoffrey?' she said.

'Of course you understand, Mrs. Amidon,' said he, 'that I should not
have come here if I had expected to meet you.'

'Then I am glad you did not know. I have wanted to meet you and talk
with you. And, after all, that proves me to be charitable; for people
generally dislike and avoid those whom they have injured.'

'Without calling your charity into question, Mrs. Amidon,' said
Geoffrey, 'I may be permitted to relieve you from the burden of
supposing that you have injured me. I should put it upon another
ground--that we are apt to shun those who have benefited us. In an
indirect way I may have benefited you, by keeping you occupied until
Mr. Amidon was ready to come forward.'

She was looking at him while he spoke with her head a little on one
side, her scarlet lips occasionally moving slightly. Now her eyelids
drooped, and she sighed.

'I have looked forward to this meeting often,' she said, 'and I was
prepared to hear you say worse things than that. Perhaps, after all,
you have not cared so much as I thought you would. I have no heart to
fight with you, Geoffrey, as we used to fight in----'

She paused. Her persistence in calling him Geoffrey produced an effect
upon him. The sound penetrated far into him, and set vibrating chords
which long neglect had scarcely rendered less sensitive. He was further
disturbed by her not attempting to defend herself: not that anything
could make her conduct defensible, but the blow that provokes no
return loses half its virtue to the striker. And, finally, it must
be confessed that her aspect and propinquity were not without their
influence. She was more fully developed, more beautiful than when he
saw her last; and there were slight modifications in her manner and
expression which were on the side of gentleness and sadness, and which
moved Geoffrey to unwilling sympathy. Perhaps she had suffered enough
to conciliate even his resentment.

'What do you think of Mr. Amidon?' she enquired presently.

'I have not had much opportunity of judging; but I should think,'
said Geoffrey, with diminishing bitterness, 'that he would be a very
suitable husband for you.' It struck him as peculiar that Ellice, in
spite of her culpability towards himself, did not shrink from meeting
his eyes, or from introducing topics of conversation which might have
been supposed at least as unwelcome to her as to him. But hers had
always been a strange and unaccountable character.

She opened and closed her fan, glanced out of the window towards the
sunlit lawn, then back at him, and said: 'Do you want to--leave me?'

A minute before Geoffrey had fancied that he did wish to leave her;
now, for some reason, he changed his mind, and dropped into a chair
opposite her.

'What do you want of me?' he asked.

'Do I look the same to you as when you saw me last?'

'You look better than you did then--handsomer--and you are more
expensively dressed. And, of course, the fact that you are one of the
leaders and ornaments of society has its effect upon me.'

'Geoffrey, it may not be often that we come across each other again;
why should we hold masks before our faces? We have been intimate. You
have not forgiven me for leaving you. You have said to yourself, "If
she had loved me she would have given up the world for me"; and so you
concluded that I was a hypocrite from the beginning. But if I had been
a hypocrite, I would have married you; or I would never have let you
know that I loved you.'

'Probably I don't understand you--and never did.'

'No man ever was your rival, Geoffrey; the world was your rival; but
yet you should not be jealous; because, though it drew me irresistibly,
it never drew that best part of me that was yours. I could not have
lived without the world--without longing for it; and I could not live
with the world without longing for----Forgive me!'

'Take care what you say now, Ellice! You touch fire!' exclaimed
Geoffrey in a suppressed growl, with a glow kindling under his gloomy
brows.

She rose quickly from her chair, moved close to him, and laid her hand
upon his.

'Burn me, then!' she answered, with a strange, tragic smile. And
while they confronted each other, she continued: 'My sin was that I
preferred living falsely with the world, to living falsely with you.'

'You made the world a bad place for me,' returned Geoffrey; but his
tone was no longer stern, and his hand now held hers. 'I had but one
love, unfortunately, and that was yours. But you have a husband.'

'I have a name,' she answered carelessly, 'which I wear as I wear this
hat, because it is the fashion. Only the one is called a husband and
the other a hat.'

'That is not the whole of it. You can change your hat to-morrow; but
there is only one way for a woman to get rid of a husband.'

'What difference about him, Geoffrey, if you will be my friend?'

'Your friend?' he repeated sharply, dropping her hand.

'Oh, do not be angry again!... no, no, not that! do not ask me to do
that!... I am not so selfish, nor so wicked, Geoffrey, as to wish you
to--to give up your life to what has not, after all, been wholly yours.
I am not worth that. I only ask that you should be my friend. Help me
to live so as to respect myself. What can I say? I know that what is
past cannot be recalled; you can never feel towards me as you might
have done if--if I had been less weak. But I am so lonely; I hoped you
could----'

'No: that won't do! nothing like that,' interrupted Geoffrey in a heavy
voice. 'I am not a monster of virtue and self-restraint, Ellice: and
I'm not a cur either. Do you suppose your husband would fall in with
this arrangement. And do you suppose that I would condescend to sneak
about his premises, having a secret understanding with his wife--secret
from him? It is true enough that there can no longer be a fresh and
pure love between you and me; but there can be no friendship--because,
for good or evil, I love you still! I can commit a crime, but I will
tell no lie, nor live one. Everything must be open and above board
between us and the world, or there must be nothing at all.'

'Oh, Geoffrey, this is terrible!' murmured Ellice, letting her folded
hands hang before her. In fact, she had not anticipated his attitude;
she was a woman who wanted much, but who was not, perhaps, willing
to go all lengths in order to get it. At the same time she could not
help admiring what he had said and liking him all the better for it;
and she certainly did not admire Mr. Amidon, or passionately like the
fashionable life which they led, and of which she had seen enough
clearly to comprehend its limitations. Nevertheless, a woman who has
achieved a position before the world will hesitate profoundly before
abandoning outward conventionality for avowed outlawry. Compromises
are more convenient. But how if a stubborn man persists in refusing to
stoop to compromise? The compromise was in itself reasonable in the
highest degree, if not also in the highest degree moral; but that
evidently made no impression on Geoffrey.

There was a sound of voices and laughter approaching the open window;
Lady Feuilleton and Mr. Amidon were coming back from the lawn. Ellice
took up her fan nervously, and passed a hand over her hair. She had
been able to entertain such reflections as the above, while the man
with whose soul she had played fast and loose was standing, as it were,
with the sword at his heart. He now spoke again; and the words in which
he began made her start, for it brought back to her memory another
scene of a year and a month before. Only this time he did not grasp her
wrist.

'Look at me, my girl! I will wait in the drawing-room of the Lansdowne
Hotel this evening from nine o'clock until eleven. If I see you there,
there will be no trouble in getting free from your husband. If not,
never try to see me again. You will have done worse than murder.'

The others came in, full of badinage and liveliness. Lady Feuilleton
protested that she believed Mr. Herne and Mrs. Amidon had been flirting.

'Quite the contrary,' returned Mrs. Amidon, smiling composedly. 'Only
we have been discovering that we knew each other long ago, and that I
have lost the wager we made as to which of us would be married first.
I will pay it now,' she added, taking a white rosebud from the vase on
the table. She went up to Geoffrey and slipped it into the button-hole
of his coat. As she did so, she murmured below her breath, with a
glance into his eyes:

'Before this fades----!'

And then Geoffrey, with a very brief adieu, went out.

There can be little doubt that, when Ellice did that, and said those
words, she was resolved to meet Geoffrey in the Lansdowne drawing-room,
between nine and eleven o'clock; and at all events she could not endure
to be left in an awkward or unpicturesque situation. But unfortunately
it was then only six in the afternoon; three hours in which to wait, to
reconsider, to doubt. It would be doing her injustice to say that there
was not a struggle. The struggle was even carried to such a pitch that,
at half-past nine, a hansom cab drove up to the corner of the street
below the Lansdowne Hotel, and a lady got out of it, veiled, with a
satchel in her hand. She paid the cabman, and then walked along towards
the hotel. The broad bay window of the drawing-room abutted upon the
sidewalk; a street lamp stood on the opposite side of the road. As the
lady passed the window she glanced up, and saw a man seated there with
a newspaper, which he was not reading, in his hand. Her knees trembled,
but she said to herself: 'If he looks out and recognises me, I will go
to him.' Even then he turned, slowly, and looked out; she stood still,
unable to move. He must have seen her; but he did not recognise her;
after a moment he turned away. Then she faced about, and ran back
along the sidewalk, with what feelings in her heart who can tell? The
hansom had not yet gone from the place where she left it; and she was
driven back to her house in Mayfair, where she was to receive some
distinguished guests.


                                  II.

Geoffrey Herne's reflections were upon these matters, as he sat
in his chair on the spring day with which this story began. An
interval of two years had elapsed since he waited for Mrs. Amidon
in the drawing-room of the Lansdowne Hotel. During that period his
professional success had been rather on the wane. He was as clever
and sarcastic as ever--perhaps more so; but he neglected his work.
He was morose and indolent; the stimulus to achieve great things was
lacking. He conceived himself to have fathomed life and to have proved
it worthless. 'What is the odds what a man does? The devil is at the
bottom of it all!' he sometimes would remark. His more philosophical
and healthy-minded friends detected something petulant or childish in
this attitude of his; and the futility of their attempts to induce him
to 'throw it off' served to confirm them in their opinion. It should
be understood that nothing definite was known about what had occurred
further than that Herne had had a row with some woman. But other men
have had rows with women, and got over it.

The letter which Herne had just received and read was not long, though
it was sufficiently suggestive; and it may as well be given here:

    'Dear Geoffrey,--I shall never see Mr. Amidon again. I wish to see
    you at once. I know you must have had hard thoughts of me, but if
    I had had you always with me, I should have always done what you
    wish. It is when you leave me that I lose my strength. That is the
    secret of all our trouble. When we are together I always have known
    that I love you, and that I can never love anything but you; but
    when we are parted, other thoughts come; sometimes I imagine that
    love is all imagination. Geoffrey, I have never told you what I
    did not know to be true. If you had only made me yours at first!
    Even as I write to you at this moment, and think of my life since
    I saw you last, I half doubt whether anything is real of what I
    have felt for you; and yet they were the deepest feelings of all. I
    seem fated not to be happy; and yet I have tried ways of happiness
    more than most women. What is with me is real; what is away from
    me--you--are like a dream. But you are a dream that I believe in
    more than in reality; and I come to you in my trouble. Come and see
    me this evening without fail. I remember what you said to me at
    parting two years ago. At last I have done my part; I do not ask
    you to do yours; but at least come to me.--Yours,

                                                              'ELLICE.'

Two years is a long time. Geoffrey had not forgotten Ellice, and her
evil influence upon his life had not ceased to be operative; but he
had ceased to feel the need of her personal presence. He had grown so
accustomed to the wrong of her desertion, that this had become more
necessary to him than she herself was. After a while we make friends
with our grievances, and would be at a loss were they suddenly removed.
An hour ago there was nothing that Geoffrey would have desired less
than to hear again from his lost Ellice.

Nor was this all. Within the last three weeks a new element had
come into Geoffrey's gloomy life. He had admitted it in a mood of
self-contemptuous indolence; but since then it had worked upon him
gently but powerfully, and was now on the way to make itself an
unlooked-for resource and consolation. It had aroused a sentiment of
gratitude in Geoffrey's heart, which, by-and-by, perhaps, would develop
into something warmer and more tender. It had invested his future with
a subdued but brightening light, so that he had doubtfully told himself
that his latter days might be happier than those which were passed.
Now, above all things, he wished for no change, no disturbance.
Nevertheless, it was at this moment that the change and disturbance had
come. He could feel, stealing subtly through his veins, a lawless and
reckless heat which he remembered but too well, though it had long been
a stranger to him. These written pages came from her, had been touched
by her hand, and caressed by her breath. From them seemed to proceed
an insidious mist, blinding his eyes to honour, and leading astray his
judgment. How great and unaccountable was her power over him! It had
not always been for evil--not so at first. No; at first it had been the
purest and loftiest emotion of his heart. But now that it was become
evil, it was not less strong: it was stronger.

Still, it might be resisted; it should, it must be resisted! Geoffrey
pulled himself out of his reverie, and stood upright. After glancing
confusedly first this way and then that, he went to the tall secretaire
between the windows, and unlocked one of its inner drawers. Out of
the drawer he took the black silk bow and the dried rosebud, which,
at different times, had come to him from Ellice. Of late he had often
thought of destroying these relics, but he had put off doing so,
adducing many arguments to justify himself in his procrastination. Now,
however, the thing must be done, if it were to be done at all. Geoffrey
brought them and laid them upon the letter which he had placed upon
the mantelpiece, after once more taking it from its envelope. After a
pause, he folded the letter about them, and grasped the little bundle
in his hand. The next moment he quickly replaced it on the mantelpiece
and faced towards the door. Had not some one knocked?

The knock was repeated. He strode heavily and wrathfully to the door,
and opened it There stood a woman, dressed in black, with a red rose in
her bosom. She immediately threw back her gauze veil, but before she
did so he had recognised her. Moreover, in spite of the utter surprise
of her appearance at this place and hour, it seemed to him that he had
been all along secretly expecting her. With a sort of dogged sullenness
he made way for her, and she came in without hesitation, and with
perfect grace.

'We are together again, Geoffrey,' she said, when he had closed the
door, facing him as he advanced towards her. She took a hand of his in
both hers, and added, 'Yes, you are real! You see, I would not wait. It
was not worth while to risk anything more.'

'You are too late, by some weeks,' answered he, looking over her head
at the wall.

'Why? Ah, you mean that--you don't care for me any more!' She let go
his hand, and looked at him askance. Geoffrey, though he was thinking
of far different things, noticed that she was paler than he had
remembered her, except that her lips were scarlet as ever, and to the
beauty of her face was superadded a depth of expression, distinct from
its natural feminine mysteriousness. He suddenly fetched a deep sigh,
like one who is oppressed, and then he walked to the mantelpiece, and
rested his elbow on it, and his head on his hand.

'It is not necessary,' said Ellice, after a pause. 'I did not even
expect it. I have done you too much harm--a great deal too much. But
it is partly for that reason that I came. Whatever there is left of me
belongs to you, if it can be of any use to you. I would like to die in
some way that would make you forgive me.'

'Forgiveness is a word which children use,' replied he; 'it is never
anything more than a word. The only thing I could not forgive you is,
that you have come in my way again.'

A light sparkled in Ellice's eyes, and she smiled a very little. For,
although the superficial significance of the words was repellent
enough, she could discern the essential, reluctant flattery underlying
them. It was not because she was odious to Geoffrey that he wished
her away; but because she was too much the contrary. She was safe,
therefore.

'Let us talk together this once,' she said, 'and afterwards, if you
like, you need never see me again. May I sit down here with you beside
me? How happy we might have been!'

'Do you wish me to remember that you are a married woman?' he demanded
sullenly. 'You seem to think that everything is a game and a plaything.
Can you alter or take back what you have been doing these last three
years? What have you done with your husband?'

'Do you remember a thing you said two years ago, Geoffrey, when I asked
you to be my friend? Well, there need be no secret now. I mean never
to see Mr. Amidon again. I don't care what society says or thinks. He
has made it impossible for me to live with him. I don't blame him, for
he never could have had much satisfaction out of me, poor creature. He
knew from the beginning that I cared nothing for him; it was merely
an arrangement on account of property, and I--I consented more for my
father's sake than----'

'You need not take the trouble to say that to me!' interrupted Geoffrey
with a harsh laugh.

'No; I will tell you the whole truth,' she said, leaning back in her
chair and surveying him attentively. 'I have always told you that, so
far as I knew it; but now, for the first time, I think I know it all. I
thought I needed something more than your love, but it was a mistake.
I had not had enough of it to know what it could be--that is all. Mr.
Amidon has at least taught me that; he has taught me by showing me all
that it is not. I used to think there were so many pleasant things
in the world, that no one pleasure--not even the pleasure of your
love--could make up for the loss of the others. But I have found that
no pleasure can be really enjoyed except through love; one might as
well save money for dresses by going without food. What is the use of
fine clothes if you are dead?'

'Do you intend to divorce your husband?'

Ellice looked down for a moment at her hands, then glanced up with a
smile and nodded.

'Does he know of it?'

'No. He does not know where I am at this moment. I left him suddenly
yesterday in Paris. But he cannot help himself; he has no defence.'

'Well, and after you have got your divorce--what then?'

Ellice was looking straight at Geoffrey when he asked this question,
and for all answer she gave him another of her strange, unexpected
smiles.

Geoffrey stood up; this scarcely disguised avowal that she believed her
power over him to be undiminished so far defeated itself as to give him
strength for at least temporary resistance. He took her letter with its
enfolded contents off the mantelpiece.

'Two years have made more difference with me than they seem to have
made with you,' he said. 'I don't pretend to be as fresh-hearted and
as ready to begin life over again now as I was then, and perhaps I can
give you the friendly counsel to-day which you expected of me that
afternoon at Lady Feuilleton's. You will make a great mistake, in my
opinion, in leaving your husband. He can be of more use to you than
anybody else can. The longer you live the more of that sort of help you
will need. You will find it more inconvenient to give up the world than
it was to give up me. My advice is that you take the next train back to
Paris.'

'I will go if you send me,' replied Ellice, rising with an unhurried
movement, and standing in slender gracefulness before him. 'If that
advice comes from your heart, Geoffrey, I will do even that for you, if
it will make you happier. But--will you be happier? Am I grown ugly and
hateful to you? Look at me, Geoffrey! You used to think my lips were
beautiful.'

'Look at this!' returned he, breaking out into fierceness. He unfolded
the letter, and showed her the black bow and the dried rosebud. 'These
came from you. I have kept them till now, but at the moment you came in
I was going to burn them, and let that part of my life be annihilated
with them; for I had begun a new life, which they dishonoured. Why do
you come now? You promised to come before that flower faded. Did you
think it was immortal?'

'You have kept it all this time,' said Ellice softly, drawing a deep
breath. 'Then, perhaps, it may not be too late to make it bloom again.
Shall we try, Geoffrey?'

His eyes and face glowed; he felt himself drawn towards her as by the
strong current of a river; their hands met, when, as if by some sudden
impulse independent of his own will, he uttered the words:

'We cannot; I am going to be married.'

At first it seemed as if this announcement had produced no effect
whatever upon Ellice. She continued to clasp Geoffrey's hands, and
her gaze was untroubled. But presently she began slowly to grow pale,
until her whole face was quite white, while her eyes darkened until
they appeared black. Her lips fell apart a little, and it was with
difficulty that she moved them to say: 'You--I did not hear. What was
it?'

Geoffrey did not speak again. It was with a conscious effort that he
held himself upright, and looked at her. He wished this were over.
Ellice now slipped her hands from his and drew them back against her
shoulders, as if they had touched something unwholesome; but all the
while she kept questioning him with a gaze half incredulous, half
wistful. At last, however, and all at once, the full significance
of what he had told her seemed to leap into her mind, charging her
features with a vivid and sinister expression, the like of which
Geoffrey had never seen in her before. It ended in her laughing
somewhat shrilly, and sitting down again in her chair. She felt
nervously for her handkerchief, and having got it, pressed it several
times to her mouth.

'You took me quite by surprise,' she began, in a thin voice. 'You
are really going to be married! How dramatically you brought it out!
Who--may I ask to whom?'

'No name that you have ever heard,' said Geoffrey stolidly.

'And you have been engaged to her long? You love her passionately, of
course?'

'We have been engaged about three weeks. She deserves the best love----'

'Yes--I didn't mean to pry into your tender affairs! Geoffrey, have you
kissed her--often, I mean?'

'Yes, a hundred times,' he answered, between his teeth.

Ellice gave an involuntary shudder, and made a gesture as if to shut
out what he had said from her ears. The emotion brought the blood
surging and tingling back to her face. She turned her head aside and
remained for some time with her gaze fixed upon the wall. Geoffrey
ventured to make no sign, for he had tried his resolution to the
uttermost, and knew too well where another struggle would leave him.
Yet, at heart, perhaps, he grudged himself a victory so much less sweet
than defeat would have been. At that moment Ellice was for him the
only woman in the world. He was ready to fall at her feet. He felt as
if all the outrage had been on his side and all the suffering on hers.

At last she got up, outwardly quiet, save for the deep flush in her
cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes, which travelled over Geoffrey
occasionally as she spoke, but never rested steadily upon him. 'You
have made me feel ashamed of myself,' she said. 'I think you should
have told me this news at first. No--I take that back. I broke in upon
you uninvited and--but it was because I thought--I did not think----You
must believe that I am not so unwomanly as to have done it if I had
known.' She paused, buttoning and unbuttoning her glove mechanically,
her lips moving silently. Finally she looked up and said in a fresher
tone: 'May I ask you one favour?'

Geoffrey moved his head in silent assent.

'I shall go away--I shall go back to-morrow evening,' she went on.
'You see I am wise enough to take your advice now. But I want very
much to see--this lady before I go. You need not be afraid; I should
say nothing that could pain her; but you can understand why I should
like to see her. I suppose I may tell you--for you must know it
already--that she is the only woman in the world whom I can feel an
interest in seeing. When I picture you to myself hereafter, I want to
be able to picture her too. Will you bring her to see me to-morrow,
before I go? Tell her that I am an old--acquaintance of yours; a
married woman, who feels an interest in what concerns your happiness.
Will you come with her?'

'Oh, Ellice,' said he, in a broken voice, 'I will come with her--or, if
you say so, I will come without her!'

She seemed to hesitate for an instant, drawing in her breath, and
sending him one swift and penetrating glance. But the next instant
she answered quite composedly, and as if she had not understood the
significance of his avowal. 'Oh, no, come with her; I should like to
see her! Thank you; now I will go; good-bye till to-morrow!' And before
he could take her hand in farewell, or find words to speak, she had
retreated to the door, opened it, and passed out.

It was dark when she departed. Geoffrey lit no lamp; but after locking
his door, he sat for many hours with his head on his hands; and
everywhere, standing forth against the gloom, he saw her slender supple
figure, her fascinating wayward face: the changes of her voice murmured
in his ears; and the desire of her ruled his heart and mind.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was not with the feelings of a triumphant lover, proud to exhibit
his mistress to envious eyes, that Geoffrey Herne presented himself,
with the girl he was to marry, at Ellice's apartments the next day.
Not that Gertrude Hamilton was in any respect a bride to be ashamed
of. She was handsome, wholesome, and serene; full of kindliness and
common sense; pure in thought and upright in deed. She had given her
whole honest love to Geoffrey, moreover; and having done so, she had as
little thought of changing as the moon has of ceasing to be the earth's
satellite. So short a time ago as yesterday forenoon, Geoffrey had seen
his way to a life of sober happiness with her; but now he could only
think, 'She is not Ellice'; and he shunned to meet her quiet, confident
look, and could not respond frankly to her conversational advances.
He felt himself a cheat; and inwardly kept repeating to himself the
ominous question: 'How will it end? How will it end?'

Mrs. Amidon received her guests with a charm of cordiality that at once
produced a favourable impression upon Gertrude. She was dressed in a
flowing tea-gown of some oriental stuff which became her especially
well; there was colour in her cheeks, and her manner varied between
languor and what seemed restrained excitement; but a certain rare
feminine sweetness pervaded all. On the table by her side was a silver
salver, holding a decanter of wine and three glasses. These glasses,
which had already been filled to the brim with wine, were of Venetian
design, each one of a pattern different from the others. The room was
in half light and furnished sumptuously.

Ellice addressed almost all her questions and remarks to Gertrude;
never meeting the latter's eyes, but occasionally glancing at her with
great keenness. To Geoffrey she scarcely spoke; and when he addressed
her, she would reply to him, as it were, through Gertrude. Geoffrey
had noticed that she had avoided shaking hands with either of them at
meeting; and, as he sat observing her, the fantasy now and then seized
him that she was not a tangible human being of flesh and blood, but a
beautiful wraith. There was a refinement and a sensitiveness in her
gesture and aspect as of one who could scarcely have part in the vain,
self-seeking world: and yet what an odd commentary upon this appearance
her actual life (as far as one could know it) had been!

After a while she said, rising, and speaking with more vivacity than
she had shown before: 'Now I am going to ask you both to take a glass
of wine with me.'

Gertrude thanked her, but said she seldom took wine, unless for
medicinal purposes.

'Oh, but let me beg of you to make an exception this time,' returned
Ellice, with singular earnestness. 'I have set my heart--yes, my heart,
upon your drinking with me. Do not refuse me. I shall never have the
opportunity of asking another favour of you.' She took up the salver as
she spoke, and held it towards Gertrude, with the three glasses upon
it. 'Choose one,' she said. 'I am superstitious. I cannot let you off
from this. Take whichever you like.'

'Certainly, if it will oblige you,' said Gertrude, smiling. 'I suppose
they are all the same wine? I will take this.' And she took the
slenderest of the three glasses.

'The wine is the same,' observed Ellice, 'but the glasses sometimes
make a difference in the taste. Well, you have chosen; now, Geoffrey,
it lies between you and me.'

Her hands trembled a little as she presented the salver to him, so that
the glasses jingled, and some of the wine was spilt. 'Quick!' she said
in a whisper; and he took the glass with the curved brim and the snaky
stem. As she set down the salver her hand was steady again, and when
she raised the remaining glass between her fingers not a drop was spilt.

'You remember the last time we drank together, Geoffrey?' she said,
looking directly at him now for the first time. 'I shall never drink
wine in my life after this. I am glad you and Gertrude have chosen as
you have done. It is better--much better. You had your free choice, and
left this for me. I drink to your health, my friends.'

She drank her glass out, and set it down. The others followed her
example.

'It is very good wine, I'm sure,' remarked Gertrude.

'You will get no harm from it,' replied Ellice, tremulously and
smiling; 'nor will you, Geoffrey. And it will be good for me, too. You
will----' she began to tremble so violently that she could not stand,
and sank down in a chair. 'You will think--kindly of me?' she went on
in a scarcely audible voice. A strange alteration was rapidly creeping
over her features. Her lips quivered, her eyes dilated, and there was
a choking in her throat. Geoffrey, who, for the last few moments, had
kept his eyes fixed upon her searchingly, suddenly flung himself down
on his knees beside her with a hollow cry of anguish.

'Ellice! you have poisoned yourself,' he cried with thick utterance.
'Could you not have forgiven me enough to let me go too?'

'You--had your--chance; it was death--to one or other of us three,' she
answered with difficulty. 'Fate chose me. Oh! do not trouble me now; I
am content. Of what use have I ever been in the world? She is better
for you.'

'What is the matter? Can I be of any help?' enquired Gertrude, in
concern and perplexity.

For a minute Geoffrey made no reply. Then he rose stiffly, kissed the
dead woman's lips, and turning away from her, but not towards Gertrude,
answered heavily, 'None!'




                         THE COUNTESS'S RUBY.


                                  I.

One hot August forenoon, some years ago, two men met at a certain point
of the coast of Normandy, and shook hands with mutual good-will.

The elder of these men had lived in the world about five-and-thirty
years; he had had losses, and successes as well; but the latter,
happening to have arrived a year or so after he had got tired of
waiting for them, found him grown a trifle soured and cynical, and
apt to carp at the sunshine which had withheld its warmth from his
bones until they had contracted an ineradicable chill. His bitterness
was perhaps more of the head than of the heart, but was none the
less observable on that account. He was an Englishman by birth, and
a born painter also--at least in his own opinion. He had begun his
career with the firm persuasion that his genius entitled him not only
to hang on the line at the Academy, but to be one of the hangmen.
The Royal Academicians did not immediately fall in with his views on
either point; and when, after many years, they relented, and gave his
picture the place of honour, and intimated their purpose of filling
with his name the first vacancy on their august roll, this lofty and
unforgiving gentleman made a bow and begged to be excused. He had
made his name known without the Academy's help; he had won pecuniary
independence in a land where the word of the Academy was not law; and
he would now, therefore, with all due respect to the members of that
body, see every mother's son of them at the deuce before he would have
anything to do with them. Such an ultimatum necessarily finished the
episode; the Academy preserved a dignified silence, and the lofty and
unforgiving gentleman continued to spend the best part of his time in
Paris, exhibiting every year in the Salon, and telling the story of
his quarrel with the English potentates to whomsoever cared to hear
an amusing anecdote caustically related. He was a lengthy, meagre,
harsh-featured personage, this same cynical artist, but he prided
himself on the Parisian polish of his manners and his French accent,
and he was, in fact, a good deal of a favourite in society.

The man who shook hands with the person above described was in most
respects as unlike him as could be imagined. To begin with, he was an
American; and, sentimental twaddle to the contrary notwithstanding,
there is no nationality so irreconcilable with the English, and so
incapable of sympathy with them, as that which styles itself American.
But this man, in addition to his Americanism, was full ten years the
junior of the other, and nearly the same number of inches shorter. His
face was smooth and almost boyish, handsome even to an unusual degree,
yet open to one criticism--that of being perfectly in harmony with the
figure of its owner. The world has seen many great men under six feet
high; but in them the countenance possessed the power or the nobility
that more than compensates for defective stature; and, in looking
upon it, the beholder quite forgot to be critical as to the greater
or less degree of its elevation above the earth's surface. In a word,
the face of this young American was the face of a short American--a
recommendation, doubtless, from the purely æsthetic standpoint, but
otherwise unfortunate. The lively blue eyes lacked depth and sternness;
the fine straight nose might well have been a thought longer or higher;
the mouth was too little and too academic in its curves; the forehead,
though capacious, lacked the fine and expressive modelling which
announces a master intellect. For the rest, this young American had a
clear, deep colour in his cheeks, such as any woman might have envied,
and the only fault of which was that no emotion had power either to
diminish or to heighten its intensity; soft dark hair, a small silky
moustache, and broad white teeth. The best feature in his face was
probably the chin, which betokened a vigorous and persistent will. In
figure he was square-shouldered, and rather plump than lean: his hands
and feet were small and well shaped. If the enumeration of these merely
physical details seems out of proportion with what was specified on
that score in the portrait of the Englishman, it should be remembered
that the younger man had as yet achieved little in the world beyond
this attractive personal appearance. His moral and social history
were yet to make. He was the son of a Boston millionaire; he had been
educated at Harvard College; he was courted and caressed in Beacon
Street drawing-rooms; and he had written quite a number of poems, odes,
lyrics, and sonnets, philosophical, commemorational, imaginative, and
erotic, which, reversing the natural sequence of states, first led a
brilliant butterfly life in newspapers and magazines, and afterwards
shut themselves up in the chrysalid of a gilt-edged, cloth-embossed
volume, whence they afterwards showed no symptom of emerging.

These two men, such as they are here shadowed forth, found themselves
face to face by the water's edge on that sultry August morning, and
greeted each other with hearty enough cordiality.

As if to compensate for their physical dissimilarity, they were dressed
almost precisely alike. Both had on shoes made of a flat sole of
plaited hemp, with stout linen uppers curiously embroidered with red
and blue braid, and laced round the ankle after the manner of the
ancient sandal. Both wore a kind of straw bonnet, high-crowned and
wide brimmed, clewed down on either side the face by a broad ribbon
tied under the chin. Neither possessed any other essential article of
clothing except a close-fitting tunic or set of tights, with the legs
and arms cut off close to the body. Over this was lightly thrown a long
mantle of Turkish-towel stuff. The tights were striped horizontally,
alternate white and blue for the Englishman, and red and white for the
American; and herein lay the sole distinction between their respective
costumes. It is true that the American's fitted much the more closely
and smoothly of the two; but that is neither here nor there.

In front of these simply-attired friends, and breaking in baby ripples
at their feet, stretched in slumbrous calm a pale and turquoise ocean,
destitute of any visible horizon. A tender haze which brooded in that
region so intermingled sea and air that distant ships seemed to sail in
the clouds, and clouds to voyage upon the water.

Behind them rose a mounded beach of purple shingle, uncomfortable to
tread upon, but invaluable as a bulwark against the incursion of high
tides into the low-lying village beyond. This village snuggled in the
valley formed between the two hills which abutted at either extremity
of the beach in precipitous cliffs, reflecting their pallid faces in
the molten surface of the summer sea.

Between the village and the beach, and surmounting the latter like
a fort, extended the casino parade, an embankment of masonry lying
parallel with the shore, and backed by the casino itself, long, low,
and flat-roofed, all windows and awnings. It contained a card room,
billiard room, restaurant and theatre, the last transmutable into a
ball room by the simple process of removing the pit seats.

The persons of whom I write were not alone by the water's edge; on the
contrary, they had scarcely more than elbow room. On either side of
them stood, chattered, and gesticulated a hundred human beings of both
sexes and all ages, arrayed more or less on the same general principle
already detailed. A hundred others paddled, plunged, and bobbed in the
pellucid element in front. Twice as many lounged, fluttered, and ogled
in serried groups in the rear--these last resplendent in the latest
Parisian fashions for the month of August. Down upon this gay scene of
colour, sparkle, and sound glowered the hot, lazy sun, longing for the
still nine-hours-distant time when he might cool his own sweltering
sides in the luxury of a sea bath.

Beyond the average range of the swimmers sped hither and thither a
score of light skiffs or canoes, whose occupants prudently wore their
bathing dresses and sat heedfully amidships as they plied their long
paddles. Finally, I may mention the diving-board, an infernal machine
of a thirty foot plank supported at a third of its length on the axle
of a tall pair of wheels, and so rolled into the water, to be rushed
up and jumped off of by dashing divers. That diving-board was a daily
thorn in the side of the English artist, who was not a dashing diver
and who would have greatly preferred to take to the water like a
duck--that is quietly and smoothly--but whom a false pride constrained
to mount that penitential plank morning after morning, and upset
himself off the end of it with an agonised effort--seldom or never
successful--to strike the water vertically. What fools sensible people
will make of themselves for the sake of being like the fools who are
ready-made!

It may as well be mentioned here, since the truth is sure to crop
out sooner or later, that the name of the cynical and Frenchified
English artist was Mr. Claude Campbell, and that he was, consequently,
no less a personage than myself, who write concerning him. Let this
confession put the reader on his guard against whatever exaggerative
or prejudicial statements he may fancy he detects in what I have told
or have yet to tell. I do not pretend to be an absolutely impartial
historian of events in which myself have been an actor. I promise
only to set down things as they appeared to me at the time, and leave
the reader to draw his own conclusions. Did I make the world, or
even organise human society? No; nor am I responsible for the logic
of events, which, on the other hand, has often struck me as being a
shocking bad system of logic.

As for the red-cheeked American, he was Jefferson Montgomery, Esquire,
of Boston, as aforesaid, and he shall speak for himself.


                                  II.

'Hullo, Jeff! Just a year since we parted on Beacon Hill.'

'My _dear_ Campbell,' said Jeff, giving my hand a strong pressure,
while his blue eyes beamed and his white teeth flashed, 'this is
_really very nice_. Have you been here long?'

'Maybe a week.'

'A _week_? _Really!_ how _very strange_!'

As I do not intend to underline all Mr. Jeff's speeches, I will explain
here that he was one of those persons who choose their words with care,
and then bestow upon them a certain emphasis--an emphasis of breath--a
soft cough, so to say, intended merely to call your attention to the
word in question as an unexceptionable word. At first you wondered at
the speaker's earnestness; afterwards you begot a nervous oppression
of the breathing apparatus, referable to the obscure phenomena of
sympathetic affections. For my own part, the kind of conscientious
self-complacency of which I considered this idiosyncrasy of my friend
to be a symptom tended to arouse in me all my caustic and combative
instincts; and, inasmuch as the young poet was fertile in 'notions'
and resolute in upholding the same, our conversations were apt to
become discussions, and our discussions disputes. Our disputes had
never deepened into quarrels--we were too dissimilar for that--though
a listener might sometimes have found it difficult to make the
distinction. But to resume.

'Why strange?' was my enquiry.

'Why, that we shouldn't have encountered previously.'

'On the contrary, the strangeness is in our meeting at all. I came here
to make studies, and you, I suppose, to make conquests. How many so
far?'

'Oh, you old cynic! I don't know a soul in the place. It was an
accident my being here at all, and I've been doing nothing but admire
these lovely cliffs and the poetic scenery.'

'Poetic? That reminds me. Pardon my thoughtlessness, Jeff. You have
been wooing the muse, of course?'

'Well, I confess I have been attempting something; it's unfinished as
yet, but I hope it is fresh and strong; and I believe it to be original
in treatment as well as in idea. It will be my most ambitious effort so
far. A pagan maid falls in love with the Spirit of the Ocean, and a
poet is in love with her, and between these two loves----'

'She comes to the ground, or into the water. Which is it?'

'You are always so ready to mock, Campbell. But of course it doesn't
come from the heart; it's only your badinage. And really, don't you
think the conception fine? I should like to read you my description of
the pagan maid.'

'Portrait of anybody in particular?'

'Well, between you and me, Campbell, there _is_ a young lady here--I
don't know who she is, but she really does seem to be almost the type
I need--for my poem, I mean. A noble creature--the true grand pagan
style. You would like her; she would charm the artist equally with the
poet.'

'So you have been trotting up hill and down dale after a pagan, and
call it writing a poem on metaphysical abstractions! Do you never mean
to give up this sort of thing, my dear boy?'

'Really, what do you mean?'

'Dangling after women the way you do.'

'What an expression! Every cultivated man feels it his duty to love
woman and to frequent her society.'

'But why not choose out a representative woman and frequent the whole
sex in her person?'

'Do you advocate marriage, then?' asked the poet, his blue eyes
pensively interrogating the horizon.

'I say that, if you must make an ass of yourself at all, you should
confine yourself within the narrowest possible limits.'

'Have you ever contemplated matrimony, Campbell?'

'It is the last thing I should contemplate for myself.'

'You have never yearned for a counter-soul?'

'I don't know what you mean, but I venture to say I never have,' I
replied. 'But what would be folly in me would be philanthropy in you.'

Jeff heaved a long sigh. 'Let me whisper you a secret. You know my
papa made a fortune in the Crimean war. We had a contract to furnish
the Russians with briar-wood pipes. Well, Russia is now on the eve of
another conflict, and papa has sent me over to arrange the terms of
another contract.'

'But what has this to do with your getting married?'

'Why, the person who manages the business on the Russian side is
our old friend--the same who concluded the arrangements with papa
twenty-five years ago. Our relations have always remained intimate
and cordial. And immediately subsequent to the Russian war this
commissioner married, and--had--oh!'

The poet's voice died away; his eyes were fixed upon something a little
farther along the beach.

'There! there!' he murmured. 'Oh! is she not--divine?'

'Ha! that is your pagan, is it?'

'Going out in a canoe,' continued Jeff.

This young and strikingly handsome girl, of proportions almost
statuesque, was not seen by me now for the first time. I had, in
fact, noticed her shortly after my arrival in town, and had taken
that pleasure in observing her which an artist feels for whatever is
thoroughly picturesque. Who she was I knew no more than Jeff, and it
was not to be expected that another man's admiration of her should be
disagreeable to me; but some men are not any man, and I must admit that
the revelation of her identity with the subject of Jeff's rhapsodies
affected me unpleasantly. The girl's beauty, patent to me, was not of a
type to reveal itself to every careless and uneducated eye. But I will
not attempt to defend my feeling. I simply state it.

The young lady took her seat in the canoe and grasped the paddle, and
an elderly moustachioed gentleman pushed her off from shore. She was
dressed in a rather remarkable bathing suit of black, slashed with
scarlet; her round, firm arms were bare from the shoulder, and her legs
from the knee; her hair was gathered up in the customary oilskin cap.
With two or three vigorous strokes she sent her skiff well out beyond
the crowd of bathers.

When I turned again towards Jeff I found he was no longer at my side;
he was walking up the diving board, on the end of which he balanced
himself a moment and then launched himself head foremost into the
water, which closed over him with scarce a ripple. Presently his head
appeared some distance beyond the spot at which he had entered, and
he began swimming seaward with vigorous strokes. He was directly in
the wake of the fair pagan, who, unaware of his pursuit, was paddling
leisurely towards the thickening haze on the horizon, herself and her
canoe mirrored distinctly on the glassy surface.

'Does he propose to overtake her and make her hear his poetry
_tête-à-tête_ in twelve fathoms of water?' I asked myself. 'At any
rate, he resembles Byron in his swimming powers. And how neatly the
fellow took the water! Let me see if I can't acquit myself as well as a
Boston republican.'

With a sudden access of valour I snatched off my peignoir and cast it
behind me, and, without stopping to see where it fell, I mounted the
fatal plank with deliberate steps, saw the treacherous element smile
for a moment beneath me, shut my eyes, and let myself go.


                                 III.

I foresaw, in that instant of time which intervened between my last
foot leaving the plank and my head reaching the water, that I was going
to make a failure more than usually ignominious. A sounding thwack,
taking effect along the entire length of my frame, and a painfully
tingling sensation, only partly the result of shame, immediately
apprised me that my prophetic instinct had not been at fault. I sank,
however, and I was glad to sink; for though I dislike having my head
under water, my wounded self-esteem made me dread putting it out again.
Much as I have seen and suffered, and callous though I have become to
most of the attacks of destiny, upon some points I am still sensitive.
In a decent suit of clothes and a dignified attitude I can sustain
almost any misfortune; but if my personal appearance be laughable, or
my position a false one, my soul has much ado to maintain her constancy.

Need was, however, that I should emerge at last, and up I bobbed
accordingly. I swam about moodily and unsociably during my customary
fifteen minutes; and such was the dejection of my spirits that the
water seemed colder than usual, and as I waded my way up a steep
incline of the shingle on my way out, there was a tendency to
convulsive shudderings in the muscles of my lower jaw. Chilled,
humiliated, and conscious that I cut a ridiculous figure before a
fashionable and merciless world, I only wished to seize my peignoir,
wrap it round me, and vanish from the view and memory of mankind. Some
men are cowed by one thing, some by another; and, once cowed, a man is
no better than a whipped schoolboy, and feels far less respectable.

I hastened, then, to hide my discomfiture in my peignoir; but at that
moment the certainty flashed upon me that I knew not where my peignoir
was. I had omitted to note the place where I had laid it down: all
places on a shingle beach are alike, especially when that beach is
crowded to the water's edge.

I was standing face to face with the crowd, dressed in the curtailment
of costume already described, which, hanging in dripping folds about
my meagre form, rendered grotesque that which by nature was ungainly
merely. For the first time in my life I regretted my six feet of
stature; at five feet I should have felt less defenceless as well as
appeared less conspicuous. There I stood before the world, shivering,
lost, and helpless.

What was I to do? It was a pressing question, for every moment rendered
the situation not only physically but morally more intolerable.

Should I return to the water, whence I came?

Too late! Not only would I catch my death--a minor evil--but the world
by this time knew that I had started to come out, and by detecting the
cowardice of my retreat would render it cowardice thrown away.

Should I steal the first peignoir that came to hand and fly? Hundreds
were scattered about. It was but reaching forth my hand.

No, I could not steal: not because I was too honest--far from it; a
cowed man is beyond the reach of scruples--but because I lacked the
courage to be a thief. I feared detection, and knew I lacked the
effrontery to brazen out the robbery.

Should I pretend I never had a peignoir, and stalk insouciantly through
the crowd and up to the beach as I was?

Impossible. I had not the spirits for such a _tour de force_ in the
first place, and in the second I had not the figure for it. Moreover,
the _mairie_ had issued edicts against bathers promenading without
peignoirs, and the thought of being arrested by a squad of gendarmes
and marched in my present condition to a lock up was not to be
contemplated.

I must, therefore, either stand where I was until my peignoir came
to me or institute a deliberate search after my peignoir. To search,
perhaps for hours, amidst a wilderness of spotless hostile skirts and
immaculate shrinking pantaloons for a peignoir scarcely distinguishable
from any other peignoir, and which, too, might have already been
appropriated by some person more heedless (or more self-possessed)
than myself! Decidedly there are times in a man's life when he is
forced to avow that Providence has omitted to endow human beings with
the only boon really worth their having--the power, namely, of instant
and unobtrusive self-annihilation.

My search began. I went to a peignoir and examined it; it was not mine.
With shaking limbs I blundered towards another a few yards off; it was
not mine. At this juncture I heard, and affected not to hear, a titter
of laughter. With my heart full of murder and suicide I pounced upon a
peignoir quite near at hand. It was the same I had examined first. My
brain began to reel.

'Monsieur!' said a gentle voice near me. 'Pardon, Monsieur!'

Could such words be addressed to me? As I tottered on the shifting
pebbles, throwing dazed glances here and there, I became aware that a
lady, middle-aged and of noble demeanour, was standing beside me with a
folded peignoir in her hands.

'Pardon, but did Monsieur chance to be searching for anything?' she
asked in French.

'My peignoir----'

'I have perceived that Monsieur dropped this upon entering the water:
it shall be his perhaps?' and with a smile too truly polite even to
seem compassionate this angel of mature years placed my own identical
peignoir in my arms.

I clutched it as Macbeth clutched the phantom dagger; only more
fortunate than the thane, I felt it in my grasp. Some part of my senses
returned to me.

'Madame,' I stuttered as well as my chattering teeth would let me, 'you
come from doing me the greatest favour woman can confer upon man. I
shall never forget it. I thank you, madame, from the depths of my soul,
and I salute you with the most distinguished gratitude and respect.'

The doer of this noble action bowed and smiled graciously, and I, with
my peignoir about me, stalked boldly through the crowd to my toilet
cabin. The distance was not great, but such was the glow of gratitude
in my heart that by the time I arrived there I was not only warm but
almost dry. Nor did the effect of this kindness stop at my skin; my
immortal part, as Jeff might have called it, was sweetened and exalted;
never, that I could remember, had I been succoured so opportunely or
in such poignant need. Be that lady who she might she was worthy of
all homage, and if it would have done her any good I believe that,
confirmed bachelor though I was, I would have offered her my hand and
heart as soon as I had finished my toilet.

But I trusted to my good genius to find me some better way of requiting
her favour. It is sad to reflect how few ways there are of obliging
our fellow-creatures. People would do more for one another but for the
difficulty of finding something at once practical and practicable to
do.

The first thing that attracted my notice, when I issued from my cabin
and returned to the beach, was that the haze, which all the morning had
lain along the horizon, had now thickened greatly and advanced upon the
shore. Nothing was visible at twenty paces, and the fog, shone through
by the sun, drifted softly over the bustling crowd, which was already
beginning to stream homewards.

It was a pretty spectacle, but one likely to be regarded with different
feelings by an Englishman safe on dry land and an American lost in
twelve fathoms of water. Jeff had not come back to shore, and being out
of sight of land, it necessarily followed that he was lost. The danger
was graver than might at first sight have appeared, for the swimmer had
had time to get fully a mile out to sea, and at that distance there
were strong currents which might sweep him away altogether. I scanned
the white blank before me with anxious eyes, but it revealed nothing.
Poor Jeff!

I began to experience that uncomfortable sensation occasioned by
knowing a friend to be in peril, and feeling the necessity of doing
something to rescue him. More grievous but more convenient is it when
the inevitable occurs at once, and saves us the annoyance of suspense.
I could have sorrowed heartily and sincerely over the poor poet's
drowned body laid out upon the shingle, but there was no satisfaction
in taking measures to ascertain whether or not the corpse were an
accomplished fact--to postpone, in other words, the luxury of grief for
the anguish of action.

A group of sailors were collected round a boat at the water's edge,
which they seemed to be on the point of launching. A lady was
haranguing them earnestly. As I approached I recognised her as the
heroine of my late adventure with the peignoir. She was saying--

'It was in that direction that I last saw her. She is already, perhaps,
a kilomètre distant. There is no time to lose, mind you. Behold me
distracted.'

Here was my opportunity; I could kill both my birds with one stone.
I stepped forward with raised hat, and placed myself at the disposal
of feminine distress. Having respectfully recalled myself to her
recollection, I begged to be honoured with the distinction of being
permitted to promote the alleviation of the anxiety under which she
appeared to be labouring.

She thanked me with ardour, but to inconvenience me would desolate her.

Having received at her hands a favour beyond estimation, I should
expire of chagrin in the case of being refused the privilege of
testifying in some degree the depth and liveliness of my recognition.

Madame hereupon vouchsafed to inform me that Mademoiselle her daughter
had paddled away with herself into the fog, and there was fear that
she be lost in unknown oceans.

I had divined as much as this, but I was careful not to say so; nor
did I open my mouth on the subject of Jeff. It was sufficient for me
to perceive that Jeff and the young lady in the case were probably not
far apart, and that to find one would be to find both. Meanwhile I
would not deprive Madame of the gratification of believing that I was
acting in her interests only. So, entreating her to be tranquil and to
expect my return with her daughter in less than a quarter of an hour,
I clambered into the boat with all possible dignity and despatch and
bade my men shove off. Madame observed my departure with eyes that were
genuinely moist.

It was a tolerably mild piece of heroism. Had I been ten years younger
I might have wished that the waves had been running mountains high,
but at thirty-five--the age of sense and of feeling combined--I was
better pleased with the conditions as they were. I was not in love
with anybody, and wished only to combine courtesy and good breeding
with the fulfilment of a private duty. It had gratified me to observe,
in my brief conversation with Madame, her appreciation of the altered
aspect of one whom she had first known as an idiot and a scarecrow: not
to mention his fluency in speaking the language of the most polished
people in the world. I admired, too, the kindly ingenuity with which
Fate had brought me acquainted with the mamma of the beautiful pagan,
and under circumstances so promising.

But it is unsafe to call Fate good-humoured: it spoils her temper.
Our boat was barely afloat when an event occurred which rendered our
proposed voyage unnecessary. Somehow or other, without noise and
without premonition, the fog rolled swiftly back to the horizon whence
it came; and there was Mademoiselle not more than a hundred yards from
shore. She was paddling in with admirable coolness and indifference;
and close behind her I was happy to see the black head and rosy visage
of the poet, who was swimming on his back with every appearance of ease
and comfort.


                                  IV.

I hastened to get on shore again and offer to Madame my
congratulations. She replied that her obligations to Monsieur were none
the less. His courtesy, his chivalry, had been such as one never sees
paralleled.

Monsieur, covered with confusion at consideration so undeserved,
changes the subject by calling the attention of Madame to the charming
picture made by Mademoiselle in approaching the beach. Had he had his
sketch-book with him, he would have been tempted to make a little
drawing of Mademoiselle.

Ah! Monsieur was, then, an artist? Madame, and Mademoiselle likewise,
were all given to artists. They had made purchase of several pictures
during their residence in Paris.

Monsieur will venture to call himself an artist, and will, furthermore,
have the assurance to make Madame acquainted with his name--M. Claude
Campbell, at the service of Madame.

But truly! and did Monsieur Campbell happen to know this Campbell,--he,
the great Campbell, he who painted this picture divine which exhibited
itself at the last Salon, and was entitled the 'Ruined Rampart'?

Monsieur, even in blushing and being overwhelmed, assures Madame that
he is that same fortunate Campbell whose unworthy effort Madame comes
from qualifying with such generosity.

Great God! Monsieur is he, then, indeed that sublime, that adored man
of genius? What happy chance! What charming _rencontre_! But in this
case Madame hopes that the name of the Countess Semaroff will be to
Monsieur not altogether unfamiliar?

Oh! Heaven! Is it possible that Monsieur is so happy as to kiss the
hand of the noble lady who deigned to constitute herself the purchaser
of the above-mentioned 'Ruined Rampart'? Monsieur is of a verity
transported.

The Countess Semaroff observes that Mademoiselle--the Countess Almara
in effect--will partake of her mamma's enchantment in meeting Monsieur
Campbell, of whose genius she is an ardent admirer.

Our rude and artless talk was suspended at this point by the
disembarkation of the Countess Almara. Apprehending that the simplicity
of her costume might render my immediate presentation undesirable,
I exchanged a cordial _au revoir_ with the Countess Semaroff and
discreetly withdrew. The beautiful pagan, after exchanging a few
sentences with her mother, the latter speaking earnestly and the
former laughingly, proceeded to take her turn upon the diving-board,
and acquitted herself in a manner truly admirable. She dove like a
plummet, and her white feet flashed beneath the surface as succinctly
as a mermaid's tail. Up she came again, fresh and dripping, within a
few yards of my returned prodigal, the Boston poet; but no signal of
recognition that I could detect passed between them. To suppose that
the ardent and romantic Jefferson had failed to improve the occasion
of being isolated from the world under such peculiar circumstances
with the subject of his late rhapsodies seemed to me, however, highly
improbable. But the young Countess had doubtless played discretion
under the watchful maternal eye; and Jeff, perhaps, intended to conceal
his escapade from my friendly inquisition. I was resolved nevertheless
to penetrate his reticence, and promised myself the pleasure of
listening to an entertaining story over our _déjeuner_. As to my own
accidental introduction to the Countess mother, and the unexpected tie
between us, I judged it advisable to forbear mentioning it just at
present.

The poet reached his depth and waded ashore. I stepped forward to meet
him, raising my cap.

'Captain Webb, I presume?'

'Oh--but, Campbell!' exclaimed he with an ineffable look, 'was she not
heavenly?'

'Postpone your ecstasies; you'll be a rheumatic cripple for life as it
is. Do you know you've been in an hour?'

'It doesn't seem ten minutes--and yet I have lived a lifetime too!'

'You have water on the brain. Do you know where your peignoir is?'

Somewhat to my mortification, he did know, and, as he threw it over his
shoulders, remarked placidly, 'But really I'm not in the least cold.
Men of my age have hearts, Campbell, and a heart on fire keeps the
blood warm under all circumstances.'

'It takes a Bostonian to have a heart warranted to burn under water for
an hour.'

'And then,' he continued without heeding me, 'did not a goddess keep
the flame alive with her ambrosial breath?'

'Decidedly he must have had an adventure,' thought I. 'But despatch
your toilet, young man, and then you shall _déjeuner_ with me, and
we'll have chablis and cigarettes.'

'I shall be most happy, indeed. I won't be a moment dressing,' said
the poet beamingly; and he dodged into his cabin.

'Pathetic little youth!' thought I as I paced the parade to and fro.
'Good fellow at bottom, but so soft!--the sort of creature that men
trample on and women make game of. He has that most offensive of
qualities--inoffensiveness. But, luckily for his peace of mind, he
idolises himself, and is too slow-witted to comprehend the contempt of
other people. After all, his self-conceit has as much justification as
anybody's. He sees a pretty face when he looks in the glass, writes
pretty verses with conscientious rhymes, utters pretty sentiments, and
uses pretty phrases. How is he to know that the world reads all this
prettiness without the _r_? But Providence, in emptying his skull, has
mercifully filled his pockets. With ten thousand pounds a year he can
buy something. What he can't buy is the ability to win for a wife such
a woman as this young countess. Is he in love with her? He thinks so,
no doubt, and means to make himself poetically miserable about her.
His type of men are for ever losing their hearts miles above the reach
of their heads. He has been getting off some inane namby-pambyism to
her this morning, disgusting or amusing her as the case may be, and
has come off serene in the conviction of having made a delightful
impression. And now--confound him!--he will be for prosecuting the
acquaintance and expecting me to back him up. What shall I do? It
would be friendly to dissuade him from having anything more to say to
them; but he's obstinate and won't be dissuaded. Well, the spectacle
of such a wooing can't fail to be entertaining, and, since I can't
prevent it, why shouldn't I enjoy it? To augment excitement I might
give Mademoiselle Almara a quiet hint to tip him an occasional dose
of encouragement. Poor Jeff! Ah! here he comes! Now let us watch him
expand under the influence of chablis.'

The unsuspecting poet took my arm, and we set out for my lodgings.

'How charming the Old World is,' he remarked presently.

'You are an American, and everything here delights you by contrast.'

'But I'm patriotic--very. I'm a descendant of the Puritans, and my
forefathers fought on Bunker Hill.'

'Yes, you Yankees are always bringing up the men of '76, whom, were
you to meet them on Beacon Street to-day, you would cut dead. Since
you have really contrived to civilise yourselves a little in the last
century, why do you insist upon falling back on the reputations of a
parcel of tagrag farmers who were shot ages before you were born? If I
were a Yankee I'd keep mum about them.'

'Ah, you may talk, but at least you know America is the greatest
country on earth,' rejoined my friend with unruffled good-humour. 'I'm
sure you were delighted with your visit last year.'

'I confess to some scenery; beyond that one sees in the States only
things which he thanks Heaven he hasn't got at home. America makes
Europeans grateful and contented.'

'I defy you to put your finger on one feature of civilisation here that
does not exist in a superior form in the States. There now!'

'To begin with, then, why did you take the trouble to come over here to
get a wife, if there are more desirable wives to be had in Boston?'

'How did you know that?'

'How? Have I heard anything from you this morning except about pagan
goddesses?'

'Oh, you mean her? Yes; oh, yes!'

'Good heavens! does the man mean to insinuate that he has any other
woman in this hemisphere in his eye?'

'Why, to tell you the truth, my father sent me over here just for that
very purpose--that and the pipes.'

'What and the pipes?'

'To meet the young lady I am going to marry.'

'And is your beautiful pagan the young lady you are to marry, pray?'

'Ah! I just wish she was!' said Jeff very ruefully.

'This is becoming interesting, my young friend. But here's my house:
we'll have our breakfast, and then a consultation over our wine. Come
in.'


                                  V.

I repressed my curiosity during the meal, but when we had settled down
to our second bottle and the cigarettes I fixed my eyes on my companion
and said--

'Well?'

'Did you see that dive?' asked he.

'Hers?'

'Hers of course. Everything I say or do means her, now and for ever,
one and inseparable!' cried Jeff, upon whom the wine was evidently
beginning to work.

'But what about the other young lady----?'

'Sink the other young lady, sir! I never have seen her, and I never
want to.'

'Well, then, about the pagan. Did the fog reveal your souls to one
another?'

'Now, Campbell, I wish you would please not chaff,' said Jeff
seriously. 'I don't like a man to be always cynical. Is there really
nothing sacred to you anywhere? We Bostonians are not brought up so;
and this is a sacred subject to me.'

'Not more so than to me, my dear fellow. You shan't have cause to
complain of me again.'

'I accept your apology,' said Jeff with dignity. 'Your health.'

We emptied our glasses.

'Who was that handsome middle-aged lady you were talking with?' Jeff
asked.

The question rather took me aback. 'You are more the traditional
Yankee than I had imagined; you pretend to tell a story and only ask a
question. As for that lady, I never saw her before in my life. I should
fancy her a Pole or an Austrian. But do get on with your story.'

'There is no real story with a beginning, middle, and end. Real life
doesn't arrange itself in that way.'

'There is always a middle, at any rate.'

'I will plunge _in medias res_, then. Did you observe her paddling out?'

'To be sure I did.'

'And did you divine her object?'

'Well, as to that----'

'My dear Campbell, don't you see that it was a case of _fugit inter
salices_? She paddled out in order that I might pursue her.'

'Oh! How did you find out that?'

'By intuition,' cried the poet enthusiastically. 'We are in such
complete sympathy, she and I, that I feel what she feels. A motion of
the shoulder, a turn of the neck, a flirt of the paddle, all bear a
secret meaning to my eye. Why, for a quarter of an hour after starting
out this morning, I could see nothing but her back; and you know there
isn't ordinarily much--conversation in a person's back.'

'I believe you are right, Jeff.'

'But in this case,' he continued warmly, 'I saw through her back all
that was going on in her mind.'

'Poetic insight. I have heard of it before, but never knew it to act so
powerfully as it does with you.'

'Yes; and, in proof that I'm not mistaken, she did just what I knew she
would do beforehand.'

'And what was that?'

'How good this chablis is! The first thing she did was to paddle
straight out to sea. She did that to try my faith.'

'Did she succeed?'

'A poet's faith can move mountains,' said Jeff, a little
inconsequently. 'Had I been as others--had I been less terribly in
earnest--I should have got discouraged or offended and given up the
chase. But that is not the Puritan style. I kept right on, and at last
I forced her to alter her tactics.'

'And all this through the back of her head? Wonderful!'

'Well, so she altered her tactics, and--what do you think?'

'I haven't a glimmering.'

'She stopped--short,' said Jeff, leaning across the table with his blue
eyes wide open and speaking in an impressive undertone; 'and there she
sat perfectly still, with her back still turned towards me.'

'So that you might continue to read her thoughts?'

'Campbell, I trust you are not scoffing?'

'My dear fellow----'

'You are my friend, but there are some things----'

'Nothing injures friendship so much as unjust suspicions, Jeff,' I
said, with a solemnity almost equalling his own. He softened at once.

'Forgive me, old fellow; I was hasty. The blood of Bunker Hill, you
know. Well, and so I gained upon her--and here's her health, Campbell.'

'Bumpers!' said I; and again we set down our glasses empty. I began to
feel a little warmed up myself.

'At last I was within ten yards of her. Just then I ran into one of
those horrid blue jelly-fish, and it startled me so that I made a
splash, and she----'

'Turned round?' I suggested, for he had paused agitatedly.

'Any other woman would have turned round: she did not. She started
perceptibly, dipped her paddle on the right side of the canoe, and shot
diagonally towards the left. For a moment I saw her in profile.'

'Well, didn't she tip you a wink? I beg your pardon, Jeff, upon my
word. I mean, did she not, at the moment of the profile, bend upon you
a smile or a glance of encouragement?'

'What encouragement did I need? Besides, the time for encouragement had
not yet come; I was still at the period of probation.'

'Her tacking, then, was a fresh trial of your constancy?'

'Not of my constancy--that was already confirmed--but of another
quality, my self-respect. Respect, Campbell, is ever the basis of true
love. This was a most critical juncture in our acquaintance. Had I
slavishly followed her tack I should have lost more ground morally than
I gained materially. No, I did not tack; I kept straight on, and, as
she had paused again, I was soon beyond her. It was at that supreme
moment that we found ourselves enveloped in the fog--alone together,
between sea and heaven!'

'Jeff, this is becoming exciting.'

'I kept on. By-and-by, however, I stopped. I could now barely detect
the outlines of her canoe through the pallid film of mist; but anon the
outlines grew distincter--she was approaching!

    Right on she came with graceful strength,
    And paused within a paddle's length,
    A moment eye to eye they stayed,
    The poet and the pagan maid.'

'Jeff, this is poetry.'

'A verse I composed at the time. Do you like it?'

'Can you ask? But this suspense is wearing me out. Do, pray, come to
the point.'

'What point, dear Campbell?'

'Hang it! the point of contact.'

'Sir, I fail to understand you,' said the majestic Jeff.

'Gammon! Who understands better than a poet the dramatic necessity of
a point of contact? Here are your characters lost--I mean, here are
your poet and your pagan maid lost in your fog, and staying eye to
eye. Beyond reach of outside help, you are all in all to each other.
"Bonjour, Countess." "Bonjour, Monsieur." "We appear to be lost." "I
fear you are fatigued," she says. "The delight of conversing with the
Countess Almara would suffice to restore me, were that the case."
"Perhaps, if you were to rest your hand on the gunwale," she continues.
"You overwhelm me," murmur you. "Nay, I would keep you from being
overwhelmed," she smiles. "You are my guiding star!" you exclaim.
"If I only knew whither to guide you. And mamma will be so anxious,"
she sighs. "Knows the Countess Semaroff that we are together?" you
enquire. Just at this instant another of those horrid blue jelly-fish
comes along, causing you to give another splash and sink. She screams,
stretches out her hand to save you; you catch it, press it impulsively
to your lips.... Well, there's your point of contact. Now go ahead.'

The close and serious attention which Jeff had given to this sally of
mine had stimulated me to make it as absurd as possible, and may be
that last glass of chablis had something to do with my sprightliness.
But in proportion as I warmed Jeff seemed to cool; he leaned his cheek
upon his hand, and directed a profound gaze into the bottom of his
empty wine-glass. At length he muttered these singular words--

'How curiously things come out!'

'But what happened after you kissed her hand?'

'I didn't kiss it,' sighed the poet.

'Not after accepting the support of her canoe?'

'I didn't accept it; she didn't offer it.'

'Nor speak about it at all?'

'She said nothing; I said nothing; neither of us said anything.'

'Then why, in the name of stupefaction, did you take the trouble to get
lost in the fog with her? Better have stayed on shore.'

'Had I known the Countess Semaroff was there, perhaps I should,' said
Jeff, looking up.

I coloured in spite of myself. I, a man of five-and-thirty, had been
carried away to reveal to this boy the secret of my acquaintance with
these ladies. I should now have no excuse to offer for not introducing
him. Verily that chablis cut both ways. I hastened to revert to our
original topic.

'So there was no point of contact after all?'

'Not what you would call such, O you English materialist,' said the
poet eloquently. 'But our points of view are so incompatible. Is not
the soul more than the body? and, if so, is not a look of the eyes more
than a touch of the hand? Our spirits met, Campbell, though our earthly
frames held aloof.'

'But would your spirits have met any less had your earthly frames
behaved in a more materialistic and intelligible way?'

Jeff shook his head dreamily.

'You are of those who know not how to enjoy the rose upon its stalk.
You must needs cull it and insert it in your _boutonnière_. You are
not sensitive enough to apprehend the rarest delight of the _grande
passion_--that of regarding the beloved object in her intact state ere
the pure sphere of her personality has been invaded by materialistic
approach.'

'Well, Jeff, it's evident you know more about women than I do. But,
admitting what you say, I still maintain (provided your intentions with
the Countess are really serious) that you are not taking the nearest
way to a matrimonial issue. The flesh is sluggish, but it has its
compensations.'

The inspired Bostonian took his cigarette between two fingers and waved
it in an illustrative manner as he said--

'Suppose, dear Campbell, you were starting on a journey through a
delicious tract of country--a winding valley, say--and suppose, before
setting out, you climbed a hill commanding this valley, and took a
bird's-eye view of your proposed route. Would you enjoy that journey
more or less for having anticipated it spiritually by that glance?'

'Ha! methinks I conceive you. Your psychological business is merely a
sort of barmecide feast, designed to whet the palate for solid viands
to follow. Having brought the transcendental part of your love-making
to a happy issue, you now propose to pursue the game upon a practical
basis?'

Jeff blew a serene cloud and regarded me with a complacent smile.

'Yes, I mean to marry her now,' said he.

'And leave the other without even a bird's-eye view?'

'By-the-by, I must tell you about that. You know I was saying this
morning that the Russian commissioner, our friend, had married. Well,
he had a daughter, and this daughter and I were by our respective papas
destined for each other.'

'I see--a union of policy, like those of the royal families of Europe.'

'To me the idea of utilising the sacred covenant of marriage in the
interest of mere business always seemed horrible and revolting. I told
my father so.'

'And he, I'll venture to say, told you you were a sentimental young
idiot.'

'If that had been all----' said Jeff, wagging his head significantly.

'Well, what was there more?'

'Only this. After I had protested one day, with all the eloquence I
could muster, against the cold-blooded inhumanity of binding down two
fresh young souls, who had never seen each other, to such a contract,
he replied (you remember his dogmatic, high-handed way), "Either you
marry her or you live on three hundred pounds per annum."'

'In that case,' said I, not without a secret feeling of relief, 'you
certainly won't marry the pagan maid?'

'Why not?'

'Because, to go no further, you won't get her to take you at three
hundred pounds per annum. You don't know what living on such an income
means. I do; and I can tell you that, even without a wife and children,
it's no joke.'

'But, dear Campbell, you seem to forget that I love her.'

'Take the advice of a man who has seen more of the world than you have,
and forget it yourself. I am talking seriously now, Jeff, and for your
good. You do not love this Countess Almara, and, to be frank with you,
it is not possible that she ever should care for you. You have a strong
will; use it on the side of common sense and--filial piety. Where were
you to meet your intended?'

'Paris was the rendezvous appointed, but----'

'Pack up your traps and be off to Paris this very afternoon.'

'But it wasn't for a week yet that----'

'Never mind. Get away from here; that's the main point. Don't remain
within reach of temptation.'

'Campbell, this is not temptation; it's a foregone conclusion. I am
going to marry the Countess Almara. Our meeting here was fated. I shall
not go to Paris.'

'But I tell you the Countess Almara won't have you.'

Jeff was silent awhile. Presently he looked up and said--

'How do you know she won't?'

'Well--never mind,' I thought it prudent to reply.

There was another silence. Suddenly Jeff said, 'Campbell, if I went to
Paris would you go with me?'

This turn embarrassed me again. It would not exactly suit my
convenience to go to Paris that afternoon. There were some things I
wanted to--attend to. I wondered whether my young friend was becoming
suspicious.

'Could I be of any service to you there?' I enquired.

'After all I don't know that you could,' said he after a moment's
reflection. 'Besides, thanking you all the same for your advice, dear
Campbell, I've made up my mind to stay here. I can never love, much
less marry, any other woman than the Countess Almara.'

There was a certain element of nobility in the placid obstinacy of the
young fellow, who was committing the amazing folly of resigning ten
thousand a year for the sake of a girl to whom he had never spoken, and
until the last two or three days never seen, that touched me a little
and made me resolve not to let him ruin himself without another effort
to save him.

'Jeff, you are an ass,' I said bluntly. 'Your brain has been addled
with the pursuit of what you are pleased to imagine poetry, until you
have grown to believe that a man can live on love and lyrics instead
of on beefsteak and bullion. You say you can never love any but the
Countess Almara; I say it is, at all events, your duty to try. Go to
Paris, and at least make the acquaintance of the young lady your father
has selected for you. If you find her unlovable, at all events that
will be some satisfaction.'

'Thank you very much, Campbell, but I can't, really.'

'You persist in running your head against a wall?'

Jeff smiled mildly and said nothing.

'All right; _liberavi animam meam_. I wash my hands of you. One thing:
I can't take the responsibility of giving you an introduction.'

'You know them both, then?'

'Well, I have not been presented to the young lady yet, but----'

'I shall be happy to present you when I know her myself,' said Jeff
forgivingly; 'and when we are married I trust you and I will be better
friends than ever.'

'Oh! fathomless self-conceit and fatuity of Bostonian youth!' I
muttered to myself as I lit a final cigarette and preceded the poet to
the door. 'Poor Jeff! upon my soul I am sorry for him!'

And when we parted outside I shook his hand with a feeling not far
removed from respect mingling with my impatience, and I watched him
walk away with the kindly hope that the Providence which presides over
children and fools might keep a beneficent eye upon the poor little
poet.


                                  VI.

I was in rather an ill-humour that afternoon. After a short turn about
the town I returned to my _atelier_ and tried to paint; but colour
had lost its harmony for me, and composition its meaning. I took up
Balzac's _Deux Frères_, and plunged into the details of the miseries
of Agatha, the villainy of Philip, and the genius of Joseph; but the
appalling truth of the picture depressed and irritated me. I stretched
myself on the lounge and gave way to moody reverie. I pictured to
myself a man five-and-thirty years of age, who had had his romance
and got cured of it a dozen summers ago, who piqued himself on his
sceptical and unimpassive temperament, who had fallen into confirmed
bachelorhood, who was prolific of cynical and pro-Malthusian doctrines
to erotic young fellows under thirty, and whose eminence in the world
of art was due to the unalloyed devotion of both heart and brain which
he had hitherto lavished upon it. I asked myself what was the fitting
punishment for such a man's apostasy from his principles.

'Such a man,' I answered myself, 'is not fit to be trusted abroad. I
condemn him to pack up his traps and go home, and I give him two hours
to complete his preparations for starting.'

The clock--the tall Norman clock with its round face of embossed brass
and its huge slow-swinging pendulum--struck half-past three. I got up
and rung the bell. Presently a withered old lady appeared, in a black
gown, white cap and apron, neat blue stockings, and low shoes.

'Madame Enault,' I said, 'I shall leave you this afternoon. That a
porter be here at five o'clock to take my baggage to the diligence;
and, if you please, that we make up our little accounts.'

Madame Enault was crushed. She was sent to grass! Monsieur going to
leave that very day even?

'Perfectly.'

Monsieur had perhaps encountered something to miscontent him?
Madame Enault would do anything in her power to render things more
satisfactory to Monsieur.

'Madame misconstrues me. It is that affairs demand my departure.'

'Monsieur will he pardon Madame Enault?'

'But without doubt.'

'Monsieur will, then, recollect that, in coming here, he was so good
as to engage the rooms for six weeks, whereas only one week has
elapsed....'

'You are completely in reason, Madame, and you will be paid for the
whole six weeks precisely as if I had remained.'

Madame drops a curtsey and will instantly apprise a porter of
Monsieur's intentions.

I now proceeded to pack my trunks and painting gear, and then, it being
a little after four, I sallied forth for a farewell stroll on the
parade.

It was a magnificent afternoon. A fresh cool breeze had replaced the
lazy calm of the morning. The horizon line and the profile of the
cliffs were defined sharp and clear. Great white castellated clouds
sailed across the blue, and rhythmic waves came tumbling in frothy
profusion along the beach. The whole scene was like a shout of joy,
and it had never spoken so feelingly to me as now that I was saying
good-bye to it.

As I turned away after a long look seaward, I met the Countess Semaroff
and her daughter face to face.

I bowed. Madame smiled and gave me her hand, and before withdrawing it
she looked at her daughter and said--

'My very dear, this is Monsieur Campbell. Ah, Monsieur, it has been a
dream of my daughter to meet you.'

'I trust Mademoiselle will not find in me an illustration of the
proverb, "Songe mensonge,"' I said, clumsily enough.

Mademoiselle smiled slightly, as courtesy required, but all the while
her eyes rested upon me searchingly and doubtfully, as though to
satisfy herself whether I were to be believed in or distrusted, whether
she might expect to find in the artist the complement and justification
of his works. No kind of look, perhaps, is so difficult to sustain
with composure as this. The most redoubtable artist is conscious that
the inspiration of his best efforts comes from a source superior to
himself, in comparison with which the average level of his thoughts
and motives makes but a sorry show. The merciless and undisguised
inquisition of an ardent and unsophisticated young woman is thus apt
to become not a little trying, especially when the inquisitrix is
furnished with such a pair of eyes as nature had endowed the Countess
Almara withal.

Indeed, strange and striking in other respects as was the beauty of the
young Countess, it was her eyes that individualised her and rendered
her a paragon among women. Large and perfectly black they were--so
black that it was a wonder to see them so full of light. The iris was
of breadth so unusual that, like a black sun between two clouds, its
upper and lower rims were infringed upon by the imperial eyelids.
The human eye, as every portrait painter knows, has in itself but a
narrow range of expression: it is the setting that imports. Now, the
Countess Almara's upper eyelid was falconlike--straight above the
pupil, and falling away thence towards the cheek in a long sweeping
curve--a bold, lavish eyelid, indicative of keen intelligence and a
noble temper. In singular contrast with this was the lower lid, most
sensitively and changefully fashioned, responsive to every shifting
emotion, sad, mirthful, wistful, pleasurable, tender; this it was that
betrayed the woman, as the other announced the countess. Like the
shimmer of light upon water, the delicate nerves in this region were
never at rest; here, as upon a photographic plate, was legible the
impress of each word or unuttered thought. Thus it might be affirmed of
the Countess Almara that she had two eyes where other women have but
one; and certainly she was able to do four times more execution with
her pair than most daughters of Eve can accomplish.

There was a fine unconventionality in the cast of her features which
was in itself an element of life. The low and broad forehead terminated
in far-reaching and strongly defined eyebrows. The nose, long and
finely chiselled, especially about the nostrils, descended from between
the eyes in a line which, towards the end, had just enough of an upward
tendency to redeem it from classic tameness. Tameness, in fact, is the
word most expressive of everything that the young Countess was not.
Her mouth was generous; the upper lip, short and slender, lay like a
coral snake upon the full and voluptuously moulded lip below; thence
curved forth the chin, clean cut and mettlesome, which she habitually
carried high, and to which she communicated movements of fascinating
wilfulness. Her profile, as a whole, was therefore of the concave
rather than the convex order, and possessed a charmingly wild, barbaric
quality, by no means inconsistent with a thorough refinement.

Of her grand figure I have already spoken. Her bearing was elastic and
vigorous, yet pervaded always by the subtle and inevitable dignity of a
high-bred lady. A kind of scarlet barret-cap surmounted the heavy black
coil of her hair; and she wore a close-fitting dress of black serge,
with a scarlet bow fluttering at the throat and a scarlet belt around
the waist. It was a costume simple to severity, but in which she looked
diabolically handsome. Her only ornaments on this occasion were two
broad hoops of gold in her ears, and, on her left hand, an antique ring
with an enormous ruby in it. Such a ruby not one lady in a thousand
would dare to put on; it must have come to her, I thought, from the
tomb of some early royal ancestress. It harmonised well with what I
took to be the essential character of the Countess Almara.

Here, however, has been more than enough of personal description, which
is never so futile as when it attempts to catch the secret of a lovely
woman's charm. As an artist I have dwelt upon details which to the
ordinary eye would have combined for the production of a single effect
more or less acutely pleasurable. I looked at her with the instinctive
longing which an artist feels to interpret beauty upon canvas; and
the critical admiration of my glance met and partly disconcerted the
critical inquiry of her own.

'I have much happiness in speaking to Monsieur Campbell,' she said
after a moment in a deep fresh voice. 'To me it is not as if I were
speaking to a stranger.'

We walked on slowly, the young Countess between her mother and me. I
felt a childish desire to utter something brilliant and profound; and,
knowing by experience that such a wish is always fatal to the deed, I
took refuge in the intensity of commonplace.

'Mademoiselle finds this place enjoyable?'

'After the city, truly, yes.'

'Paris is indeed hot in this month.'

'It is from St. Petersburg that we come here.'

'Mademoiselle the Countess is, then, a Russian?'

Here the elder lady interposed with a smile, 'Not altogether Russian,
monsieur. For my part, I am a Circassian. My father was attached to the
Court of the Czar after the conquest of our poor country. I was married
among our conquerors--what will you? For Almara, she may be called the
Reconciliation, is it not?'

'If all quarrels could find such reconciliation----' I began.

The Countess Semaroff laughed good-naturedly. 'There, you are
_spirituel_; one sees you have lived much in Paris,' she was kind
enough to say.

'But it is not in the _salons_ of Paris that you have found the
power to conceive your pictures. I refer not to the execution--the
_technique_--all that which labour and experience may acquire; but
it is the thought, look you, the life that is in your work; and this
can be found not in any city, not in any society, but only in the man
himself who feels, who sees.'

It was the young Countess who spoke thus, and with an energy of
tone and expression that caused those nerves of self-approbation
which are situated somewhere in the back part of a man's throat to
thrill pleasantly. I had not expected to find in so young a woman an
appreciation at once so earnest and intelligent.

'You have studied art yourself?' I said to her.

'Behold, my very dear, you will permit that I sit on the bench and read
my letter while you and Monsieur Campbell have your little debate. When
you are fatigued you shall rejoin me. Go, then.' And with this the good
Countess established herself upon a seat sheltered from the breeze,
but which we would pass and repass at every turn of our promenade. Our
conversation continued.

'I do not name myself student; I am a lover,' said the Countess Almara.
'My life has not been a school; it has been a passion. I cannot talk
learnedly, as do many; I know not the names of things; but I know what
reaches my heart: that I understand and never forget.'

'It is, then, that your heart has taught you more than the heads of
many students teach them.'

'I should like to believe that,' she exclaimed with animation. 'I like
not to be told, "You must believe this; you must say that." I would
believe and say because I cannot help it. Figure to yourself that my
life has not been altogether after the convenances. A child, I lived in
a grand château beside a lake; beyond the lake was a mountain, and on
all sides a forest. I had a gun, I hunted, and I swam and rowed upon
the lake, and I had my horses and my dogs. To sew, to play with dolls,
look you, I cared not for it. I am not as the French, not even as the
Russians; like my mother, I am Circassian; yes, I am more Circassian
than she instead of less.'

'I believe it well. But later you left this château--you travelled?'

'I have been to many places and seen much society, and I have learned
to behave _comme il faut_ and to speak the French. But it is only a
little comedy that I act; I feel that within me remains always the
little girl of the lake and forest, but dressed differently, and with a
face that does not tell the truth, as then. I can look happy when I am
sad, and grave when I wish to laugh.'

'But you are happier than you were before?'

'Oh, for example, behold a question of difficulty,' said the Countess,
shrugging her shoulders. 'One is never happy as in childhood; but,
in fine, one finds a way to be happy. To love what is beautiful is
happiness, but then it is a happiness full of all that is most sad.'

'It is not often that one has discovered that truth at your age,
mademoiselle.'

'But it is true, is it not? For beauty dies; or if not beauty, then the
eye, the soul, that has enjoyed it. Why was it ever shown to us? It
only makes us long for what never comes, for what can never be.'

This gloomy philosophy, uttered by one who should have seen as yet
only the sunshine of life, roused me to attempt what, for me, was
the anomaly of vindicating the more hopeful view. Some platitude I
brought forth about the soul finding in another world the fulfilment
of unsatisfied aspirations, and I asked her whether she doubted
immortality.

We were leaning on the broad wooden railing of the promenade, looking
seaward. The Countess was turning her ring absently on her forefinger.

'There ought to be immortality,' said she, 'to recompense us, not for
what we have suffered in the world, but for what we have enjoyed!'

'Yes, you could not have hit upon a stronger argument,' returned I
after a moment's thought.

'Is it strong enough?'

'Strong enough certainly to justify hope.'

'Ah, my God, one hopes without any justification at all. You conceive,
monsieur, I am not of those who believe all we are told of the holy
Greek Church. To believe, and after all to be deceived! I could not
bear it. I have not found anyone so wise as to make all doubts seem
foolish. But I have found many things that tell me, "Destiny mocks
you." Yes,' she added, turning towards me with a kind of fierceness in
her look, 'yes, destiny mocks me.'

'This girl has sustained some terrible injustice in her life,' I
thought to myself. 'It glows in her words like the fire in her ruby.'

After a pause she spoke again.

'Figure to yourself, monsieur, a life that feels itself strong and
capable of all enjoyments and aspirations; and this life, in the midst
of its joy and freedom, one day meets its destiny, which says, "You
are a slave: your aspirations are ashes; your joy shall make you weep;
you shall become all that you despise. If you struggle to be free, you
shall but dig your dungeon deeper. So it shall be to the end; but I do
not forbid you to hope." Well, is not that mockery?'

'Destiny has not that power over us. I who speak to you have suffered,
mademoiselle, but I have not found that suffering degrades. It chills,
perhaps.'

'Ah, you speak of men. I am a woman; it is another thing that! But
behold me who discourse thus to you, who see me for the first time--who
think me mad.'

'Oh, Countess!...'

'Do you know why I say to you these things, which I have said before
to no one--to no one, Monsieur Campbell? It is because they grew in
my mind as I looked at your picture--your picture, that is now mine
as well. Many hours have I looked at it, and I said, "The man who has
conceived that he has known what are the secrets of life. If I meet
him I will tell him these secrets of mine; he is worthy to hear them.
He can interpret mysteries." But your interpretation is profound,
monsieur; not everyone can read it.'

'If I could always paint for such as you, Countess, I might some day
realise my ideal.'

She stood meditatively, her hands hanging folded and her eyes dreaming.

'When I saw that picture,' she said at length, 'I felt that it was
the picture of my soul. There she sits within her rampart, which was
once whole and sound. But now there is a breach, and that breach will
never be built up again--never, never. Once the enemy has entered; and
though for years and years she may watch and guard, yet at some hour,
some moment even, her eyes will droop and her hand waver.... Then he
springs and clutches her, and it is ended. See him where he lurks
there outside among the bushes. He waits; he is sure. And she--regard
that terror in her eyes. Monsieur, it is a sublime thing to be a great
painter.'

She held out her hand to me impulsively; there were tears in her
eyes, but she smiled them away with a wilful defiance. Our hands just
touched; then she withdrew hers. 'You see I have not had your picture
for nothing; I have looked at it,' she said.

I was deeply touched. 'You have seen through it into the heart that
conceived it.'

'Let us talk of other things,' she exclaimed abruptly in a lighter
tone. 'Come, let us walk, else madame my mother will think again that I
am lost.'

We resumed our promenade accordingly, but for awhile in silence.

'You look at my ruby. Do you find it handsome?' She had been turning
and twisting the ring upon her finger, and my eyes had more than once
been drawn to it. Almost as soon as she had spoken she slipped the ring
off and laid it in my hand.

'It is a real antique,' I said, concealing the surprise this sudden act
inspired in me. 'It is an heirloom in your family, perhaps?'

'It is a magic ring; there is a spell connected with it,' said the
Countess, laughing.

'Let me not be the breaker of the spell,' I rejoined, holding it
towards her. But instead of taking it from me, she extended her long
taper finger, and I put the ring on it.

'There, you have put it on, and now it will never come off,' she said
with a strange smile. 'It is the ring of my destiny.'

'Yours should be a rich destiny, then.'

'Yes, I shall be rich; I shall make a figure in the world,' she replied
still smiling. 'Nevertheless the spell is a curse; for so long as I
wear the ring I must be miserable, and if I lose it I shall be wicked.'

'Is there no third alternative?'

'There was, but now the moment is passed. That is your fault, monsieur.'

'My fault?'

'If, when I gave you the ring just now, and it was in your power, you
had flung it far, far away into the sea, then the curse would have left
me, and I should have been free always.'

'If that be all I'll soon set you at liberty. Give me the ring.'

She shook her head. 'It is now too late. Such a chance can come only
once. Have I not told you destiny mocks always? Behold my mother who
beckons us.'

We approached Madame, who took her daughter's hand affectionately in
hers. 'My very dear, we dine to-day at half-past four; we must make our
toilette early. But, my God! how your hand is cold, my child. You have
been chilled by that fog this morning.'

The Countess Almara laughed. 'It was not I; it was that poor young man
with the black hair and the blue eyes who was swimming so far out;
that he should have been chilled I could believe it. In effect it was
droll,' she continued, turning to me. 'Figure yourself this little
man--he was very little--little like that,' and she held her palm about
four feet from the ground. 'Well, he swims out a fine distance, even as
far as I go in the canoe. When the fog comes I hear a splash; I look
round; I perceive this unfortunate infant. I think he shall be drowned,
and I go towards him to preserve him. Then I see that this infant it is
a man; and this man he seems to fear me more than to be drowned, for he
swims away when I approach. So I return towards the shore, but slowly,
so that he may see me and follow me; and, in fine, when we are nearly
arrived the fog dissolves itself, and behold us.'

'Do you by hazard know this gentleman?' inquired the Countess Semaroff
of me. 'He has the air of an Englishman.'

'No; he is an American,' I answered with a touch of prevarication.

'Ah, these Americans, how I hate them!' murmured the Countess Almara.

Madame rose with a shrug of her shoulders. 'We shall have the pleasure
of seeing Monsieur Campbell at the dance this evening?'

'Without doubt--that is--no. I am to depart by the diligence even at
the present hour.'

'Depart to-day? Impossible! After having met Monsieur to lose him so
soon!'

'Madame, I am desolated, but--affairs.'

'You will not go to-day,' said the Countess Almara, in a voice so low
it could have been audible only to myself.

'Perhaps, indeed, I could manage to postpone for a few days----' I
resumed, still addressing myself to Madame.

'Good. We remain here but a few days longer ourselves; and when we go
you shall accompany us. That will be charming. Is it agreed?'

'Madame, a thousand acknowledgments.'

'Till this evening, then.'

I bowed low. The Countess Almara laid her hand in mine, our eyes met,
her lips seemed to form the word 'Merci,' but she did not utter it
aloud; then she turned brusquely and followed her mother, and they were
soon out of sight.


                                 VII.

I drew a long breath, stroked my beard thoughtfully, looked at my
watch, and set out at a brisk pace for my lodgings. Before I had gone
far I heard my name called, and turning, saw Mr. Jefferson Montgomery,
who signalled to me with one gloved hand while with the other he lifted
his hat in adieu to an elderly gentleman with a tremendous sweep of
moustachios. My friend now hastened towards me, his white teeth
flashing, his blue eyes beaming, and with a general air of prosperity
and benevolence.

'I am so glad to see you, dear Campbell. But they told me you were
going to leave us. Surely you're not?'

'What an idea! I shall be here at least a week.'

Jeff took my arm with perfect cordiality and good faith. I did not want
him, but there was nothing for it but to let the poor little man come.
Arrived at my house, I sent him upstairs while I stopped to have a word
with my landlady.

'Madame Enault, I shall be able to remain another week.'

Madame Enault was delighted, but would Monsieur pardon her?

'Freely and completely. What then?'

Only that, since Monsieur's notice to leave another monsieur had
engaged the rooms, and Madame Enault had agreed with him for a month.

'Then let him know that you misunderstood me and that he must go
elsewhere.'

To a marvel; only, alas! this gentleman had deposited the hire of the
rooms in advance.

'You will return his deposit to him.'

Perfectly, but that, having had a heavy bill to meet, Madame Enault had
been constrained to pay the money away.

'Ah! and Madame requires me to supply her with the cash in question?'

Monsieur had exactly divined the necessity that unfortunately existed.

Providence had treated me too well for me to be severe with so thrifty
and unimpeachable a landlady; accordingly a financial transaction took
place, the porter was remanded, and I went upstairs.

'And so you have been introduced,' said Jeff. He was reclining
Adonis-like upon the lounge, exquisitely dressed.

'To whom do you refer?'

'Now don't be English and reticent. Whom should I mean but my countess?
I do so want to hear your opinion of her.'

I could not help laughing a little, for to be seriously angry with the
bard of Beacon Street was not easy.

'Unless you wish to write yourself down irrevocably an ass, my
dear boy, you will not again apply the possessive pronoun to the
Countess Almara. It sounds much as if a horse-fly should speak of his
proprietorship of a four-in-hand.'

'My dear Campbell, you are really impolite.'

'I know it, and I hold you responsible for forcing me to address you
with such brutality. I'm not accustomed to it.'

'How you do go on!' sighed Jeff, wiping his eyebrows with his cambric
handkerchief. 'One never knows when you're in earnest. But really don't
you think we shall make a first-rate match?'

'Gracious Powers! Do you know that there are probably not two men
living for whom the Countess Almara would not be more than a match?'

'Exactly. In fact, there is only one who could mate with her on equal
terms, and--well, I happen to be he.' Jeff uttered this with perfect
modesty and conviction.

'My young friend, your chances with that young lady are not hopeless;
they are ridiculous. She actually cannot maintain gravity at the
thought of you. Must I reveal that she speaks of the "pauvre enfant,"
that she is convinced you are only four feet high, and that she
declares she frightened you terribly in the fog this morning? Eloquent
looks and sympathy of souls indeed!' and I laughed rudely.

'I don't believe a word you say,' replied Jeff, laughing also. 'But
there is one thing that I do begin to believe.'

'What is that?'

'That I've got a rival, eh? ha, ha, ha!'

'You have an entirely too lively imagination,' was my cold reply.

'Ah, Campbell, you are very deep--very. If I were less sure of my
countess than I am I declare I should feel uneasy.'

'Merely for curiosity's sake, where do you find encouragement?'

'You were in earnest, then, when you said this morning that you knew
less than I about women? Your difficulty is, probably, that you regard
woman as a species of man, when in fact no woman who amounts to
anything has a particle of masculinity about her. They may pretend to
it sometimes, just to bamboozle fellows who are inexperienced; but they
drop it in the presence of a man who sees through them.'

'Through their backs. I understand.'

'Exactly. Well, then, my countess, when I have my eye upon her, is her
simple womanly self, because she knows my insight is unerring; but with
you I'll wager she talks literature, and art, and morals, and things of
that kind, eh?'

'I will not deny it, Jeff.'

'Of course she did, and why? Because she knew she could make you
believe she really cared for such things; and, womanlike, she couldn't
resist humbugging you.'

'And her laughing at you, her contemptuous allusions to your stature
and so forth were also impositions upon my naïve ignorance of the sex?'

'Indeed, my dear Campbell, they were.'

'It is me, then, and not you that she considers ridiculous?'

'At all events you can see that it's not me,' said Jeff leniently.
'Why, just consider the points in me which she professed to consider
laughable. My height! Now the last thing a woman bothers herself
about in a man is his height. When there is a question of physical
attractions, she looks first at his shoulders, then at his eyes, then
at his feet and hands, then at his chin. If these please her his height
may take care of itself; and if you won't mind my saying it, the less
it has to take care of the better. Look at Napoleon Bonaparte, Martin
Luther, Frederick the Great, Benjamin Franklin, Plato, General Grant.
Why, pretty nearly everybody who has stood a head and shoulders above
his generation has been under five feet eight.'

'Bravo, Jeff! You are both eloquent and sagacious. Beacon Street should
be proud of you.'

'Knowledge of this kind is a matter of temperament and intuition.
Experience can but confirm what the soul has already divined; and if
the previous divination do not exist, age and experience are just so
much to the bad, if you won't mind my saying so. And so she ridiculed
the fog incident?'

'She alluded to it with an apparent spice of humour,' I said
diffidently.

'Dear girl,' murmured the poet tenderly. 'That seeming ridicule was
almost as direct an avowal of affection as a modest woman could have
made. That mutual voiceless self-revelation of ours, which my dear
Campbell professes to discredit, has evidently stirred my Countess to
her depths. It has aroused the potent germs of the master passion of
her life. She trembles to confess herself to herself; how, then, could
she do otherwise than veil herself from a stranger? and what better
veil than a simulated mirth and mockery? But really now you don't need
me to tell you this; it's the A, B, C of the feminine nature.'

'Jeff, you puzzle me; you are either more or less than human. At all
events you are an incarnate solution of the old problem how to make the
best of it. Well, what are your proximate intentions?'

'To dance the "Boston" with her this evening.'

'You will be at the ball, then?'

'Indeed, yes. Shall not you?'

'I shall; for since you are definitely resolved upon playing the
donkey, I want to be in a position to hear your opening bray.'

'At ten o'clock, then; but it will be a variation upon _A Midsummer
Night's Dream_,' answered the poet with imperturbable geniality; and so
we parted.


                                 VIII.

The ball--or rather the _soirée dansante_--was announced for nine
o'clock, and at thirty minutes after that hour I passed through the
doorway.

An oblong hall, the floor space framed in on three sides by an
embankment of benches, with the orchestra on the fourth. This orchestra
comprised a piano, two violins, and a trombone, all in evening dress.
The assembly to whom this unexceptionable quartette discoursed was by
no means so rigorously attired. There were coats and trousers of all
hues, and skirts and waists of all fashions and degrees of lowness.
The scene was a motley one, but all incongruities were harmonised by
the universal element of uncompromising enjoyment, pervading black and
grey, high and low alike, and animating the heels and heads of the
spectators upon the benches as well as the actual performers upon the
floor. The orchestra sawed and thrummed with hearty good-will, and the
lamps on their brackets and the windows in their frames jarred and
rattled to the rhythmic fall of feet. In the pauses of the dance and
clatter the roar of the surf came in through the open door upon the
wings of the cool salt breeze.

The most polished people in the world dance, if not ideally, at least
really. There is no languishing, no shilly-shallying, but downright
roundabout, vigorous hard work. A Frenchman who has danced over night
must needs feel the effects of it on getting up in the morning; and as
for his partner, who has danced for herself and for him on two separate
counts, it is a wonder she ever gets up at all. Their scheme of a waltz
is simple and telling, being based upon the primitive principle of
planetary motion--revolution round their own axis and revolution round
their orbit. This double motion is kept up with mechanical regularity
until nature--or more frequently the orchestra--gives way. The orbit
of one couple being the orbit of all, the general effect of a lively
waltz is of a voluntary human whirlpool composed of self-centred
_tête-à-tête_ eddies. By centrifugal law the centre of the whirlpool
remains empty.

A moment's inspection of this whirlpool satisfied me that it did not
contain the Countess Almara. As I was proceeding to a scrutiny of the
benches the _frou-frou_ of a crisp skirt along the aisle caused me to
turn and find my face within eighteen inches of the clear firm cheek
of the beautiful pagan. She and her mother passed without appearing to
see me; and they were followed by a military-looking personage of some
fifty years of age, bald-headed, broad-shouldered, and bulky, whom I
fancied I had noticed once or twice before. After seeing the ladies
into their seats he returned past me up the aisle and went out.

Presently I came down, exchanged greetings with my friends, and sat in
a vacant seat near the Countess Almara. Her manner was distraught and
preoccupied; her smile only came from her lips, and though she looked
me in the face occasionally with a certain intentness, she seemed
scarcely to see me or to comprehend my words.

Her personal appearance was more diabolically handsome than ever. As
usual, her colours were black and red, but, being in silk, they were
exceptionally effective. There was a glimpse of warm white neck and
smooth rounded arms; her hair, coiled on the top of her head, revealed
the graceful bend of the nape. Her bracelet and necklace matched the
earrings of the morning, and beneath the delicate film of her glove was
discernible the form of the great ruby.

'Might I have the honour of this dance?'

'Not yet, not yet. In this moment I feel myself unable. Let us rather
talk. I am not myself; you see it. Listen to the sea. My God! how it
roars! I wish I were out on it in my canoe with the great waves.'

I laughed to disguise the concern which her manifest agitation caused
me.

'In that case, mademoiselle, you would be without the advantage of my
society; and I doubt whether my little friend Montgomery even would
venture to swim after you on such a night as this.'

'Oh, he is your friend, then, this Monsieur Mont--Mont-go-merie? And
I have spoken of him to you slightingly. I did not know, and I am
foolish; I speak without forethought. You will forget it? Yes.'

'If anyone should apologise it is I, for not having warned you
beforehand of our tender relations. But be reassured; Monsieur
Montgomery is a poet, and intends making you the heroine of an epic. If
you are gracious to him this evening he will forgive you anything.'

'It is not of him that I shall demand pardon,' said the Countess with
the slightest imaginable intonation of scorn. 'But he is your friend,
and you shall see how I will be polite.' She breathed and moved
nervously, her thoughts being evidently absorbed in some subject
foreign enough to anything I could guess. Her eyes were restless, and
she fanned her flushed cheeks in vain.

'What day is this?' she demanded suddenly.

'The fifteenth of August.'

'I shall remember it always--always.'

The hand that held the fan drooped, and, seemingly by accident, touched
my own. The momentary glance that swept my face showed an inward
trouble and appeal, and, if I read it aright, a something deeper and
more passionate beyond. With the unexpectedness that was one of her
characteristics she rose to her feet.

'Come, I feel better at present: let us dance; come.'

In her preoccupation she had not perceived that the music had ceased
some minutes, and the dancers all left the floor.

'What hast thou, then, dear one?' inquired the Countess Semaroff,
looking up indolently through her eye-glasses.

Almara perceived her blunder, and I could mark a pulsation of anger
pass through her body while she muttered behind her teeth, 'That I am
imbecile!'

'Don't you find it very warm here? Suppose we take a turn to the door,'
I suggested. She thanked me with a look, exchanged a glance and a word
with her mother, and taking my arm, we began to move down the aisle.

Presentiments, though commonly deceptive, do nevertheless exist. Just
at this time I had a presentiment that some crisis was impending. If
I could secure a few minutes' privacy with the young Countess, I was
resolved to tell her a secret which already burned within me, though I
myself had not known it until this very evening. But I felt conviction,
I felt confidence, and I felt that there was no time like the present.

Events the most insignificant upset purposes the most momentous. There
were two doors to the hall, and in order to reach the one at which
we were aiming it was necessary to cross the floor. As we stepped on
the floor at one side a couple of gentlemen appeared on the other;
we met in the very centre of the hall, but it was not until I felt
the Countess press my arm that I thought to notice who either of
the gentlemen was. To my ineffable annoyance I then recognised the
infatuated Jeff leaning on the arm of the bulky gentleman with the
moustachios, who was positively in the act of introducing him to my
partner.

The Countess seemed as much taken by surprise as myself. She returned
Jeff's elaborate obeisance with a grand curtsey, and then stood erect
and silent, her hand still resting within my arm. The music struck up
another waltz.

'May I have the honour of this dance?' inquired Jeff with his sweetest
emphasis.

I waited to hear the Countess say she was engaged and to pass on with
her; but after an instant's pause she slowly relinquished my arm, and
uttering the conventional words, 'Je veux bien,' she resigned herself
to the triumphant Bostonian.

Then, when it was too late, I realised that our engagement had been for
the previous dance, and not for this one, if indeed there had been any
definite engagement at all, and that, as I had heard Jeff's request
in silence, the Countess had been forced to suppose that I desired we
should part. It was one of those absurd misapprehensions which occur in
ball-rooms as well as in other places, but which I had never found so
vexatious as in the present instance.

Meantime Jeff and she had eddied away from me; another couple,
revolving up from behind, came into collision with me. I felt myself in
a false position, and beat a retreat to the Countess Semaroff, beside
whom I seated myself with the gloomy grin of a baffled man.

But the Countess made herself particularly gracious and entertaining,
and I was perforce obliged to give her a good deal of attention, though
my real interest was monopolised by the proceedings of Jeff and his
partner. Jeff was undoubtedly the best dancer in the room, and the
'Boston' step which he danced was not only more graceful and easy than
the ordinary whirligig, but, by the device of 'reversing,' enabled him
to perform his evolutions undisturbed in that vacant centre of the
merry-go-round which has been already described. This proficiency of
his contributed to the sum of my misfortunes for that evening. I am
not myself a good dancer, and I therefore shrank from affording the
Countess Almara an opportunity of comparing Jeff's performance with
my own. I resolved not to dance at all, and to trust to luck for an
opportunity of getting a few minutes' private conversation with her.

But the stars in their courses fought against me on this night of
August 15. Madame introduced me to the military gentleman, who turned
out to be her husband, and he and I presently fell into an animated
political discussion. When Jeff and his partner returned they took
seats on the further side of the Countess, and it was almost impossible
for me to appropriate so much as a glance from those eyes which
now held so large a portion of my world's light. I could mark her
forced attention to the poet's vapourings; I could divine her secret
disgust, and I understood that she endured this petty martyrdom from a
mistaken idea of making me reparation for her slight upon him. But I
was practically incapacitated for either explanation or consolation.
The intangible trammels of society and etiquette are as strong as the
thread that bound Fenrir, and I finally made up my mind that I might as
well go home.

'Before you go, dear Monsieur Campbell,' said the Countess Semaroff
with a glance at the Count, 'we will venture to entreat of you a great
favour.'

'I despair of expressing to you the extent of the obligation which your
condescension would impose upon us,' added the Count with his bland,
impassive politeness.

'Am I really, then, so fortunate as to be able to contribute in any way
to the pleasure of the Count and Countess? What happiness!'

'Behold how it becomes ravishing!' exclaimed the Countess. 'Almara, my
very dear, Monsieur Campbell will perhaps consent.'

The young Countess had been sitting with her hands folded listlessly
in her lap, absorbed apparently in her own thoughts, which were who
knows how far removed from the confiding chit-chat which poor Jeff was
babbling at her ear. She now raised her head and turned her eyes upon
me. The deep sentiment contained in that look would have drawn from me,
had she required it, the sacrifice even of that happiness which was to
be the substance of my life. She said not a word.

'Thou must ask Monsieur; do thou ask him, Almara,' continued the
Countess, smiling, 'since it concerns thee.'

'Is it that you would paint a portrait of me?' said Almara simply.

'Merely a sketch, dear monsieur,' put in the mother persuasively. 'The
opportunity may not again occur for us. It is not often one has the
fortune to meet Monsieur Campbell.'

'And there can be but one Monsieur Campbell in the world,' added the
Count with a bow.

'Something at all events--a likeness merely--a work of three days,'
subjoined Madame earnestly.

I had had time to suppress the first impulse of delight, and to command
my face to an expression of polite affability. In this so-called favour
I recognised the agency of the Countess Almara. To the father and
mother it meant securing a likeness of their daughter from the hand of
the first portrait-painter of the day; but to that painter and to that
daughter it meant hours spent in comparatively undisturbed enjoyment of
one another's society--hours of silent sympathies, of low-spoken words
that sounded little but meant much; hours that would count for years in
the progress of a mutual understanding where each sought to reveal all
and withhold nothing.

'It will give me great pleasure to sketch Mademoiselle,' said I. 'Four
or five sittings will suffice. To-morrow, after the bath, we will speak
further on the subject. At present I must retire. Madame the Countess,
monsieur, mademoiselle, _au revoir_.'

'Good-night, Campbell,' spoke up Jeff as I moved away. 'Thank you ever
so much; but you must expect to find me a severe critic. _Au revoir._'


                                  IX.

But our drama was not to reach its conclusion without a modicum of the
tragic element, and this modicum was to be introduced by no less heroic
a character than the little poet of Beacon Hill.

It is yet early to point the moral of my tale; but I may remark that
we are not seldom helped along the path of life, and even have our
true direction pointed out to us, by ineffective obstacles. The person
or circumstance obstructing us first arouses us to appreciate the
advantages of a course which we might else never have thought of, or,
having thought of, might have lacked energy to pursue.

In this sense it may be said that I owed my introduction to the
Countess Almara, and still more the colour which that acquaintance
immediately assumed, to the unintentional influence of my Boston
friend. His vague rhapsodies first drew my attention to a woman whom
I had till then admired without appreciating her. His transcendental
love-making had shown me how truly she was lovable, and his infatuated
pursuit of her had stimulated me to a decision whose gravity might else
have given me pause. Left to myself, I should doubtless have fallen in
love, but I should have been a great deal longer about it. At the age
of five-and-thirty the passions are more enduring than in youth, but
do not ordinarily kindle so readily. Jeff was the match that set me
afire, and he the goad that drove me at a pace which surprised myself.
But I do not care to dwell upon this phase of my romance. To have been
the rival of one you contemn is unpleasant, and the superior nature
cannot avoid remorse in looking back upon such a contest.

However, the sittings began and fulfilled all our
anticipations--Almara's and mine. The further I penetrated into her
mind and heart the richer did these appear. Our speech and bearing
still observed a chivalrous sort of ceremony towards one another; we
did not as yet permit ourselves to be frankly lovers. But our reserve
was only an instinctive device for gaining a deeper realisation of
our happiness. Strong natures often illustrate this paradox: they are
repelled for a time by the intensity of their attraction to each other.

Moreover, we were never left entirely to ourselves; the customs of
Continental etiquette are immovable, and so was the Countess Semaroff
from my _atelier_ or from the little antechamber opening out of it.
But the restraint was purely formal, and even added to the zest of our
enjoyment by giving it the air of being something to intrigue for. It
may not be creditable to human nature, but it is a fact that the most
precious gifts of love are the smuggled ones.

But why did I not declare the state of affairs at once to the Count and
Countess, and thus settle a question of such vital moment to me? In the
first place, I could plead the lover's excuse--the desire to keep the
secret of his heart for a time veiled, even from her he loved. But,
besides this, I felt uncertain how the avowal would be received, not
by Almara herself--I was sure of her--but by her parents. A marriage
between even an eminent artist and a woman of noble birth is not an
everyday occurrence; and I felt the prudence of sounding the views of
the Count and Countess on this subject before putting my fate to the
touch. In case of refusal, indeed, I should not hesitate to take Almara
in spite of them, feeling as I did that our love would be compensation
for all losses; and it may be that I contemplated the possibility of a
hostile turn of the die with something like a pleasurable thrill. A man
likes to prove his power in the teeth of obstacles; and, as I looked
at Almara's proud and passionate beauty, I thought how grand would be
the response to the summons of her heart. It would be almost a pity to
forego that spectacle.

Another source of my hesitation had to do with the mystery which still
continued to invest my beautiful sitter--that mystery which seemed
concentrated in her ruby. What it might be I knew not; Almara quietly
but resolutely foiled all my attempts to lead the conversation up to
the subject. Of course I was not able, situated as we were, to make
any serious attack upon her reserve; but it was evident that her secret
would probably remain a secret until all concealments were finally
at an end between us. All that troubled me in the matter was a fear
lest it should turn out to be a hindrance to our union; but, as time
went on, this apprehension faded from my mind. Almara was gradually
losing those traces of depression and anxiety which she had betrayed
in our first interviews. The sunnier side of her character came out;
she chatted with gaiety and abandon; the shadow of pain and revolt
was passing away. She still turned and twisted the heavy ring upon
her finger, but now rather caressingly than impatiently. And once, I
remember, as she and I and the rest, including Jeff, were sitting after
sundown round a table outside the casino, laughing, gossiping, admiring
the afterglow along the western horizon, and sipping iced coffee out of
tall glasses, on this evening of the last day but one of the sittings
I saw her lift her hand to her lips with one of those unexpected
movements of hers and bestow a quick kiss upon the ruby. No one seemed
to notice this strange gesture, which indeed was so managed as to have
escaped any eye less keen than a lover's. What was the meaning of it?
Almara's glance met mine; for a moment she seemed disconcerted, but the
next moment laughed and said saucily--

'Monsieur Campbell, do you know a cure for burnt fingers?'

The next day at noon the last sitting was over. I sat alone in the
_atelier_, adding the finishing touches to the portrait. At four
o'clock the whole party, not forgetting Jeff, were to be present for
the 'private view.'

No one, not even Almara, had thus far been permitted to see the
picture; and as for my Boston friend, I had not suffered him even to
be present at any of the sittings. Besides that the little man had a
disturbing effect upon me I wished these hours to be as far as possible
sacred to my sitter and myself--oases of serene communion uninvaded by
Bostonian ineptitudes. On the other hand, I must plead guilty to having
used Jeff (or allowed Almara to use him) outside the studio in a manner
perhaps inconsistent with the strict loyalty of friendship.

No definite words had passed between her and me on the subject, but,
by a tacit agreement, the unsuspecting poet was made to do duty as a
blind. Almara, in short, made show of a particular and sentimental
interest in him, thus closing people's eyes to the state of feeling
between ourselves. She acted her part so well, and the delighted
Jeff so purred and beamed under her condescension, that I sometimes
felt remorse. He deserved it, no doubt; it would teach him a lesson;
and yet I disliked seeing even Jeff make such a fool of himself. The
fact that he would have scouted my representations, had I sought to
enlighten him, did not remove my responsibility. Almara did not seem
to share my scruples; women never look at these things as men do. She
fascinated Jeff without mercy; they canoed, dived, and danced together.
A stronger brain than his might have failed to detect any insincerity
in her manner. Perhaps, indeed, she was not for the time being any less
sincere with him than she was with me. The histrionic side of a woman's
nature is generally strong, and is sometimes developed to such a pitch
that what they enact seems as real to them as what they are in sober
earnest about.

About half an hour before the time appointed for receiving my visitors
there was a knock at my door, and Jeff came in. He was as neat,
complacent, and pretty as a miniature on ivory. I had just put the last
touch to the canvas, and was standing back in thoughtful contemplation
of the work.

'Well, how do you like it?' I asked him after the first words.

'Campbell, I am almost satisfied; and that, from me, is the highest
eulogy that can be bestowed upon you.'

'You never told me that you were the final umpire in art criticism.'

'Oh, I only pretend to be the final umpire on the subject of Almara.'

'Come, Jeff, let this farce have an end,' said I, laying my hand kindly
on his shoulder. 'From this hour you must give up your pretensions in
that quarter. To use the homely phrase, the Countess Almara is meat
for--Well, let us say for your elders.'

'Oh, my dear fellow, not at all; we suit each other perfectly. But I
knew we should; you remember my telling you so? I should think you
would have noticed it this week past yourself.'

'What I have noticed, my poor Jeff, has caused me more than one twinge
of conscience. You must try and forgive me. The fact is, the Countess
Almara and I----'

The poet interrupted me with an arch laugh.

'Twinge of conscience, did you say? Twinge of jealousy you mean. My
dear old Campbell, if I have anything to forgive, I forgive it with
all my heart. But my object in coming here so early was to ask you to
forgive me.'

'Ah, I fancy I understand you, and I admit having thought you rather
reprehensible on that score. Considering that your father made that
provisional arrangement regarding your income in case you thwarted his
wishes----'

'Yes, but that was only in case I----'

'In case you married anyone but the lady he had selected for you.
Exactly. And you decided that you preferred the Countess to the income.'

'Really you are mistaken, Campbell. I have no idea of risking my
income. I know the value of money.'

'All I was going to say was that you have not been acting quite
ingenuously towards the Count and Countess Semaroff, not to speak of
their daughter. They look upon you as a young gentleman able to dispose
of ten thousand pounds a year. Now, if you had proposed to them for her
hand without letting them know----'

'Propose to them for it? But, my dear Campbell, that was all settled
from the beginning.'

'Do you mean to say they have admitted you as a suitor?'

'Why, what else could I mean?'

'And you omitted to tell them that in case you married her, you would
have but three hundred pounds income?'

'Indeed, I told them nothing of the sort. Why should I?'

'Because an honest man in your place would have told them!' I replied
coldly. 'You are sailing under false colours. You are giving yourself
out to be a millionaire when you have only the salary of a clerk.'

'But isn't a clerk with ten thousand a year a pretty decent
millionaire?'

'But you will have ten thousand a year only as long as you are
unmarried.'

'That is so far the case that, after I'm married, I shall have twenty
thousand a year--my wife's income added to my own.'

'Well, Montgomery, I don't care to beat about the bush with you. If
you can reconcile your conduct with your own code of honesty it's no
concern of mine. But as regards the Countess Almara--I am going to
marry her myself.'

'You? Oh, you are joking.'

'I have loved her from the first; she loves me----'

'Oh! I say! ha, ha, ha! Has she told you so?'

'We have not openly declared ourselves in so many words--you are
welcome to whatever consolation that may afford you--but there are
other means of coming to an understanding than by words.'

'Well, that is true, at any rate: it is for that I came to ask your
pardon, Campbell. But really was it not in great measure your own
fault?'

'Upon my word, Montgomery, I fail to catch your drift.'

'Well--the long and short of it is she's been flirting with you.'

'With me? You surprise me.'

'You see she didn't want you to suspect our engagement. You remember
that first conversation you had with her, when she made those allusions
to my height, and said she hated Americans, and so on?'

I made a sign of assent.

'When she said those absurd things, though only in fun, she did not
know that I was her intended; and when, a few hours later, we found
each other out, she naturally felt annoyed at having spoken of me to a
stranger in such terms. You understand?'

'Pray go on,' I said, taking up my palette and brushes and standing
before the canvas, so that my face was turned from the speaker.

'So she begged her mother and me not to let you suspect; and the more
thoroughly to lull your suspicions (and also because the girl is a born
flirt, as all feminine women are) she--just--you know what--made love
to you in a mild way, I suppose.'

Jeff paused. 'The man is mad--raving mad!' I muttered, still making
pretence of retouching my background. Jeff flowed on.

'Of course a man like you, a man of the world, a great artist, and
getting on in the forties--of course I knew you'd only be amused, and
would take nothing seriously; and you know you scoffed at the notion of
matrimony when I asked you about it. But still she can be so attractive
when she chooses that latterly I began to fear you might be the least
bit fetched, after all. I told Allie I'd never forgive her if it turned
out so.'

'Told--_who_?'

'Allie--Almara, you know. We always called each other "Allie" and
"Jeffie" in our letters.'

'Letters? You corresponded, then?'

'Regularly--for the last five years.'

'I see; and--and so it's been a settled thing--but--is this your first
meeting?'

'Yes, and that is what made it so amusing. It had been arranged, you
know, that I was to meet them in Paris on the 20th----'

'Meet whom? You must excuse me, but you have such an unsystematic way
of imparting your information. I'm a bit confused.'

'To meet the Semaroffs. The Count is the Russian commissioner with whom
we are in treaty about the cigarette-holders. We were to be formally
betrothed in Paris, Allie and I----'

'Would you mind calling her the Countess Almara in speaking of her to
me? I--I have unpleasant associations with the other name. Go on.'

'The point is that, happening to stop here on my way, I was a good deal
taken with the "beautiful pagan," without of course knowing who she
was; and I might have made myself very unhappy about her if it hadn't
been for you.'

'Eh?'

'Yes, a fact. The first I knew of my pagan maid being one and the same
with Allie--Countess, I mean--was your mentioning her name to me that
first day at breakfast. Don't you remember my remarking how strangely
things came out? It was accident our both happening to be here, but it
was you who made us known to each other. Wasn't it curious?'

'Very curious, very amusing, the whole thing--ha, ha! And so that story
about the three hundred a year was--part of your poem, I suppose?'

'Not at all. But the Countess Almara being my papa's selection, I
risked nothing in marrying her. I tried to explain it to you at the
time, but you pitched into me so, and insisted upon my leaving her and
marrying somebody else, that at last, just for the fun of the thing, I
allowed you to believe that I was really as great a fool as you took me
for.'

Hereupon ensued a pause of some minutes. Jeff, I believe, lit a
cigarette. What I did I have no recollection; but I must have remained
standing before the easel. At length I felt that Jeff was standing
behind me.

'It couldn't be better, really,' he said. 'They'll like it so much at
home.'

'Beg pardon?'

'It's to go to Boston, you know, to give papa and mamma an idea of how
their daughter-in-law looks. Ah! you've put in the ring, too. I'm glad
of that. Handsome ruby, isn't it?'

'An antique. Such rings are not made nowadays.'

'Except by Tiffany; he manufactures them after the antique models. I
got this at his store in New York six months ago, and paid fifteen
hundred dollars for it. By the way, my dear Campbell, how much will
this sketch be?'

'Hum, let me see. How long have I been over it?'

'Just six days.'

'Well, then, I'll let it go for six thousand pounds. I don't care to
make money out of friends.'

The smoke of Jeff's cigarette got into his windpipe; and while he was
coughing the door opened, and the two countesses, followed by the
Count, came in.

After the portrait had been criticised and the compliments exchanged I
drew near to Almara, who was standing apart from the others, near the
easel.

'Countess, permit my congratulations.'

There was a slight involuntary quivering of the eyebrows and of the
corner of her mouth, and she kept her eyes upon the portrait as she
said in a low tone--

'You know it, then?'

'Your future husband has just told me.'

She shifted her position a little, and began to blush slowly.

'I have included a portrait of the ruby, you observe,' I went on. 'Are
you satisfied with it?'

'Very well--excellent,' she said mechanically.

'I was not sure whether you might prefer to have it omitted. That
evening on the beach--you remember,--you seemed to wish it out of the
way. I will conjure it away even now, if you say the word,' and I took
up the palette and brushes.

There was a pause: she understood me; the colour gradually left her
face, which she still kept averted. At length, with a perceptible
effort, she said--

'It had better remain.'

'I think so too,' I said, laying down the palette. The company was now
prepared to depart.

'Before you go, Countess, I wish--merely out of curiosity--that you
would tell me one thing.'

'Well, monsieur?'

'Are you an angel or a devil?'

Then at last she raised her face, pale as marble, and her black eyes
met mine in a quiet, strange look. She shrugged her shoulders slightly.

'I know not--well, I am a woman. Adieu. You will not forget me.' And
there, at all events, she spoke no more than truth.

The modest price which I had put upon my portrait appeared to overtax
the resources of Beacon Street, and the work remained upon my hands.
That night Madame Enault's chimney caught fire--an occurrence
unprecedented in the middle of August. I explained that I had burnt up
some rubbish, which had proved to be remarkably inflammable, and made
the fullest apologies; but the good lady's nerves did not recover their
tone until after the exhibition of tincture of argentum--a sound dose.
This, so far as I can recollect, was the last noticeable episode of my
summer holiday.




                     A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIMSELF.


                                  I.

At first, I simply laughed the idea to scorn. I refused to regard
it, even for a moment, in a serious light. I jested with myself
about it, and became positively witty on the subject. I let slip no
opportunity to cast ridicule upon it. My chief regret was that I had
no acquaintance in town to whom I could expatiate on the complete
absurdity of the suggestion. In default of this, I took out of my
toilet drawer the nine square inches of cracked mirror before which I
was accustomed to do my shaving and cravat-tying, and, gazing curiously
at the heavy-browed, rugged-featured visage therein reflected, I
sarcastically inquired of it how soon it intended getting its portrait
painted on ivory, and hung in a locket round a fair lady's neck? I
entreated it, with sardonic humour, to give an example of a winning
smile--of an ardent glance--of a beseeching gaze. Then I threw myself
in my chair, put my feet upon my table, filled my rankest pipe with my
strongest tobacco, and while I smoked and lolled, I bade myself, with
a hoarse chuckle of mockery, amend the rudeness and unconventionality
of my manners, and abandon all selfish and offensive habits. In
short, I did everything to prove the folly and groundlessness of this
preposterous notion--except to forget it.

So went matters the first day. The following morning I arose to find
myself quite as firm as before, but somewhat less disposed towards
jocosity. I abused my imbecility with as much vigour as yesterday,
but with fewer quips and humours. I began to see that, for such a
fool as I had proved myself, stringent means were best; I ought to be
too much ashamed of the affair to laugh at it or treat it lightly.
Accordingly, I went about all day with a sour and malignant expression
of countenance: whenever old Joanna, the maidservant, happened to
venture into my apartments, I growled like a dangerous dog at her:
and I gave her my orders that no visitor was to be admitted, and no
letters or messages were to be brought up, in a tone of such energy and
menace, that you would have thought my privacy was as important and as
liable to intrusion as Chancellor Bismarck's: instead of which, the
only person I knew in Dresden, after my six months' residence there,
was the German-American banker; and it was not likely that he would
give himself the trouble to visit me--no, indeed! for my whole yearly
revenue (not including the sums received for my pictures, because I
had never yet sold any) did not reach fifteen hundred thalers; and
though I knew that at least twelve per cent. of this sum went into my
German-American friend's pocket under the name of 'commission,' yet
even that _douceur_ would not suffice to bring him a mile and a half
away into the outskirts of the Neustadt, and up three flights of dark
and devious staircases, to pay me a complimentary call. However, had
he, in spite of probability, actually made his appearance, I should not
have hesitated, in my then state of mind, to kick him downstairs again.

Well, that day passed, and was followed by a restless and weary night;
and I awoke in the morning to confront the fact that my attack had now
lasted no less than forty-two mortal hours, and, so far from abating,
showed every symptom of being on the increase.

I was now seriously alarmed. Here was I grappling with an insidious
and potent enemy, who apparently knew all my weak places, and how to
take advantage of them, but of the proper methods of defending myself
against whom I was fatally and completely ignorant. I had done what I
could, only to prove that I could do nothing: and in this case, doing
nothing was not a negative but a positive evil. The more I pondered
over my helplessness, the more disturbed did I become. What did it all
mean? What should I do? What was to be the end of it?

I ate my breakfast of coffee and rolls in silence and humility: old
Joanna had no cause whatever to complain of violent manifestations from
me. I spoke to her submissively and gently. I even entertained the
question whether it might not be prudent to lay the case before her
and entreat her advice upon it. But shame prevented me; I could not
steel myself to endure her gaze of incredulity deepening into contempt.
No--as I had struggled in the solitude of my own heart, so in the same
solitude would I suffer and submit. If I was really to become a slave,
let me at least conceal my fetters. Joanna could not succour me, for
she had never made the resolutions and embraced the principles that
I had--only to see them, at this late day, violated and broken. In a
word, I determined to hold my peace and to put the best face possible
upon my discomfiture.

By the time I had arrived at this decision it was already afternoon,
and my customary walking hour was at hand. Should I go out as usual,
or not? I had refrained from going yesterday, but no good effects had
come of my forbearance. On the other hand, if I found reason to remain
at home to-day, the same reason would be in as good force to-morrow,
and the day after; and the logical result must be that I should never
go out at all. Now this was a prospect which I could not bring myself
to contemplate. In the first place, I was naturally of an active and
energetic temperament, and my health demanded plenty of vigorous
exercise in the open air. Secondly, although my pride was fain to
put up with the lot of a slave, I was scarcely as yet prepared to
regard myself as a prisoner likewise: and finally, if I did go out,
the chances were a hundred or perhaps a thousand to one that I did
not meet her. Moreover, what if I did? I could not well be worse off
than I was now; and there might be a remote possibility that a more
deliberate scrutiny of the object of my infatuation would tend to my
disenchantment.

Since I have thus betrayed my secret, I may as well pause here and make
a thorough confession. Yes--there could be no doubt about it; I--Thomas
Wyndham--was in love at last, and that, too, with a woman I did not
know and who did not know me. Nothing could have been more inopportune,
nothing more undesirable, nothing more impossible--but nothing was
more certain! I loved. It had come upon me no less abruptly than
overwhelmingly. A chance encounter in the street--a look--an indrawn
breath--and I, who up to my five-and-twentieth birthday had laughed at
scars, now felt a wound which not all the drowsy syrups of the East
could medicine. There was no palliating feature in the case; it was not
only love, it was love at first sight; it was not only love at first
sight, it was love unrequited. And once more, the lover was Tom Wyndham!

But I perceive that some further explanation will be necessary.
Although, then, as has been intimated, I had existed in this great,
beautiful, and seductive world during more than a quarter of a century,
I had remained all that time heart-whole; and though my immunity had
never happened to cost me an effort, it was none the less in accordance
with a certain hard-and-fast rule which I had long ago laid down for
my guidance throughout life. This rule was, to uphold, at all times
and against all comers, the dogma that a bachelor life was, for Tom
Wyndham, the only proper, expedient, and dignified one. Marriage,
so far as I was concerned, was against both my principles and my
interest. I was an artist, to begin with, and in my opinion it was
the duty of every true artist to live for his art alone, jealously
eschewing whatever might tend to divide or alienate his devotion.
His transactions with the sex, if any transactions there must be,
should be strictly in the way of business; he might paint them, but
never woo them. But beyond this, I was (or so I had fondly imagined)
constitutionally and impenetrably proof against female fascinations.
Like the famous Duke of Gloster, I was not formed for sportive tricks,
nor made to court an amorous looking-glass. In other words, I had
always been noted for my awkwardness and infelicity in women's society;
and I could not doubt that I was as tiresome and oppressive to them as
they were always terrible and often hateful to me. Here, then, were
good and sufficient obstacles enough against matrimonial entanglements;
and there were others behind. I was as poor as I was unattractive; I
was destitute of the faculty of money-making, and I was as incapable
of winning a rich wife by my personal merits as I should have been
of living upon her bounty afterwards. In short, and not to multiply
objections, confirmed bachelorhood was my category by every law,
moral, mental, and material; notwithstanding which, I had committed
the inconceivable imbecility of losing my heart and head at the same
moment, and ... but it is enough that I lost my temper at the time; to
lose it over again now would be undignified.

Let me rather record a few particulars of my previous history. My
father had been a wealthy Englishman; he married the daughter of a
rich American planter. My mother died when I, her only child, was but
a few years old. My father returned to England after her death, and I
was brought up there in the lap of luxury. I was sent to Rugby, and
thence to Cambridge; and it was there I first met my cousin Floyd
Wyndham--the son of my father's younger brother. We were as different
as white and black, but we were the greatest friends in the world.
There never was such a lovable fellow as Floyd, and he was the most
popular man in our College, and, indeed, wherever he went. He had all
the social graces and instincts that I lacked; it was as inevitable to
him to charm people as it was to me to repel them; and the best of it
was, his success never cost him the least effort--on the contrary, he
rather turned up his nose at it. What he saw to like in me I'm sure I
cannot imagine; but all the same he did love me with his whole heart,
and would have done anything in the world to oblige me. Dear old Floyd!
with your lazy blue eyes, your quiet, audacious manner, your drawl and
your fun: what a contrast you were to me, to be sure!

I never knew anything of his family, there being some misunderstanding
or other between my father and his; but our rooms at the College were
contiguous, and we were together every day. There was a picture on the
wall over his mantelpiece--a portrait of our maternal grandmother,
and a lovelier face no painter ever drew. Whenever I dropped in to
have a chat with Floyd, I used to sit where I could keep that face in
view; it was the only woman's face I ever ventured or cared to look
twice at. Floyd used to laugh, and say it was like me to be spoony
on my own grandmother: adding, that he had a little sister growing
up who was going to be exactly like her, and that I had better begin
paying my addresses to her immediately. But, jesting aside, I honestly
believe that the memory of that portrait had a good deal to do with my
bachelorhood. As for Floyd's sister, I never had seen her or had the
opportunity of testing her alleged resemblance.

About the middle of our third year at Cambridge, something happened.
My father had a stroke of paralysis. I was summoned home, to find him
speechless and helpless. I was not yet of age, and the property was
under the management of our business agents--as, in fact, it had been
during the last ten years. While I was waiting to see whether or not
the malady were going to take a dangerous turn, a letter came from
America; which I, my father being as he was, opened and read. It told
me that my American grandfather was dead, and that his estates, valued
at over a million of dollars, were bequeathed (with certain conditions
which I need not specify) to myself.

This bequest gave me no pleasure, for I already had far more money than
I knew what to do with. As I folded up the letter, the thought entered
my mind, 'I wish Floyd had it!' For my cousin, who was intended by
nature for another Monte Cristo, possessed barely more than sufficient
means to keep up appearances withal. 'And why shouldn't he have it?'
was my next inspiration; and with that I sat down in a chair to think
it over.

If I were skilled in that sort of thing I dare say I might write a very
interesting passage here. But since I am not, I will tell the upshot
of my meditations in the fewest words possible. I made over my bequest
to Floyd, arranging matters in such a way that he should be under the
impression that it came to him direct from the testator, without my
intervention. I said nothing about what I had done either to our own
business agents, Messrs. Frisby and Faust, or to my father, who was not
in a condition to hear anything yet. Everything being settled, and my
father appearing to be on the mending hand, I went back to Cambridge,
and dropped in quietly at Floyd's rooms.

The dear old boy was in great spirits, though, as his manner was, he
showed little of it on the surface; but he told me what had happened,
and I congratulated him with an artful assumption of surprise. He was
going to start for America in a month, and 'run' his estate himself,
leaving his father and sister in England. 'That sort of life wouldn't
do for them, you know,' said he, leaning back against the mantelpiece
and putting his hands in his pockets. 'But it'll suit me first-rate; I
rather guess I'll make just about the everlastingest tip-top planter
ever you see! Of course,' he added in his usual tone, 'the governor and
Sis will come in for their full share of the plunder all the same: I
mean to settle a hundred thousand sterling on her the first thing.'

We talked together till the small hours of the morning, and I must say
I had never enjoyed an evening so much in my life. Floyd was just the
fellow to be rich, and I had had the good luck to make him so without
his being aware of it. At last we shook hands and said good-night,
little thinking that we were not to meet again. But next morning came
the telegram announcing my father's death. I went home by the next
train. After the funeral came the crash. Old Mr. Frisby, the senior
partner of the firm of our agents, came to me in a pitiable state of
shame and anguish, with the news that Faust had stolen nearly the whole
of my fortune, and had absconded none knew whither. If I realised what
was left, it would amount to barely eight thousand pounds. In other
words instead of being heir to twelve thousand a year, I must content
myself with about two hundred and fifty.

I took pains to keep Floyd from any knowledge of my sudden poverty,
because, especially should it ever chance to leak out that his estate
was a present from me, I knew well enough what his generous heart would
prompt him to do. So I let him sail for the New World without seeing me
again. He remained on that side of the Atlantic; and after writing me
one letter, which, upon reflection, I thought it best not to answer, we
became lost to each other, so far as any communication was concerned.
Nevertheless, I always thought of him as my dear and only friend, and I
never doubted that I was as dear to him as he to me.

I may as well add, lest I should acquire a reputation for generosity
which I was far from deserving, that my changed fortunes troubled me
very little. In fact, I rather enjoyed the new order of things. I had
always fancied I could paint pictures, and cherished a secret ambition
to live by my brush. Here, then, was my opportunity. I went on the
Continent; became a student of the Quartier Latin in Paris; wandered
thence to Italy; and so, after several years of careless Bohemian
existence, I found myself at length in Dresden. I hired part of a small
third _étage_ on the Bautznerstrasse, set up my easel, and divided my
time between that, the Gallery, and the music gardens. For six months
all went well; then happened the event whereof I am now to write, and
which threatened to upset my plans, my ambition, my self-respect and my
peace of mind. And now, my digressions having run themselves out, I can
no longer put off recounting the mortifying particulars.

Really, now I am in for it, there seems to be next to nothing to tell.
I had left my rooms, as usual, about half-past two in the afternoon,
and passing through the Neustadt, I crossed the old bridge, and
entered the Altstadt by way of the Georgen Thor. At the window of the
Porzellan-Fabrik I stopped to look at a beautiful painted vase which
was on exhibition within. While I was standing there, a lady and
gentleman passed, and the lady, catching sight of the vase, made her
companion pause while she examined it. I knew that this was occurring,
though I did not turn my head to look. But as I was about to withdraw,
I happened to see the dim reflection of the lady's face in the
broad pane of the window. It struck me as being a face with which I
was familiar. I turned, startled and by no means pleased, and gazed
straight at her. The suddenness of my movement attracted her attention,
and she returned my look for a moment. Did I know her! I turned red,
pulled off my hat, and made my awkward obeisance. All I got in return
for it was a half-puzzled, half-repellent glance of non-recognition.
She was right, of course; I did not know her, after all. I must have
been of a fine crimson by this time! But stop--could I be mistaken? Did
I not know her?... Yes!--No!...

I suffered a misery of embarrassment and shame during these few
moments. That is a good phrase of the Easterns--'My heart turned to
water within me!' I appreciated it then in its full significance. I
shall never know what I said or did, or how I escaped. When I came
to myself I was walking rapidly along an _allée_ of the Grosser
Garten, muttering to myself with a kind of helpless iteration,
'Fool--fool--fool!'

As for my apparent recognition of her, it was perfectly inexplicable
to me, turn it which way I would. I could neither account for having
supposed that I did know her, nor for having been mistaken in my
supposition. It was easy to say that I had never in my life met, much
less been acquainted, with any young lady answering to her description:
but it was just as undeniable that every feature in her face was as
familiar to me as the Dresden Madonna or the Venus of Milo. Here were
two certainties, in irreconcilable conflict with each other, and it was
my unlucky lot to have stumbled between them. I began to have serious
doubts whether I were not bewitched--whether my head were quite right.
Could it be that my solitary habits, my unsociableness, my taciturnity,
had begun to affect my reason? I am not exaggerating my feeling in the
least. A genuine logical paradox is about the most appalling thing
that can confront a man in this world. Leaving all consideration of
my embarrassment and awkwardness out of the question, the predicament
of being at odds--so to speak--with possibility, was beyond measure
distressing.

However, I cooled down at last, and, wisely resolving to give
the mystery time to resolve itself, I bent my steps towards the
concert-ground and sat down at one of the vacant tables. The band
struck up one of Mozart's Sinfonies. I was just beginning to forget
my troubles in the music, when a slight stir near me attracted my
notice, and looking round, what was my dismay to behold approaching
the identical personages of my late adventure! Guided by fate, they
sauntered on until they reached the very next table to my own. It
happened to be the only disengaged one in the vicinity. They did not
seem to see me at all; and after a few moments' deliberation, they sat
down.

I have not yet attempted to describe them. The gentleman was a
fine-looking old fellow of sixty or thereabouts, with ruddy cheeks,
black eyes, and a broad white beard. He appeared to be, and evidently
was, a well to-do English squire. The young lady, his daughter, is not
so easily to be disposed of; in fact, it is folly to attempt describing
her at all. Her father's face, though of a fine type, had nothing in
it peculiar or remarkable; hers, on the contrary, was a face which,
once seen, could never be forgotten or confounded with any other. Its
contour was at once strong and delicate; and the maidenly dignity
of the expression was tempered by the scarcely subdued sparkle of
frolicsome spirits in the long blue eyes. Of crisp, golden-brown hair
she had more than she well knew what to do with; it was packed and
twisted all over her lovely head, with little regard to fashionable
effect, but with a result of lavish splendour which I was unfashionable
enough to prefer. Her complexion was darker than the colour of her
eyes warranted; it had a glowing depth and intensity that Titian would
have loved to imitate; so that, although you would not have called her
cheek high-coloured, it made all other women's cheeks look dull and
ineffectual. Her lips were clear red, and unspoken eloquence dwelt in
their curves. In figure she was tall, alert, and somewhat slender.

Inadequate as I perceive this attempt at portraiture to be, I
scarcely needed a glance at her, as she sat at that neighbouring
table, to inform myself of every detail of her appearance. Her image
seemed to have been present to my inner consciousness before I met
her--to employ a metaphysical periphrasis for what was to me a very
certain and definite fact. An hour previous to our encounter before
the Porzellan Handlung, I could have taken my pencil and sketched the
outline of her features as accurately as now that she was before me.
The only difference between her and this strange anticipation of her
(or whatever it was) in my mind was, as I now had leisure to observe,
that her hair and eyes were a good many shades lighter than those of my
forecast. The eyes that I had thought of were dark grey, almost black,
and the crisp locks a deep lustreless brown.

The band was playing the second movement of the Sinfonie, and while the
music lasted, she sat in quiet and pleased attention, her chin resting
on her half-opened hand, and her glance directed musingly towards the
little group of statuary that stands at the outer extremity of the
concert-ground. The old gentleman, meanwhile, studied the programme
and took a pull or two at the schoppen of beer which the kellner had
brought him. When at length the intermission came, the two engaged in
conversation, and then all the sparkle and mischievous charm of the
young lady's face came to the surface; and if she had been beautiful
before, her loveliness was now well-nigh intolerable. Presently the old
gentleman lit a cigar, and, getting up from the table, walked off to
smoke it, leaving his daughter temporarily alone.

It will not be necessary for me to observe at this point, that I was
already in love: although I do not think I had yet realised the fact
myself. Never having experienced any sensations of the kind before, I
perhaps failed to attribute to them their full significance. But an
incident which now occurred informed my ignorance. A guttural voice
from somewhere behind me made itself heard above the low hum of general
conversation round about. 'Ach Herrje!' it exclaimed, in a tone of
impertinent admiration, 'was für eine Schönheit!'

I turned about in pure amazement, unable to believe that any human
being could have the audacity to launch his impudence against this
gracious paragon. But I could not doubt the evidence of my own senses.
An overgrown young lieutenant of cavalry was sitting at a table close
by, his hands resting on the hilt of his long sabre, and his pale-blue
prominent eyes fixed insolently upon my young lady--I say, upon _mine_!
There was in his manner an insufferable swagger and self-complacent
conceit which would have been hard enough to put up with at any time,
but which under these circumstances made my hands turn cold and my face
hot with ire. I knew something of the fellow--he was a certain Von
Wurst, reputed to be immensely rich, and he occupied the first _étage_
of the same building whose sky parlour was dedicated to my muse. He
had a scandalous reputation in Dresden as a gambler and libertine; and
if I had never troubled myself to verify the reports of his ill-fame
heretofore, I had not the least hesitation about believing the worst of
them now.

But just as I was on the point of obeying the impulse I was under to
clutch him by the scruff of the neck and kick him out of the grounds,
it came upon me like a blow in the face that I had no business to
interfere. Von Wurst had as yet done nothing actively unlawful, and the
mere expression of his impertinent admiration was not a warrant for a
perfect stranger to both parties, like myself, to pick a quarrel with
him. Moreover, the young lady's father was not far off, and could be
summoned in case of need; and finally, she herself did not appear to be
frightened. She took not the slightest notice of Von Wurst, for, though
looking straight towards him, her glance seemed to pass over him or
through him without informing her of his existence--in a way which, had
there been a grain of manly decency in his composition, would have made
him wish the earth to swallow him: and nothing but a slight disdainful
quiver of her upper lip betrayed that she had heard his remark at all.
I restrained my wrath, therefore, as best I might, and contented
myself with turning round in my chair and staring at the lieutenant in
as offensive and insulting a manner as I could.

He noticed my behaviour, and doubtless divined the cause of it: and
by way of showing, perhaps, how little he cared for my displeasure,
he presently summoned the kellner and sent him off for a bouquet of
flowers. The man soon returned with a very large and showy one.

'Take it to that Fräulein there,' said Von Wurst, with a leer of
defiance at me, 'and present it to her with my compliments.'

The man looked rather frightened at this commission, but obeyed
nevertheless, and laid the bouquet before the young lady with a
deprecatory air and an inarticulate murmur.

By this time the attention of most of the people round about had been
attracted, and everyone watched with interest to see what the young
lady would do. As for me, I was pretty nearly at the end of my tether,
and only awaited the first symptom of distress on her part to take the
lieutenant by the throat. He could probably have settled me with one
hand, but at the moment I forgot to think of that.

Amidst a general pause of suspense, the young lady quietly took up the
bouquet and examined it critically. The colour in her cheeks deepened
a shade, and her eyes sparkled beneath their lashes, but otherwise
she betrayed no signs of uneasiness or indignation. At length she
laid the flowers down, put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out her
pocket-book.

The kellner shifted nervously from one leg to the other, and glanced
hurriedly towards Von Wurst, whose insolent smile was losing itself in
an expression of something like bewilderment.

The young lady opened the pocket-book, and took out of it a gold piece
of the value of six thalers. Handing it to the astonished kellner, she
said in German and in a low even tone, which was distinctly audible to
all the curious listeners:

'I am not accustomed to buy flowers of pedlars, but I suppose this
person must be very much in want of money, since he offers them to me
in this way; so I will take them out of charity. Give him this, please,
and send him away.'

There was dead silence for a moment; but as the unfortunate kellner
turned to perform his new orders, one or two persons snickered,
and others joined in, and almost immediately there was a universal
explosion of derisive mirth at the gallant lieutenant's expense.
'Sacrament!' stuttered he, jumping to his feet, his clumsy features
of a dull crimson hue, while he strove by an enraged stare to awe
the laughers into silence. But it was in vain; others, hearing the
uproar, hurried to the spot, and soon added their quota to the chorus
of contemptuous merriment; and at last even the kellner pricked up
the courage of numbers, and as he laid down the gold coin upon the
lieutenant's table, he suffered a broad grin to make itself visible
on his countenance likewise. At this juncture the white-bearded
old gentleman came shouldering through the crowd, in a tempest of
apprehension and wrath; on finding his daughter safe, he stood with
one arm in hers, glaring round on every side in search of a foe. But
the only individual who might have answered to that term had by this
time taken his departure, pursued by the taunts and jeers of the whole
assembly. And then the young lady, who, while unprotected, had borne
herself so firmly, suddenly bent her lovely face against her father's
shoulder and burst into tears. As he led her away, a low murmur of
sympathy and admiration followed her; for although a Dresden crowd is
in general anything but a gallant one, their hearts were thoroughly
taken captive for once. For my part, my mind was a medley of emotions;
I remained seated at my table with my head in my hands, unable to think
coherently. Whether Mozart's Sinfonie was played to the end or not I
am unable to say; at all events, I heard nothing of it. But towards
evening I found myself at home; and then began the futile struggle
against love and fate which I have already described.

I have also stated how, on the third day, resigning myself with the
best grace I could to the inevitable, I prepared to make my customary
afternoon stroll. I had accordingly put on my well-worn Tyrolese hat,
and, grasping my walking-stick, was just about to issue forth--when a
loud ringing at the hall entrance, soon followed by a firm step along
the passage and a resounding knock at my own door, made me pause.

'Can it be the old gentleman?' flashed across my mind, and the thought
fetched the heart into my mouth. 'Idiot!' I exclaimed the next instant,
'of course it can only be a messenger from that scoundrel Von Wurst,
with an invitation to a duel. And by Heaven!' I added, flinging the
door open savagely, 'there's no man in the world I shall have so much
pleasure in shooting!'


                                  II.

'Hold hard there, stranger!' cried a deep laughing voice, penetrated
by a preposterous Yankee accent. 'You'd better keep your shirt on, I
guess. If carving livers is your game, I'm thar; but----'

'Floyd!'

'Hullo, Tom! Ha, ha, ha! Why, you looked as wicked as a catamount for a
moment.--Dear old chap, how goes it?'

We had grasped hands; but the next instant we threw our arms round each
other, and hugged each other like a couple of Germans.

Floyd had grown an enormous moustache and was as thin and almost as
brown as an Indian; but he was the same old Floyd, lazy, audacious, and
full of fun. We sat down and gazed at one another in silence for more
than a minute.

'How did you get here?' I asked at length.

'Well, I dropped round from the plantation. Tired of niggers--thought
I'd take a rest. Want my portrait painted.'

'I never was so glad to see a fellow in my life!'

'So I thought, from the way you opened that door.'

'Six years since we parted, Floyd!'

'We never parted at all, if I remember right. You sneaked out of
it--too proud to say good-bye to a purse-proud aristocrat like me, I
suppose. Much obliged to you for the legacy, all the same.'

'What do you mean?'

'Nothing particular. I only found you out about three months ago.
However, we'll come to that presently. Been enjoying yourself?'

'Oh, I'm all right--at least, until within the last two or three days,'
I added, a little embarrassed.

'Ah! Well, you know you always were an eccentric chap; and it looks as
if you hadn't changed much, so far as that goes. When a man with twelve
thousand a year in the three-per-cents. takes to living in a German
attic on six shillings a day, and painting pictures that won't sell for
a living ... eh?'

'The fact is, I lost a good deal of money--after you left, you know:
and--well, I see you must have heard something about it.'

'Me? Oh, no, don't imagine such a thing,' returned Floyd, with a lazy
sparkle in his long mischievous eyes. 'I never hear anything, and
never suspect anything; I just take things as they come, and never
stop to ask where they come from. It wouldn't do, you see; I have such
extraordinary luck. It isn't every man, I guess, who would have the
luck to inherit a fortune of a million or so from a fellow who didn't
know of his existence--and who thought all the time he was leaving it
to somebody else. But, bless you! I think nothing of a thing like that.'

'What sort of a notion have you got into your head now?'

'A notion that you're a hypocrite, for one thing. But never mind for
the present; time enough for me to walk into you to-morrow. I say, Tom,
haven't you anything to wet a fellow's whistle with? Where I hail from,
strangers liquor up when they meet.'

I laughed and rang for beer, which happened to be the only beverage at
that moment subject to my orders. Old Joanna brought in bottles and
glasses on a tray, and as she set the tray down, I observed that there
was a note upon it, in a rather soiled envelope, though ornamented
with a handsome monogram. I took no further notice of it at the time,
my mind being occupied with other thoughts. The hints which Floyd had
dropped made me uneasy. I could not doubt that he had by some means
either found out the whole truth about my transfer of my grandfather's
bequest, or at least learned enough of the circumstances to enable him
to ask me very pertinent questions. And inasmuch as I possessed nothing
of his command of countenance and readiness of wit and self-possession,
it was plain that I was destined to let the cat out of the bag whenever
he chose to make me do so. Be that as it might, I was resolved to allow
of no readjustment of the property; and as I had reason to believe that
my tenacity of purpose was fully equal to his, whatever my inferiority
otherwise, I consoled myself as well as the case allowed.

Meanwhile Floyd had produced a gigantic cigar-case, which seemed to be
the only thing in the way of luggage that he had brought with him, and
held it towards me. The cigar which I laid hold of proved to be upwards
of six inches in length and thick in proportion, while the aroma which
proceeded from it, even before it was lighted, was such as would have
made the least enthusiastic smoker devoutly bless his stars.

'They're wretched little things, I know,' murmured Floyd, as he stuck
one of these brobdingnags into the corner of his mouth, and scratched
a match. 'As a general thing, of course, I only smoke them before
breakfast, or between courses at dinner. My regular weeds--the big
ones--are in my trunk at the "Saxe." Raised 'em myself. Well, now go
ahead, Tom, old man; let's see what sort of an account you can give of
your adventures since the old Cambridge days--eh?'

Now my rejoicing at Floyd's unexpected arrival had been twofold: first,
I was glad to see him for his own sake; secondly, because of the
sympathy and advice which no man was better qualified than he to give
me in my present love difficulty. In a word, I regarded him as sent by
Providence especially to be made a confidant of. His proposal that I
should give an account of myself since our last meeting afforded me a
good opening whereby to lead comfortably up to the intended revelation.
Such topics, when one is really serious and in earnest, require to be
softly approached as well as delicately handled; and it seemed to me,
now that I was actually face to face with my confession, that I could
not begin too far back or work my way along too circumspectly.

Accordingly, I made my start in the extreme distance, and gossiped
away volubly enough; but after a while I perceived that I was making
very little headway. I dilated on unimportant matters, and was no
nearer the crucial question than when I began. Instead of preparing
Floyd's mind for what was to come, I was leading him off on entirely
discordant lines of thought--if, indeed, he were attending at all to
my narrative, and not rather following out a train of ideas of his own,
under cover of the smoke-wreaths he was coiling about him.

Irritated at length both with myself and with him, I broke short off in
the current of talk and said abruptly:

'By the way, Floyd, you haven't told me yet how you happened to turn up
here in Dresden.'

'Ah--yes--is that all, then? A very interesting story too, my boy,' he
grunted, with a yawn; and throwing his arms above his head, he indulged
in a hearty stretch. It was too evident that he had not listened
to a word. What, then, could be the subject of his extraordinary
preoccupation?

'Ah--what was that you asked me? Oh, how I came here. Well, you know I
wanted to find you.... But come, Tom, since you've made a clean breast
of it, so will I. I'll make you my confidant, old fellow. The fact is,
I'm here in a threefold capacity--as a friend, as a brother, and as
a----humph!'

'A what?'

Floyd rose to his feet and sauntered to the window. A pot of heliotrope
stood upon the sill, and he pulled off the largest cluster of blossoms,
and began abstractedly to pick away the flowers. I began to have my
suspicions as to what he meant, but I said nothing. After a pause he
continued, keeping his face turned towards the window:

'Well, you see it's this way. In the first place, I decided to come
over here on your account--the reason why I'll tell you presently.
Then, thought I, I shall see Gwendolen (that's my sister, you know),
whom I haven't met for I don't know how many years; and instead of
letting her know I'm coming, I'll give her a surprise-party; appear
before her unexpectedly--she falls into my arms with a shriek--and all
that. Now, after my dear old governor's death----'

'Is he dead, Floyd?'

'Eighteen months ago--yes. Well, after that she wrote me that she was
going to live at her uncle's--our mother's brother--a good fellow, I
believe, though I never saw him. So, as soon as I landed in Liverpool,
I went straight there. They weren't at home, and the house was locked
up. I made inquiries, and was told that they had started on their
travels about three months before, and the fellow in charge of the
house said he believed they had intended to take a run on the Continent
first and then go to America.'

'To give you a surprise-party, I suppose?'

'Yes. However, I thought I'd try the Continent first, for I knew you
must be somewhere thereabouts, and I couldn't go back to America
without you in any case. So I crossed over to Paris, and began
beating up the ground carefully. By-and-by I came across some obscure
intelligence about you; but not a word could I hear about Miss
Gwendolen. I'm pretty well convinced, now, that she is this moment on
my plantation in Maryland.'

'What a pity! I should like to have seen her, too.'

'Oh, I mean you shall some day, Tom; I'm told she's good-looking,
though I can't speak to that on my own knowledge; in fact, if she is,
she must be very much changed from the scrawny, freckled little fidget
she used to be seven years ago. However, she's out of the question just
at present. But....'

'You've accounted for yourself as a friend and a brother; now for the
other thing--the "humph"?'

'You know, Tom,' said Floyd after some hesitation, knocking the ash
from his cigar with the remains of the heliotrope blossom--'you know I
never was like some fellows--susceptible--always falling in love, and
all that sort of thing--eh?'

I could not help grinning at this exordium. Floyd, so long as my
acquaintance with him had lasted, had been without exception the
most fickle and incorrigible flirt I ever saw. He was always in and
out of love, and his longest attachment seldom lasted six weeks. The
effrontery with which he now recommended himself to my admiration as a
model of continence in this respect was too much for even my gravity.

'I've known very few fellows like you, at all events,' was my
non-committal reply; 'and from what I do know, I should think it very
probable your time might have come, at last.'

'Well--only this is no laughing matter, mind you, Tom,' said Floyd,
turning round upon me with a countenance of extreme solemnity--'it's
very natural you shouldn't quite understand how a man like myself feels
when his heart is really touched for the first time; you've always been
out of the way of such things, you know--you never took to women. But
my whole soul is in this affair; it's a matter of life and death, I
might say----'

At this point I could restrain myself no longer, but laughed openly.
Floyd was so categorically reproducing the old Floyd of college days,
who was wont to rave precisely thus about each latest mistress of his
fancy, that the depths of mirth were stirred within me. He was a good
deal annoyed at first; but finally the corners of his moustache began
to twitch, and his imperturbable good nature to reassert itself. 'I
am in earnest, though, this time,' he persisted, when gravity was
restored. 'You know, we're not boys any longer, Tom. You must allow a
man to have one serious feeling before he dies.'

'So I do, Floyd; it was only the old associations that tickled me;
and also another thing, that will surprise you when you hear it. But
first--go on with your yarn. Who and what is she?'

'I haven't an idea!'

'You don't know?'

'All I know is, Tom, that I have seen her, and that I adore her. I have
never been able to get speech of her, or even so much as find out her
name. If she were like other girls, I'd soon scrape an acquaintance;
but she awes me and abashes me, and I'd no more think of being
unceremonious with her than with her Majesty Queen Victoria. I must get
presented in regular form or not at all. But nobody seems to know her;
she seems to be travelling incog. They never stop at hotels, but always
go to private lodgings, so there's nothing to be learnt through feeing
waiters. I first caught sight of her in Paris, and have been trotting
round at her heels ever since, sometimes losing her for a while, but
not for long. Yesterday, though, I thought she had given me the slip
finally; but by accident I heard it rumoured that some one answering
her description had taken the train from Berlin southwards four days
ago. I came on here, on speculation; got here early this morning; and
sure enough I had a glimpse of her as she drove by in her carriage, not
three hours since.'

'By Jove, Floyd!...' said I musingly; and paused.

'That's my yarn, so far as it's gone.'

I rose, and joined him at the window, and we both leaned over the sill
and gazed thoughtfully down on the street beneath. The coincidence that
the objects of our respective adoration should both happen to be in
town at the same time, impressed me. It confirmed me, too, in my design
of making Floyd my confidant, as he had made me his. Our destinies were
entangled and the fact that his predicament of not knowing so much as
the name of his mistress was identical with my own, encouraged me to
proceed. Exactly what I expected to gain from my confession, I did
not pause to consider. Matrimony must, of course, be as much against
my principles now as it had been yesterday; nevertheless, somehow or
other, the magnetism of Floyd's presence had the effect of causing
me at least to reconsider the matter. It might be worth my while,
at all events, to hear his opinion upon it: it would be an opinion
founded upon good sense and knowledge of the world. The chances were,
I reflected, that he would but confirm my own views as to my unfitness
for the married state: had he not already insinuated as much, while
ignorant of my infatuation? I would speak out, then, fearlessly: and I
would speak at once.

'Floyd----'

The loud rattling of a carriage over the stones beneath interrupted
me. We both looked down, and at the sight which met our eyes we both
started. Floyd was the first to speak.

'Quick! look there, Tom,' cried he, catching my arm with more of
excitement in his manner than I had ever before known him to betray;
'look, man, there she is!'

'She?' I cried; 'why, how did you know her?'

'Know her? Know the woman I adore?'

'You--adore----'

'She's the one I've been telling you about--the one I love! O you
beauty!' and he kissed his audacious hand at the retreating carriage.

I left the window without a word, and walked to my chair. The truth was
revealed; Floyd's 'she' was mine: we both loved the same woman! The
carriage had contained three persons--the white-bearded old gentleman;
another old gentleman who, from the hurried glance I had obtained of
him, reminded me very much of Mr. Frisby, our former business agent;
and last and above all, the lovely heroine of the Concert-garden
adventure.

Floyd still remained at the window, gazing down the street after the
vanished vehicle: and I took advantage of the opportunity thus afforded
me to hastily review my position, and decide what course of action I
ought to pursue. It was to be noted, in the first place, that although
I had been made aware of the insoluble dead-lock between my friend and
myself, he was entirely ignorant of it. The accident of his having been
beforehand in exclaiming at sight of the carriage had made all the
difference. Had my tongue been an instant quicker, he, and not I, would
have been the disconsolate one. It was fate: and I reflected, with
perhaps a moment's bitterness, that fate had always been as kind to him
as she had been unkind to me.

But this unworthy mood did not last. If it was no fault of mine that
I was unlucky, certainly Floyd's good fortune was no fault of his.
And as for the present affair, I ought (consistently with myself) to
rejoice rather than grieve at the turn it had taken. If I did not wish
to marry, my disinclination now bade fair to be respected; destiny
was working on my side, after all. I ought to esteem it a happiness,
moreover, that it had fallen to my lot not only to endow my best
friend with a fortune, but with a wife likewise: and to do him these
favours, too, without his suspecting that it was from my hand they
were received. All this, I say, was very delightful from the moral
point of view; but I will not be so uncandid as to pretend that, at the
first blush, I was at all delighted. On the contrary, I felt, for the
first time, that I was by no means so averse from marriage as I had
supposed: and that my only chance of happiness in that relation was
now passing away before my eyes. True, the chance had at the best been
but a slight one; few things were less probable than that I, without
money, influence, or personal attractions, could ever have won so fair
a prize as that which I had dreamed of. Yet I perceived that I would
have striven to win it with all my strength. I recognised the folly and
insincerity of my apparent reluctance. I had dallied with my great
opportunity while it had been mine, and now that it was for ever lost,
I saw my mistake. Well--Floyd would have her; be it so. At least, I
would not play the dog in the manger with him. I will act as I know he
would have acted in my place; and though it might be with a bad grace
at first, I must trust to time and reason to reconcile me.

'Wasn't she divine?' sighed Floyd, slowly withdrawing himself from the
window and returning to his chair. He took a deep draught from his
beer-schoppen, selected another huge cigar from the cigar-case, lit it,
and sighed once more.

'You don't know her--do you?' he next inquired, turning a lazy glance
upon me.

'What do you mean? I know nobody here.'

'I was only thinking,' rejoined Floyd, without observing my confusion,
'how nice it would have been if you could have introduced us. Though,
to be sure, no one could know a girl like that without falling in love
with her himself; so maybe it's better for me as it is--eh? ha, ha, ha!'

'Ha, ha! I see--you dread a possible rival in me--ha, ha!'

'Dread isn't exactly the word, Tom, old fellow,' said Floyd, in a
changed tone, perhaps fancying (for his perceptions were as acute as
his heart was generous) that his jesting allusion had hurt my feelings.
'If you were in love with this girl, I would give up my chance to
you in a moment--and do all a man could to promote your success too.
You know what I think of you, Tom; but, hang it! we're Anglo-Saxons;
we can't be always bursting into tears and swearing that we love one
another! But I know what you've done for me; and I mean to do something
for you, when my time comes.'

'All right, Floyd,' said I hastily. 'Only don't talk as if you owed me
anything,' I added presently; 'because you don't.'

'Oh, I don't mean to go to work strictly on the debit and credit
principle,' he answered with a smile. 'But--since we've got to talking
in this vein somehow, we may as well have it out and done with it. I
found out, quite by accident, the little _ruse_ you played off on me
six years ago. I stumbled upon the revelation only three months back.
And that led to my discovering your poverty. Altogether, Tom, it took
the wind out of me for a moment.'

'Remember one thing,' I interposed; 'it wasn't until after I had done
that, that the robbery came to light. I expected to be richer than
you----'

'I know--I understand. But now, use your imagination for a moment,
and put yourself in my place. If I had enriched you beyond the dreams
of avarice, and then turned out a pauper myself, you would not feel
exactly comfortable, I take it. And if, in the course of six years, you
had proved yourself a good steward of the property, and had increased
its value by upwards of one-half, wouldn't you consider it no more than
a fair and even thing, conducive to the comfort and respect of both
parties, to make that increase over to me, with your best bow, and so
live happily ever after? Eh, Tom?'

'Thanks, Floyd; that's all reasonable enough, and the only reason I
don't say yes to it is this: I am a great deal better off as I am.
Money would not do me a bit of good--quite the contrary. I like to feel
that I have none of that kind of responsibility, and I like to imagine
that I must work for a living. Of course, it is nothing more than
imagination, for my income supplies me with all I need. But it is good
for me to have an occupation, and to feel some sort of obligation to
pursue it. I'm naturally prone to the blues--and if I had nothing to do
but to lie back and enjoy myself, I should have them all the time. We
are constituted differently, that's all. But--thanks, all the same.'

Floyd lay calmly back in his chair, and puffed half-a-dozen
smoke-wreaths ceiling-wards ere he spoke again.

'If you think,' he then said, 'that I have been doing nothing all
these years except sit still and enjoy myself, you are confoundedly
mistaken. I have worked like a horse--though I mayn't look like it now.
The possession of this fortune has made all the difference between my
being an industrious and productive member of the community, and a
good-for-nothing, lazy detrimental--as I should have been without it.
No, Tom: trust me, riches do not mean idleness: they haven't with me,
and they wouldn't with you. And think, old fellow--you have made a man
as well as a millionaire of me: you cannot, surely you cannot, mean to
leave me under such an infernal weight of obligation. Do be human, Tom.
You have been generous all your life; don't begin to be selfish in the
worst kind of fashion at this late day--and at my expense!'

'Give me a little time to think, Floyd,' said I, feeling very
miserable. 'To-morrow or next day. Remember that I'm an old bachelor,
and very much set in my ways.' But the fact was, the new complication
about the love-affair, which of course I was unable to explain, made it
more than ever difficult for me to entertain Floyd's proposal. I had a
wild idea of escaping--hiding myself where no ingenuity could find me
out.

'An old bachelor, eh?' exclaimed my friend; 'why, I hope you don't call
yourself so very old, for I'm at least a year further gone than you,
and I don't consider myself "set" at all. "Ripe" is the fitter word, I
take it. But _apropos_ of this, there's something I'd like to say to
you, Tom; it's presuming on your friendship, I know, and maybe I ought
not to venture. But it's on my mind.'

'Out with it!'

'It's a little idyl--a bit of a romance, you know, that I had imagined.
I hoped to take you back to America with me, when I went, and I
expected my sister would come too. Well, she's there already. But I
thought, don't you see, that you would meet and perhaps see a good deal
of each other; and I'm certain she's a girl of fine character, though
she may very likely be no great beauty to look at; and of course she
has half of all I own, and will probably decide to settle down over
there; and I'll defy any woman who knows what you are to help falling
in love with you.'

Floyd was actually stammering and getting red in the face. I never
felt my heart so go out to a man, before or since. Dear old Floyd! how
little he knew what an impossibility he was proposing.

'I'm not a marrying man, Floyd,' was all I was able to reply at the
moment; but I knew that he understood, from my tone and look, how
deeply his suggestion had touched me.

After this ensued a rather long silence. At last he remarked,
carelessly taking up the note which old Joanna had brought in with the
beer, and which I had quite forgotten.

'Apparently I'm to take your assertion that you know nobody in town
with a reservation. This looks like an invitation from some of the
upper ten. The monogram is big enough.'

'An invitation?--that can't be.' On opening the envelope, however, I
found that he was right. It was an invitation to a private fancy ball,
at the house of no less a person than my banker.

'It's very strange; I never spoke ten words to him in my life, and my
balance is none of the largest. It's to-night, too--short notice!'

'He didn't want to give you time to refuse. Of course you'll go. Let me
look at it--"Mr. Wyndham and friend"--that means me. We'll go together.'

A good deal to my own surprise, I found that Floyd's proposal was by
no means so distasteful as I should have supposed. The truth was, I
much needed some distraction. This fancy ball would serve to pass away
what otherwise bade fair to be a very uncomfortable evening. After a
little discussion, therefore, I consented to accompany him thither; and
as evening was already coming on, we sallied forth to procure dominos.
A few hours later saw us ensconced in a drosky, and rattling over the
uneven pavements to our destination.

'I shouldn't wonder, by the way,' remarked Floyd, as we alighted, 'if
that divine creature were to be there.'

Had this suggestion been advanced earlier, it would have made
an important modification in my plans; but it was now too late
to draw back. I bethought myself, too, that it was highly
improbable--considering how short a time she had been in town--that
she should have received an invitation; and if the worst came to
the worst, I could slip away whenever I chose. We went on up the
illuminated staircase, therefore, and having delivered our credentials
to the doorkeeper--a warrior of the sixteenth century, armed cap-à-pie
in panoply of proof--we advanced to pay our respects to the host and
hostess of the occasion, who smiled to us in the guise of Nutcracker
and Sugardolly.

'It is the greatest pleasure that I meet you,' said the former,
in broken English, but with entire cordiality, holding my hand
affectionately as he spoke. 'We have too little seen of you here--you
are too much to yourself. It shall be our hope that you now do us
the honour very often. You shall find some of your compatriots here
to-night, I think, all very anxious to enjoy the favour of your
presentation. Dear sir, till our next meet!'

Meanwhile, Madame Sugardolly was saying something equally civil to
Floyd. That was natural enough; his wealth and consequent importance
were probably well known; but I was at a loss to understand such
a sudden access of flattering attention to me. I was nobody, and
accustomed to be treated accordingly. Could my worthy banker be
labouring under the delusion that I was somebody else?

Leaving this question to solve itself, I took Floyd's arm, and we
threaded our way slowly through the brilliantly and grotesquely
attired crowd. Many a quaint and graceful figure was there, but none
with which either of us was familiar. I saw that Floyd was keeping a
keen look out for some one, and had no difficulty in guessing who it
might be. But we made the circuit of all the rooms in vain. We drifted
at length into the haven of a small side-room, curtained off from the
other apartments by a heavy _portière_ hanging across the doorway.
Lights were burning in it, and a comfortable sofa stood at one end, but
there was no one there. It was a discovery of our own.

'Tell you what we'll do, old chap,' said Floyd. 'It is now eleven
o'clock. Let us separate here, and pursue our several fortunes for the
space of an hour; after which--that is, at twelve precisely--we will
rendezvous in this room and compare notes. What say you?'

I made no objections, and we separated accordingly, he going in one
direction and I in the opposite one. For my own part, however, I had
no fancy to seek adventures, and happening to come upon a convenient
entrance of a window, I took refuge within the shadow of the curtains,
and there fell into a brown study. There was one aspect of the affair
in which my cousin and I were involved which had latterly begun to
disquiet me not a little. It was this:--I could not believe that he
was entirely and thoroughly in earnest. I had a misgiving, which I
could not rid myself of, and which his every word and act tended to
confirm, that he was not seriously in love at all, but was merely
amusing himself (as he had done a hundred times before) with the
pretence of being so. If I were correct in my suspicion, then the game
which was fun to him was death to me. And yet, what could I do? Unless
I knew for an absolute certainty that this view of the case were a true
one, I could not in honour lift a finger to avert the consequence;
and absolute certainty, in a matter of this kind, was unattainable.
The upshot of my brown study was therefore a conviction of my own
helplessness: and as I arrived at it, I raised my eyes to the clock,
and saw it wanted but two or three minutes of the appointed hour.

Edging along through the press as rapidly as I could, I soon came to
the curtained doorway, and pushing aside the _portière_, I went in. The
room was still empty--Floyd had not yet returned.

'Is it possible he can have met her?'--thought I.

Even as the thought came, I heard a low, distinct woman's voice,
apparently close at hand; and following it, a coarse, guttural one.
I knew both, and all the blood in my veins tingled. Looking about, I
noticed for the first time that the room I was in opened into another,
the door of which was also closed by a _portière_. The next moment I
had thrown it open and stood within.

I saw the young lady crouched away in the farther corner of the room,
her face pale, her lips set, her eyes sparkling; and before her, with
his back towards me, I saw the overgrown bulk of Von Wurst. He was
attempting to get his arm round her waist, at the same time thrusting
forward his coarse face to kiss her.

As her glance met mine, a light of relief entered into her face which,
even at that crisis, filled me with a grand tremor of unreasoning
delight. Von Wurst saw it too, and seemed at once to divine what had
happened. He faced about immediately, his hand clutching at the hilt of
his sabre.

But before he could draw it from its sheath, I had thrown myself
upon him, and seizing him by the collar of his uniform and by one of
his epaulettes, I exerted all my strength and flung him violently
backwards. He staggered, but did not fall. I perceived that the fellow
had been drinking, and was in a mood to commit any violence or outrage.
His face was red, and the veins of his forehead were swelled with
passion.

With an oath he drew his sabre, and delivered his point full at my
throat. The movement was so rapid that I was prepared neither to parry
nor to avoid it, and it would have gone hard with me; but before the
keen steel could quite reach me, my right arm was caught by two slender
nervous hands, and I was dragged forcibly to one side. Von Wurst,
overbalanced by the weight of his own thrust, stumbled forward; the
sheath of his sabre tripped him up, he whirled round and fell heavily
on his back, striking his head as he did so against the sharp corner of
the porcelain stove. The blow stunned him, and he lay motionless.

And there stood I, unhurt, saved by her whom I had saved, and who still
clung to my arm, panting and tremulous. It was a moment worth more than
a lifetime: it was but a moment.

As I turned towards her, she let go my arm, smiled faintly, and sat
down upon the nearest chair.

'I'm very much obliged to you, I'm sure,' said she.

'I think the obligation is on my side,' I answered, as awkwardly as
possible.

'Oh no--I thank you--I thank you!' Her eyes fell upon the insensible
lieutenant, and she shuddered. 'Do you think he's dead? He deserves to
be hurt as badly as possible, but not quite killed--I shouldn't want
that: I should have to think of him then, you know.'

Several hours later, I bethought myself to smile at this conceit; but
at the time I was quite too much embarrassed and excited to think of
such a thing. Moreover, I was very badly frightened, and that for a
cause sufficiently whimsical, namely, that I was hopelessly entangling
myself with the woman to whom Floyd had a prior and superior claim.
Unless I escaped at once, I knew I should never get away at all--until
I had asked her to love me, and she had refused point-blank. And that
would be too late for my self-respect. Oh, Floyd! why could you not
love somebody else!

'I think I must go now if you will excuse me,' I stammered. 'I have an
engagement.'

'But I can't be left alone with _that_!' she exclaimed piteously, at
the same time indicating the unfortunate lieutenant with her foot. I
forgave him from that moment. 'Won't you wait with me in the other room
until my uncle comes back?' she continued: 'he should have been here
before this.'

Her uncle; not her father then!

She had risen and taken my arm; I gave myself up for lost. As we drew
aside the curtain to go into the outer room, the curtain of the door
opposite was simultaneously pulled aside, and in came--first, the
white-bearded old gentleman; second, Floyd; third, a military gentleman
in the uniform of a colonel; and fourth and last, my old friend Mr.
Frisby.

'Here she is!' cried the old gentleman. 'Gwendolen, my dear, allow me
to make you acquainted with your brother, Mr. Floyd Wyndham. Who is
this gentleman? can this be----'

'My cousin, Mr. Thomas Wyndham,' interposed Floyd, with a solemn bow.
'Gwenny, your most devoted!' He took her by both shoulders, and kissed
her on the forehead and cheek. At the same time he glanced over her
shoulder at me with an expression in his eyes, half comical, half
rueful. But I was as yet too much bewildered to understand.

'She's better-looking than I expected,' he remarked to me. 'The image
of that old picture of her grandmother that used to hang over my
mantelpiece at College--recollect?--only her hair and eyes are lighter.'

Then, in a flash, I comprehended the mystery of the recognition. But I
had no time to dwell upon it then. The old uncle was shaking me by the
hand, congratulating me on something, I knew not what, and introducing
the Colonel and Mr. Frisby. The latter almost embraced me.

'My dear Mr. Thomas, I am so glad--so glad! My warmest congratulations
also--what? you haven't heard. Why, we have recovered nearly your whole
fortune, my dear sir. Faust, the absconder, has been at last arrested.
You are a rich man again. So glad, so glad!'

I was speechless. I could only turn from one to another, with a dazed
look, as of one half asleep.

At this juncture the curtain of the inner room was again drawn aside,
and lo! the lieutenant with his sword drawn, but with an expression
anything but warlike on his pasty and woe-begone features. On seeing
his colonel, he trembled visibly, and saluted with a shaking hand.

'Ha, sir, you are here, are you?' exclaimed the Colonel grimly. 'I
have been told about you, Herr Faust. Yes, sir, you will dispense with
the "von" for the future and spell your name correctly--you are the
son of a swindler and a convict. To-morrow you will appear before a
court-martial. We shall see, sir, what shall be done to a fellow who
disgraces his uniform by insulting ladies and--but go, sir!--Ladies and
gentlemen,' added the old officer, turning to us and bowing, 'pardon me
that I so much forget myself.'

After the poor lieutenant had slunk away, the conversation had become
general, and numberless were the questions asked and the explanations
volunteered. But I have only a dim and hazy recollection of what was
said. I kept as far away from Miss Gwendolen as possible, and scarcely
looked at her; but for all that, she was the only person in the room
whose every word and motion I felt and saw. I did not know whether to
commiserate Floyd, or to envy him. Perhaps he scarcely knew himself,
at first. But since, a few years afterwards, he married the beautiful
Miss Maryland, of Baltimore, and has been the happiest of husbands
ever since, I have ceased to feel anxious or conscience-smitten on his
account.

Shall I go on and tell you how it all turned out? My wife, who is
leaning over my shoulder as I write these last words, says, 'No.' And I
submit; for once, years ago, when she was a Miss Wyndham, she made me
the happiest of mankind by saying, 'Yes.'




                            KILDHURM'S OAK.


                              CHAPTER I.

                         OLD LADY MAINWARING.

I see by the papers that this grand old lady is dead. She had passed
her eighty-ninth birthday. Born in a year when Warren Hastings was
still on his trial for high crimes and misdemeanours, the only child
of Sir Philip Kildhurm of Kildhurm Tower, she was married at seventeen
to Captain Frank Mainwaring, of His Britannic Majesty's Navy--a man
who enjoyed the distinction of being wounded at Trafalgar. Captain
Mainwaring (knighted in 1811 on acceding to his uncle's estates) died
in 1840; he left two sons and a daughter. Both the sons died in the
cholera epidemic of 1832, unmarried. The daughter was wedded to a
gentleman of family and estate, and accompanied him to India, where he
held some official position. But his whole family (several children
had been born) were murdered in the Sepoy outbreak. Thus it came about
that, for the last twenty years, Lady Mainwaring has been the sole
survivor of her race; and now she is gone, they are extinct.

She was a grand, serene old lady: with a noble face, whose beauty time
could not altogether take away, and a majestic figure that scarcely
stooped beneath the weight of fourscore years and nine. Her eyes were
remarkable--large, black, and keen, and innocent of spectacles to the
very end; but her hair, famous two generations since for its sable
luxuriance, became in later times snow-white, although the long arched
eyebrows kept their former hue. A wonderful old lady: endowed to the
last with singular personal fascination, her manner the perfection of
gentle dignity, in looking at her, or listening to the inflections of
her low deep voice, you felt that hers was a spirit of no ordinary
capacities and powers. But she was the descendant of no ordinary
ancestry. Several of her progenitors had been endowed with gifts of the
kind that modern science is always no less quick to explain away than
slow to explain, but in which the folk of a less sophisticated age did
powerfully and potently believe. I am not at this moment concerned to
enter upon a discussion of supernatural phenomena, so called, beyond
remarking that no physiologist can pretend to any right to be heard
at all on the subject: the credulity which can believe witchcraft and
sorcery to be the bugbears of a diseased imagination being too gross to
command attention. Reasonable people believe that the human body has
a soul; that there is a spiritual sight answering to the bodily sight;
and that when this spiritual sight is opened, it must inevitably behold
the objects of a spiritual world. Concerning the spiritual world two
or three facts, at least, are self-evident. Being a world of the mind,
only the laws of the mind can hold sway there; it is therefore free
from the trammels of space and time. Further, it is a world of real
substance, in contradistinction to the apparent substantiality of the
world of matter. Thus far logic carries us; and we do not at present
need to go farther. For if man, living as to his body in the material
world, lives at the same time as to his spirit in the spiritual world,
then prophecy, soothsaying, second-sight, or whatever 'miracle'
involves the transgression of no spiritual principle, becomes only the
corollary of our theorem. The wonder-workers of old are justified. As
for the Charlatans, they are not tricksters merely, but profaners,
whose doom is spiritual death.

It was not unknown to some of the more intimate of Lady Mainwaring's
friends that she possessed abnormal powers; and though she was
constitutionally reserved in her communications, she occasionally came
out with some noteworthy utterance on the subject. But if she saw and
knew things beyond the ordinary scope, these influenced her spiritual
rather than her material existence. She was well poised; there was
no one-sidedness in her character; the spirit was so soundly and
healthily wedded to the body that neither was in excess; they performed
their several functions in such harmony that one was seldom engaged
apart from the other. But although this was happily the case with
Lady Mainwaring, it had been otherwise with some of her ancestors.
They could not walk the world with even and measured steps, but ever
and anon plunged or soared into abysses which no mortal plummet has
sounded. In Lady Mainwaring's later years, a spirit of sweet and
dignified garrulity occasionally inspired her, under the influence of
which she would relate to discreet and sympathetic ears many strange
particulars both of her own and of her forefathers' history. Now that
she is gone, I am at liberty to reproduce some of these communications;
giving them, so far as is possible, a connected and consecutive form.
Her singularly fascinating narrative faculty, however, I cannot
pretend to imitate. She was full of unrhymed and unwritten poetry of
an elevated and mystic stamp. She had no ambition to be a writer, and
after all she could never have done herself justice on paper. Whoever
had listened to the subdued melody of her tones, flexible, various,
controlled, and reflecting every emotional phase of the tale as it was
told; whoever had felt the blood shrink to his heart at crises of the
story, marked by a slight movement of her long white hands, a quiver
of the black brows, an unexpected hush in the voice--whoever had had
experience of this would have known that it was not to be sought on any
printed page. Yet there was nothing histrionic in Lady Mainwaring's
demeanour. A person sitting a dozen yards away from her could not have
distinguished a word she said, and would scarcely have perceived that
she was making use of gestures to enforce her meaning. It needed a
close eye to catch all the subtle play of that venerable countenance.

The story I have compiled begins at a period now distant; yet the
series of events appears compact and coherent. What fact is there more
tough and undeniable than an oak in an English park? Yet, firmly rooted
though it be among the things of to-day, its beginnings date back a
thousand years; it is a creature of the Dark Ages, a contemporary of
legendary heroes and heroines, giants and fairies. It is a tangible
proof of the mysterious past; but, in bringing vanished ages into
the light of the passing moment, it takes from them the very reality
whereof they testify.


                              CHAPTER II.

                         SIR BRIAN'S TROUBLES.

The Oak of Kildhurm does not date back a thousand years. Its exact age
is not known, but it grew to be a sturdy vegetable, great of girth
and royal in its spread of limb. It was first recognisable as a tree
in the hither outskirts of Queen Elizabeth's time, or in King James's
earlier years: about the epoch, say, of the Gunpowder Treason, when the
struggles between King and Parliament which culminated in the rebellion
of two-score years later were just beginning: when people wore ruffs
and tight waists, and cultivated a stiffness of aspect as if they were
continually sitting for their portraits; when the names of Bacon,
Raleigh, Shakespeare, and Drake had as yet acquired no legendary halo;
when gentlemen were haughty and punctilious, wore long swords with
basket hilts, and were bloodthirstily polite in using the same; when
women were almost as beautiful and virtuous as they are at the present
day, but less squeamish upon certain points; when Spain was as much
of a scapegoat for English vituperation as Russia is now; when popery
was not merely a picturesque opinion, but a matter of blazing faggots
and iron virgins; when El Dorado still gleamed along the horizons of
the Spanish main. At about this time it was that two men, riding in
opposite directions along a lonely road, met beneath a huge oak tree,
whose gnarled limbs, thickly clothed with sombre foliage, extended
nearly across the way.

The name of only one of these men has been preserved to us by
tradition. Sir Brian Kildhurm, a valiant knight of Queen Elizabeth's
manufacture, had fought with distinction in the Spanish wars, and
afterwards (though himself of Irish descent) had unsheathed his sword
for the repression of the Irish difficulties of that day. He owned a
fair estate on the coast of Cumberland, a castle with a broad-bottomed
tower on its seaward corner, a little black-haired son, and a very
beautiful wife. With regard to this same wife, however, there was
a difficulty, it would be hard to say exactly what: but, at all
events, the personage who chanced to encounter Sir Brian beneath the
overhanging branches of the oak tree on the lonely road was, in Sir
Brian's opinion, in some way responsible for it.

They reined-in their horses, and exchanged a few words, which were
doubtless of a courteous but hardly of a conciliating tendency. Each
wore some light armour on head, arms, and breasts, high heavy boots,
and the customary sword and dagger. But it is to be noted that, whereas
Sir Brian's sword was of the rapier description, that of his opponent
was a ponderous double-edged weapon, fitter to be wielded with two
hands than with one. Its owner, however, was a man of vast size and
strength, broad of beam and massive of limb, and with a great sheaf
of rough red beard blowing about his face and chest; and he could
flirt the huge sword about as lightly as if it had been a bamboo
walking-stick. Sir Brian, on the other hand, like all the men of his
race, was tall, lithe, agile, and terribly skilful of fence.

It will be understood that these details would not have been dwelt
upon, had the encounter between the two gentlemen been destined to pass
off peacefully. But peace was far from the hearts of either of them.
They meant deadly mischief to one another; and Sir Brian at least had
long looked for an opportunity of doing his share of it. Accordingly,
after levelling a proper amount of fantastic and quaint abuse at one
another, these two sons of Adam dismounted from their steeds, placed
themselves face to face on the greensward beneath the oak tree, and
then and there presently set to work to spill each other's life-blood.
Meanwhile, their horses peaceably cropped the herbage, and took the
little intermission in their labours in very good part.

Sir Brian never appeared to have a chance against his gigantic
adversary. What avails a cunning guard, when sheer strength beats it
down, and when blow follows blow so rapidly and with such outrageous
force, that the wiriest opponent has much ado to hop out of the
way of them, leaving all attempt at retaliation out of the question
for the present? In spite of Sir Brian's best activity, the giant's
weapon several times reached his body, crushing the light plates of
iron armour, and once or twice biting through them to the flesh. 'The
caitiff must needs wax scant of breath ere long,' thought Sir Brian
to himself, as he saw that steel flail flash up and down; but it was
dangerous work waiting for that time to arrive. In a moment a blow
fell upon his helmet, sheared away the left side of it, and grazed the
scalp, so that blood rushed forth and made gory the knight's face and
gorget. A little giddy from this shock, Sir Brian staggered, his knees
bent, and his neck felt an inch or two shorter than was comfortable.
Perceiving this, his enemy resolved to make an end of him forthwith;
for there was no question of giving quarter in this fight, but one
or both must never fight again. Grasping his sword with both hands,
therefore, he poised it for a back-stroke into which he threw the whole
force and weight of his body. Sir Brian, glancing dizzily up, saw the
keen blade glitter above him; then down it came--but not all the way
down! For in mid-descent it came in contact with a low-lying limb of
the oak tree--nine inches thick of hard living wood--sheared through
it to the last half-inch, and the hilt flew from the striker's grasp.
His arms dropped to his sides, tingling to the shoulder. At the same
moment Sir Brian had lunged forward with the strength of despair,
and his rapier passed clean through the neck of the other, who fell
backwards with a groan and a gurgle, breaking the rapier-blade short
off in the wound. He never spoke a word, but bled like a bull, and in a
few minutes was dead.

Sir Brian Kildhurm leaned upon the fragment of his sword, recovering
his breath, and staring at the red-bearded face of his dead enemy.

'So much for my Lady Ursula's sweetheart!' he muttered to himself.

After standing a little longer, he wiped his sword and slapped it home
in the sheath; unlaced and flung away the pieces of his helmet; and at
length, kneeling on one knee beside the burly corpse, he cut open with
his dagger the front of the doublet. A broad gold chain and locket were
revealed, the sight whereof caused Sir Brian's lean visage to wrinkle
itself painfully. He took up the locket, sticky as it was with blood,
and opened it. It contained, not the lock of crisp black hair that he
had put in it ten years ago, but a soft brown coil of a woman's braid.
He closed the locket and thrust it into his bosom. He took his enemy's
dagger, which was richly inlaid and wrought; and finally he broke off
from the branch whose interposition had saved his life a twig with a
cluster of acorns growing upon it. These also he dabbled with blood;
then he mounted and rode slowly away, leaving the corpse and the other
horse beneath the oak tree.

This fight took place on a cool and breezy afternoon in the month of
October, in a small valley between Dent Hill and Ennerdale Water in
Cumberland. The horse remained beside his dead master until nightfall,
because the latter's beard, blowing to and fro in the breeze, made
him seem to be alive. But at night the horse trotted away, and by
sunrise was standing at the gates of a Catholic monastery, fifty miles
south-eastward of that fatal spot.


                             CHAPTER III.

                       FATHER, MOTHER, AND SON.

Sir Brian rode north and west, crossing a small river, where he stopped
to bathe his wounds, and then forward again for six or seven miles,
until he came to the sea-coast and to the Kildhurm estates. It was
already dusk when he dismounted in the courtyard of his castle. He
had been absent for some weeks, and he had not been expected home so
soon; nevertheless he was welcomed back most respectfully. He made no
allusion to his late encounter at Ennerdale, but put on a gracious
demeanour, and seemed altogether in unusually good spirits. When his
wife came out to meet him, holding their little son by the hand, he
greeted her with more than his customary urbanity; and stooped to
kiss the boy, who, however, shrank away from him with an odd cry of
aversion, as if he had smelt the death-scent in his breath.

'He should be trained to better manners,' said the knight, with a smile.

'He should see the world, then,' answered the wife.

'Are we so wholly apart from the world,' returned Sir Brian, fixing
his eyes upon her, 'that no guests, bidden or unbidden, ever pass our
gates?'

'Who should visit us in a spot so remote as this?' exclaimed Lady
Kildhurm. 'It is much if now and then we catch sight of some clownish
tenant of ours, riding by on the road beyond the park.'

'You love London better--is it not so?'

'I was bred in London, Brian, and would gladly see it again. When we
married, thou didst promise me sometimes to return thither. But now for
three years I have not been a day's ride from the castle.'

'Indeed, I have been remiss, Ursula; but thou knowest how vexed the
country hath been of late, and I ever commanded hither and thither by
our gracious monarch. But I had hoped thou wouldst have found some
company in thy solitude.'

'Last night we had a visitor,' spoke up the boy, looking up in his
mother's face. 'I saw him--the big man with the red beard----'

'Silence, sirrah!' interrupted the knight, with a stern voice and
frown. 'What art thou, to contradict thy mother to her face! Look how
thy impudence hath made her blush! Off to thy nurse, and let me hear
thy babble no more to-day. Would a big red-bearded man have been here,
and thy mother not have told me of it?' And hereupon Sir Brian laughed.

After the boy had been taken away, he sat down in his high-backed chair
beside the hearth, and motioned with his hand to Lady Kildhurm to seat
herself opposite him.

'This is a lonely spot indeed,' he said, 'and withal none too safe
for an unarmed man to ride abroad. Even this very afternoon, Ursula,
as I was spurring along the road by Ennerdale Water, thinking of the
loving and wifely welcome thou wouldst give me on my arrival here, I
was set upon by a brawny ruffian, a huge, bearded varlet, with a sword
a cloth-yard and a half long. We fought beneath the Great Oak; and he
would have cloven me to the chine, save that, as good luck would have
it, he caught his blade against a branch, so that he lost his hold upon
the hilt. But my peril was great. See, I have brought away a twig of
the tree for remembrance of my escape.'

So saying he drew forth from his breast the cluster of acorns, and held
it towards his wife.

'There is blood upon it!' cried Lady Kildhurm, snatching back her
half-extended hand. 'Brian--what man was this?'

'What man?' he repeated with a short laugh. 'What but a robber, Ursula,
who would rob me of what I hold most precious? But methinks his ill
deeds are at an end now!'

'What hast thou done to him?' she asked, trembling very much.

'Nay, I did but pass my rapier through his weazand,' replied the
knight, keeping his black eyes on her face. 'Indeed, he was not worthy
to die by the hand of a true man, but should rather have been hanged
on the tree beneath which he fell, as a warning to all such vermin.
But in the hurry of the moment I stood not upon ceremony.... Do not
turn so pale, Ursula! Comfort thyself, dear wife--I got but a scratch
or so, which will be healed long ere the crows have made a meal of his
carcase.'

'This afternoon--by the Oak of Ennerdale?' said Lady Kildhurm in a dull
voice, her eyes wide open and fixed.

'And, by the bye, I took a trophy from him--a pretty trinket
enough--and have brought it to hang about thy neck as a keepsake.
See--pure gold it is, and in its shape strangely like the one I gave
thee years ago, and which thou hast doubtless kept so religiously
ever since. But this has in it, not my hair, but a braid cut from
some woman's head--his light-o'-love's, I take it. Throw that away as
unworthy thy chaste ownership: but accept the gold from thy loving
husband, Ursula!'

When Lady Kildhurm beheld this sure evidence that what she had perhaps
foreboded had come to pass, her trembling ceased, and she became
strangely composed. She held out her hand for the locket.

'Give it me,' she said. 'Ay, it is pretty, indeed; and I thank thee for
it more than for any other gift of thine. Why, this too is smeared with
blood; but my lips shall cleanse it--I will kiss it, kiss it, till all
is kissed away. And I will wear it in my bosom, Brian, and it shall
never come forth thence--never while I live, I promise thee. Thou canst
not say I did not prize this gift! The cluster of acorns--give me them
also. Hast thou anything else for me?'

'Here is his dagger,' returned the knight with an attempt at a sneer.
'Thou mayest find a use for that, perhaps!'

She took the dagger, and then, standing erect before her husband,
she met his glance unflinchingly. 'Farewell, Brian,' said she. 'Thou
hast been a hard and unloving husband to me. Often, when I would have
clung to thee, thou hast put me aside with cold and sneering words,
and hast shut me out from that confidence and fair entertainment
which a wife should have. For years thou hast confined me to this
solitude! travelling abroad thyself, and leaving me here, your wife
only in name, and as yielding meek obedience to your tyrannous will.
Thou hast neither loved, honoured nor cherished me, and since these
two years I have known that thou hast held me in suspicion. God alone
knows, or ever shall know, whether the suspicion was just. This is
my revenge--that I will leave thee in doubt! But hadst thou been
kinder to me, Brian--hadst thou answered the craving of my overwrought
heart--hadst thou been true to thy duty as a husband, thou wouldst
not have thought me failing in mine as a wife. But I do not ask
forgiveness: be God judge between us, which has most wronged the other!'

'You have much to say about God, madam,' broke in Sir Brian: 'but my
fear is, your deeds are less heavenly than your words.'

'Look to thy own deeds! for they shall condemn thee for ever!'
exclaimed Lady Kildhurm, raising both her hands, one holding the
dagger, and the other the cluster of acorns, and then letting them
droop slowly towards him. 'Thou hast slain a good and holy man, whose
shoe's latchet thou wast not worthy to unlace. Evil shall be thy
portion in this world: and if ever thou turnest thy steps heavenward,
may the blood which thou hast this day shed cause thee to slip and
stumble in the way!'

Having thus spoken, Lady Kildhurm retired to her chamber. Sir Brian
sat alone in his high-backed chair by the fire-place, resting his
lean cheek upon his hand, and staring at the embers. When a servant
came to bring him supper, he gave the man so black a look as to
send him frightened back; and during the rest of the night, no one
ventured to approach the room. As the hours passed away, every sound
was hushed, except the heavy thundering of the surf against the shore,
and the whipping of the wind-driven foam against the windows. Once
Sir Brian fancied he heard an outcry and a sobbing, as of a child in
distress,--the voice of his little son; but by degrees the sobbing died
away.

In the early morning, as Sir Brian stood at the window, he saw the grey
sea hurling itself at the bare coast, and the sea-gulls skimming and
eddying amidst the bitter foam of the great breakers. The grey walls
of Kildhurm Tower, which stood scarce a hundred paces from the shore,
were hoary with clinging flakes of froth. Directly opposite the window
where Sir Brian was standing, on the verge of the low headland, lay a
heap of something that had not been there the evening before. Was it
a mass of sea-wrack, cast up by the waves during the night? Sir Brian
could not see clearly; the window-pane was dim with salt, and his eyes
were heavy. He stealthily left the room, descended the staircase, and,
bareheaded as he was, crossed the wind-swept breadth of turf that
intervened between the tower and the headland.

There lay the body of his wife, face downwards, with arms outstretched,
and hands that clutched the turf. It was a spot to which she had often
come to sit, and to gaze for hours westward across the waves towards
Mona, where she was born. Sir Brian stood looking down at her, as he
had stood by that other dead body the day before. He had been the death
of them both. At first, indeed, he did not quite believe that she was
dead. He watched for some movement of those fingers which clutched so
sharply into the turf, those soft white fingers that yesterday had
been so tremulous. But there was no tremor in them now; they were
rigid as iron: the wind that fluttered her garments could not stir
them. Poor little hands! Perhaps, after all, Sir Brian had not pressed
them so lovingly, or so often as he might have done. He remembered
how, sometimes when they had touched his hair or his cheek, he had
moodily disregarded their touch, or had brushed them impatiently away.
What hands would caress him now? 'Hadst thou not failed in thy duty
as a husband;' and again: 'Mayst thou slip and stumble in the blood
which thou hast this day shed!' Those were words which could never be
unspoken. And yet Sir Brian waited beside the body, as if he expected
it to arise and speak to him.

But at length, setting his teeth together, he laid hold of the body,
and placed it face upwards across his knee. As he did so, the cause
of death was revealed. She had planted the dagger point upwards in
the earth, and had fallen upon it. Something else she had planted
there, though at the time Sir Brian did not know it--the acorns from
the fatal oak of Ennerdale; and she had fertilised them with her very
heart's blood.

Some of the servants, who had been peeping out from the castle windows,
aghast at so grim a spectacle, now made bold to approach and offer
their assistance. Sir Brian, however, as if he had not seen them, rose,
lifting the corpse in his arms, and stalked in silence up the ascent
to the castle gate, neither staggering nor pausing by the way. The
servants followed in a group after him.

When he got to the gate, he was met by his little son, who had his
father's black hair and eyes, and his mother's tremulous indignant
mouth. The child's nurse had in vain striven to keep him out of the
way, and from a knowledge of what had happened. He seemed, indeed, to
know more about it than anyone else.

'My dear mamma is dead!' quoth the infant heir of Kildhurm, his cheeks
flushing scarlet and his childish voice vibrating. 'You have killed
her, you wicked father, and I will never, never forgive you.'

Sir Brian stopped short, and his teeth began to chatter.

'Take the brat away!' he cried out.

But at the same moment his strength forsook him, and he would have
fallen on his own threshold, had not those behind upheld him, and
carried him and the dead woman into the castle. The stark warrior
never fully recovered from the effects of this adventure.


                              CHAPTER IV.

                        THE OAK BEGINS TO GROW.

This is the legend of the planting of Kildhurm's Oak. It has, indeed,
been affirmed that the child's words were literally true, and that Lady
Kildhurm died actually and not figuratively by her husband's hand.
But there is no trustworthy evidence in support of such a charge, and
it may therefore be discredited. The fact remains that father and son
were never reconciled; not because the latter held to his childish
threat, but because Sir Brian conceived an unconquerable dread of him,
and would never willingly have him in his presence. All accounts agree
in representing this hitherto fearless man as having become a victim
to superstitious terrors, and as having lapsed into an altogether
morbid state of mind. In his sleep he was often heard to shriek out
unintelligible words in a choking voice, and sometimes, in the midst
of company, he would have the air of suddenly being confronted with
sights and sounds to which none but he were sensible. He would point
to the ground with his finger, it is said, muttering and staring, and
occasionally drawing back his feet, as if to avoid treading upon
some imaginary horror. This latter peculiarity was first noticed in
him on the day of his wife's funeral. All the chief personages in the
neighbourhood had been invited to the ceremony, and a large concourse
of people had assembled out of curiosity. The darksome procession had
entered the churchyard of the Gothic church that stood in the midst
of the village about a mile from Kildhurm Tower. The coffin was being
carried in beneath the arched portal, when Sir Brian set his foot on
the first of the seven stone steps which led up thither. All at once,
to the surprise and discomfiture of the beholders, he halted abruptly,
and then gave back a pace or two. His eyes, meanwhile, were observed
to be rigidly fixed on the clean and smooth-worn steps before him. Sir
Brian slowly extended his arm, with finger outstretched, and seemed
to trace therewith the course of some sluggishly-moving thing that
crept towards him along the flags, and which, assuredly, nobody except
himself could perceive.

'Look, look! 'tis running down the steps! Merciful God! where should so
much come from?' he whispered between his chattering teeth.

Whispered though the words were, they were caught up by those nearest
him, and by them communicated to others. An awkward and irresolute
pause followed; the funeral _cortège_ wavered, and forsook its narrow
regularity, and a group of curious, startled, and questioning faces
grouped themselves around the knight, who still glared downward,
shivering and distraught. At length the clergyman of the parish, an
elderly, stern-visaged man, made his way through the press, and laid
his hand upon the stricken man's shoulder.

'Honoured Sir Knight,' said he, 'let not a grief which is most natural,
and worthy of all respect, overcome you at this moment; for all the
people stand amazed, and know not what to do. Go forward, I entreat
you, into the church, that the last sad rites may be performed, and the
assembly dismissed.'

Thus admonished, Sir Brian pressed both his hands across his eyes, and
made a hurried and desperate attempt to reach the church door. But on
the first step he slipped and fell headlong, shrieking out in a voice
that rang over the crowd and penetrated to the coffin-bearers within
the aisle--

'I am cursed! Her blood is upon me!'

It was an ugly and an ominous spectacle. No further attempt was made to
induce him to enter the church, nor is it likely that any such attempt
would have succeeded. From his behaviour, and from sundry obscure
sentences that fell from him, it was inferred that the arched doorway,
to his apprehension, was sentinelled by some grisly phantom that waved
him back. And it is worthy of note that from this time to the very
end of his life, he never made his way into the house of God, or even
would accept the ministrations of any member of the sacred profession.
To strive to bring his mind into a religious frame was tantamount to
throwing him into one of his fits of superstitious delirium; so that
those last words of his wife, on parting with him for ever--'May the
blood which thou hast this day shed cause thee to slip and stumble in
thy way heavenward!'--would seem to have found a sufficiently ample
fulfilment.

The fact that he never saw his wife buried, by the way, may account
for the notion which constantly possessed him that she was still in
some shape or other (a very appalling one, seemingly) above ground.
In other words, the man was haunted for the remainder of his days by
a spectre; possibly by more than one: but that is a point not easy
to determine, since he was the only person to whom it or they were
visible. He contracted a habit of betaking himself at certain hours
to that particular point on the cliff where the body of Lady Kildhurm
had been found: being thereto impelled, we may suppose, not because
the place was agreeable to him--for it is probable that no place in
the world was less so--but by that perverse horror which is known by
the name of fascination, and which drives the fluttering sparrow into
the open jaws of the snake. Having regard to all these eccentricities
of his, it is not surprising that he came to be considered as a
man accursed--incapable of being of use to any human creature, and
therefore to be avoided of all. It must be recollected that this was
the beginning of the seventeenth century; nobody allows himself to fall
into delusions nowadays. And it will be easy for the philosophers of
our enlightened age to account for Sir Brian's mania, and his notions
about phantoms, as a result of that astounding buffet on the head which
he received from him of the Red Beard; a buffet rude enough, certainly,
to have disorganised brains stronger than those of the Knight of
Kildhurm. There remains, it is true, the question why such a cause
should be followed by such an effect; but to insist upon this would be,
perhaps, but the refinement of idle curiosity.

The violent extinction of these two lives--of Lady Kildhurm's and of
him of the Red Beard--was suffered to pass without legal inquiries,
or at all events without legal penalties. The north of England, at
this period, was not in a particularly peaceful or settled condition;
and, what is more to the purpose, the red-bearded man was known to
have been ardently attached to the Roman Catholic religion; and he was
doubtless suspected by some of having affiliations with the authors
of the Gunpowder Treason. No one, of course, who set any value upon
the security of his own vertebra, would care to espouse the cause of a
person of whom such things could be said, especially after taking into
consideration the fact that the person was no longer alive. As for Lady
Kildhurm, if it were true that she had carried on an intrigue with a
traitor and conspirator, what more probable and easy to be believed
than that she should have sympathised with his political and religious
views into the bargain? For when women give themselves up to love, it
is their happiness to give themselves without reservation of soul,
mind, or body. Let Lady Kildhurm and her lover, therefore, if they
needed avenging, manage the matter for themselves, and in their own way.

And, surely, no one who was present at the deathbed of Sir Brian
Kildhurm would have ventured to affirm that the blood of those two was
unavenged. But over that grim scene let a veil be drawn. After all,
Lady Kildhurm may have been innocent; and if Sir Brian found this out
when it was too late, his fate was in no respect an enviable one.


                              CHAPTER V.

                       THE PROPHECY OF THE OAK.

Ralph Kildhurm--that bold-spoken youngster who bearded his father at
the castle gate--had a grand career. His life covers the period of the
Puritan Revolution. He was a devoted adherent of King Charles; probably
not more from personal sympathy with that unhappy monarch, than because
he knew that the Stuarts' cause would have been his mother's, had she
been alive. He met his death valiantly at Naseby. But he had married
two years previously, and two sons came of the union, one of whom was
born six months after his decease. This younger son was destined to be
his successor.

Our affair being the story of the Oak, and of the family mainly in so
far as it was involved therewith, I can give few further details about
Sir Ralph. He was the first baronet of his line. Ralph, it is said,
had always taken great interest in the growth of the infant oak tree;
as was no wonder, considering that it had been planted by his mother
under circumstances so darkly impressive. At the time of Sir Brian's
death, the tree had grown to about the height of a man: it flourished
with strange vigour. The story of its origin was not unknown in the
neighbourhood, and many quaint and fantastic sayings and prophecies
concerning it were rife among the people of the neighbourhood. Its
rapid growth was plausibly ascribed to the blood which had drenched
the soil at its planting; and it was affirmed that this blood had been
absorbed into the life and substance of the tree, imparting to it a
kind of semi-human vitality; so that, although in outward semblance an
oak, much like other oaks, it was in reality a species of oak man--an
offspring, in fact, of the valiant race of Kildhurm, born of the
alleged unhallowed union between Lady Kildhurm and the Red-Bearded
one. Therefore its destiny was bound up with that of the Kildhurms; but
whether for weal or for woe was a question as to which different people
held different opinions. Some said that, since from evil no good could
come, and since Lady Kildhurm had died in sin, the tree that sprang
from her blood was an accursed growth instinct with a demon of violence
and mischief, and sure, sooner or later, to work harm upon its human
kindred. Others, on the contrary, maintained that the charge against
Ursula was--in its blacker construction, at all events--a calumny; that
he of the Red Beard had been a priest or a monk in disguise, and that
the intrigue in which the two were concerned had for its object nothing
worse than the furtherance of some religious scheme. Consequently,
urged these charitably-disposed persons, the blood which fertilised the
planted acorns was the blood of innocence wrongfully accused; and might
be expected to carry with it a blessing rather than a curse.

But hereupon the first party would reply that, whether Ursula were
guilty or innocent of the crime charged against her, there could at all
events be little doubt that she had taken her own life, and no doubt at
all that the latest words she spoke to her husband were a deliberate
curse. Now, it was a fact established upon Scriptural authority that
the evil effect of a curse descends from father to son even unto
the third and fourth generation--and this, whether the person who
pronounced the anathema desired such an amplification of it or not:
curses being like demons, which, once evoked, are not easily laid
again. Upon the whole, therefore, it seemed probable that the Kildhurms
would fare badly with their oak; yet it appears never to have occurred
to anybody to try the effect of rooting the oak up, or cutting it down.
But very likely nobody would have been found venturesome enough to act
upon the idea, even had it been suggested. Such a proceeding, under the
circumstances, would have been regarded as little better than murder,
if not a good deal worse: for although Dante could scarcely have been
familiar to the Kildhurm family, and still less to the peasantry of
that epoch, a belief was widely prevalent that if an axe should be laid
to the tree, or so much as a twig torn off it, blood would flow from
the wound. And to such a pitch was this grotesque notion carried, that
during many years the dead leaves and fallen boughs of the oak are said
to have been religiously buried, as if they had been veritable human
remains. I do not care to vouch for the truth of this legend, but that
it should have existed even as a legend is significant of the serious
light in which the whole matter was viewed.

It was during Sir Ralph's lifetime that some local Mother Shipton
produced the famous prophetic verses which were ever thenceforward
quoted when the Oak and its attributes came up for discussion; and
as to the true meaning of which a great deal of speculation and
dispute were rife. What may have been the merits of the question can
be inferred only from the sequel; but meanwhile it is certain that
the prophecy itself so far appealed to the pride or interests of the
Kildhurm family, that they caused it to be engraved upon a silver disc,
and hung round the bole of the tree by a silver chain. There is no
evidence of this chain and the disc ever having been removed; and the
story goes that they were gradually overgrown by the substance of the
tree; until, by the time the prophecies were ripe for fulfilment, the
silver record of them had disappeared. The verses, according to the
most trustworthy accounts, ran somewhat as follows:--

    Here stand I, Kildhurm's Oak,
    Ne'er to fall by age or stroke;
    E'er Two Hundred Years be run,
    Death of three and wealth of one.

At the period to which these verses are assigned, the Kildhurms had no
lack of worldly goods, so that the concluding words might have seemed
uncalled for. But they did not long continue to lack significance. For,
after King Charles had suffered on the block, and the Protector ruled
over England, those Englishmen who had favoured the dead King's cause
were bound to suffer both in life and lands. Sir Ralph, as we know,
had already paid the former penalty; but his surviving relatives were
constrained to pay the other. In addition to a fine in money of many
thousands of pounds they were deprived of by far the larger part of
their landed possessions; nothing, indeed, was left to them but half a
dozen acres of barren land, and the Tower of Kildhurm itself. Of course
it was a cause for thankfulness that the Tower was not taken too; it
was not every Royalist, in those days, who could boast of owning a roof
to cover him. Probably, on the other hand, the Kildhurms could have got
on better, from a practical point of view, with a little less stone and
mortar and a little more gold. All but two or three of the servants
had to be dismissed; the domestic expenses had to be cut down to the
very lowest figure; and there was the once rich and powerful family,
now reduced to half a dozen persons all told, living in one corner of
a castle capable of accommodating fifty guests with their retinues. It
was a fine place, no doubt, for children to play at hide-and-seek in;
but a sad place for the elders who remembered the glories of the past.

The Oak had now completed its first half-century, and was already a
noble and stalwart tree. It was an object of almost religious care
on the part of the family: they cherished for it the same gloomy and
perverse sort of pride that other old families do for the exploits of
some godless ancestor, or for some hereditary vice or physical defect
in themselves. A low railing had been built round the tree to protect
it from careless and irreverent approach, and the little space of
turf therein enclosed was kept scrupulously free from rubbish. The
tree, however, possessed so much vigour of its own, that it would have
flourished under the most adverse circumstances. It bade fair, if
opportunity were given it, to become one of the great oaks of England.
The trunk was modelled on lines of exceeding strength; the lower main
branches, three in number, diverged from one another at equal angles,
and extended their level lengths so far that the seaward limb overhung
the verge of the cliff. The foliage was thick and dark, and the leaves,
in autumn, if seen against the light, showed a deep tinge of crimson.
Rain could not penetrate through their manifold living roof: and the
shadow they cast upon the ground beneath is said to have been so sombre
and so cold, that even in the greatest heat of summer it would strike
a subtle chill through the blood. Those persons who had the temerity
to take a nap in this shadow, or even to stand in it too long, were
visited by appalling dreams, and generally got an ague which lasted
them the rest of their lives. It should be noted, however, that these
untoward effects did not occur in the case of the members of the
Kildhurm family who, on the contrary, were fond of lingering about
the tree: seeming to be sensible of a brotherhood with it, and to be
agreeably affected by that which others found hurtful: insomuch that
the children were brought to lie in their cradles beneath the boughs;
and as they grew towards youth, their favourite playground was there.

In winter, when the tree stood forth stripped of its leaves, the
peculiarities of its conformation were disclosed. Above the three
main boughs already described, the trunk rose nearly erect for a
considerable height, and put forth two thick limbs, which, after
growing outwards nearly horizontally for half their length, thence
ascended perpendicularly with a sudden crook like an elbow; and finally
divided and spread abroad in smaller claw-like branches. The effect,
therefore, as viewed from a suitable distance, was as if a gigantic
but distorted human figure were standing upon the lower trunk as a
pedestal, and were uplifting above its head two long and rigid arms.
Were those arms raised in defiance of heaven, or in supplication to
it? Did they threaten mankind below, or scatter benisons upon them?
These may have been disputed questions among the people of that age.
Doubtless the popular imagination, stimulated as it must have been
by the many wild stories current about the Oak, had much to do with
giving the semblance of reality to these human-like attributes; and
the Kildhurms themselves, having little except the tree left to put
them in mind of their former dignities, would naturally do what
they conscientiously could towards heightening the mystery and the
interest which surrounded it. Nevertheless, after all proper and due
allowances and deductions have been made, much still remains which,
to say the least of it, is singular and suggestive, and which in an
era unenlightened by electricity and evolution may well have seemed
portentous.


                              CHAPTER VI.

                       THE UTTERANCE OF THE OAK.

The coast of Cumberland, at the point where the Oak stood, is not
more than twenty feet above ordinary high-water mark, and it opposes
a face of dull white rock to the waves. But in storms, the Irish Sea
drives down upon the shore with tremendous force, and the great rollers
sometimes rise to the height of the natural parapet, and the gale
bears their crest across it. The growth of an ordinary tree might have
been stunted by such oceanic familiarities; but the Oak of Kildhurm,
so far from shrinking from them, seemed to find refreshment therein,
and never failed to greet the rough play of the storm-inspired waves
with outstretched arms of invitation, roaring back an answer to the
hoarse clamour of the surf, and tossing its branches gleefully in the
shriek of the blast. Occasionally it would send a cluster of leaves
whirling out to sea, like a message to the spirit of the tempest: and
often in return, wreaths of dark seaweed were found suspended on
its limbs--tokens of the ocean's savage amity. And again, when the
winds were down and the shining waters came lapping liquidly under
the crag, the swarthy Oak was fain to bend its boughs over the verge,
and see its darksome image in the mirror of the tide, and, one might
fancy, silently communicate some mysterious secret, over which the
smiling surface would close for ever, with only a gurgling whisper of
acknowledgment, which no human ear could understand. And at night,
when the moon was up, the sea would heave and break slowly in long
complaining murmurs against the shore, as though calling to some friend
that tarried late. And then, to those who looked from the castle
windows, their eyes straining through the deceptive dusk, the solid
Oak would seem to melt slowly away like a shadow, and so to vanish
into the yearning bosom of the deep, leaving naught save its gloomy
memory behind it. Yet, in the morning, when the yellow sun stood on
the bare edge of the inland hill, the Oak of Kildhurm still towered in
its place, staunch and immovable; with nothing about it to tell of its
nocturnal ramble, unless it were the long shadow trailing athwart the
glistening beach. The sea and the oak knew how to keep each other's
secrets.

One October day in the midst of the seventeenth century, Lady Kildhurm,
in her widow's weeds, walked slowly out of the castle gate, leading
her two little sons each by the hand. The elder, named Maurice, was
six years old, his brother Rupert about five; and this was Maurice's
birthday. As the heir of Kildhurm, all his birthdays were of course
of particular importance; and, although he did not get quite so
many testimonials of feudal devotion from the neighbouring peasants
and farmers as his grandfather at the same age had been accustomed
to expect, nevertheless he had spent a pleasant forenoon receiving
the gifts and congratulations of an adoring household. It was now
afternoon, the air clear and undisturbed by any wind, and sea and
land slept in soft tints beneath the slanting sun-rays. Not a ripple
disturbed the pale blue surface; nor was any movement perceptible
among the dark leaves of the mysterious tree. The mother and children
proceeded to the cliff, and, opening the gate of the little enclosure,
they seated themselves beneath the shadow of the Oak. Far away in the
offing a vessel lay becalmed, her dim white sails vainly stretched out
for a breeze; near at hand a flock of fitfully-screaming gulls swooped
and hovered over some floating quarry. A banner, hoisted on the Tower
in honour of little Sir Maurice's sixth anniversary, hung in motionless
folds about its staff. All nature seemed to be at pause, dreaming of
the past, or, it might be, hushing herself in anticipation of some
event to come.

Lady Kildhurm sat in a low rustic chair, with her hand beneath her
chin, and her eyes fixed thoughtfully on the banner drooping on its
staff. The children were playing on the mossy green turf at her feet.
By and by Sir Maurice said to his brother, in reference to a small toy
sword which had been absorbing their attention:

'Thou mayst take it awhile, brother; but thou must say it is mine and
not thine, else I will take it back.'

Rupert received the sword in silence, and then said:

'Buzzer Mau'ice, dis s'ord is mine!'

'Now I shall take it back!'

'No!'

'Yes; and I am the eldest; and the sword and everything belong to me,
and nothing to you. You shall not have it!'

'No! I de eldest!'

'Rupert! that was a--not true!'

'Well, I keep de s'oard!' returned the unabashed junior, dwelling upon
the noun at exasperating length.

Maurice made a snatch at the disputed weapon; Rupert drew it quickly
beyond his reach: then the two little fellows faced each other with
defiance in their port; and a battle seemed imminent.

But all of a sudden a low and deep sound began to make itself heard.
It was like a whisper, hoarse, yet roughly melodious, issuing out
of the very heart of the else omnipresent stillness; and gradually
gathering volume, until it roared on the ear like the far-heard music
of a cataract. Lady Kildhurm, roused from the reverie into which
she had fallen, lifted her head and listened in surprise, and the
children postponed their fisticuffs and listened also. What caused
the sound? No wind had arisen; there hung the banner, idle as before;
yonder stretched the sea in glassy immobility. A dark cloud, however,
had crept before the face of the sun; and as the mother raised her
glance, she perceived a strange commotion in the Oak. Its huge limbs
swayed to and fro, and the thickly clustered leaves hurtled hither and
thither, as though under the stress of a mighty breeze. It was from the
Oak, then, and only from the Oak, that the multitudinous murmur came.
Amidst the autumnal hush of that peaceful afternoon it was uplifting
its voice in a many-toned tumult of harmony; and as the sound gained
resonance, it seemed to the now pale-cheeked woman as if a voice,
indistinct at first, was gradually shaping itself to intelligible
utterance, approaching through numberless repetitions nearer and nearer
to articulate speech.

Yes, after fifty years, the genius of the tree was full-born and awake,
and striving with ten thousand tongues to give expression to his will.
As the cry rose higher, he shook his swarthy arms towards the sea;
and thereupon a long tidal wave, which had noiselessly been advancing
shore-wards across the smooth expanse, burst in mellow thunder along
the resounding shore. Slowly the echoes died away, and slowly,
likewise, the wild voice of the tree subsided and was still. Everywhere
the calm of the October day reigned as before--everywhere save in the
mother's frightened heart. The cloud, moreover, still lingered before
the sun.

Little Sir Maurice, who had observed this portent attentively
throughout, now took hold of his mother's dress and looked up in her
face.

'Didst thou hear, mother?' he demanded. 'The Oak said "Maurice!
Maurice! Maurice!" over and over again. Why does it call me? Does it
want me to go anywhere, or do anything? Tell me, mother!'

'Hush, child, thou talkest foolishly! can trees talk?' returned Lady
Kildhurm, trying to hide her uneasiness beneath an assumed asperity.
The next moment she bent down and kissed the boy with yearning
tenderness on cheek and brow. Then she glanced fearfully at the
unmoving masses of sombre foliage.

'Pray God he be not called from me!' she said half aloud. 'But
how strange a thing! Pooh! it was my fancy!--nay, for he heard
it also!--and then that great wave, like an answer from the sea!
But--pshaw! I am more foolish than my children. It was but some sudden
wind-gust. I will think of it no more. Maurice, and thou, Rupert, come
now into the house. The air is not so warm as an hour since.'

Rupert, it may be remarked, had kept stubborn hold of the sword all
through this adventure, in which, for the rest, he had seen nothing at
all remarkable. But he was a politic as well as an obstinate baby, and
he now executed a diplomatic stroke which would have done credit to an
older head.

'See what I dot, buzzer,' he said, as he and Maurice followed their
mother towards the castle. He held up a cluster of acorns.

'Oh, how did you get them?'

'Dey fall on ze g'ound; dey very pooty!'

'I wish I had found some. I have always wanted some.'

'I give 'ou dese, if 'ou say I keep de s'oard,' said the diplomatist,
hazarding his stroke.

'Oh, have you the sword still? I had forgot it. Well, I cannot give you
the sword, because mother gave it to me; but if you will give me the
acorns, you shall keep the sword till I want it.'

'Well, I keep de s'oard,' said Rupert, as he handed over the acorns.
And it is to be feared that he added a mental rider to the effect that
he would himself be the judge of the time when his brother should want
it back again.

Lady Kildhurm, turning at the castle gate, saw the acorns in Maurice's
grasp.

'Thou shouldst not have brought them, son,' she said nervously. 'Thou
knowest we do not use to touch the fruit of the Oak. Run back and put
them again where thou didst find them.'

'No, mother,' said Maurice, 'let me keep them. This is my birthday, and
the Oak has given me these for a birthday gift.'

'Yes, muzzer, he keep'em,' put in Rupert who perceived that, if his
brother was deprived of the acorns, his own possession of the sword
might be thereby endangered. And the mother yielded, having no very
valid arguments on her side, and being, besides, unwilling to cross the
little heir on his birthday.

It was destiny, no doubt--destiny that would have fulfilled itself in
some other way, if not in this. No outcry of child or demon disturbed
Lady Kildhurm that night, after she had kissed the two boys in their
cribs and bidden them farewell. Her sleep was peaceful and dreamless;
but Maurice slept more soundly yet, and never woke in this world. It
was afterwards discovered that he had taken his acorns to bed with him;
and the inference was that he must have eaten one of them, and that it
had poisoned him. At all events, the Oak of Kildhurm had claimed and
taken its first victim; and Master Rupert was free to keep the sword.


                             CHAPTER VII.

                        THE OAK BIDES ITS TIME.

When this strange story, with suitable exaggerations, got abroad, it
added greatly to the Oak's reputation. The notion that it was to be
a sort of Banshee of the Kildhurms, speaking with miraculous voice
before the death of any member of the family--this notion had great
vogue for a time; but the Oak itself declined to countenance it. Its
soul, if it had one, was of a rank superior to that of Banshees, and
would not be classed with them. Several members of the family died
in due season, and in an ordinary manner, without any sign from the
Oak. The tree, for a great number of years behaved in all respects as
another tree might have done. But it never could divest itself of its
sinister reputation. Not uneducated people merely, but often those who
pretend to some degree of culture, betray a disposition to put faith
in a thing precisely because they are unable to explain it. Possibly
some leaven of the inexplicable may be indispensable to a healthy
mental organisation. It is inexplicable, so far as our knowledge of
natural laws extends, that the leaves and branches of the Oak should
have swayed and rustled independently of the action of the wind. On the
other hand, if we assign a conscious and self-acting spirit to man,
what shall prevent us from assigning the like to a tree? Before giving
a too credulous ear to those who would persuade us that this or that is
incredible because it is a miracle, it were prudent to require them to
put their finger on something that is not miraculous.

Let the reader, therefore, form his own conclusions as to the special
miraculousness of Kildhurm's Oak: noting, meanwhile, that little
Rupert, the stubborn and wily, grew up to be a courtier; and, while
still no more than a boy in his teens, was able on one or two occasions
to render some important service to the second Charles, who was then
awaiting with what patience he might the demise of the terrible
Protector. On Charles's accession to power, Rupert was attached to his
court, and, if all accounts be true, he approved himself a congenial
abettor of the merry monarch's frolics. It was here that he made the
acquaintance of John, Earl of Rochester, and the connection benefited
him little either in health or reputation. Nor did its ill effects
stop there; for having, in the year 1678, invited a party of dissolute
young nobles, of whom Rochester was one, to spend a few days at
Kildhurm Tower, a most stupendous orgy forthwith began, which lasted
nearly a week, and ended in the castle taking fire. There was no means
of putting out the flames; and within six hours the only part of the
building that remained habitable was the tower itself and one or
two rooms adjoining it. This mishap happened in the winter; and the
aspect of the naked Oak lit up by the red glare of the conflagration,
and standing forth against the sable background of sea and sky, was
demoniacal in the extreme.

'Ods-life, my lads,' remarked the wild Earl, as he gazed upon it, 'it
does look damnably like one of us as we shall be a few years sooner or
later!'

This was one of the last escapades in which Rochester was concerned.
He soon afterwards fell into that illness which proved to be his last,
and in the course of which he formed his edifying friendship with good
Bishop Burnet. As for Sir Rupert, the disaster sobered him, not only
at the time, but permanently. He stayed at what was left of his home
for the remainder of his days, married the daughter of a neighbouring
baronet, and died full of years and piety, though poor in this world's
goods, in the latter part of George I.'s reign. He had a son, of whom
this history has nothing to say, but with that son's son, born about
the time of the grandfather's decease, our narrative resumes its thread.

Sir Norman Kildhurm was a scholar of some eminence, and of a
philosophical and speculative turn; he is said to have written
several lengthy and abstruse works, all of which have withdrawn
into a dignified and happy oblivion. Personally, he was an odd,
unconventional genius, of uneven temper and behaviour. His mind, in
some of its aspects, was amazingly lucid and sane; but in others it
seemed to forsake all rationality and clearness, and immersed itself
in clouds of mysticism and paradox. The family Oak had, as might
readily be supposed, a profound attraction for him. He spent much time
in studying it, and posterity is indebted to him for having gathered
together all available scraps of its past history, both actual and
apocryphal. Among other discoveries he made the somewhat curious one
that the Oak differed from all known species of the _Quercus_ family,
and was of another variety even than the Oak of Ennerdale, whereof
tradition made it an off-shoot. Sir Norman boldly accounted for this
difference by ascribing it to the strain of human blood which flowed
in the tree's veins. Perhaps he may have known for a fact that a fluid
which was not vegetable sap coursed beneath the rough bark; and,
indeed, there is a rumour that he once dared to lop off one of the
lesser branches, doubtless with a view to putting this questionable
ichor to a chemical test. Whether the tree forgave the liberty in
consideration of the importance of the result to be obtained, is open
to question; though probably any being directly connected, as the
Oak was, with the operations of destiny, would be superior to petty
emotions of revenge or partiality. It cannot be denied, on the other
hand, that Sir Norman's connection with the Oak was foreordained to
end disastrously for him.

It is not to be expected of a man such as Sir Norman is described as
being, that he would be socially inclined; and yet it is probable that
his poverty was at least as much the cause of his seclusion, as was
any innate aversion from, or quarrel with, his kind. Misanthropist
or not, he married, when about thirty years of age, a daughter of
Bishop Ferrand. The young lady might have made a more brilliant match;
Kildhurm was quoted in the matrimonial market at by no means a high
figure: we are forced to the conclusion that she must have fallen in
love. She was no ordinary woman. In point of mental cultivation she was
her husband's equal. As regards personal appearance, her features were
rather too strongly marked to fulfil the ideal of feminine beauty; but
her figure was stately and tall, her bearing dignified and graceful.
She was ardently attached to her husband, and devoted herself in every
way she could to his happiness and comfort. Not only did she square his
worldly cash accounts for him, she assisted him also in his literary
and philosophical labours; she even--so it is hinted--aided him in
certain unorthodox efforts of his to pierce through the natural veil
of things, and to explore secrets which are conditionally withheld
from common approach. This may mean that Sir Norman had in some degree
pretended to anticipate the exploits of the future Cagliostro; and
used his lady as a passive but effective lens, to apprise him of
matters which he was impotent to master by his own unfettered eyesight.

Be this as it may, there is reason for supposing that the Lady Kildhurm
of this epoch was a person of exceptional temperament; that her
manifestations were not always entirely comprehensible; that, in short,
despite her cleverness, there was a screw loose in her somewhere. Sir
Norman and she were not unfrequently referred to in critical social
circles of the vicinity as the crazy couple, the mad Kildhurms. They
bore their reputation philosophically, and were very fond of each
other. A year or two after their marriage a son was born to them, and
they approved themselves affectionate parents. But they were almost
intolerably poor; and when poverty amounts to an inadequacy of means to
ends, it becomes irksome. It was highly desirable that their financial
resources should be increased. I cannot say whether Sir Norman,
in addition to his other investigations, made any search for the
philosopher's stone; but there can be no doubt that he stood greatly in
need of some such implement. He was angry with fortune; he conceived
that wealth was his due, not on account of his station merely, but
by reason of personal merit. From a state of mind such as this--from
a keen perception of the injustice of fortune--it is not always a
long step to attempting to force fortune's hand. The Baronet's
philosophical studies may have so expanded his views as to enable him
to consider the feasibility of acquiring money by means divergent from
what is vulgarly called morality. He was a slight-built, nervous man,
of a bilious temperament, with the features and peculiarities of his
race strongly pronounced in him; but he possessed in addition--what
most of his ancestors did not--a soft and winning tone of voice, and a
tongue which could be persuasive when he chose to make it so. Few women
could withhold their confidence from him, if he set himself to gain it:
and not a few men had acknowledged the pleasant cajolery which he could
employ on occasion.

Soon after the baby was born, a widowed sister of Lady Kildhurm's--Mrs.
Harriet Chepstow by name--came to the Tower and took up her abode
there. Mr. Chepstow, deceased, was a younger son of a wealthy family,
and had obtained some share of the property; consequently, there
is every reason to suppose that the widow did not eat her host's
bread without paying him a fair equivalent for it. The subject is a
delicate one, but it is necessary that we should touch upon it. There
was nothing in the affair to cause Sir Norman any mortification. The
widow needed a home, and he needed a few pounds a week; it was a
fair exchange. Nevertheless, the Baronet was, in his own way, a very
proud man, and it is easily conceivable that he did not enjoy the
spectacle of the descendant of his forefathers enacting the _rôle_ of
a lodging-house keeper; and that his desire to find the philosopher's
stone, or some equivalent for it, should grow more than ever urgent.
Lady Kildhurm sympathised with him, and tried, no doubt, to quiet and
console him. She liked poverty no better than he did; but she was
not rebellious at heart, like him, and still less was she capable of
entertaining the unorthodox views as to moral responsibility which have
been above alluded to. Sir Norman felt this, and had the good sense,
or the precaution, never to attempt to argue such hazardous questions
with her. A man must become a very bad man indeed who does not like to
see his wife more honourable and more virtuous than he is himself. Let
it not be inferred from this remark that Sir Norman had contemplated
any definite criminal act. All that he had done thus far--and
thousands of guiltless men have done as much--was to ask himself
whether circumstances might not make some wrongs more justifiable than
certain rights. At that point, or very little beyond it, he paused:
circumstance and opportunity might carry the matter further, or might
let it stand where it was. There was no telling.


                             CHAPTER VIII.

                         A HATFUL OF DIAMONDS.

Mrs. Chepstow, unlike most newly made widows, had little or nothing to
say about her late husband; she was much more communicative concerning
a redoubtable cousin of hers, a military gentleman, who had latterly
been on service in India. Nothing had been heard of Colonel Banyon
for upwards of a year, and Mrs. Chepstow began to express fears
regarding his safety. She was a comfortable, round-bodied, fresh-faced
woman, easily moved to tears or to laughter; and it would have been
evident, even had she more striven to conceal it than she did, that
if her valiant kinsman would only return home, and avail himself of
his chances, he might have one of the most admirable and affectionate
wives in the world. The Colonel, as she described him, was a charmingly
gallant and romantic fellow, much addicted to harebrained adventures
and dashing escapades; delightfully fortunate, moreover, and at the
same time contemptuous of fortune. His way through the world was always
from good to better, from bright to brilliant; and since he was as
generous as he was lucky, he was altogether just the sort of person one
would like to be acquainted with.

'We were very fond of each other, and I don't mind saying it to
you, sister,' the widow observed to Lady Kildhurm, on more than one
occasion. 'We seemed to get on together so well, if you know what I
mean. And I was very sad to have him go to the Indies, so soon after my
husband died, too. And I remember, the day he went away, he promised
he'd bring me back his hat full of diamonds.'

'A hatful of diamonds?' repeated Sir Norman, who had come into the room
without being observed by Mrs. Chepstow, and had overheard her last
sentence.

'Oh, Sir Norman, how you startled me. Yes, indeed, his whole hat full;
and he has a good-sized head, too, I assure you.'

'How did he expect to come by the diamonds?'

'Oh, from those Indian idols, as he called 'em. He says they're covered
with 'em. Idols, I suppose you know, Rebecca,' she continued, turning
to Lady Kildhurm, 'I suppose you know they're a kind of magistrate
they have over there: so I understood from the Colonel. And he said
they sometimes had diamonds in place of eyes; but I think he was only
jesting then. And he said he should loot 'em--that was one of his words
he was always using--as he had the right to do, because England was at
war with the Indies, and then, besides, idols are always the enemies of
Christians. But I should think it would be more Christianlike for us to
convert 'em than to loot 'em; and I mean to tell the Colonel so, if
ever I meet him again. Heigho! poor fellow! I hope he's not dead. If he
is, I should never forgive myself, for I should always be thinking it
was in getting me the diamonds that he lost his life. And he was always
too venturesome--and having made a promise, he would be sure to try
and keep it; so I fear all the idols may have got together and killed
him. And oh! I had a dream last night; I dreamt I saw him floating in
the sea over the cliff there, near the Oak, and he had a place crushed
in on his head. I hope it won't come true! It isn't worth losing one's
life for, Rebecca, is it?'

Lady Kildhurm, during this conversation, if conversation it could be
termed, had been mending a hole in one of her little son's stockings;
and the child himself was sitting on her knee, his attention
divided between his own bare toes and the movement of his mother's
darning-needle.

'What isn't worth losing one's life for, my dear?' she asked.

'A hatful of diamonds,' answered the widow.

'A hatful of diamonds?--No!' said Lady Kildhurm, bending to kiss
her son's cheek, and thinking, perhaps, how many lives and how many
diamonds into the bargain she would be ready to sacrifice for his sake.

'A hatful of diamonds?--I don't know!' murmured Sir Norman, glancing
meditatively out of window, where the Oak stood dark against the
afternoon sea of tender purple grey.

Presently afterwards he left the room and the Tower, and walked slowly
down to the cliff. He sat himself down beneath the Oak, and, with his
head thrown back, gazed up into its depths. Very gloomy it was, and
very still; not a leaf stirred upon its twig. But after a long time,
an acorn fell, and smote him smartly on the forehead. This broke his
reverie; he rose, and laid his hand upon the ponderous bole of the
tree, as upon the shoulder of a friend.

'Come, old demon!' he said, half aloud, 'I have waited long enough:
it is time something should happen. Awake, and do your best, or your
worst; the prophecy is ripe for fulfilment. "Death of three and wealth
of one!" If I be not the one, 'tis very sure I shall be of the three,
and that speedily! Come--promise me a hatful of diamonds! or even a
handful.'

The tree made no sign: it only seemed to become gloomier than ever. Sir
Norman emitted a long tremulous sigh.

'It is all folly!' he said dejectedly and with bitterness. 'Why could I
not go to India and win diamonds for myself? Much good my calculations
and my horoscopes and my hopes and fears have done me! A man may rob in
India and be called a hero for it: why am I in England, where robbery
is hanging? Here have I stayed, as if I were a rooted tree myself,
and have gathered together the legends about this dumb old Oak, and
pondered over them, and believed in them, until at last I have come
verily to expect that these barren boughs shall drop gold upon me!
I will expect it no more. This is the last day that it could have
happened. Old demon, thou art a liar and a blockhead! I disbelieve and
abjure thee! If ever thou didst have power, it is gone out of thee,
never to return. To-morrow I will have thee hacked down, like any other
timber, and piled up for use in the kitchen fire. And for my own part,
I will cease to wait for the fulfilment of prophecies made by greater
fools than myself; I will begin to act, and that to some purpose!'

An abrupt, thunderous sound, prolonging itself in softer echoes, seemed
to answer him from the shore. A great wave had stolen unobserved
through the calm, to fling down its message at the foot of the cliff.
Before the echoes had died into silence, a low and hoarse murmur began
to come forth from the deepest centre, apparently, of the hitherto
silent Oak. With a movement of nervous eagerness, Sir Norman again
raised his head and strove to make his glance penetrate the obscurity.
The murmur grew in loudness and volume, and the heavy foliage was
tumultuously agitated, and anon waved forcibly to and fro, and the
branches, though as stalwart, many of them, as ordinary trees, moved
and groaned and laboured, as if battling against the onset of a gale.
It was an appalling spectacle--this turbulent storm roaring in the
dark circumference of the Oak while all the evening round about was
still as death. Sir Norman stood there in a mood of mingled awe and
exultation. He was beholding what no other living eye had beheld: what
none living besides himself, perhaps, had ever dared believe in. The
miracle of a century ago was true again to-day. The demon was awake
once more and was training his myriad tongues to speech. Sir Norman
listened, and his ears were filled with a sound that was, and yet
was not, articulate utterance. It spoke to his thought; but then his
thought laid hold of it and seemed to be itself the speaker, or at
least the shaper, of the word. And when the stormy voice was at its
loudest, suddenly it sank into broken whispers and sighings, and soon
was altogether hushed. The message had been given. What that message
was, Sir Norman only could know.

The adventure had left him excited and tremulous, and for several
minutes after he was as one overawed and distraught. By degrees,
however, his mind began to recover from the first poignancy of the
impression that had been made upon it; and he questioned with himself
whether the occurrence had really been as miraculous as at the moment
it had appeared to be?--whether his own imagination, in combination
with certain natural causes, had not been answerable for at least the
greater part of it? But this was only the instinctive effort of the
amazed reason to deliver itself from the thraldom of the inexplicable.
Further and quieter consideration showed the Baronet that he could not
have been mistaken; and that there was no alternative between regarding
himself as utterly insane, and acknowledging the miracle of the Oak. He
preferred the latter horn of the dilemma. This night, then, was to be
a momentous one for him and for his fortunes. Sir Norman issued forth
from beneath the shadow of the Oak, and looked westward. It was just
past sunset. He strolled across the breadth of lawn towards the Tower.
On passing round to the outer gate, he was surprised to see a horse
standing there, saddled and bridled, and bearing evidences of having
made a long journey.

He called out to the gardener, as a bent old pauper was entitled who
pottered about the grounds for a certain number of ineffective hours
every day, and asked him where the horse came from. The gardener
replied that a few minutes previous a gentleman had ridden up to the
gate, dismounted, and having thrown his rein over the gate-post, had
gone into the house. He had seemed to be in a great hurry.

'What sort of a gentleman was he?'

'Tall: and face brown like my hand: and he looked an active body: and
his eyes were blue and merry: and he had a beard.'

'Take the horse to the stable. I suppose there is some hay there: take
off his saddle and rub him down. This must be----'

'I am Colonel Banyon: are you Sir Norman Kildhurm? Sir, I have to ask
your pardon for my lack of ceremony. Seeing no one outside, I rushed
upstairs unannounced to find my cousin and kiss her hand.'

'Colonel, my pleasure in meeting you is second only to Mrs. Chepstow's.
We have heard many things about you from her; and you have been long
and anxiously expected. But may I ask where you are going----'

'Only to the stable,' said the Colonel, laughing and showing a sparkle
of white teeth through his brown beard. 'I always make a point of
seeing to my horse myself. And as I must resume my journey in three
hours' time, it is the more needful that he should be well cared for
meanwhile.' So saying, the Colonel threw the rein over his arm, and led
the steed to the stable door, which the old gardener was holding open.

'Thank you, old chap,' he said to the latter; 'that's all I shall ask
of you at present.' He put a gold piece into the man's hand, and,
leaving him to stare at it in bewildered incredulity, he proceeded
rapidly to unsaddle the horse and to rub him down vigorously with wisps
of hay.

Sir Norman had followed him to the stable. 'Surely, Colonel,' he
exclaimed in a tone of remonstrance, 'surely you don't mean to leave
us again in three hours? Before that time it will be dark night, and
there are signs of a storm coming on. I trust you will not hold our
hospitality so cheap as to give it but a three hours' trial!'

'By no means, Sir Norman,' replied the other heartily. 'I hope to
return hither a week or ten days hence, and to make a longer stay. But
at present I have no choice but to make a forced march. The ship which
brought me from India, you must know, was driven from its course by
contrary winds, and I was landed last night at some port up here to the
north, a hundred miles out of my way. I must report myself at Chester
to-morrow; so you may know I have no time to lose. Luckily, my horse is
one of the best in the world. But I should have been angry enough at my
mishap, had I not found that it would enable me to pass Kildhurm Tower,
and to catch a glimpse of my fair cousin; and to thank Lady Kildhurm
and yourself for your kind care of her. Faith, she looked twice as
pretty and as happy as when I bade her farewell a year and six months
ago!'

'The hour of welcome better suits beauty than that of farewell,'
observed Sir Norman with a smile. 'And now, Colonel, if you have made
your horse as comfortable as the poor accommodation will admit, return
with me to the house, and we will try to do the like by you. We have
but homely country fare to set before you, but it is cordially at your
service. And I think there is a bottle or two of wine in the cellar
that will compensate some deficiencies.'

'I am the last man in the world to be particular about what I eat,'
said the Colonel, as he and his host left the stables; 'if I were at
the table of the King of the Cannibal Islands, I should devour what was
set before me with gratitude and gusto--especially if I felt as hungry
as I do now! But, in fact, the pleasure of seeing my dear cousin once
more--and of making the acquaintance of Lady Kildhurm and yourself--is
better to me even than a meal.'

Sir Norman bowed to the compliment, and led his guest upstairs. 'In
this room,' said he opening a door, 'you can free yourself from some
of the dust of travel; and meanwhile I will give orders for the other
preparations. But, by the by, have you no luggage with you?'

'It has all gone round by sea,' answered the Colonel; 'all except such
small matters as one may carry about his person; and except--this!' he
added, 'which of course I am never parted from.'

As he spoke, he pulled from the front of his military jacket a bag made
of soft yellow leather, curiously embroidered with coloured braid. It
was about half as big again as a man's fist, and seemed heavy.

'And what--if the question may be permitted--is that?' inquired Sir
Norman, fixing his eyes keenly on those of his guest.

'Oh, they are my diamonds, which I promised my cousin to bring her from
India. But, before giving them to her, I shall take them to a lapidary
in London and have them carefully set. At present, as you may see,
they are many of them in the rough state, and worthless for a lady's
ornaments.'

'They are not in themselves worthless, however,' remarked Sir Norman,
bending over the glittering pile of jewels which the Colonel had
carelessly poured out upon the table. 'And not all of them are
diamonds.'

'No, they are of all kinds--rubies, sapphires, emeralds, or diamonds--I
was not particular. And they have a value of their own, as you say:
a fellow who understands about such things once offered me a hundred
thousand guineas for the lot. But, of course, it was not his money that
I wanted: each of those stones has some adventure associated with it
which no money could buy of me; and, besides, they are all destined to
adorn the person of my pretty cousin.'

'A magnificent gift, indeed!' murmured Sir Norman.

'I hope she will like it,' replied the Colonel ingenuously.

'What woman--what human being, for that matter--could be indifferent
to it!' sighed Sir Norman, turning away. 'Well, I will leave you for a
moment; when you are prepared, come to the room where you first found
Mrs. Chepstow. We shall await you with impatience.'


                              CHAPTER IX.

                              THE GUEST.

If Colonel Banyon's visit was brief, it was merry: it was filled from
end to end with laughter, talk, and story. The Colonel had, naturally,
a thousand anecdotes to tell, and a still greater number of questions
to answer. Though a hero, he was neither a reticent nor a shamefaced
one. He enjoyed what he was heartily. He had lived a successful,
daring, reckless, honourable life, and was accustomed to look back
over the past and forward to the future with equal satisfaction and
cheerfulness. He gave a very vivid and entertaining picture of his
recent Indian experiences, and when, at length, he declared that it was
time for him to be off, Mrs. Chepstow could not conceal her chagrin:
her pretty under-lip trembled, and tears stood in her eyes.

'You will be back soon, cousin?' she said piteously.

'In ten days, if I live so long,' he declared.

'Live ten days! What do you mean?'

'Nothing, upon my soul!' laughed the Colonel. 'They say, though, that
when folks have been so merry as we have been this evening, calamity
is nigh. And since I have been the merriest, it would be fair to infer
that it's to me the calamity is nighest.'

'Don't talk so! you make me shudder!' exclaimed Mrs. Chepstow, hiding
her face in her hands. 'And last night I dreamt I saw you dead!'

'Well, if I die, it will be my own fault,' returned the Colonel, still
with the sparkle of laughter in his blue eyes.

'You ride armed, I trust,' put in Sir Norman. 'With such a treasure
beneath your jacket, you should make your account for a highwayman or
two.'

'I always keep one or two of these fellows about me,' said the other,
showing the butt of a small pistol. 'Not that I should think of
shooting a highwayman; poor devils, they have a hard enough time of it
without that! No, I keep my pistols in case of accidents; and accidents
are what never happen in civilised countries.'

'May none happen to you, at all events!' said Lady Kildhurm kindly.

'Thanks, noble lady,' replied the warrior, kissing her hand. 'Thanks
and farewell! Farewell, my dearest cousin. You shall have the jewels
back again as soon as the deftest of lapidaries can get them in order
for you. Farewell, Sir Norman: my best acknowledgments for your
hospitality.'

'Our parting shall not be yet,' said Sir Norman. 'I will saddle
my mare and ride beside you for a mile or two. The road you must
travel skirts the cliff, and in parts is dangerous to an unfamiliar
tread, especially at nightfall. After seeing you safely past those
treacherous spots, I can leave you with a better conscience.'

'I shall be heartily glad of your companionship, I need not say,' was
the Colonel's answer. 'As to cliffs, however, I am not unaccustomed to
them.'

He again took leave of the ladies, and followed Sir Norman down the
stairs, and across the courtyard to the stables, where each man led
out and saddled his own horse. The old gardener always made a point of
retiring to his quarters at sunset.

'That storm you spoke of still holds off,' remarked the Colonel.

'It will overtake us before daylight,' answered the Baronet.

'Sir Norman, did you ever see a man struck by lightning?'

'Never.'

'I saw it once at sea. I don't know why I happened to think of it at
this moment. There isn't lightning enough in all England, at this time
of year, to kill me. There I go again, hinting at my own death! That
sweet cousin of mine seems to have put foolish notions into my head.
However, if anything is to happen to me, I have taken care that she
shall lose nothing by it. My will is made, signed, and sealed, and both
the jewels and all other wealth that I have got go to her.'

'Let us hope that you may find a better way of endowing her with your
worldly goods than by bequeathing them to her,' said Sir Norman,
smiling.

'It lies with her, and I think she likes me,' returned the Colonel,
twisting his moustachios. 'But though I'm little enough afraid of most
things, and by no means as blind as a mole either, I'm blessed if I
dare to ask her whether she'll marry me, because I can't see quite
clearly enough into her heart. However, all in good time! Perhaps the
glitter of the gems may serve to throw some light upon the question.'

Sir Norman nodded, but he made no reply.

They were now riding along a narrow and rocky road, within sight of the
sea, and following the line of the coast southward. There was as yet no
wind, but the waves were breaking with a hollow, rhythmical sound along
the shore, telling of some tornado a hundred miles away. There was no
moon, and the sky was in great part overcast with clouds, so that the
darkness was considerable. The riders could see no more of each other
than their black outlines, as they rode along side by side. At the
distance of about a mile from Kildhurm Tower, the coast began to rise;
and the road, instead of skirting the inland base of this eminence,
climbed up with it, and, moreover, approached so near the verge that,
in some places, it actually infringed upon it. The Colonel's military
eye did not fail to take note of this peculiarity.

'I have a better opinion of the legs of the fellows who built this road
than of their brains,' he observed. 'Did they think it was shorter to
climb up a precipice than to go round it?'

'There were two reasons why the road was made in this way,' replied the
Baronet. 'First, there is a deep morass across the inland route, which
is beyond the skill of our local engineers either to bridge over or to
fill up. Secondly, there existed, at the time the road was planned, a
convent at the highest point of the cliff; and it was deemed advisable,
in that religious age, that the way of the world should run as near as
possible to the convent door. We shall come to the ruins of the convent
very soon: and there, or thereabouts, I shall take leave of you.'

The horses scrambled up the steep ascent, Sir Norman leading the way;
and it was not until they had reached the summit that he spoke again.

'Are you a religious man, Colonel Banyon?' he abruptly asked.

The Colonel turned a surprised glance at him. 'I believe in my Saviour,
and pray to Him when I get a chance and a prayer comes into my head,'
he replied.

'If a man were about to die, I have thought that no place could be more
fitting than this from which to take a last look at the world; and from
which to offer up a last prayer to heaven, if he were that way minded.'

'I will remember your suggestion when my final hour approaches; and if
I'm in this neighbourhood perhaps I may avail myself of it. The spot
has one recommendation--that if, after all, Death made his approach
too slowly, you would need to take not more than a single step to find
yourself in his arms.'

'Yes, it is two hundred feet to the bottom, and barely three feet to
the brink!' said the Baronet. 'Death hovers within arm's length of us
as we ride.'

'He has been nearer to me than that, and yet I have snapped my fingers
at him,' returned the Colonel, laughing. 'Well, I must be on my way
again.'

'Let me lead your horse over this dangerous pass,' said Sir Norman,
dismounting from his own horse and seizing the Colonel's bridle. 'And
then, farewell indeed!'

'Have a care! What are you about?' cried Colonel Banyon, after a moment.

'Farewell!' repeated the other; and with all his strength he forced
the Colonel's horse backwards to the edge of the cliff. The rider saw
and perhaps comprehended the danger. He had not time to dismount; he
drew his pistol, and at the same time drove his spurs into the horse's
sides. The horse reared and strove to plunge forward, but it was too
late. His hind hoofs trod upon the crumbling verge of the precipice.
There was a cry, a flash and a report, and a scent of burnt powder on
the night air, which Sir Norman breathed alone.


                              CHAPTER X.

                           A BURIED SECRET.

Sir Norman stood on the brink of the cliff, and listened. There was not
much to hear--no more remarkable sound than might be caused by the fall
of a loose boulder, and the murmur of the surf partly disguised even
that. The tide was rising; in another half hour it would be dashing
against the base of the precipice.

The Baronet took his mare by the head-stall, and began to lead her back
down the steep road which he had so lately climbed in company with
Colonel Banyon. His mood of mind was much more composed and lucid now
than it had been then. While the deed which he was to commit was as yet
in the future he had been full of agitation and doubt. Sir Norman had a
single plain fact to deal with, not an indefinite number of vague and
dangerous possibilities. He saw his proper course in the circumstances
as clearly as if he had planned it all out beforehand; and he lost no
time in following it.

Having arrived at the lowest dip of the road, he secured his horse to
the branch of a dead tree, clambered down to the shore, and began to
make his way as rapidly as he could towards that spot where he knew
the body of Colonel Banyon must be lying. With an active step and
a heedful eye he hurried over the broken _débris_ of the beach, and
presently came to that part which lies immediately beneath the loftiest
altitude of the cliff.

It was not easy to distinguish the horse and man where they lay in
the darkness, and anybody who had not been on the lookout for them
might easily have passed them by in the belief that they were nothing
more than a heap of sea drift. But Sir Norman was under no such
delusion. When he caught sight of them--it was the whiteness of the
Colonel's upturned face that first arrested his glance--he approached
cautiously, with ears alert to detect whatever whispered groan there
might still remain to hear. But there was nothing; the agony had not
been prolonged, and it was over. Colonel Banyon and his horse were both
quite dead. Sir Norman had certainly anticipated nothing else, and yet
the visibility of the fact gave him a start. Colonel Banyon had been so
very much alive a few minutes before, and now he was so very lifeless!
The handsome, gallant, dashing officer, who had been so overflowing
with hopes and projects, and love and laughter, was now suddenly
become inert and devoid alike of thought and passion, good or evil. It
was so impressive that it affected Sir Norman almost like something
theatrical. The Colonel appeared to him for a moment to be acting a
part. When the curtain came down, he would get up, like Mr. Betterton
in 'Hamlet,' and come out and make his bow before the audience. But
unfortunately there is no curtain in these cases, and the poor actor,
having died with what realism he can command, is obliged to remain dead
indefinitely.

The surf, now breaking near at hand, reminded Sir Norman that he also
had a part to enact. Not that he had been altogether idle since leaving
Kildhurm Towers; but he had accomplished only the preliminary portion
of the work which he had resolved to perform. In looking forward to
this night's occupations, he might have been led to suppose that the
murder would be more difficult to an unpractised hand than the robbery;
but experience proved that the truth was just the other way. To hurl
his victim over the cliff had been an excitement--fierce, and, in a
certain sense, pleasurable. But this despoiling the corpse in cold
blood afterwards was neither pleasant nor exciting; and yet it had
to be done, else all the benefit of the murder would be thrown away.
To kill, moreover, was aristocratic; Sir Norman's ancestors had won
renown by doing no more than he had just done; but to pick a pocket
was plebeian, and none of his ancestors, so far as he was aware, had
ever been guilty of that. But again, there was no escape from it--or
only one escape! Sir Norman might, if he chose, return to his horse,
mount him, ride him up the cliff, and leap him over the verge to a
resting-place here beside the Colonel. By this means, and by this
only, could he avoid the logical necessity of pocket-picking, and at
the same time conceal, and perhaps in some measure expiate, the crime
already committed. Sir Norman thought of all this, and weighed the
question for a moment in his mind. Should he go on, or should he turn
back? He decided to go on: and, stooping over the body of his late
guest, he drew the purse of embroidered leather from its hiding-place,
thrust it into his own pocket, and turned away. He had got a fortune,
according to the promise of destiny; but if it had been larger than
it was, he already felt that he had paid a fair equivalent for it. As
he stumbled back along the dark shore, he was glad of the darkness,
and inclined to wish that daylight might altogether cease from the
earth. It was a wish characteristic of a fresh-born criminal. By-and-by
he would learn how to make his own face answer all the purposes of
darkness, so far as the concealment of what was within was concerned.
In one way or another, however, darkness must be his category from this
time forth. He was a creature of the night, and would for ever remain
such.

'I do not intend to excuse my act,' said Sir Norman to himself, when
he had once more attained the road and resumed his saddle. 'But if I
admit the sin of it, I have a right also to take account of its uses. I
have deliberately and treacherously murdered the man who was my guest;
I have murdered him from no feeling of hatred or anger, but solely for
my pecuniary advantage. That is the worst there is to be said, and I
admit that it is damnable. But now for the other side. I have restored
the fortunes of my family. I have given comfort to my wife, prosperity
to my son, and power to myself. I shall have caused my sister Chepstow
to shed a few tears, perhaps, when she learns (if she ever does learn
it) that her dream about her dead lover has come true; but in a week
or a month her eyes will be dried by some other suitor, and meanwhile
she will receive, as compensation for the loss of her jewels, all the
fortune in ready money which her cousin bequeathed to her in his will.
That, certainly, cannot be considered an injury. As to Colonel Banyon
himself, I could not have killed him had not his hour been fully come;
and therefore he can have no more quarrel with me than with any other
instrument which fate might have chosen to employ. Nor have I harmed
society or the state; for the murder which is not known to be a murder
becomes a simple death, which can neither outrage the law nor corrupt
the morals of the people. I conclude, then, that no person or thing
has been wronged or injured by my act, except myself: and I have even
benefited others at the sacrifice of my own moral welfare and repose.
And finally, since I have been my own accuser, let me also be my own
judge!'

At this point of Sir Norman's soliloquy, the storm which had been all
night brewing suddenly came into noisy and violent existence. Buffeted
by the wind and pelted by the rain, the Baronet was distracted from
his casuistical and metaphysical vein, and his meditations took a more
outward and material turn.

'No one can have seen these gems besides ourselves,' he thought; 'but
yet there is danger to be feared from those which are uncut. Perhaps
I may find it safest to dispose of them abroad. Meanwhile, I can put
them where they will be as secure as death itself, and might remain
so for a hundred years if necessary. It will be best, at all events,
to take no further step in the business until the Colonel's death has
been discovered, and his property administered. The gems, no doubt,
are mentioned in the will; inquiry will be made for them; and it will
be known that the Colonel was last seen alive under our roof. And what
after that? Why, then, I rode forth with him, to set him on his way:
and it was known to me that he carried the gems upon his person. Yes,
and I had spoken warningly to him of the peril which menaced a lonely
traveller, so richly laden, in these parts: the women will bear witness
to that. But then it will be asked: "How far did you ride with him?
and which way was he heading when you saw him last?" What shall be my
answer? Shall I say, "I left him at the rise of the convent cliff, and
know no more of him?" Why not rather tell the truth up even to the
last moment? Why not tell the truth and nothing but the truth, and
only not the whole truth?--which, indeed, finite man can never tell.
Why not say, "I rode with him to the top of the cliff, my hand on his
bridle; but there, in the darkness, his horse took fright, and reared,
and fell backwards: and I, unless I would have been dragged over also,
was fain to loose my hold of the bridle, and let them go. Then I went
down to the shore to search, but ... well, but the tide had risen, and
the storm had come on, and it was impossible to reach the bodies."
That would be better than downright vulgar perjury: more decent, and
perhaps more prudent likewise. Stay, though! if I take this stand, it
must be taken at once! I must burst into the room, heated, dishevelled,
distraught, and gasp out my story with horror in my voice! Am I actor
enough for that? I fear not! And who knows but another sort of horror
might find its way into my tones or eyes, and betray me! No, I cannot
venture it. As yet, I have looked on no living human face since I saw
his vanish over the cliff, lit up for an instant by the flash of his
pistol. Perhaps--who knows?--I shall blanch and turn pale under the
glance of the first questioning eyes I meet. I know the man I have
been heretofore, but I do not yet know the man I am now. Perhaps I am
a coward, or an idiot, or a madman. What wonder if I were, after such
a night's work! Was ever a night so black, or a storm so boisterous!
All the witches in hell might be abroad, and I among the rest! Am I
a witch, then? Who knows? The country folks have long believed no
better of me; and perhaps to-night's work will bring about an encounter
between his Satanic majesty and me, and a signing of the Book! Where
shall the meeting be held? Where but beneath Kildhurm's Oak, where all
the mischief was hatched from the beginning! Forward, mare! Why do we
lag here in the rain, when company is awaiting us at home? Forward!'

Goaded by whip and spur, the mare put herself to her best speed, and
before many minutes Sir Norman knew, less by any visible sign than by
the direction and inclination of the road, that the Tower was near.
He drew rein, and paused for a moment. Should he take his mare to the
stable now, or--afterwards? He resolved on the latter course. Keeping
as much as possible on the turf, and feeling rather than seeing his
way, he pressed cautiously forward until he found himself almost
beneath the branches of the Oak. There he dismounted.

The din of the tempest was bewildering. The waves came thundering
against the shore with such headlong power that a tremor of the earth
was perceptible every time they struck. There was a fury of white foam
beneath the rocky, overhanging parapet, on which the Oak stood, and
this whiteness extended far out, until the blackness of the night
prevailed over it. Occasionally sounds like moaning and sighing seemed
to come from the mid-tumult of the sea, as if some huge creature were
complaining there: and the driving spray and the rain assumed strange
drifting forms, like disembodied spirits hurtling through the air. But
terrible as was the sea, the Oak was more terrible still. It fought the
wild wind with its great arms like a mad creature. Its cumbrous foliage
flapped and hissed through the wet gale like the matted locks of a
wrestling giant. Its whole vast frame rocked to and fro, as if it were
about to tear itself up from its rooted place, and go forth to meet and
struggle with the storm. And from the grinding together of the mighty
boughs were generated shrieks and human-like outcries and noises like
weeping and like mocking laughter, as though a knot of evil spirits
were tearing each other to pieces in the central darkness of the tree;
or were they combining to torture and torment some newly-captured human
soul? Dimly, meanwhile, through the murky obscurity, glowed three red
squares of light from the Tower, where Lady Kildhurm and her sister
waited for Sir Norman's return. The Baronet saw the light, and a vision
of the two innocent and loving women rose before his mind; and of the
infant boy, lulled asleep in his crib by the muffled voices of the
gale. All that was as a foreign country to him now; all the more alien
because it had been so intimately his own. He turned his back upon it,
and fixed his regard upon the haunted Oak. He stepped beneath the wide
spread of the labouring branches; then, with a leap from the ground, he
caught the lowest of these between his arms, and in another moment had
swung himself up into the heart of the tree, and out of sight of earth
and sky.

       *       *       *       *       *

'He has been gone more than two hours,' said Lady Kildhurm, breaking
silence at last.

'I do heartily pray nothing has happened to him--it is dreadful to
think how wet he will get in this rain, poor fellow; and he must be in
Chester to-morrow, he said. I wish he had spent the night here.'

'And so do I; but it was of my husband that I spoke.'

'Oh, Sir Norman knows his way about! wasn't he born and bred here? No
fear but he will find his way home safe enough.'

'But he should have been away half an hour at the most: and now--see!
it is close upon midnight. I fear something has gone wrong.'

'It is the rain that keeps him. He has taken shelter somewhere,
and will bide his time till the worst of it is over. But my poor
cousin--what will become of him! Heigho! I felt, when I said good-bye
to him, as if 'twas for ever.'

Lady Kildhurm laid down the sewing with which she had been occupying
herself and clasping her hands on her knee, sat gazing out on the
black and rain-smitten window-pane. Suddenly she said:

'This is his evil day. I had forgotten it. Oh, my heart!'

'His evil day, sister? What do you mean?'

'Yes; he showed me it once in his horoscope. The evil and the good came
side by side, but the evil was the stronger. He should not have gone
out; to-night of all nights I should have kept him! Oh, Norman--my
husband, come back to me!'

'La, sister, how you talk! you make me shudder. As for horoscopes, I'm
sure no Christian ought to believe in them.'

'I feel as if he were near me!' exclaimed Lady Kildhurm, rising
from her chair and moving about the room uneasily. 'He is near me,
somewhere, and yet I am not happy: I cannot breathe freely, and there
is pain in my heart.'

'La! sister, indeed you frighten me. Pray sit down again, and do not
stare about so! do you think to see him through a stone wall?'

'He is near me--and it is not well with him. He is looking towards
me--now--can you not see his face at the window?'

'His face at the window! Pray remember, my dear, that the window is
fifty feet from the ground, and----'

'No, there is no face there. It was a flake of foam, maybe. But I
cannot bear to lose him; I could not bear it!'

'You are working yourself into such a state of mind, my dear, that very
soon I shall be more anxious about you than I am about him. As for
not being able to bear things, you never know what you can bear till
you try. I have borne the loss of my husband, and a great many worse
things. One can bear almost anything, I believe. Because, if the thing
to be borne comes, what else can you do?'

'I could not bear it!' repeated Lady Kildhurm feverishly. She moved
again to the window, and peered out for a few moments into the darkness.

'Depend upon it,' said Mrs. Chepstow, with a confidence of tone that
was not altogether warranted by her interior sentiments, 'depend upon
it, my dear, your husband has stepped into one of the peasants' huts
out of the rain, and is at this very instant swallowing a draught of
hot ale, with a pipe of tobacco in his other hand. How he will laugh
when I tell him how you have----'

'Hark!'

'Merciful heavens! what is it?'

Quick as thought, Lady Kildhurm had unfastened the catch of the
lattice, and the wind, violently driving it open, burst headlong into
the room, put out the candles, and went roaring through the house,
slamming doors, flapping curtains, and shaking soot down the chimneys.
None of this disturbance, however, had been noticed by the two women.
Their ears had been filled and their hearts stopped by the sound of
three frantic screams, following rapidly one upon another, and rising
high above the confusion of the tempest. They were the screams of
a man in mortal agony and horror. Both the women had known at once
whose voice it was, though they had never heard it pitched in that
key before. But what could have happened to him? The screams were not
repeated. The women exchanged a ghastly look.


                              CHAPTER XI.

                           THE DEVIL'S GRIP.

'Let us go together,' said Mrs. Chepstow at last, in a shaking voice.

'No,' replied her sister, decisively. 'Do you stay here and guard my
son. I must go to meet them yonder alone.'

'Them! who are they? Do you think my cousin is there too?'

'Satan and his imps are there. Hush! you must not question me. If they
have taken him, they must take me also--unless I can win him back! That
is the question, for I cannot bear to lose him. Either he must return
to me, or I will follow him: I cannot live apart from him. Hush! Do
you stay by the child; and on your life, do not come near the Oak till
after sunrise.'

While Lady Kildhurm had been speaking in this strange fashion, she was
making her preparations to go forth, and the only provision against
the storm and its portents which she took with her consisted of a
small Bible, which she put in her bosom, and a cross of carved ivory,
which she hung at her girdle. Thus equipped, and wearing still the
embroidered satin gown which she had put on that evening in honour
of her guest, she went out, and the darkness closed upon her. Mrs.
Chepstow crept fearfully to the child's crib, and knelt down there;
and crying, praying, and dropping asleep by turns, she passed the long
hours of that memorable night.

But Lady Kildhurm, on issuing from the gate, made straight for the Oak.
As she approached it, a kind of phosphorescent gleam seemed to hover
about the branches, such as sailors sometimes behold on the yardarms
of their vessel in bad weather. The gale, however, had suddenly fallen
almost calm; and though drops of rain fell occasionally, it was evident
that the storm had raged itself out. The sea tossed its waves upwards
aimlessly, as if forgetting whither to drive them, and therefore
appealing to the clouds. A sense of exhaustion and heaviness seemed to
pervade nature, as if she had aroused herself to do some hideous deed,
and now, the deed being done, were awaiting shudderingly what should
follow.

The woman paused just outside the circle of the Oak's boughs, and sent
her glance resolutely into the obscurity underneath. After a few
moments' scrutiny, she took the ivory cross between her hands, and went
forward. The phosphorescent gleams wavering to and fro, illuminated
duskily the figure of a man stretched out near the base of the trunk.
Lady Kildhurm crouched down beside him and spoke close to his ear:

'Norman, thy wife is with thee!'

The man emitted a stertorous breath, but uttered no word.

'Norman, thou art dying. Tell me, how is it with thy soul? for whither
thou goest thy wife shall follow thee. If it is well with thee, kiss
this cross for a sign. See I hold it to thy lips.'

But the man's lips did not move.

'Has the Evil One overcome thee, then?' said the woman sadly, after
a pause. 'But take comfort, my beloved, for I will not desert thee.
We have seen and known many marvellous things, Norman--thou and I
together: and I have never shrunk from going along with thee, hand in
hand, wherever thou didst lead the way. And now, my love shall go with
thee across the grave; I will not seek a happiness where thou art not;
and in proof of it, my husband, if thou biddest me to fling the cross
into the sea, and to tear the leaves from the Holy Book and cast them
on the air I will do it! Only move thy hand in answer, and it shall be
enough.'

For a long time, as it seemed, the man lay wholly motionless; his
life, which had hung trembling on the balance, appeared quite to have
slipped away. A great fear bestirred itself in Lady Kildhurm's soul:
if her husband died, and made no sign as to whither he had gone, how
should she follow him? Under the influence of this dread, she placed
her lips to his ear, and spoke sharply and urgently:

'Norman, my husband,' she cried; 'come back! Tell me what I am to do!'

A tremor passed through the man's body. Slowly and stiffly he raised
himself on one arm, and lifting the other hand, he pointed upwards.

'There!' he muttered, in a sluggish but articulate tone; 'there is
treasure! seek for it!'

For a moment after saying these words, he maintained his position:
one hand pointing upwards, while his face, on whose features death
was visible, beat heavily towards the earth. Then, stiffly, he sank
back; his wife received his head in her lap. He was already dead:
and, indeed, his spirit seemed to have returned to its human clay,
in obedience to the wife's summons, only to utter those ambiguous
sentences, and then to finally depart. But, ambiguous or not, they had
answered their purpose; they had planted hope, like a seed, in the
very midst of the bereaved woman's despair. He had spoken to her of a
treasure above--a treasure in Heaven; and had bade her seek it there.
But if he knew of a treasure in Heaven, it must needs be a treasure
which he himself had laid up there: and thither, consequently, he
must himself have gone. So reasoned Lady Kildhurm; and she forbore to
fling away her cross, or scatter the leaves of the Holy Book to the
winds. In her shaken and now distempered mind, she beheld a vision of a
long vigil of prayer and sanctity, and at the end a death which would
be blessed, because it would unite her once more to him. She drew the
lifeless body to the foot of the Oak, and seated there, resting against
the weather-blackened bole, she waited for the morning.

The morning dawned early and pure, with a sky like banks of wild roses
and primroses, and breezes cool and sweet breathing from them. The
facile sea translated these fragrant glories into deeper-toned but
scarce less enchanting beauty; and the earth sparkled with freshness.
But Kildhurm's Oak, standing in the midst of so much loveliness, did
not mingle with it, but rather seemed to hold darkly and grimly aloof
from it, as if conscious of a spirit altogether at variance with the
gentler influences of creation. It stretched its branches above the
group of lifeless and living humanity huddled beneath it, with an air
of sardonic protection. 'Behold my handiwork!' it appeared to say,
'and sweeten it with the graces of the morning if you can!' When Mrs.
Chepstow and the old gardener and the boy, Philip, first came upon the
two, they thought that both were dead. But as they drew near, they
perceived that the woman's eyes were open and seeing, though there was
a wild and unsettled expression in them. Nor did she answer when her
sister or the old man addressed her; she only whispered to herself, and
then bent over and whispered again in the dead man's ear, and smiled.
But when her little son Philip spoke to her in his childish tones,
some vestige of motherly memories glimmered in her haggard face; and
presently she beckoned him to her.

'There, my son,' she said in solemn tones, pointing upwards with her
finger; 'there is treasure! seek for it!'

'Where, mamma?' demanded the little fellow. 'In the Oak?'

Lady Kildhurm smiled drearily, and relapsed into silence.

A stretcher was brought, and the body of Sir Norman was carried back
to the Tower. The manner of his death was a mystery, and one which
was not for many years fully explained. His mare, still saddled and
bridled, was found in her stable, whither she had evidently made her
way after the catastrophe to her rider had happened. But of what nature
had been that catastrophe? It was found, upon examination, that the
Baronet's neck had been dislocated, which of course amply accounted
for the fact of his death, though not for anything beyond that. Some
opined that his horse must have taken fright during the storm, and
rushing beneath the Oak had either thrown the Baronet there, or he
had been swept off his saddle by a branch of the tree. This latter
hypothesis seemed plausible enough, though there were still those
three terrible screams left uninterpreted. The screams, however, might
have been comfortably ignored, had it not been for a certain appalling
sign of violence which had been left upon the person of the dead man
himself, and the significance of which, if it could not be fathomed,
it was equally impossible to do away with. The right hand, from the
wrist to the finger-ends, was stripped of the skin, and in parts even
of the flesh: the bone of the thumb was crushed, and the wrist was
wrenched out of joint. These indications--so far as the awe-stricken
senses of the beholders were able to apprehend them--seemed to show
that the Baronet's hand must have been caught in a grasp of superhuman
strength; and that in tearing it free with the energy of desperation,
he had left part of its substance behind. Whose hand, then, had gripped
his own so hard? and for what purpose? any answer to such questions
must evidently be purely conjectural. It was indeed a grisly problem
to ponder over, and one which nervous people would rather discuss
with cronies in broad daylight than with their own minds in the small
hours of the night. Especially would this be the case after certain
wiseacres had intimated their opinion that the marks left upon Sir
Norman's hand had been made by no other talons than those of his
Satanic majesty; who must have been strangely impressed with the
idea that the Baronet was his property--if firmness of grasp is to be
taken as any criterion of conviction of ownership. On the other hand,
it was to be said in the Baronet's favour that he had, after all,
succeeded in wrenching himself loose; but since a rough comparison of
times proved that he must have died a few minutes after this escape,
the doubt suggested itself whether, in his disembodied state, Satan
might not have proved too strong for him. Might it not be, in fact,
that although the fleshly hand had been freed, the spiritual one had
remained in the Arch-Enemy's gripe? Three screams of horror and agony
had been heard, but not so much as a single shout of triumph and
victory. Upon the whole, therefore, the preponderance of contemporary
opinion went rather against poor Sir Norman, though it was admitted
by everyone that it was never safe to dogmatise about an occurrence
of this kind. Besides, the man was dead, and dead people, even when
they have lived under the suspicion of being wizards, had better not
be abused. Sir Norman, accordingly, was buried with the ceremonies of
His Majesty's most Christian Church. On opening his will, in which
the few possessions he owned were bequeathed to his wife in trust for
their son, it was observed that particular mention was made of a signet
ring; but the ring was nowhere to be found. Mrs. Chepstow, however,
being interrogated, declared that the Baronet had always been in the
habit of wearing this ring on the fourth finger of his right hand;
and that she had noticed it there on the last occasion of her seeing
him alive. This evidence made it clear that whoever had squeezed the
Baronet's hand so tightly was, in all likelihood, the present wearer of
the signet ring. For the rest, the evidence was not of much practical
value--unless it should aid some time in the identification of the
other party to this mysterious and grisly encounter.

About the time that the mortal remains of Sir Norman were safely laid
in their last resting-place, the drowned corpse of Colonel Banyon was
discovered by a fisherman some distance down the coast. It was plain
from the condition of the body--many of the bones on the left side had
been broken--that the Colonel must have fallen from a great height; and
the subsequent discovery of his horse, in a similar shattered state,
helped the coroner in coming to the conclusion that the deceased must
have ridden over the cliffs during the late storm. There was no trace
of the leather bag of jewels which the Colonel was reported to have
had with him; but his garments had become so much torn and loosened by
the action of the waves and the attacks of fishes, that this was not
surprising. The gems, if they were anywhere, must be at the bottom of
the bay; such was the coroner's verdict upon this point; and it had
so much weight, with the fishermen's boys along the coast, that for
many years thereafter, squads of them might be seen every day at low
tide, groping amidst the sands and seaweeds for precious stones. But
not so much as a single diamond, emerald, or ruby ever rewarded these
industrious searchers.


                             CHAPTER XII.

                              THE SIBYL.

Lady Kildhurm, if she could not properly be called insane, was none the
less in a very abnormal mental state. The attitude of her mind, indeed,
might be considered almost the reverse of that usual to mortals: for
to her the material world appeared visionary and unstable, and the
objects of her inner life were her only realities. Being thus removed
from sympathy with her fellow-creatures, she necessarily occupied a
place apart, where she commanded the respect, and sometimes the awe, of
those who came into contact with her, but never their comprehension.
Always a striking-looking woman, her appearance was now invested
with a solemn majesty, to which the shadow of the tragedy with which
she had been connected no doubt lent impressiveness. By degrees she
adopted certain peculiarities of costume and demeanour and fell into
various eccentricities of speech and conduct, all of which tended to
confirm the country folks of the neighbourhood in the opinion that
the lady of Kildhurm was a species of wise-woman, or sibyl, acquainted
with supernatural lore, and able to give them a good harvest or a bad
rheumatism according as her whim might be. Of course when a delusion
of this kind once gets a footing in the popular mind, nothing can
occur, either good or bad, which will not be cited in support of
it. Fortunately for Lady Kildhurm, it was generally agreed that her
salutary outweighed her hostile influence. Mothers brought their sick
children to her to touch, as if she had been a monarch; and fathers
sought her advice on questions of business, and shaped her vague and
wandering utterances into profoundly pertinent replies. Thus, without
being necessarily aware of it, the poor lady created around her a
voluntary host of feudal retainers, quite as loyal as those which the
former lords of Kildhurm had lost, and much more willing and unstinting
in the matter of supplies of provisions, and of tributary hay and
corn. So it happened that the domestic economy of Kildhurm Tower had
not, for many years past, been in so prosperous a condition as it was
now. The curse which seemed to have been darkening over the place for
several successive generations, had now begun to lift and lighten, as
if it had done its worst. Mrs. Chepstow also remained at the Tower, and
practically had the entire charge of the household and of the education
of young Sir Philip, and had moreover contributed to this better state
of things by making over to the heir the whole of the fortune which
Colonel Banyon had bequeathed to her; reserving to herself, until the
boy came of age, the right of spending the income of this estate for
the common benefit of the family. It will be seen, therefore, that,
leaving out the fact that the lord of the Tower had died a violent and
mysterious death, and that his wife had lost her reason in consequence,
Kildhurm had not much more cause to complain of its destiny than have
other ancient and partially decayed families.

The Oak, meanwhile, had by no means ceased to connect itself with
the family interests, although it, also, seemed to have become less
menacing since its last terrible manifestation. Its present relation
to the household was more intimate and friendly than had ever been the
case before; it had, in fact, become the haunt and almost the home of
Lady Kildhurm herself. It was her daily and also her nightly habit to
climb into its branches, and there sit for hours, gazing out on the sea
and singing to herself fragments of songs; or occasionally carrying on
what had the semblance of being long and earnest conversations with
some interlocutor who never made himself visible to any other eyes than
those of her ladyship, and who was probably only subjectively manifest
even to her. Be that as it may, this unseen personage's existence was
solidly believed in by many intelligent persons, several of whom went
so far as to say that they had heard the tones of his voice. Others
affirmed that he could be no other than the genie himself of the Oak,
who, having made away with Lady Kildhurm's husband on account of some
slight which the latter put upon him, was now making amends to the wife
by taking her into his confidence, and imparting to her many invaluable
family secrets, as well as giving her instructions as to the future.
Among other things, he must have explained to her the true meaning of
the prophetic verses inscribed upon the silver disc, which was at this
period almost entirely embedded in the substance of the bark: and she
must therefore be aware of the nature of the fortune which was in store
for the Kildhurm race, and of the means by which it was to be acquired.
But the more things she was credited with knowing, the less inclined
did she seem to satisfy the curiosity of the ignorant; insomuch that
not one well-authenticated word of all the tales that the genie of the
Oak was said to have poured into her ear has ever transpired from that
day to this.

I am far from supposing, on the other hand, that Lady Kildhurm was
above sharing the persuasions of these unenlightened people as to
the extent of her own enlightenment, or perhaps, as to the channels
through which it was obtained. Persons in her peculiar condition are
not apt to be lacking in self-appreciation, and easily adopt any
theory concerning themselves which seems to give them the distinction
appertaining to supernatural pretensions. It is highly probable that
the widow of Sir Norman believed that she held communion with beings
of another world or plane of existence, and that she was happy in that
belief. It is certain that she regarded herself as in a manner a sacred
personage, and that she attributed the highest importance to all her
acts and utterances, no matter how meaningless these might appear to
the uninitiated observer. She commonly spoke of the Oak as 'My Friend,'
or 'My Counsellor,' and was careful to observe certain ceremonies and
formalities before ascending into the seclusion of the branches: such
as kneeling at the foot of the trunk and touching her forehead to the
bark, and tracing a circle round about the base of the tree with her
ivory cross. A few rude foot-rests had been made, by means of which she
could ascend to her retreat with ease; and in the angle of the boughs
she had constructed for herself a sort of seat, which she called her
throne. Here, no doubt, the pleasantest hours of her weird and lonely
existence were passed. Here she gathered in the harvest of her wisdom,
and from hence she gave it forth. The sinister Oak, which had been the
hostile tyrant of the Kildhurm race for more than a hundred and fifty
years, was become this forlorn woman's most intimate and inexhaustible
companion. On summer days the branches which supported her swayed
soothingly, and the broad leaves whispered in a murmurous undertone;
while glimpses of yellow sunshine strayed here and there through the
interstices of the foliage; or, perhaps, a shower pattered harmlessly
on the living roof overhead. From below came up the endless prattle of
the musical ocean, and the sparkle of its breezy blue. What wonder if,
at such moments, she heard voices that do not speak to mortal ears, or
beheld visions whereof the outward eye can take no note? But when the
great equinoctial gales were let loose, and came shrieking down upon
the astonished coast, then did the sibyl and her Oak strike a wilder
and more interior chord of harmony. The Oak breathed forth its deep
organ-tones of power and defiance, while the sibyl loudly chanted a
thrilling treble, that often rang out above the other noises of the
natural symphony, and caused passing travellers to start and stare,
and, if the night were already fallen, to hasten their steps and wish
themselves safe at home. After such a bout, the prophetess would
descend from her perch with a flashing eye and an exalted mien, as if
instinct with the divine fury of the seers of old; and occasionally,
after an exceptionally boisterous gale, she would appear with a cluster
of acorns or a branch of leaves in her bosom or amongst her hair, and
she was more careful of these adornments and more proud of them than if
they had been gold and precious stones. 'They are my friend's gift,'
she would answer to inquirers; 'and the token of his confidence and
favour.'

But this fantastic behaviour was, for the most part, confined to her
hours of actual association with the Oak; at such times as she was
within doors, her bearing was gentle and undemonstrative, her look
passive and vacant, and she spoke but little, and that feebly and
vaguely. She was less observant as a rule, of sights than of sounds;
she always seemed to recognise the voice of Philip, and to be aware of
the bond that united him to her; and she was fond of walking about with
his hand clasped in hers, or with her arm resting upon his shoulder,
when he had grown bigger. She was never weary of listening to his
childish and boyish talk, and he, for his part, was never more pleased
with himself and with things in general than when he was pouring out to
her the riches of his small mind--appealing to her at the end of every
sentence or two for sympathy or approval, which she never failed to
accord with a smile, or a movement of the head or hand, or a murmured
word. And sometimes--but this very rarely--she would in turn talk to
him, in a low cadenced voice, as if chanting blank verse, and with a
delivery free alike from emphasis and from hesitation. Whether or not
any wisdom were contained in these monologues, Philip only could tell;
and he used to declare that they were replete with everything that was
most sapient and profound. He never, in fact, gave in to the belief
that his mother was in any respect deficient in mental effectiveness;
on the contrary he held her to be an altogether superior being, and
argued that she appeared 'queer' to ordinary people only because the
latter were too far below her in the intellectual scale to be able to
appreciate her illustration. He was proud of her preference; and she
yielded him every indulgence he could desire, save one:--she never
permitted him to climb the Oak and share her mysterious vigils amidst
the branches. 'No,' she would answer, smiling, to his entreaties, 'no,
dear, no--no. He is our friend, but it is to me he speaks; you must
hear him only through me. Be content--be content! by-and-by you shall
know all.'

'But when will by-and-by come, mother?'

'When the great change comes, and the seal is broken, and the prophecy
is fulfilled, and the sibyl and her counsellor have vanished. There is
time; do not seek to hasten the steps of fate. Love will lead the way,
and pass through the valley of tribulation, and honour and wealth shall
wait for him beyond. You are but a boy yet! be content! by-and-by you
shall know all.'

'But I don't want you to vanish, mother, or your counsellor either. Why
should you vanish, and where are you going to vanish to?'

'Those who impart happiness must not wait to behold its enjoyment. The
bearers of evil tidings remain; but the heralds of joy pass on.'

What all this meant, Philip might have found it difficult to explain:
but he was bound to consider it satisfactory. And then his mother,
laying one hand on his shoulder, and with the other pointing upwards
through the branches of the Oak, would say solemnly, 'There--there is
treasure! Seek for it!'


                             CHAPTER XIII.

                         THE HEYDAY OF YOUTH.

The conditions of life in this world do not permit boys to retain
their boyhood indefinitely; and so it was that the boy Philip grew in
time to be a young man, and to entertain the thoughts and aspirations
proper to that important and interesting stage of human existence.
He came of age, and a celebration was held in honour of that event;
and after that he considered it to be a part of his duty to go forth
and see the world. The world, as not infrequently happens in such
cases, took more out of its beholder than its beholder could get in
return from the world; in other words, Sir Philip Kildhurm spent the
larger part of the fortune which his aunt Mrs. Chepstow had made
over to him, in discovering that it is not so easy as it looks to be
wise without experience. This curious bit of news having been duly
recorded in his memory, he presently made his way back to Kildhurm
Tower, which he found very much in the state in which he had left it;
though it appeared to him rather more stupid and monotonous than of
yore. However, young men are always fertile of expedients to relieve
monotony; and the medicine which Sir Philip prescribed to himself in
the present instance was the singularly original one of falling in
love. He fell in love with an excellent and charming young lady; and
she fell in love with him, which was probably more than he deserved:
and in due course they were betrothed, and married. Within a year from
the wedding-day, the new Lady Kildhurm presented her husband with a
daughter; and soon after having done this, she died; but the little
girl lived and grew strong and vigorous and charming.

The widower, whose somewhat frivolous and unsteady disposition had
been sobered and steadied by the shock of his much-beloved young
wife's death, sought compensation for her loss in his little daughter.
No father was ever more devoted than he; and now he fancied he had
attained a deeper understanding of that old saying of his mother
about the treasure above. Old Lady Kildhurm, it should be mentioned,
was still living at nearly eighty years of age, and was apparently
neither more nor less vigorous than she had been twenty years before.
Only now her hair was completely white, and hung down in long thick
braids, reaching below her waist. Her face, also, had undergone a
certain change. The vacant expression had given place to what might
be described as a childlike look; for it had all the serenity and
frankness of a child, and the eyes possessed that unconscious quality
of penetration that is born of the child's unsullied intuitions.
When these untroubled eyes rested upon the beholder's, therefore, he
generally looked away, if he was a bad man; but if he was a good man
he looked into them, and the further he looked, the more he found
himself thinking, not of old age, but of childhood; and if, moreover,
he happened to be acquainted with little Hilda, the granddaughter,
he was apt to find himself thinking particularly of her. Certain it
is that the infant woman and the aged one lost no time in becoming
dearly attached to each other, as if they had been kindred spirits;
and when Hilda was three years old, her sibylline grandmother did an
unprecedented thing; for she took the child in her arms, and mounted
with her to her seat in the Oak. Sir Philip almost feared for his
precious little daughter's safety, and confidently expected to hear her
break out into a clamour of alarm and aversion at the gloom and all the
strange surroundings. But as it turned out the small neophyte underwent
her initiation not only with composure but with gratification. When,
after an hour's withdrawal from the world the venerable sibyl restored
her to her father's arms, Hilda seemed regretful rather than relieved
that the experience was over.

'What did grandmamma show you?' inquired Sir Philip.

But Hilda, with praiseworthy discretion, only looked at him and shook
her wise little head, with a roguish smile in her brown eyes.

'Oh, so you are going to keep the secret as well!' said Sir Philip
laughing.

'It is her secret now,' said old Lady Kildhurm, laying her thin
dark hand on the child's golden hair. 'The spirit of the Oak was my
friend, but he is her servant. She is mistress of Kildhurm, and all
it contains. In her shall the race be blessed and their sorrows be
comforted: and woe unto him who would thwart her purpose or dispute her
will!'

All this might be true; but the fact nevertheless remained that as
Hilda grew up, the worldly fortunes of Kildhurm went down; until, at
about the period of the young lady's seventeenth birthday, they were
pretty nearly in as bad a condition as when, forty years before, Sir
Norman had ridden out to show his friend Colonel Banyon the way over
the Convent Cliff. Evidently, therefore, if Hilda was going to restore
the fortunes of the race, she could not set about the business too
soon. Hilda herself, however, did not appear to have any idea how the
thing was to be done; nor (being a person of a disposition to derive
a great deal of pleasure from a very economical expenditure) did she
seem to think a fortune of any paramount importance. She performed her
household avocations with cheerfulness and punctuality, and enjoyed her
recreation on the sea shore or the hills as heartily as if she had been
mistress of ten thousand a year. But at last, luckily for Kildhurm, and
for the reputation of prophecy, an unexpected occurrence took place. A
strange young gentleman made his appearance in the neighbourhood.

He was in every respect a highly interesting object. He was blue-eyed,
handsome in face and figure, courteous and brave. Though hardly more
than twenty-five years old, he was a captain of Grenadiers, and had won
his rank by gallant services in the American War. He was rich and well
connected; and it was reported that he had come into the neighbourhood
to buy land, to build a house, and to settle down in it. His name was
Harold Bramston; and he was a bachelor.

Improbable as it may appear, one of the last people in the county
to hear the news about Captain Bramston was the very person who was
generally considered to be the most affected by it: namely, Miss Hilda
Kildhurm. The first she knew about the matter was, that one afternoon,
as she was sitting beneath the Oak, mending a rent that she had made
in her frock the day before, she saw a gentleman ride along the road,
and draw rein at the Tower gate; and a moment afterwards she saw him
pulling vigorously at the bell-handle. This proved (what Miss Hilda had
already suspected) that the gentleman was a stranger; for anybody who
was not a stranger would have known that the bell of Kildhurm Tower had
been cracked and done away with any time these ten years past. Now, it
was unquestionably the duty of the Kildhurm family to be hospitable to
strangers; and since that family at present consisted of three members,
one of whom--Sir Philip--was absent in the neighbouring market town,
and another of whom--Miss Hilda's grandmother--was presumably asleep
in the topmost chamber of the Tower;--such being the state of affairs,
it inevitably devolved upon the third and only available member--Miss
Hilda herself--to do the honours of the occasion. So she arose, and
paced demurely across the grass towards the stranger. As she drew near
she perceived that he was very good-looking, in both senses of that
phrase, and this discovery gave her a certain satisfaction. Moreover,
when he turned to look at her it was evident that he found her
appearance agreeable, which was the more noteworthy inasmuch as she was
by no means dressed to receive company, and her hair was in disorder.
She thought the stranger must be a man of great natural kindliness, and
very easy to please. When she was within speaking distance, therefore,
she asked him, in a friendly tone, whether he wanted to see anyone?

He eyed her for a moment very intently, as if she were the first young
woman he had ever beheld; and he answered in a deep but very pleasant
voice, lifting his hat from his forehead,

'I beg your pardon!' (which she thought quite unnecessary). 'I am
Captain Bramston--Harold Bramston: you may chance to have heard mention
made of me----?' He bowed slightly with an expectant look.

'No: I never heard of you before,' replied Hilda, with a meditative
air, as if she were searching her memory to make sure.

Captain Bramston coloured a little. 'You are, I venture to suppose,
Miss--that is, Miss----'

'Yes, I am Miss Kildhurm,' she replied gravely. 'Hilda Kildhurm,' she
added, after a pause.

The Captain hereupon doffed his hat again, and continued to hold it in
his hand while he spoke.

'I am happy and honoured to meet Miss Kildhurm,' he said. 'Though you
have never heard of me, I heard of you long ago, and I have often
thought of you--pardon the liberty!--especially of late. I am a sort of
relative of yours, you must know: a distant one, I fear; but still----'

'A distant one is better than none at all,' put in Hilda, intending
no more than to help him out with his sentence; for he seemed to find
a difficulty in finishing his sentences; and when he broke off in the
midst of them he had a way of resting his eyes on her face, as if he
expected to find the conclusion there.

'Thank you for thinking it worth while to say that!' exclaimed the
Captain, straightening himself and lifting his head with a very bright
glance.

'Oh, you must not think I meant that--exactly!' Hilda said in some
haste and panic, and with a flush that may have indicated her regret at
having been born such a fool.

The Captain was certainly very kind. He took no notice of her
embarrassment, but went on, smoothing the feather in his hat as he
spoke,

'I was going to explain, in regard to our being relations, that I had a
grand-uncle, whose name was Banyon. He was an Indian colonel.'

'Oh, I know all about him,' said Hilda, glad to show that she was not
quite such a fool after all. 'He was in love with his cousin, poor old
Mrs. Chepstow, my grand-aunt; and left her all his precious stones in
his will; only she never got them, because, poor man....' Here Hilda
paused, and threw a glance at the handsome young officer.

'Because he was drowned, wasn't he?' said he, smiling however in a very
unnephew-like manner. 'And the precious stones were drowned along with
him, of course.'

'That is what the common people believe,' said Miss Kildhurm with a
certain reserve in her manner that prompted the Captain to say,

'Ah then, if I may ask it, what is Miss Kildhurm's belief?'

'I believe,' said she, after a moment's silence, 'that there is a
secret, and a mystery!'

'A mystery?' repeated the Captain, opening his blue eyes. 'Where?'

Hilda's brown eyes met his blue ones with a grave and somewhat doubtful
expression: but at last she raised her hand and pointed to the Oak,
saying nothing.

'In the Oak?' Captain Bramston at first reddened a little, as if he
thought he were being made game of; but in a moment he exclaimed in
a tone full of interest, 'Oh, is that the famous Oak--the Oak of
Kildhurm?'

'Yes, that is our Oak,' replied Hilda, with a breath of pride.

'You see, I had heard of it before,' said the Captain.

'I should think there was no one who had not heard of the Oak of
Kildhurm,' replied Hilda, rather amused at the contrary suggestion.
'I suppose there might be some who couldn't,' she added charitably,
reflecting that India and America were a long way off, and their
inhabitants probably very ignorant.

'May I see it?' resumed Captain Bramston.

'You cannot see the mystery!' Hilda answered with some awe in her
voice. 'I have not seen that myself; I only know a little about it. My
grandmamma is the only one who has seen!'

'I was speaking of the Oak. As to the mystery, I shan't ask about
seeing that as long as I may see you.'

'I don't see how you can say that,' replied Hilda, 'since you have
known me only so short a time.'

'But I have been waiting to know you a long time,' the Captain was bold
enough to say: 'ever since I was a man. And the longer one waits to
know a woman, the faster he gets to know her when he begins.'

'But I have not been waiting any time at all to know you, and yet--'
began Hilda. But there she broke off, and said, 'You will think I have
no manners, Captain Bramston. I have forgotten to ask you on what
errand you are come here. And will you not step into the house and have
some refreshment? I expect my father back in an hour or so.'

'Miss Kildhurm, have I offended you?' said the Captain very humbly.

'No, indeed, anything but that!'

'Else you would not speak so formally.'

'I must not speak as I might speak, if my father were here,' answered
the young lady with a blush. 'I am the representative of the family
until he comes, and I must speak for them and not for myself.'

'Then--I wish your father were here!' exclaimed the Captain.

'So do I.'

'Why do you wish it? So that you might get rid of me? or so that you
might not continue to be the representative of your family?'

'That does not seem to me a very wise question. But will you not step
into the house?'

'You were sitting under the Oak when I first saw you: would you mind
letting me come there?'

'Wherever you wish,' replied Miss Kildhurm graciously; and she led the
way to the Oak, and she and the Captain established themselves beneath
its shadow.

The Captain thought it was the loveliest day and the loveliest spot
that he had ever seen; which simply showed that he must have been a
very unobservant young man hitherto, because, in his travels about
the world, he had met with scenes and with climates far lovelier than
Kildhurm could boast of at its best. But the Captain, though he praised
the prospect, looked at it much less than at his companion; and if
he had said that his travels had never brought him in contact with
anybody like her, he would probably have been declaring more nearly
what he felt to be the truth. She was so simple, and yet so dignified:
so naïve, and yet so sensible: so lovely, and yet so unconscious. He
gazed, and wondered, and blessed his stars for having brought him round
the world, and reserved this fairest of all sights for him at the end
of his pilgrimages and dangers. Yes, it was a blessed fortune that had
put it into his mind to come and settle down here, in this remote and
beautiful region, here to make his home and to spend his days. And it
was a beneficent Providence, surely, that had kept his heart free and
unstained through those perilous years of early youth, when hearts are
so apt to go astray. What happiness to think that he might say to this
charming maiden, 'You are the first woman I have loved; and I am not
wholly unfit to take your hand in mine, and to look in your dear eyes!'
For it was nothing less than this that the Captain already imagined
himself as saying to Miss Kildhurm.

But having got thus far in his thoughts he began to entertain gloomy
and portentous fears. What if Miss Kildhurm should not respond to this
sudden and unlooked-for passion of his? What should she know of love?
And why should she love him? This last was a question which Harold
Bramston might not have thought it necessary to ask himself in respect
of every woman that he had met: but, as regarded Hilda Kildhurm, he
found himself destitute of any vanity whatever, and inclined to look
upon himself as the most insignificant of men. The most insignificant
of men? Was there then some other man who was more significant--or who
possessed more significance in Hilda's eyes? This idea was torture to
Captain Bramston, and he tried to put it away, and to fight against it;
but the more he tried the more numerous and plausible were the reasons
which suggested themselves to him for supposing it to be true. There
must be young men enough in the country-side to love and woo fifty
Hildas; and such a Hilda as this might raise up lovers to herself in
the midst of a desert. And if she were loved, why might she not love
in return? Oh! misery, why might she not be engaged to somebody at
this very moment? Was it consistent with human nature to suppose that
she could have lived for a little less than twenty years in the world
without having been obliged to engage herself to somebody? Captain
Bramston groaned inwardly, and cursed his luck for not having made him
to be born and raised under the shadow of Kildhurm's Oak.

And what were Hilda's thoughts all this time? She said to herself
that there was a sensation in her heart which she had never known
till now: a lightness, a fulness, and yet a fear: it affected her
voice, so that she found it difficult to speak evenly or to breathe as
regularly as usual, or to keep under control the blood that sought her
cheeks. Moreover, a smile was ever attempting to manifest itself on
her lips, without her being able to account to herself satisfactorily
for its being there. She told herself that this was very silly; but
its being silly did not prevent it from being rather pleasant. Another
singularity in her sensations was, that she felt a great tenderness
and affection for the world at large. Everything seemed kind to her,
and considerate of her happiness. There was a bird up somewhere in the
branches of the Oak that sang just the kind of song that she would have
liked to sing, if she had known how. Surely the sunshine need not have
fallen with such mellow radiance of warm colour on the grass and on the
grey Tower, if it had not wished to do her an especial favour: surely
the sea need not have murmured with such languorous sweetness beneath
the cliff, if it had not wished to echo the inarticulate harmony that
whispered in her own soul. And, by the way (not that this had anything
to do with it), what a delightful voice Captain Bramston had, and what
a noble countenance, and what a gentle and withal spirited expression,
and what a picturesque way of leaning against the trunk of the Oak, and
of occasionally moving his hand when he spoke, and of throwing back
his head when he laughed. What a strange freak of destiny to bring
this young hero all round the world to sit here at her feet at last,
and make a summer afternoon so memorable! It was a remarkably brief
afternoon, however, and once gone it would never return. It would never
return. There was a sweet pain in that reflection--the sweeter the more
painful. Yes, Captain Bramston would ride away by-and-by, and he would
never come back. Why should he come back? There could never be such
another afternoon: there could never be such another Captain Bramston:
there could never be such another longing, and tenderness, and fear
as abode now in Hilda's heart. Such things, such times, came once and
came no more. As Hilda said this to herself, she felt quite melancholy
in the midst of her happiness; and soft tears stood in her eyes as she
looked seaward.

It must not be supposed that these two young people allowed anything
of what was passing in their minds to appear in their conversation:
by no means! They talked of anything rather than that. The Captain
gave an interesting account of his adventures abroad, and described
the American Indians, and General Lafayette, and General Washington,
and General Arnold, and unfortunate Major André, who was so cruelly
hanged. Captain Bramston was of opinion that Arnold was much more
deserving of hanging than André. To all this Hilda listened and replied
and questioned; and then, being questioned in turn, she attempted to
give some account of her own life at Kildhurm; whom she saw, what she
did, what she wanted to do: but it all struck her as being profoundly
uninteresting and empty, and she was sure that Captain Bramston must
share her opinion, though he very politely made believe that he liked
to hear her. So the hours passed away and the sun reached the hills,
and Hilda expected every moment to hear Captain Bramston say that now
he must be going. But he stayed on in the most unaccountable way. It
was strange, too, how well acquainted with each other they seemed to
have become, though they had been but so short a time together, and
had talked about such external matters. It almost seemed as if they
must have known what was passing, unuttered, in each other's hearts.
Could it be that those things that can never be spoken manage to get
themselves expressed, somehow, in the tones of the voice and the
glances of the eyes, and effect more in a few hours than words can tell
in as many months?

'You have not yet told me, Captain Bramston,' Hilda said at last, 'the
reason why you came here.'

'I did not know why I came till after I got here,' said the Captain.

Hilda gazed at him inquiringly.

'I knew as soon as I saw you,' the intrepid gentleman pursued.

'Oh! then it was not anything worth knowing!'

'I care more about it than about anything else in the world!'

'Then what did you care most about before this?'

'About--myself, I suppose!'

'You should have left somebody else to do that!'

'Somebody else? Who?'

'Oh--anybody!'

Captain Bramston took hold of her hand, and his eyes were ardent.
'Miss Kildhurm, I--may I tell you something?'

She made an effort to draw her hand away. 'I think I would rather you
didn't--at least with that voice, and----'

'Don't turn away from me!' exclaimed this impetuous warrior; and he
kissed her hand passionately. 'I cannot help it! Hilda, I----'

An imperative voice here interrupted the young people, and brought
Captain Bramston to his feet. 'Stop, sir!' it said. 'Whoever you are,
this conduct is inadmissible. Stand back, sir!'

It was Sir Philip; and old Lady Kildhurm was with him. Sir Philip was
looking as stern--and, indeed, fierce--as it was in his nature to do.
Hilda, rising also, said appealingly,

'Don't, father! It wasn't his fault!'

'Not his fault--!' Sir Philip, in a mixture of amazement and
indignation, glared first at his daughter, then at the handsome
stranger, who, however, met his look frankly and resolutely. For a few
moments the baronet's face worked strangely: then, much to the surprise
and more to the relief of the guilty persons, he burst into a shout of
laughter.


                             CHAPTER XIV.

                           THE WEDDING-GIFT.

It was not so difficult, after this, to make the necessary explanations
and apologies. Sir Philip had heard about Captain Bramston before,
though Hilda had not; and, in the bottom of his heart, he did not
object to regard him in the light of a possible son-in-law. But it
would not do to confess this just at present. Captain Bramston had
stood to his guns, and, on the spot where he stood, had declared his
love for Hilda Kildhurm, and demanded Sir Philip's consent to their
betrothal.

'I can give you nothing of the kind, sir,' replied the Baronet,
endeavouring to look immitigable. 'Your request is as premature as--as
it is contrary to sound principle. Anyone would suppose, Captain
Bramston, that you expected the world to come to an end by to-morrow
morning, by the haste you are in to have your affairs settled!'

'In this case, Sir Philip,' replied the Captain, with equal respect
and firmness, 'sound principle is of no use. The falling in love is an
accomplished fact. The next thing to settle is the date of the wedding.'

'Upon my word, Captain Bramston,' the Baronet exclaimed, 'if you are
as pushing in war as you seem to be in other matters, you should have
been a general long ago. But we will, if you please, dismiss this
subject for the present. I am in no hurry to lose my daughter in the
first place, and moreover, in an affair of this nature, I could not
think of deciding anything without consulting Lady Kildhurm, my mother.'

Lady Kildhurm and Hilda had withdrawn during this colloquy between the
gentlemen, and Hilda had gone into the house. But as the Baronet and
Captain Bramston, still conversing earnestly, slowly made their way
across the lawn, they were suddenly aware that Lady Kildhurm was again
near them. They halted, and were silent.

She was, at this time, almost at the extreme limit of old age; yet her
eyes were clear and her bearing dignified; and so far from her mental
infirmity having become exaggerated, it had grown year by year less
obtrusive, though she was at least as far as ever from being on normal
terms with the material world. She lived in a world of her own; but
she accommodated the latter to the former more easily than before. So
serene and unexaggerated were her tones and gestures, that a stranger
would hardly have suspected that she was virtually unconscious of what
most people call the realities of life.

When the venerable sibyl was within a yard or so of Harold Bramston,
she paused, with her face and the palms of her hands turned towards
him: and without seeming to look at him in the usual way, she still had
the air of taking his measure so keenly and fully, that, unless the
Captain's conscience was cleaner than most men's, he must have passed
an uneasy minute or two. But at length the sibyl raised her hands
slowly and let them fall again with a gesture like a benediction; and
the expression of her face was gracious as she said, in a gentle and
flowing voice:

'He that rode over the Convent Cliff was a true man; and a spirit akin
to his is here. If the treasure reveal itself to him, let him take it:
he is worthy of it. I have waited long, I am weary. Lord, now speedily
wilt Thou suffer me to depart. So be it!'

At this undeniable declaration in the young Captain's favour, Sir
Philip felt a great deal more satisfaction than he was at all disposed
to show; and the end of it was that the two lovers were allowed to
stroll off by themselves beneath the Oak, and there formally to
renew and re-seal the compact, in the making of which the Baronet
had so aptly surprised them. That evening, after Hilda had gone to
her chamber, the Baronet and Captain had a private confabulation in
the former's study. The Captain then and there made a full statement
regarding his position in the world, more particularly from the
pecuniary point of view. It appeared that his circumstances were more
than easy; that he had absolute control over nearly a hundred and
fifty thousand pounds; and that he was prepared to settle any part of
this sum, or the whole of it, according as Sir Philip pleased, on his
wife, on the day of their marriage. He only wished that he could do
something more.

'I must say, Bramston,' exclaimed Sir Philip, laughing, 'that you are
more dangerously in love than any man I ever saw or heard of. You must
go off somewhere for a month and see if you can't get rid of a little
of it. I shall positively refuse to sign settlements with a man in so
pitiable a condition as you are now. Recollect, my good fellow, that
Hilda goes to you literally penniless; and that I never should feel
comfortable if I had not left open to you every avenue of escape in my
power. Besides, don't you see that you will be paying one another a
finer mutual compliment by waiting a while and seeking distractions,
than by coming together at once, and so losing all opportunity of
making sacrifices? Well, whether you see it or not, those are my
orders, and you will have to put up with them.'

'You will of course allow us to correspond?' demanded the Captain, when
he saw that he was beaten on the main point.

'I should greatly prefer not.'

'Then I will write to her, Sir Philip, in spite of you!' cried out the
other, firing up.

'Oh, very well: in that case I agree,' rejoined Sir Philip with a
twinkle in his eyes. 'You may write to her five times in the course
of the month--choosing your own times, whether all in one day, or once
in every six. But are you sure a month will be long enough to get your
affairs in order?'

'Oh, Sir Philip! And they are in order. They have been in charge of a
friend of mine for three years past. I shall have a look through his
accounts, so as to see exactly where I stand--that will take me about
three hours I should say--and then I shall have nothing else to do
until the month is up. Six times a week am I to write, did you say? Why
not make it six times a day?'

'Ha, ha, ha! But as regards this friendly man of business of yours. You
are quite certain he is trustworthy? That's a lot of property to leave
out of your hands for three years, especially if you only require three
hours in which to look through the accounts!'

'I trust him, dear Sir Philip, as I trust myself. If you only knew
him----'

'Quite right! if I only knew him of course I should not have made
the inquiry. As it is--having known what it was to lose money in my
youth--I did make it! And now, Captain Bramston, as I can't ask you to
spend the night here, I must bid you good-bye. I shall be glad to see
you back, safe and sound, when your month is up; and I won't pretend to
say that I don't believe you'll come, and that Hilda won't expect you.
As for the money-matters, of course it's a capital thing to have a rich
son-in-law; but I must confess that I should have liked you a good
deal better if honours had been a little more equally divided!'

On these terms the two gentlemen parted; little anticipating what was
to happen.

Hilda received her first letter on the day following her lover's
departure, he having written it on his way to London, and despatched it
back to her by special messenger. She did not expect a letter on the
next day, nor on the next, and not much on the day after that; and this
was well, for on no one of these days did a letter come. A week passed,
and no letter. Ten days, and no letter. Two weeks, and still no letter.
It was now apparent, even to Sir Philip, who had affected to make great
fun of her at first, that something must have happened. The address
which Captain Bramston had given had been at his business manager's;
Sir Philip privately sent a messenger thither, to make inquiries; but
at the end of the third week the messenger returned, and brought with
him the astounding news that there were no news to bring! Nothing
was known at the address given either of the manager or of Captain
Bramston. Was the man dead, or an impostor, or had he simply changed
his mind? It was at all events plain that he would never again show his
face at Kildhurm Tower.

It was necessary, therefore, to have a very painful interview with
Hilda. Poor Sir Philip recoiled at the prospect; but it was not to be
avoided; and at last he sent for her, and having taken her by both
hands and kissed her, he opened his mouth to begin. But she suddenly
and quietly laid her hand upon his lips.

'I know what you are going to say, father, and you need not say it.'

'You have given him up, then? That's my brave girl!'

'I have not given him up. He is the same to me as ever, and I to him.
I feel that he is true. I should know if he was not. You need not
be uneasy or angry, dear father; and above all you need not try to
persuade me that this is not so. He will come back; and we shall be
happier even than we thought of being before.'

'Has my mother spoken?' demanded Sir Philip, after a long pause.

'She believes as I do: but it is not from her belief that I believe; it
is from myself.'

'I shall not contradict you, my daughter,' said Sir Philip, after
another silence. 'I will even say that it is possible--as everything is
possible--that you may be right. But one thing I must ask of you. How
long do you mean to hope? What day will you call the last?'

'The last day of the month to be sure, father. That is the day on which
he will come.'

'What makes you say that, my daughter?'

'Because that is the day on which he promised to come!' returned Hilda
with an involuntary smile. 'Do you think Harold would not keep his
promise?'

The last day of the month came, and Hilda appeared with her best frock
on, and with fresh flowers in her hair. 'He will be here at dinner,'
she said; and she made her arrangements accordingly, setting a chair
for him, and decorating that and his plate with leaves and blossoms.
Sir Philip looked on with a heavy heart; but he held his peace. The
faith of his child appalled him, but he dared not share it, and the
moment was not yet come to repudiate it. His agitation was so great
that he strove in vain to conceal it: but Hilda, though her colour was
high and her eyes bright, was as calm and confident as if her lover had
arrived the day before. Dinner time drew near; and, shortly before the
hour struck, Harold appeared at the door as if by magic.

Sir Philip started up from his chair with a great hoarse shout, and
remained stationary. Hilda came up to her lover, threw her arms about
his neck, and kissed him heartily! As for Harold, he looked haggard and
grim, and he made scarce a show of returning Hilda's caress.

'Come, now, sit down,' she said, in the most natural and sensible way
in the world, 'and tell us why you have not written, and what all this
trouble has been about!'

'It is better that I should tell you at once,' said Harold, in a husky
voice. 'All the money that I had is gone. I am almost a beggar. The
friend whom I trusted....' He stopped for a few moments and then went
on, 'I followed him--all this month until to-day I have been hunting
after him; but he is gone, and all is gone; and I am come, Sir Philip,
to release your daughter from her engagement, and to be gone also.'

So saying Captain Bramston got up from the chair in which he had
unconsciously seated himself, and stood with his head bent, and his
eyes on the floor.

Hilda broke into an irrepressible little laugh. 'How silly you are,
Harold,' she said, 'to make so much fuss about a little money! Nobody
paid us to fall in love with each other, and why should we be paid to
be married?'

Harold raised his face, now flushed to the roots of his hair, and his
eyes burning. 'But what say you, Sir Philip?' he cried in a sharp,
ringing voice.

'I say I should marry her, if I were in your place,' answered the
Baronet, with humorous indifference; 'and the next time you get a
fortune, take better care what you do with it. Meanwhile, shake
hands, my dear boy; and let me observe that I'm uncommonly glad (and
surprised) to see you.'

'Your happiness is near,' said Lady Kildhurm, who had entered the room
so quietly that none of the three had noticed her. 'To-night the spell
is broken. The saying shall be made perfect. It shall be well with
you, and with me. To-morrow, early in the morning, search the Oak.'

On that night all in the household were visited by strange dreams; and
through the dreams they heard a sound of a voice chanting a weird song,
and rising higher and clearer; until at last there came a deep booming
sound like thunder: and after that the chant was heard no more.

In the morning, early, Harold and Hilda went out, and walked arm-in-arm
to the cliff where the Oak had stood. But lo! the Oak was gone. The
overhanging promontory on which it grew had parted from the main land
during the night, wrenching the mighty tree with it. But the ocean had
received the tree in its arms, and had carried it away, never again
to be seen by mortal eyes. For the waves had been the friends of the
mysterious Oak from the beginning; and they had drawn a veil of solemn
mystery over its end.

But where was the ancient sibyl? She too had vanished, singing her
wild chant; perhaps to find in another world the treasure whereof she
had prophesied so long on this earth. At all events, no one ever saw
her living or dead, after that night; and it came to be believed that
she had been borne on her last journey amidst the branches of the tree
which she had made her home.

But on the brink of the freshly-made chasm still stood a tall and
rugged fragment of the Oak, which had remained in its place when the
bulk of the tree was wrenched away. High up in this fragment there
appeared a narrow and deep crevice or hole, now revealed, section-wise,
by the rending asunder of the wood. At the bottom of this hole was
seen a small wallet of embroidered leather: and when Harold shook the
fragment of the tree, the wallet fell from its place, and bursting open
on the ground, a flash of precious stones greeted the lovers' wondering
eyes. Amidst the stones was found the lost signet ring of Norman
Kildhurm.

In that narrow hole, therefore, these gems must have rested ever since
the felonious right hand of Sir Norman had placed them there. But he,
hurriedly striving to withdraw his hand, was caught by the narrow mouth
of the hole; and fancying, in his guilty fear, that the demon of the
Oak had got hold of him, he had screamed three times in uncontrollable
terror, and had torn himself loose, mangling his hand, and leaving
his signet ring behind. And the desperate vehemence of his effort had
caused him to overbalance himself; so he fell backward through the
branches to the ground, and his neck had been miserably broken by the
fall. Such, at least, is the commonly accepted explanation of that dark
catastrophe.

But to whom belonged the jewels thus strangely brought to light?
Harold, as the nearest living relative of the murdered Colonel, was
his legitimate heir; to him, accordingly, the long-deferred but most
opportune inheritance came. To tell all that he did with it would
require a new story. Whatever it was, it was done with the approval
of his unworldly-wise wife, and of the worldly-wise Sir Philip, his
father-in-law. For, after the days of mourning for the vanished Lady
Kildhurm were over, Harold and Hilda were married, and lived together
in much happiness, though they were never able to agree as to which had
the best of the other in the matter of settlements. In process of time
they became the parents of the child who grew up to be the beautiful
Lady Mainwaring of our own day, and who, as has been intimated, deigned
to furnish so modern a person as the present writer with the materials
for this history of Kildhurm's Oak.




                           THE NEW ENDYMION.


                                  I.

The term was over, and William Maybold had got his double first.

Under certain circumstances, and especially in youth, the mind
becomes abnormally sensitive to impressions of all kinds. Severe and
long-continued study, a light diet, lack of exercise, and a superfluity
of anxiety, had combined to bring my mental man into a condition
somewhat resembling the ascetic ecstasy ascribed to the monks of old
time--a condition in which the young men see visions and the old men
dream dreams. In other words, I had overworked myself, and my health,
never very robust, now seemed to run some risk of breaking down
altogether. My brain was in a state of nervous exaltation; my hands
were thin and tremulous; my nights were disturbed by strange dreams,
and even by occasional somnambulism; and I no longer felt energy to
undertake the long walks which had been my panacea for bodily ailments.
It seemed likely that my university honours might turn out to have been
bought at too high a price.

My doctor, having felt my pulse, furnished me with the somewhat
gratuitous information that what I needed was rest--rest absolute and
persistent, bodily and mental: to dream beneath green trees; to linger
by still waters; to forget that such things as books and knowledge
existed; to think of nothing, and converse with nobody more stimulating
than birds, beasts, country yokels, and speckled trout. Anything in the
shape of newspapers, railways, days of the week or month, or, in fact,
of time and civilisation in general, were to be entirely ignored. I was
to establish a sort of rural eternity for myself, and to forget that
such a thing as a nineteenth century had ever been born.

I was wholly persuaded of the soundness of this advice; the trouble
was, I had not 'go' enough left in me to follow it. I wanted somebody
to give me a shove in the required direction. Unfortunately, I was
almost alone in the world, and could think of no quarter whence the
external impetus might be expected. I had made few intimate friends in
the university, and none of a temperament at once idle and energetic
enough to provide the sort of companionship I needed. I was an only
child, and my widowed mother had died about a year previous, leaving
me an empty house somewhere in the suburbs of London, a comfortable
competence, and no relations that I could remember ever to have seen. I
was as solitary in the midst of the populous earth as if I had changed
places with the man in the moon.

I was doing my situation less than justice, however. Just as I had
begun to subside into I know not what sluggish depths of despondency, I
received a letter which put a new face upon matters, and lent a fillip
to my jaded mood such as awakened me to something like liveliness. The
letter was from an uncle of mine, whose very existence had been almost
mythical to me, for he was a recluse and an eccentric, who never went
anywhere, and lived in an out-of-the-way place, where nobody ever went.
As his communication was brief and to the point, I will give it here at
full length:

    'DEAR NEPHEW,--If your studies have left you brains enough to
    apprehend the vanity of double firsts and their consequences, come
    to me and let me look at you. If I like your looks you may stay
    here a month or two. You will see the country, Diana, and the
    stars; you will hear the winds, the birds, and the brook; and of
    the world you have hitherto lived in you will see and hear nothing.
    I shall expect you the day after to-morrow.--Your uncle,

                                                       'PHILIP NORMAN.'

I allowed myself no doubts as to this invitation, but wrote an
acceptance by return of post. The rest of the day was spent in packing
my trunk and making arrangements for my absence. It was only on the
evening preceding departure, when all preparations were complete, that
I found time to sit down and recall what little I knew of my uncle
Philip, and to forecast the kind of life I might expect with him. He
was my mother's brother, and I remember hearing that he had quarrelled
with her on the occasion of her marriage some twenty-five years ago.
Later on, he had himself married, but his wife had died in childbirth
within the year, leaving him with an infant daughter--presumably the
Diana referred to in his letter. But 'Diana--and the stars'--what was
the meaning of that? Was my worthy relative a dabbler in astrology--a
devotee of forbidden sciences? The idea moved me strangely. I had
always been an imaginative youth, and nothing had stimulated the boyish
poetry of my nature so much as the beauty and mystery of the heavenly
bodies. I loved to speculate as to whether they were inhabited, and,
if so, by what sort of beings: I loved to believe that they exercised
some inscrutable influence over human destinies; that, at all events,
the fortunes of our earth were connected with them in some manner
whereof the attraction of gravitation was but the material symbol.
Such speculations used to inspire me with a feeling at once of
insignificance and of exaltation; and I deemed that my life could not
be spent more wisely and worthily than in pondering over these secrets
of the stars, and striving to solve the problem of their affinity
with man. As I grew up, however, the course of my education drew me
away from the region of these fancies; not without a vague sentiment
of disappointment, I learned to open the gates of practical knowledge
with the key of inductive reasoning; and the mystic enchantment of
those heavenly suns and planets was half destroyed by the rude facts of
spectrum analysis, and the ingenious calculations of distances, orbits,
and dimensions. Astronomy, with its certainties and its syllogisms,
repelled me: it revealed too much, and yet nothing to my purpose. I
hated the impertinence of him who would tell me the density of Jupiter,
the composition of Sirius, and the names of the mountains in the moon.
To my sense, such petty knowledge was worse than no knowledge at all,
and I was shocked by the self-complacent irreverence of its professors.
Better, thought I, than these were the astrologers of yore, with their
statistical ignorance, their spiritual insight, and their humble faith.
They, at least, appreciated the awful solemnity that should attend the
thought of other worlds, material, perhaps, as our own, yet for ever
separated from us by a chasm as profound and as mysterious as death.
Away with the modern man of science, ready primed with his dapper
theories, who cares not to meditate upon the divine reason which placed
that eternal gulf between the moon and us, but fancies he has disposed
of the whole matter by informing us just how many miles and furlongs
it measures across! Can he learn no loftier lesson from the ghastly
majesty of that weird sphere?

With such prejudices against astronomy as distinguished from astrology,
it is no wonder that I shunned the former as much as possible, both at
school and at college. Though I could not avoid acquiring a certain
familiarity with the phraseology and the general principles of the
science, what I learned took no root in my mind, but remained lifeless
and barren. It was my intention to improve the earliest opportunity of
clearing it out altogether, and then to endeavour to regain, so far
as might be possible, the poetical superstitions of my earlier time.
Deliberate recantations of this kind are not, however, so practical as
we fain would have them, and, until I read that chance sentence about
the stars in my uncle's letter, I had really bestowed little or no
serious consideration upon the matter. But his words, and the memories
and reflections to which they gave rise, produced in me a singular
excitement, which my abnormal state of health doubtless did much to
foster. My sleep that night was more than usually disturbed, and when,
the next day, I started for my uncle's house, I was in a tremor of
indefinite expectation that was anything but healthful.


                                  II.

The railway station at which I alighted was, the porter told me, about
seven miles distant from Mr. Norman's place. This information rather
staggered me, as there were no cabs in that part of the world, and
walking, for one in my state of health, was quite out of the question.
Just then, however, a country waggon drove up to the station door, with
a stout, serviceable bay mare between the shafts. The elderly farmer
who handled the reins threw them on the mare's back, and, clambering to
the ground, faced about and abruptly asked me whether I were William
Maybold.

'Yes,' I said, amused at his rustic bluntness; 'were you sent here by
Mr. Philip Norman?'

'I'm to drive you to his house,' replied the man, gruffly. 'Get up,
sir. Got any luggage?'

'Only that trunk; can you lift it?'

I needed scarcely have asked the question. My farmer, though not of any
great height, was as broad and muscular as an old Roman gladiator, and
he swung the trunk into the back of the waggon as easily as if it had
been a lady's handbox. He was in every respect a fine type of the men
of that region. His face was dark, and ruggedly moulded, and the deep
lines which traversed it gave it an expression of sternness, which the
gruffness of his tones in speaking seemed to confirm. His grizzled
black hair was cropped short round the lower part of his head; the
crown--as I noticed when he took off his hat to wipe his forehead--was
bald; and he wore a great shaggy beard like a prophet. But the
remarkable features of his face were his eyes, which were large and
dark, and had the steady, distant look in them that is often observable
in the eyes of seafaring men. They seemed to have beheld sights beyond
ordinary human ken.

'I suppose you know Mr. Norman?' I said to my companion as we drove
away.

'Yes; I have charge of his garden.'

'He sees very little of the world, I believe?'

'There are more worlds than one, young man.'

As I did not know exactly what to make of this reply, I was silent,
and gave my attention to the country through which we were passing. It
was fertile, and rich in verdure, but the houses were very scarce. The
road we were travelling wound considerably, but constantly ascended,
and bade fair to land us at last on the summit of a commanding
eminence. The prospect constantly widened around us as we proceeded,
and its beauty, as it reposed in the mellow splendour of the afternoon
sunshine, so wrought upon me that at length I let slip some exclamation
of delight.

'Can a Cockney care for this?' demanded the farmer, fixing his eyes
upon me for a moment.

'I'm not infatuated with London,' I answered, laughing. 'I've travelled
farther away from it than this, before now.'

'Ay, London's not the world, young man, and the world is not the
universe,' rejoined my companion, whom I now began to recognise as a
'character.' After a pause, he added, 'Have you seen the Alps?'

'More than once.'

'What did they make you feel?'

'I think their loneliness and silence impressed me most. I felt that
they were very mighty, and I very little.'

For what reason I could not imagine, this answer appeared to please the
dark-browed farmer. He nodded his head once or twice, and murmured in a
deep, inward voice 'Ay--right--right! But there are mountains wilder,
and mightier, and lonelier than they.'

'You are a traveller yourself, then?' I exclaimed, surveying him with a
new interest 'You have been a sailor, perhaps?'

'I have sailed a wide ocean and a deep one; and I have seen distant
lands; yet I have never set foot off the shore of England,' was the
reply.

Again I was silenced. There was something decidedly mysterious in the
tone of this man's conversation. What did he mean by his talk of other
worlds, and of visiting foreign countries without leaving his own? I
should have set him down as perhaps a little wrong in the head, had
not the stern self-possession and utter absence of extravagance in his
manner discountenanced such a supposition. On the other hand, he was
manifestly a man of some education and even refinement. His dress was
rude enough, but his speech was accurate, and his face, despite its
ruggedness, was sensitive to the play of thought within. It occurred
to me that he might be a spiritualist, and that the strange lands to
which he alluded might be the visions of mesmeric trance. Yet no; there
was in him no trace of the morbid and unwholesome restlessness of the
confirmed disciples of that unlucky science. What, then, was he?

I looked round at him as I asked this question of myself, and met those
far-seeing eyes of his directed upon me with something like a grave
smile lurking at their bottom. This smile quite changed the impression
of his visage, illumining it with a genial light that was singularly
winning. It brought a sudden memory to my mind.

'You take me for a lunatic, young man,' said he; 'well, in a certain
way, perhaps I am one. You must ask your uncle.'

'I dare say he could tell me as much about you as anyone,' I replied,
returning his smile; 'for I believe you are my uncle, yourself!'

'What makes you think that?'

'You smile as my mother used to do.'

At the mention of my mother his face saddened again, and he sighed;
but after a moment, 'Well, my boy, you have found me out,' he said,
patting me kindly on the shoulder. 'I wished to meet you as a man
before I greeted you as a nephew. You seem to be an honest fellow,
though you have but a flimsy body to carry your honesty about with. I
am glad to see you here.'

There was so much quiet heartiness in this welcome, that I felt at home
with my relative at once. He now talked with me more freely, asking
many particulars about my mother and myself, and indulging in no more
of those enigmatical utterances which had made him seem so questionable
at first. In this manner we slowly wound our way to the top of the long
acclivity, and after driving a level mile or so, I saw the summit of a
lofty stone tower peering above the trees.

'That is my travelling-carriage,' said Uncle Philip, pointing to the
tower with his whip. 'The house stands beside it; we shall see it when
we have turned that corner.'

'His travelling-carriage!' thought I. But reflecting that all these
enigmas could not fail to explain themselves under the influence of my
month's sojourn, I held my peace for the present; and in another minute
we had come in full view of the dwelling. It adjoined the tower, and,
like it, was built of grey stone. It was an old farmhouse, of no great
size, with a red-tiled roof and gabled ends; a clustered brick chimney
divided the ridgepole, and two dormer-windows pushed themselves up
above the low eaves. The windows beneath were cut down to the ground,
and served as supplementary doors: they opened vertically, and from
within was a glimpse of pleasant, low-ceiled rooms. As for the tower,
which was half draped with ivy, it was evidently a much more ancient
structure than the house; it must have been at least seventy feet in
height, and its top rose well above the trees; and standing as it did
on the highest point of ground for many a mile round about, it would
overlook an amazing expanse of country.

'You are very near the moon, up there!' I remarked; and then I caught
sight of a figure standing in the open doorway, which immediately
commanded every faculty of my mind to the one function of looking.


                                 III.

The waggon drew up to the door. 'Jump down, sir,' said my uncle.
'Diana,' he continued, 'this is your cousin William. I think you may
trust him.'

She came forward and gave me her hand--it was soft, and smooth, and
slender. She conquered me with the first glance of her great hazel
eyes. Her whole figure and bearing were goddess-like, and withal
completely feminine. She was well-named after the chaste huntress of
mythology. I never saw a woman's form at once so stately, so supple,
and so refined.

Her pale auburn hair was massed over her low forehead like the crescent
moon. Her nose was straight and delicate, her cheeks oval, her mouth
curved like a bow, her chin round and white. She was dressed in white,
with a black bow at her throat, and a black sash round her waist; and
a black velvet ribbon bound her hair. She was tall, but not too tall;
and the lines of her figure were at once graceful and severe. She would
have impressed me at any time and in any place; but in this secluded
spot, and in my condition of peculiar sensitiveness, she came upon me
almost like a being from a superior world. The ordinary daylight seemed
too rude and familiar for her. She should have dwelt, methought, under
the mystic influences of the moon; the original reserve and innocent
dignity of her demeanour were somehow suggestive of the pure cold
glamour of that strange companion of our earth.

While her father took the waggon round to the stable, she led me within
doors, and made me sit down in the pleasant little parlour. It was full
of the odour of flowers.

'You look tired, Cousin Will,' said she. 'It is a long way from London
here.'

'It seems so, indeed. If I had journeyed to another planet, all this
could not seem more fresh and delightful. Have you ever been there?'

'In London? Oh no; why should I? I was born here, and this is my home.'

True enough, London with its smoke and turmoil was no place for this
young sibyl. Her beautiful feet were made to tread nothing lower than
mountain-tops. I asked her whether many people visited them here.

'Last year we saw a great many--twelve, I believe,' she answered quite
simply, as if the population of the earth were but a small multiple of
that number. 'But they were all scientific persons, who came to find
out about our discoveries. You are not scientific?'

'No, indeed! I am nothing--only a young man.'

'You are the first young man I have seen.'

'I wish I were a better specimen!' I said rather ruefully. 'They are
not all like me, I assure you!'

She turned upon me the full gaze of her changing eyes, and I felt that
she was looking very far into me. After a pause she said thoughtfully,
'It is strange! You look a little--yes, a great deal--like.... Are you
like your mother?'

'I believe more like my father.'

She shook her head, still thoughtfully. Then, rousing herself, she said
with a smile, 'You look pale and tired; but that we shall cure you of.'

'Why I begin to feel cured already, what with this pure air and--and
all! But tell me, Cousin Diana, what are these discoveries you speak
of?'

At this question her face became quite grave again, and she answered
with a somewhat altered manner, and a lower intonation, as though
touching upon a subject invested with a kind of sacredness:

'We do not speak of it to strangers--that is, we never speak of it. But
you are not a stranger: and father said I might trust you: and--I think
I may! Well, you shall know in good time.'

At this juncture my uncle came in.

'Now, nephew, your room is ready for you. You and Diana have had time
enough to become good cousins, I hope? Very well, come up and get ready
for dinner. This way!'

He conducted me along a passage to a narrow door, on opening which a
winding staircase was discovered. Ascending this--a somewhat weary
journey for me--my uncle paused on the third landing and ushered me
into a nearly circular room, fitted and furnished with dark carved
wood. Two or three dusky oil-portraits hung on the walls--which last,
judging from the deep embrasures of the windows, must have been of
extraordinary thickness; and the massive groined ceiling seemed
designed to support a vast superincumbent weight.

'This is the lower chamber,' observed my uncle. 'As long as you stay
with us it will be yours.'

'I'm not turning you out of your travelling-carriage, Uncle Philip?'

'That's overhead,' he answered, with a smile. 'After dinner, if
the evening turns out clear, you may go up there, and try a little
excursion.'

A light began to dawn upon my slow wits.

'It is an observatory!' I exclaimed. 'You are an astronomer?'

'Yes and no. I have been an astronomer, but only as a necessary
condition to being something higher than that. But I gave it up, for
the most part, years ago: I found myself growing old--my mind losing
its delicacy of perception. Diana is the master now: and she--if she
chooses--may indoctrinate you in the mysteries.' And nodding kindly to
me, he shut the door and was gone.

He had not left me without food for reflection. I now understood--or
at all events I had the key to--all that had puzzled me from the time
I received his note of invitation down to the present hour. 'Diana
and the stars' were to be my entertainment here: well--nothing,
certainly, could so well have suited my own inclinations. The lore of
the heavens, followed in such companionship, would be heavenly lore
indeed! My aversion from astronomy now appeared to me unreasonable;
or, rather, my uncle's words had enabled me to assign to astronomy its
true place--that of an instrument to the study of 'something higher.'
And Diana was the master--of this loftier science, that is. It was not
likely, indeed, that my beautiful cousin would be content to spend her
time in the pursuit of mere technical details; but, on the other hand,
who was so fitted as she to enjoy a sort of imaginative existence among
those far-shining planets, divining their strange secrets, and catching
the aroma of their marvellous life? These, then, were the journeys to
which my uncle had figuratively alluded; the seas that he had crossed
were the profound abysses of space, and the foreign countries that he
had visited were foreign in the largest sense. The longer I reflected
upon the romantic conditions of this life, the more powerfully did it
seize on my imagination; I seemed to have a glimpse of possibilities
beyond what had hitherto been deemed the limits of human attainment;
the thought of what they had perhaps dared to know made my hand tremble
and my breath come fast. That discovery that Diana had mentioned--was
it not some device whereby the magnifying power of the telescope had
been vastly increased, enabling the student to behold sights such as
man had scarcely as yet dreamed of? Oh, in that stone-built chariot
of theirs, fast-bound to the whirling earth, what ineffable mysteries
might not Philip Norman and Diana have explored! And now--was I to be
admitted the companion of their sublime voyages?

To calm my excitement, I threw open the window, and, leaning upon the
broad window-sill, looked out. The sun, swathed in clouds of golden
dust, was just about to vanish behind the mighty shoulder of the
glowing world. Beneath me stretched a wide and fertile plain, broken by
hills, variegated with woods and fields, and dotted here and there with
towns and hamlets. All the happiness and homely prosperity of human
lives were there, at home in the bosom of benevolent nature, busied
with lowly cares, ignorant and careless of aught beyond the familiar
earth on which they were born, which yielded them food and raiment, and
which at death resolved their mortal parts into itself again. Beautiful
and peaceful was the prospect to look upon; beautiful and peaceful
might be the lot of him who should cast his lines in those pleasant
places, nor ever vex his soul with loftier things. And I myself, not
longer ago than yesterday, would have been well content to settle down
in some such fruitful valley, basking in the sunshine by day, sleeping
dreamlessly by night, and not at any time caring to lift my eyes above
the horizon rim. But that yesterday was gone for ever. To-day, in the
stone chamber overhead, hung poised, I knew, the wondrous engine framed
to overcome all space. What interest had this earth compared to the
sights that piercing crystal eye had looked upon? Penetrating by its
aid into the depths of the universe, the spirit would breathe a finer
air and rise to grander heights than any known to earthly experience.
Already I felt myself impatient of my corporeal trammels, and longed to
push aside the veil that separated me from those far-off worlds. And
now, happening to glance eastwards, I saw, pallid amidst the darkening
blue, the great white moon stealing upwards like a ghost, solitary,
silent, and inscrutable!


                                  IV.

A hand laid upon my shoulder caused me to start nervously. I turned,
and met the grave dark eyes of my uncle Philip.

'What are you dreaming about, young fellow?' said he. 'How pale and
nervous you are! We shall have to put you on a strict regimen, I see:
early hours and plenty of milk to drink. Come, let's see what sort of
an appetite you can show!'

'Would not you feel rather at a loss, Uncle Philip, if the moon were to
drop out of the sky some day?'

'I see your mind is running on the observatory,' he returned, with his
short deep laugh. 'Ask Diana! She knows more about the moon than I
do--or than anyone else does, for that matter.'

The conversation at dinner was not, however, much more transcendental
than is customary on such occasions in England. Diana said but little;
and her father and I kept our feet pretty constantly on _terra firma_;
soaring but rarely beyond the attraction of gravity. The two things
which chiefly affected me were, the luminous grace of my cousin's face
and figure, and the airy potency of the wine, which was unlike anything
I had heretofore tasted. It glowed like the warmth of a better life
within my veins, and, while seeming to brace and clear my perceptive
faculties, it stimulated and encouraged the poetical side of my nature.
I felt, under these combined influences, as if my soul were obtaining
a delightful mastery over my body. I noticed meanwhile, not without
surprise, that although Diana vouchsafed to join me in more than one
glass of this exquisite beverage, her father never touched it, but
confined himself instead to a bottle of doubtless excellent burgundy.

'No,' he said, in answer to my remark, 'no, it is many years since
I have drunk that wine. It is the wine of youth; and, for genuine
youth, it possesses precious properties. Old age, whether premature or
natural, finds it insipid and ineffective stuff enough. To its full
enjoyment, a tender and sensitive texture of both mind and body are
indispensable.'

'You are the first man who has cared to drink it,' observed Diana,
looking at me. 'Generally, I have it all to myself!'

'How can anyone who has once tasted it care for other wine?' I
exclaimed. 'It inspires one like beautiful music.'

'Your appreciation compliments you, nephew,' my uncle said. 'Most young
fellows of your years would prefer a glass of brandy-and-water to a
whole hogshead of that liquor. Among its other merits, therefore, it
acts as a test of character.'

'How did you come by it?'

''Tis of a very ancient vintage,' he replied, 'and I believe every
bottle of it now extant is in my cellar. It was grown in a famous
comet year, and under favourable aspects of the heavenly bodies. I can
remember when I used to find it an agreeable tipple, previous to taking
an observation. It has--for those who can drink it--the rare quality
of brightening the faculties without afterwards reacting upon them. A
child could use it without injury.'

I looked at Diana, curious as to whether she had been brought up on
this marvellous elixir; but, as if she had divined what was in my mind,
and preferred to remain unquestioned, she arose at this point and went
out, leaving her father and me to our decanters.

'You are fortunate in having made such good friends with your cousin,'
he remarked. 'You are about the first man, except myself, to whom I
have ever heard her volunteer an observation. Yea and nay is the sum of
her speech to most of the inhabitants of this planet.'

'She is certainly not talkative,' said I, disguising the pleasure I
felt at discovering that I had found favour in her sight. 'You see very
little company, I believe?'

'Well, I don't seek men much, and they find little encouragement in
seeking me,' returned my uncle, taking a draught of burgundy, and
fixing his dark eyes upon me. 'We do not sympathise with their aims,
nor they with ours. And yet, nephew, I sometimes wish that Diana could
see the world. She has strange fancies: perhaps I have no right to call
them mere fancies, either!'

He stopped abruptly: I was silent: presently he resumed again.

'I have tried to follow her in those strange flights of hers; if I were
her own age, perhaps I might follow her after a fashion; but women
are mysterious to men, especially young women like Diana--innocent as
a flower, and fathomless as the ether. She is alone, quite alone, as
far as human companionship goes. Ay, it might be well for her to see
the world, were that possible, without the world's seeing her! I tell
you, I sometimes fear the effect of this solitary life upon her--upon
a girl with such a mind and heart. Heaven knows--I dare not ask--what
unearthly friends she may hold communion with, up yonder in her tower!'

'I can imagine no communion so fitting for her as that of the stars,'
said I.

'She was born to those studies, and has grown up in them: and she has
divined secrets which no other human being has attempted. When she was
born, I was full of the faith and eagerness of youth; and Diana, even
as a child, showed traces of the influences that were uppermost with
me. He who would fathom the stars, nephew, must needs be reverent,
humble, and of a willing mind: they will not reveal themselves to
self-conceit and prejudice. Age has stiffened my mental movements; the
epoch of my deepest insight is gone, long since! Some rays of the great
light once shone upon me; but they have faded--faded! Diana inherits
all, and has made it more. Why, she is more at home among the craters
of the moon than in her own boudoir!' and with this my uncle laughed
again.

'She is the new daughter of the old astrology!' said I.

'Astrology? humph!' said my uncle. 'Mediæval astrology was crippled
by religious superstition and intellectual darkness. But there was,
no doubt, in prehistoric ages, an ancient race of men who had a
profounder knowledge of this subject than modern minds are apt to
imagine. From that primitive wisdom the science of ancient Egypt
was a derivation--one of great subtlety and ingenuity, but lacking
the celestial light of the earlier men. And the Egyptians, in turn,
furnished the stock-in-trade upon which is founded the lore of our
later Nostradamuses.'

'And is there truth in horoscopes and nativities?'

'They are but a paltry matter after all. There is better wisdom in the
stars than that. The universe is human nature writ large; and he who
learns to spell the least word of that great page will never afterwards
condescend to work out horoscopes with compasses and logarithms. No:
in those worlds yonder,' said my uncle, rising and sauntering towards
the open window, 'live human races in every conceivable degree of
development. Ay, think of that!'

'And is there most wickedness or goodness there?'

'They shine fair enough, don't they?' answered my uncle, after a short
silence; 'but all their light cannot elucidate that question. You must
ask your own heart; the elements of the solution are there.'


                                  V.

It was a warm clear night, and we sat out on the balcony for an hour,
smoking my uncle's excellent cigars, and sipping coffee; but our
conversation died away as the shadows deepened, and for a long time no
word passed between us. At length a lamp was lighted in the room--a
moonlike globe of creamy glass, which contended in its homely way with
the calm lustre of the great satellite that now stood high above us in
the dark immutable ether. A figure was moving slowly to and fro within,
which I knew, without directly looking at it, was Diana's. By-and-by
she came to the window, and stood there between the lamplight and the
moonlight, looking up.

'Which does she belong to?' I murmured to my uncle.

He understood me, and answered with a smile, 'The man in the moon has
had it all his own way thus far; but now I shall take it kindly if
you set up a wholesome rivalry with him!--Come in, nephew: I feel the
dew--Diana, will you give us some music?'

She took a violin from a small table in the corner, and, sitting down
where the moonlight fell into the room, she fixed her eyes dreamily
upon the cold planet, and began to play. The violin, when skilfully
touched, has always affected me more than any other instrument, and
I had never been in so susceptible a mood as I was to-night. But ah!
what music was that--so strange, so sweet, so wild! Wild it was as
the far-off howling of wolves, when the moon shines upon snow-covered
prairies; but organised, proportioned, and enriched by the subtle
intelligence of a human musician's brain. It stirred my blood with
eerie thrills; the home-like room in which I sate grew indistinct
and vanished. I was alone with Diana and the music--and where were
we? Not on earth, surely--not in any region where men and women ever
lived and breathed. My eyes followed hers towards the moon; the white
rays touched my heart and spirit, and mystically waived me thither.
Slowly the burnished disc waxed larger and brighter: the fairy melody
of the violin sounded keener and intenser in my ears: in the rarefied
atmosphere I almost ceased to breathe: Diana was before me, but she
too seemed fading out of sight: if I lost her, I should be alone in the
bottomless void of space. The vibration of the strings died away....

'Drink this,' said my uncle's deep but kindly voice. 'That's it! You
were within an ace of fainting dead away, my dear boy. You must be more
exhausted by your journey than I thought. Hadn't you better turn in for
the night?'

'It's nothing!--only a sort of--of momentary drowsiness that sometimes
comes over me,' I replied, greatly mortified at such a display of
my feebleness. 'I shall be all the better for it presently. As for
turning in, I can't think of doing that before I've been up to see the
telescope!' In saying this, I turned and met the glance of my cousin
Diana. I thought--it may have been only a fancy--that she looked upon
me with much more tenderness and interest than she had done heretofore.
She bent down towards me, resting her beautiful hand on the arm of the
sofa, close to my shoulder.

'You shall see it,' she said, in a tone so sweet and gentle that it
brought the blood to my cheeks; to see her so near me made me feel warm
and happy. 'You shall see what no one else has seen. But not to-night!'

'Oh, why not to-night?'

'You need strength to look at what I have to show.'

'I am not so good-for-nothing as I seem--indeed I'm not!'

'Father, do you think it would be safe?' said she, turning towards
my dark-browed uncle, who was standing aside, with his arms folded,
thoughtfully gazing at the lamp.

Eh?--safe?--why not?' returned he, rousing himself from his reverie. 'A
peep through a telescope ought not to upset a young fellow who has seen
Europe, and got a double first! Besides, my dear, you mustn't expect
that he will see as much as you can!--well, at all events, you can let
him see the observatory and the arrangements, and then, if it seem
advisable to put off the rest till another evening, why, so be it!'

Diana stood silent a few moments, with her head lifted, in an attitude
common with her, looking out into the night. Then she moved towards
her father with a slow, sauntering, royal step--no other woman ever
trod as she did--and, placing her hand within his arm, drew him to
the window. They had some conversation together in an undertone; I
did not willingly listen to it, and I cannot even be sure that what
I heard was not--in part at least--the creation of my own fancy. But
my invalid condition had made my hearing, as well as my other senses,
preternaturally acute, and the conversation seemed to me to run
somewhat thus:

'Did you see his face, as he lay there?' Diana had asked.

'Yes, my dear; a good-looking set of features enough: what then?'

'Don't jest about it, father.'

'Well, well, my dear, I see what you are driving at. Yes, there is a
resemblance, certainly; I noticed it from the first; but it might occur
in a dozen or twenty instances beside this one. There are more handsome
fellows in the world than you think for!'

Diana smiled. 'And the day--is that an accident, too, father? And--'
here she pointed upwards, apparently at a certain constellation near
Orion--'is that conjunction one that might occur again?'

'Now, Diana! no fatalism! Be yourself, my little girl!'

'But ... it frightens me, father!' she murmured, with a sudden
tremulousness, clinging closer to his arm, and leaning her cheek on his
broad shoulder. But at this juncture, being determined to hear no more,
I got up from the sofa, and, walking to the other end of the room,
began to turn over a portfolio of drawings that was resting on an easel
there. I had just come upon one representing a young man in a reclining
posture, the right knee drawn up, the left arm hanging relaxed, and the
head bowed forward in a shadow that obscured the face, rendering its
contour indistinguishable:--I was just examining this sketch when my
uncle and cousin, still arm-in-arm, approached.

'Your lunar passport is made out,' said the former; 'and here is the
courier to guide you thither, if you feel equal to the journey. Ah!'
he added, bending over the sketch that I still held in my hand, 'how
does that design strike you?'

It puzzles me!' I replied. 'In the general pose it is very like a
famous antique bas-relief of Endymion that I remember seeing in Rome,
and which is supposed to date back to the time of Phidias.'

'An antique bas relief of the time of Phidias!' repeated my uncle,
musingly. 'How now, Diana!'

'Of Endymion, did you say?' she asked, withdrawing from her fathers
arm, and taking hold of the free end of the paper with a hand that
quivered a little, though her voice was steady. 'And this is like it?'

'Except this, and this,' answered I, indicating certain parts of the
design, 'it might have been copied directly from the bas-relief.'

'But in those parts the sketch is original, eh?' put in my uncle.

'No--not even there,' I replied; 'and that is what puzzled me. There is
another design of an Endymion--an Egyptian or an Assyrian one, I forget
which--but at any rate it was evidently the model of the Greek, and of
course immensely more ancient. Now, though the two designs--the older
and the later one--closely resemble each other in the main, there are
two or three marked points of difference; and this drawing, following
as it does the ancient version in those points, while in its general
style it takes more after the Greek, seems to be a sort of combination
of them both. Certainly,' I added, 'it is more life-like and natural
than either. Where did you get it?'

'It's one of your cousin's performances,' said my uncle, carelessly.

'You have been in Europe, then?' I demanded of her, surprised.

'No!' she answered softly, with an in-drawing of the breath.

'How strange, then, that you should have independently hit upon so
wonderful a likeness!' I exclaimed. 'I am more puzzled than before!'

'It is strange! and yet,' said she, with an unfathomable look in her
hazel eyes, 'perhaps I may have copied it from an original older than
either the Grecian or the Egyptian! Cousin Will, do you remember the
faces? were they alike in both? and was there anything--anything
noticeable in the features?'

It seemed to me that these last questions were asked with an especial
earnestness which her low utterance could not wholly conceal. Whether
or not my answer relieved her suspense I could not determine.

'No, they were not alike,' I said: 'and so far as I remember there
was nothing remarkable about either of them. They simply followed the
ordinary classical type of their several schools.'

'I have made a separate study of a head and face for my drawing,' she
remarked, after a pause. 'Some time, perhaps, you will see it. But
now, if you are ready, we will go up to the observatory.'

'Meanwhile I shall have another cigar on the balcony,' said my uncle.
'If you should wish to join me any time during the next hour or two,
nephew, you will find me there.'

He grasped my hand for a moment, and then I followed Diana out of the
room.


                                  VI.

We were at the top of the tower staircase. Diana pressed against a
panel at the side of the door, and it swung inwards on its hinges,
easily and yet ponderously. We entered, and I found myself in a tiny
antechamber, with a heavy curtain of embroidered leather in front of
me. This Diana pushed aside sufficiently for me to pass on to the room
beyond, while she closed the door behind.

It was a circular room, like my own chamber below, but much loftier,
and without any sign of windows. A mild half-light descended from a
ring of shaded lamps affixed round the walls at a height of nine feet
from the floor, leaving the vaulted ceiling in shadow. The walls below
the lamps were draped with a kind of tapestry of rich dark hues; and at
one side stood a tall carved cabinet of black wood, furnished with a
pair of folding-doors and a broad desk, upon which were books and some
small instruments of polished brass. On the side opposite the cabinet
was a deep niche in the stone wall, supporting a slender antique vase
of embossed silver.

These particulars I noticed but passingly: that which immediately and
predominantly commanded my attention was the mighty instrument which,
with its appurtenances, rose pyramid-like in the centre of the room;
lifting heavenward its awful eye, that had looked familiarly upon the
mysterious faces of the planets, and revealed their secrets to man. The
upper portion of the shaft was enveloped in the obscurity which brooded
in the vault; but this dusky veil only deepened its impressiveness.
Below, the softened lamplight shone upon a complex arrangement of
machinery; wheels and grooves and chains, and subtle levers, all
artfully contrived to turn and slide without jar or irregularity,
obedient to the light touch of Diana's taper finger. She was the
priestess of this temple; here were her virgin stronghold and her home.
During the few moments that I had been plunged in contemplation she had
thrown on, over the black silk demi-toilette which she had worn during
the evening, a flowing mantle of delicate texture, dark as night, with
wide drooping sleeves, and falling in soft folds from her shoulders
to the floor. Upon her auburn hair she had placed a black velvet cap,
such as the astrologers of old used to wear; and as she now stood
before me, smiling at me out of her unfathomable nixie eyes, she looked
more like an enchantress, wise with the arts of witchcraft than like
a mortal maiden with warm blood and human affections. Was she a witch
indeed?

'This clockwork can be adjusted so as to keep any one of the stars or
planets within the field of the telescope,' said she, quietly, laying
her hand upon one of the wheels. 'I have only to move this, and one
of these, and then there is nothing more to be done but to sit in the
chair, there, and look through the lens.'

'Shall we see the moon to-night?' I asked.

'Yes, if you like.'

She pressed a lever somewhere in the machinery, and immediately the
vast tube, that seemed fixed so immovably, swung noiselessly and
steadily towards the right, and, pausing there without shock or tremor,
waited motionlessly as before.

'It looks at the moon now,' said Diana in a low voice.

'It obeys you as if it could hear you speak,' I responded in the
same hushed tone; for as the moment of vision approached nearer, a
nervousness which I could not wholly control pervaded my body, and
made me fearful of betraying some symptom of unmanly agitation to my
companion.

Diana touched the spring which she had before pointed out to me; then
laid her finger on her lip and drew me back a step.

All the wheels were in motion; and grandly, slowly, almost
imperceptibly, as the sweep of that far-distant planet which it was
following in its course through space, the marvellous engine moved
along its orbit. At the same moment a strain of subdued melody,
resembling somewhat the music of Æolian harps heard far off, floated
out and palpitated upon the still air of the vaulted room. The strain
grew louder and clearer, then sank again to whisperings almost
inaudible: and then once again increased in power and volume, seeming
now like a chorus of angelic voices chanting a hymn of praise. I held
my breath to listen, and, for a time, forgot surprise in the pure
pleasure of the ear.

'What is it?' I whispered at length.

'I call it the song of the moon,' answered Diana. 'You will hear it
whenever the moon's rays fall upon the glass. I love it the best of
all.'

'There are others, then?'

'Each planet has its song, different from all the others: and the stars
also: but those we cannot hear.'

This was said so quietly, and with an air so grave, that I knew not
whether my cousin expected me to take it seriously. 'Are you really an
enchantress,' I asked, 'that you can bring down to earth the music of
the spheres, as well as make their mysteries visible?'

'Why not? is one more wonderful than the other?' she returned, with a
faint smile. 'But you must not expect me to tell you all my secrets at
once, Cousin Will. Think of me as an enchantress for to-night. I am not
the first who has practised magic in this tower. It was built they say,
in the time of King Arthur, by the magician Merlin; and Friar Bacon
once lived here, and worked upon the problem of the Speaking Head. But
none of them could do what I can do, or ever saw what I have seen a
thousand times!'

If it had been Diana's intention--as it certainly was not--deliberately
to inspire me with a sentiment of superstitious awe and expectation, by
working upon an imagination always apt enough for the marvellous and
recondite, she could not have chosen a more fitting time and means. The
strange aspect of the lofty room, dimly illuminated below and shadowy
overhead; the fantastic legends associated with it; the weird music
that still trembled through it; and above all the spectacle of that
potent instrument even now moving in harmony with the march of the
universe;--these things alone might have stimulated the emotions of one
of firmer nerves and sturdier health than mine. But, such as I then
was, their influence upon me was profound and overmastering. The facts
of my past life in the world, the little learning I had acquired--the
material certainties, in short, whereby men are accustomed to steady
themselves when assailed by aught that threatens to undermine the
teachings of their experience--were become to me as nothing. Not what I
had known and touched and could explain was true; but, rather, all that
was inexplicable and supernatural. I was in love with mystery, and with
Diana, and desired no better than to believe in them and do homage to
them.

As for Diana, familiar from childhood with the scene and the
proceedings, her mood was of composed and deep-seated enjoyment; and
she was doubtless far from suspecting my overstrained and almost
hysteric plight: nay, I myself was as yet unaware of the degree of my
prostration. I watched my cousin walking hither and thither, quietly
and methodically completing I knew not what further preparations
for the coming revelation, until, unable longer to endure inactive
suspense, I asked whether the moment for looking through the telescope
were yet arrived.

'There is only one thing more to do, but that is the most important of
all,' was her answer. 'Sit in this chair, and you shall see.'

She took hold of the lower end of the telescope, which was there about
nine inches in diameter, removed the brass cover from it, and then,
with a few light turns, unscrewed the ring that held the lens in place,
and brought away the lens itself in her hands. I noticed that it was
thicker through the centre than the generality of lenses, and that
at one part of the rim there was a small projection, like the neck of
a phial, giving the whole something of the appearance of a circular,
flattened crystal flask.

She was about to set it edgewise in a velvet-covered frame evidently
made for the purpose, when, glancing at me, she seemed to alter her
intention.

'You may hold it if you like, Cousin Will,' she said: 'but hold it
fast, for it is more precious than adamant. There is none other like it
in the world.'

She put it in my hands. 'This is not a lens!' was my thought, as I felt
its weight; 'it is hollow!'

'Yes,' she said, answering my look with a smile; 'it is a phial, made
to hold an elixir more precious than itself. That silver vase is full
of it; and now I am going to pour some into the phial. Then you will
see something beautiful!'

'Is this that discovery you spoke of this afternoon?'

'Not the elixir; but the use to which we put it. The receipt for the
elixir is a heritage from some of those old alchemists who used to
carry on their experiments in this tower hundreds of years ago; and my
father thinks it had been handed down to them from some philosopher far
more ancient still. At all events he found the parchment on which the
receipt was written in a concealed hollow of this wall--in that niche
where the silver vase now stands. After long study, he succeeded in
deciphering it; and then the elixir was made.'

'But what was it originally intended for--by the alchemists?'

'My father thinks it may have been their famous drink of Immortality,'
replied Diana, taking the silver vase from its niche as she spoke.
'But he did not taste it, for he neither wished to live for ever nor
to die by poison--and this may as well be an _aqua toffana_ as an
_elixir vitæ_! But, while brewing it, he had noticed the strange effect
of moonlight upon it; and as he was there searching for some means of
strengthening the telescope, it occurred to him to try an experiment.
And this was the result!'

In saying these words, she slipped a funnel into the neck of the phial
or lens, and, while I steadied the latter upon my knees, she poured
into it about a pint of liquid from the vase. Then, taking it heedfully
from my hands, she replaced it in its proper position in the neck of
the telescope, secured it there by screwing on the ring, and finally,
by turning a button attached to the pipe that supplied the lights, they
were at once extinguished, and we were left in darkness.

Yet no--not entirely so! For, when my eyes had had time to recover from
the first impression of blackness, I began to perceive that there was
still light in the room, though proceeding from a different quarter.
It seemed to have a deep crimson hue; and in the course of a minute
or two I could see it coming through the lens of the telescope, and
evidently taking its colour from the liquid with which Diana had just
filled it. But whence did this light originate?

I must have asked this question aloud, for I heard Diana's voice
answer:--

'It is the light of the moon. Stoop down, now, and watch the elixir
change. But be careful not to look through it, until I give you leave!'

I stooped accordingly, and fixed my eyes upon the crystal. The sound
of the mysterious music, rendered more weird by the darkness, did not
prevent me from hearing the soft breathing of my companion, whose
presence I felt close beside me, though I could not see her. She, too,
was watching the changes of the magic liquid; and strange and beautiful
in truth they were!

The crimson tint, at first deep and turgid, gradually cleared, until
it shone like the purest ruby. A kind of fermentation, momentarily
increasing, seemed to be at work within it, and I presently noticed
minute currents of blue twisting about like tiny serpents, and
multiplying as they moved, until the crimson grew to violet, which, in
the course of a few minutes, cleared and strengthened in its turn to
a brilliant and superb purple, perfectly translucent, and emitting a
lustre so powerful as partly to reveal the figure of Diana, kneeling,
with her hands folded upon her lap, in an attitude of thoughtful
contemplation. But the fermentation was not yet complete. Again the
slender serpents twined and wreathed themselves, dispelling more
and more the remaining rays of crimson, and creating a uniform and
ever-intensifying light of azure. It was an azure as pure as that of
an Egyptian sky, but possessing a wealth and sparkle of colour such as
no atmosphere can rival--the sparkle of the ideal sapphire which no
lapidary has yet discovered.

'What causes this?' I whispered at length; 'and how is it to end?'

'It is the moon purging the elixir of its last earthly impurities,
and making it fit to hold its image,' replied Diana, gravely. 'These
changes that you see following each other so rapidly would ordinarily
last for days; it is the power given to the rays by the other lenses
that hastens the work. See! the blue is already becoming green: now the
green brightens into yellow: and now....'

As she spoke, the fermentation gradually ceased; the liquid, having
passed through all the preparatory stages, now gleamed white and pure
as a diamond. The illumination which it gave forth was so intense, and
yet so soft, that it permeated the whole chamber with an unearthly
radiance--with the cold, colourless radiance of another world. It was
as if the spirit of the moon, obeying the mandate of some irresistible
spell, were present with us in that ancient tower.

'It is finished!' said Diana, with a vibration of solemnity in her
tones. 'The moon is as near us now as the valley over which you saw her
rise this evening. Are you ready?'

Why did I hesitate? The moment for which I had so ardently wished was
come. I needed but to turn my face to behold a spectacle which no
human beings save Diana and her father had yet looked upon, and which,
perhaps, none other than ourselves might ever see. Was it fear that
withheld me? Fear of what? Of the revelation on the brink of which I
stood? or of myself?

'Are you ready?' Diana repeated.

'No!'

She gazed at me with eyes in which I dreaded to detect indignation or
contempt. But no!--their glance was of grave and searching inquiry,
nothing more. I forced myself to attempt an explanation of what I
myself did not understand.

'I cannot trust myself, Diana. What right have I to know things
which God has kept secret from other men? might it not be a kind of
profanation? I am not like you--I have not lived so spotless and serene
a life. You are worthy of this revelation: no one besides you is worthy
of it. Even your father dares not share it with you any longer--in
spite of his strength, he distrusts his strength for that. What would
you think of me, if I were to look, and yet not see what you see, or
feel what you feel? The risk is too great.'

It seemed to me a long while before Diana answered; and first, she
sighed.

'You may be right: I have not thought of it--I do not wish to think of
it,' she said. 'And perhaps all my life has been wrong--a mistake! Why
should what is wrong for you be right for me?'

'There is no parallel between us, Diana.'

'I am a woman and you are a man; we were both born on the earth, to
live here and to die here. Only I have lived alone in this tower, and
no one has taught me what was good or bad. I tried to find the good in
my own way: my father left me to myself; you are the only other man I
have ever talked with. I had no companions in the world, so I tried
to find one somewhere else. But perhaps it was only something within
myself that I found, after all. I cannot tell: I hoped you might be
able to help me, cousin.'

'You misunderstand me,' I replied, startled and agitated by the new
tone in which she spoke, so different from her usual quiet and cool
reserve. 'I would not presume to criticise you, Diana: you seem to me
so good and noble that--that sometimes, for my own sake, I almost wish
you were less so! It was of my own weaknesses and imperfections that I
was thinking.'

'If all the world were no more imperfect than you, I think I should
love the world,' said Diana, simply.

I felt the blood come to my face; but I feared so much to shock her by
speaking too soon what was in my heart to speak, that I kept silence.
Presently she said--

'You will not look, then?'

There was in her voice an accent of such wistful appeal as made my
refusal seem cowardly and selfish.

'If you ask it--if you wish it--I will!'

There was a moment's pause.

'I do not wish it!' she exclaimed, standing erect and lifting her head
with a gesture of decision. 'If I have done wrong, I must teach myself
to feel it--will you leave me now, cousin? I need to be alone a little,
I think.' I went to the door; she followed me, and held out her hand.
'Good night, Will,' she said: 'pleasant dreams! we shall see each other
again in the morning.'


                                 VII.

It is needless to say that I did not go back to the dining-room in
search of my uncle. What with the turmoil of one emotion and another,
I had never felt myself less capable of coherent and rational
conversation. My whole body was thrilling with excitement; my brain was
confused and dizzy. Once or twice I narrowly escaped missing my footing
on the narrow winding stair. Having gained my room, I dropped into the
chair by the window, thoroughly exhausted. The moon, I remember, though
now high in the zenith, was visible from where I sat, and her rays
fell upon my upturned face as I lay back, breathing heavily. Before
many minutes had passed, I must have fallen asleep. How long my sleep
lasted I do not know; but it was long enough for me to have a very
vivid and painful dream.

It seemed to me that a tall dark figure, whose face was concealed by
a veil, stood beside me and put his hand over my eyes. A dull reddish
light was before me: I felt impelled to arise and move towards it. The
path by which I went was narrow and uneven; it ran along the summit of
a ridge which divided an apparently bottomless valley. Lurid vapours,
green and yellow, rolled about far below me, or crept sluggishly up the
precipitous sides of the ridge. Suddenly the red light which I followed
disappeared; I was upon a rock in the midst of a black, waveless ocean.
Far away towards the north a small boat flew horizonwards without
sails or oars. In the boat sat the tall dark figure, and by his side
was Diana. A feeling of anguish and bitter jealousy burned within me:
the woman I loved was being taken away from me by a malignant creature
who was neither man nor angel. Further sped the boat: yet I saw Diana
turn towards me and wave her hand, as if calling me to save her. I
sprang into the black water and swam after her with desperate strokes,
but the current swept strong against me, and I made no headway. There
was no wind, yet the waves now broke in foam around me, and the foam
changed to white serpents, coiling in hissing knots. Then I knew that
it was no longer a sea in which I struggled, but the infinite void of
space. I moved with the constellations, in an appointed orbit, and in
that orbit I must move for ever. The boat had spread a pale luminous
sail that gleamed against the darkness: it swept on a course concentric
with my own, but a myriad leagues away. Never should that fatal gulf
be crossed, or its breadth diminished. Rounder grew the sail; it shone
like burnished metal; against the disc I saw the shadowy form of the
robber, and Diana in his arms. Through all eternity must I behold her
thus, without the power to help or comfort her. Suddenly I passed into
a great shadow, like the shadow of utter blindness. I heard a soothing
melody, as of fairy choristers. A soft hand clasped mine. My dream was
over. I was awake!

Awake--yes, that was certain; but where was I? No longer in my own
room; I was standing in a silvery gloom, my temples still throbbing
with the agony of my dream. Not yet fully master of my faculties, the
idea possessed me that, in my course through space, I had fallen upon
a grey cloud, which was bearing me gently onwards towards a great
brightness, some glimpse of which I saw above the cloud's edge. Guided
by the same soft hand, I reached the edge and sat down upon it. The
brightness broke upon my eyes in a white lustre, which for a moment
forced me to cover my face with my hands. Then I looked again.

Below me, and close at hand, stretched a vast plain, lit by a ghastly
light. Vividly clear it was, but terrible: for there was no colour on
those pinnacled mountain-summits, nor along their headlong flanks, nor
in the depths of the gaping valleys. No colour, no vegetation, no life:
but everywhere a frozen, voiceless, stony immobility, and a metallic
lustre, as if the silent feet of innumerable centuries had worn the
surface hard and smooth. It was a land of dead volcanoes, whose jagged
shadows, blacker than night, lay like blots along the plain. No kindly
winds blew down the awful cañons; no tender atmosphere softened their
iron outlines; no clouds mercifully swathed their grim nakedness. Here
seemed to lie the mighty bones of a creation which God had cursed and
forgotten, upon which the sun shone only in mockery, and which was
cast adrift upon the universe as an appalling warning, and symbol of
the doom of sin. Amidst the happy throng of living, sentient planets,
this burnt and frozen skeleton was doomed to glide eternally, seen but
unseeing, fleeing for ever, but for ever held in place and pitilessly
exposed by a mysterious spell. And what was this accursed world, that
hung so near beneath my feet that one step, it seemed, would cast me
downward upon its needle peaks? Had it a name? That which it had borne
when living was buried in the oblivion of countless ages; never again,
through all time to come, should tongue of man repeat its forbidden
syllables: but there was another name, lawful to know and speak, which
now rose intuitively to my lips and found utterance there: 'the Moon!'
And at my ear a low voice that I dimly recognised seemed to confirm my
divination: 'Yes,' it said, 'the Moon!' I pressed the little hand that
still lay within my own, and thanked God that in this hour of unearthly
vision it linked me with humanity.

I had beheld enough; but my eyes, sternly fascinated, gazed on in my
own despite. In the foreground of the spectral plain an irregular chasm
opened, whose perpendicular walls plunged straight down into pitch
darkness. On the further verge of this chasm I saw an object which, at
the first glance, I took to be a shapeless boulder, arrested there on
its way from the mountain summit to the depths below. But, as my glance
continued to dwell upon it, it took on form and meaning--a meaning
which made my pulses torpid with dismay--which I strove to reject and
disbelieve, but which revealed itself in defiance of my efforts with
inevitable distinctness. Was it a carven statue? Or had that petrified
figure once had life? Some day in the immeasurable past had it stood
erect, moved and breathed, loved and hated? The last survivor of its
race, had it witnessed the destruction of all existence, and then lain
down defiant, unrepentant, and calm, and composed itself to the stony
sleep from which not time itself should see the awakening? There he
lay, the nameless Titan, more alone than a mortal brain dare conceive,
a being who had spoken his last word, were it curse or blessing--who
had done his last deed, were it good or evil--æons before the first
vague dawn of life awoke upon our earth--there he lay, lifeless and
soulless, yet with the power to shake my soul to-night, and even to
assert a weird rivalship with me in the heart of the woman I loved!
For this was the figure whose likeness I had found that evening in
Diana's portfolio; it was with his ghastly fate that her girlish fancy
had conceived a lofty sympathy: with him her pure thoughts had dwelt
throughout her youthful years, dreaming who could tell what dreams of
strange romance!--seeing in him, who was revealed to herself alone of
all women, who knows what stern ideal of supernatural manhood! So had
this immemorial relic of another world swayed the life and moulded the
character of a mortal creature of to-day, giving to her feminine heart
the companionship which it demanded, but which, in the world of men,
had been thus far denied her.

And what were the features of my wondrous adversary--he with whom I
must struggle for Diana's love? A shadow lay upon them; as I sought
to penetrate it, methought the figure stirred! Was its repose of ages
at an end, and had it roused itself to meet my human challenge? It
stirred: its stiffened limbs moved with slow majesty; the vast trunk
swayed and turned. But lo! the whole mountain side moved with it: the
frozen crust, contracting with force irresistible, was crushed against
itself, and broken; vast masses, bursting from the rocky bed, piled
themselves in jagged pyramids. The lips of the great chasm trembled,
and approached each other: but ere they met, I saw the form of the
Titan sweep downwards to the brink, shattered and riven, but the Titan
still. He paused for an instant over the abyss, then plunged headlong
in, and the irrevocable lips ground together above him. Even as he
plunged his face met mine, and in its stony lineaments I recognised the
prototype of my own!

       *       *       *       *       *

It was not until two or three months afterwards, as I lay recovering
from the brain fever brought on by this night's adventure, that I
learned how it came about. I had risen from my chair in my sleep,
climbed the tower stairs, and re-entered the observatory, where Diana
still remained. The touch of her hand and the sound of the music (which
was produced by connecting a sort of organ with the machinery of the
telescope) had partially awakened me, though not sufficiently to show
me where I was. In this condition I had looked through the lens, and
the vast spectacle of the moon, brought within the apparent distance
of a mile or two by the magnifying power of the elixir, had burst
unexpectedly upon me.

That magic lens, by the way, did not long survive the catastrophe which
I witnessed by its aid. I believe Diana destroyed it that same night;
I know, at all events, that she never used it again herself. She gave
up the moon, much to her father's satisfaction, and, I need not say, to
my own unspeakable happiness. It has been the care of my life to make
her feel that better possibilities of enjoyment exist in the world than
in the world's satellite. It was only a few years ago, however, that
I trusted myself to tell her the story of the Titan's annihilation.
We had been looking over an old portfolio of her drawings together,
and a Diana of four years of age, with brown hair and hazel eyes, was
assisting us in the work.

'Oh! here's papa,' she suddenly exclaimed.

Diana's mother took the drawing and examined it.

'I did this before I ever saw papa,' she said.

'Then how did you make it so like him?' demanded the small lady.

'I had a presentiment of him, my dear.'

'What's a pre-sent----?'

'My presentiment, in this case, was the man in the moon!' said Mrs.
Maybold, laughing. 'Do you remember, love,' she added, handing the
drawing to her husband, 'my telling you, on a certain evening, that I
had made a study of a certain face, and that I would show it you some
time? Well, the time has come!'

'I never was so good-looking as that,' said Mrs. Maybold's husband,
with a sigh. 'However, no one will ever be able to compare your
presentiment with the reality, for the former disappeared at the moment
of my introduction to him.' And hereupon I told my tale. 'Do you regret
him?' I asked, when it was finished.

'If you had told me this five years ago, I might have felt relieved by
it,' said Mrs. Maybold, after a moment's reflection. 'As it is, the
news does not affect me one way or the other.'

       *       *       *       *       *

I shall not easily forgive my friend Mr. Edward Kemeys, the
animal-sculptor, for depriving me of the right of claiming undivided
credit for this story. He suggested the main idea, and some of the best
details. As told by him, they seemed to me both poetic and powerful.
If my version impresses the reader otherwise, it is my fault. I should
regret that Mr. Kemeys had not treated the subject himself, were I not
familiar with his genius as embodied in clay and bronze. If I could be
the author of his 'Deer and Panther' or 'Bison and Wolves,' which had
the place of honour at the Paris Salon this year, I would willingly
forego the renown of a better story than I ever expect to write.


      _Spottiswoode & Co., Printers, New-street Square, London._

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation left as printed.]





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