The World's Greatest Books — Volume 05 — Fiction (2024)

JOINT EDITORS

ARTHUR MEE

Editor and Founder of the Book of Knowledge

J.A. HAMMERTON

Editor of Harmsworth's UniversalEncyclopaedia

VOL. V

FICTION

Acknowledgment

Acknowledgment and thanks for permission
to use "The Garden of Allah," by
Mr. Robert Hichens, are herewith tendered
to A.P. Watt & Son, London, England,
for the author.

Table of Contents

A Complete Index of THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS will be found at the endof Volume XX.

MAXWELL GRAY

The Silence of DeanMaitland

Mary Gleed Tuttiett, the gifted lady who writes under thepseudonym of "Maxwell Gray," was born at Newport, Isle of Wight. Thedaughter of Mr. F.B. Tuttiett, M.R.C.S., she began her literary career bycontributing essays, poems, articles, and short stones to variousperiodicals. With the appearance of "The Silence of Dean Maitland," in1886, Maxwell Gray's name was immediately and permanently established inthe front rank of living novelists. The story and its problem, dramaticallyset forth, and with rare literary art, became one of the most discussedthemes of the day. Since that time Maxwell Gray has produced a number ofstories, among them being "The Reproach of Annesley" (1888), "The LastSentence" (1893), "The House of Hidden Treasure" (1898), and "The GreatRefusal" (1906), and also several volumes of poems. This little version of"The Silence of Dean Maitland" has been prepared by Miss Tuttiett herself.

I.--Impending Tragedy

The story opens on a grey October afternoon in the Isle of Wight, in the'sixties. Alma Lee, the coachman's handsome young daughter, is toiling up asteep hill overlooking Chalkburne, tired and laden with parcels from thetown. As she leans on a gate, Judkins, a fellow-servant of her father's,drives up in a smart dog-cart, and offers her a lift home. She refusesscornfully, to the young groom's mortification; he drives off, hurt by hercoquetry and prophesying that pride goes before a fall.

Then a sound of bells is heard--a waggon drawn by a fine bell-teamclimbs the hill, and stops by Alma. She accepts the waggoner's offer of alift, and on reaching the gate of her home in the dusk, is distressed byhis insistence on a kiss in payment, when out of the tree-shadows stepsCyril Maitland, the graceful and gifted son of the rector of Malbourne,newly ordained deacon.

He rebukes the waggoner, rescues Alma, and escorts her across a field toher father's cottage. There he is welcomed with respectful affection as therector's son and Alma's former playmate. Afterwards she lights him to thegate, where a chance word of his evokes from her an innocent andunconscious betrayal of her secret love, kindling such strong response inhim as he cannot conquer except by touching a letter in his breast-pocket.This letter is from Marion Everard, to whom he has been a year engaged.

He walks through the dark to Malbourne Rectory, where, by the fire, hefinds his invalid mother, his twin sister, Lilian, and two youngerchildren. Here he appears the idol of the hearth--genial, graceful, gifted,beautiful, and warm-hearted. But he betrays ambition, sudden and greathaste to be married, and some selfishness. He walks to his lodging in aneighbouring village, where trifling circ*mstances point to a refinedsensuousness, self-indulgence, and sophistry in his character, leading tothe neglect of serious duty. The shadow of impending tragedy is hinted atfrom the first line of the book.

December in the following year. Cyril now an East End curate, and HenryEverard, M.D., going by rail to Malbourne. Everard asleep; manly, cheerful,intellectual, healthy in body and mind. Cyril awake; consumed byunspeakable sorrow. Everard wakes; Cyril suddenly becomes gay in responseto his friend's high spirits. They chaff each other. Cyril preaches toEverard, when Henry scolds him for fasting, and his laxity of faith andpractice. They pass Belminster, when Cyril betrays unconscious ambition atEverard's jesting prophecy that he would preach as bishop in the cathedral.Asceticism is defended by Cyril and condemned by Everard. Cyril speaks ofthe discipline of sorrow, and presses a spiked cross under his clothes intohis side. Everard exalts the discipline of joy. The friends have beenprivately educated together, and were together at Cambridge. Henry admiresCyril's character and mental brilliance; Cyril regards Henry withcondescending affection. Everard is silently in love with Lilian.

Cyril and Everard in the meantime have arrived at Malbourne Rectory.Cyril and Marion, who have not met since a quarrel, are alone together. Shewonders that he makes so much of the little tiff. He talks of hisunworthiness, and makes her promise to cleave to him through good andevil report. At dinner, Everard asks for all the villagers, andgathers that Alma Lee is disgraced. "Alma, little Alma, the child we usedto play with!" he cries afterwards to the men Maitlands. "Who is thescoundrel?" Cyril grows impatient under the discussion that follows. "Afterall, she is not the first!" he says at last, to Everard'sindignation.

Sunday. All classes meeting on the way to church, when Cyril preachesfor the first time to his friends and neighbours, who throng to hear him.He preaches with passionate earnestness upon the beauty of innocence andthe agony of losing it. "That once lost," he says, "the old careless joy ofyouth never returns."

The village parliament in the moonlit churchyard after service commentwith humour on the sermon, and on Cyril's eloquence, learning, and goodheart. Granfer, the village oracle, prophesies that the queen will make abishop of him. Ben Lee, talking with Judkins by the harness-room fire,supposes that Cyril was thinking of Alma in his sermon. "He always had akind heart." But Judkins speaks of his suspicions of Everard as Alma'sbetrayer, alludes to his frequent visits to Mrs.

Lee during her illness some months ago, and his constant meeting withAlma. Lee is convinced of Everard's guilt. "I'll kill him!" he criesfuriously.

II.--Sin-Engendered Sin

It is a lovely winter's day, and Cyril, Lilian, and Everard are walkingthrough the woods at the back of Lee's cottage. Cyril puts something into ahollow tree, and intimates a chaffinch's call. Another bird replies. Cyrilwalks on to Oldport, leaving Everard and Lilian, between whom there followsa warm love scene and betrothal. During this episode Mrs. Lee, Alma'sstepmother, tells her husband that Alma is gone to meet her unknown loverin the wood at the signal of a chaffinch's call. Lee follows, and findsAlma there alone. He picks up a paper she had torn and dropped; itcontains an assignation for that evening at dusk. Before luncheon Everardchanges the grey suit he was wearing, and had stained in a muddy ditch. Hegoes to a lonely cottage on the downs in the afternoon; returning in theevening, he gets a black eye while romping with little Winnie Maitland.After bathing the eye, he sponges the stained suit, and is surprised tofind blood on it. Cyril has been absent in Oldport all day, and on hisreturn goes to bed with a headache, speaking to nobody. A man in Henry'sgrey suit passes through the hall at dusk, followed by the cat, who neverruns after anyone but Lilian and Cyril.

That evening, New Year's eve, there is a gay party of rustics at thewheelwright's house. In the midst of Granfer's best story in rushes Grove,the waggoner, crying that Ben Lee had just been found murdered in the wood.The same night Alma gives birth to a son.

Next day, Cyril, in great mental anguish, goes to Admiral Everard'shouse, and incidentally puts to a brother clergyman there a case ofconscience: Should a man who has acted unwisely, and is guilty ofunintentional homicide, imperil a useful and brilliant career byconfession? Not if he had such great gifts and opportunities of doing goodas Cyril has, he is told. By this pronouncement and a love scene withMarion, Cyril is much comforted.

In the meantime, Ben Lee's death is by many being imputed to Everard,who is quite unconscious of these suspicions. He is much surprised at theappearance of policemen at the rectory that afternoon, and still more so atbeing arrested on the charge of murdering Lee.

After due examination, Everard is committed for trial on the charge ofmurder. His best witness, Granfer, who had seen and spoken with him in thevillage at the moment of the alleged murder, greatly discredited hisevidence by his circumlocution and stupidity, purposely affected to set thecourt in a roar. He admitted that Everard gave him money and tobacco.Judkins swore that at three o'clock Lee told him Everard had asked Alma tomeet him at dusk that evening in the wood, and that he--Lee--meant tofollow Everard there and exact reparation from him; that Alma and Everardwere known to be together in the wood on the morning of Lee's death (whenEverard was with Lilian), and that he himself had seen them meet oftenclandestinely in the spring during Mrs. Lee's illness, when letters, books,and flowers had passed between them. On the eve of Lee's death he had seenEverard go into the copse at dusk carrying a heavy stick.

Ingram Swaynestone, Grove, the waggoner, and Stevens, the Sexton, allsaw Everard going on the upland path to Swaynestone. But the blacksmithswore to seeing him in the village street at the same hour. A keeper sawhim going to the copse at the same time that a shepherd met him on the downgoing in another direction. At five o'clock two rectory maids saw Everardrun in by the back door and upstairs, followed by the cat; he made no replywhen Miss Maitland spoke to him. An hour later, Everard asked the cook forraw meat for a black eye, which he said he got by running against a tree inthe dark. Blood was found in a basin in his room, and on the grey suit,which was much stained and torn, as if by a struggle. A handkerchief ofEverard's was found in the wood, also a stick he had been seen with in themorning.

Everard's evidence at the inquest was that he left Malbourne Rectoryabout four, wearing a black coat, met the blacksmith in the village, andthe shepherd on the down, and finding the cottage on the down empty,returned, seeing no one till he met Granfer at Malbourne Cross, and reachedthe rectory at six, where a romp with Winnie Maitland gave him the blackeye, that he promised her not to speak about. He could not account for theblood found on his clothes.

Cyril is much shocked by the verdict and committal of Everard, but issure that he will be cleared. "He must be cleared," he says, "at anycost." Pending the assize trial, he baptises three unknown babes inMalbourne Church. When asking the name of one of the children in his arms,he is told "Benjamin Lee." His evident deep emotion at this evokes sympathyfrom all present. During the trial at Belminster he has a great spiritualconflict in the cathedral while a fugue of Bach's is played on the organ,suggesting a combat between the powers of evil and good. But he feels thathe cannot renounce his brilliant prospects. Coming out, he hearsthat Alma has declared Everard is the man who was with her father when hemet his death in the struggle she heard while outside the copse.

Cyril at once rushes to the court, which he had only left for an hour,just in time to hear the verdict, "Manslaughter."

"Stop!" he cries. "I have evidence--the prisoner is innocent!"

The judge, not understanding what he says, orders his removal; hisfriends, thinking him distracted, persuade him to be quiet while the utmostsentence--twenty years--is given. On hearing this, Cyril, with a loud cry,falls senseless. He remains in delirium many weeks. A pathetic farewellbetween Henry and Lilian, who is the only believer in his innocence, andwho renews her promise to him, closes the first part.

The tragedy, faintly foreshadowed from the first line, and graduallydeveloped from Cyril's self-righteousness and irrepressible joy in Alma'sunguarded betrayal of unconscious passion, has darkened the whole story.Sin has engendered sin. Cyril's noble purpose to devote himself entirely tohis high calling, and be worthy of it, has become pitiless ambition.

His self-respect, spiritual pride and egoism; his ready tact, socialcharm, and power of psychological analysis, subtle sophistry andself-deception; his warmest affection, disguised self-love; his finestqualities perverted lead to his lowest fall.

His weak and belated attempt to right Alma's wrong has killed herfather. Alma's desecrated love has turned to fierce idolatry, laying wasteLilian's happiness, and working Henry's complete ruin. Cyril's cowardicehas delayed clearing his friend till it is too late to save him.

Not poppy, not mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world

will ever medicine again to him that sweet sleep he had before hisguilt.

III.--The Darkness of a Prison

A summer Sunday two years later. Alma and her child in a cornfield,listening to bells ringing for Cyril's homecoming with his bride. All thesoftness and youth gone from Alma's tragic face, and the last gleams ofpenitence from her heart, since her perjury. Jealousy is prompting her togo and tell Marion all. But Judkins comes and interrupts these wildthoughts. He offers marriage, rehabilitation, and a home in America. Shehesitates. She is shunned by all, and can get no work in Malbourne, but hasnot been destitute; money has found its way mysteriously to her cottage. Sofor the child's sake she accepts.

Tea on the rectory lawn. Lilian is thinking of the prisoner, Lenniewondering aloud, "How does Alma like having to go to hell for lyingabout Henry?" Cyril is terribly agitated at this. He has scarcely yetrecovered from his long mental illness after Henry's sentence. Marion isnot happy--she may never allude to Henry. The slightest reference tohim makes Cyril ill. Later, in the moonlight, Ingram Swaynestone asksLilian, whom he has always loved, to marry him. He cannot believe that sheis secretly engaged to Henry. She points towards Henry's prison. "I am allthat man has on earth, and I love him!" she says.

Nine years later. Convicts pulling down the old walls of Portsmouth. Anofficer's funeral passes by. No. 62--Henry--overhears people speaking ofthe manner of the officer's death, and his name, Major Everard. Tears fallon the convict's hands as he works. No. 62's father is port admiral. Alma'sperjury in court had revealed all to Henry, and reduced him to apatheticdespair. "There is no God--no good anywhere!" he cried. But in timeLilian's periodic letters gave him heart and hope, and he had accepted hisfate bravely, trying to lift up and cheer his fellow-prisoners. In thedarkness and uproar of a thunderstorm he escapes from the guarded works.His adventures, during which he comes accidentally and unrecognized incontact with his brother's widow, his sister, and her children, who prattleof family matters in his hearing, and, after a few weeks' wandering, by hisbeing recaptured while lying on the roadside unconscious from hunger andexhaustion. This part of the story concludes with the reception of thisnews by Lilian and Cyril, whose unintentional neglect has caused themiscarriage of a letter that would have enabled Henry to escape.

IV.--"I Will Confess my Wickedness"

Everard is free, and, wearing the grey suit of a discharged prisoner, istravelling from Dartmoor to London by train. Marion, his brother, Leslie,Mrs. Maitland, and the admiral are all dead. Everything is strange andchanged to him. Liberty is sweet and bitter. He is prematurely aged andbroken down; the great future that had been before him is now for everimpossible. His still undeveloped scientific theories and discoveries havebeen anticipated by others. He feels the prison taint upon him; he will notsee Lilian until it is removed, and he has become accustomed to thebewilderment of freedom.

After a few days' pause he starts from London for Malbourne, stopping atBelminster, through which he had made his last free journey with Cyril,when he told him that "an ascetic is a rake turned monk." Passing the gaolin which he had suffered so much, he goes to the cathedral. He asks who isnow Dean of Belminster.

The verger is surprised. "Where have you been, sir, not to have heard ofthe celebrated Dean Maitland?" The great dean! The books he has written,the things he has done! All the world knows Dean Maitland, the greatestpreacher in the Church of England.

The deanery interior. Cyril, charming and adored as ever, is consideringwhether he shall accept the historic bishopric of Warham. A strange youthfrom America is announced, and asks the dean to give him a universityeducation--"because I am your son." "Since when," returns the deantranquilly, "have you been suffering from this distressing illusion?" Theyouth bears a letter from Alma. She is dying in Belminster, and imploreshim to come to her. She cannot die, she writes, till she has clearedEverard. After this terrible scene Cyril is in agony, and nearly commitssuicide. "But one sin in a life so spotless!" he moans. The same eveningEverard, overwhelmed with accounts of Cyril's good deeds and spiritualcounsels, and examining with mingled awe and pity the numerous books he haswritten, goes to hear one of the Anglican Chrysostom's lectures to workingmen in the cathedral.

The music heard by Cyril during his mental conflict there years beforeis being played. Cyril thinks Lee's death and Henry's suffering the work ofFate, since in wearing Everard's clothes he had no thought of impersonatinghim, but only of avoiding the publicity of clerical dress; nor had hedreamed of meeting or of struggling with Ben Lee. Meaning to go to Alma,who is already dead, later on that night, Cyril preaches upon the sin ofJudas, with great power and passion. "I charge you, my brothers, beware ofself-deception!" Everard pities him; he feels that his own eighteenyears' sufferings were nothing in comparison with Cyril's secret tortures.Suddenly the preacher stops with a low cry of agony. He has caughtEverard's eye. He wishes the cathedral would fall and crush him. "I am notwell," he says, leaving the pulpit. Everard writes him a letter that night,saying he has long known and forgiven all; he asks Cyril to use his ownsecret repentance and unspoken agony for the spiritual help of others.

The dean receives and reads the letter at breakfast next morning. Hethen shuts himself alone in his study for several hours. Then he takesleave of his blind son and only surviving daughter--all the other childrendied in infancy--and sends them away to a relative. Everard, after waitingvainly for Cyril's answer, goes to Malbourne. He travels in the samecarriage as the judge who had sentenced him, and tells him that he wasinnocent, but is unable to clear himself. Nobody recognises him atMalbourne. He hears his case discussed at the village inn, where he stopsan hour, too much agitated to go to the rectory. "He never done it," is thegeneral verdict.

Then follows the pathetic meeting of Henry and Lilian. Mr. Maitland hadgradually ceased to believe in his guilt. "But I could never forgive theman who let you suffer in his stead," he says. Lilian shudders at this.Cyril is discussed. "Our dear Chrysostom; our golden-mouth!"

Next day, Sunday, old friends welcome Everard. He has a great receptionfrom the villagers. Lilian presses him to say who was the guilty man. MarkAntony, the cat, is still alive. "Only once did Mark make a mistake," shesays, "when he ran after that grey figure in the dusk. Else he neverran after any but myself and Cyril. Henry, you know who killed BenLee. Tell me," she sobs, "oh, tell me it was not he!" Henry cannottell her. Lilian is deeply distressed. "His burden was heavier than mine,"Henry says. He comforts her.

The same day, at morning prayer, Cyril enters the cathedral. The organis playing Mendelssohn's "O Lord, have mercy upon me!" The cathedral ispacked with people of all degrees, known and unknown, friends andstrangers. The thought that all these will soon know his shame turns Cyrilsick. The faces of all those he has injured rise and reproach him. He goesthrough another great spiritual conflict, but his soul emerges at last,stripped of all pretence, in the awful presence of his Maker, shudderingwith the shame of its uncovered sin, and alone. He nerves himself to aneffort beyond his strength, as he stands in the pulpit before theinnumerable gaze of the vast congregation, by holding Henry's letter as atalisman in his hand. Thus he preaches his last and greatest sermon. "Iwill confess my wickedness, and be sorry for my sin." This he doesliterally. He tells the whole story in detail, but without names, sometimesunable to go on for agony and shame, sometimes with tears streaming fromhis eyes. He tells it there that all may take warning from him. He intendsto give himself up to justice as soon as possible. He does not sparehimself. Since his first sin, he says, "I have not had one happy hour." Henever repented, though always consumed with remorse, until his friendforgave him. "That broke my stony heart," he says. The congregation aredeeply moved and horrified. Many think he is under a delusion caused bysorrow for his friend, and mental strain. Having finished in the usual way,he sat down in the pulpit, and neither spoke nor moved again. There he wasfound later, dead.

Next day Henry, who deeply moved, has watched by the dead body of thedean in his library, has to break the news of Cyril's death to Mr.Maitland, in the very room in which Mr. Maitland had accused him of Cyril'scrime and given him up to the police. The adoring father's mind gives wayunder the blow, his memory is permanently confused, and he lives tranquillyon for some years in the belief that Cyril has only gone away for a fewdays.

The story ends with a family scene by Lake Leman, where Henry andLilian, happily married, are living for a time with Mr. Maitland andCyril's children, whom Henry has kept from knowing their father'sguilt.

GERALD GRIFFIN

The Collegians

Gerald Griffin, born at Limerick on December 12, 1803, was oneof the group of clever Irishmen who, in imitation of Tom Moore, soughtliterary fame in London in the first quarter of the nineteenth century. Atthe age of twenty he was writing tales of Munster life. In 1829 he becamepopular through the tale of "The Collegians," here epitomised--a tale thathas held the stage to the present day under the title of "The ColleenBawn." Nine years later, Griffin renounced literature, returned to Ireland,and entered the Church, and on June 12, 1840, died in a monastery at Cork.A tragedy written in his early days was produced successfully by Macreadyafter Griffin's death. His fame, however, depends on his pictures of Irishlife, and they are concentrated best in the literary accessories of thepresent melodrama.

I.--A Secret Wife

At a pleasure garden on a hill near Limerick, Eily O'Connor, thebeautiful daughter of Mihil O'Connor, the rope-maker, first met HardressCregan, a young gentleman fresh from college; and on the same night, as sheand her father were returning homeward, they were attacked by a rabble ofmen and boys, and rescued by the stranger and his hunchbacked companion,Danny Mann. A few days afterwards Danny Mann visited the rope-walk, and hada long conversation with Eily, and from that time the girl's characterseemed to have undergone a change. Her recreations and her attire becamegayer; but her cheerfulness of mind was gone. Her lover, Myles Murphy, agood-natured farmer from Killarney, gained over her father to hisinterests, and the old man pressed her either to give consent to the matchor a good reason for her refusal. After a distressing altercation, Eilyleft the house without a word of farewell.

She had married Hardress Cregan secretly, and the priest had diedimmediately after the ceremony. The first time she was seen, but notrecognised, in her boyish husband's company was by the Dalys, to whichfamily his fellow-collegian and intimate friend, Kyrle Daly, belonged. Aboat passed along the river before their house containing a hooded girl,the hunchback, and Hardress Cregan himself. After they had disappeared,Kyrle Daly rode to pay court to Anne Chute, Hardress's cousin, and, to hisgreat distress, learned that she could never be his wife although she hadno other engagement. From her manner he realised that he had a rival, andthe knowledge plunged him into the deepest despair. After her refusal hewent to spend the night at one of his father's dairy farms, a few milesdown the river. Whilst supper was being prepared, word came that Hardress'sboat was being swamped, with every soul aboard.

The collegian, however, brought the boat safely to the shore, andprocured a room for his wife in the dairy-woman's cottage, passing her offas a relative of Danny Mann's. She retired at once and Hardress and Kyrlesat talking together of Anne Chute. The sight of his friend's sufferingswon Hardress's sympathies. He protested his disbelief in the idea ofanother attachment, and recommended perseverance.

"Trust everything to me," he said. "For your sake I will take some painsto become better known to this extraordinary girl, and you may depend on ityou shall not suffer in my good report."

When the household was asleep, Hardress went to his wife's room, andfound her troubled because of the strangeness of their circ*mstances.

"I was thinking," she said, "what a heart-break it would be to my fatherif anyone put it into his head that the case was worse than it is. No morewould be wanting, but just a little word on a scrap of paper, to let himknow that he needn't be uneasy, and he'd know all in time."

The suggestion appeared to jar against the young husband's inclinations.He replied that if she wished he would return with her to her home, anddeclare the marriage.

"If you are determined on certainly destroying our happiness," hecontinued, "your will shall be dearer to me than fortune or friends. If youhave a father to feel for you, you will not forget, my love, that I have amother whom I love as tenderly, and whose feelings deserve someconsideration."

He took her hand and pressed it in a soothing manner.

"Come, dry those sweet eyes, while I tell you shortly what my plansshall be," he said.

"You have heard me speak of Danny Mann's sister, who lives on the sideof the Purple Mountain, in the Gap of Dunlough? I have had two neat roomsfitted up for you in her cottage, and you can have books to read, and alittle garden to amuse you, and a Kerry pony to ride over the mountains. Inthe meantimes I will steal a visit now and then to my mother, who spendsthe autumn in the neighbourhood. I will gradually let her into my secret,and obtain her forgiveness. I am certain she will not withhold it. I shallthen present you to her. She will commend your modesty and gentleness; wewill send for your father, and then where is the tongue that shall ventureto wag against the fame of Eily Cregan!"

The young man left her, a little chagrined at her apparent slowness inappreciating his noble condescension. In his boyhood he had entertained apassion for his cousin, Anne Chute; but after the long separation of schooland college, he had imagined that his early love was completely forgotten.The feeling with which he regarded her now was rather of resentment thanindifference, and it had been with a secret creeping of the heart that hehad witnessed what he thought was the successful progress of Kyrle Daly'sattachment. It was under those circ*mstances that he formed his presenthasty union with Eily. His love for her was deep, sincere, and tender. Herentire and unbounded confidence, her extreme beauty, her simplicity andtimid deference made a soothing compensation to his heart for the coldnessof the haughty, though superior beauty, whose inconstancy had raised hisindignation.

In the morning, accompanied by Eily and Danny Mann, he sailed forBallybunion, where they rested in a cavern while the hunchback sought aneligible lodging for the night. During his absence Hardress told Eily thatDanny Mann was his foster-brother, and that he himself had been the causeof the poor fellow's deformity.

"When we were children he was my constant companion," he said."Familiarity produced a feeling of equality, on which he presumed so far asto offer rudeness to a little relative of mine, a Miss Chute, who was on avisit to my mother. She complained to me, and my vengeance was summary. Iseized him by the collar, and hurled him with desperate force to the bottomof a flight of stairs. An injury was done to his spine."

But Danny Mann had shown naught but good nature and kindly feeling eversince. His attachment had become the attachment of a zealot. Hardress wassometimes alarmed at the profane importance he attached to his master'swishes; he seemed to care but little what laws he might transgress when thegratification of Hardress's inclination was in question.

II.--Tempted

A week afterwards Hardress visited his parents at their Killarneyresidence, to find that his mother, with her niece, Anne Chute, had gone toa grand ball in the neighbourhood. His father was spending the night withhis boon fellows, and a favourite old huntsman lay dying in a room near by.This retainer told his young master that Anne Chute loved him well, andthat she deserved a better fortune than to love without return. Hardresswent to bed, and was awakened by his mother upon her return. She reprovedhim for his long absence, and told him of the sensation his beautifulcousin was making in society. In the morning he met Anne with someconsciousness and distress. A womanly reserve and delicacy made the girlunwilling to affect an intimacy that might not be graciously acknowledged.She treated him coldly, and began to read some silly novel of the day.

"Ah, Eily, my own, own Eily!" he murmured to himself. "You are worththis fine lady a hundred times over!"

His mother appeared; her raillery entrapped both him and Anne in a sceneof coquetry. No longer embarrassed by the feeling of strangeness andapprehension which had depressed her spirits on their first meeting afterhis return from college, Anne now assumed ease and liveliness of manner.Every hour he spent in her society removed from his mind the prejudice hehad conceived against her, and supplied its place with a feeling of strongkindness. When he left the merry circle to return to Eily, blank regretfell suddenly upon his heart. But the sorrow which Anne manifested at hisdeparture, and the cordial pleasure with which she heard of his intentionto return soon, inspired him with the strangest happiness. The next time hethought of Eily and his cousin, the conjunction was less favourable to theformer.

"My poor little love!" he thought. "How much she has to learn before shecan assume, with comfort to herself, the place for which I have designedher!"

At the cottage Eily received him with rapture and affection, and everyother feeling was banished from his mind. But in the course of the eveningshe remarked that he was more silent and abstracted than she had ever seenhim, and that he more frequently spoke in connection of some little breachof etiquette, or inelegance of manner, than in those terms of eloquentpraise and fondness which he was accustomed to lavish upon her. The nextday he returned to his mother's house leaving her in tears.

That night Mrs. Cregan gave a ball, at which he was one of the gayestrevellers. Soon afterwards his mother also told him that Anne was in love,and with none other than himself. In great agitation he replied that he hadalready pledged himself to another. She insisted that any other engagementmust be broken, since if there was to be a victim it should not be Anne.The lady's violent maternal affection overruled him, and in spite of thecall of honour he dared not tell her that he was already married.

During the ensuing weeks Eily perceived a rapid and fearful change inhis temper and appearance. His visits were fewer and shorter, and hismanner became extraordinarily restrained and conscious.

But when she told him that the loneliness was troubling her, he accusedher of jealousy.

"If I was jealous, and with reason," said Eily. smiling seriously,"nobody would ever know it; for I wouldn't say a word, only stretch upon mybed and die. I wouldn't be long in his way, I'll engage."

Hardress warned her never to inquire into his secrets, nor to effect aninfluence which he would not admit. He bade her avoid suffering theslightest suspicion to appear, since when suspicions are afloat men findthe temptation to furnish them with a cause almost irresistible. Eilyprotested that she was joking, and his uneasy conscience threw him into aparoxysm of fury.

"Curse on you!" he cried. "Curse on your beauty, curse on my own folly,for I have been undone by both! I hate you! Take the truth; I'll not bepoisoned with it! I am sick of you; you have disgusted me! I will ease myheart by telling you the whole. If I seek the society of other women, it isbecause I find not among them your meanness and vulgarity!"

"Oh, Hardress," shrieked the affrighted girl, "you are not in earnestnow?"

"I do not joke!" he exclaimed, with a hoarse vehemence.

"Oh, my dear Hardress, listen to me! Hear your poor Eily for one moment!Oh, my poor father! Forgive me, Hardress. I left my home and all for you.Oh, do not cast me off! I will do anything to please you. I will never openmy lips again. Only say you do not mean all that."

He tore himself away, leaving Eily unconscious on the ground. On thesummit of the Purple Mountain, which was all surrounded by mist, he metDanny Mann, and confided to him that his love of Eily had turned to hatred,asking his advice concerning what must be done.

"Sorrow trouble would I even give myself about her," said Danny, "onlysend her home packin' to her father!"

"Should I send Eily home to earn for myself the reputation of afaithless villain!" said Hardress.

"Why, then I'll tell you what I'd do," said Danny, nodding his head."Pay her passage out to Quaybec, an' put her aboard of a three-master. Doby her as you'd do to dat glove you have on your hand. Make it come off aswell as it comes on, an' if it fits too tight, take the knife to it. Onlygive me the word, an' I'll engage Eily O'Connor will never trouble you anymore. Don't ax me any questions; only, if you are agreeable, take off thatglove an' give it to me for a token. Lave the rest to Danny."

Hardress gazed upon the face of the hunchback with an expression ofgaping terror, as if he stood in the presence of the Arch Tempter himself.Then he caught him by the throat, and shook him with appallingviolence.

"If you ever dare again to utter a word or meditate a thought of evilagainst that unhappy creature," he cried, "I will tear you limb from limbbetween my hands!"

III.--"Found Drowned"

Hardress had left Eily almost unprovided with funds. After a few weeksshe was obliged to write for pecuniary assistance. The letter was unheeded.She borrowed a pony, and went to ask advice from her father's brother,Father O'Connor, of Castle Island. The priest received her very coldly, butbecame deeply moved upon hearing that she was legally married. She beggedhim to inform her father that she hoped soon to ask his pardon for all thesorrow she had caused. He gave her all the money he had, and she returnedto the cottage.

Danny Mann delivered Eily's letter, and sat drinking with his master inMrs. Cregan's drawing-room. Anne Chute entered, and finding the man sheloved in an intoxicated condition she withdrew in sorrow and disgust.

He asked the girl's forgiveness when soberness returned, and she toldhim that she was greatly distressed because of his changed manner. For along time past there had been a distressing series of misconceptions on herpart, and of inconsistencies on his. She could not explain how deeplytroubled she felt.

The intoxication of passion overcame Hardress, and he told her that thekey to everything was that he loved her. She forgave him, and he was aboutto send a reassuring line to his mother, when he found in his hands aportion of Eily's letter, in which she begged him to let her go back to herfather. He turned white with fear, but Mrs. Cregan entered, and her strongwill overbore his scruples. He declared himself ready to marry hisbeautiful cousin. Then he sought Danny Mann, and reminded him of hissuggestion about hiring a passage for Eily in a North American vessel.

"You bade me draw my glove from off my hand, and give it for a warrant,"he said, plucking off the glove slowly finger by finger. "My mind isaltered. I married too young; I didn't know my own mind. I am burning withthis thralldom. Here is my glove."

Danny took it, whilst they exchanged a look of cold and fatalintelligence. Hardress gave him a purse, and repeated that Eily must notstay in Ireland, that three thousand miles of roaring ocean were a securityfor silence. Not a hair of her head must be hurt, but he would never seeher more. Then he wrote on the back of Eily's letter instructions for herto put herself under the bearer's care, and he would restore her to herfather. She determined to obey at once, and without a murmur, and atnightfall left the cottage in Danny's company. Two hours afterwardsHardress himself arrived in a fit of compunction. On learning that they haddeparted, he swore to himself that if this his servant exceeded his views,he would tear his flesh from his bones, and gibbet him as a miscreant and aruffian.

The night grew wild and stormy; a thunderstorm broke over the hill.Hardress slumbered in his chair, crying out, "My glove, my glove! You usedit against my meaning! I meant but banishment. We shall be hanged forthis!"

He awoke from a fearsome nightmare, and, unable to remain longer in thecottage, ran home with the speed of one distracted. There he rebuked hismother wildly, telling her that she had forced him into madness, and thathe was free to execute her will--to marry or hang, whichever she pleased.His love of Anne now became entirely dormant, and he was able to estimatethe greatness of his guilt without even the suggestion of a palliative.Anne returned to Castle Chute, and preparations were soon being made forthe wedding. Hardress and his mother went to stay there, and Kyrle Dalyheard for the first time that he had won the girl's love, instead ofpleading his fellow-collegian's cause as he had promised. The anger he feltwas diverted by a family tragedy--the death of his mother. At her wakeHardress appeared, and found himself face to face with old Mihil O'Connor,his father-in-law. The ropemaker, who had only a faint recollection ofhaving met him before, told him of his heart-break because of Eily'sdisappearance, and misread his agitation for sympathy.

Some while afterwards the gentry of the neighbourhood hunted the fox,and the dogs found on the bank of the Shannon a body covered with a largeblue mantle that was drenched with wet and mire. A pair of small feet inSpanish leather shoes appearing from below the end of the garment showedthat the body was that of a female, whilst a mass of long, fair hair whichescaped from the hood proved that death had found the victim untimely inher youth.

IV.--Exiled for Life

Hardress confided the mournful story to his mother, assuring her that hewas Eily's murderer. After the first extreme agitation, the lady declaredthat he overrated the measure of his guilt. She reproached him for his lackof confidence, after all the love she had showered upon him. He clenchedhis hand, and she affected to fear that he intended to strike her. At heroutcry of fear he sank to her feet, lowering his forehead to the verydust.

"There is one way left for reparation," he said. "I will give myself up.There is peace and comfort in the thought."

He was interrupted by the entrance of Anne. Mrs. Cregan accounted forher son's excitement by saying that he was ill. Later in the evening theyheard that the coroner had not even found anyone to identify the body, andthat the jury had returned a verdict of "Found Drowned." Some daysafterwards Hardress went shooting to the creek, and, believing that he hadkilled a serving-man, fled panic-stricken back to the house. The fellow,however, was unhurt, but his cries attracted the attention of a strangerwho had lain concealed under a bank. A party of soldiers appeared now andfired at this unknown man, and soon he staggered and was takenprisoner.

Mrs. Cregan came to Hardress's room with fearful tidings. Eily's dresshad been recognised, and suspicion had fallen upon Danny Mann. Hardresstold her that his former servant had left the country, but soon thesoldiers arrived at the house with the hunchback in charge. Late that nightHardress left his bed, and entered the stable where Danny was confined. Thehunchback advanced towards him slowly, his hands wreathed together, his jawdropped, and his eyes filled with tears. He offered Hardress the glove.

"I had my token surely for what I done," he said. "'Here is yourwarrant,' you says. Worn't them your words?"

"But not for death," replied Hardress. "I did not say for death."

"I own you didn't," said Danny Mann. "I felt for you, an' I wouldn'twait for you to say it. Your eye looked murder; as sure as that moon isshinin', so sure the sign of death was on your face that time, whatever wayyour words went."

Hardress gave him money, and helped him to escape, bidding him leave thecountry. "If ever we should meet again on Irish soil," he said, "it must bethe death of either."

The exertions for Danny Mann's recapture proved unavailing, and in a fewweeks the affair had begun to grow unfamiliar to the tongues andrecollections of the people. Hardress's depression reached an unbearabledegree, and Anne at last grew seriously uneasy. He assured her that if sheknew all she would pity and not blame. Then, one day when they were walkingtogether they came upon some countryfolk dancing in the road, and amongstthem Hardress recognised the hunchback. He caught him by the throat andflung him violently against the wall.

Danny Mann was taken into custody again, and, before the magistrate,told of Hardress's complicity in the crime. He declared that he had alwaysloved his master, but that from the moment of the assault a change had comeover his love.

"He had his revenge, an' I'll have mine," he said. "He doesn't feel forme, an' I won't feel for him. Write down Danny Mann for the murderer ofEily, an' write down Hardress Cregan for his adviser." He produced thecertificate of Eily's marriage. "I took it out of her bosom after--" Heshuddered with such violence that the door trembled. "She kep' her hand inher bosom upon that paper to the last gasp, as if she thought it was to robher of that I wanted."

The magistrate, accompanied by a guard, rode to Castle Chute. It was thewedding evening, and the house was filled with gay company. As all sat attable together, Hardress heard a low voice whisper in his ear, "Arise, andfly for your life!" The wineglass fell from his hand, and he became filledwith terror. Once again he heard the voice, "Arise, I tell you! The army isabroad, and your life is in danger!"

As he was preparing to escape, his mother entered his presence.

"The doors are all defended!" she cried. "There is a soldier set onevery entrance! You are trapped and caught! The window--come this way,quick--quick!"

She drew him passively into her own bed-chamber; some minutes later thesoldiers forced their way forward, and found him concealed in an innerplace. His mother sank at his feet, and cried out that the crime was hers,since she had been the author of his first temptation, the stumbling-blockbetween him and repentance.

"I have tied the cord upon your throat!" she shrieked. "I have been yourfellest foe! You drank in pride with my milk, and passion under myindulgence!"

Hardress took the wretched woman in his arms and kissed herforehead.

"I will pray for you at the moment of my death, as you will pray forme," he said. Then he surrendered himself to the soldiers, and was takenaway. At the trial the mercy of the executive power was extended to hislife, and he was sentenced to perpetual exile. As the convict ship whichwas to bear him from home waited in the river, he was brought from his gaoland left for a short time on the quay, where he heard that Eily's fatherhad died, after praying for and forgiving his enemies. The boat arrived toconvey him to the ship, and whilst descending the steps he was overcome bya seizure, and would have fallen but for the aid of his escort. The dawn ofthe following morning beheld him tossed upon the waves of the Atlantic, andlooking back to the clifted heads of the Shannon, that stood like agigantic portal opening far behind. The land of his nativity faded rapidlyon his sight, but before the vessel came in sight of that of his exile, hehad rendered up the life which the law forbore to take.

Danny Mann died amid all the agonies of a remorse which made even thosewhose eyes had looked upon such cases shrink back with fear and wonder.Mrs. Cregan lived many years after Hardress's departure, practising theaustere and humiliating works of piety which her Church prescribes for thepenitent.

Anne Chute, in the course of time, became Kyrle Daly's wife, and theywere as happy as earth could render hearts that looked to higher destiniesand a more lasting rest.

JOHN HABBERTON

Helen's Babies

John Habberton, the author of "Helen's Babies," was born inBrooklyn, New York, on February 24, 1842. He enlisted in the army in 1862,and served through the Civil War, at the close of which he adoptedjournalism as a profession, becoming, in due course, literary editor of the"Christian Union." His first and most popular story, "Helen's Babies,"after being declined by various publishers, appeared in 1876, and more thana quarter of a million copies have been sold in America alone. According toMr. Habberton himself, the story "grew out of an attempt to keep for asingle day the record of the doings of a brace of boys of whom the authoris half-owner." Apart from a number of novels, Mr. Habberton has alsowritten a "Life of George Washington," and a play, "Deacon Cranket,"performed more than five hundred times.

I.--The Imps

The first cause of the existence of this book may be found in a letter,written by my sister, and received by me, Harry Burton, salesman of whitegoods, bachelor, aged twenty-eight, just as I was trying to decide where Ishould spend a fortnight's vacation. She suggested, as I was alwayscomplaining of never having time to read, I should stay at her place, whileshe and her husband went on a fortnight's visit. She owned she would feeleasier if she knew there was a man in the house.

"Just the thing!" I ejacul*ted. Five minutes later I had telegraphed myacceptance, and had mentally selected books enough for a dozen vacations. Iknew enough of Helen's boys to be sure they would give one no annoyance.Budge, the elder, was five years of age, and had generally, during myflying visits, worn a shy, serious, meditative, noble face, and Toddie wasa happy little know-nothing of three summers, with tangled yellow hair.

Three days later I hired a hackman to drive me from Hillcrest Station.Half a mile from my brother-in-law's residence the horses shied violently,and the driver, after talking freely to them, remarked, "That was one ofthe Imps!"

As he spoke the offending youth came panting beside our carriage, and ina very dirty sailor-suit I recognised my nephew Budge. Then a smaller boyemerged from the bushes at the side of the road, and I beheld theunmistakable lineaments of Toddie.

"They're my nephews!" I gasped.

"Budge," I said, with all the sternness I could command; "do you knowme?"

"Yes; you're Uncle Harry. Did you bring us anything?"

"I wish I could have brought you some big whippings for behaving sobadly. Get into this carriage."

As they clambered up, I noticed that each one carried a very dirtytowel, knotted tightly in the centre. After some moments' disgustedcontemplation of these rags, I asked Budge what these towels were for.

"They're not towels, they're dollies," promptly answered my nephew.

"Goodness!" I exclaimed. "I should think your mother might buy yourespectable dolls, and not let you appear in public with these loathsomerags."

"We don't like buyed dollies," said Budge. "These dollies is lovely.Mine's got blue eyes and Toddie's has got brown eyes."

"I want to shee your watch," remarked Toddie, snatching the chain androlling into my lap.

"Oh-oo-ee! So do I!" shouted Budge, hastening to occupy one knee, and intransit wiping his shoes on my trousers and the skirts of my coat.

A carriage containing a couple of ladies was rapidly approaching; Idropped my head to avoid meeting their glance, for my few minutes ofcontact with my dreadful nephews had made me feel inexpressibly un-neat.The carriage stopped. I heard my own name spoken. There, erect, fresh,neat, bright-eyed, fair-faced, smiling, and observant, sat Miss AliceMayton, a lady who for about a year I had been adoring from afar.

"When did you arrive, Mr. Burton?" she asked. "You're certainly ahappy-looking trio--so unconventional! You look as if you had been havingsuch a good time."

"I--I assure you, Miss Mayton, that my experience has been the reverseof a pleasant one. If King Herod were yet alive I'd volunteer as anexecutioner."

"You dreadful wretch!" exclaimed the lady. "Mother, let me make youacquainted with Mr. Burton, Helen Lawrence's brother. How is your sister,Mr. Burton?"

"I don't know," I replied; "she's gone with her husband on a visit, andI've been silly enough to promise to give an eye to the place while they'reaway."

"Why, how delightful!" said Miss Mayton. "Such horses! Such flowers!Such a cook!"

"And such children!" said I, glaring at the Imps, and rescuing myhandkerchief from Toddie.

"Why, they're the best children in the world! Helen told me so. Childrenwill be children, you know. I don't wish to give any hints, but at Mrs.Clarkson's, where we're boarding, there's not a flower in the whole garden.I break the Tenth Commandment every time I pass Colonel Lawrence's.Good-bye."

"Of course you'll call," said Miss Mayton, as the carriage started;"it's dreadfully stupid here. No men, except on Sundays."

I bowed assent. In the contemplation of all the shy possibilities myshort chat with Miss Mayton had suggested, I had quite forgotten my dustyclothing and the two little living causes thereof.

II.--The Fate of a Bouquet

Next morning at breakfast Toddie remarked, "Ocken Hawwy, darsh an awfoofunny chunt upstairs. I show it to you after brepspup."

"Toddie's a silly little boy," said Budge, "he always says brepspup forbrekbux."

"Oh, what does he mean by chunt, Budge?"

"I guess he means trunk," replied my elder nephew.

Recollections of my childish delight in rummaging an old trunk caused meto smile sympathetically at Toddie, to his great delight.

A direful thought struck me. I dashed upstairs. Yes, he did mean mytrunk. While a campaigner, I had learned to reduce packing to an exactscience. Now, if I had an atom of pride in me, I might have glorifiedmyself, for it certainly seemed as if the heap upon the floor could neverhave come out of one single trunk.

In the lid of my dressing-case lay my dress-coat, tightly rolled up.Snatching it up, with a violent exclamation, there dropped from it--one ofthese infernal dolls. A howl resounded from the doorway.

"You tookted my dolly out of her k'adle--want to wock my dollyoo-ee-ee!"

I called the girl, and asked where the key was that locked the doorbetween my room and the children's.

"Please sir, Toddie threw it down the well."

I removed the lock and told the coachman to get ready at once to driveto Paterson, where the nearest locksmith lived, by the hill road, one ofthe most beautiful roads in America.

Away went the horses, and up rose a piercing shriek and a terrible roar.I looked out hastily, only to see Budge and Toddie running after thecarriage and crying pitifully. The driver stopped of his own accord--heseemed to know the children's ways and their results--and I helped them in,meekly hoping the eye of Providence was upon me.

That afternoon I devoted myself to making a bouquet for Miss Mayton, anda most delightful occupation I found it.

Not that I was in love with Miss Mayton. A man may honestly and stronglyadmire a handsome, brilliant woman, and delight himself in trying to giveher pleasure without feeling it necessary she shall give him herself inreturn.

My delight suddenly became clouded. What would folks say? Everybody knewwhere Mike was employed--everybody knew I was the only gentleman at presentresiding at Colonel Lawrence's. Ah, I had it.

I had seen in one of the library drawers a pasteboard box--just thesize. I dropped my card into the bottom, neatly fitted in the bouquet, andwent in search of Mike.

He winked cheeringly, and said he would do it "as clane as a whistle.Divil a man can see, but the angels, and they won't tell."

"Very well, Mike. Here's a dollar for you. You'll find the box on thehat-rack in the hall."

With a head full of pleasing fancies I went down to supper, and found mynew friends unusually good. Their ride seemed to have toned down theirboisterousness, and elevated their little souls. So when they invited me toput them to bed I gladly accepted. Toddie disappeared somewhere, and cameback disconsolate.

"Can't find my doll's k'adle!" he whined.

"Never mind, old pet!" said I, soothingly, "uncle will ride you on hisfoot."

"But I want my dolly's k'adle, tawse my dolly's in it, and I want toshee her!"

"Don't you want me to tell you a story?"

For a moment Toddle's face indicated a terrible internal conflictbetween old Adam and Mother Eve; finally curiosity overpowered naturaldepravity, and Toddie muttered, "Yesh!"

Very soon a knock at the door interrupted me. "Come in!" I shouted.

In stepped Mike, with an air of the greatest secrecy, handed me a letterand the box. What could it mean? I hastily opened the envelope,while Toddie shrieked, "Oh, darsh my dolly's k'adle--dare tizh!" snatchedand opened the box, and displayed--his doll!

My heart sickened as I read, "Miss Mayton herewith returns to Mr. Burtonthe package which has just arrived, with his card. She recognises thecontents as a portion of the property of one of Mr. Burton's nephews, butis unable to understand why it should have been sent to her."

"Toddie!" I roared, as my younger nephew caressed his loathsome doll,"where did you get that box?"

"On the hat-wack," he replied, with perfect fearlessness. "I keeps it inze bookcase djawer, and somebody took it 'way an' put nasty ole flowers init."

"Where are those flowers?" I demanded.

Toddie looked up with considerable surprise, but promptly replied, "Ifroed 'em away--don't want no ole flowers in my dolly's k'adle. That's zeway she wocks--see?" And this horrible little destroyer of human hopesrolled that box back and forth with the most utter unconcern.

Of language to express my feeling to Toddie, I could find absolutelynone. Within these few minutes I had discovered how very anxious I reallywas to merit Miss Mayton's regard, and how very different was the regard Iwanted from that which I had previously hoped might be accorded to me.Under my stern glance Toddie gradually lost interest in his doll, and beganto thrust forth his piteous lower lip, and to weep copiously.

"Dee Lord, not make me sho bad." He even retired to a corner and hid hisface in self-imposed penance.

"Never mind, Toddie," said I sadly; "you didn't mean to do it, Iknow."

"I wantsh to love you," sobbed Toddie.

"Well, come here, you poor little fellow."

Toddie came to my arms, shed tears freely upon my shirt-front, andfinally remarked, "Wantsh you to love me!"

I kissed Toddie, and petted him, and at length succeeded in quietinghim. He looked earnestly, confidingly, in my eyes, and then said, "Kish mydolly, too!"

I obeyed. My forgiveness was complete, and so was my humiliation. Iwithdrew abruptly to write an apology.

III.--Budge, the Interpreter

On Monday morning I devoted myself to Toddie's expiatory bouquet, inwhich I had the benefit of my nephews' assistance and counsel, and tookenforced part in the conversation.

At two o'clock I instructed Maggie to dress my nephews, and at three westarted to make our call. As we approached, I saw Miss Mayton on thepiazza. Handing the bouquet to Toddie, we entered the garden, when heshrieked, "Oh, there's a cutter-grass!" and with the carelessness born ofperfect ecstasy, dropped the bouquet.

I snatched it before it reached the ground, dragged him up to MissMayton, and told him to give the bouquet to the lady. As she stooped tokiss him, he wriggled off like a little eel, shouted "Tum on!" to hisbrother, and a moment later both were following the lawn-mower at arespectful distance.

"Bless the little darlings!" said Miss Mayton. "I do love to seechildren enjoying themselves!"

We settled down to a pleasant chat about books, pictures, music, and thegossip of our set. Handsome, intelligent, composed, tastefully dressed, sheawakened to the uttermost every admiring sentiment and every manly feeling.When I began to take leave, Miss Mayton's mother insisted that we shouldstay to dinner.

"For myself, I should be delighted, Mrs. Mayton," said I, "but mynephews have hardly learned company manners yet."

"Oh, I'll take care of the little dears," said Miss Mayton. "They'll begood with me, I know."

She insisted, and the pleasure of submitting to her will was so greatthat I would have risked even greater mischief. The soup was served, andToddie immediately tilted his plate so that part of its contents soughtrefuge in the folds of Miss Mayton's dainty, snowy dress. She treated thatwretched boy with the most Christian forbearance during the rest of themeal.

When the dessert was finished, she quickly excused herself, and Iremoved Toddie to a secluded corner, and favoured him with a lecture whichcaused him to howl pitifully, and compelled me to caress him and undo allthe good I had done.

I awaited Miss Mayton's reappearance to offer an apology for Toddie, andto make my adieus. The other ladies departed in twos and threes, and leftus without witnesses.

Suddenly she appeared, and, whatever was the cause, she looked queenly.She dropped into a chair, and the boys retired to the end of the piazza tomake experiments on a large Newfoundland dog, while I, the happiest manalive, talked to the glorious woman before me, and enjoyed her radiantbeauty. The twilight came and deepened, and our voices unconsciouslydropped to lower tones, and her voice seemed purest music.

Suddenly a small shadow came between, and the voice of Budge remarked,"Uncle Harry 'spects you, Miss Mayton."

"Suspects me! Of what, pray?" exclaimed the lady, patting my nephew'scheek.

"Budge," said I--I felt my voice rising nearly to a scream--"Budge, Imust beg you to respect the sanctity of confidential communications."

"What is it, Budge?" persisted Miss Mayton. "You know the old adage, Mr.Burton, 'Children and fools speak the truth.' Of what does he suspect me,Budge?"

"'Tain't suspect at all," said Budge; "it's espect."

"Expect?" echoed Miss Mayton.

"Respect is what the boy is trying to say, Miss Mayton," I interrupted."Budge has a terrifying faculty for asking questions, and the result ofsome of them this morning was my endeavour to explain the nature of therespect in which gentlemen hold ladies."

"Yes," said Budge; "I know all about it. Only Uncle Harry don't say itright. What he calls respect I calls love."

"Miss Mayton," I said hastily, earnestly, "Budge is a marplot, but he isa very truthful interpreter, for all that. Whatever my fate may be, donot----"

"I want to talk some," observed Budge. "You talk all the whole time.I--when I loves anybody I kisses them." Miss Mayton gave a little start,and my thoughts followed each other with unimagined rapidity. She was notangry, evidently. Could it be that----? I bent over her, and acted onBudge's suggestion. She raised her head slightly, and I saw that AliceMayton had surrendered at discretion. Taking her hand, I offered to theLord more fervent thanks than He had ever heard from me in church. ThenBudge said, "I wants to kiss you, too." And I saw my glorious Alice snatchthe little scamp into her arms and treat him with more affection than I hadever imagined was in her nature.

Suddenly two or three ladies came upon the piazza.

"Come, boys!" said I. "Then I'll call with the carriage to-morrow atthree, Miss Mayton. Good-evening."

That night I wrote to my sister to inform her that the scales had fallenfrom my eyes--I saw clearly that my nephews were angels. And I begged torefer her to Alice Mayton for collateral evidence.

IV.--The Fruit of My Visit

A few days later I had a letter from my sister to say she had beenrecalling a fortnight's experience they once had of courtship in aboarding-house, so had determined to cut short her visit and hurry home.Friday morning they intended to arrive--blessings on their thoughtfulhearts! And this was Friday. I hurried into the boys' room and shouted,"Toddie! Budge! Who do you think is coming to see you this morning?"

"Who?" asked Budge.

"Organ-grinder?" queried Toddie.

"No; your papa and mamma."

Budge looked like an angel at once, but Toddie murmured mournfully, "Ifought it wash an organ-grinder."

"Oh, Uncle Harry," said Budge, in a perfect delirium of delight, "Ibelieve if my papa and mamma had stayed away any longer I believe I woulddie. I've been so lonesome for them that I haven't known what to do.I've cried whole pillowsful about it, right here in the dark."

"Why, my poor old fellow," said I, picking him up and kissing him. "Whydidn't you come and tell Uncle Harry, and let him try to comfort you?"

"I couldn't," said Budge. "When I gets lonesome, it feels as if my mouthwas all tied up, and a big, great stone was right in here." And Budge puthis hand on his chest.

"If a big tone wash inshide of me," said Toddie, "I'd take it out andfrow it at the shickens."

"Toddie," I said, "aren't you glad papa and mamma are coming?"

"Yesh," said Toddie. "Mamma always bwings me candy fen she goesanyfere."

During the hour which passed before it was time to start for the depot,my sole attention was devoted to keeping the children from soiling theirclothes, but my success was so little, I lost my temper utterly.

"Harness the horse, Mike," I shouted.

"An' the goat, too," added Budge.

Five minutes later I was seated in the carriage.

"Are you all ready, boys?" I asked.

"In a minute," said Budge; "soon as I fix this. Now," he continued,getting into his seat and seizing the reins and whip, "go ahead!"

"Wait a minute, Budge. Put down that whip, and don't touch the goat withit once. I'm going to drive very slowly; all you need do is to hold thereins."

"All right," said Budge; "but I like to look like mans when Idrive."

The horses went at a gentle trot, and the goat followed very closely.When within a minute of the depot the train swept in. I gave the horses thewhip, looked, and saw the boys close behind me. Nothing but the sharpest ofturns saved me from a severe accident. As it was, I heard two hard thumpsupon the wooden wall, and two frightful howls, and saw both my nephewsmixed up on the platform, while the driver of the stage growled in my ear,"What in thunder did you let 'em hitch that goat to your axletree for?"

How the goat's head and shoulders maintained their normal connectionduring the last minute of my drive, I leave naturalists to explain.Fortunately, the children had struck on their heads, and theLawrence-Burton skull is a marvel of solidity. I set them on their feet,promised them all the candy they could eat for a week, and hurried them tothe other side of the depot. Budge rushed at Tom, exclaiming, "See my goat,papa?"

Helen was somewhat concerned about the children, but found time to lookat me with so much of sympathy, humour, affection, and condescension that Ireally felt relieved when we reached the house. And how gloriously the restof the day passed off! We had a delightful little lunch, and Tom brought upa bottle of Roederer, and we drank to "her and her mother." Then Helenproposed, "The makers of the match--Budge and Toddie," which was honouredwith bumpers. The gentlemen toasted did not respond, but stared socuriously I sprang from my chair and kissed them soundly, while Helen andTom exchanged significant glances.

Young as they are, I find frequent reason to be jealous of them, butartifice alone can prevent them monopolising the time of an adorable beingof whose society I cannot possibly have too much. She insists that, whenthe ceremony takes place in December, they shall officiate as groomsmen,and I have no doubt she will carry her point In fact, when I retire for thenight without first seeking their room, and putting a grateful kiss ontheir unconscious lips, my conscience upbraids me with base ingratitude. Tothink I might yet be a hopeless bachelor had it not been for them, is tooverflow with gratitude to the Giver of Helen's Babies.

LUDOVIC HALEVY

The Abbé Constantin

Ludovic Halevy, born in Paris on January 1, 1834, was a nephewof Jacques François Halevy, the famous operatic composer. Beginninglife in the Civil Service, he himself achieved considerable distinction asa dramatic author, "Frou-Frou," written in collaboration with Meilhac,being one of the greatest theatrical successes of his century. He soon,however, forsook the drama for fiction. His first novel, "Monsieur andMadame Cardinal," published in 1873, gave ample promise of the inventivegenius and gift of characterisation that were fully realised nine yearslater in "L'Abbé Constantin." The tale, an exquisite study of Frenchprovincial life, came as a distinct revelation of French life and characterto English readers. It has reached 240 editions, and has been translatedinto all European languages. In 1886 Halevy was elected to the FrenchAcademy. He died on May 8, 1908.

I.--"The Good Days Are Gone"

With footstep firm and strong, despite his weight of years, an oldpriest was walking along a dusty country road one sunny day in May 1881. Itwas more than thirty years since the Abbé Constantin had firstbecome curé of the little village sleeping there in the sunnyplain of France, beside a dainty stream called the Lizotte. He had beenwalking for a quarter of an hour along the wall of the Château deLongueval. As he reached the massive entrance gates he stopped and gazedsadly at two immense bills pasted on the pillars. They announced the saleby auction that day of the Longueval estate, divided into four lots: (1)The castle, with all its grounds and parks; (2) the farm ofBlanche-Couronne, 700 acres; (3) the farm of Rozeraie, 500 acres; (4) theforest and woods of Mionne, 900 acres. The reserve prices totalled therespectable sum of 2,050,000 francs!

So that magnificent estate, which for two centuries had passed intactfrom father to son in the Longueval family, was to be divided. The billsannounced, it was true, that after the preliminary sale of the four lotsthe highest bidder might bid for the whole estate. But it was an enormoussum, and no purchaser was likely to present himself.

The Marquise de Longueval, dying six months since, had left three heirs,her grandchildren, two of whom were under age, so that the estate had to beput up for sale. Pierre, the eldest, an extravagant young man oftwenty-three, had foolishly squandered half his money, and was quite unableto re-purchase Longueval.

It was twelve o'clock. In an hour the château would have a newmaster. Who would he be? Who could take the place of the marquise, the oldfriend of the country curé, and the kindly friend of all thevillagers. The old priest walked on, thinking sadly of the habits of thirtyyears suddenly interrupted. Every Thursday and every Sunday he had dined atthe château. How much had they made of him! Curé of Longueval!All his life he had been that, had dreamed of nothing else. He loved hislittle church, the little village, and his little vicarage.

Still in pensive mood, he was passing the park of Lavardens when heheard some one calling him. Looking up, he saw the Countess of Lavardensand her son Paul. She was a widow; her son a handsome young man, who hadmade a bad start in the world and now contented himself by spending somemonths in Paris every year, when he dissipated the annual allowance fromhis mother, and returned home for the rest of the year to loaf about inidleness or in pursuit of stupid sports.

"Where are you off to, Monsieur le Curé?" asked the countess.

"To Souvigny, to learn the result of the sale."

"Stay here with us. M. de Larnac is there, and will hasten back with thenews. But I can tell you who are the new owners of the castle."

At this the abbé turned into the gates of the countess's grounds, andjoined that lady and her son on the terrace of their house. The new owners,it appeared, were to be M. de Larnac, M. Gallard, a rich Paris banker, andthe countess herself, for the three had agreed to purchase it betweenthem.

"It is all settled," the lady assured him. But presently M. de Larnacarrived with the news that they had been unable to buy it, as some Americanhad paid an enormous sum for the entire estate. The person who was now tobe the great lady of Longueval was named Madame Scott.

M. de Larnac had some further particulars to add. He had heard that theScotts were great upstarts, and that the new owner of the castle hadactually been a beggar in New York. A great lawsuit had resulted in favourof her and her husband, making them the owners of a silver-mine.

"And we are to have such people for neighbours!" exclaimed the countess."An adventuress, and no doubt a Protestant, Monsieur le Curé!"

The abbé was very sore at heart, and, never doubting but that thenew mistress of the castle would be no friend of his, he took his wayhomeward. In his imagination he saw this Madame Scott settled at the castleand despising his little Catholic church and all his simple services to thequiet village folk.

He was still brooding over the unhappy fate of Longueval when hisgodson, Jean Reynaud--son of his old friend Dr. Reynaud--to whom he hadbeen as good as a father, and who was worthy of the old priest's love,dismounted at his door. For Jean was now a lieutenant in the artillerystationed in the district, and much of his leisure was spent at theabbé's house. Jean tried to console him by saying that even thoughthis American, Madame Scott, were not a Catholic, she was known to begenerous, and would no doubt give him money for the poor.

II.--The New Parishioners

The abbé and his godson were in the garden next day, when theyheard a carriage stop at the gate. Two ladies alighted, dressed in simpletravelling costumes. They came into the garden, and the elder of the two,who seemed to be no more than twenty-five, came up to the AbbéConstantin saying, with only the slightest foreign accent, "I am obliged tointroduce myself, M. le Curé. I am Madame Scott, in whose nameyesterday the castle and estate were bought, and if it is no inconvenienceI should be glad to take five minutes of your time." Then, turning to hercompanion, she said, "This is my sister, Miss Bettina Percival, as you mayhave guessed."

Greatly agitated, the abbé bowed his respects, and led into hislittle vicarage the new mistress of Longueval and her sister. The cloth hadbeen laid for the simple meal of the old priest and the lieutenant, and theladies seemed charmed with the humble comfort of the place.

"Look now, Susie," said Miss Bettina, "isn't this just the sort ofvicarage you hoped it would be?"

"And the abbé also, if he will allow me to say so," said MadameScott. "For what did I say in the train this morning, Bettina, and only alittle while ago in the carriage?"

"My sister said to me, M. le Curé," said Miss Percival, "that shedesired, above all things, that the abbé should not be young, normelancholy, nor severe, but that he should be white-haired and gentle andgood."

"And that is you exactly, M. le Curé," said Madame Scottbrightly. "I find you just as I had hoped, and I trust you may be as wellpleased with your new parishioners."

"Parishioners!" exclaimed the abbé. "But then you areCatholics?"

"Certainly we are Catholics!" And noting the surprise of the oldabbé, she went on to say, "Ah, I understand! Our name and ourcountry made you expect we should be Protestants and unfriendly to you andyour people. But our mother was a Canadian and a Catholic, of Frenchorigin, and that is why my sister and I speak French with just a littleforeign accent. My husband is a Protestant, but he leaves me full liberty,and so my two children are being educated in my own faith. And that is whywe have come to see you the first day we have arrived."

The good old priest was overwhelmed by the news, but his joy almostbrought tears to his eyes when the ladies each presented him with athousand francs, and promised five hundred francs a month for the poor. Hehad never handled so much money in all his life before.

"Why, there will be no poor left in all the district!" he stammered.

"And we should be glad if that were so," said Madame Scott, "for we haveplenty, and we could not do better with it."

Then followed the happiest little dinner party that had ever taken placebeneath the abbé's roof. Madame Scott explained how her husband hadbought the château as a surprise for her, and that neither she norher sister had seen it until that morning.

"Now, tell me," she suggested, "what they said about the new owner." Theold priest blushed, and was at a loss to answer. "Well, you are a soldier,"she continued, turning to Lieutenant Reynaud, "and you will tell me. Didthey say that I had been a beggar?"

"Yes, I heard that said."

"And that I had been a performer in a travelling circus?"

"That also I heard said," he admitted.

"I thank you for your frankness; and now let me tell you that, while Ican see nothing in either case that would be any disgrace to me, the storydoes not happen to be true. I have known what it is to be poor, for myparents died eight years ago, leaving us only a great lawsuit, but myfather's last wish was that we should fight it to the end. With the aid ofthe son of one of his old friends, now my husband, we fought and won. Thatis how I came into my fortune. The stories you have heard were invented byspiteful Paris journalists."

After the ladies had taken their departure for Paris, the AbbéConstantin was as happy as he had so lately been miserable. And as forLieutenant Reynaud, the vision of their fresh and charming faces was withhim all through the military manoeuvres in which he was now engaged. But asboth of them were equally charming in his mind, he concluded he could nothave fallen in love, or he would have known which he admired the more.

He did not know how many were the suitors in Paris for Miss Bettina, andpossibly if he had seen the sisters among the fashionable people of thatgay city he would never have given them a second thought, for he was a trueson of the country, this healthy and manly young officer, whose tastes wereas simple as the surroundings in which he had grown up demanded.

Miss Bettina, indeed, had only to say the word, and she might have beenthe Princess Romanelli. "And I should like to be a princess, for the namesounds well," she said to herself. "Oh, if I only loved him!" There weremany men of rank and title who would have been glad to have married thewealthy young American lady, but she found herself in love with none ofthem, and now she was looking forward to the fourteenth of June, when sheand her sister were to leave Paris for Longueval. During their stay at thecastle they were to entertain many friends, but for ten days they were tobe free to roam the woods and fields, and forget the distractions of theirfashionable life in the capital.

"But you forget," said Madame Scott, on their way to Longueval, "that weare to have two people to dinner to-night."

"Ah, but I shall be glad to welcome both of them--particularly the younglieutenant," Bettina confessed, with a touch of shyness.

III.--Friendship Grows

Great alterations had been made at the castle during the month that hadelapsed. The rooms had been refurnished, the stables and coach-houses werestocked, the pleasure-grounds made trim and beautiful, and servants werebusy everywhere. When the abbé and Jean arrived, they were usheredin by two tall and dignified footmen, but Madame Scott received them withall the frankness she had shown at the vicarage, and presented her sonHarry and her daughter Bella, who were six and five years old. Then MissPercival joined them, and presently they were all talking together like oldfriends. But the happiest of all was Abbé Constantin. He felt athome again--too much at home--and when coffee was served on the terrace infront of the château after dinner, he lost himself in an agreeablereverie. Then--terrible catastrophe!--he fell into his old habit, and sankinto an after dinner doze, as he had so often done in the days of themarquise.

Jean and Bettina found much to say to each other, and as the ladies werelooking forward to riding round the estates, Jean, who rode every day forexercise, promised to join them. It was quite clear that Miss Bettina wasglad to see them both--"particularly the young lieutenant!" And when MadameScott and her sister walked up the avenue, after having accompanied Jeanand the abbé to the gate, Bettina confessed that she expected to bescolded for being so friendly with Jean.

"But I shall not scold you," Madame Scott said, "for he has made afavourable impression on me from the first. He inspires me withconfidence."

"That is just how I feel towards him," said Bettina quietly.

As for Jean, he talked so much to Paul about his visit that that gayyoung man accused him of having fallen in love, but, of course, that wasmere nonsense! There was no fear of Jean falling in love! For a poorlieutenant could never dream of winning an heiress for his wife. When nexthe met Bettina they had a very long talk about their people, and itappeared that they were both descendants of French peasants. That was whyJean loved the country folk around Longueval. And when he had served histime in the army, he thought he would retire on half-pay--an old colonel,perhaps--and come back to live there.

"Always quite alone?" asked Bettina.

"Why, I hope not."

"Oh, then you intend to marry!"

"Well, one may think of that, though one need not always be seeking tomarry."

"Yet there are some who look for it, I know, and I have heard that youmight have married more than one girl with a handsome fortune if you hadwished."

"And how do you know that?" asked Jean.

"Monsieur le Curé told me. I soon found that nothing makes yourgodfather happier than to talk of you, and in our morning walks he tells meyour history. Tell me why you refused these good marriages."

"Simply because I thought it better not to marry at all than to marrywithout love," was Jean's frank avowal.

"I think so, too," said Bettina.

She looked at him. He looked at her, and suddenly, to the great surpriseof both, they found nothing more to say. Fortunately, at this moment Harryand Bella burst into the room with an invitation to see their ponies.

IV.--Bettina's Confession

Three weeks, during which Longueval has been crowded with visitors, havepassed, and the time has come for Jean to take the road for the annualartillery practice. He will be away for twenty days, and, while he wishesto be off, he wonders how those twenty days will pass without a sight ofBettina, for now he frankly adores her. He is happy and he is miserable. Heknows by every action and every word that she loves him as truly as heloves her. But he feels it his duty to fight against his own heart's wish,lest the penniless lieutenant might be thought to covet the riches of theyoung heiress.

But he could not drag himself away without one last meeting. Yet when hesaw how anxious Bettina was to please him and make him happy with herfriendship, he was afraid to hold her in his arms lest he might be temptedto tell her how full his heart was with love for her. She excused herselfto Paul de Lavardens so that she might give his dance to Jean, but Jeandeclined the favour on the plea that he was not feeling well, and, to savehimself, he hastened off without even shaking her hand.

But all this only told his secret the more clearly to the heart thatloved him.

"I love him, dear Susie," said Bettina that night, "and I know that heloves me for myself; not for the money I possess."

"You are sure, my dear?"

"Yes; for he will not speak; he tries to avoid me. My horrid money,which attracts others to me, is the thing that keeps him from declaring hislove."

"Be very sure, my dear, for you know you might have been a marchionessor a princess if you had wished. You are sure you will not mind being plainMadame Reynaud?"

"Absolutely; for I love him!"

"Now let me make a proposal," Bettina went on. "Jean is going awayto-morrow; I shall not see him for three weeks, and that will be time toknow my own mind. In three weeks may I go and ask him myself if he willhave me for his wife? Tell me, Susie, may I?"

Of course her sister could but consent, and Bettina was happy.

Next morning she had a wild desire to wave Jean a good-bye. In thepouring rain she made her way through the woods to the terrace by the road,her dress torn by the thorns, and her umbrella lost, to wave to him as hepassed, saying to herself that this would show him how dear he was in herthoughts.

Mr. Scott had come from Paris before Jean was back, and he, too,approved of Bettina's plan, for they wished her to marry only one she trulyloved. But when the lieutenant came back with his regiment, he had made uphis mind to avoid meeting Bettina, and had even decided to exchange intoanother regiment. He refused an invitation to the château, but thegood abbé begged of him not to leave the district.

"Wait a little, until the good God calls me. Do not go now."

Jean urged that honour made it clear to him he should go away. Theabbé told him that he was quite sure Bettina's heart was all for himas truly as he believed Jean's love was all for her. Her money, Jeanconfessed, was the great drawback, as it might make others think lightly ofhis love for her. Besides, he was a soldier, and he could not condemn herto the life of a soldier's wife.

The abbé was still trying to convince his godson, when there camea knock at the door, and the old man, opening the door,admitted--Bettina!

She went straight to Jean and took him by both hands, saying, "I must goto him first, for less than three weeks ago he was suffering!" The younglieutenant stood speechless. "And now to you, M. le Curé, let meconfess. But do not go away, Jean, for it is a public confession. What Ihave to say I would have said to-night at the château, but Jean hasdeclined our invitation, and So I come here to say it to M. leCuré."

"I am listening, mademoiselle," stammered the curé.

"I am rich, M. le Curé, and, to speak the truth, I like my moneyvery much. I like it selfishly, so to say, for the joy and pleasure I havein giving. I have always said to myself, 'My husband must be worthy ofsharing this fortune,' and I have also said, 'I want to love the man whowill be my husband!' And now I am coming to my confession.... Here is a manwho for two months has done all he could to hide from me that he lovesme.... Jean, do you love me?"

"Yes," murmured Jean, his eyes cast down like a criminal, "I loveyou."

"I knew it." Bettina lost a little of her assurance; her voice trembledslightly. She continued, however, with an effort. "M. le Curé, I donot blame you entirely for what has happened, but certainly it is partlyyour fault."

"My fault?"

"Yes, your fault. I am certain you have spoken to Jean too much of me,much too much. And then you have told me too much of him. No, not too much,but quite enough! I had so much confidence in you that I began to considerhim a little more closely. I began to compare him with those who, for morethan a year, have sought my hand. It seemed to me that he was theirsuperior in every way. Then, there came a day... an evening... three weeksago, the eve of your departure, Jean, and I found I loved you. Yes, Jean, Ilove you!... I beg you, Jean, be still; do not come near me.... I havestill something to say, more important than all. I know that you love me,but if you are to marry me I want your reason to sanction it. Jean, I knowyou, and I know to what I should bind myself in becoming your wife. I knowwhat duties, what sacrifices, you have to meet in your calling. Jean, donot doubt it, I would not turn you from any one of these duties, thesesacrifices. Never! Never would I ask you to give up your career.

"And now, M. le Curé, it is not to him but to you that I speak.Tell me, should he not agree to be my husband?"

"Jean," said the old priest gravely, "marry her. It is your duty, and itwill be your happiness."

Jean took Bettina in his arms, but she gently freed herself, and said tothe abbé, "I wish--I wish your blessing." And the old priest repliedby kissing her paternally.

One month later the abbé had the happiness of performing themarriage ceremony in his little church, where he had consecrated all thehappiness and goodness of his life.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

The Scarlet Letter

Nathaniel Hawthorne, American novelist and essayist, was bornon July 4, 1804, at Salem, Massachusetts. His father, a master mariner,died early, and the boy grew up in a lonely country life with his mother.He graduated at Bowdoin College, but his literary impulse had alreadydeclared itself, and he retired to Salem to write, unsuccessfully for manyyears. Later he held subordinate official positions in the custom-house atSalem, and lived for a few months in the Brook Farm socialistic community.Severing his connection with the Civil Service in 1841, it was NathanielHawthorne's intention to devote himself entirely to literature. In this hewas unsuccessful, and in a short while was forced to accept a position inthe custom-house again, this time as surveyor in his native town of Salem.It was during this period he wrote "The Scarlet Letter," published in 1850,which immediately brought him fame, and still remains the most popular ofhis novels. Hawthorne himself has described how the story came to bewritten. The discovery of an old manuscript by a former surveyor, and a ragof scarlet cloth, which, on careful examination, assumed the shape of aletter--the capital A--gave a reasonably complete explanation of the wholeaffair of "one Hester Prynne, who appeared to have been rather a noteworthypersonage in the view of our ancestors." Nathaniel Hawthorne died on May18, 1864.

I.--The Pedestal of Shame

The grass-plot before the jail in Prison Lane, on a certain summermorning, not less than two centuries ago, was occupied by a pretty largenumber of the inhabitants of Boston, all with their eyes intently fastenedon the iron-clamped oaken door.

The door of the jail being flung open from within, there appeared, inthe first place, the grim presence of the town-beadle, and following him ayoung woman who bore in her arms a baby of some three months old.

The young woman was tall, and those who had known Hester Prynne beforewere astonished to perceive how her beauty shone out. On the breast of hergown, in fine red cloth, surrounded with an elaborate embroidery andfantastic flourishes of gold thread, appeared the letter A, and it was thatscarlet letter which drew all eyes, and, as it were, transfigured thewearer.

A lane was forthwith opened through the crowd of spectators. Preceded bythe beadle, and attended by an irregular procession of stern-browed men andunkindly visaged women, Hester Prynne set forth towards the place appointedfor her punishment. It was no great distance from the prison door to themarket-place, and in spite of the agony of her heart, Hester passed withalmost a serene deportment to the scaffold where the pillory was setup.

The crowd was sombre and grave, and the unhappy prisoner sustainedherself as best a woman might, under the heavy weight of a thousandunrelenting eyes.

One man, small in stature, and of a remarkable intelligence in hisfeatures, who stood on the outskirts of the crowd, attracted the notice ofHester Prynne, and he in his turn bent his eyes on the prisoner till,seeing she appeared to recognise him, he slowly raised his finger and laidit on his lips.

Then, touching the shoulder of a townsman who stood next to him, hesaid, "I pray you, good sir, who is this woman, and wherefore is she hereset up to public shame?"

"You must needs be a stranger, friend," said the townsman, "else youwould surely have heard of Mistress Hester Prynne, and her evil doings. Shehath raised a great scandal in godly Master Dimmesdale's church. Thepenalty thereof is death. But the magistracy, in their great mercy andtenderness of heart, have doomed Mistress Prynne to stand only a space ofthree hours on the platform of the pillory, and for the remainder of hernatural life to wear a mark of shame upon her bosom."

"A wise sentence!" remarked the stranger gravely. "It irks me,nevertheless, that the partner of her iniquity should not at least stand onthe scaffold by her side. But he will be known--he will be known!"

Directly over the platform on which Hester Prynne stood was a kind ofbalcony, and here sat Governor Bellingham, with four sergeants about hischair, and ministers of religion.

Mr. John Wilson, the eldest of these clergymen, first spake, and thenurged a younger minister, Mr. Dimmesdale, to exhort the prisoner torepentance and to confession. "Speak to the woman, my brother," said Mr.Wilson.

The Rev. Mr. Dimmesdale was a man of high native gifts, whose eloquenceand religious fervour had already wide eminence in his profession. He benthis head, in silent prayer, as it seemed, and then came forward.

"Hester Prynne," said he, "if thou feelest it to be for thy soul'speace, I charge thee to speak out the name of thy fellow-sinner andfellow-sufferer. Be not silent from any mistaken pity and tenderness forhim, for, believe me, though he were to step down from a high place, andstand there beside thee, on thy pedestal of shame, yet better were it sothan to hide a guilty heart through life."

Hester only shook her head.

"She will not speak," murmured Mr. Dimmesdale. "Wondrous strength andgenerosity of a woman's heart!"

Hester Prynne kept her place upon the pedestal of shame with an air ofweary indifference. With the same hard demeanour she was led back toprison.

That night the child at her boson writhed in convulsions of pain, andthe jailer brought in a physician, whom he announced as Mr. RogerChillingworth, and who was none other than the stranger whom Hester hadnoticed in the crowd.

He took the infant in his arms and administered a draught, and its moansand convulsive tossings gradually ceased.

"Hester," said he, when the jailer had withdrawn, "I ask not whereforethou hast fallen into the pit. It was my folly and thy weakness. What hadI--a man of thought, the bookworm of great libraries--to do with youth andbeauty like thine own? I might have known that in my long absence thiswould happen."

"I have greatly wronged thee," murmured Hester.

"We have wronged each other," he answered. "But I shall seek this manwhose name thou wilt not reveal, as I seek truth in books, and sooner orlater he must needs be mine. I shall contrive naught against his life. Lethim live! Not the less shall he be mine. One thing, thou that wast my wife,I ask. Thou hast kept his name secret. Keep, likewise, mine. Let thyhusband be to the world as one already dead, and breathe not the secret,above all, to the man thou wottest of?"

"I will keep thy secret, as I have his."

II.--A Pearl of Great Price

When her prison-door was thrown open, and she came forth into thesunshine, Hester Prynne did not flee.

On the outskirts of the town was a small thatched cottage, and there, inthis lonesome dwelling, Hester established herself with her infant child.Without a friend on earth who dared to show himself, she, however, incurredno risk of want. She possessed an art that sufficed to supply food for herthriving infant and herself--the art of needlework.

By degrees her handiwork became what would now be termed the fashion.She bore on her breast, in the curiously embroidered letter, a specimen ofher skill, and her needlework was seen on the ruff of the governor;military men wore it on their scarfs, and the minister on his bands.

As time went on, the public attitude to Hester changed. Human nature, toits credit, loves more readily than it hates. Hester never battled with thepublic, but submitted uncomplainingly to its worst usage, and so a speciesof general regard had ultimately grown up in reference to her.

Hester had named the infant "Pearl," as being of great price, and littlePearl grew up a wondrously lovely child, with a strange, lawless character.At times she seemed rather an airy sprite than human, and never did sheseek to make acquaintance with other children, but was always Hester'scompanion in her walks about the town.

At one time some of the leading inhabitants of the place sought todeprive Hester of her child; and at the governor's mansion, whither Hesterhad repaired, with some gloves which she had embroidered at his order, thematter was discussed in the mother's presence by the governor and hisguests--Mr. John Wilson, Mr. Arthur Dimmesdale, and old RogerChillingworth, now established as a physician of great skill in thetown.

"God gave me the child!" cried Hester. "He gave her in requital of allthings else which ye have taken from me. Ye shall not take her! I will diefirst! Speak thou for me," she cried turning to the young clergyman, Mr.Dimmesdale. "Thou wast my pastor. Thou knowest what is in my heart, andwhat are a mother's rights, and how much the stronger they are when thatmother has but her child and the scarlet letter! I will not lose the child!Look to it!"

"There is truth in what she says," began the minister. "God gave her thechild, and there is a quality of awful sacredness between this mother andthis child. It is good for this poor, sinful woman that she hath an infantconfided to her care--to be trained up by her to righteousness, to remindher and to teach her that, if she bring the child to heaven, the child alsowill bring its parent thither. Let us then leave them as Providence hathseen fit to place them!"

"You speak, my friend, with a strange earnestness," said old RogerChillingworth, smiling at him.

"He hath adduced such arguments that we will even leave the matter as itnow stands," said the governor. "So long, at least, as there shall be nofurther scandal in the woman."

The affair being so satisfactorily concluded, Hester Prynne, with Pearl,departed.

III.--The Leach and his Patient

It was at the solemn request of the deacons and elders of the church inBoston that the Rev. Mr. Dimmesdale went to Roger Chillingworth forprofessional advice. The young minister's health was failing, his cheek waspaler and thinner, and his voice more tremulous with every successiveSabbath.

Roger Chillingworth scrutinised his patient carefully, and, accepted asthe medical adviser, determined to know the man before attempting to do himgood. He strove to go deep into his patient's bosom, delving among hisprinciples, and prying into his recollections.

After a time, at a hint from old Roger Chillingworth, the friends of Mr.Dimmesdale effected an arrangement by which the two men were lodged in thesame house; so that every ebb and flow of the minister's life-tide mightpass under the watchful eye of his anxious physician.

Old Roger Chillingworth, throughout life, had been calm in temperament,of kindly affections, and ever in the world a pure and upright man. He hadbegun an investigation, as he imagined, with the severe integrity of ajudge, desirous only of truth. But, as he proceeded, a terrible fascinationseized the old man within its grip, and never set him free again until hehad done all its bidding. He now dug into the poor clergyman's heart, likea miner searching for gold. "This man," the physician would say to himselfat times, "pure as they deem him, hath inherited a strong animal naturefrom his father or his mother. Let us dig a little farther in the directionof this vein."

Henceforth Roger Chillingworth became not a spectator only, but a chiefactor in the poor minister's inner world. And Mr. Dimmesdale grew to lookwith unaccountable horror and hatred at the old physician.

And still the minister's fame and reputation for holiness increased,even while he was tortured by bodily disease and the black trouble of hissoul.

More than once Mr. Dimmesdale had gone into the pulpit, with a purposenever to come down until he should have spoken the truth of his life. Andever he put a cheat upon himself by confessing in general terms hisexceeding vileness and sinfulness. One night in early May, driven byremorse, and still indulging in the mockery of repentance, the ministersought the scaffold, where Hester Prynne had stood. The town was allasleep. There was no peril of discovery. And yet his vigil was surprised byHester and her daughter, returning from a death-bed in the town, andpresently by Roger Chillingworth himself.

"Who is that man?" gasped Mr. Dimmesdale, in terror. "I shiver at him,Hester. Canst thou do nothing for me? I have a nameless horror of theman!"

Hester remembered her promise and was silent.

"Worthy sir," said the physician, when he had advanced to the foot ofthe platform, "pious Master Dimmesdale! Can this be you? Come, good sir, Ipray you, let me lead you home! You should study less, or thesenight-whimseys will grow upon you."

"I will go home with you," said Mr. Dimmesdale.

And now Hester Prynne resolved to do what might be in her power for thevictim whom she saw in her former husband's grip. An opportunity soonoccurred when she met the old physician stooping in quest of roots toconcoct his medicines.

"When we last spake together," said Hester, "you bound me to secrecytouching our former relations. But now I must reveal the secret. He mustdiscern thee in thy true character. What may be the result I know not. Sofar as concerns the overthrow or preservation of his fair fame and hisearthly state, and perchance his life, he is in thy hands. Nor do I--whomthe scarlet letter has disciplined to truth--nor do I perceive suchadvantage in his living any longer a life of ghastly emptiness, that Ishall stoop to implore thy mercy. Do with him as thou wilt! There is nogood for him, no good for me, no good for thee! There is no good for littlePearl!"

"Woman, I could well-nigh pity thee!" said Roger Chillingworth."Peradventure, hadst thou met earlier with a better love than mine, thisevil had not been. I pity thee, for the good that has been wasted in thynature!"

"And I thee," answered Hester Prynne, "for the hatred that hastransformed a wise and just man to a fiend! Forgive, if not for his sake,then doubly for thine own!"

"Peace, Hester, peace!" replied the old man with gloom. "It is notgranted me to pardon. It is our fate. Now go thy ways, and deal as thouwilt with yonder man."

IV.--Revelation

A week later Hester Prynne waited in the forest for the minister as hereturned from a visit to his Indian converts. He walked slowly, and, as hewalked, kept his hand over his heart.

"Arthur Dimmesdale! Arthur Dimmesdale!" she cried out.

"Who speaks?" answered the minister. "Hester! Hester Prynne! Is itthou?" He fixed his eyes upon her and added, "Hester, hast thou foundpeace?"

"Hast thou?" she asked.

"None! Nothing but despair! What else could I look for, being what I am,and leading such a life as mine?"

"You wrong yourself in this," said Hester gently. "Your sin is leftbehind you, in the days long past. But Arthur, an enemy dwellest with thee,under the same roof. That old man--the physician, whom they call RogerChillingworth--he was my husband! Forgive me. Let God punish!"

"I do forgive you, Hester," replied the minister. "May God forgive usboth!"

They sat down, hand clasped in hand, on the mossy trunk of a fallentree.

It was Hester who bade him hope, and spoke of seeking a new life beyondthe seas, in some rural village in Europe.

"Oh, Hester," cried Arthur Dimmesdale, "I lack the strength and courageto venture out into the wide, strange world alone."

"Thou shalt not go alone!" she whispered. Before Mr. Dimmesdale reachedhome he was conscious of a change of thought and feeling; RogerChillingworth observed the change, and knew that now in the minister'sregard he was no longer a trusted friend, but his bitterest enemy.

A New England holiday was at hand, the public celebration of theelection of a new governor, and the Rev. Arthur Dimmesdale was to preachthe election sermon.

Hester had taken berths in a vessel that was about to sail; and then, onthe very day of holiday, the shipmaster told her that Roger Chillingworthhad also taken a berth in the same vessel.

Hester said nothing, but turned away, and waited in the crowdedmarket-place beside the pillory with Pearl, while the procession re-formedafter public worship. The street and the market-place absolutely bubbledwith applause of the minister, whose sermon had surpassed all previousutterances.

At that moment Arthur Dimmesdale stood on the proudest eminence to whicha New England clergyman could be exalted. The minister, surrounded by theleading men of the town, halted at the scaffold, and, turning towards it,cried, "Hester, come hither! Come, my little Pearl!"

Leaning on Hester's shoulder, the minister, with the child's hand inhis, slowly ascended the scaffold steps.

"Is not this better," he murmured, "than what we dreamed of in theforest? For, Hester, I am a dying man. So let me make haste to take myshame upon me."

"I know not. I know not."

"Better? Yea; so we may both die, and little Pearl die with us."

He turned to the market-place and spoke with a voice that all couldhear.

"People of New England! At last, at last I stand where seven years sinceI should have stood. Lo, the scarlet letter which Hester wears! Ye have allshuddered at it! But there stood one in the midst of you, at whose hand ofsin and infamy ye have not shuddered! Stand any here that question God'sjudgement on a sinner? Behold a dreadful witness of it!"

With a convulsive motion he tore away the ministerial gown from beforehis breast. It was revealed! For an instant the multitude gazed with horroron the ghastly miracle, while the minister stood with a flush of triumph inhis face. Then, down he sank upon the scaffold. Hester partly raised him,and supported his head against her bosom. Old Roger Chillingworth kneltbeside him.

"Thou hast escaped me!" he repeated more than once.

"May God forgive thee!" said the minister. "Thou, too, hast deeplysinned!"

He fixed his dying eyes on the woman and the child.

"My little Pearl," he said feebly, "thou wilt kiss me. Hester, farewell.God knows, and He is merciful! His will be done! Farewell."

That final word came forth with the minister's expiring breath. Themultitude, silent till then, broke out in a strange, deep voice of awe andwonder.

After many days there was more than one account of what had beenwitnessed on the scaffold. Most of the spectators testified to having seen,on the breast of the unhappy minister, a scarlet letter imprinted in theflesh. Others denied that there was any mark whatever on his breast, morethan on a new-born infant's. According to these highly respectablewitnesses the minister's confession implied no part of the guilt of HesterPrynne, but was to teach us that we were all sinners alike. Old RogerChillingworth died and bequeathed his property to little Pearl.

For years the mother and child lived in England, and then Pearl married,and Hester returned alone to the little cottage by the forest.

The House of the SevenGables

"The House of the Seven Gables," published in 1851, waswritten by Nathaniel Hawthorne directly after "The Scarlet Letter," andthough not equal to that remarkable book, was full worthy of its author'sreputation, and brought no disappointment to those who looked for greatthings from his pen. It seemed to James Russell Lowell "the highest art" totypify, "in the revived likeness of Judge Pyncheon to his ancestor thecolonel, that intimate relationship between the present and the past in theway of ancestry and descent, which historians so carefully overlook." Here,as in "The Scarlet Letter," Hawthorne is unsparing in his analysis of themeaning of early American Puritanism--its intolerance and its strength.

I.--The Old Pyncheon Family

Half-way down a by-street of one of our New England towns stands a rustywooden house, with seven acutely-peaked gables, and a huge clusteredchimney in the midst. The street is Pyncheon Street; the house is the oldPyncheon House; and an elm tree before the door is known as the Pyncheonelm.

Pyncheon Street formerly bore the humbler appellation of Maule's Lane,from the name of the original occupant of the soil, before whose cottagedoor it was a cow-path. In the growth of the town, however, after somethirty or forty years, the site covered by the rude hovel of Matthew Maule(originally remote from the centre of the earlier village) had becomeexceedingly desirable in the eyes of a prominent personage, who assertedclaims to the land on the strength of a grant from the Legislature. ColonelPyncheon, the claimant, was a man of iron energy of purpose. Matthew Maule,though an obscure man, was stubborn in the defense of what he consideredhis right. The dispute remained for years undecided, and came to a closeonly with the death of old Matthew Maule, who was executed for the crime ofwitchcraft.

It was remembered afterwards how loudly Colonel Pyncheon had joined inthe general cry to purge the land from witchcraft, and had sought zealouslythe condemnation of Matthew Maule. At the moment of execution--with thehalter about his neck, and while Colonel Pyncheon sat on horseback grimlygazing at the scene--Maule had addressed him from the scaffold, and uttereda prophecy. "God," said the dying man, pointing his finger at thecountenance of his enemy, "God will give him blood to drink!"

When it was understood that Colonel Pyncheon intended to erect aspacious family mansion on the spot first covered by the log-built hut ofMatthew Maule the village gossips shook their heads, and hinted that he wasabout to build his house over an unquiet grave.

But the Puritan soldier and magistrate was not a man to be turned asidefrom his scheme by dread of the reputed wizzard's ghost. He dug his cellar,and laid deep the foundations of his mansion; and the head-carpenter of theHouse of the Seven Gables was no other than Thomas Maule, the son of thedead man from whom the right to the soil had been wrested.

On the day the house was finished Colonel Pyncheon bade all the town tobe his guests, and Maude's Lane--or Pyncheon Street, as it was nowcalled--was thronged at the appointed hour as with a congregation on itsway to church.

But the founder of the stately mansion did not stand in his own hall towelcome the eminent persons who presented themselves in honour of thesolemn festival, and the principal domestic had to explain that his masterstill remained in his study, which he had entered an hour before.

The lieutenant-governor took the matter into his hands, and knockedboldly at the door of the colonel's private apartment, and, getting noanswer, he tried the door, which yielded to his hand, and was flung wideopen by a sudden gust of wind.

The company thronged to the now open door, pressing thelieutenant-governor into the room before them.

A large map and a portrait of Colonel Pyncheon were conspicuous on thewalls, and beneath the portrait sat the colonel himself in an elbow chair,with a pen in his hand.

A little boy, the colonel's grandchild, now made his way among theguests, and ran towards the seated figure; then, pausing halfway, he beganto shriek with terror. The company drew nearer, and perceived that therewas blood on the colonel's cuff and on his beard, and an unnaturaldistortion in his fixed stare. It was too late to render assistance. Theiron-hearted Puritan, the relentless persecutor, the grasping andstrong-willed man, was dead! Dead in his new house!

Colonel Pyncheon's sudden and mysterious end made a vast deal of noisein its day. There were many rumours, and a great dispute of doctors overthe dead body. But the coroner's jury sat upon the corpse, and, likesensible men, returned an unassailable verdict of "Sudden Death."

The son and heir came into immediate enjoyment of a considerable estate,but a claim to a large tract of country in Waldo County, Maine, which thecolonel, had he lived, would undoubtedly have made good, was lost by hisdecease. Some connecting link had slipped out of the evidence, and couldnot be found. Still, from generation to generation, the Pyncheons cherishedan absurd delusion of family importance on the strength of this impalpableclaim; and from father to son they clung with tenacity to the ancestralhouse for the better part of two centuries.

The most noted event in the Pyncheon annals in the last fifty years hadbeen the violent death of the chief member of the family--an old andwealthy bachelor. One of his nephews, Clifford, was found guilty of themurder, and was sentenced to perpetual imprisonment. This had happenedthirty years ago, and there were now rumours that the long-buried criminalwas about to be released. Another nephew had become the heir, and was now ajudge in an inferior court. The only members of the family known to beextant, besides the judge and the thirty years' prisoner, were a sister ofthe latter, wretchedly poor, who lived in the House of the Seven Gables bythe will of the old bachelor, and the judge's single surviving son, nowtravelling in Europe. The last and youngest Pyncheon was a little countrygirl of seventeen, whose father--another of the judge's cousins--was dead,and whose mother had taken another husband.

II.--The House without Sunshine

Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon was reduced to the business of setting up apretty shop, and that in the Pyncheon house where she had spent all herdays. After sixty years of idleness and seclusion, she must earn her breador starve, and to keep shop was the only resource open to her.

The first customer to cross the threshold was a young man to whom oldHepzibah let certain remote rooms in the House of the Seven Gables. Heexplained that he had looked in to offer his best wishes, and to see if hecould give any assistance.

Poor Hepzibah, when she heard the kindly tone of his voice, began tosob.

"Ah, Mr. Holgrave," she cried, "I never can go through with it! Never,never, never! I wish I were dead in the old family tomb with all myforefathers--yes, and with my brother, who had far better find me therethan here! I am too old, too feeble, and too hopeless! If old Maule'sghost, or a descendant of his, could see me behind the counter to-day, hewould call it the fulfilment of his worst wishes. But I thank you for yourkindness, Mr. Holgrave, and will do my utmost to be a good shopkeeper."

On Holgrave asking for half a dozen biscuits, Hepzibah put them into hishand, but rejected the compensation.

"Let me be a lady a moment longer," she said, with a manner of antiquestateliness. "A Pyncheon must not--at all events, under her forefathers'roof--receive money for a morsel of bread from her only friend."

As the day went on the poor lady blundered hopelessly with hercustomers, and committed the most unheard-of errors, so that the wholeproceeds of her painful traffic amounted, at the close, to half a dozencoppers.

That night the little country cousin, Phoebe Pyncheon, arrived at thegloomy old house. Hepzibah knew that circ*mstances made it desirable forthe girl to establish herself in another home, but she was reluctant to bidher stay.

"Phoebe," she said, on the following morning, "this house of mine is buta melancholy place for a young person to be in. It lets in the wind andrain, and the snow, too, in the winter time; but it never lets in thesunshine! And as for myself, you see what I am--a dismal and lonesome oldwoman, whose temper is none of the best, and whose spirits are as bad ascan be. I cannot make your life pleasant, Cousin Phoebe; neither can I somuch as give you bread to eat."

"You will find me a cheerful little body," answered Phoebe, smiling,"and I mean to earn my bread. You know I have not been brought up aPyncheon. A girl learns many things in a New England village."

"Ah, Phoebe," said Hepzibah, sighing, "it is a wretched thought that youshould fling away your young days in a place like this. And, after all, itis not even for me to say who shall be a guest or inhabitant of the oldPyncheon house. Its master is coming."

"Do you mean Judge Pyncheon?" asked Phoebe, in surprise.

"Judge Pyncheon!" answered her cousin angrily. "He will hardly cross thethreshold while I live. You shall see the face of him I speak of."

She went in quest of a miniature, and returned and placed it in Phoebe'shand.

"How do you like the face?" asked Hepzibah.

"It is handsome; it is very beautiful!" said Phoebe admiringly. "It isas sweet a face as a man's can be or ought to be. Who is it, CousinHepzibah?"

"Did you never hear of Clifford Pyncheon?"

"Never. I thought there were no Pyncheons left, except yourself and ourCousin Jaffrey, the judge. And yet I seem to have heard the name ofClifford Pyncheon. Yes, from my father, or my mother. But hasn't he beendead a long while?"

"Well, well, child, perhaps he has," said Hepzibah, with a sad, hollowlaugh; "but in old houses like this, you know, dead people are very apt tocome back again. And, Cousin Phoebe, if your courage does not fail you, wewill not part soon. You are welcome to such a home as I can offer you."

III.--Miss Hepzibah's Guests

The day after Phoebe's arrival there was a constant tremor in Hepzibah'sframe. With all her affection for a young cousin there was a recurringirritability.

"Bear with me, my dear child!" she cried; "bear with me, for I love you,Phoebe; and truly my heart is full to the brim! By-and-by I shall be kind,and only kind."

"What has happened?" asked Phoebe. "What is it that moves you so?"

"Hush! He is coming!" whispered Hepzibah. "Let him see you first,Phoebe; for you are young and rosy, and cannot help letting a smile breakout. He always liked bright faces. And mine is old now, and the tears arehardly dry on it. Draw the curtain a little, but let there be a good dealof sunshine, too. He has had but little sunshine in his life, poorClifford; and, oh, what a black shadow! Poor--poor Clifford!"

There was a step in the passage-way, above stairs. It seemed to Phoebethe same that she had heard in the night, as in a dream. Very slowly thesteps came downstairs, and paused for a long time at the door.

Hepzibah, unable to endure the suspense, rushed forward, threw open thedoor, and led in the stranger by the hand. At the first glance Phoebe sawan elderly man, in an old-fashioned dressing gown, with grey hair, almostwhite, of an unusual length. The expression of his countenance seemed towaver, glimmer, and nearly to die away, and feebly to recover itselfa*gain.

"Dear Clifford," said Hepzibah, "this is our Cousin Phoebe, Arthur'sonly child, you know. She has come from the country to stay with us awhile, for our old house has grown to be very lonely now."

"Phoebe? Arthur's child?" repeated the guest. "Ah, I forget! No matter.She is very welcome." He seated himself in the place assigned him, andlooked strangely around. His eyes met Hepzibah's, and he seemed bewilderedand disgusted. "Is this you, Hepzibah?" he murmured sadly. "How changed!how changed!"

"There is nothing but love here, Clifford," Hepzibah saidsoftly--"nothing but love. You are at home."

The guest responded to her tone by a smile, which but half lit up hisface. It was followed by a coarser expression, and he ate his food withfierce voracity and asked for "more--more!"

That day Phoebe attended to the shop, and the second person to enter itwas a gentleman of portly figure and high respectability.

"I was not aware that Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon had commenced businessunder such favourable auspices," he said, in a deep voice, "You are herassistant, I suppose?"

"I certainly am," answered Phoebe. "I am a cousin of Miss Hepzibah, on avisit to her."

"Her cousin, and from the country?" said the gentleman, bowing andsmiling. "In that case we must be better acquainted, for you are my ownlittle kinswoman likewise. Let me see, you must be Phoebe, the only childof my dear Cousin Arthur. I am your kinsman, my dear. Surely you must haveheard of Judge Pyncheon?"

Phoebe curtsied, and the judge bent forward to bestow a kiss on hisyoung relative. But Phoebe drew back; there was something repulsive to herin the judge's demonstration, and on raising her eyes she was startled bythe change in Judge Pyncheon's face. It had become cold, hard, andimmitigable.

"Dear me! What is to be done now?" thought the country girl to herself."He looks as if there were nothing softer in him than a rock, nor milderthan the east wind."

Then all at once it struck Phoebe that this very Judge Pyncheon was theoriginal of a miniature which Mr. Holgrave--who took portraits, and whoseacquaintance she had made within a few hours of her arrival--had shown heryesterday. There was the same hard, stern, relentless look on the face. Inreality, the miniature was copied from an old portrait of Colonel Pyncheonwhich hung within the house. Was it that the expression had beentransmitted down as a precious heirloom, from that Puritan ancestor, inwhose picture both the expression, and, to a singular degree, the features,of the modern judge were shown as by a kind of prophecy?

But as it happened, scarcely had Phoebe's eyes rested again on thejudge's countenance than all its ugly sternness vanished, and she foundherself almost overpowered by the warm benevolence of his look. But thefantasy would not quit her that the original Puritan, of whom she had heardso many sombre traditions, had now stepped into the shop.

"You seem to be a little nervous this morning," said the judge. "Hasanything happened to disturb you--anything remarkable in Cousin Hepzibah'sfamily--an arrival, eh? I thought so! To be an inmate with such a guest maywell startle an innocent young girl!"

"You quite puzzle me, sir!" replied Phoebe. "There is no frightful guestin the house, but only a poor, gentle, child-like man, whom I believe to beCousin Hepzibah's brother. I am afraid that he is not quite in his soundsenses; but so mild he seems to be that a mother might trust her baby withhim. He startle me? Oh, no, indeed!"

"I rejoice to hear so favourable and so ingenious an account of myCousin Clifford," said the benevolent judge. "It is possible that you havenever heard of Clifford Pyncheon, and know nothing of his history. But isClifford in the parlour? I will just step in and see him. There is no needto announce me. I know the house, and know my Cousin Hepzibah, and herbrother Clifford likewise. Ah, there is Hepzibah herself!"

Such was the case. The vibrations of the judge's voice had reached theold gentlewoman in the parlour, where Clifford sat slumbering in hischair.

"He cannot see you," said Hepzibah, with quivering voice. "He cannot seevisitors."

"A visitor--do you call me so?" cried the judge. "Then let me beClifford's host, and your own likewise. Come at once to my house. I haveoften invited you before. Come, and we will labour together to makeClifford happy."

"Clifford has a home here," she answered.

"Woman," broke out the judge, "what is the meaning of all this? Have youother resources? Take care, Hepzibah, take care! Clifford is on the brinkof as black a ruin as ever befel him yet!"

From within the parlour sounded a tremulous, wailing voice, indicatinghelpless alarm.

"Hepzibah!" cried the voice. "Entreat him not to come in. Go down onyour knees to him. Oh, let him have mercy on me! Mercy!"

The judge withdrew, and Hepzibah, deathly white, staggered towardsPhoebe.

"That man has been the horror of my life," she murmured. "Shall I neverhave courage enough to tell him what he is?"

IV.--The Spell is Broken

The shop thrived under Phoebe's management, and the acquaintance withMr. Holgrave ripened into friendship.

Then, after some weeks, Phoebe went away on a temporary visit to hermother, and the old house, which had been brightened by her presence, wasonce more dark and gloomy.

It was during this absence of Phoebe's that Judge Pyncheon once morecalled and demanded to see Clifford.

"You cannot see him," answered Hepzibah. "Clifford has kept his bedsince yesterday."

"What! Clifford ill!" said the judge, starting. "Then I must, and willsee him!"

The judge explained the reason for his urgency. He believed thatClifford could give the clue to the dead uncle's wealth, of which not morethan a half had been mentioned in his will. If Clifford refused to revealwhere the missing documents were placed, the judge declared he would havehim confined in a public asylum as a lunatic, for there were many witnessesof Clifford's simple childlike ways.

"You are stronger than I," said Hepzibah, "and you have no pity in yourstrength. Clifford is not now insane; but the interview which you insistupon may go far to make him so. Nevertheless, I will call Clifford!"

Hepzibah went in search of her brother, and Judge Pyncheon flung himselfdown in an old chair in the parlour. He took his watch from his pocket andheld it in his hand. But Clifford was not in his room, nor could Hepzibahfind him. She returned to the parlour, calling out to the judge as shecame, to rise and help find Clifford.

But the judge never moved, and Clifford appeared at the door, pointinghis finger at the judge, and laughing with strange excitement.

"Hepzibah," he said, "we can dance now! We can sing, laugh, play, dowhat we will! The weight is gone, Hepzibah--gone off this weary old world,and we may be as lighthearted as little Phoebe herself! What an absurdfigure the old fellow cuts now, just when he fancied he had me completelyunder his thumb!"

Then the brother and sister departed hastily from the house, and leftJudge Pyncheon sitting in the old house of his forefathers.

Phoebe and Holgrave were in the house together when the brother andsister returned, and Holgrave had told her of the judge's sudden death.Then, in that hour so full of doubt and awe, the one miracle was wrought,without which every human existence is a blank, and the bliss which makesall things true, beautiful, and holy shone around this youth and maiden.They were conscious of nothing sad or old.

Presently the voices of Clifford and Hepzibah were heard at the door,and when they entered Clifford appeared the stronger of the two.

"It is our own little Phoebe! Ah! And Holgrave with her!" he exclaimed."I thought of you both as we came down the street. And so the flower ofEden has bloomed even in this old, darksome house to-day."

A week after the judge's death news came of the death of his son, and soHepzibah became rich, and so did Clifford, and so did Phoebe, and, throughher, Holgrave.

It was far too late for the formal vindication of Clifford's characterto be worth the trouble and anguish involved. For the truth was that theuncle had died by a sudden stroke, and the judge, knowing this, had letsuspicion and condemnation fall on Clifford, only because he had himselfbeen busy among the dead man's papers, destroying a later will made out inClifford's favour, and because it was found the papers had been disturbed,to avert suspicion from the real offender he had let the blame fall on hiscousin.

Clifford was content with the love of his sister and Phoebe andHolgrave. The good opinion of society was not worth publiclyreclaiming.

It was Holgrave who discovered the missing document the judge had sethis heart on obtaining.

"And now, my dearest Phoebe," said Holgrave, "how will it please you toassume the name of Maule? In this long drama of wrong and retribution Irepresent the old wizzard, and am probably as much of a wizzard as ever myancestor was."

Then, with Hepzibah and Clifford, Phoebe and Holgrave left the old housefor ever.

ROBERT HICHENS

The Garden of Allah

The son of a clergyman, Mr. Robert Smythe Hichens, born atSpeldhurst, Kent, England, on November 14, 1864, was originally intended tofollow a musical career, but after some years abandoned music forjournalism. His first long novel was written and published at the age ofseventeen. It attracted little or no attention, and has long been out ofprint. A trip to Egypt in 1893 resulted in a burning desire to become anovelist, and his brilliant satire, "The Green Carnation," followed. Thebook was written in a month, and at once established its author's name andfame. "The Garden of Allah," of all Mr. Hichens' works the most typical ofhis genius, appeared in 1905. "The intellectual grip of the story," saysone critic, "cannot be denied, for it completely conquers the criticalsense, and the ideas of the author insinuate themselves, as it were, amongone's inmost thoughts." Yet Mr. Hichens' stories are popular, not only withliterary connoisseurs, but also with the general public, inasmuch as theyowe their fascination not so much to an extreme refinement of art as totheir freshness of imagination and dramatic intensity. This epitome of the"Garden of Allah" has been prepared by Mr. Hichens himself.

I.--The Home of Peace

On an autumn evening, Domini Enfilden leaned on the parapet of averandah of the Hotel du Désert at Beni-Mora, in Southern Algeria,gazing towards the great Sahara, which was lit up by the glory of sunset.The bell of the Catholic Church chimed. She heard the throbbing of nativedrums in the village near by. Tired with her long journey from England, shewatched and listened while the twilight crept among the palms, and thesandy alleys grew dark.

Thirty-two, an orphan, unmarried, strong, fearless, ardent, but a deeplyreligious woman and a Catholic, Domini had passed through much mentalagony. Her mother, Lady Rens, a member of one of England's oldest Catholicfamilies, but half Hungarian on the mother's side, had run away when Dominiwas nineteen with a Hungarian musician, leaving her only child with herdespairing and abandoned husband. Lord Rens had become a Catholic out oflove for his wife. When he was deserted by her, he furiously renounced hisfaith, and eventually died blaspheming. In vain through many years he hadtried to detach his daughter from the religion of her guilty mother, nowlong since dead. Domini had known how to resist; but the cruel contest hadshaken her body and soul.

Now free, alone, she had left England to begin a new life far away fromthe scene of her misery. Vaguely she had thought of the great desert,called by the Arabs "The Garden of Allah," as the home of peace. She hadtravelled there to find peace. That day, at the gate of the desert, she hadmet a traveller, Doris Androvsky, a man of about thirty-six, powerfullybuilt, tanned by the sun. When she was about to get into the train at thestation of El Akbara this man had rudely sprung in before her. The trainhad begun to move, and Domini had sprung into it almost at the risk of herlife. Androvsky had not offered to help her, had not said a word ofapology. His gaucherie had almost revolted Domini. Nevertheless,something powerful, mournful, passionate, and sincere in his personalityhad affected her, roused her interest.

Silently they had come into the desert together, strangers, almost atenmity the one with the other. They were now staying in the same hotel inthis oasis in the desert of Sahara.

In coming to the hotel, Domini had seen a curious incident. Androvsky,with a guide who carried his bag, was walking before her down the longpublic garden, when in the distance there appeared the black figure of thepriest of Beni-Mora advancing slowly towards them. When Androvsky saw thepriest he had stopped short, hesitated, then, despite the protests of hisguide, had abruptly turned down a side path and hurried away. He had fledfrom the man of prayer.

Now, as the twilight fell, Domini thought of this incident, and when sheheard Androvsky's heavy tread upon the stairs of the verandah, the sharpclosing of the French window of his room, she was filled with a vagueuneasiness.

Next day she visited a wonderful garden on the edge of the desertbelonging to a Count Anteoni, a recluse who loved the Arabs and spent muchof his time among them. There, standing with the count by the garden wallat the hour of the Mohammedan's prayer, she had seen Androvsky again. Hewas in the desert with a Nomad. The cry of the muezzin went up tothe brazen sky. The Nomad fell on his knees and prayed. Androvsky started,gazed, shrank back, then turned and strode away like one horrified by somegrievous vision. Domini said to the count, "I have just seen a man fleefrom prayer; it was horrible."

He answered her, very gravely, "The man who is afraid of prayer isunwise to set foot beyond the palm-trees, for the desert is the garden ofAllah."

That evening Domini and Androvsky spoke to each other for the firsttime, on the top of a tower where they had come to see the sunset. Dominispoke first, moved by a strange look of loneliness, of desolation, inAndrovsky's eyes. He replied in a low voice, and asked her pardon for hisrude conduct at the station. Then, abruptly, he descended the tower anddisappeared.

At night she visited a dancing house to see the strange dances of thedesert. She found Androvsky there, watching the painted women as if halffascinated, half horrified by them. Irena, a girl who had been banishedfrom Beni-Mora for threatening to murder an Arab of whom she was jealous,but had been permitted to return, discovering him among the audience,stabbed him. There was a violent scene, during which Androvsky, forcing hisway through the desert men, protected Domini from the crush. The crowdrushed out, leaving them alone together. Androvsky insisted on escortingDomini back to the hotel.

II.--Defying Allah in Allah's Garden

The acquaintance thus unconventionally began between them continued, andripened into a strange friendship. Domini was a magnificent horsewoman.Finding that Androvsky did not know how to ride, she gave him lessons.Together they galloped over the desert sands; together they visited theSaharan villages, hidden in the groves of date palms behind the brownearthen walls of the oasis; together watched the burning sunsets of Africa;at meal-times they met in the hotel; in the evenings they sat upon theverandah, and heard the Zouaves singing in chorus, the distant murmur ofthe tom-toms.

Domini became profoundly interested in Androvsky, but her interest wascomplicated by wonder at his peculiarities, at his uncouth manners, hisstrange silences, his ignorance of life and of social matters, his distrustof others, his desire to keep aloof from all human beings, except herself.The good priest, now her intimate friend, Count Anteoni, also her friendand respectful admirer, were ill at ease with him. He had tried to avoidthem, but Domini, anxious to bring some pleasure into his life, hadintroduced him to them at a luncheon given by the count in his garden,despite Androvsky's dogged assertion that he disliked priests, and did notcare for social intercourse.

At this lunch Androvsky had been brusque, on the defensive, almostactively disagreeable. And when, after the priest's departure, he leftDomini alone with Count Anteoni, she felt almost relieved. Count Anteonisummoned a sand-diviner to read Domini's fate in the sand. This man--athin, fanatical Eastern, with piercing and cruel eyes--spread out his sandbrought from the tomb of a Mohammedan saint, and prophesied. He declaredthat he saw a great sand-storm, and in it a train of camels waiting by achurch. From the church came the sound of music, nearly drowned by the roarof the wind. In the church the real life of Domini was beginning. The musicceased; darkness fell. Then the diviner saw Domini, with a companion,mounted on one of the camels, and disappearing into the storm towards thesouth. The face of her companion was hidden. Finally he saw Domini far outin the desert among great dunes of white sand. In her heart there was joy.It was as if all the date palms bore their fruit together, and in all thedesert places water-springs burst forth. But presently a figure cametowards her, walking heavily; and all the dates shrivelled upon the palms,and all the springs dried up. Sorrow and terror were there beside her.

At this point in the diviner's prophecy Domini stopped him. Afterwardsshe explained to Anteoni that she felt as if another's fate was being readin it as well as her own, as if to listen any more might be to intrude uponanother's secret.

Upon the following day Anteoni left Beni-Mora to make a long desertjourney to a sacred city called Amara. Domini went to his garden at dawn tosee him off. Before departing he warned Domini to beware of Androvsky. Sheasked him why. He answered that Androvsky seemed to him a man who was atodds with life, with himself, with his Creator, a man who was defying Allahin Allah's garden. When Anteoni had gone, Domini, in some perplexity ofspirit, and moved by a longing for sympathy and help, visited the priest inhis house near the church. The priest, indirectly, also warned her againstAndrovsky, and a little later frankly, told her that he felt an invincibledislike to him.

"I have no reason to give," said the priest. "My instinct is my reason.I feel it my duty to say that I advise you most earnestly to break off youracquaintance with Monsieur Androvsky."

Domini said, "It is strange; ever since I have been here I have felt asif everything that has happened had been arranged beforehand, as if it hadto happen, and I feel that, too, about the future."

"Count Anteoni's fatalism!" exclaimed the priest. "It is the guidingspirit of this land. And you, too, are going to be led by it. Take care!You have come to a land of fire, and I think you are made of fire."

The warnings of Anteoni and the priest made an impression on Domini. Shewas conscious of how the outside world would be likely to regard heracquaintance with Androvsky. Suddenly she saw Androvsky as some strange andghastly figure of legend; as the wandering Jew met by a traveller at crossroads, and distinguished for an instant by an oblique flash of lightning;as the shrouded Arab of the Eastern tale, who announces coming disaster tothe wanderers in the desert by beating a death-roll on a drum amid thesands.

And she felt upon her the heavy hand of some strange, perhaps terrible,fate.

III.--The Eternal Song of Love

That same night, accompanied by Batouch, Domini rode out into the desertto see the rising of the moon, and there met Androvsky. He had followedthem on horseback. Domini dismissed Batouch at Androvsky's reiteratedrequest. When they were alone in the sands, Androvsky told Domini that hehad needed to be with her as he had something to tell her. On the morrow hewas going away from Beni-Mora.

His face, while he said this, was turned from Domini, and his voicesounded as if it spoke to some one at a distance, some one who can hear asman cannot hear.

Domini said little. But at the sound of his words it seemed to her as ifall outside things she had ever known had foundered; as if with them hadfoundered, too, all the bodily powers that were of the essence of her life.And the desert, which she had so loved, was no longer to her the desert,sand with a soul in it, blue distances full of a music of summons, but onlya barren waste of dried-up matter, featureless, desolate, ghastly with thebones of things that had died.

She rode back with Androvsky to Beni-Mora in a silence like that ofdeath.

But this parting, decreed by the man, was not to be. In the desert thesetwo human beings had grown to love each other, with a love that had becomea burning passion. And next day when, in the garden of Count Anteoni,Androvsky came to say farewell to Domini, his love broke all barriers. Hesank on the sand, letting his hands slip down till they clasped Domini'sknees.

"I love you!" he said. "I love you. But don't listen to me. You mustn'thear it. You mustn't. But I must say it. I can't go till I say it. I loveyou! I love you!"

"I am listening," she said. "I must hear it."

Androvsky rose up, put his hands behind Domini, held her, set his lipson hers, pressing his whole body against hers.

"Hear it!" he said, muttering against her lips. "Hear it! I love you! Ilove you!"

In the recesses of the garden Larbi, that idle gardener, played upon hislittle flute his eternal song of love, and from the desert, beyond thewhite wall, there rose an Arab's voice singing a song of the Sahara, "Noone but God and I knows what is in my heart!"

IV.--A Nomad's Honeymoon

As the sand-diviner had foretold, Domini and Androvsky were married inthe church of Beni-Mora, and by the priest who had warned Domini to havenothing more to do with Androvsky. A terrible sand-storm was raging, andthe desert was blotted out. Nevertheless, when the ceremony was over, thebride and bridegroom mounted upon a camel, and with their attendants, setout for their desert honeymoon. Standing before the door of the church, thegood priest watched them go, with fear in his heart, and that night in hishumble home, kneeling before his crucifix, he prayed long and earnestly forall wanderers in the desert.

Isolated from all who knew them, free from all social ties, nomads, asare the Bedouins who make their dwelling for ever amid the vast and burningsands, Domini and Androvsky entered upon their married life. And at firstone of them was happy as few are ever happy. Domini loved completely,trusted completely, lived with a fulness, a completeness she had neverknown till now. That Androvsky almost worshipped her, she knew. His conductto her was perfect. And yet there were times when Domini felt as if ashadow rose between them, as if, even with her, in some secret place of hissoul Androvsky was ill at ease, as if sometimes he suffered, and dared nottell his suffering.

One day, in their wanderings, they came to a desolate place calledMogar, and camped on a sandhill looking over a vast stretch of dunes.Towards evening Androvsky descended into the plain to shoot gazelle,leaving Domini alone. While he was away a French officer, with two men ofthe Zouaves, rode slowly up. They were nearly starving and terriblyexhausted, having been lost in a sand-storm for three days and nights.

Pitying their sufferings, Domini insisted on entertaining them. The menmust sup with the Arabs, the officer must dine with herself and Androvsky.The officer accepted with gratitude, and went off to make his toilet. WhenAndrovsky returned, Domini told him of the officer's arrival, and when hesaw the three places laid for dinner in the tent, he seemed profoundlydisturbed. He asked the officer's name. Domini told him Trevignac.

"Trevignac!" he exclaimed.

Then, hearing the soldiers coming, he turned away; abruptly anddisappeared into the bedroom tent.

Trevignac came up, and in a few minutes Androvsky reappeared. The twomen gazed at each other for an instant. Then Domini introduced them, andthey all sat down to dinner. Conversation was uneasy. Androvsky wasevidently ill at ease; Trevignac was distrait at moments, strangelywatchful of his host at other moments. Dinner over, Domini left the two mentogether to smoke, and went out on to the sand. She met an Arab carryingcoffee and a liqueur to the tent.

"What's that, Ouardi?" she asked, touching the bottle.

He told her it was an African liqueur.

"Take it in," she said.

And she strolled away to the bonfire to listen to the fantasia the Arabswere making in honour of the soldiers.

When she returned to the tent, she found her husband alone in it,standing up, with a quantity of fragments of glass lying at his feet. Nearhim was the coffee, untasted. Trevignac was gone. She asked for anexplanation. He gave her none. The fragments of glass were all thatremained of the bottle which had contained the liqueur.

At dawn Domini met Trevignac riding away with his soldiers. He salutedher, bidding his men ride on. As he gazed at her, she seemed to see horrorin his eyes. Twice he tried to speak, but apparently could not bringhimself to do so. He looked towards the tent where Androvsky was sleeping,then at Domini; then, as if moved by an irresistible impulse, he leanedfrom his saddle, made over Domini the sign of the cross, and rode away intothe desert.

V.--I Have Insulted God

From that day Androvsky's strange misery of the soul, strange horror ofthe world, increased. Domini felt that he was secretly tormented. She triedto make him happier; she even told him that she believed he often felt faraway from God, and that she prayed each day for him.

"Boris," she said, "if it's that, don't be too sad. It may all comeright in the desert. For the desert is the garden of Allah."

He made her no answer.

At last in their journeying they came to the sacred city of Amara, andcamped in the white sands beyond it.

This was the place described by the sand-diviner, and here Domini knewthat her love was to be crowned, that she would become a mother. Shehesitated to tell her husband, for in this place his misery and fear of menseemed mounting to a climax. Nevertheless, as if in a frantic attempt toget the better of his mental torture, he had gone off, saying he wanted tosee the city.

While he was away, Domini was visited first by Count Anteoni, who toldher that he had joined the Mohammedan religion, and was at last happy andat peace; secondly, when night had fallen, by the priest of Amara. This manwas talkative and genial, fond of the good things of life. Domini offeredhim a cigar. He accepted it. An Arab brought coffee, and the same Africanliqueur which had been taken to the tent on the night when Trevignac haddined with Domini and Androvsky.

When the priest was about to drink some of it, he suddenly paused, andput the glass down. Domini leant forward.

"Louarine," she said, reading the name on the bottle. "Won't you havesome?"

"The fact is, madame," began the priest, with hesitation, "this liqueurcomes from the Trappist monastery of El Largani."

"Yes?"

"It was made by a monk and priest to whom the secret of its manufacturebelonged. At his death he was to confide the secret to another whom he hadchosen. But the monks of El Largani will never earn another franc byLouarine when what they have in stock is exhausted."

"The monk died suddenly?"

"Madame, he ran away from the monastery after being there in the eternalsilence for twenty years, after taking the final vows."

"How horrible!" said Domini. "That man must be in hell now, in the hella man can make for himself by his own act."

As she spoke, Androvsky appeared by the tent door. He was lookingfrightfully ill, and like a desperate man. When the priest had gone, Dominitold Androvsky about the liqueur and the disappearance of the Trappistmonk. As she spoke, his face grew more ghastly. He stood rigid, as if withhorror.

"Poor, poor man!" she said, as she finished her story.

"You--you pity that man then?" murmured Androvsky.

"Yes," she replied. "I was thinking of the agony he must be enduring ifhe is still alive."

Androvsky seemed painfully moved, and almost as if he were on the vergeof some passionate outburst of emotion; and something like a deep voice fardown in the loving heart of Domini said to her, "If you really love, befearless. Attack the sorrow which stands like a figure of death between youand your husband. Drive it away. You have a weapon--faith--use it!"

At last she summoned all her courage, all her faith, and she forced fromAndrovsky the confession of what it was which held him in perpetual misery,even in freedom, even with her, whom he loved beyond and above all humanbeings.

"Domini," he said, "you want to know what it is that makes me unhappyeven in our love--desperately unhappy. It is this. I believe in God, I loveGod, I have insulted God. I have tried to forget God, to deny Him, to puthuman love higher than love for Him. But always I am haunted by the thoughtof God, and that thought makes me despair. Once, when I was young, I gavemyself to God solemnly. I have broken the vows I made! I gave myself to Godas a monk."

"You are the Trappist!" she whispered. "You are the monk from themonastery of El Largani who disappeared after twenty years?"

"Yes," he said, "I am he."

Standing there in the sands, while the world was wrapped in sleep,Androvsky told Domini the whole story of his life in the monastery, of hisinnocent happiness there, and of the events which woke up within him themad longing to see life and the world, and to know the love of woman. Hetold her of his secret departure by night from the monastery, of hisjourney to the desert in search of complete and savage liberty. He told herhow he had fought against his growing love for her, how he had tried toleave her; how, at the last moment in the garden by night, his passion forher had conquered him and driven him to her feet. He told her how theofficer, Trevignac, had known him long ago in the monastery, and hadrecognised him when the Arab brought in the liqueur which he had made. Hekept nothing from her.

"That last day in the garden," he said finally, "I thought I hadconquered myself, and it was in that moment that I fell for ever. When Iknew you loved me, I could fight no more. You have seen me, you have livedwith me, you have divined my misery. But don't think, Domini, that it evercame from you. It was the consciousness of my lie to you, my lie to God,that--that--I can't tell you--I can't tell you--you know."

He looked into her face, then turned to go away into the desert.

"I'll go! I'll go!" he muttered.

Then Domini spoke.

"Boris!" she said.

He stopped.

"Boris, now at last you can pray."

She went into the tent, and left him alone. He knew that in the tent shewas praying for him. He stood, trying to listen to her prayer, then, withan uncertain hand, he felt in his breast. He drew out a wooden cross, givento him by his mother when he entered the monastery. He bent down his head,touched it with his lips, and fell upon his knees in the desert.

From that night, Domini realised that her duty was plain before her.Androvsky was still at heart a monk, and she was a fervently religiouswoman. She put God above herself, above her poor, desperate, human love,above Androvsky and his passionate love for her. She put the things ofeternity before the things of time. She never told Androvsky of the childthat was coming.

After he had made his confession to the priest of Beni-Mora who hadmarried them, she led him to the monastery door, and there they parted forever on earth, to be reunited, as both believed, in heaven.

And now, in the garden of Count Anteoni, which has passed into otherhands, a little boy may often be seen playing.

Sometimes, when twilight is falling over the Sahara, his mother callshim to her, to the white wall from which she looks out over the desert.

"Listen, Boris," she whispers.

The little boy leans his face against her breast, and obeys.

An Arab is passing below on the desert track, singing to himself, as hegoes towards his home in the oasis, "No one but God and I knows what is inmy heart."

The mother whispers the words to herself. The cool wind of the nightblows over the vast spaces of the Sahara and touches her cheek, remindingher of her glorious days of liberty, of the passion that came to her soullike fire in the desert.

But she does not rebel, for always, when night falls, she sees the formof a man praying, one who once fled from prayer in the desert; she sees awanderer who at last has reached his home.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Elsie Venner

Oliver Wendell Holmes, essayist, poet, scientist, and one ofthe most lovable men who have adorned the literature of the English tongue,was born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, Aug. 29, 1809, of a New Englandfamily with a record in which he took great pride. After studying medicineat Harvard, he went to Europe on a prolonged tour, and, returning, took hisM.D., and became a popular professor of anatomy. He had some repute as agraceful poet in his student days. "Elsie Venner," at first called "TheProfessor's Story," was published in 1861, and was the first sustained workof fiction that came from the pen of Oliver Wendell Holmes. Illumined byadmirable pictures of life and character in a typical New England town, thebook itself is a remarkable study of heredity--a study only relieved by theauthor's kindly humour. The unfortunate child, doomed before her birth tosuffer from the fatal bite of a rattlesnake--an incident unduly extravagantin some critics' opinions--and only throwing off the evil influence on herdeath-bed, is one of the most pathetic figures in all American literature.It was not until seven years later that "Elsie Venner" was followed byanother novel, "The Guardian Angel," a story which is worked out on thesame lines of thought as the former. Holmes died on October 7, 1894.

I.--The Eyes of Elsie Venner

Mr. Bernard Langdon, duly certificated, had accepted the invitation fromthe Board of Trustees of the Apollinean Female Institute, a school for theeducation of young ladies, situated in the nourishing town of Rockland.

Rockland is at the foot of a mountain, and a horrible feature of thismountain was the region known as Rattlesnake Ledge, which was stilltenanted by those horrible reptiles in spite of many a foray by thetownspeople.

That the brood was not extirpated there was a melancholy proof in theyear 184--, when a young married woman, detained at home by the state ofher health, was bitten in the entry of her own house by a rattlesnake whichhad found its way down from the mountain. Owing to the almost instantemployment of powerful remedies, the bite did not prove immediately fatal,but she died within a few months of the time when she was bitten.

It was on a fine morning that Mr. Langdon made his appearance, as masterfor the English branches, in the great school-room of the ApollineanInstitute. The principal, Mr. Silas Peckham, carried him to the desk of theyoung lady assistant, Miss Darley by name, and introduced him to her. Theyoung lady assistant had to point out to the new master the whole routineof the classes, and Mr. Langdon had a great many questions to ask relatingto his new duties. The truth is, the general effect of the school-room,with its scores of young girls, was enough to confuse a young man like Mr.Langdon, and he may be pardoned for asking Miss Darley questions about hisscholars as well as about their lessons.

He asked who one or two girls were, and being answered, went on, "Andwho and what is that sitting a little apart there--that strange,wild-looking girl?"

The lady teacher's face changed; one would have said she was frightenedor troubled. The girl did not look up; she was winding a gold chain abouther wrist, and then uncoiling it as if in a kind of reverie. Miss Darleydrew close to the master, and placed her hand so as to hide her lips.

"Don't look at her as if we were talking about her," she whisperedsoftly, "that is Elsie Venner."

A girl of about seventeen, tall, slender, was Elsie Venner. Black,piercing eyes, black hair, twisted in heavy braids, a face that one couldnot help looking at for its beauty, yet that one wanted to look away from,and could not, for those diamond eyes.

Those eyes were fixed on the lady teacher one morning not long afterLangdon's arrival. Miss Darley turned her own away, and let them wanderover the other scholars. But the diamond eyes were on her still. She turnedthe leaves of several of her books, and finally, following some ill-definedimpulse which she could not resist, left her place, and went to the younggirl's desk.

"What do you want of me, Elsie Venner?" It was a strange question toput, for the girl had not signified that she wished the teacher to come toher.

"Nothing," she cried. "I thought I could make you come." The girl spokein a low tone, a kind of half-whisper.

Bernard Langdon experienced the power of those diamond eyes oneparticular day that summer.

He had made up his mind to explore the dreaded Rattlesnake Ledge of themountain, to examine the rocks, and perhaps to pick up an adventure in thezoological line; for he had on a pair of high, stout boots, and he carrieda stick in his hand.

High up on one of the precipitous walls of rock he saw some tufts offlowers, and knew them for flowers Elsie Venner had brought into theschool-room. Presently on a natural platform where he sat down to rest, hefound a hairpin.

He rose up from his seat to look round for other signs of a woman'svisits, and walked to the mouth of a cavern and looked into it. His lookwas met by the glitter of two diamond eyes, shining out of the darkness,but gliding with a smooth, steady motion towards the light, and himself. Hestood fixed, struck dumb, staring back into them with dilating pupils andsudden numbness of fear that cannot move. The two sparks of light cameforward until they grew to circles of flame, and all at once liftedthemselves up as if in angry surprise.

Then, for the first time, thrilled in Mr. Bernard's ears the dreadfulsound that nothing which breathes can hear unmoved--the long, singing whir,as the huge, thick-bodied reptile shook his many-jointed rattle. He waitedas in a trance; and while he looked straight into the flaming eyes, itseemed to him that they were losing their light and terror, that they weregrowing tame and dull. The charm was dissolving, the numbness passing away,he could move once more. He heard a light breathing close to his ear, and,half turning, saw the face of Elsie Venner, looking motionless into thereptile's eyes, which had shrunk and faded under the stronger enchantmentof her own.

From that time Mr. Bernard was brought into new relations with Elsie. Hewas grateful; she had led him out of danger, and perhaps saved him fromdeath, but he shuddered at the recollection of the whole scene. He made uphis mind that, come what might, he would solve the mystery of Elsie Venner,sooner or later.

II.--Cousin Richard Venner

Richard Venner had passed several of his early years with his uncleDudley Venner at the Dudley mansion, the playmate of Elsie, being hercousin, two or three years older than herself. His mother was a lady ofBuenos Ayres, of Spanish descent, and had died while he was in his cradle.A self-willed, capricious boy, he was a rough playmate for Elsie.

But Elsie was the wilder of these two motherless children. OldSophy--said to be the granddaughter of a cannibal chief--who watched themin their play and their quarrels, always seemed to be more afraid for theboy than the girl.

"Massa Dick, don' you be too rough wi' dat girl! She scratch you las'week, 'n' some day she bite you; 'n' if she bite you, Massa Dick----" OldSophy nodded her head ominously, as if she could say a great deal more.

Elsie's father, whose fault was to indulge her in everything, found thatit would never do to let these children grow up together. A sharper quarrelthan usual decided this point. Master Dick forgot old Sophy's caution, andvexed the girl into a paroxysm of wrath, in which she sprang at him, andbit his arm. Old Dr. Kettredge was sent for, and came at once when he heardwhat had happened.

He had a good deal to say about the danger there was from the teeth ofanimals or of human beings when enraged, and he emphasised his remarks bythe application of a pencil of lunar caustic to each of the marks left bythe sharp white teeth.

After this Master Dick went off on his travels, which led him intostrange places and stranger company; and so the boy grew up to youth andearly manhood.

There came a time when the young gentleman thought he would like to seehis cousin again, and wrote inviting himself to the Dudley mansion.

Doctor Kettredge could see no harm in the visit when Dudley Vennerconsulted him. Her father was never easy about Elsie. He could not tell theold doctor all he knew. In God's good time he believed his onlydaughter would come to her true nature; her eyes would lose that frightful,cold glitter, and that faint birth-mark which encircled her neck--hermother swooned when she first saw it--would fade wholly out.

"Let her go to the girls' school, by all means," the doctor had said,when that was first talked about. "Anything to interest her. Friendship,love, religion--whatever will set her nature to work."

When Dudley Venner mentioned his nephew's arrival, the doctor only said,"Let him stay a while; it gives her something to think about." He thoughtthere was no danger of any sudden passion springing up between two suchyoung persons.

So Mr. Richard came, and the longer he stayed the more favourably theidea of a permanent residence in the mansion-house seemed to impress him.The estate was large and of great value, and there could not be a doubtthat the property had largely increased. It was evident there was anabundant income, and Cousin Elsie was worth trying for. On the other hand,what was the matter with her eyes, that they sucked your life out of you inthat strange way? And what did she always wear a necklace for? Besides, herfather might last for ever or take it into his head to marry again.

He prolonged his visit until his presence became something like a matterof habit. In the meantime he found that Elsie was getting more constant inher attendance at school, and learned, on inquiry, that there was a newmaster, a handsome young man. The handsome young man would not have likedthe look that came over Dick Venner's face when he heard this factmentioned.

For Mr. Richard had decided that he must have the property, that thiswas his one great chance in life. The girl might not suit him as a wife.Possibly. Time enough to find out after he had got her. That Elsie nowregarded him with indifference, if not aversion, he could not conceal fromhimself. The young man at the school was probably at the bottom of it."Cousin Elsie in love with a Yankee schoolmaster!"

But for a long time Dick Venner could get no positive evidence of anysentiment between Elsie and the schoolmaster. At one time he would bedevoured by suspicion, at another he would laugh himself out of them.

His jealousy at last broke out, when he and Elsie were alone, in aquestioning reference to Mr. Langdon.

Elsie coloured, and then answered, abruptly and scornfully, "Mr. Langdonis a gentleman, and would not vex me as you do."

"A gentleman!" Dick answered, with the most insulting accent. "Agentleman! Come, Elsie; you've got the Dudley blood in your veins, and itdoesn't do for you to call this poor sneaking schoolmaster agentleman!"

He stopped short. Elsie's bosom was heaving, the faint flush of hercheek was becoming a vivid glow. There was no longer any doubt in his mind.Elsie Venner loved Bernard Langdon. The sudden conviction, absolute,overwhelming, rushed upon him.

Elsie made no answer, but glided out of the room and slid away to herown apartment. She bolted the door, and drew her curtains close. Then shethrew herself on the floor, and fell into a dull, slow ache of passion,without tears, almost without words.

Dick realised that he had reached a fearful point. He could not give upthe great Dudley property. Therefore, the school-master must be got rid of,and by self-destruction.

Mr. Bernard Langdon must be found, suspended to the branch of a tree,somewhat within a mile of the Apollinean Institute.

III.--The Perilous Hour

Old Doctor Kettredge had advised Bernard Langdon to go in forpistol-shooting, and had even presented him with a small, beautifullyfinished revolver. "I want you to carry this," he said, "and more thanthat, I want you to practise with it often, so that it may be seen andunderstood that you are apt to have a pistol about you."

This was at the conclusion of a conversation between the doctor and Mr.Bernard concerning Elsie Venner.

"Elsie interests me," said the young man, "interests me strangely. Iwould risk my life for her, but I do not love her. If her hand touchesmine, it is not a thrill of passion I feel running through me, but a verydifferent emotion."

"Mr. Langdon," said the doctor, "you have come to this country townwithout suspicion, and you are moving in the midst of perils. Keep youreyes open, and your heart shut. If, through pitying that girl, you evercome to love her, you are lost. If you deal carelessly with her, beware!This is not all. There are other eyes on you beside Elsie Venner's. Goarmed in future."

Mr. Bernard thought the advice very odd, but he followed it, and soonbecame known as an expert at revolver-shooting. On the day when Dick Vennerhad decided that the schoolmaster must be found hanged, Bernard Langdonwent out as usual for the evening walk. He thrust his pistol, which he hadput away loaded, into his pocket before starting.

The moon was shining at intervals, for the night was partially clouded.There seemed to be nobody stirring, but presently he detected the sound ofhoofs, and, looking forward, saw a horseman coming in his direction. Whenthe horseman was within a hundred and fifty yards of him, the moon shoneout suddenly, and revealed each of them to the other. The rider paused fora moment, then suddenly put his horse to the full gallop, and dashedtowards him, rising at the same instant in his stirrups and swingingsomething round his head. It was a strange manoeuvre, so strange andthreatening that the young man co*cked his pistol, and waited to see whatmischief all this meant. He did not wait long. As the rider came rushingtowards him he made a rapid motion, and something leaped five-and-twentyfeet through the air in Mr. Bernard's direction. In an instant he felt aring, as of a rope or thong, settle upon his shoulders. There was no timeto think, he would be lost in another second. He raised his pistol andfired--not at the rider, but at the horse. His aim was true; the horse gaveone bound and fell lifeless, shot through the head. The lasso was fastenedto his saddle, and his last bound threw Mr. Bernard violently to the earth,where he lay motionless, as if stunned.

In the meantime, Dick Venner, who had been dashed down with his horse,was trying to extricate himself; one of his legs was held fast under theanimal, the long spur on his boot having caught in the saddle-cloth. Hefound, however, that he could do nothing with his right arm, his shoulderhaving been in some way injured in his fall. But his Southern blood was up,and, as he saw Mr. Bernard move as if he were coming to his senses, hestruggled violently to free himself.

"I'll have the dog yet!" he said; "only let me get at him with theknife!"

He had just succeeded in extricating his imprisoned leg, and was readyto spring to his feet, when he was caught firmly by the throat, and lookingup, saw a hayfork within an inch of his breast.

"Hold on there! What'n thunder 'r' y' abaout, y' darned Portagee?" saida sharp, resolute voice.

Dick looked from the weapon to the person who held it, and saw AbelStebbins, the doctor's man, standing over him.

"Let me up! Let me up!" he cried in a low, hurried voice. "I'll give youa hundred dollars in gold to let me go. The man a'n't hurt--don't you seehim stirring? He'll come to himself in two minutes. Let me up! I'll giveyou a hundred and fifty dollars in gold, now, here on the spot, and thewatch out of my pocket; take it yourself, with your own hands!"

"Ketch me lett'n go!" was Abel's emphatic answer.

Mr. Bernard was now getting first his senses, and then some few of hisscattered wits together.

"Who's hurt? What's happened?" he asked, staring about him.

Then he felt something about his neck; and putting his hands up, foundthe loop of the lasso. Abel quickly slipped the noose over Mr. Bernard'shead, and put it round the neck of the miserable Dick Venner, who, with hisdisabled arm, felt resistance was hopeless.

The party now took up the line of march for old Dr. Kettredge's house,Abel carrying Langdon's pistol, and leading Dick Venner, Bernard Langdonholding the hayfork. He was still half-stunned, and felt it was all adream, when they reached the house.

"My mind is confused," he told the doctor. "I've had a fall."

"Sit down, sit down," the doctor said. "Abel will tell me about it.Slight concussion of the brain. Can't remember very well for an hour ortwo--will come right by to-morrow!"

Dick Venner's shoulder was out of joint, the doctor found; he replacedit in a very few minutes. That night the doctor drove Dick forty miles at astretch, out of the limits of the state.

He had implored them to let him go, and Mr. Bernard was quite willingthat no further proceedings should be taken.

IV.--The Secret is Whispered

A week after Dick Venner's departure Elsie went off at the accustomedhour to the school. She had none of the hard, wicked light in her eyes thatmorning, and looked gentle, but dreamy.

At the end of the school hours, when the girls had all gone out, Elsiecame up to Mr. Bernard, and said, in a very low voice, "Will you walktowards my home with me to-day?"

So they walked along together on their way towards the Dudleymansion.

"I have no friend," Elsie said all at once. "Nobody loves me but one oldwoman--old Sophy!"

"I am your friend, Elsie. Tell me what I can do to render your lifehappier."

"Love me!" said Elsie Venner.

Mr. Bernard turned pale.

"Elsie," he said presently, "I do love you, as a sister with sorrows ofher own--as one whom I would save at the risk of my happiness and life.Give me your hand, dear Elsie, and trust me that I will be as true a friendto you as if we were children of the same mother!"

Elsie gave him her hand mechanically, and he pressed it gently. Theywalked almost in silence the rest of the way.

It was all over with poor Elsie. She went at once to her own room whenthey reached the mansion-house, and never left it.

They sent for the old doctor, and he ordered some remedies, saying hewould call the next day, hoping to find her better. But the next day came,and the next, and still Elsie was on her bed--feverish, restless, andsilent.

"Send me Helen Darley," she said at last, on the fourth day.

And Helen came. Dudley Venner followed her into the room.

"She is your patient," he said, "except while the doctor is here."

Helen Darley often tried in those days and nights, when she sat byElsie's bed, to enter into the sick girl's confidence and affections, butthere was always something that seemed inexplicable in the changes of mood.So Helen determined to ask old Sophy some questions.

"How old is Elsie?"

"Eighteen years this las' September."

"How long ago did her mother die?"

"Eighteen year ago this October."

Helen was silent for a moment. Then she whispered,

"What did her mother die of, Sophy?"

The old woman caught Helen by the hand and clung to it, as if infear.

"Don't never speak in this house 'bout what Elsie's mother died of!" shesaid. "God has made Ugly Things wi' death in their mouths, Miss Darlin',an' He knows what they're for. But my poor Elsie! To have her blood changedin her before--It was in July mistress got her death, but she liv' tillthree week after my poor Elsie was born."

She could speak no more; she had said enough. Helen remembered thestories she had heard on coming to the village. Now she knew the secret ofthe fascination which looked out of the cold, glittering eyes.

A great change came over Elsie in the last few days. It seemed to herfather as if the malign influence which had pervaded her being had beendriven forth or exorcised.

"It's her mother's look!" said old Sophy. "It's her mother's own faceright over again. She never look' so before--the Lord's hand is on her! Hiswill be done!"

But Elsie's heart was beating more feebly every day. One night, withsudden effort, she threw her arms round her father's neck, kissed him, andsaid, "Good-night, my dear father!"

Then her head fell back upon her pillow, and a long sigh breathedthrough her lips.

Elsie Venner was dead!

In the following summer Mr. Dudley Venner married Miss Helen Darley. Mr.Bernard Langdon returned to college, resumed his medical studies, took hisdegree as Doctor of Medicine, and he now also is married.

THOMAS HUGHES

Tom Brown's Schooldays

"Tom Brown's Schooldays" has been called by more than onecritic the best story of schoolboy life ever written, and three generationsof readers have endorsed the opinion. Its author, Thomas Hughes, born atUffington, Berkshire, England, Oct. 19, 1822, was himself, like his hero,both a Rugby boy under Dr. Arnold and the son of a Berkshire squire, but hedenied that the story was in any real sense autobiographical. MatthewArnold and Arthur H. Clough, the poet, were Hughes's friends at school, andin later life he became associated with Charles Kingsley and FrederickDenison Maurice on what was called the Christian Socialist movement. Abarrister by profession, Thomas Hughes became a county court judge, andlived for many years in that capacity at Chester. Besides "Tom Brown'sSchooldays," published in 1857, Hughes also wrote "Tom Brown at Oxford"(1861), biographies of Livingstone, Bishop Fraser, and Daniel Macmillan,and a number of political, religious and social pamphlets. He died on March22, 1896.

I.--Tom Goes to Rugby

Squire Brown, J.P. for the county of Berks, dealt out justice and mercy,in a thorough way, and begat sons and daughters, and hunted the fox, andgrumbled at the badness of the roads and the times. And his wife dealt outstockings and shirts and smock frocks, and comforting drinks to the oldfolks with the "rheumatiz," and good counsel to all.

Tom was their eldest child, a hearty, strong boy, from the first givento fighting with and escaping from his nurse, and fraternising with all thevillage boys, with whom he made expeditions all round theneighbourhood.

Squire Brown was a Tory to the backbone; but, nevertheless, held diverssocial principles not generally supposed to be true blue in colour; theforemost of which was the belief that a man is to be valued wholly andsolely for that which he is himself, apart from all externals whatever.Therefore, he held it didn't matter a straw whether his son associated withlords' sons or ploughmen's sons, provided they were brave and honest. So heencouraged Tom in his intimacy with the village boys, and gave them the runof a close for a playground. Great was the grief among them when Tom droveoff with the squire one morning, to meet the coach, on his way to Rugby, toschool.

It had been resolved that Tom should travel down by the Tally-ho, whichpassed through Rugby itself; and as it was an early coach, they drove outto the Peaco*ck Inn, at Islington, to be on the road. Towards nine o'clock,the squire, observing that Tom was getting sleepy, sent the little fellowoff to bed, with a few parting words, the result of much thought.

"And now, Tom, my boy," said the squire, "remember you are going, atyour own earnest request, to be chucked into this great school, like ayoung bear, with all your troubles before you--earlier than we should havesent you, perhaps. You'll see a great many cruel blackguard things done,and hear a deal of foul, bad talk. But never fear. You tell the truth, andkeep a brave, kind heart, and never listen to or say anything you wouldn'thave your mother or sister hear, and you'll never feel ashamed to comehome, or we to see you."

The mention of his mother made Tom feel rather choky, and he would haveliked to hug his father well, if it hadn't been for his recent stipulationthat kissing should now cease between them, so he only squeezed hisfather's hand, and looked up bravely, and said, "I'll try, father!"

At ten minutes to three Tom was in the coffee-room in his stockings, andthere was his father nursing a bright fire; and a cup of coffee and a hardbiscuit on the table.

Just as he was swallowing the last mouthful, Boots looks in, and says,"Tally-ho, sir!" And they hear the ring and rattle as it dashes up to thePeaco*ck.

"Good-bye, father; my love at home!" A last shake of the hand. Up goesTom, the guard holding on with one hand, while he claps the horn to hismouth. Toot, toot, toot! Away goes the Tally-ho into the darkness.

Tom stands up, and looks back at his father's figure as long as you cansee it; and then comes to an anchor, and finishes his buttonings and otherpreparations for facing the cold three hours before dawn. The guard mufflesTom's feet up in straw, and puts an oat-sack over his knees, but it is notuntil after breakfast that his tongue is unloosed, and he rubs up hismemory, and launches out into a graphic history of all the performances ofthe Rugby boys on the roads for the last twenty years.

"And so here's Rugby, sir, at last, and you'll be in plenty of time fordinner at the schoolhouse, as I tell'd you," says the old guard.

Tom's heart beat quick, and he began to feel proud of being a Rugby boywhen he passed the school gates, and saw the boys standing there as if thetown belonged to them.

One of the young heroes ran out from the rest, and scrambled up behind,where, having righted himself with, "How do, Jem?" to the guard, he turnedround short to Tom, and began, "I say, you fellow, is your name Brown?"

"Yes," said Tom, in considerable astonishment.

"Ah, I thought so; my old aunt, Miss East, lives somewhere down your wayin Berkshire; she wrote that you were coming to-day and asked me to giveyou a lift!"

Tom was somewhat inclined to resent the patronising air of his newfriend, a boy of just about his own age and height, but gifted with themost transcendent coolness and assurance, which Tom felt to be aggravatingand hard to bear, but couldn't help admiring and envying, especially whenmy young lord begins hectoring two or three long loafing fellows, andarranges with one of them to carry up Tom's luggage.

"You see," said East, as they strolled up to the school gates, "a gooddeal depends on how a fellow cuts up at first. You see I'm doing thehandsome thing by you, because my father knows yours; besides, I want toplease the old lady--she gave me half-a-sov. this half, and perhaps'lldouble it next if I keep in her good books."

Tom was duly placed in the Third Form, and found his work very easy; andas he had no intimate companion to make him idle (East being in the LowerFourth), soon gained golden opinions from his master, and all went wellwith him in the school. As a new boy he was, of course, excused fa*gging,but, in his enthusiasm, this hardly pleased him; and East and others of hisyoung friends kindly allowed him to indulge his fancy, and take their turnsat night, fa*gging and cleaning studies. So he soon gained the character ofa good-natured, willing fellow, ready to do a turn for anyone.

II.--The War of Independence

The Lower Fourth was an overgrown Form, too large for any one man toattend to properly, consequently the elysium of the young scamps who formedthe staple of it. Tom had come up from the Third with a good character, buthe rapidly fell away, and became as unmanageable as the rest. By the timethe second monthly examination came round, his character for steadiness wasgone, and for years after, he went up the school without it, and regardedthe masters, as a matter of course, as his natural enemies. Matters werenot so comfortable in the house, either. The new praeposters of the SixthForm were not strong, and the big Fifth Form boys soon began to usurppower, and to fa*g and bully the little boys.

One evening Tom and East were sitting in their study, Tom brooding overthe wrongs of fa*gs in general and his own in particular.

"I say, Scud," said he at last, "what right have the Fifth Form boys tofa*g us as they do?"

"No more right than you have to fa*g them," said East, without looking upfrom an early number of "Pickwick." Tom relapsed into his brown study, andEast went on reading and chuckling.

"Do you know, old fellow, I've been thinking it over, and I've made upmy mind I won't fa*g except for the Sixth."

"Quite right, too, my boy," cried East. "I'm all for a strike myself;it's getting too bad."

"I shouldn't mind if it were only young Brooke now," said Tom; "I'd doanything for him. But that blackguard Flashman----"

"The cowardly brute!" broke in East.

"Fa-a-ag!" sounded along the passage from Flashman's study.

The two boys looked at one another.

"Fa-a-ag!" again. No answer.

"Here, Brown! East! You young skulks!" roared Flashman. "I know you'rein! No shirking!"

Tom bolted the door, and East blew out the candle.

"Now, Tom, no surrender!"

Then the assault commenced. One panel of the door gave way to repeatedkicks, and the besieged strengthened their defences with the sofa. Flashman& Co. at last retired, vowing vengeance, and when the convivial noisesbegan again steadily, Tom and East rushed out. They were too quick to becaught, but a pickle-jar, sent whizzing after them by Flashman narrowlymissed Tom's head. Their story was soon told to a knot of small boys roundthe fire in the hall, who nearly all bound themselves not to fa*g for theFifth, encouraged and advised thereto by Diggs--a queer, very cleverfellow, nearly at the top of the Fifth himself. He stood by them allthrough and seldom have small boys had more need of a friend.

Flashman and his associates united in "bringing the young vagabonds totheir senses," and the whole house was filled with chasings, sieges, andlickings of all sorts.

One evening, in forbidden hours, Brown and East were in the hall,chatting by the light of the fire, when the door swung open, and in walkedFlashman. He didn't see Diggs, busy in front of the other fire; and as theboys didn't move for him, struck one of them, and ordered them all off totheir study.

"I say, you two," said Diggs, rousing up, "you'll never get rid of thatfellow till you lick him. Go in at him, both of you! I'll see fairplay."

They were about up to Flashman's shoulder, but tough and in perfecttraining; while he, seventeen years old, and big and strong of his age, wasin poor condition from his monstrous habits of stuffing and want ofexercise.

They rushed in on him, and he hit out wildly and savagely, and inanother minute Tom went spinning backwards over a form; and Flashman turnedto demolish East, with a savage grin. But Diggs jumped down from the tableon which he had seated himself.

"Stop there!" shouted he. "The round's over! Half minute time allowed!I'm going to see fair. Are you ready, Brown? Time's up!"

The small boys rushed in again; Flashman was wilder and more flurriedthan ever. In a few moments over all three went on the floor, Flashmanstriking his head on a form. But his skull was not fractured, as the twoyoungsters feared it was, and he never laid a finger on them again. Butwhatever harm a spiteful tongue could do them, he took care should be done.Only throw dirt enough, and some will stick. And so Tom and East, and oneor two more, became a sort of young Ishmaelites. They saw the praeposterscowed by or joining with the Fifth and shirking their own duties; and sothey didn't respect them, and rendered no willing obedience, and got thecharacter of sulky, unwilling fa*gs. At the end of the term they are toldthe doctor wants to see them. He is not angry only very grave. He explainsthat rules are made for the good of the school and must and shall beobeyed! He should be sorry if they had to leave, and wishes them to thinkvery seriously in the holidays over what he has said. Good-night!

III.--The Turn of the Tide

The turning point of our hero's school career had now come, and themanner of it was as follows.

Tom and East and another Schoolhouse boy rushed into the matron's roomin high spirits when they got back on the first day of the next half-year.She sent off the others, but kept Tom to tell him Mrs. Arnold wished him totake a new boy to share the study he had hoped to share with East. She hadtold Mrs. Arnold she thought Tom would be kind to him, and see that hewasn't bullied.

In the far corner of the room he saw a slight, pale boy, who lookedready to sink through the floor. The matron watched Tom for a minute, andsaw what was passing in his mind.

"Poor little fellow," she said, almost in a whisper. "His father's dead,and his mamma--such a sweet, kind lady--almost broke her heart at leavinghim. She said one of his sisters was like to die of a decline----"

"Well, well," burst in Tom, "I suppose I must give up East. Come along,young 'un! What's your name? We'll go and have supper, and then I'll showyou our study."

"His name's George Arthur," said the matron. "I've had his books andthings put into the study, which his mamma has had new papered, and thesofa covered, and new curtains. And Mrs. Arnold told me to say she'd likeyou both to come up to tea with her."

Here was an announcement for Master Tom! He was to go up to tea thefirst night, just as if he were of importance in the school world insteadof the most reckless young scapegrace among the fa*gs. He felt himselflifted on to a higher moral platform at once; and marched off with hisyoung charge in tow in monstrous good humour with himself and all theworld. His cup was full when Dr. Arnold, with a warm shake of the hand,seemingly oblivious of all the scrapes he had been getting into, said, "Ah,Brown, you here! I hope you left all well at home. And this is the littlefellow who is to share your study? Well, he doesn't look as we should liketo see him. You must take him some good long walks, and show him whatlittle pretty country we have about here."

The tea went merrily off, and everybody felt that he, young as he was,was of some use in the school world, and had a work to do there. When Tomwas recognised coming out of the private door which led from the doctor'shouse, there was a great shout of greeting, and Hall at once began toquestion Arthur.

"What a queer chum for Tom Brown," was the general comment. And it mustbe confessed that so thought Tom himself as he lighted the candle in theirstudy, and surveyed the new curtains with much satisfaction.

"I say, Arthur, what a brick your mother is to make us so cosy! But lookhere now, you must answer straight up when the fellows speak to you. Ifyou're afraid, you'll get bullied. And don't you ever talk about home oryour mother or sisters."

Poor little Arthur looked ready to cry.

"But please, mayn't I talk about home to you?"

"Oh, yes, I like it. But not to boys you don't know. What a jollydesk!"

And soon Tom was deep in Arthur's goods and chattels, and hardly thoughtof his friends outside till the prayer-bell rang.

He thought of his own first night there when he was leading poor littleArthur up to No. 4, and showing him his bed. The idea of sleeping in a roomwith strange boys had clearly never crossed his mind before. He couldhardly bare to take his jacket off. However, presently off it came, and hepaused and looked at Tom, who was sitting on his bed, talking andlaughing.

"Please, Brown," he whispered, "may I wash my face and hands?"

"Of course, if you like," said Tom, staring. "You'll have to go down formore water if you use it all." On went the talk and laughter. Arthurfinished his undressing, and looked round more nervously than ever. Thelight burned clear, the noise went on. This time, however, he did not askTom what he might or might not do, but dropped on his knees by his bedsideto open his heart to Him who heareth the cry of the tender child, or thestrong man.

Tom was unlacing his boots with his back towards Arthur, and looked upin wonder at the sudden silence. Then two or three boys laughed, and onebig, brutal fellow picked up a slipper and shied it at the kneeling boy.The next moment the boot Tom had just taken off flew straight at the headof the bully.

"If any other fellow wants the other boot," said Tom, stepping on to thefloor, "he knows how to get it!"

At this moment the Sixth Form boy came in, and not another word could besaid. Tom and the rest rushed into bed, and finished unrobing there. Sleepseemed to have deserted the pillow of poor Tom. The thought of his promiseto his mother came over him, never to forget to kneel at his bedside andgive himself up to his Father before he laid his head on the pillow fromwhich it might never rise; and he lay down gently, and cried as if hisheart would break. He was only fourteen years old.

Next morning he was up and washed and dressed just as the ten-minutesbell began, and then in the face of the whole room knelt down to pray. Notfive words could he say; he was listening for every whisper in the room.What were they all thinking of him? At last, as it were from his inmostheart, a still, small voice seemed to breathe: "God be merciful to me, asinner." He repeated the words over and over again, and rose from his kneescomforted and humbled, and ready to face the whole school. It was notneeded; two other boys had already followed his example. Before either Tomor Arthur left the Schoolhouse there was no room in which it had not becomethe regular custom.

IV.--Tom Brown's Last Match

The curtain now rises on the last act of our little drama. Eight yearshave passed, and it is the end of the summer half-year at Rugby. The boyshave scattered to the four winds, except the Eleven, and a few enthusiastswho are permitted to stay to see the result of the cricket matches. Forthis year the return matches are being played at Rugby, and to-day thegreat event of the year, the Marylebone match, is being played. I wish Ihad space to describe the whole match; but I haven't, so you must fancy itall, and let me beg to call your attention to a group of three eagerlywatching the match. The first, evidently a clergyman, is carelesslydressed, and looks rather used up, but is bent on enjoying life as hespreads himself out in the evening sun. By his side, in white flannel shirtand trousers, and the captain's belt, sits a strapping figure near six feethigh, with ruddy, tanned face and a laughing eye. He is leaning forward,dandling his favourite bat, with which he has made thirty or forty runsto-day. It is Tom Brown, spending his last day as a Rugby boy. And at theirfeet sits Arthur, with his bat across his knees. He is less of a boy, infact, than Tom, if one may judge by the thoughtfulness of his face, whichis somewhat paler than we could wish, but his figure is well-knit andactive, and all his old timidity has disappeared, and is replaced bysilent, quaint fun, as he listens to the broken talk, and joins in everynow and then. Presently he goes off to the wicket, with a last exhortationfrom Tom to play steady and keep his bat straight.

"I'm surprised to see Arthur in the Eleven," says the master.

"Well, I'm not sure he ought to be for his play," said Tom; "but Icouldn't help putting him in. It will do him so much good, and you can'tthink what I owe him!"

The master smiled. Later he returned to the subject

"Nothing has given me greater pleasure," he said, "than your friendshipfor him. It has been the making of you both."

"Of me, at any rate," answered Tom. "It was the luckiest chance in theworld that sent him to Rugby and made him my chum."

"There was neither luck nor chance in that matter," said the master. "Doyou remember when the Doctor lectured you and East when you had beengetting into all sorts of scrapes?"

"Yes; well enough," said Tom. "It was the half-year before Arthurcame."

"Exactly so," said the master. "He was in great distress about you both,and after some talk, we both agreed that you in particular wanted someobject in the school beyond games and mischief. So the Doctor looked outthe best of the new boys, and separated you and East in the hope that whenyou had somebody to lean on you, you'd be steadier yourself, and getmanliness and thoughtfulness. He has watched the experiment ever since withgreat satisfaction."

Up to this time Tom had never fully given in to, or understood, theDoctor. He had learnt to regard him with love and respect, and to think hima very great and wise and good man. But as regarded his own position in theschool, he had no idea of giving anyone credit but himself.

It was a new light to Tom to find that besides teaching the Sixth, andgoverning and guiding the whole school, editing classics, and writinghistories, the great headmaster had found time to watch over the careereven of him, Tom Brown, and his particular friends. However, the Doctor'svictory was complete from that moment. It had taken eight long years to doit, but now it was done thoroughly.

The match was over.

Tom said good-bye to his tutor, and marched down to the Schoolhouse.

Next morning he was in the train and away for London, no longer aschoolboy.

Tom Brown at Oxford

"Tom Brown at Oxford," a continuation of "Tom Brown'sSchooldays," was published in 1861, but, like most sequels, it failed toachieve the wide popularity of its famous predecessor. Although the story,perhaps, lacks much of the freshness of the "Schooldays," it neverthelessconveys an admirable picture of undergraduate life as it was in the middleof the nineteenth century. Notwithstanding the changes that have takenplace since then, it is still remarkably full of vitality, and thedescription of the boat races, and the bumping of Exeter and Oriel by St.Ambrose's boat might well have been written to-day. In spite of itsdefects, the story, with its vigorous morals, is worthy to rank withanything that came from the pen of Tom Hughes, the great apostle ofmuscular Christianity.

I.--St. Ambrose's College

In the Michaelmas term, after leaving school, Tom went up to matriculateat St. Ambrose's College, Oxford, but did not go up to reside till thefollowing January.

St. Ambrose's College was a moderate-sized one. There were some seventyor eighty undergraduates in residence when our hero appeared there as afreshman, of whom a large proportion were gentleman-commoners, enough, infact, to give the tone to the college, which was decidedly fast.

Fewer and fewer of the St. Ambrose men appeared in the class-lists oramong the prize men. They no longer led the debates in the Union; the boatlost place after place on the river; the eleven got beaten in all thematches. But now a reaction had begun. The fellows recently elected weremen of great attainments, chosen as the most likely persons to restore, astutors, the golden days of the college.

Our hero, on leaving school, had bound himself solemnly to write all hisdoings to the friend he had left behind him, and extracts from his firstletter from college will give a better idea of the place than any accountby a third party.

"Well, first and foremost, it's an awfully idle place--at any rate, forus freshmen. Fancy now, I am in twelve lectures a week of an hour each.There's a treat! Two hours a day; and no extra work at all. Of course, Inever look at a lecture before I go in; I know it all nearly by heart, andfor the present the light work suits me, for there's plenty to see in thisplace. We keep very gentlemanly hours. Chapel every morning at eight, andevening at seven. You must attend once a day, and twice on Sundays, and bein gates at twelve o'clock. And you ought to dine in hall perhaps four daysa week. All the rest of your time you do just what you like with.

"My rooms are right up in the roof, with a commanding view of tiles andchimney-pots. Pleasant enough, separated from all mankind by a greatiron-clamped outer door; sitting-room, eighteen by twelve; bedroom, twelveby eight; and a little cupboard for the scout. Ah, Geordie, the scout is aninstitution! Fancy me waited on and valeted by a stout party in black, ofquiet, gentlemanly planners. He takes the deepest interest in mypossessions and proceedings, and is evidently used to good society, tojudge by the amount of crockery and glass, wines, liquors, and grocerywhich he thinks indispensable for my due establishment. He waits on me inhall, where we go in full fig of cap and gown at five, and get very gooddinners, and cheap enough.

"But, after all, the river is the feature of Oxford, to my mind. Iexpect I shall take to boating furiously. I have been down the river threeor four times already with some other freshmen, and it is gloriousexercise, that I can see, though we bungle and cut crabs desperately atpresent."

Within a day or two of the penning of this epistle, Tom realised one ofthe objects of his young Oxford ambition, and succeeded in embarking in askiff by himself. He had been such a proficient in all the Rugby games thathe started off in the full confidence that, if he could only have a turn ortwo alone, he should satisfy not only himself but everybody else that hewas a heaven-born oar. But the truth soon began to dawn upon him thatpulling, especially sculling, does not, like reading and writing, come bynature. However, he addressed himself manfully to his task; savage, indeed,but resolved to get down to Sandford and back before hall-time, or perishin the attempt. Fortunately, the prudent boatman had embarked our hero inone of the safest of the tubs, and it was not until he had zig-zagged downKennington reach, slowly indeed, and with much labour, that he heardenergetic shouts behind him. The next minute the bows of his boat whirledround, the old tub grounded, and then, turning over, shot him out on to theplanking of the steep descent into the small lasher. The rush of water wastoo strong for him, and rolling him over, plunged him into the poolbelow.

After the first moment of astonishment and fright, Tom left himself tothe stream, holding his breath hard, and, paddling gently with his hands,soon came to the surface, and was about to strike out for the shore when hecaught sight of a skiff coming, stern foremost, down the descent after him.Down she came, as straight as an arrow, into the tumult below, the scullersitting upright, and holding his skulls steadily in the water. For a momentshe seemed to be going under, but righted herself, and glided swiftly intothe still water, while the sculler glanced round till he caught sight ofour hero's half-drowned head.

"Oh, there you are!" he said, looking much relieved, "Swim ashore; I'lllook after your boat."

So Tom swam ashore, and stood there dripping and watching the otherrighting his tub and collecting the sculls and bottom-boards floating hereand there in the pool. Tom had time to look him well over, and was wellsatisfied with the inspection. There was that in his face that hit Tom'sfancy, and made him anxious to know him better. There were probably notthree men in the university who would have dared to shoot the lasher in thestate it was then.

It was settled, at Tom's earnest request, that he should pull the soundskiff up--his old tub was leaking considerably--while his companion sat inthe stern and coached him. Tom poured out his thanks for his new tutor'sinstructions, which were given so judiciously that he was conscious ofimproving at every stroke.

He disappeared, however, while Tom was wrangling with the manager as tothe amount of damage done to the tub, and when Tom, to his joy, saw himcome into hall to dinner he took no notice of Tom's looks of recognition.He learned from his neighbour that his name was Hardy, that he was one ofthe servitors, a clever fellow, but a very queer one. Tom resolved towaylay him as soon as hall was over; but Hardy avoided him.

II.--Summer Term

Jervis, the captain of the St. Ambrose Boat Club; Miller, the cox; andSmith, commonly known as Diogenes Smith--from a habit he had of using hiship-bath as an armchair--were determined to make a success of the boat, andTom had the good fortune to get a place in the college eight--anachievement which is always a feather in the cap of a freshman.

When the summer term came Miller at once took the crew in hand.

Then came the first night of the races, and at half-past three Tom wasrestless and distracted, knowing that two hours and a half had got to passbefore it was time to start for the boats.

However, at last the time slipped away, and the captain and Millermustered their crew at the college gates, and walked off to the river. Halfthe undergraduates of Oxford streamed along with them. No time was lost onarrival at the barge in the dressing-room, and in two minutes the St.Ambrose eight were all standing, in flannel trousers, silk jerseys, andjackets, at the landing-place.

Then the boat swung steadily down past the mouth of the Cherwell, andthrough the Gut to the starting-place. Hark! The first gun!

All the boats have turned, crowds of men on the bank are agitated withthe coming excitement.

Jervis, quiet and full of confidence, looks round from his seat--he isstroking--takes a sliced lemon from his pocket, puts a small piece into hismouth, and passes it on.

"Jackets off," says Miller. And the jackets are thrown on shore, andgathered up by the boatman.

"Eight seconds more only!" Miller calls out. "Look out for the flash!Remember, all eyes in the boat!"

There it comes at last, the flash of the starting gun. The boat breaksaway with a bound and a dash. The oars flash in the water, and the boatleaps forward.

For the first ten strokes Tom was in too great fear of making a mistaketo feel or hear or see. But as the crew settled down into the well-knownlong sweep, consciousness returned, and, amid all the babel of voices onthe bank, he could hear Hardy yelling, "Steady! Well pulled! Steady!"

And now the St. Ambrose boat is well away from the boat behind, and asit nears the Gut, it is plainly gaining on Exeter--the boat in front.

"You're gaining!" Miller mutters; and the captain responds with awink.

Shouts come from the bank. "Now, St. Ambrose!" "Now, Exeter!"

In another moment both boats are in the Gut, and Miller, motionless as astatue till now, calls out, "Give it her, boys! Six strokes, and we areinto them!" Old Jervis lashes his oar through the water, the boat answersto the spurt, and Tom feels a little shock, and hears a grating sound, asMiller shouts, "Unship oars, bow and three." The nose of the St. Ambroseboat glides quietly up the side of the Exeter, the first bump has beenmade.

Two more bumps were made on the next two nights, and bets were laidfreely that St. Ambrose would bump Oriel and become head of the river. Butthe Oriel crew were mostly old oars, seasoned in many a race, and one ortwo in the St. Ambrose boat were getting "stale."

Something had to be done, and when Drysdale--agentleman-commoner--resenting Miller's strictures on his performance at No.2, declined to row any more, Tom suggested that Hardy would row if he wereasked.

Hardy, shy and proud because of his poverty, was little known in St.Ambrose; but a fast friendship had grown up between him and Tom Brown, andhe was glad enough to come into the boat at the captain's request.

The change in the boat made all the difference. Hardy was out scullingevery day on the river, and was consequently in good training. He was,besides, a man of long, muscular arms.

It was a great race. Inch by inch St. Ambrose gained on Oriel, creepingup slowly but surely, but the bump was not made till both boats were closeon the winning-post. So near a shave was it! As for the scene on the bank,it was a hurly-burly of delirious joy.

St. Ambrose was head of the river!

III.--A Crisis

There was a certain inn, called the Choughs, where the St. Ambrose menwere in the habit of calling for ale on their way back from the river; andit had become the correct thing for Ambrosians to make much of Miss Patty,the landlady's niece. Considering the circ*mstances, it was a wonder Pattywas not more spoilt than was the case. As it was, Hardy had to admit thatthe girl held her own well, without doing or saying anything unbecoming amodest woman. But he was convinced that Tom was in her toils, and afterpondering what he ought to do, decided to speak plainly.

Tom had gone into Hardy's rooms according to his custom, after hall; andHardy at once opened fire concerning the Choughs.

"Brown, you've no right to go to that place," he said abruptly.

"Why?" said Tom.

"You know why," said Hardy.

"Why am I not to go to the Choughs? Because there happens to be a prettybarmaid there? All our crew go, and twenty other men besides."

"Yes; but do any of them go in the sort of way you do? Does she look atany one of them as she does at you?"

"You seem to know a great deal about it," said Tom. "How should Iknow?"

"That's not fair or true, or like you, Brown," said Hardy. "You do knowthat that girl doesn't care a straw for the other men who go there. You doknow that she is beginning to care for you. I've taken it on myself tospeak to you about this, and I shouldn't be your friend if I shirked it.You shan't go on with this folly, this sin, for want of warning."

"So it seems," said Tom doggedly. "Now I think I've had warning enough.Suppose we drop the subject?"

"Not yet," said Hardy firmly. "There are only two endings to this sortof business, and you know it as well as I."

"A right and a wrong one--eh? And because I'm your friend, you assumethat my end will be the wrong one?"

"I say the end must be the wrong one here! There's no right end.Think of your family. You dare not tell me that you will marry her!"

"I dare not tell you!" said Tom, starting up. "I dare tell anyman anything I please!"

"I say again," went on Hardy, "you dare not say you mean to marryher! You don't mean it! And, as you don't, to kiss her in the passage asyou did tonight----"

"So you were sneaking behind to watch me?" burst out Tom.

Hardy only answered calmly and slowly, "I will not take these words fromany man! You had better leave my rooms!"

The next minute Tom was in the passage; the next striding up and downthe side of the inner quadrangle in the peace of the pale moonlight.

The following day, and for many days, neither Hardy nor Tom spoke to oneanother. Both were wretched, and both feared lest others should notice thequarrel.

Tom went more and more to the Choughs, and Patty noticed a change in theyouth--a change that half-fascinated and half-repelled her.

Then, for the next few days, Tom plunged deeper and deeper downwards. Heleft off pulling on the river, shunned his old friends, and lived with aset of men who were ready enough to let him share all their brutalorgies.

Drysdale, with whom Tom had been on good terms, noted the difference,and advised him "to cut the Choughs business."

"You're not the sort of a fellow to go in for this kind of thing," hesaid. "I'll be hanged if it won't kill you, or make a devil of you beforelong! Make up your mind to cut the whole concern, old fellow!"

"I'm awfully wretched, Drysdale," was all Tom could say.

All the same, Tom could not follow Drysdale's advice at once and breakoff his visits to the Choughs altogether.

The real crisis was over. He had managed to pass through the eye of thestorm, and was drifting into the skirts of it, conscious of an escape fromutter shipwreck.

His visits to the Choughs became shorter; he never stayed behind nowafter the other men, and avoided interviews with Patty alone as diligentlyas he had sought them before.

Patty, unable to account for this fresh change of manner, was piqued,and ready to revenge herself in a hundred little ways. If she had beenreally in love with him it would have been a different matter; but she wasnot. In the last six weeks she certainly had often had visions of thepleasures of being a lady and keeping servants, but her liking was not morethan skin deep.

Of late, indeed, she had been much more frightened than attracted by theconduct of her admirer, and really felt it a relief, notwithstanding herpique, when he retired into a less demonstrative state.

Before the end of that summer term Tom had it made up with Hardy, and itwas Hardy who, at Tom's request, called in at the Choughs, just to see howthings were going on. Tom saw at a glance that something had happened whenHardy appeared again.

"What is it? She is not ill?" he said quickly.

"No; quite well, her aunt says."

"You didn't see her, then?"

"No the fact is, she has gone home."

IV.--The Master's Term

The years speed by, bringing their changes to St. Ambrose. Hardy is afellow and tutor of the college in Tom's second year, and Drysdale has beenrequested to remove his name from the books. Tom is all for politics now,and the theories he propounds in the Union gain him the name of ChartistBrown.

In his third year, Hardy often brought him down from high talk of"universal democracy" and "the good cause" by insisting on making theyounger man explain what he really meant. And though Tom suffered underthis severe treatment, in the end he generally came round to acknowledgethe reasonableness of Hardy's methods of argument.

It was a trying year to Tom, this third and last year; full of largedreams and small performances, of hopes and struggles, ending in failureand disappointment. The common pursuits of the place had lost theirfreshness, and with it much of their charm. He was beginning to feelhimself in a cage, and to beat against the bars of it.

Squire Brown was passing through Oxford, and paid his son a visit in thelast term.

Tom gave a small wine-party, which went off admirably, and the squireenlarged upon the great improvement in young men and habits of theuniversity, especially in the matter of drinking. Tom had only opened threebottles of port. In his time the men would have drunk certainly not lessthan a bottle a man.

But as the squire walked back to his hotel he was deeply moved at theRadical views his son now held. He could not understand these new notionsof young men, and thought them mischievous and bad. At the same time, hewas too fair a man to try to dragoon his son out of anything which hereally believed. The fact had begun to dawn on the squire that the worldhad changed a good deal since his time; while Tom, on his part, valued hisfather's confidence and love above his own opinions. By degrees the honestbeliefs of father and son no longer looked monstrous to one another, andthe views of each of them were modified.

One more look must be taken at the old college. Our hero is up in thesummer term, keeping his three weeks' residence, the necessary preliminaryto an M.A. degree. We find him sitting in Hardy's rooms; tea is over,scouts out of college, candles lighted, and silence reigning, except whendistant sounds of mirth come from some undergraduates' rooms on theopposite side of the quad.

"Why can't you give a fellow his degree quietly," says Tom, "withoutmaking him come and kick his heels here for three weeks?"

"You ungrateful dog! Do you mean to say you haven't enjoyed coming back,and sitting in dignity in the bachelors' seats in chapel and at thebachelors' table in hall, and thinking how much wiser you are than theundergraduates? Besides your old friends want to see you, and you ought towant to see them."

"Well, I'm very glad to see you again, old fellow. But who else is thereI care to see? My old friends are gone, and the youngsters look on me as asort of don, and I don't appreciate the dignity. You have never broken withthe place. And then you always did your duty, and have done the collegecredit. You can't enter into the feelings of a fellow who wasted threeparts of his time here."

"Come, come, Tom! You might have read more, certainly, and taken ahigher degree. But, after all, I believe your melancholy comes from yournot being asked to pull in the boat."

"Perhaps it does. Don't you call it degrading to be pulling in thetorpid in one's old age?"

"Mortified vanity! It's a capital boat. I wonder how we should haveliked to have been turned out for some bachelor just because he had pulleda good oar in his day?"

"Not at all. I don't blame the youngsters. By the way, they're anuncommonly nice set. Much better behaved in every way than we were. Why,the college is a different place altogether. And as you are the only newtutor, it must have been your doing. Now I want to know your secret?"

"I've no secret, except taking a real interest in all that the men do,and living with them as much as I can. You may guess it isn't much of atrial to me to steer the boat down, or run on the bank and coach the crew.And now the president of St. Ambrose himself comes out to see the boat. ButI don't mean to stop up more than another year now at the outside. I havebeen tutor nearly three years, and that's about long enough."

The talk went on until the clock struck twelve.

"Hallo!" said Tom. "Time for me to knock out, or the old porter will bein bed. Good-night!"

"Good-night!"

VICTOR HUGO

Les Misérables

Victor Marie Hugo, the great French poet, dramatist, andnovelist, was born at Besançon, on February 26, 1802. He wroteverses from boyhood, and after minor successes, achieved reputation with"Odes et Poésies," 1823. Hugo early became the protagonist of theromantic movement in French literature. In 1841 he was elected to theAcademy. From 1845 he took an increasingly active part in politics, withthe result that from 1852 to 1870 he lived in exile, first in Jersey andthen in Guernsey. "Les Misérables" is not only the greatest of allVictor Hugo's productions, but is in many respects the greatest work offiction ever conceived. An enormous range of matter is pressed into itspages--by turn historical, philosophical, lyrical, humanitarian--butrunning through all the change of scene is the tragedy and comedy of lifeat its darkest and its brightest, and of human passions at their worst andat their best. It is more than a novel. It is a magnificent plea for theoutcasts of society, for those who are crushed by the mighty edifice ofsocial order. Yet throughout it all there is the insistent note of thefinal triumph of goodness in the heart of man. The story appeared in 1862,when Hugo was sixty years old, and was written during his exile inGuernsey. It was translated before publication into nine languages, andpublished simultaneously in eight of the principal cities of the world.Hugo died on May 22, 1885. (See also Vol. XVII.)

I.--Jean Valjean, Galley-Slave

Early in October 1815, at the close of the afternoon, a man came intothe little town of D----. He was on foot, and the few people about lookedat him suspiciously. The traveller was of wretched appearance, though stoutand robust, and in the full vigour of life. He was evidently a stranger,and tired, dusty, and wearied with a long day's tramp.

But neither of the two inns in the town would give him food or shelter,though he offered good money for payment.

He was an ex-convict--that was enough to exclude him.

In despair he went to the prison, and asked humbly for a night'slodging, but the jailer told him that was impossible unless he got arrestedfirst.

It was a cold night and the wind was blowing from the Alps; it seemedthere was no refuge open to him.

Then, as he sat down on a stone bench in the marketplace and tried tosleep, a lady coming out of the cathedral noticed him, and, learning hishomeless state, bade him knock at the bishop's house, for the good bishop'scharity and compassion were known in all the neighbourhood.

At the man's knock the bishop, who lived alone with his sister, MadameMagloire, and an old housekeeper, said "Come in;" and the ex-convictentered.

He told them at once that his name was Jean Valjean, that he was agalley-slave, who had spent nineteen years at the hulks, and that he hadbeen walking for four days since his release. "It is the same wherever Igo," the man went on. "They all say to me, 'Be off!' I am very tired andhungry. Will you let me stay here? I will pay."

"Madame Magloire," said the bishop, "please lay another knife and fork.Sit down, monsieur, and warm yourself. We shall have supper directly, andyour bed will be got ready while we are supping."

Joy and amazement were on the man's face; he stammered his thanks asthough beside himself.

The bishop, in honour of his guest, had silver forks and spoons placedon the table.

The man took his food with frightful voracity, and paid no attention toanyone till the meal was over. Then the bishop showed him his bed in analcove, and an hour later the whole household was asleep.

Jean Valjean soon woke up again.

For nineteen years he had been at the galleys. Originally a pruner oftrees, he had broken a baker's window and stolen a loaf one hard winterwhen there was no work to be had, and for this the sentence was five years.Time after time he had tried to escape, and had always been recaptured; andfor each offence a fresh sentence was imposed.

Nineteen years for breaking a window and stealing a loaf! He had goneinto prison sobbing and shuddering. He came out full of hatred andbitterness.

That night, at the bishop's house, for the first time in nineteen years,Jean Valjean had received kindness. He was moved and shaken. It seemedinexplicable.

He got up from his bed. Everyone was asleep, the house was perfectlystill.

Jean Valjean seized the silver plate-basket which stood in the bishop'sroom, put the silver into his knapsack, and fled out of the house.

In the morning, while the bishop was breakfasting, the gendarmes broughtin Jean Valjean. The sergeant explained that they had met him running away,and had arrested him, because of the silver they found on him.

"I gave you the candlesticks, too!" said the bishop; "they are silver.Why did not you take them with the rest of the plate?" Then, turning to thegendarmes, "It is a mistake."

"We are to let him go?" said the sergeant.

"Certainly," said the bishop.

The gendarmes retired.

"My friend," said the bishop to Jean Valjean, "here are yourcandlesticks. Take them with you." He added in a low voice, "Never forgetthat you have promised me to use this silver to become an honest man. Mybrother, you belong no longer to evil, but to good."

Jean Valjean never remembered having promised anything. He left thebishop's house and the town dazed and stupefied. It was a new world he hadcome into.

He walked on for miles, and then sat down by the roadside to think.

Presently a small Savoyard boy passed him, and as he passed dropped atwo-franc piece on the ground.

Jean Valjean placed his foot upon it. In vain the boy prayed him for thecoin. Jean Valjean sat motionless, deep in thought.

Only when the boy had gone on, in despair, did Jean Valjean wake fromhis reverie.

He shouted out, "Little Gervais, little Gervais!" for the boy had toldhim his name. The lad was out of sight and hearing, and no answer came.

The enormity of his crime came home to him, and Jean Valjean fell on theground, and for the first time in nineteen years he wept.

II.--Father Madeleine

On a certain December night in 1815 a stranger entered the town ofM----, at the very time when a great fire had just broken out in the townhall.

This man at once rushed into the flames, and at the risk of his own lifesaved the two children of the captain of gendarmes. In consequence of thisact no one thought of asking for his passport.

The stranger settled in the town; by a happy invention he improved themanufacture of the black beads, the chief industry of M----, and in threeyears, from a very small capital, he became a rich man, and broughtprosperity to the place.

In 1820, Father Madeleine, for so the stranger was called, was madeMayor of M---- by unanimous request, an honour he had declined the previousyear. Before he came everything was languishing in the town, and now, a fewyears later, there was healthy life for all.

Father Madeleine employed everybody who came to him. The only conditionhe made was--honesty. From the men he expected good-will, from the women,purity.

Prosperity did not make Father Madeleine change his habits. He performedhis duties as mayor, but lived a solitary and simple life, avoidingsociety. His strength, although he was a man of fifty, was enormous. It wasnoticed that he read more as his leisure increased, and that as the yearswent by his speech became gentler and more polite.

One person only in all the district looked doubtfully at the mayor, andthat was Javert, inspector of police.

Javert, born in prison, was the incarnation of police duty--implacable,resolute, fanatical. He arrived in M---- when Father Madeleine was alreadya rich man, and he felt sure he had seen him before.

One day in 1823 the mayor interfered to prevent Javert sending a poorwoman, named Fantine, to prison. Fantine had been dismissed from thefactory without the knowledge of M. Madeleine; and her one hope in life wasin her little girl, whom she called Cosette. Now, Cosette was boarded outat the village of Montfermeil, some leagues distance from M----, with afamily grasping and dishonest, and to raise money for Cosette's keep hadbrought Fantine to misery and sickness.

The mayor could save Fantine from prison, he could not save her life;but before the unhappy woman died she had delivered a paper to Mr.Madeleine authorising him to take her child, and Mr. Madeleine had acceptedthe trust.

It was when Fantine lay dying in the hospital that Javert, who had quitedecided in his own mind who M. Madeleine was, came to the mayor and askedto be dismissed from the service.

"I have denounced you, M. le Maire, to the prefect of police at Paris asJean Valjean, an ex-convict, who has been wanted for the robbery of alittle Savoyard more than five years ago."

"And what answer did you receive?"

"That I was mad, for the real Jean Valjean has been found."

"Ah!"

Javert explained that an old man had been arrested for breaking into anorchard; that on being taken to the prison he had been recognised byseveral people as Jean Valjean, and that he, Javert, himself recognisedhim. To-morrow he was to be tried at Arras, and, as he was an ex-convict,his sentence would be for life.

Terrible was the anguish of M. Madeleine that night. He had done allthat man could do to obliterate the past, and now it seemed another was tobe taken in his place. The torture and torment ended. In the morning M.Madeleine set out for Arras.

M. Madeleine arrived before the orchard-breaker was condemned. He provedto the court's astonishment that he, the revered and philanthropic Mayor ofM----, was Jean Valjean, and that the prisoner had merely committed atrivial theft. Then he left the court, returned to M----, removed whatmoney he had, buried it, and arranged his affairs.

A few days later Jean Valjean was sent back to the galleys at Toulon,and with his removal the prosperity of M---- speedily collapsed. This wasin July 1823. In November of that year the following paragraph appeared inthe Toulon paper:

"Yesterday, a convict, on his return from rescuing a sailor, fell intothe sea and was drowned. His body has not been found. His name wasregistered as Jean Valjean."

III.--A Hunted Man

At Christmas, in the year 1823, an old man came to the village ofMontfermeil, called at the inn, paid money to the rascally innkeeper,Thénardier, and carried off little Cosette to Paris.

The old man rented a large garret in an old house, and Cosette becameinexpressibly happy with her doll and with the good man who loved her sotenderly.

Till then Jean Valjean had never loved anything. He had never been afather, lover, husband, or friend. When he saw Cosette, and had rescuedher, he felt his heart strangely moved. All the affection he had wasaroused, and went out to this child. Jean Valjean was fifty-five andCosette eight, and all the love of his life, hitherto untouched, meltedinto a benevolent devotion.

Cosette, too, changed. She had been separated from her mother at such anearly age that she could not remember her. And the Thénardiers hadtreated her harshly. In Jean Valjean she found a father, just as he found adaughter in Cosette.

Weeks passed away. These two beings led a wonderfully happy life in theold garret; Cosette would chatter, laugh, and sing all day.

Jean Valjean was careful never to go out in the daytime, but he began tobe known in the district as "the mendicant who gives away money." There wasone old man who sat by some church steps, and who generally seemed to bepraying, whom Jean Valjean always liked to relieve. One night when JeanValjean had dropped a piece of money into his hand as usual, the beggarsuddenly raised his eyes, stared hard at him, and then quickly dropped hishead. Jean Valjean started, and went home greatly troubled. The face whichhe fancied he had seen was that of Javert.

A few nights later Jean Valjean found that Javert had taken lodgings inthe same house where he and Cosette lived. Taking the child by the hand, heat once set out for fresh quarters. They passed through silent and emptystreets, and crossed the river, and it seemed to Jean Valjean that no onewas in pursuit. But soon he noticed four men plainly shadowing him, and ashudder went over him. He turned from street to street, trying to escapefrom the city, and at last found himself entrapped in a cul-de-sac.What was to be done?

There was no time to turn back. Javert had undoubtedly picketed everyoutlet. Fortunately for Jean Valjean, there was a deep shadow in thestreet, so that his own movements were unseen.

While he stood hesitating, a patrol of soldiers entered the street, withJavert at their head. They frequently halted. It was evident that they wereexploring every hole and corner, and one might judge they would take aquarter of an hour before they reached the spot where Jean Valjean was. Itwas a frightful moment. Capture meant the galleys, and Cosette lost forever. There was only one thing possible--to scale the wall which ran alonga wide portion of the street. But the difficulty was Cosette; there was nothought of abandoning her.

First, Jean Valjean procured a rope from the lamppost, for the lamps hadnot been lit that night owing to the moonlight. This he fastened round thechild, taking the other end between his teeth. Half a minute later he was onhis knees on the top of the wall. Cosette watched him in silence. All atonce she heard Jean Valjean saying in a very low voice, "Lean against thewall. Don't speak, and don't be afraid."

She felt herself lifted from the ground, and before she had time tothink where she was she found herself on the top of the wall.

Jean Valjean grasped her, put the child on his back, and crawled alongthe wall till he came to a sloping roof. He could hear the thundering voiceof Javert giving orders to the patrol to search the cul-de-sac tothe end.

Jean Valjean slipped down the roof, still carrying Cosette, and leapedon the ground. It was a convent garden he had entered.

On the other side of the wall the clatter of muskets and theimprecations of Javert resounded; from the convent came a hymn.

Cosette and Jean Valjean fell on their knees. Presently Jean Valjeandiscovered that the gardener was an old man whose life he had saved atM------, and who, in his gratitude, was prepared to do anything for M.Madeleine.

It ended in Cosette entering the convent school as a pupil, and JeanValjean being accepted as the gardener's brother. The good nuns never leftthe precincts of their convent, and cared nothing for the world beyondtheir gates.

As for Javert, he had delayed attempting an arrest, even when hissuspicions had been aroused, because, after all, the papers said theconvict was dead. But once convinced, he hesitated no longer.

His disappointment when Jean Valjean escaped him was midway betweendespair and fury. All night the search went on; but it never occurred toJavert that a steep wall of fourteen feet could be climbed by an old manwith a child.

Several years passed at the convent.

Jean Valjean worked daily in the garden, and shared the hut and the nameof the old gardener, M. Fauchelevent. Cosette was allowed to see him for anhour every day.

The peaceful garden, the fragrant flowers, the merry cries of thechildren, the grave and simple women, gradually brought happiness to JeanValjean; and his heart melted into gratitude for the security he hadfound.

IV.--Something Higher than Duty

For six years Cosette and Jean Valjean stayed at the convent; and then,on the death of the old gardener, Jean Valjean, now bearing the name ofFauchelevent, decided that as Cosette was not going to be a nun, and asrecognition was no longer to be feared, it would be well to remove into thecity.

So a house was taken in the Rue Plumet, and here, with a faithfulservant, the old man dwelt with his adopted child. But Jean Valjean tookother rooms in Paris, in case of accidents.

Cosette was growing up. She was conscious of her good looks, and she wasin love with a well-connected youth named Marius, the son of BaronPontmercy.

Jean Valjean learnt of this secret love-making with dismay. The idea ofparting from Cosette was intolerable to him.

Then, in June 1832, came desperate street fighting in Paris, and Mariuswas in command of one of the revolutionary barricades.

At this barricade Javert had been captured as a spy, and Jean Valjean,who was known to the revolutionaries, found his old, implacable enemy tiedto a post, waiting to be shot. Jean Valjean requested to be allowed to blowout Javert's brains himself, and permission was given.

Holding a pistol in his hand, Jean Valjean led Javert, who was stillbound, to a lane out of sight of the barricade, and there with his knifecut the ropes from the wrists and feet of his prisoner.

"You are free," he said. "Go; and if by chance I leave this place alive,I am to be found under the name of Fauchelevent, in the Rue del'Homme-Armé, No. 7."

Javert walked a few steps, and then turned back, and cried, "You worryme. I would rather you killed me!"

"Go!" was the only answer from Jean Valjean.

Javert moved slowly away; and when he had disappeared Jean Valjeandischarged his pistol in the air.

Soon the last stand of the insurgents was at an end, and the barricadedestroyed. Jean Valjean, who had taken no part in the struggle, beyondexposing himself to the bullets of the soldiers, was unhurt; but Marius laywounded and insensible in his arms.

The soldiers were shooting down all who tried to escape. The situationwas terrible.

There was only one chance for life--underground. An iron grating, whichled to the sewers, was at his feet. Jean Valjean tore it open, anddisappeared with Marius on his shoulders.

He emerged, after a horrible passage through a grating by the bank ofthe river, only to find there the implacable Javert!

Jean Valjean was quite calm.

"Inspector Javert," he said, "help me to carry this man home; then dowith me what you please."

A cab was waiting for the inspector. He ordered the man to drive to theaddress Jean Valjean gave him. Marius, still unconscious, was taken to hisgrandfather's house.

"Inspector Javert," said Jean Valjean, "grant me one thing more. Let mego home for a minute; then you may take me where you will."

Javert told the driver to go to Rue de l'Homme-Armé, No. 7.

When they reached the house, Javert said, "Go up; I will wait here foryou!"

But before Jean Valjean reached his rooms Javert had gone, and thestreet was empty.

Javert had not been at ease since his life had been spared. He was nowin horrible uncertainty. To owe his life to an ex-convict, to accept thisdebt, and then to repay him by sending him back to the galleys wasimpossible. To let a malefactor go free while he, Inspector Javert, tookhis pay from the government, was equally impossible. It seemed there wassomething higher and above his code of duty, something he had not come intocollision with before. The uncertainty of the right thing to be donedestroyed Javert, to whom life had hitherto been perfectly plain. He couldnot live recognising Jean Valjean as his saviour, and he could not bringhimself to arrest Jean Valjean.

Inspector Javert made his last report at the police-station, and then,unable to face the new conditions of life, walked slowly to the river andplunged into the Seine, where the water rolls round and round in an endlesswhirlpool.

Marius recovered, and married Cosette; and Jean Valjean lived alone. Hehad told Marius who he was--Jean Valjean, an escaped convict; and Mariusand Cosette gradually saw less and less of the old man.

But before Jean Valjean died Marius learnt the whole truth of the heroiclife of the old man who had rescued him from the lost barricade. For thefirst time he realised that Jean Valjean had come to the barricade only tosave him, knowing him to be in love with Cosette.

He hastened with Cosette to Jean Valjean's room; but the old man's lasthour had come.

"Come closer, come closer, both of you," he cried. "I love you so much.It is good to die like this! You love me too, my Cosette. I know you'vealways had a fondness for the poor old man. And you, M. Pontmercy, willalways make Cosette happy. There were several things I wanted to say, butthey don't matter now. Come nearer, my children. I am happy in dying!"

Cosette and Marius fell on their knees, and covered his hands withkisses.

Jean Valjean was dead!

Notre Dame de Paris

Victor Hugo was already eminent as one of the greatestdramatic poets of his day before he gave to the world, in 1831, his greattragic romance, "Notre Dame de Paris," of which the original title was "TheHunchback of Notre Dame." Hugo has said that the story was suggested to himby the Greek word anagke (Fate), which one day he discovered carvedon one of the towers of the famous cathedral. "These Greek characters," hesays, "black with age and cut deep into the stone with the peculiarities ofform and arrangement common to the Gothic caligraphy that marked them thework of some hand in the Middle Ages, and above all the sad and mournfulmeaning which they expressed, forcibly impressed me." In "Notre Dame" thereis all the tenderness for sorrow and sympathy for the afflicted, whichfound even fuller and deeper expression thirty years later in "LesMisérables"; while as a study of the life of Paris of the MiddleAges, and of the great church after which the romance is called, the bookis still unrivalled.

I.--The Hunchback of Notre Dame

It was January 6, 1482, and all Paris was keeping the double festival ofEpiphany and the Feast of Fools.

The Lord of Misrule was to be elected, and all who were competing forthe post came in turn and made a grimace at a broken window in the greathall of the Palace of Justice. The ugliest face was to be acclaimed victorby the populace, and shouts of laughter greeted the grotesqueappearances.

The vote was unanimous in favour of the hunchback of Notre Dame. He hadbut stood at the window, and at once had been elected. The square nose, thehorseshoe shaped mouth, the one eye, overhung by a bushy red eyebrow, theforked chin, and the strange expression of amazement, malice, andmelancholy--who had seen such a grimace?

It was only when the crowd had carried away the Lord of Misrule intriumph that they understood that the grimace was the hunchback's naturalface. In fact, the entire man was a grimace. Humpbacked, an enormous head,with bristles of red hair; broad feet, huge hands, crooked legs; and, withall this deformity, a wonderful vigour, agility, and courage. Such was thenewly chosen Lord of Misrule--a giant broken to pieces and badlymended.

He was recognised by the crowd in the streets, and shouts went up.

"It is Quasimodo, the bell-ringer! Quasimodo, the hunchback of NotreDame!"

A pasteboard tiara and imitation robes were placed on him, and Quasimodosubmitted with a sort of proud docility. Then he was seated upon a paintedbarrow, and twelve men raised it to their shoulders; and the procession,which included all the vagrants and rascals of Paris, set out to parade thecity.

There was a certain rapture in this journey for Quasimodo. For the firsttime in his life he felt a thrill of vanity. Hitherto humiliation andcontempt had been his portion; and now, though he was deaf, he could enjoythe plaudits of the mob--mob which he hated because he felt that it hatedhim.

Suddenly, as Quasimodo passed triumphantly along the streets, thespectators saw a man, dressed like a priest, dart out and snatch away thegilded crosier from the mock pope.

A cry of terror rose. The terrible Quasimodo threw himself from hisbarrow, and everyone expected to see him tear the priest limb from limb.Instead, he fell on his knees before the priest, and submitted to have histiara torn from him and his crosier broken.

The fraternity of fools determined to defend their pope so abruptlydethroned; but Quasimodo placed himself in front of the priest, put hisfists up, and glared at his assailants, so that the crowd melted beforehim.

Then, at the grave beckoning of the priest, Quasimodo followed, and thetwo disappeared down a narrow side street.

The one human being whom Quasimodo loved was this priest, Claude Frollo,Archbishop of Paris. And this was quite natural. For it was Claude Frollowho had found the hunchback--a deserted, forsaken child left in a sack atthe entrance to Notre Dame, and, in spite of his deformities, had takenhim, fed him, adopted him, and brought him up. Claude Frollo taught him tospeak, to read, and to write, and had made him bell-ringer at NotreDame.

Quasimodo grew up in Notre Dame. Cut off from the world by hisdeformities, the church became his universe, and his gratitude wasboundless when he was made bell-ringer.

The bells had made him deaf, but he could understand by signs ClaudeFrollo's wishes, and so the archdeacon became the only human being withwhom Quasimodo could hold any communication. Notre Dame and Claude Frollowere the only two things in the world for Quasimodo, and to both he was themost faithful watchman and servant. In the year 1482 Quasimodo was abouttwenty, and Claude Frollo thirty-six. The former had grown up, the latterhad grown old.

II.--Esmeralda

On that same January 6, 1482, a young girl was dancing in an open spacenear a great bonfire in Paris. She was not tall but seemed to be, so erectwas her figure. She danced and twirled upon an old piece of Persian carpet,and every eye in the crowd was riveted upon her. In her grace and beautythis gypsy girl seemed more than mortal.

One man in the crowd stood more absorbed than the rest in watching thedancer. It was Claude Frollo, the archdeacon: and though his hair was greyand scanty, in his deep-set eyes the fire and spirit of youth stillsparkled.

When the young girl stopped at last, breathless, the people applaudedeagerly.

"Djali," said the gypsy, "it's your turn now." And a pretty little whitegoat got up from a corner of the carpet.

"Djali, what month in the year is this?"

The goat raised his forefoot and struck once upon the tambourine heldout to him.

The crowd applauded.

"Djali, what day of the month is it?"

The goat struck the tambourine six times.

The people thought it was wonderful.

"There is sorcery in this!" said a forbidding voice in the crowd. It wasthe voice of the priest Claude Frolic.

Then the gypsy began to take up a collection in her tambourine, andpresently the crowd dispersed.

Later in the day, when darkness had fallen, as the gypsy and her goatwere proceeding to their lodgings, Quasimodo seized hold of the girl andran off with her.

"Murder! Murder!" shrieked the unfortunate gypsy.

"Halt! Let the girl go, you ruffian!" exclaimed, in a voice of thunder,a horseman who appeared suddenly from a cross street. It was a captain ofthe King's Archers, armed from head to foot, and sword in hand.

He tore the gypsy girl from the arms of the astonished Quasimodo, andplaced her across his saddle. Before the hunchback could recover from hissurprise, a squadron of royal troops, going on duty as extra watchmen,surrounded him, and he was seized and bound.

The gypsy girl sat gracefully upon the officer's saddle, placing bothhands upon the young man's shoulders, and gazing at him fixedly. Thenbreaking the silence, she said tenderly, "What is your name, M.l'Officier?"

"Captain Phaebus de Châteaupers, at your service, my pretty maid!"said the officer, drawing himself up.

"Thank you."

And while Captain Phaebus twirled his mustache, she slipped from hishorse and vanished like a flash of lightning.

"The bird has flown, but the bat remains, captain," said one of thetroopers, tightening Quasimodo's bonds.

Quasimodo being deaf, understood nothing of the proceedings in the courtnext day, when he was charged with creating a disturbance, and of rebellionand disloyalty to the King's Archers.

The chief magistrate, also being deaf and at the same time anxious toconceal his infirmity, understood nothing that Quasimodo said.

The hunchback was sentenced to be taken to the pillory in theGrève, to be beaten, and to be kept there for two hours.

Quasimodo remained utterly impassive, while the crowd which yesterdayhad hailed him as Lord of Misrule now greeted him with hooting andderision.

The pillory was a simple cube of masonry, some ten feet high, and hollowwithin. A horizontal wheel of oak was at the top, and to this the victimwas bound in a kneeling posture. A very steep flight of stone steps led tothe wheel.

All the people laughed merrily when Quasimodo was seen in the pillory;and when he had been beaten by the public executioner, they added to thewretched sufferer's misery by insults, and, occasionally, stones. There washardly a spectator in the crowd that had not some grudge, real or imagined,against the hunchback bell-ringer of Notre Dame.

Quasimodo had endured the torturer's whip with patience, but he rebelledagainst the stones, and struggled in his fetters till the old pillory-wheelcreaked on its timbers. Then, as he could accomplish nothing by hisstruggles, his face became quiet again.

For a moment the cloud was lightened when the poor victim saw a priestseated on a mule approach in the roadway. A strange smile came on the faceof Quasimodo as he glanced at the priest; yet when the mule was near enoughto the pillory for his rider to recognise the prisoner, the priest castdown his eyes, turned back hastily, as if in a hurry to avoid humiliatingappeals, and not at all anxious to be greeted by a poor wretch in thepillory.

The priest was the archdeacon, Claude Frollo. The smile on Quasimodo'sface became bitter and profoundly sad.

Time passed. He had been there at least an hour and a half, wounded,incessantly mocked, and almost stoned to death.

Suddenly he again struggled in his chains with renewed despair, andbreaking the silence which he had kept so stubbornly, he cried in a hoarseand furious voice, "Water!"

The exclamation of distress, far from exciting compassion, onlyincreased the amusem*nt of the Paris mob. Not a voice was raised, except tomock at his thirst.

Quasimodo cast a despairing look upon the crowd, and repeated in aheartrending voice, "Water!"

Everyone laughed. A woman aimed a stone at his head, saying, "That willteach you to wake us at night with your cursed chimes!"

"Here's a cup to drink out of!" said a man, throwing a broken jug at hisbreast.

"Water!" repeated Quasimodo for the third time.

At this moment he saw the gypsy girl and her goat come through thecrowd. His eye gleamed. He did not doubt that she, too, came to be avenged,and to take her turn at him with the rest. He watched her nimbly climb theladder. Rage and spite choked him. He longed to destroy the pillory; andhad the lightning of his eye had power to blast, the gypsy girl would havebeen reduced to ashes long before she reached the platform. Without a wordshe approached the sufferer, loosened a gourd from her girdle, and raisedit gently to the parched lips of the miserable man. Then from his eye agreat tear trickled, and rolled slowly down the misshapen face, so longconvulsed with despair.

The gypsy girl smilingly pressed the neck of the gourd to Quasimodo'sjagged mouth.

He drank long draughts; his thirst was feverish. When he had done, thepoor wretch put out his black lips to kiss the hand which had helped him.But the girl, remembering the violent attempt of the previous night, andnot quite free from distrust, withdrew her hand quickly.

Quasimodo fixed upon her a look of reproach and unspeakable sorrow.

The sight of this beautiful girl succouring a man in the pillory sodeformed and wretched seemed sublime, and the people were immediatelyaffected by it. They clapped their hands, and shouted, "Noël!Noël!"

Esmeralda--for that was the name of the gypsy girl--came down from thepillory, and a mad woman called out, "Come down! Come down! You will go upagain!"

Presently Quasimodo was released, and the mob thereupon dispersed.

III.--The Archdeacon's Passion

In spite of the austerity of Claude Frollo's life, pious peoplesuspected him of magic. His silence and secretiveness encouraged thisfeeling. He was known to be at work in the long hours of the night in hiscell in Notre Dame, and he wandered about the streets like a spectre.

Whenever the gypsy girl placed her carpet within sight of ClaudeFrollo's cell and began to dance the priest turned from his books and,resting his head in his hands, gazed at her. Then he would go down into thepublic thoroughfares, lured on by some burning passion within.

Quasimodo, too, would desist from his bell-ringing to look at thedancing girl.

The hotter the fire of passion burned within the priest the fartherEsmeralda moved from him. He discovered that she was in love with CaptainPhoebus, her rescuer, and this knowledge added fuel to the flames.

One purpose now was clear to him. He would give up all for the dancinggirl, and she should be his. But if Esmeralda refused to come to him, thenthe archdeacon resolved that she should die before she married anyone else.At any time he could have her arrested on the charge of sorcery, and thegoat's tricks would easily procure a conviction.

Captain Phoebus, having invited Esmeralda to meet him at a wineshop, thepriest followed the couple, and when the captain, to whom the girl was themerest diversion, began to make love, Claude Frollo, unable to containhimself, rushed in unobserved and stabbed him.

Captain Phoebus was taken up for dead, and the priest vanished assilently as he had come. The soldiers of the watch found Esmeralda, andsaid, "This is the sorceress who has stabbed our captain." So Esmeralda wasbrought to trial on the charge of witchcraft, and every day the priest fromNotre Dame came into court.

It was a tedious process, for not only was the girl on trial, but thegoat also, in accordance with the custom of the times, was underarrest.

All that Esmeralda wanted to know was whether Phoebus was still alive,and she was told by the judges he was dying.

The indictment against her was "that with her accomplice, the bewitchedgoat, she did murder and stab, in league with the powers of darkness, bythe aid of charms and spells, a captain of the king's troops, one Phoebusde Châteaupers." And it was vain that the girl denied vehemently herguilt.

"How do you explain the charge brought against you?" said thepresident.

"I have told you already I do not know," said Esmeralda, in a brokenvoice. "It was a priest--a priest who is always pursuing me"

"That's it," said the president; "it is a goblin monk."

The goat having performed his simple tricks in the presence of thecourt, and Esmeralda still refusing to admit her guilt, the presidentordered her to be put to the question.

She was placed on the rack, and at the first turn of the screw promisedto confess everything. Then the lawyers put a number of questions to her,and Esmeralda answered "Yes" in every case. It was plain that her spiritwas utterly broken.

Then the court having read the confession, sentence was pronounced. Shewas to be taken to the Grève, where the pillory stood, and, inatonement for the crimes confessed, there hanged and strangled on the citygibbet, "and likewise this your goat."

"It must be a dream," the girl murmured, when she heard thesentence.

But, if Esmeralda had yielded at the first turn of the rack, nothingwould make her yield to Claude Frollo when he came to see her in prison. Invain he promised her life and liberty if she would only agree to love him.In vain he reproached her with having brought disturbance and disquiet intohis soul. All that Esmeralda could say was, "Have pity on me!--have pity onme!" But she would not give up Phoebus. And when the priest declaredPhoebus was dead, she turned upon him and called him "monster andassassin!" Claude Frollo, unable to move her, decided to let her die, andthe day of execution arrived. As for Captain Phoebus, he recovered; but, ashe was about to be engaged to a young lady of wealth, he thought it betterto say nothing about the gypsy girl.

But Esmeralda was not hanged that day. Just as the hangman's assistantswere about to do their work, Quasimodo, who had been watching everythingfrom his gallery in Notre Dame, slid down by a rope to the ground, rushedat the two executioners, flung them to the earth with his huge fists,seized the gypsy girl, as a child might a doll, and with one bound was inthe church, holding her above his head, and shouting in a tremendous voice,"Sanctuary!"

"Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" The mob took up the cry, and ten thousand handsclapped approval.

The hangman stood stupefied. Within the precincts of Notre Dame theprisoner was secure; the cathedral was a sure refuge, all human justiceended at its threshold.

IV.--The Attack on Notre Dame

Quasimodo did not stop running and shouting "Sanctuary!" till he reacheda cell built over the aisles in Notre Dame. Here he deposited Esmeraldacarefully, untied the ropes which bruised her arms, and spread a mattresson the floor; then he left her, and returned with a basket ofprovisions.

The girl lifted her eyes to thank him, but could not utter a word, sofrightful was he to look at. Quasimodo only said, "I frighten you because Iam ugly. Do not look at me, then, but listen. All day you must stay here,at night you can walk anywhere about the church. But, day or night, do notleave the church, or you will be lost. They would kill you, and I shoulddie." Then he vanished, but when she awoke next morning she saw him at thewindow of her cell.

"Don't be frightened," he said. "I am your friend. I only came to see ifyou were asleep. I am deaf, you did not know that? I never realised howugly I was till now. I seem to you like some awful beast, eh? And you--youare a sunbeam!"

As the days went by calm returned to Esmeralda's soul, and with calm hadcome the sense of security, and with security hope.

Two forces were now at work to remove her from Notre Dame.

The archdeacon, leaving Paris to avoid her execution, had returned--tolearn where Esmeralda was situated. From his cell in Notre Dame he observedher movements, and, in his madness, jealous of Quasimodo's service to her,resolved to have her removed. If she still refused him he would give her upto justice.

Esmeralda's friends, all the gypsies, vagrants, cutthroats, andpick-pockets of Paris, to the number of six thousand, also resolved thatthey would forcibly rescue her from Notre Dame, lest some evil shouldovertake her. Paris at that time had neither police nor adequate citywatchmen.

At midnight the monstrous army of vagrants set out, and it was not untilthey were outside the church that they lit their torches. Quasimodo, everynight on the watch, at once supposed that the invaders had some foulpurpose against Esmeralda, and determined to defend the church at allcost.

The battle raged furiously at the great west doors. Hammers, pincers,and crow-bars were at work outside. Quasimodo retaliated by heaving first agreat beam of wood, and then stones and other missiles on the besiegers.Finally, when they had reared a tall ladder to the first gallery, and hadcrowded it with men, Quasimodo, by sheer force, pushed the ladder away, andit tottered and fell right back. The battle only ended on the arrival of alarge company of King's Archers, when the vagrants, defeated by Quasimodo,retired fighting.

While the battle raged Claude Frollo, with the aid of a disreputableyoung student of his acquaintance, persuaded Esmeralda to leave the churchby a secret door at the back, and to escape by the river. The priest was sohidden in his cloak that the girl did not recognise him till they werealone in the city. In the Grève, at the foot of the public scaffoldwhere the gallows stood, Claude Frollo made his last appeal.

"Listen!" he said. "I have saved you, and I can save you altogether, ifyou choose. Choose between me and the gibbet!"

There was silence, and then Esmeralda said, "It is less horrible to methan you are."

He poured out his soul passionately, telling her that his life wasnothing without her love, but the girl never moved.

It was daylight now.

"For the last time, will you be mine?"

She answered emphatically, "No!"

Then he called out as loud as he could, and presently a body of armedmen appeared. Soon the public hangman was aroused, and the execution whichhad been interrupted by Quasimodo's heroic rescue was carried out.

Meantime, what of Quasimodo?

He had rushed to her cell when the king's troops, having beaten off thevagrants, entered the church, and it was empty! Then he had explored everynook and cranny of Notre Dame, and again and again gone the round of thechurch. For an hour he sat in despair, his body convulsed by sobs.

Suddenly he remembered that Claude Frollo had a secret key, and decidedthat the priest must have carried her off.

At that very moment Claude returned to Notre Dame, after handing overEsmeralda to the hangman. Quasimodo watched him ascend to the balustrade atthe top of the tower, and then followed him; the priest's attention was tooabsorbed to hear the hunchback's step.

Claude rested his arms on the balustrade, and gazed intently at thegallows in the Grève. Quasimodo tried to make out what it was thepriest stared at, and then he recognised Esmeralda in the hangman's arms onthe ladder, and in another second the hangman had done his work.

A demoniac laugh broke from the livid lips of Claude Frollo; Quasimodocould not hear this laughter, but he saw it.

He rushed furiously upon the archdeacon, and with his great fists hehurled Claude Frollo into the abyss over which he leaned.

The archdeacon caught at a gutter, and hung suspended for a few minutes,and then fell--more than two hundred feet.

Quasimodo raised his eyes to the gypsy, whose body still swung from thegibbet; and then lowered them to the shapeless mass on the pavementbeneath. "And these were all I have ever loved!" he said, sobbing.

He was never seen again in Notre Dame.

Some two years later, when there were certain clearances in the vaultwhere the body of Esmeralda had been deposited, the skeleton of a man,deformed and twisted, was found in close embrace with the skeleton of awoman. A little silk bag which Esmeralda had always worn was around theneck of the skeleton of the woman.

The Toilers of the Sea

Victor Hugo's third great romance, "The Toilers of the Sea"("Les Travailleurs de la Mer"), published in 1866, was written during hisexile in Guernsey. Of all Hugo's romances, both in prose and in verse, nonesurpasses this for sheer splendour of imagination and diction, foreloquence and sublimity of truth. It is, in short, an idyll of passion,adventure, and self-sacrifice. The description of the moods and mysteriesof the sea is well-nigh incomparable; and not even in the whole of Hugo'sworks can there be found anything more vivid than Gilliatt's battle withthe devil-fish. The scene of the story is laid in the Channel Islands, andthe book itself is dedicated to the "Isle of Guernsey, severe yet gentle,my present asylum, my probable tomb." The story was immensely successful onits appearance, and was at once translated into several European languages.

I.--A Lonely Man

A Guernseyman named Gilliatt, who was avoided by his neighbours onaccount of lonely habits, and a certain love of nature which the suspiciouspeople regarded as indicating some connection with the devil, was one dayreturning on a rising tide from his fishing, when he fancied he saw in acertain projection of the cliff a shadow of a man.

The place probably attracted Gilliatt's gaze because it was a favouritesojourn of his--a natural seat cut in the great cliffs, and affording amagnificent view of the sea. It was a place to which some uninitiatedtraveller would climb with delight from the shore and sit entranced by thescene before him, all oblivious of the rising ocean till he was completelycut off from escape. No shout would reach the ear of man from that desolategiant's chair in the rock.

Gilliatt steered his ship nearer to the cliff, and saw that the shadowwas a man. The sea was already high. The rock was encircled. Gilliatt drewnearer. The man was asleep.

He was attired in black, and looked like a priest. Gilliatt had neverseen him before. The fisherman wore off, skirted the rock wall, and,approaching so close to the dangerous cliff that by standing on the gunwaleof his sloop he could touch the foot of the sleeper, succeeded in arousinghim.

The man roused, and muttered, "I was looking about."

Gilliatt bade him jump into the boat. When he had landed this youngpriest, who had a somewhat feminine cast of features, a clear eye, and agrave manner, Gilliatt perceived that he was holding out a sovereign in avery white hand. Gilliatt moved the hand gently away. There was a pause.Then the young man bowed, and left him.

Gilliatt had forgotten all about this stranger, when a voice hailed him.It was one of the inhabitants, driving by quickly.

"There is news, Gilliatt--at the Bravées."

"What is it?"

"I am too hurried to tell you the story. Go up to the house, and youwill learn."

The Bravées was the residence of a man named Lethierry. He hadraised himself to a position of wealth by starting the first steamboatbetween Guernsey and the coast of Normandy; he called this vessel LaDurande; the natives, who prophesied evil of such a frightful invention,called it the Devil's Boat. But the Durande went to and fro withoutdisaster, and Lethierry's gold increased. There was nothing in all theuniverse he loved so much as this marvellous ship worked by steam. Next tothe Durande, he most loved his pretty niece Dérouchette, who kepthouse for him.

One day as Gilliatt was walking over the snow-covered roads,Dérouchette, who was ahead of him, had stopped for a moment, andstooping down, had written something with her finger in the snow. When thefisherman reached the place, he found that the mischievous little creaturehad written his name there. Ever since that hour, in the almost unbrokensolitude of his life, Gilliatt had thought about Dérouchette.

Now that he heard of news at the Bravées, the lonely man made hisway to Lethierry's house, which was the nest of Dérouchette.

The news was soon told. The Durande was lost! Presently, amid thedetails of the story--the Durande had been wrecked in a fog on the terriblerocks known as the Douvres--one thing emerged: the engines were intact. Torescue the Durande was impossible; but the machinery might still be saved.These engines were unique. To construct others like them, money waswanting; but to find the artificer would have been still more difficult.The constructor was dead. The machinery had cost two thousand pounds. Aslong as these engines existed, it might almost be said that there was noshipwreck. The loss of the engines alone was irreparable.

Now, if ever a dream had appeared wild and impracticable, it was that ofsaving the engines then embedded between the Douvres. The idea of sending acrew to work upon those rocks was absurd. It was the season of heavy seas.Besides, on the narrow ledge of the highest part of the rock there wasscarcely room for one person. To save the engines, therefore, it would benecessary for a man to go to the Douvres, to be alone in that sea, alone atfive leagues from the coast, alone in that region of terrors, for entireweeks, in the presence of dangers foreseen and unforeseen--without suppliesin the face of hunger and nakedness, without companionship save that ofdeath.

A pilot present in the room delivered judgment.

"No; it is all over. The man does not exist who could go there andrescue the machinery of the Durande."

"If I don't go," said the engineer of the lost ship, who loved thoseengines, "it is because nobody could do it"

"If he existed----" continued the pilot.

Dérouchette turned her head impulsively, and interrupted.

"I would marry him," she said innocently.

There was a pause. A man made his way out of the crowd, and standingbefore her, pale and anxious, said, "You would marry him, MissDérouchette?"

It was Gilliatt. All eyes were turned towards him. Lethierry had justbefore stood upright and gazed about him. His eyes glittered with a strangelight. He took off his sailor's cap, and threw it on the ground; thenlooked solemnly before him, and without seeing any of the persons present,said Dérouchette should be his. "I pledge myself to it in God'sname!"

II.--The Prey of the Rocks

The two perpendicular forms called the Douvres held fast between them,like an architrave between two pillars, the wreck of the Durande. Thespectacle thus presented was a vast portal in the midst of the sea. Itmight have been a titanic cromlech planted there in mid-ocean by handsaccustomed to proportion their labours to the great deep. Its wild outlinestood well defined against the clear sky when Gilliatt approached in hissloop.

The rocks, thus holding fast and exhibiting their prey, were terrible tobehold. There was a menace in the attitude of the rocks. They seemed to bebiding their time. Nothing could be more suggestive of haughtiness andarrogance: the conquered vessel, the triumphant abyss. The two rocks, stillstreaming with the tempest of the day before, were like two wrestlerssweating from a recent struggle. Up to a certain height they werecompletely bearded with seaweed; above this their steep haunches glitteredat points like polished armour. They seemed ready to begin the strifeagain. The imagination might have pictured them as two monstrous arms,reaching upwards from the gulf, and exhibiting to the tempest the lifelessbody of the ship. If Gilliatt had known how she came to be there, he mighthave been more awed by the tremendous spectacle. The cause was an accident,and yet a purposed act.

Clubin, the captain, as smug a hypocrite as ever scuttled a ship, hadintended to run the Durande on the Hanways. His belt contained threethousand pounds. He meant to lose the ship on the Hanways, a mile fromshore, and when the passengers had rowed away, pretending that he would godown with the ship, Clubin purposed to swim to land, get on board a pirateship, and be off to the East. His little drama had been acted out; theboats had rowed away, everybody praising Captain Clubin, who would notabandon his ship. But when the fog cleared--horror of horrors!--Clubinfound himself not on the Hanways, but on the Douvres; not one mile fromshore, but five miles!

Clubin saw a ship in the distance. He determined to swim to a rock fromwhich he could be seen, and make signals of distress. He undressed, leavinghis clothing on deck. He retained nothing but his leather belt, and then,precipitating himself head first, plunged into the sea. As he dived from aheight, he plunged heavily. He sank deep in the water, touched the bottom,skirted for a moment the submarine rocks, then struck out to regain thesurface. At that moment he felt himself seized by one foot.

But of all this Gilliatt, arriving at the Douvres, knew nothing. He wasabsorbed by the spectacle of the ship held in mid-air. And what did hefind? The machinery was saved, but it was lost. The ocean saved it, only todemolish it at leisure--like a cat playing with her prey. Its fate was tosuffer there, and to be dismembered day by day. It was to be the playthingof the savage amusem*nts of the sea. For what could be done? That this vastblock of mechanism and gear, at once massive and delicate, condemned tofixity by its weight, delivered up in that solitude to the destructiveelements, could, under the frown of that implacable spot, escape from slowdestruction seemed a madness even to imagine.

Gilliatt looked about him.

When he had made a lodging for himself, and had suffered the misfortuneof losing the basket containing his provisions, Gilliatt considered hisdifficulties.

In order to raise the engine of the Durande from the wreck in which itwas three-fourths buried, with any chance of success--in order toaccomplish a salvage in such a place and such a season, it seemed almostnecessary to be a legion of men. Gilliatt was alone. A complete apparatusof carpenter's and engineer's tools and implements were wanted. Gilliatthad a saw, a hatchet, a chisel, and a hammer. He wanted both a goodworkshop and a good shed; Gilliatt had not a roof to cover him. Provisions,too, were necessary on that bare rock, but he had not even bread.

Anyone who could have seen Gilliatt working on the rock during all thatfirst week might have been puzzled to determine the nature of hisoperations. He seemed to be no longer thinking of the Durande or the twoDouvres. He was busy only among the breakers. He seemed absorbed in savingthe smaller parts of the shipwreck. He took advantage of every high tide tostrip the reefs of everything that the ship-wreck had distributed amongthem. He went from rock to rock, picking up whatever the sea hadscattered--tatters of sail-cloth, pieces of iron, splinters of panels,shattered planking, broken yards; here a beam, there a chain, there apulley.

He lived upon limpets, hermit-crabs, and rain-water. He was surroundedby a screaming garrison of gulls, cormorants, and sea-mews. The deep boomof the waves among the caves and reefs was never out of his ears. By day hewas roasted in the terrific heat which beat with pitiless force on thisexposed pinnacle; at night he was chilled to the marrow by the cold of theopen sea. And for ever he was hungry, thirsty--famished.

One day, in exploring for salvage some of the grottoes of his rock,Gilliatt came upon a cave within a cave, so beautiful with sea-flowers thatit seemed the retreat of a sea-goddess. The shells were like jewels; thewater held eternal moonlight. Some of the flowers were like sapphires.Standing in this dripping grotto, with his feet on the edge of a probablybottomless pool, Gilliatt suddenly became aware in the transparence of thatwater of the approach of some mystic form. A species of long, ragged bandwas moving amid the oscillation of the waves. It did not float, but dartedabout at its own will. It had an object; was advancing somewhere rapidly.The thing had something of the form of a jester's bauble with points, whichhung flabby and undulating. It seemed covered with a dust incapable ofbeing washed away by the water. It was more than horrible; it was foul. Itseemed to be seeking the darker portion of the cavern, where at last itvanished.

Gilliatt returned to his work. He had a notion. Since the time of thecarpenter-mason of Salbris, who, in the sixteenth century, without otherhelper than a child, his son, with ill-fashioned tools, in the chamber ofthe great clock at La Charité-sur-Loire, resolved at one stroke fiveor six problems in statics and dynamics inextricably intervolved--sincethe time of that grand and marvellous achievement of the poor workman, whofound means, without breaking a single piece of wire, without throwing oneof the teeth of the wheels out of gear, to lower in one piece, by amarvellous simplification, from the second story of the clock tower to thefirst, that massive clock, large as a room, nothing that could be comparedwith the project which Gilliatt was meditating had ever been attempted.

After incredible exertions, the machinery was ready for lowering intothe sloop. Gilliatt had constructed tackle, a regulating gear, and made allsure. The long labour was finished; the first act had been the simplest ofall. He could put to sea. To-morrow he would be in Guernsey.

But no. He had waited for the tide to lift the sloop as near to thesuspended engines as possible, and now the funnel, which he had loweredwith the paddle-boxes, prevented the sloop from getting out of the littlegorge. It was necessary to wait for the tide to fall. Gilliatt drew hissheepskin about him, pulled his cap over his eyes, and lying down besidethe engine, was soon asleep.

When he woke, it was to feel the coming of a storm. A fresh task wasforced upon this famished man. It was necessary to build a breakwater inthe gorge. He flew to this task. Nails driven into the cracks of the rocks,beams lashed together with cordage, cat-heads from the Durande, bindingstrakes, pulley-sheaves, chains--with these materials the haggard dwellerof the rock built his barrier against the wrath of God.

Then the storm came.

III.--The Devil-Fish

When the awful rage of the storm had passed, and the barrier which hehad repaired in the midst of the tempest hung like a broken arm across thegorge, Gilliatt, maddened by hunger, took advantage of the receding tide togo in search of crayfish. Half naked, and with his open knife between histeeth, he sprang from rock to rock. In hunting a crab he found himself oncemore in the mysterious grotto that glittered with jewel-like flowers. Henoticed a fissure above the level of the water. The crab was probablythere. He thrust in his hand as far as he was able, and groped about inthat dusky aperture.

Suddenly he felt himself seized by the arm. A strange, indescribablehorror thrilled through him.

Some living thing--thin, rough, flat, cold, slimy--had twisted itselfround his naked arm. It crept upward towards his chest. Its pressure waslike a tightening cord, its steady persistence like that of a screw. Inless than a moment some mysterious spiral form had passed round his wristand elbow, and had reached his shoulder. A sharp point penetrated beneaththe arm-pit.

Gilliatt recoiled; but he had scarcely power to move. He was, as itwere, nailed to the place. With his left hand, which was disengaged, heseized his knife, and made a desperate effort to withdraw his arm. He onlysucceeded in disturbing his persecutor, which wound itself still tighter.It was supple as leather, strong as steel, cold as night.

A second form--sharp, elongated, and narrow--issued out of the crevice,like a tongue out of monstrous jaws. It seemed to lick his naked body;then, suddenly stretching out, it became longer and thinner, as it creptover his skin, and wound itself round him. A terrible sense of anguish,comparable to nothing he had ever known, compelled all his muscles tocontract. He felt upon his skin a number of flat, rounded points. It seemedas if innumerable suckers had fastened to his flesh, and were about todrink his blood.

A third long, undulating shape issued from the hole in the rock, feltabout his body, lashed round his ribs like a cord, and fixed itself there.There was sufficient light for Gilliatt to see the repulsive forms whichhad entangled themselves about him. A fourth ligature, but this one swiftas an arrow, darted towards his stomach.

These living things crept and glided about him; he felt the points ofpressure, like sucking mouths, change their places from time to time.

Suddenly a large, round, flattened, glutinous mass shot from beneath thecrevice. It was the centre! The thongs were attached to it like spokes tothe nave of a wheel. In the middle of this slimy mass appeared two eyes.The eyes were fixed on Gilliatt.

He recognised the devil-fish.

Gilliatt had but one resource--his knife.

He knew that these frightful monsters are vulnerable in only onepoint--the head. Standing half naked in the water, his body lashed by thefoul antennae of the devil-fish, Gilliatt looked at the devil-fish and thedevilfish looked at Gilliatt.

With the devil-fish, as with a furious bull, there is a certain momentin the conflict which must be seized. It is the instant when the bulllowers its neck; it is the instant when the devil-fish advances its head.The movement is rapid. He who loses that moment is destroyed.

Suddenly it loosened another antenna from the rock, and darting it athim, seized him by the left arm. At the same moment it advanced itshead.

Rapid as was this movement, Gilliatt, by a gigantic effort, plunged theblade of his knife into the flat, slimy substance, and with a movement likethe flourish of a whip, described a circle round the eyes and wrenched offthe head as a man would draw a tooth.

The four hundred suckers dropped at once from the man and the rock. Themass sank to the bottom of the water.

Nearly exhausted, Gilliatt plunged into the water to heal by frictionthe numberless purple swellings which were pricking all over his body. Headvanced up the recess. Something caught his eye. He approached nearer. Thething was a bleached skeleton; nothing was left but the white bones. Yes,something else. A leather belt and a tobacco-tin. On the belt Gilliatt readthe name of Clubin; in the tobacco-tin, which he opened with his knife, hefound three thousand pounds.

When Gilliatt reached his sloop, with this belt and box in hispossession, he found, to his unspeakable horror, that she had been makingwater fast. Had he come an hour later he would have found nothing abovewater but the funnel of the steamer.

He slung a tarpaulin by chains overboard and hung it over the hole.Pressure of the sea held it tight. The wound was stanched. Gilliatt beganto bale for dear life. As he emptied the hole the tarpaulin bulged in, asif a fist were pushing it from outside. He ran for his clothes; broughtthem, and stuffed them into the wound.

He was saved--for a few moments.

Death was certain. He had succeeded in the impossible, to fail in what ashipwright might have mended in a few minutes.

Upon that solitary rock he had been subjected by turns to all the variedand cruel tortures of nature. He had conquered his isolation, conqueredhunger, conquered thirst, conquered cold, conquered fever, conqueredlabour, conquered sleep. A dismal irony was then the end of all. Gilliattclimbed to the top of the rock and gazed wildly into space. He had noclothing. He stood naked in the midst of that immensity.

Then, overwhelmed by the sense of that unknown infinity, like onebewildered by a strange persecution, confronting the shadows of night, inthe midst of the murmur of the waves, the swell, the foam, the breeze,under that vast diffusion of force, having around him and beneath him theocean, above him the constellations, under him the great unfathomable deep,he sank, gave up the struggle, laid down upon the rock, humbled, anduplifting his joined hands towards the terrible depths, he cried aloud,"Have mercy!"

When he issued from his swoon, the sun was high in a cloudless sky. Theblessed heat had saved the poor, broken, naked man upon the rock. He roseup refreshed, and filled with divine energy. A day's work sufficed to mendthe gap in the sloop's side. On the following day, dressed in the tatteredgarments which had stuffed the rent, with a favourable breeze and a goodsea, Gilliatt pushed off from the Douvres.

IV.--Fate's Last Blow

Gilliatt arrived in harbour at night. He went ashore in his rags, andhovered for a while about the darkness of Lethierry's house. Then he madehis way into the garden, like an animal returning to its hole. He sathimself down and looked about him. He saw the garden, the pathways, thebeds of flowers, the house, the two windows of Dérouchette'schamber. He felt it horrible to be obliged to breathe; he did what he couldto prevent it.

To see those windows was almost too much happiness for Gilliatt.

Suddenly he saw her.

Dérouchette approached. She stopped. She walked back a few paces,stopped again; then returned and sat upon a wooden bench. The moon was inthe trees; a few clouds floated among the pale stars; the sea murmured tothe shadows in an undertone.

Gilliatt felt a thrill through him. He was the most miserable and yetthe happiest of men. He knew not what to do. His delirious joy at seeingher annihilated him. He gazed upon her neck--her hair.

A noise aroused them both--her from her reverie, him from his ecstasy.Someone was walking in the garden. It was the footsteps of a man.Dérouchette raised her eyes. The footsteps drew nearer, then ceased.Accident had so placed the branches that Dérouchette could see thenewcomer while Gilliatt could not. He looked at Dérouchette.

She was quite pale; her mouth was partly open, as with a suppressed cryof surprise. Her surprise was enchantment mingled with timidity. She seemedas if transfigured by that presence; as if the being whom she saw beforeher belonged not to this earth.

The stranger, who was to Gilliatt only a shadow, spoke. A voice issuedfrom the trees, softer than the voice of a woman; yet it was the voice of aman. Gilliatt heard many words, then, "Mademoiselle, you are poor; sincethis morning I am rich. Will you have me for your husband? I love you. Godmade not the heart of man to be silent. He has promised him eternity withthe intention that he should not be alone. There is for me but one woman onthe earth; it is you. I think of you as of a prayer. My faith is in God,and my hope in you."

Gilliatt heard them talking--the woman he loved, the man whose shadowlay upon the path. Presently he heard the invisible man exclaim:"Mademoiselle! You are silent."

"What would you have me say?"

The man said, "I wait for your reply."

"God has heard it," answered Dérouchette.

Then she went forward; a moment afterwards, instead of one shadow uponthe path, there were two. They mingled together, and became one. Gilliattsaw at his feet the embrace of those two shadows.

Suddenly a noise burst forth at a distance. A voice was heard crying"Help!" and the harbour bell rang out on the night air.

It was Lethierry ringing the bell furiously. He had wakened, and seenthe funnel of the Durande in the harbour. The sight had driven him almostcrazy. He rushed out crying "Help!" and pulling the great bell of theharbour. Suddenly he stopped abruptly. A man had just turned the corner ofthe quay. It was Gilliatt. Lethierry rushed at him, embraced him, huggedhim, cried over him, and dragged him into the lower room of theBravées. "Give me your word that I am not crazy!" he kept crying."It can't be true. Not a tap, not a pin missing. It is incredible. We haveonly to put in a little oil. What a revolution! You are my child, my son,my Providence. Brave lad! To go and fetch my good old engine. In the opensea among those cut-throat rocks. I have seen some strange things in mylife; nothing like that."

Gilliatt gave him the belt and the box containing the three thousandpounds stolen by Clubin. Again Lethierry was thrown into a wild amazement."Did anyone ever see a man like Gilliatt?" he concluded. "I was struck downto the ground, I was a dead man. He comes and sets me up again as firm asever. And all the while I was never thinking of him. He had gone clean outof my mind; but I recollect everything now. Poor lad! Ah, by the way, youknow you are to marry Dérouchette."

Gilliatt leaned with his back against the wall, like one who staggers,and said, in a tone very low, but distinct, "No."

Lethierry started. "How, no?"

"I do not love her."

Lethierry laughed that idea to scorn. He was wild with joy. Gilliatt,his son, his preserver, should marry Dérouchette--he, and noneother. Neighbours had begun to flock in, roused by the bell. The room wascrowded. Dérouchette presently glided in, and was espied byLethierry in the crowd. He seized her; told her the news. "We are richagain! And you shall marry the prodigy who has done this thing." His eyefell upon the man who had followed Dérouchette into the room; it wasthe young priest whom Gilliatt had rescued from the seat in the rock. "Ah,you are there, Monsieur le Curé," exclaimed the old man; "you willmarry these young people for us. There's a fine fellow!" he cried, andpointed to Gilliatt.

Gilliatt's appearance was hideous. He was in the condition in which hehad that morning set sail from the rocks--in rags, his bare elbows showingthrough his sleeves, his beard long, his hair rough and wild, his eyesbloodshot, his skin peeling, his hands covered with wounds, his feet nakedand torn. Some of the blisters left by the devil-fish were still visibleupon his arms.

"This is my son-in-law!" cried Lethierry. "How he has struggled with thesea! He is all in rags. What shoulders! What hands! There's a splendidfellow!"

But Lethierry did not know Gilliatt. The poor broken creature escapedfrom the room. He himself made all the arrangements for the marriage of thepriest and Dérouchette; he placed the special license in theirhands, secured a priest for the purpose, and secured passages for them inthe ship waiting in the roads for England.

When he had done all this, he made his way to the seat in the cliff, andsat there waiting to see the ship appear round the bight and disappear onthe horizon.

The ship appeared with the slowness of a phantom. Gilliatt watched it.Suddenly a touch and a sensation of cold caused him to look down. The seahad reached his feet.

He lowered his eyes, then raised them again. The ship was quite near.The rock in which the rains had hollowed out this giant's seat was socompletely vertical, and there was so much water at its base, that in calmweather vessels were able to pass without danger within a few cables'length.

The ship was already abreast of the rock. Gilliatt could see the stir oflife on the sunlit deck. The deck was as visible as if he had stood uponit. He saw bride and bridegroom sitting side by side, like two birds,warming themselves in the noonday sun. A celestial light was in those twofaces formed by innocence. The silence was like the calm of heaven.

The vessel passed. He watched her till her masts and sails formed only awhite obelisk, gradually decreasing against the horizon. He felt that thewater had reached his waist. Sea-mews and cormorants flew about himrestlessly, as if anxious to warn him of his danger.

The ship was rapidly growing less.

There was no foam around the rock where he sat; no wave beat against itsgranite sides. The water rose peacefully. It was nearly level withGilliatt's shoulders.

The birds were hovering about him, uttering short cries. Only his headwas now visible. The tide was nearly at the full. Evening wasapproaching.

Gilliatt's eyes continued fixed upon the vessel on the horizon. Theirexpression resembled nothing earthly. A strange lustre shone in their calmand tragic depths. There was in them the peace of vanished hopes, the calmbut sorrowful acceptance of an end far different from his dreams. Bydegrees the dusk of heaven began to dawn in them, though gazing still uponthe point in space. At the same moment the wide waters round the rock andthe vast gathering twilight closed upon them.

At the moment when the vessel vanished on the horizon, the head ofGilliatt disappeared. Nothing now was visible but the sea.

The Man Who Laughs

"The Man Who Laughs" ("L'Homme qui Rit") was called by itsauthor "A Romance of English History," and was written during the periodHugo spent in exile in Guernsey. Like "The Toilers of the Sea," itsimmediate predecessor, the main theme of the story is human heroism,confronted with the superhuman tyranny of blind chance. As a passionate cryon behalf of the tortured and deformed, and the despised and oppressed ofthe world, "The Man Who Laughs" is irresistible. Of it Hugo himself says inthe preface: "The true title of this book should be'Aristocracy'"--inasmuch as it was intended as an arraignment of thenobility for their vices, crimes, and selfishness. "The Man Who Laughs" wasfirst published in 1869.

I.--The Child

Ursus and hom*o were old friends. Ursus was a man, hom*o a wolf. The twowent about together from town to town, from country-side to country-side.Ursus lived in a small van upon wheels which hom*o drew by day and guardedby night.

Ursus was a juggler, a ventriloquist, a doctor, and a misanthrope. Hewas also something of a poet. The wolf and he had grown old together.

One bitterly cold night in January 1690, when Ursus and his van were atWeymouth, a small vessel put off from Portland. It contained a dozenpeople, and it left behind on the rock, and alone, a small boy.

The people were called Comprachicos. They bought children, andunderstood how to mutilate and deform them, thus making them valuable forexhibition at fairs. But an act of parliament had just been passed todestroy the trade of the Comprachicos. Hence this flight from Portland, andthe forsaking of the child.

The vessel was wrecked and all on board perished off the coast ofFrance, but not before one of the passengers had inscribed on a piece ofparchment the name of the child and the name of a certain English prisonerwho could identify the child. This parchment was sealed in a bottle andleft to the waves.

The child watched the disappearance of the boat. He was stupefied atfinding himself alone; the men who had left him were the only people he hadever known, and they had failed him. He did not know where he was, but heknew that he must seek food and shelter. It was very cold and dark, and theboy was barefoot, but he made his way across Portland and the Chesil bank,and gained the mainland.

He found in the snow a footprint, and set out to follow it. Presently heheard a groan, and came to the end of the footprints. The woman, abeggar-woman who had lost her way, had uttered the groan. She had sunk downin the snow, and was dead when the boy found her. He heard a cry, anddiscovered a baby, wretched with cold, but still alive, clinging to itsdead mother's breast.

The boy took the baby in his arms. Forsaken himself, he had heard thecry of distress, and wrapping the infant in his coat, he pursued hisjourney in the teeth of the freezing wind. Four hours had passed since theboat had sailed away; this baby was the first living person the boy hadmet.

Struggling along with his burden, the boy reached Weymouth, then ahamlet, and a suburb of the town and port of Melcombe Regis. He knocked atdoors and windows; no one stirred. For one thing, everybody was asleep, andthose who were awakened by the knock were afraid of opening a window, forfear of some sick vagabond being outside.

Suddenly the boy heard in the darkness a grinding of teeth and a growl.The silence was so dreadful that he was glad of the noise, and moved in thedirection whence it came. He saw a carriage on wheels, with smoke comingout of the roof through a funnel, and a light within.

Something perceived his approach and growled furiously and tugged at itschain. At the same time a head was put out of a window in the van.

"Be quiet there!" said the head, and the noise ceased. "Is anyonethere?" said the head again.

"Yes, I," said the child.

"You? Who are you?"

"I am very tired and cold and hungry," said the child.

"We can't all be as happy as a lord. Go away!" said the head, and thewindow was shut down.

The child turned away in despair. But no sooner was the window shut thanthe door at the top of the steps opened, and the same voice called out fromwithin the van, "Well, why don't you come in? What sort of a fellow is thiswho is cold and hungry, and who stays outside?"

The boy climbed up the three steps with difficulty, carrying the baby,and hesitated for a moment at the door. On the ceiling was written in largeletters:

URSUS, PHILOSOPHER

It was the house of Ursus the child had come to. hom*o had been growling,Ursus speaking.

The child made out near the stove an elderly man, who, as he stood,reached the roof of the caravan.

"Come in! Put down your bundle!" said Ursus. "How wet you are, and halffrozen! Take off those rags, you young villain!"

He tore off the boy's rags, clothed him in a man's shirt and a knittedjacket, rubbed the boy's limbs and feet with a woollen rag, found there wasnothing frost-bitten, and gave him his own scanty supper to eat.

"I have worked all day and far into the night on an empty stomach,"muttered Ursus, "and now this dreadful boy swallows up my food. However,it's all one. He shall have the bread, the potato, and the bacon, but Iwill have the milk."

Just then the infant began to wail. Ursus fed it with the milk by meansof a small bottle, took off the tatters in which it was wrapped, andswathed it in a large piece of dry, clean linen.

When the boy had finished his supper, Ursus asked him who he was, but hecould get no answer save that he had been abandoned that night.

"But you must have relations, since you have this baby sister."

"It is not my sister; it is a baby that I found."

Ursus listened to the boy's story. Then he brought out an old bearskin,laid it on a chest, placed the sleeping infant on this, and told the boy tolie down beside the baby. Ursus rolled the bearskin over the children,tucked it under their feet, and went out into the night to see if the womancould be saved.

He returned at dawn; his efforts had been fruitless. The boy hadawakened at hearing Ursus, and for the first time the latter saw hisface.

"What are you laughing at? You are frightful! Who did that to you?" saidUrsus.

The boy answered, "I am not laughing. I have always been like this."

Ursus turned away, and muttered, "I thought that sort of work was out ofdate." He took down an old book, and read in Latin that, by slitting themouth and performing other operations in childhood, the face would become amask whose owner would be always laughing.

At that moment the infant awoke, and Ursus gave it what was left of themilk.

The baby girl was blind. Ursus had already decided that he and hom*owould adopt the two children.

II.--Gwynplaine and Dea

Gwynplaine was a mountebank. As soon as he exhibited himself all who sawhim laughed. His laugh created the laughter of others, though he did notlaugh himself. It was his face only that laughed, and laughed always withan everlasting laugh.

Fifteen years had passed since the night when the boy came to thecaravan at Weymouth, and Gwynplaine was now twenty-five. Ursus had kept thetwo children with him; the blind girl he called Dea. The boy said he hadalways been called Gwynplaine. Of course the two were in love.

Gwynplaine adored Dea, and Dea idolised Gwynplaine.

"You are beautiful," she would say to him. The crowd only saw his face;for Dea, Gwynplaine was the person who had saved her from the tomb, and whowas always kind and good-tempered. "The blind see the invisible," saidUrsus.

The old caravan had given way to a great van--called the GreenBox--drawn by a pair of stout horses. Gwynplaine had become famous. Inevery fair-ground the crowd ran after him.

In 1705 the Green Box arrived in London and was established atSouthwark, in the yard of the Tadcaster Inn. A placard was hung up with thefollowing inscription, composed by Ursus:

"Here can be seen Gwynplaine, deserted, when he was ten years old, onJanuary 29, 1690, on the coast of Portland, by the rascally Comprachicos.The boy now grown up is known as 'The Man who Laughs.'"

All Southwark came to see Gwynplaine, and soon people heard of him onthe other side of London Bridge, and crowds came from the City to theTadcaster Inn. It was not long before the fashionable world itself wasdrawn to the Laughing Man.

One morning a constable and an officer of the High Court summonedGwynplaine to Southwark Gaol. Ursus watched him disappear behind the heavydoor with a heavy heart.

Gwynplaine was taken down flights of stairs and dark passages till hereached the torture-chamber. A man's body lay on the ground on its back.Its four limbs, drawn to four columns by chains, were in the position of aSt. Andrew's Cross. A plate of iron, with five or six large stones, wasplaced on the victim's chest. On a seat close by sat an old man--thesheriff of the county of Surrey.

"Come closer," said the sheriff to Gwynplaine. Then he addressed thewretched man on the floor, who for four days, in spite of torture, had keptsilence.

"Speak, unhappy man. Have pity on yourself. Do what is required of you.Open your eyes, and see if you know this man."

The prisoner saw Gwynplaine. Raising his head he looked at him, and thencried out, "That's him! Yes--that's him!"

"Registrar, take down that statement," said the sheriff.

The cry of the prisoner overwhelmed Gwynplaine. He was terrified by aconfession that was unintelligible to him, and began in his distress tostammer and protest his innocence. "Have pity on me, my lord. You havebefore you only a poor mountebank--"

"I have before me," said the sheriff, "Lord Fermain Clancharlie, BaronClancharlie and Hunkerville, and a peer of England!"

Then the sheriff, rising, offered his seat with a bow to Gwynplaine,saying, "My lord, will you please to be seated?"

III.--The House of Lords

Before he left the prison the sheriff explained to Gwynplaine how it washe was Lord Clancharlie.

The bottle containing the documents which had been thrown into the seain January 1690 had at last come to shore, and had been duly received atthe Admiralty by a high official named Barkilphedro.

This document declared that the child abandoned by those on the sinkingvessel was the only child of Lord Fermain Clancharlie, deceased. At the ageof two it had been sold, disfigured, and put out of the way by order ofKing James II. Its parents were dead, and a man named Hardquanonne, now inprison at Chatham, had performed the mutilation, and would recognise thechild, who was called Gwynplaine. Being about to die, the signatories tothe document confessed their guilt in abducting the child, and could not,in the face of death, refrain from acknowledgment of their crime.

The prisoner Hardquanonne had been found at Chatham, and he hadrecognised Gwynplaine. Hardquanonne died of the tortures he had suffered,but just before his death he said, "I swore to keep the secret, and I havekept it as long as I could. We did it between us--the king and I. Silenceis no longer any good. This is the man."

What was the reason for the hatred of James II. to the child?

This. Lord Clancharlie had taken the side of Cromwell against CharlesI., and had gone into exile in Switzerland rather than acknowledge CharlesII. as king. On the death of this nobleman James II. had declared hisestates forfeit, and the title extinct, believing that the heir was lostbeyond possible recovery. On David Dirry-Moir, an illegitimate son of LordClancharlie, were the peerage and estates conferred, on condition that hemarried a certain duch*ess Josiana, an illegitimate daughter of JamesII.

How was it Gwynplaine was restored to his inheritance?

Anne was Queen of England when the bottle was taken to the Admiralty in1705, and shared with the high official whose business it was to attend toall flotsam and jetsam, a cordial dislike of duch*ess Josiana. It seemed tothe Queen an excellent thing that Josiana should have to marry thisfrightful man, and as for David Dirry-Moir he could be made an admiral.Anne consulted the Lord Chancellor privately, and he strongly advised,without blaming James II., that Gwynplaine must be restored to thepeerage.

Gwynplaine, without having time to return to the Green Box, was carriedoff by Barkilphedro to one of his country houses, near Windsor, and biddenthe next day take his seat in the House of Lords. He had entered theterrible prison in Southwark expecting the iron collar of a felon, and hehad placed on his head the coronet of a peer. Barkilphedro had told himthat a man could not be made a peer without his own consent; thatGwynplaine, the mountebank, must make room for Lord Clancharlie, if thepeerage was accepted; and he had made his decision.

On awakening the next morning he thought of Dea. Then came a royalsummons to appear in the House of Lords, and Gwynplaine returned to Londonin a carriage provided by the queen. The secret of his face was stillunknown when he entered the House of Lords, for the Lord Chancellor had notbeen informed of the nature of the deformation. The investiture took placeon the threshold of the House, then very ill-lit, and two very old andhalf-blind noblemen acted as sponsors at the Lord Chancellor's request. Thewhole ceremony was enacted in a sort of twilight, for the Lord Chancellorwas anxious to avoid any sensation.

In less than half an hour the sitting was full. Gossip was already atwork about the new Lord Clancharlie. Several peers had seen the LaughingMan, and they now heard that he was already in the Upper House; but no onenoticed him until he rose to speak.

His face was terrible, and the whole House looked with horror uponhim.

"What does all this mean?" cried the Earl of Wharton, an old and muchrespected peer. "Who has brought this man into the House? Who are you?Where do you come from?"

Gwynplaine answered, "I come from the depths. I am misery. My lords, Ihave a message for you."

The House shuddered, but listened, and Gwynplaine continued.

"My lords, among you I am called Lord Fermain Clancharlie, but my realname is one of poverty--Gwynplaine. I have grown up in poverty; frozen bywinter, and made wretched by hunger. Yesterday I was in the rags of aclown. Can you realise what misery means? Before it is too late try andunderstand that our system of society is a false one."

But the House rocked with uncontrollable laughter at the face ofGwynplaine. In vain he pleaded with those who sat around him not to laughat misery.

They refused to listen, and the sitting broke up in confusion, the LordChancellor adjourning the House. Gwynplaine went out of the Housealone.

IV.--Night and the Sea

Ursus waited for some time after seeing Gwynplaine disappear withinSouthwark Gaol, then he returned sadly to Tadcaster Inn. That very nightthe corpse of Hardquanonne was brought out from the gaol and buried in thecemetery hard by, and Ursus, who had returned to the prison gate, watchedthe procession, and saw the coffin carried to the grave.

"They have killed him! Gwynplaine, my son, is dead!" cried Ursus, and heburst into tears.

The following morning the sheriff's officer, accompanied byBarkliphedro, waited on Ursus, and told him he must leave Southwark, andleave England. The last hope in the soul of Ursus died when Barkilphedrosaid gravely that Gwynplaine was dead.

Ursus bent his head.

The sentence on Gwynplaine had been executed--death. His sentence waspronounced--exile. Nothing remained for Ursus but to obey. He felt as if ina dream.

Within two hours Ursus, hom*o, and Dea were on board a Dutch vessel whichwas shortly to leave a wharf at London Bridge. The sheriff ordered theTadcaster Inn to be shut up.

Gwynplaine found the vessel.

He had left the House of Lords in despair. He had made his effort, andthe result was derision. The future was terrible. Dea was his wife, he hadlost her, and he would be spurned by Josiana. He had lost Ursus, and gainednothing but insult. Let David take the peerage; he, Gwynplaine, wouldreturn to the Green Box. Why had he ever consented to be LordClancharlie?

He wandered from Westminster to Southwark, only to find the TadcasterInn shut up, and the yard empty. It seemed he had lost Ursus and Dea forever. He turned and gazed into the deep waters by London Bridge. The riverin its darkness offered a resting place where he might find peace.

He got ready to mount the masonry and spring over, when he felt a tonguelicking his hands. He turned, and hom*o was behind him. Gwynplaine uttered acry. hom*o wagged his tail. Then the wolf led the way down a narrow platformto the wharf, and Gwynplaine followed him. On the vessel alongside thewharf was the old wooden tenement, very worm-eaten and rotten now, in whichUrsus lived when the boy first came to him at Weymouth. Gwynplainelistened. It was Ursus talking to Dea.

"Be calm, my child. All will come right. You do not understand what itis to rupture a blood-vessel. You must rest. To-morrow we shall be atRotterdam."

"Father," Dea answered, "when two beings have always been together frominfancy, and that state is disturbed, death must come. I am not ill, but Iam going to die."

She raised herself on the mattress, crying in delirium, "He is no longerhere, no longer here. How dark it is!" Gwynplaine came to her side, and Dealaid her hand on his head.

"Gwynplaine!" she cried.

And Gwynplaine received her in his arms.

"Yes, it is I, Gwynplaine. I am here. I hold you in my arms. Dea, welive. All our troubles are over. Nothing can separate us now. We will renewour old happy life. We are going to Holland. We will marry. There isnothing to fear."

"I don't understand it in the least," said Ursus. "I, who saw himcarried to the grave. I am as great a fool as if I were in love myself.But, Gwynplaine, be careful with her."

The vessel started. They passed Chatham and the mouth of the Medway, andapproached the sea.

Suddenly Dea got up.

"Something's the matter with me," she said. "What is wrong? You havebrought life to me, my Gwynplaine, life and joy. And yet I feel as if mysoul could not be contained in my body."

She flushed, then became very pale, and fell. They lifted her up, andDea laid her head on Gwynplaine's shoulder. Then, with a sigh ofinexpressible sadness, she said, "I know what this is. I am dying." Hervoice grew weaker and weaker.

"An hour ago I wanted to die. Now I want to live. How happy we havebeen! You will remember the old Green Box, won't you, and poor blind Dea? Ilove you all, my father Ursus, and my brother hom*o, very dearly. You areall so good. I do not understand what has happened these last two days, butnow I am dying. Everything is fading away. Gwynplaine, you will think ofme, won't you? Come to me as soon as you can. Do not leave me alone long.Oh! I cannot breathe! My beloved!"

Gwynplaine pressed his mouth to her beautiful icy hands. For a moment itseemed as if she had ceased to breathe. Then her voice rang outclearly.

"Light!" she cried. "I can see!"

With that Dea fell back stiff and motionless on the mattress.

"Dead!" said Ursus.

And the poor old philosopher, crushed by his despair, bowed his head,and buried his face in the folds of the gown which covered Dea's feet. Helay there unconscious.

Gwynplaine started up, stretched his hands on high, and said, "Icome."

He strode across the deck, towards the side of the vessel, as ifbeckoned by a vision. A smile came upon his face, such as Dea had justworn. One step more.

"I am coming, Dea; I am coming," he said.

There was no bulwark, the abyss of waters was before him; he strode intoit, and fell. The night was dark and heavy, the water deep. He disappearedcalmly and silently. None saw nor heard him. The ship sailed on, and theriver flowed out to the sea.

ELIZABETH INCHBALD

A Simple Story

The maiden name of Mrs. Inchbald, actress, novelist,dramatist, and society favourite, was Elizabeth Simpson, and she was thedaughter of a farmer living near Bury St. Edmunds, where she was born onOctober 15, 1753. At the age of eighteen she ran away to London, under theinfluence of romantic expectations, which were realised by a suddenmarriage with Joseph Inchbald, the actor. After seventeen years on thestage, without attaining conspicuous success, Mrs. Inchbald retired, anddevoted herself to the writing of novels and plays and the collection oftheatrical literature. Her first novel, written in 1791, was "A SimpleStory." With "Nature and Art," a tale written later, it has kept a placeamong the fiction that is reprinted for successive generations. In lateryears Mrs. Inchbald lived quietly on her savings, retaining a flatteringsocial position by her beauty and cleverness. She died on August 1, 1821.

I.--The Priest's Ward

Dorriforth, bred at St. Omer's in all the scholastic rigour of thatcollege, was, by education and the solemn vows of his order, a RomanCatholic priest. He was about thirty, and refusing to shelter himself fromthe temptations of the layman by the walls of a cloister, but finding thatshelter in his own prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance, had livedin London near five years, when a gentleman with whom he had contracted amost sincere friendship died, and left him the sole guardian of hisdaughter, who was then eighteen.

It is in this place proper to remark that Mr. Milner was a member of theChurch of Rome, but his daughter had been educated in her dead mother'sreligion at a boarding-school for Protestants, whence she had returned withher little heart employed in all the endless pursuits of personalaccomplishments, and her mind left without one ornament, except such asnature gave.

She had been visiting at Bath when her father died. Therefore, Mr.Dorriforth, together with Miss Woodley, the middle-aged niece of the widowlady, Mrs. Horton, who kept his house, journeyed midway to meet her. Butwhen the carriage stopped at the inn-gate, and her name was announced, heturned pale--something like a foreboding of disaster trembled at hisheart--and Miss Woodley was obliged to be the first to welcome his lovelycharge--lovely beyond description.

But the natural vivacity, the gaiety which report had given to MissMilner, were softened by her recent sorrow to a meek sadness. The instantDorriforth was introduced to her as her "guardian, and her deceasedfather's most beloved friend," she burst into tears, and kneeling beforehim, promised ever to obey him as a father. She told him artlessly she hadexpected him to be elderly and plain. He was somewhat embarrassed, butreplied that she should find him a plain man in all his actions; and in theconversation which followed, in which she had somewhat lightly referred tohis faith, begged that religion should not be named between them, for, ashe had resolved never to persecute her, in pity she should be grateful, andnot persecute him.

Among the many visitors who attended her levées during thefollowing weeks was Lord Frederick Lawnly, whose intimacy with herDorriforth beheld with alternate pain and pleasure. He wished to see hischarge married, yet he trembled for her happiness under the care of a youngnobleman immersed in all the vices of the town. His uneasiness made himdesire her to forbid Lord Frederick's visits, who, alarmed, confounded, andprovoked, remonstrated passionately.

"By heaven, I believe Mr. Dorriforth loves you himself, and it isjealousy which makes him treat me in this way!"

"For shame, my lord!" cried Miss Woodley, trembling with horror at thesacrilegious idea.

"Nay, shame to him if he is not in love!" answered his lordship. "Forwho but a savage could behold beauty like yours without owning its power?And surely when your guardian looks at you, his wishes------"

"Are never less pure," Miss Milner replied eagerly, "than those whichdwell in the bosom of my celestial guardian."

At this moment Dorriforth entered the room.

"What's the matter?" cried he, looking with concern on hisdiscomposure.

"A compliment paid by herself to you, sir," replied Lord Frederick, "hasaffected your ward in the manner you have seen." And then he changed thesubject with an air of ridicule, while Miss Milner threw open the sash, andleaned her head from the window to conceal the embarrassment hisimplication had caused her.

Although Dorriforth was a good man, there was an obstinacy in his naturewhich sometimes degenerated into implacable stubbornness. The child of asister once beloved, who married a young officer against her brother'sconsent, was left an orphan, destitute of all support but from his uncle'sgenerosity; but, although Dorriforth maintained him, he would never seehim. Miss Milner brought the boy to town once to present him to his uncle,but no sooner did he hear Harry Rushbrook's name than he set him off hisknee, and, calling for his hat, walked instantly from the house, althoughdinner had just been served.

About this time Miss Milner had the humiliation of having Miss Fentonheld up to her as a pattern for her to follow; but, instead of beinginspired to emulation, she was provoked to envy. Young, beautiful, elegant,Miss Fenton was betrothed to Lord Elmwood, Mr. Dorriforth's cousin; andDorriforth, whose heart was not formed--at least, not educated--for love,beheld in her the most perfect model for her sex.

Not to admire Miss Fenton was impossible. To find one fault with her wasequally impossible, and yet to love her was unlikely. But Mr. Sandford,Dorriforth's old tutor, and rigid monitor and friend, adored her, andoften, with a shake of his head and a sigh, would he say to Miss Milner,"No, I am not so hard upon you as your guardian. I only desire you to loveMiss Fenton; to resemble her, I believe, is above your ability."

As a Jesuit, he was a man of learning, and knew the hearts of women aswell as those of men. He saw Miss Milner's heart at the first view of herperson, and beholding in that little circumference a weight of folly thathe wished to eradicate, he began to toil in the vineyard, eagerly courtingher detestation of him in the hope of also making her abominate herself. Inthe mortification of slights he was an expert, and humbled her in her ownopinion more than a thousand sermons would have done. She would have beencured of all her pride had she not possessed a degree of spirit beyond thegenerality of her sex!

II.--The Priest Marries His Ward

Finding Dorriforth frequently perplexed by his guardianship, Mr.Sandford advised that a suitable match should immediately be sought forher; but she refused so many offers that, believing her affections were setupon Lord Frederick, he insisted that she should be taken into the countryat once. Her ready compliance delighted Dorriforth, and for six weeks allaround was the picture of tranquillity. Then Lord Frederick suddenlyappeared at the door as she alighted from her coach, and seizing her hand,entreated her "not to desert him in compliance with the injunctions ofmonkish hypocrisy."

Dorriforth heard this, standing silently by, with a manly scorn upon hiscountenance; but on Miss Milner's struggling to release her hand, whichLord Frederick was devouring with kisses, with an instantaneous impulse herushed forward and struck him a violent blow in the face. Then, leading herto her own chamber, covered with shame and confusion for what he had done,he fell on his knees before her, and earnestly "entreated her forgivenessfor the indelicacy he had been guilty of in her presence."

To see her guardian at her feet struck her with a sense of improprietyas if she had seen a parent there. All agitation and emotion, she imploredhim to rise, and, with a thousand protestations, declared "that she thoughtthe rashness of his action was the highest proof of his regard forher."

Finding that Lord Frederick had gone when he had resigned the care ofhis ward to Miss Woodley, Dorriforth returned to his own apartment with abosom torn by excruciating sensations. He had departed from his sacredcharacter, and the dignity of his profession and sentiments; he had treatedwith unpardonable insult a young nobleman whose only offence was love; hehad offended and filled with horror a beautiful young woman whom it was hisduty to protect from those brutal manners to which he himself had exposedher.

The outcome of this incident was a duel, to prevent which Miss Milnerdeceived him by confessing a passion for Lord Frederick, although to MissWoodley she avowed the real truth, that it was Dorriforth she loved.

"Do you suppose I love Lord Frederick? Do you suppose I can lovehim? Oh, fly, and prevent my guardian from telling him this untruth! Thisduel is horrible even beyond anything else! Oh, Miss Woodley, pity theagonies of my heart, my heart by nature sincere, when such are the fatalpropensities it cherishes that I must submit to the grossest falsehoodsrather than reveal the truth! Are you so blind," she exclaimed, "as tobelieve I do not care for Mr. Dorriforth? Oh, Miss Woodley, I love him withall the passion of a woman, and with all the tenderness of a wife!"

"Silence!" cried Miss Woodley, struck with horror. Yet, amidst all hergrief and abhorrence, pity was still predominant, and, seeing her friend'smisery, she did all she could to comfort her. But she was resolved that sheshould leave home, and, on pain of revealing her secret to Mr. Dorriforth,induced her to pay a visit of indefinite length to her friends at Bath.

There, in the melancholy that possessed her, Miss Woodley's lettersalone gave her consolation. In a short time her health became impaired; shewas once in imminent danger, and during her delirium incessantly repeatedher guardian's name. Miss Woodley journeyed to her at once, and so didDorriforth, who, through the death of his cousin, Lord Elmwood, hadacquired his title and estates. On this account he had received adispensation from his vow of celibacy, and was enjoined to marry. His wardfelt a pleasure so exquisite on hearing this that the agitation of mind andperson brought with it the sensation of exquisite pain; but, to her cruelgrief, she found that he was, on the advice of his friends, already payinghis addresses to Miss Fenton.

As if a poniard had thrust her to the heart, she writhed under thisunexpected stroke; she felt, and she expressed anguish. Lord Elmwood wasalarmed and shocked. But later, when, in his perplexity concerning hisward's marriage, he induced Miss Woodley to tell him on whom Miss Milner'schoice was fixed, his vehemence filled her with alarm.

"For God's sake, take care what you are doing! You are destroying myprospects of futurity, you are making this world too dear to me! I amtransported by the tidings you have revealed--and yet, perhaps, I hadbetter not have heard them!" he exclaimed. And then, to prevent furtherquestion, he hastened out of the room.

Within a few days he was her professed lover--she, the happiest of humanbeings--Miss Woodley partaking in the joy. Mr. Sandford alone lamented withthe deepest concern that Miss Fenton had been supplanted--and supplanted byMiss Milner.

Yet Miss Fenton was perhaps affected least of any by the change; shereceived everything with the same insipid smile of approbation, and thesame cold indifference.

III.--A Fatal Experiment

Lost in the maze of happiness that surrounded her, Miss Milneroftentimes asked her heart, "Are not my charms even more invincible than Iever believed them to be? Dorriforth, the grave, the pious, the anchoriteDorriforth, by their force is animated to all the ardour of the mostimpassioned lover; while the proud priest, the austere guardian, is humbled,if I but frown, into the veriest slave of love." She then asked: "Why did Inot keep him longer in suspense? He could not have loved me more, Ibelieve, but my power over him might have been greater still. I am thehappiest of women in the affection he has proved to me, but I wonder if itwould exist under ill-treatment? If it would not, he still does not love meas I wish to be loved; if it would, my triumph, my felicity, would beenhanced."

Thus the dear-bought experiment of being loved in spite of her faults--aglory proud women ever aspire to--was, at present, the ambition of MissMilner. She, who, as Dorriforth's ward had ever been gentle, and alwaysobedient, became as a mistress, sometimes haughty, always insolent. He wassurprised, but the novelty pleased him. Miss Milner, whom he tenderlyloved, could put on no change that did not seem to become her. But at lasther attempt to rouse his jealousy by again encouraging Lord Frederick hurthim beyond measure. In a letter releasing her from her engagement to him,and announcing his immediate departure for a long Continental tour, hebegged her for the short time they were to remain together not to insulthim with an open preference for another. By complying with this request shewould give him to believe that she thought he had, at least, faithfullydischarged some part of his duty.

She was struck to despair. Pride alone kept her from revealing heranguish, though her death should be the immediate consequence! ButSandford, who had hitherto been most inimical to her, on the evening beforeLord Elmwood's departure showed at last some kindness by entreating her tobreakfast with them the following morning. There she sat silent, unable toeat, unable to speak, unable to move, until the moment for parting came.Then, unable to repress her tears as heretofore, as Elmwood took her handin his, she suffered them to fall in torrents.

"What is all this?" cried Sandford, going up to them in anger.

They neither of them replied, or changed their situation.

"Separate this moment!" cried Sandford. "Or resolve to be separated onlyby--death! Lord Elmwood, do you love this woman?"

"More than my life!" he replied, with the most heartfelt accents.

He then turned to Miss Milner.

"Can you say the same by him?"

She spread her hands over her eyes, and exclaimed, "Oh, heavens!"

"I believe you can say so," returned Sandford. "And in the name of God,and your own happiness, since this is the state of you both, let me put itout of your power to part?"

On which he opened his book and--married them.

Nevertheless, on that joyful day which restored her lost lover to herhopes again, even on that very day after the ceremony was over, MissMilner--with all the fears, the superstition of her sex--felt anexcruciating shock when, looking on the ring Lord Elmwood had put upon herfinger in haste, she perceived it was a mourning-ring.

IV.--Outcasts

Alas! in seventeen years the beautiful, beloved Miss Milner was nolonger beautiful, no longer beloved, no longer virtuous.

Dorriforth, the pious, the good, the tender Dorriforth, was become ahard-hearted tyrant.

Miss Woodley had grown old, but less with years than grief.

The boy Harry Rushbrook had become a man and the apparent heir of LordElmwood's fortune, while his own daughter, his only child by hisonce-adored Miss Milner, he refused ever to see again, in vengeance to hermother's crime.

Sandford alone remained much as heretofore.

Lady Elmwood was a loved and loving bride seventeen years ago; now shelay on her death-bed. At thirty-five "her course was run." After four yearsof perfect happiness, Lord Elmwood was obliged to leave his wife and childwhile he went to visit his large estates in the West Indies. His voyage wastedious, his return delayed by serious illness, which a too cautious fearof her uneasiness prompted him to conceal. He was away three years.

It was no other than Lord Frederick Lawnly to whom Lady Elmwoodsacrificed her own and her husband's future peace; she did not, however,elope with her paramour, but escaped to shelter herself in the most drearyretreat, where she partook of no comfort but the still unremittingfriendship of Miss Woodley. Even her child she left behind, that she mightbe under her father's protection. Conceive, then, how sharp her agony wason beholding the child sent after her as the perpetual outcast of itsfather. Lord Elmwood's love to his wife had been extravagant--the effect ofhis hate was the same. Once more he met Lord Frederick in a duel, theeffect of which was to leave his adversary so defaced with scars as neveragain to endanger the honour of a husband. He was himself dangerouslywounded, yet nothing but the assurance that his opponent was slain couldtear him from the field.

Now, after ten years of exile, the once gay, volatile Miss Milner laydying with but one request to make--that her daughter should not suffer forher sin. Sandford was with her; by all the influence he ever had over LordElmwood, by his prayers, by his tears, he promised to implore him to ownhis child. She could only smile her thanks, but she was sufficientlysensible of his words to make a sign as if she wished to embrace him; but,finding life leaving her fast, with a struggle she clung to her child, anddied in her arms.

V.--His Daughter's Happiness

Yet all that her mother's last appeal could obtain for the haplessMatilda, not as her child, but as the granddaughter of Mr. Milner, was theshelter of her father's roof on condition that she avoided his sight. Whenby accident or design he ever saw or heard from her, that moment hiscompliance with her mother's request ceased, and he abandoned her oncemore. Still, the joy of being, even in so remote a way, under her father'scare, was extreme for her, though it was tempered with jealousy ofRushbrook--a feeling which even her noble heart could not completelyquell--jealousy which was shared on her account by both Miss Woodley andMr. Sandford, and frequently made them unjust to Harry, whom they regardedas an interloper.

But his passionate gratitude to Lady Elmwood, by whose entreaties he hadbeen restored to his uncle's favour, had made him adore her daughter withan equal passion. He gazed with wonder at his uncle's insensibility to hisown happiness, and would gladly have led him to the jewel he cast away,though even his own expulsion should be the fatal consequence.

At last, by accident, Lord Elmwood returned unexpectedly home whenMatilda was descending the staircase, and, in her affright, she fellmotionless into her father's arms. He caught her, as by the same impulse hewould have caught anyone falling for want of aid. Yet, when he found her inhis arms, he still held her there--gazed on her attentively--and pressedher to his bosom.

At length, trying to escape the snare into which he had been led, he wasgoing to leave her on the spot where she fell, when her eyes opened, andshe uttered, "Save me!" Her voice unmanned him. His long-restraining tearsnow burst forth, and, seeing her relapsing into the swoon, he called outeagerly to recall her. Her name did not, however, come to hisrecollection--nor any name but this--"Miss Milner, dear Miss Milner."

The sound did not awaken her; and now again he wished to leave her inthis senseless state, that not remembering what had passed, she mightescape the punishment.

But at this instant his steward passed, and into his hands he deliveredhis apparently dead child, his face agitated with shame, with pity, withanger, with paternal tenderness. On her recovery she was sent to aneighbouring farm, not more than thirty miles away, her father having givenorders that it should be so.

Then a libertine lover of Lady Matilda's, finding her no longer underher father's protection, resolved to abduct her, and by raising an alarm offire, caused all the inhabitants of the farmhouse to open the doors, whentwo men rushed in, and, with the plea of saving her from the flames,carried her away. News of this being taken to her father, he at once setout in pursuit, and reached her in her last agony of despair, folding herin his arms with the unrestrained fondness of a parent.

It was now the middle of November; and yet, as Matilda passed along,never to her did the sun shine so bright as upon this morning; never didher imagination comprehend that the human heart could feel happiness trueand genuine as hers!

Rushbrook had been detained at Elmwood during all this time, more fromthe persuasions, nay, prayers, of Sandford than the commands of LordElmwood. His uncle's summons for him to join them in town was, therefore,received with delight. Yet his joy was tempered by finding that it was topropose a matrimonial alliance that his uncle had sent for him; after athousand fears, much confusion, and embarrassment, he at length franklyconfessed his "heart was engaged, and had been so, long before his uncleoffered to direct his choice."

On hearing on whom he had set his affections, Lord Elmwood immediatelyleft the room for the apartment where Sandford, Miss Woodley, and Matildawere sitting, and cried with an angry voice, and with his countenancedisordered, "Rushbrook has offended me beyond pardon. Go, Sandford, andtell him this instant to quit my house, and never dare to return."

But Matilda impeded him, and throwing her arms about his neck, cried,"Dear Mr. Sandford, do not!"

"How?" exclaimed her father.

She saw the impending frown, and knelt at his feet.

"Do you know what he has asked of me?" he asked.

"No," she replied, with the utmost innocence, "but whatever it is, mylord, though you do not grant it, yet pardon him for asking."

"Perhaps you would grant him what he has requested?" said herfather.

"Most willingly, were it in my gift."

"It is," replied he. "Go to him in the library, and hear what he has tosay; for on your will his fate shall depend."

Like lightning she flew out of the room; while even the grave Sandfordsmiled at the idea of their meeting. And whether the heart of Matilda couldsentence Rushbrook to misery the reader is left to surmise; and if hesupposes that it could not he has every reason to suppose that theirwedded life was--a life of happiness.

G.P.R. JAMES

Henry Masterton

The son of a physician, George Payne Rainsford James was bornin London on August 9, 1799. He began to write early, and, according to hisown account, the volume of short stories published under the title of "AString of Pearls" was written before he was seventeen. As a contributor tothe magazines and newspapers, his name came under the notice of WashingtonIrving, who encouraged him to produce, in 1823, his "Life of Edward theBlack Prince." "Richelieu," his first novel, brought him warm praises fromSir Walter Scott, and, thus fortified, James, who had had ambitions for apolitical life, determined to continue his career as a novelist. His outputof fiction was amazing--he was the author of upwards of a hundred novels.Of all his works perhaps his most characteristic is "Henry Masterton,"which appeared in 1832. More solid and less melodramatic than his otherstories, it abounds in picturesque scenes, and has that pleasant spice ofadventure that makes for good romance. He died on June 9, 1860.

I.--When Charles the First Was King

In the earlier years of the reign of King Charles I., when already therewere signs of those disorders which were the prelude to the GreatRebellion, one of the most prominent gentlemen at his majesty's court was acertain Lord Langleigh.

Bold and rash in the extreme, Lord Langleigh, though no man could doubthis whole-hearted devotion to his majesty, fell under the suspicion of theking's councillors. These suspicions were given a form and direction byLord Ashkirk, an impoverished nobleman, who secretly lodged certaincharges of treason against Lord Langleigh, and obtained, as the price ofthis betrayal, the wealth and the estate of Penford-bourne, that hadbelonged to his victim.

Tried by his peers, and found guilty on false evidence, Lord Langleighawaited his death upon the scaffold in the prison-house of the Tower. Whileexpecting his fate, he sent for his great friend, Lord Masterton, ofMasterton House, Devonshire, to settle with him such details as werenecessary for the future welfare of his motherless daughter. Lord Mastertonimmediately hastened to London and exerted all his influence in anendeavour to secure a pardon for his friend. But his efforts were in vain.At a last interview, he promised to undertake the charge of LordLandleigh's infant daughter, Emily, and voluntarily pledged himself to seeher married to his eldest son.

Then, on the morning of the execution, Langleigh contrived to escapefrom the Tower.

In the company of the captain of the Tower guard he reached a ship boundfor the continent. The vessel was beset by a storm, and the only one of itsoccupants that was able to tell the tale of the terrible disaster was thecaptain of the guard, who, after exonerating everyone from a share in hisprisoner's escape, died from exhaustion.

Meanwhile, Lord Ashkirk had secured the price of his treason, and was inthe full enjoyment of the estates of Penford-bourne. Not even certaindomestic troubles that occurred regarding the marriage of his daughter,Lady Eleanor, disturbed the serenity of his content. Before his accessionto the property of Lord Langleigh, Lord Ashkirk had betrothed his daughterto his nephew, Walter Dixon, the son of a wealthy attorney, who had marriedthe peer's sister. The arrival of two Popish gentlemen, Sir Andrew Flemingand M. du Tillet, caused him to alter his decision. Sir Andrew fell in lovewith the wonderful beauty of Lady Eleanor and easily persuaded LordAshkirk, himself a Cavalier and a papist, to cancel the marriage withWalter Dixon, who had joined the Parliamentary party. Lady Eleanor was dulyunited to Sir Andrew, and Walter Dixon, deprived of his bride and thesuccession to the Penford-bourne estate, determined to be revenged.

He found a means ready to his hand. Lady Eleanor pretended no affectionfor her husband, and took a special delight in exciting his angry jealousy.She accepted Du Tillet as a lover, and when Dixon, wounded in a duel withher husband, was carried into the house, she nursed him with so muchapparent affection and attention that her husband's wrath passed allbounds. A separation became necessary, and Sir Andrew Fleming consented toleave the woman whose love he could not win.

Walter Dixon, so far satisfied, was yet determined to exact his fulltale of vengeance, and secure the rich lands and estates of Penford-bourne.The death of Lord Ashkirk and the successful growth of the Parliamentaryparty appeared to give him the opportunity he so eagerly desired.

II.--A Web of Intrigue

At Masterton House, in Devonshire, Lord Masterton remained inretirement, though the Parliamentary party carried all before them. Hewould doubtless have continued to refrain from drawing his sword on behalfof his king, who had wronged and insulted him, had not circ*mstances forcedhis hand.

His tenantry were secretly armed and drilled, and, under the command ofFrank, were marched eastwards to Kent, to join Lord Norwich and Hales, whowere preparing a rising to rescue the king.

Frank, before leaving Masterton House, bade farewell to Lady Emily withthat cold reserve and studied formality which was part of his character.The fact that she was betrothed to him by the commands of his father hadfailed to arose any passion in his breast. He was prepared, however, tofulfil the commands of Lord Masterton, though his heart was untouched. Butthe parting between his brother and Lady Emily was of a differentcharacter. Though out of loyalty to his brother no word of love had everpassed his lips, Henry was passionately devoted to the beautiful girl whohad grown up with him under his father's roof. And there was no doubt as towhich of the brothers it was to whom Lady Emily had given heraffections.

The arrival of the little force in Kent brought the two brothers intothe web of intrigue which was being spun by Walter Dixon. It was Dixon'sobject to prevent the union of Frank's forces with Lord Norwich. He hadbeen promised the estates of Penford-bourne, should he succeed in hisobject and prove Lady Eleanor a malignant. In pursuance of this plan, heallowed himself to be taken prisoner by Henry Masterton, to whom hedeclared that he was really a Royalist in disguise.

His next step was to obtain for the brothers an invitation from LadyEleanor to quarter themselves at Penford-bourne. Once he had settled themthere, he obtained, through Frank Masterton's valet, a puritanical knavecalled Gabriel Jones, complete information as to their plans, which he wasthus able to thwart.

At Penford-bourne Frank came under the spell of Lady Eleanor's beauty;all his duties were forgotten, and he lingered on by the side of the womanhe loved. In vain Henry protested against his dereliction of duty. Frankrefused to move, and it was not until his brother came in touch with LordNorwich that circ*mstances compelled him to act. Lord Norwich was furiousat Frank's conduct.

"I will give your brother one chance," he said to Henry. "If he refusesthat chance, I shall supersede him, and name you to the command. Here isthe commission. If you succeed in persuading him to join me at once, youmay burn it; if not, you must take the command, and march immediately."

Sadly, Henry returned to Penford-bourne. On the way, he overheard aconversation between Walter Dixon and Gabriel Jones, which made it clearthat they were privy to a plot having for its object the ruin of FrankMasterton. He at once placed them both under arrest, and hastened to hisbrother's side. Frank obstinately determined not to move. Only theintervention of Lady Eleanor induced him to promise to set out the nextday.

But on the morrow Frank had an affair of honour with a mysterious man inblack, with whom he had quarrelled the night before.

Henry found him bleeding from two severe wounds, and then having issuedinstructions for him to be removed to the house, rejoined his regiment, andat once gave the order to march.

He reached Lord Norwich to find all his trouble in vain. Disaster haddissolved the forces of the Cavaliers, and Lord Norwich had reluctantlydecided to abandon the attempt, and, disbanding his men, made the best ofhis way into Essex. In the excitement of these events Walter Dixon effectedhis escape.

On his way back to Penford-bourne, Henry learned that Lady Eleanor'shusband was still alive. He at once used this information to induce Frankto leave the side of Lady Eleanor, and, in spite of his wounds, toaccompany him back to Devonshire. As the lovers parted, Henry overheardtheir last words.

"Then I rely on you," said Frank, in a hasty voice. "You will not,surely you will not fail me?"

"By all I hold dear on earth and beyond the earth," she replied, in low,thrilling tones.

III.--Days of Gloom

To Lord Masterton Frank related the story of how he had been wounded inthe early part of the campaign and had been compelled to hand over thecommand of his regiment to his brother. This piece of fiction set allawkward questions at rest, and the old lord, satisfied that his son andheir had covered himself with honour, hastened to arrange for his nuptialswith Lady Emily.

Both to Henry and to the girl these were days of gloom, but Frank, onthe other hand, was strangely happy and content. His passion for LadyEleanor was still unabated, and though, to gratify his father, he hadconsented to marry Lady Emily, he had already taken such steps to preventtheir union as would leave his share in the matter undiscovered.

Dixon, though he had carried out his part of the bargain, had beendisgusted to discover that the Council of State, on some specious excuse,refused to grant him the estates of Penford-bourne.

The day of the wedding arrived. By some secret arrangement with theofficiating clergyman, the service was unduly protracted. But at last thosewords were reached which, if uttered, would make Frank and Lady Emily one.Then, suddenly, armed men burst into the chapel and, reading their warrant,demanded the arrest of Frank Masterton, as a malignant lately in arms inKent. The bridegroom offered no resistance. But it was different with LordMasterton. He boldly called upon the guests present to draw their swords. Ascuffle took place. Suddenly, from the gallery above, the voice of GabrielJones gave the order to fire. A volley rang out, and Lord Masterton felldead at the feet of his son.

In the confusion, Henry seized Lady Emily, and shooting down GabrielJones, escaped through a secret passage into the grounds. There he layhidden for some days, and then, when the coast was clear, secured a passagein a smuggling ship for himself and Lady Emily, and her aunt, LadyMargaret. Arrived in France, he placed the ladies in a convent at Dinan,and made his way to England again, under an assumed name as a commercialtraveller for a French house, to learn the fate of his brother.

Arrived in London, he obtained some news of his brother from a goldsmithwho had acted as the family banker for years past. Through the assistanceof Lady Eleanor, Frank Masterton had been set at liberty and had taken hisdeparture in the company of that lady to Paris. Thither, Henry determinedto follow them.

Before setting out, he paid a business call at a merchant's house, wherehe found a man of distinguished appearance, whom he discovered to beGeneral Ireton. Hearing that Henry was bound for France, Ireton asked himwhether he would deliver a letter for him to General St. Maur. It was amost important communication, he declared, insomuch as it was the paymentof a debt to a man to whom he owed much.

Warned by a footstep on the stairs, Ireton requested Henry to retireinto the adjoining room, as he had some business to transact. Through thedoor, Henry heard the well-known voice of General Dixon. He was complainingbitterly that Ireton had not carried out his promise, and handed him overthe estates of Penford-bourne.

"We have no excuse for sequestrating the estates," replied Ireton.

Walter Dixon was furious, declared that he had been made a tool of, and,threatening Ireton, announced his intention of going to France. As soon ashe had taken his departure, Henry was summoned from the other room, andbeing bidden to hold his tongue if he had heard anything, was informed byIreton that he would visit him that night with the package he had requestedhim to deliver to General St. Maur.

Some hours later, when it was dark, Henry received his visitor; but theunexpected arrival of the goldsmith, who addressed Henry by his real name,disclosed his identity. Finding, however, that he intended him no ill,Ireton questioned him closely as to what had brought him to London.

"To see whether I might not render some aid to my brother," Henryreplied, "after having placed the Lady Emily in safety."

"She was never in danger," replied Ireton quietly. "I would take goodcare of that. I will still trust you with my commission. The time may comewhen you will thank me for so doing."

With that he turned and left the room.

IV.--The Mysterious Monk

Chance ordained it that Henry Masterton should cross the Channel on thesame boat which was carrying General Dixon to France. The latter, with whatGeneral Ireton had called "his blunt hypocrisy," frankly related to Henrythe motives that had influenced him in the part that he had played.

Arrived at Calais, the two men journeyed some part of the way together,and before they separated Henry discovered something of the real characterof his companion by his familiarity with certain broken-down Cavaliers,who, having lost all right to the title of gentlemen in their own country,eked out a living by brigandage in France. After they had separated, Henrylost his way, and arriving at night, drenched through with the rain, at acertain chateau, begged its hospitality for a night.

He was led into the dining-room, and introduced to another guest who wasthere--a Benedictine monk.

That night, while Henry lay in bed, he was startled to see the monkstanding by his side. He had come, he said, to ask him several questions.In particular he wished to know whether his brother Frank had married LadyEmily Langleigh. When Henry related how the marriage had been prevented,the Benedictine suddenly sprang to his feet in a fury of rage. When calmer,he asked Henry whether Frank had come to France alone; but on this subjectthe young man preserved a discreet silence, and after a few more questions,which proved the monk's extraordinary familiarity with all Walter Dixon'sintrigues at Penford-bourne, he left the room.

The following day, Henry bade farewell to his courteous host, and madehis way to Dinan. There he found that the convent in which he had left thetwo ladies had been burnt down; and he learnt that a strange gentleman hadcalled before this disaster, and had taken Lady Emily and Lady Margaretaway.

Bitterly disappointed, Henry made his way to Paris, where he found thecity in the throes of a civil war. Becoming unintentionally mixed up in apetty skirmish between the court party and the Frondes, he was badlywounded, and narrowly escaped hanging as an enemy of the Frondeurs.

Meanwhile, Frank Masterton, or Lord Masterton as he now was, was livingwhat he had fondly imagined would be the ideal life with the girl he loved;but already he found it an illusion. His loss of honour, his consciousnessthat his conduct was discreditable, plunged him into bitter fits ofremorse, from which he vainly sought relief by a round of gaiety. LadyEleanor saw these signs with terror and despair. Though she hadaccomplished her desire, her life was unbearable; daily she grew moremiserable. At last she determined to end her earthly sufferings. In herchamber she swallowed the fatal dose of poison with which, against such aday, she had provided herself.

As she lay in the throes of death it chanced that Henry Mastertonarrived, having at length found his brother's place of residence. Henry atonce did everything possible to save Lady Eleanor's life, but, seeing thatthe dark shadow deepened every moment, he hastened to fetch a priest.

In the street he came upon the Benedictine, talking to Walter Dixon, andbidding him follow, led him to the bedside of Lady Eleanor, and left himalone with the dying woman.

Bending over her, the monk solemnly asked her if she had anything on hermind which she wished to confess.

He pressed a cup to her lips; and in a slow, gasping voice she laid barethe story of her life, and then went on to relate her feelings at her firstmeeting with Frank Masterton.

"When we parted, and I thought of the man to whom I was bound for life,what fearful feelings came across my bosom! Sir Andrew Fleming my husband!Was it possible? I called to remembrance his look, his harshness, hisjealousy, and, oh, God! oh, God! how I did hate that man!"

"Woman, woman!" exclaimed the monk, rising up from his seat, and castingback the cowl from his head, "Oh, God! oh, God! how I did love you!"

Lady Eleanor's eyes fixed full upon his face. Before her stood, in thegarb of a Benedictine monk, Sir Andrew Fleming, her husband. For a secondshe looked at him imploringly; then, with fearful strength, she rose fromher recumbent position, and clasping her hands as if in the act of prayer,sank down upon her knees at his feet. A low moan escaped from her lips. Shefell forward on the ground, and the spirit departed for ever from itsclay.

The monk grasped his forehead with his hand, gazing at her with mingledfeelings of love, anger, sorrow, and despair; then, raising the body in hisarms, he placed it on the couch, and bending over it, three times printed along kiss upon the pale lips. Then, with his right hand thrust into hisrobe, he rushed out of the room.

Outside in the hall there came towards him Lord Masterton, GeneralDixon, and Henry. A look of deadly, concentrated hate came into Sir AndrewFleming's eyes. For a moment he paused; then, drawing a dagger from hisbosom, he flung himself on Lord Masterton, and, with one blow, stretchedhim dead at his feet.

"Villain!" cried Walter Dixon. "Atrocious villain!"

With the rapidity of lightning he drew his sword, and at once passed itthrough the body of the assassin.

To Walter Dixon, this scene of carnage, which he had planned withelaborate care, seemed to ensure his long delayed possession of thePenford-bourne estates. Lady Eleanor was dead; her husband, Sir Andrew hadfallen by his hand, and there were no lives now between him and hisrightful possession of the property. But once more he was doomed todisappointment.

As soon as he had an opportunity Henry sought out General St. Maur, andhanded him the package he had received from Ireton. The general pressed himto stay to dinner, and while the meal progressed, extracted from himsomething of his story. When the meal was nearly over, the door suddenlyopened, and a dog rushed to him, barking joyously. It was his own dog--thedog he had brought with him from Masterton House, and left with Lady Emily!How had it come there? Amazed, he was about to ask for an explanation, whenLady Emily herself stood before him. In another moment the lovers were inone another's arms.

Henry, astonished as he was at these events, was still more surprisedwhen he learnt that General St. Maur was really Lord Langleigh, the fatherof Emily. He had not, as all the world had thought, been drowned in hisescape from the Tower. In the wreck, he had succeeded in saving not onlyhis own life, but the life of a young man named Ireton. Ireton had neverforgotten the debt, and now, in the package which Henry had brought overfrom England, had endeavoured to repay it. He had persuaded the Councilthat the estates of Penford-bourne had been improperly sequestrated by KingCharles, and should be returned to their lawful owner, Lord Langleigh; andthe letter contained a decree of the Council once more granting him hislands and title.

When Walter Dixon heard of these events, which again snatched the prizefor which he had attempted so much from his lips, he determined on yetanother effort to achieve his object. Bribing two men to assist him in thedeed, he lured Lord Langleigh into an ambush. Only the prompt arrival ofHenry Masterton prevented the success of this foul deed; and it was Dixonhimself who fell a victim.

Lord Langleigh, too good a Cavalier, courteously refused the offers ofthe Council of State, and remained in France until the Restoration, when,with Henry, now Lord Masterton, and his wife, Lady Emily, he returned toPenford-bourne to spend the remainder of his days in his native land.

SAMUEL JOHNSON

Rasselas, Prince ofAbyssinia

Samuel Johnson was born at Lichfield in Staffordshire, onSeptember 18, 1709, and died in London, December 13, 1784. In Volume IX ofTHE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS appears an epitome of Boswell's famous "Life ofJohnson." "The History of Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia," was written byDr. Johnson in order to meet the expenses incurred by his mother's illnessand death. According to Boswell, the work was composed in the evenings ofone week, and the sheets sent to the printers exactly as they left hishands, without even being read over by the author himself. It was publishedduring the early part of 1759, Johnson receiving for it the sum of£100, and a further amount of £25 when it came to a secondedition. Of all Johnson's works, "Rasselas" was apparently the mostpopular. By 1775 it reached its fifth edition, and has since beentranslated into many languages. The work is more of a satire on optimismand on human life in general than a novel, and perhaps is little more thana ponderous dissertation on Johnson's favourite theme, the "vanity of humanwishes." As to its actual merits, Johnson's contemporaries differed widely,some proclaiming him a pompous pedant with a passion for words of sixsyllables and more, others delighting in those passages in which weightymeaning was illustrated with splendour and vigour.

I.--Life in the Happy Valley

Rasselas was the fourth son of the mighty emperor in whose dominions thefather of waters begins his course, whose bounty pours down the streams ofplenty, and scatters over the world the harvests of Egypt.

According to the custom which has descended from age to age among themonarchs of the torrid zone, the prince was confined in a private palace,with the other sons and daughters of Abyssinian royalty, till the order ofsuccession should call him to the throne.

The place which the wisdom, or policy, of antiquity had designed for theresidence of the princes was a spacious valley in the kingdom of Amhara,surrounded on every side by mountains of which the summits overhang themiddle part. The only passage by which it could be entered was a cavernthat passed under a rock, of which it had long been disputed whether it wasthe work of nature or of human industry. The outlet of the cavern wasconcealed by a thick wood, and the mouth, which opened into the valley, wasclosed with gates of iron, forged by the artificers of ancient days, somassive that no man, without the help of engines, could open or shutthem.

From the mountains on every side rivulets descended that filled all thevalley with verdure and fertility, and formed a lake in the middle,inhabited by fish of every species, and frequented by every fowl whomnature has taught to dip the wing in water.

The valley, wide and fruitful, supplied its inhabitants with all thenecessaries of life, and all delights and superfluities were added at theannual visit which the emperor paid his children, when the iron gate wasopened to the sound of music; and during eight days every one that residedin the valley was required to propose whatever might contribute to makeseclusion pleasant, to fill up the vacancies of attention, and to lessenthe tediousness of time. Every desire was immediately gratified. Such wasthe appearance of security and delight which this retirement afforded thatthey to whom it was new always desired that it might be perpetual; and asthose on whom the iron gate had once closed were never suffered to return,the effect of longer experience could not be known.

Here the sons and daughters of Abyssinia lived only to know the softvicissitudes of pleasure and repose. The sages who instructed them toldthem of nothing but the miseries of public life, and described all beyondthe mountains as regions of calamity where discord was always raging, andwhere man preyed upon man. These methods were generally successful. Few ofthe princes had ever wished to enlarge their bounds; they rose in themorning and lay down at night, pleased with each other and with themselves.All but Rasselas, who, in the twenty-sixth year of his age, began towithdraw himself from the pastimes and assemblies, and to delight insolitary walks and silent meditation. His attendants observed the change,and endeavoured to renew his love of pleasure; but he neglected theirofficiousness and repulsed their invitations.

One day his old instructor began to lament the change which had beenlately observed in him, and to inquire why he so often retired from thepleasures of the palace to loneliness and silence.

"I fly from pleasure," said the prince, "because pleasure has ceased toplease. I am lonely because I am miserable, and am unwilling to cloud withmy presence the happiness of others."

"You, sir," said the sage, "are the first who has complained of miseryin the Happy Valley. I hope to convince you that your complaints have noreal cause. Look round and tell me which of your wants is without supply.If you want nothing, how are you unhappy?"

"That I want nothing," said the prince, "or that I know not what I want,is the cause of my complaint. If I had only known a want, I should have acertain wish, and that wish would excite endeavour for its satisfaction. Ihave already enjoyed too much. Give me something to desire."

"Sir," said the old man, "if you had seen the miseries of the world, youwould know how to value your present state."

"Now," said the prince, "you have given me something to desire. I shalllong to see the miseries of the world, since the sight of them is necessaryto happiness."

II.--The Escape Into the Outer World

The stimulus of this new desire--the desire of seeing the world--soonhad its effect in making Rasselas no longer gloomy and unsociable.Considering himself as master of a secret stock of happiness, he affectedto be busy in all the assemblies and schemes of diversion, because hesupposed the frequency of his presence necessary to the success of hispurposes. He retired gladly to privacy, because in picturing to himselfthat world which he had never seen he had now a subject of thought.

Thus passed twenty months of his life; he busied himself so intensely invisionary bustle that he forgot his real solitude. But one day theconsciousness of his own folly and inaction pierced him deeply. He comparedtwenty months with the life of man. "The period of human existence," saidhe, "may be reasonably estimated at forty years, of which I have mused awaythe four-and-twentieth part."

These sorrowful meditations fastened upon his mind; he passed fourmonths in resolving to lose no more time in idle resolves. Then, awakeningto more vigorous exertion, he for a few hours regretted his regret, andfrom that time bent his whole mind upon the means of escaping from theValley of Happiness.

He now found that it would be very difficult to effect that which it wasvery easy to suppose effected. He passed week after week in clambering themountains, but found all the summits inaccessible by their prominence. Theiron gate was not only secured with all the power of art, but was alwayswatched by successive sentinels. In these fruitless researches he spent tenmonths. The time, however, passed cheerfully away, for he met a thousandamusem*nts which beguiled his labour and diversified his thought.

A little while afterwards he began to cherish hopes of escaping from thevalley by quite a different way. Among the artists allowed there, to labourfor the accommodation and pleasure of its inhabitants, was a man eminentfor his knowledge of the mechanic powers, who had contrived many enginesboth of use and recreation. He interested the prince in a project offlying, and undertook to construct a pair of wings, in which he wouldhimself attempt an aerial flight. But, alas! when in a year's time thewings were ready, and their contriver waved them and leaped from the littlepromontory on which he had taken his stand, he merely dropped into thelake, his wings only serving to sustain him in the water.

The prince was not much afflicted by this disaster, and he soon forgotany disappointment he had felt in the society and conversation of a newartist--a poet called Imlac--who delighted him by the narrative of histravels and dealings with men in various parts of Africa and Asia.

"Hast thou here found happiness at last?" asked Rasselas. "Tell me,without reserve, art thou content with thy condition, or dost thou wish tobe again wandering and inquiring? All the inhabitants of this valleycelebrate their lot, and at the annual visit of the emperor invite othersto partake of their felicity. Is this felicity genuine or feigned?"

"Great prince," said Imlac, "I shall speak the truth. I know not one ofall your attendants who does not lament the hour when he entered thisretreat. I am less unhappy than the rest, because I have a mind repletewith images, which I can vary and combine at pleasure. The rest, whoseminds have no impression but the present moment, are either corroded bymalignant passions, or sit steeped in the gloom of perpetual vacancy."

"What passions can infect those," said the prince, "who have no rivals?We are in a place where impotence precludes malice, and where all envy isrepressed by community of enjoyments."

"There may be community of material possessions," said Imlac, "but therecan never be community of love or of esteem. It must happen that one willplease more than another. He that knows himself despised will always beenvious, and still more envious and malevolent if he is condemned to livein the presence of those who despise him. The invitations by which theinhabitants of the valley allure others to a state which they feel to bewretched proceed from the natural malignity of hopeless misery. I look withpity on the crowds who are annually soliciting admission to captivity, andwish that it were lawful for me to warn them of their danger."

Upon this hint, Rasselas opened his whole heart to Imlac, who, promisingto assist him to escape, proposed the plan of piercing the mountain. Asuitable cavern having been found, the two men worked arduously at theirtask, and within a few days had accomplished it. A few more days passed,and Rasselas and Imlac, with the prince's sister, Nekayah, had gone by shipto Suez, and thence to Cairo.

III.--The Search for Happiness

The prince and princess, who carried with them jewels sufficient to makethem rich in any place of commerce, gradually succeeded in mixing in thesociety of the city; and for some time the former, who had been wont toponder over what choice of life he should make, thought choiceneedless because all appeared to him really happy.

Imlac was unwilling to crush the hope of inexperience. Till one day,having sat awhile silent, "I know not," said Rasselas, "what can be thereason that I am more unhappy than any of my friends. I see themperpetually and unalterably cheerful, but feel my own mind restless anduneasy. I am unsatisfied with those pleasures which I seem most to court. Ilive in the crowds of jollity, not so much to enjoy company as to shunmyself, and am only loud and merry to conceal my sadness."

"Every man," said Imlac, "may, by examining his own mind, guess whatpasses in the minds of others. When you feel that your own gaiety iscounterfeit, it may justly lead you to suspect that of your companions notto be sincere. Envy is commonly reciprocal. We are long before we areconvinced that happiness is never to be found, and each believes it to bepossessed by others, to keep alive the hope of obtaining it forhimself."

"This," said the prince, "may be true of others, since it is true of me;yet whatever be the general infelicity of man, one condition is more happythan another, and wisdom surely directs us to take the least evil in thechoice of life."

"Very few," said the poet, "live by choice. Every man is placed in thepresent condition by causes which acted without his foresight, and withwhich he did not always willingly co-operate; and, therefore, you willrarely meet one who does not think the lot of his neighbour better than hisown."

Rasselas resolved, however, to continue his experiments on life. As hewas one day walking in the street, he saw a spacious building, which allwere, by the open doors, invited to enter. He found it a hall ofdeclamation, and listened to a sage who discoursed with great energy on theconquest of the passions, and displayed the happiness of those who hadobtained this important victory, after which man is no longer the slave offear, nor the fool of hope; is no more emaciated by envy, inflamed byanger, emasculated by tenderness, or depressed by grief. Receivingpermission to visit this philosopher--having, indeed, purchased it bypresenting him with a purse of gold--Rasselas returned home with joy toImlac.

"I have found," said he, "a man who, from the unshaken throne ofrational fortitude, looks down on the scenes of life changing beneath him.I will learn his doctrines and imitate his life."

"Be not too hasty," said Imlac, "to trust or to admire the teachers ofmorality; they discourse like angels, but they live like men."

Imlac's caution turned out to be wise, for when the prince paid hisvisit a few days afterwards, he found the philosopher weeping over thedeath of his only daughter, and refusing to be comforted by any of theconsolations that truth and reason could afford.

Still eager upon the same inquiry, and resolving to discover whetherthat felicity which public life could not afford was to be found insolitude, Rasselas determined to visit a hermit who lived near the lowestcataract of the Nile and filled the whole country with the fame of hissanctity, Imlac and the princess agreeing to accompany him. On the thirdday they reached the cell of the holy man, who was desired to give hisdirection as to a choice of life.

"He will most certainly remove from evil," said the prince, "who shalldevote himself to that solitude which you have recommended by yourexample."

"I have no desire that my example should gain any imitators," repliedthe hermit. "In my youth I professed arms, and was raised by degrees to thehighest military rank. At last, being disgusted by the preferments of ayounger officer, I resolved to close my life in peace, having found theworld full of snares, discord, and misery. For some time after my retreat Irejoiced like a tempest-beaten sailor at his entrance into the harbour.When the pleasure of novelty went away, I employed my hours in examiningthe plants and minerals of the place. But that inquiry is now growntasteless and irksome, and I have been for some time unsettled anddistracted. I am sometimes ashamed to think that I could not secure myselffrom vice but by retiring from the exercise of virtue, and begin to suspectthat I was rather impelled by resentment than led by devotion intosolitude. I have been long comparing the evils with the advantages ofsociety, and resolve to return into the world to-morrow."

They accompanied him back to the city, on which, as he approached it, hegazed with rapture.

A day or two later Rasselas was relating his interview with the hermitat an assembly of learned men, who met at stated intervals to compare theiropinions.

"The way to be happy," said one of them, "is to live according tonature, in obedience to that universal and unalterable law with which everyheart is originally impressed; which is not written on it by precept, butengraven by design, not instilled by education, but infused at ournativity."

When he had spoken, he looked round him with a placid air, and enjoyedthe consciousness of his own beneficence.

"Sir," said the prince, with great modesty, "as I, like all the rest ofmankind, am desirous of felicity, my closest attention has been fixed uponyour discourse. I doubt not the truth of a position which so learned a manhas so confidently advanced. Let me only know what it is to live accordingto nature."

"When I find young men so humble and so docile," said the philosopher,"I can deny them no information which my studies have enabled me to afford.To live according to nature is to act always with due regard to the fitnessarising from the relations and qualities of causes and effects; to concurwith the great and unchangeable scheme of universal felicity; to co-operatewith the general disposition and tendency of the present system ofthings."

The prince soon found that this was a sage whom he should understandless as he heard him longer. He therefore bowed, and was silent; and thephilosopher, supposing him satisfied, departed with the air of a man whohad co-operated with the present system.

IV.--Happiness They Find Not

Rasselas returned home full of reflections, and finding that Imlacseemed to discourage a continuance of the search, began to discoursemore freely with his sister, who had yet the same hope with himself.

"We will divide the task between us," said she. "You shall try what isto be found in the splendour of courts, and I will range the shades ofhumbler life."

Accordingly, the prince appeared next day, with a splendid retinue, atthe court of the bassa. But he soon found that the lives of courtiers are acontinual succession of plots and detections, stratagems and escapes,faction and treachery. Many of those who surrounded the bassa were sentonly to watch him, and to report his conduct to the sultan. At last theletters of revocation arrived, the bassa was carried in chains toConstantinople, and in a short time the sultan that had deposed him wasmurdered by the Janissaries.

The princess, who, in the meantime, had insinuated herself into manyprivate families, proved equally unsuccessful in her inquiries. She foundnot one house that was not haunted by some fury that destroyed itsquiet.

"In families where there is or is not poverty," said she, "there iscommonly discord. The love of parents and children seldom continues beyondthe years of infancy; in a short time the children become rivals to theirparents. Each child endeavours to appropriate the esteem or fondness of theparents, and the parents betray each other to their children. The opinionsof children and parents, of the young and the old, are naturally opposite,by the contrary effects of hope and despondence, of expectation andexperience. Age looks with anger on the temerity of youth; and youth withcontempt on the scrupulosity of age."

"Surely," said the prince, "you must have been unfortunate in yourchoice of acquaintance. I am unwilling to believe that the most tender ofall relations is thus impeded in its effects by natural necessity."

"Domestic discord," answered she, "is not inevitably necessary; but itis not easily avoided. We seldom see that a whole family is virtuous. Thegood and the evil cannot well agree; the evil can yet less agree with oneanother, and even the virtuous fall sometimes to variance when theirvirtues are of different kinds. As for those who live single, I never foundthat their prudence ought to raise envy. They dream away their time withoutfriendship and without fondness, and are driven to rid themselves of theday, for which they have no use, by childish amusem*nts and viciousdelights. They act as beings under the constant sense of some knowninferiority, that fills their minds with rancour, and their tongues withcensure."

"I cannot forbear to flatter myself," said Rasselas, "that prudence andbenevolence will make marriage happy. What can be expected butdisappointment and repentance from a choice made in the immaturity ofyouth, in the ardour of desire, without judgment, without foresight,without inquiry after conformity of opinions, similarity of manners,rectitude of judgment, or purity of sentiment. From these early marriagesproceed the rivalry of parents and children.

"The son is eager to enjoy the world before the father is willing toforsake it, and there is hardly room at once for two generations. Thedaughter begins to bloom before the mother can be content to fade, andneither can forbear to wish for the absence of the other. Surely all theseevils may be avoided by that deliberation and delay which prudenceprescribes to irrevocable choice."

"And yet," said Nekayah, "I have been told that late marriages are noteminently happy. It has generally been determined that it is dangerous fora man and woman to suspend their fate upon each other at a time whenopinions are fixed and habits are established, when friendships have beencontracted on both sides, and when life has been planned into method."

At this point Imlac entered, and having refused to talk upon the subjectof their discourse, persuaded them to visit the great pyramid.

"I consider this mighty structure," said he, as they reposed in one ofits chambers, "as a monument of the insufficiency of human enjoyments. Aking, whose power is unlimited, and whose treasures surmount all real andimaginary wants, is compelled to solace, by the erection of a pyramid, thesatiety of dominion and tastelessness of pleasures, and to amuse thetediousness of declining life by seeing thousands labouring without end,and one stone, for no purpose, laid upon another."

Soon afterwards the prince told Imlac that he intended to devote himselfto science, and to pass the rest of his days in retirement.

"Before you make your final choice," answered Imlac, "you ought toexamine its hazards, and to converse with some of those who are grown oldin the company of themselves."

He then introduced him to a learned astronomer, who had meditated overhis science and over visionary schemes for so long that he believed that hepossessed the regulation of the weather, and the distribution of theseasons.

A visit made subsequently to the catacombs tended still further to givea grave and sombre direction to the thoughts of the party.

"How gloomy," said Rasselas, "would be these mansions of the dead to himwho did not know that he should never die; that what now acts shallcontinue its agency, and what now thinks shall think on forever. Those thatlie here stretched before us, the wise and the powerful of ancient times,warn us to remember the shortness of our present state; they were, perhaps,snatched away while they were busy, like us, in the choice of life."

"To me," said the princess, "the choice of life is become lessimportant; I hope, hereafter, to think only on the choice of eternity."

It was now the time of the inundations of the Nile, and the searchersfor happiness were, of necessity, confined to their house. Being, however,well supplied with materials for talk, they diverted themselves withcomparisons of the different forms of life which they had observed, andwith various schemes of happiness which each of them had formed--schemeswhich now they well knew would never be carried out.

They deliberated with Imlac what was to be done, and finally resolved,when the inundation should cease, to return to Abyssinia.

MAURUS JOKAI

Timar's Two Worlds

Maurus Jokai, by common consent the greatest Hungariannovelist of the nineteenth century, was born at Komarom on February 19,1825. Trained for the law, as an advocate he achieved the distinction ofwinning his first case. The drudgery of a lawyer's office, however, proveduncongenial to him, and fired by the success of his first play, "The JewBoy" ("Zsidó fiu"), he went to Pest, where he devoted himself tojournalism, in due course becoming editor of "Eletképek," a leadingHungarian literary periodical. At the outbreak of the Revolution of 1848,he threw himself in with the supporters of the national cause. From thattime until his death--which occurred on May 4, 1904--Jokai identifiedhimself considerably with politics. Of all his novels perhaps, "Az aranyember" ("A Man of Gold"), translated into English under the title of"Timar's Two Worlds," takes the highest place. Its reputation has longsince spread outside the boundaries of Hungary, and the story itself--arare combination of descriptive power, humour, and pathos--has exercised nosmall influence upon European fiction of the romantic order.

I.--How Ali Saved his Daughter

A mountain-chain, pierced through from base to summit--a gorge fourmiles in length walled in by lofty precipices; and between these wallsflows the Danube in its rocky bed.

At this time there were no steamers on the Danube, but a vessel, calledthe St. Barbara, approaches, drawn against the stream by thirty-two horses.The fate of the vessel lies in the hands of two men--the pilot and thecaptain.

The name of the captain is Michael Timar. He is a man of about thirty,with fair hair and dreary blue eyes.

At the door of the ship's cabin sits a man of fifty, smoking a Turkishchibouque. Euthemio Trikaliss is the name under which he is registered inthe way-book, and he is the owner of the cargo. The ship itself belongs toa merchant of Komorn called Athanas Brazovics.

Out of one of the cabin windows looks the face of a young girl,Timéa, the daughter of Euthemio, and the face is as white as marble.Timéa and her father are the only passengers of the St. Barbara.

When the captain lays aside his speaking-trumpet he has time to chatwith Timéa, who understands only modern Greek, which the captainspeaks fluently.

It is always a dangerous voyage, for the current is fierce and the rocksare death-traps. To-day, too, the St. Barbara was pursued by a Turkishgunboat. But the vessel makes its way safely, in spite of current androcks, and the Turkish gunboat gives up the chase.

Three days later the St. Barbara has reached the island of Orsova; theplains of Hungary are to the north of the river, Servia to the south.

Provisions had run short, and Timar decided to go on shore. There wereno signs of human habitation at first, but Timar's sharp eyes haddiscovered a faint smoke rising above the tops of the poplars. He workedhis way in a small skiff through the reeds, reached dry land, pushedthrough hedges and bushes, and then stood transfixed with admiration.

A cultivated orchard of some five or six acres was before him, andbeyond that a flower-garden, full of summer bloom.

Timar went up through the orchard and flower garden to a cottage, builtpartly in the rock, and covered with creepers. A huge, black Newfoundlanddog was lying before the door.

A woman's voice answered Timar's "good-morning," and the dog raised noobjection to the captain going indoors.

"It never hurts good people," said the woman.

Timar explained his mission. The wind had brought his vessel to astandstill; he was short of provisions, and he had two passengers who wouldbe grateful for shelter on land for the night.

The woman promised him food and a room for his passengers in exchangefor grain, and at her word the dog brought him by a better path to theriver.

Presently Timar was back again with Euthemio and Timéa, and now ayoung girl appeared, whom the housewife called Noemi.

Before supper was over, the growling of the dog announced a new arrival,and a man of youthful appearance, who introduced himself as TheodorKrisstyan, an old friend of the lady of the house, whom he called MadameTherese, entered and made himself quickly at home. It was plain that hishostess both feared and disliked Theodor, while Timar, who had met himbefore, regarded him as a spy in the pay of the Turkish government.

In the morning the wind had gone down, Theodor had vanished, and Timarand his passengers prepared to renew their journey.

Therese told Timar her story before he left; how she and her daughterNoemi had lived there for twelve years, and who the objectionable Theodorwas. Then she added, in a whisper, "I fancy this man Krisstyan's visit waseither on your account, or that of the other gentleman. Be on your guard ifeither of you dread the discovery of a secret."

Trikaliss looked very gloomy when he heard the stranger had left beforesunrise, and the following night he called Timar to his cabin.

"I am dying," he said. "I want to die--I have taken poison. Timéawill not wake till all is over. My true name is not Euthemio Trikaliss, butAli Tschorbadschi. I was once governor of Candia, and then treasurer inStamboul. You know there is a revolution proceeding in Turkey; my turn wascoming. Not that I was a conspirator, but the treasury wanted my money andthe seraglio my daughter. Death is easy for me, but I will not let mydaughter go into the harem nor myself be made a beggar. Therefore I hiredyour vessel, and loaded it with grain. The owner, Athanas Brazovics, is aconnection of mine; I have often shown him kindness, he can return it now.By a miracle we got safely through the rocks and whirlpools of the river,and eluded the pursuit of the Turkish brigantine, and now I stumble over astraw into my grave.

"That man who followed us last evening was a spy of the Turkishgovernment. He recognised me, and sealed my fate. The government would notdemand me from Austria as a political refugee, but as a thief. This isunjust, for what I took was my own. But I am pursued as a thief, andAustria gives up escaped thieves if Turkish spies can trace them. By dyingI can save my daughter and her property. Swear to me by your faith and yourhonour you will carry out my instructions. Here in this casket is about athousand ducats. Take Timéa to Athanas Brazovics, and beg him toadopt my daughter. Give him the money, he must spend it on the education ofthe child, and give him also the cargo, and beg him to be present when thesacks are emptied. You understand?"

The dying man looked in Timar's face, and struggled for breath."Yes--the Red Crescent!" he stammered. "The Red Crescent!" Then thedeath-throes closed his lips--one struggle, and he was a corpse.

II.--Timor Tempted and Fallen

When the St. Barbara had nearly reached Komorn it struck an uprootedtree, lying in ambush under water, and immediately began to sink. It isabsolutely impossible to save a vessel wrecked in this way. The crew allleft the sinking craft, and Timar rescued Timéa, and with her thecasket with the thousand ducats.

Then the captain drove off with the fatherless girl to the house ofAthanas Brazovics in the town of Komorn.

At first Athanas kissed Timéa very heartily, but when he learntthat his vessel was lost, and all Timéa's property, except thethousand ducats, and the wheat sacks--now spoilt by water--he altered histune.

He and his wife Sophie decided that Timéa should live with themas an adopted child, and at the same time attend on their daughter Athalieas a waiting-maid. Athalie and her mother treated the poor girl withscornful contempt.

As for Timar, Athanas turned on him savagely, as though the captaincould have prevented the wreck!

On the advice of his friend, Lieutenant Katschuka, who was betrothed toAthalie, Timar purchased the sunken grain next day when it was put up forauction, buying the whole cargo for 10,000 gulden. "You will do the poororphan a good turn if you buy it," said the lieutenant. "Otherwise, thevalue of the cargo will all go in salvage."

Timar at once made arrangements for hauling up the sacks, and for theimmediate drying and grinding of the corn, and all day labourers were atwork on the wreck.

At nightfall Timar, left alone, noticed one sack differently marked fromthe rest--marked with a red crescent! Within this was a long leathern bag.He broke it open and found it full of diamonds, emeralds, and sapphiresrichly set in girdles and bracelets and rings. A whole heap of unsetdiamonds were in an agate box. The whole treasure was worth at least1,000,000 gulden. The St. Barbara had carried a million on board!

"To whom does this treasure belong?"

Timar put the question to himself, and answered it.

"Why, whom should it belong to but you? You bought the sunken cargo,just as it is, with the sacks and the grain. If the treasurer stole thejewels from the sultan, the sultan probably stole them in hiscampaigns."

"And Timéa?"

"Timéa would not know how to use the treasure, and her adoptedfather would absorb it, and get rid of nine-tenths of it. What would be theresult if Timéa gets it? She would be a rich lady, and would notcast a look at you from her height. Now things are the other way--you willbe a rich man and she a poor girl. You do not want the treasure foryourself. You will invest it profitably, and when you have earned with thefirst million a second and a third, you will go to the poor girl and say,'There, take it--it is all yours; and take me, too.' You only wish tobecome rich in order to make her happy."

The moon and the waves cried to Timar, "You are rich--you are a mademan!"

But when it was dark an inward voice whispered,

"You are a thief!"

From that day all Timar's undertakings flourished, and step by step hereached the summit of an ordinary successful business man's ambition--thetitle of nobility. At the same time Brazovics, who had treated Timar withbrutal inconsiderateness because of the wreck of the St. Barbara, wentsteadily down-hill, borrowing and embezzling trust monies in his fall.

Lieutenant Katschuka had declared all along that he could not marryAthalie without a dowry, and when the wedding day arrived, Brazovics,unable to face his creditors, and knowing himself bankrupt, penniless, andfraudulent, committed suicide. Katschuka immediately declared theengagement at an end. In his heart he had long wearied of Athalie, andlooked with desire on Timéa. The orphan girl from the first hadloved the lieutenant with silent, unspoken affection.

When the Brazovics' house was put up for sale Timar bought it outright,furniture and all, and then said to Timéa, "From this day forth youare the mistress of this house. Everything in it belongs to you, all isinscribed in your name. Accept it from me. You are the owner of the house,and if there is a little shelter for me in your heart, and you did notrefuse my hand--then I should be only too happy."

Timéa gave her hand to Timar, and said in a low, firm voice, "Iaccept you as my husband, and will be a faithful and obedient wife."

This man had always been so good to her. He had never made sport of hernor flattered her, and he had saved her life on the Danube when the St.Barbara was sinking. He had given her all her heart could desire except onething, and that belonged to another.

III.--The Ownerless Island

On his betrothal to Timéa a great burden was lifted from the soulof Timar. Since the day when the treasure of Ali Tschorbadschi had enabledhim to achieve power and riches, Timar had been haunted by the voice ofself-accusation; "This money does not belong to you--it was the property ofan orphan. You are a man of gold! You are a thief!"

But now the defrauded orphan had received back her property. Only Timarforgot that he had demanded in exchange the girl's heart.

Timéa promised to be a faithful and obedient wife, but on thewedding-day when Timar said, "Do you love me?" she only opened wide hereyes, and asked, "What is love?"

Timar found he had married a marble statue; and that all his richeswould not buy his wife's love. He became wretched, conscious that his wifewas unhappy, that he was the author of their mutual misery.

Then, in the early summer, Timar went off from Komorn to shootwater-fowl. He meant to go to the ownerless island at Ostrova--it was threeyears since that former visit.

Therese and Noemi welcomed him cordially at the island, and Timar forgothis troubles when he was with them. Therese told him her story; how herhusband, ruined by the father of Theodor Krisstyan and by AthanasBrazovics, had committed suicide, and how, forsaken and friendless, she hadbrought her child to this island, which neither Austria nor Turkey claimed,and where no tax-collector called. With her own hands she had turned thewilderness into a paradise, and the only fear she had was that TheodorKrisstyan, who had discovered her retreat, might reveal it to the Turkishgovernment.

Therese had no money and no use for it, but she exchanged fruit andhoney for grain, salt, clothes, and hardware, and the people with whom shebartered were not inclined to gossip about her affairs.

So no news concerning the island ever went to Vienna, Komorn, orConstantinople, and the fact of Timar's great prosperity had not reachedthe islanders. He was welcomed as a hard-working man, and Therese did notknow that Timar had been powerful enough to get a ninety years' lease ofthe island from both Turkish and Austrian governments; perhaps no verydifficult matter, as the existence of the island was unknown, and therewere fees to be paid over the concession.

When he told her what he had done, Noemi threw her arms round hisneck.

Theodor Krisstyan was furious, but Timar procured him a post in Brazil,and for a long time the disreputable spy was too far off to betroublesome.

And now on this island Timar found health and rest. It became his home,and for the summer months every year he would slip away from Komorn, and noone, not even Timéa, guessed his secret. When he returnedTiméa's cold white face was still an unsolved riddle to her husband.She would greet him kindly, but never was there any token that she lovedhim. Timar's ever-increasing business operations were excuse for his longabsences, but all the same the double life he was leading made him ill. Hecould not tell Timéa of Therese and Noemi, and he could not tellthem on the island that he was married.

Timéa, on her side, devoted herself more and more to herhusband's business in his absence, and when Major Katschuka once called andasked her if she could not arrange for a divorce, she answered gently, "Myhusband is the noblest man in the world. Should I separate from him who hasno one but me to love him? Am I to tell him that I hate him, I who oweeverything to him, and who brought him no dowry but a loveless heart?"

Timar learnt from Athalie, who lived in Timéa's house, of thisreply, and felt more in despair than ever. He wanted Timéa to behappy, she had never been his wife except in name, for he had been waitingfor her love.

And he wanted to go away, and leave all his riches behind, and settle onthe island. Now more than ever was he wanted on the island, for Therese haddied of heart failure, and the years had made Noemi a woman.

IV.--"My Name is Nobody"

It was winter, and Timar had gone off alone to a house that belonged tohim near a frozen lake. He felt the time had come for flight, butwhither?

Theodor Krisstyan had turned up again. In Brazil he had heard a story ofAli Tschorbadschi's jewels from an old criminal from Turkey, and he hadreturned to blackmail Timar. But he did not find him till Timar was at thefrozen lake.

Krisstyan's story was not true. Timar knew that the accusations werefalse as he listened to the vagabond's indictment. He had not "killed"Timéa's father, nor "stolen" his treasure. But he had played a falsegame, and his position was a false one. Krisstyan demanded a change ofraiment, and Timar let him take clothes and shirts. But at last theblackmailer's demands became too insolent, and Timar drove him out of thehouse.

And now it seemed to Timar that his own career was finished. Thisruffian Krisstyan could expose the foundation of his wealth, and how couldhe live discredited before the world?

On the frozen water there were great fissures between the blocks of ice.Within the waves of the lake death would come quickly. Timar walked out onthe ice, and there before him the head of Theodor Krisstyan rose in thewater and then sank. The spy had not known the treachery of thefissures.

Timar fled to the ownerless island, and when the corpse of Krisstyan wasdiscovered, in an advanced stage of decomposition, Timéa declaredshe recognized her husband's clothes.

So the body of Theodor Krisstyan was buried with great pomp, and a yearlater Timéa married Major Katschuka, and then, haunted by the doubtwhether her first husband was really dead, pined away.

No blessing rested on the wealth Timar left behind him. The only sonTiméa bore to the major was a great spendthrift, and in his handsthe fabulous wealth vanished as quickly as it had grown.

And what is passing meanwhile on the ownerless island?

Forty years have passed since Timar's disappearance from Komorn, and theisland is now a complete model farm. Recently, a friend of mine, an ardentnaturalist, took me to the island. I had heard as a child of Timar and hiswealth.

Every inch of ground is utilised or serves to beautify the place. Thetobacco grown here has the most exquisite aroma, and the beehives look froma distance like a small town with many-shaped roofs.

It is easy to see that the owner of the island understands luxury, andyet that owner never has a farthing to call his own; no money ever entersthe island. Those however, who need the exports know also the requirementsof the islanders, and bring them for barter.

The whole colony consisted of one family, and each was called only byhis Christian name. The six sons of the first settler had married women ofthe district, and the numbers of grandchildren and great-grandchildrenalready exceeded forty, but the island maintained them all. Poverty wasunknown; they lived in luxury; each knew some trade, and if they had beenten times as many, their labour would have supported them.

When we arrived on the island, the nominal head of the family, awell-built man of forty, received us cordially, and in the eveningpresented us to his parents.

When my name was mentioned to the old man he looked long at me, and avisible colour rose in his cheeks. I began to tell him of what was going onin the world, that Hungary was now united to Austria, and that the taxeswere very heavy.

He blew a cloud from his pipe, and the smoke said, "My island hasnothing to do with that, we have no taxes here."

I told him of wars, financial panics, the strife of religion andpolitics, and the smoke seemed to say, "We wage war with no one here. ThankGod, we have no money here and no elections or ministers."

Presently the old man asked me where I was born, and what my professionwas? And when I told him that I wrote romances, he said, "Guess my story.There was once a man who left a world in which he was admired andrespected, and created a second world in which he was loved."

"May I venture to ask your name?" I said.

The old man seemed to grow a head taller; then, raising his tremblinghands, he laid them on my head. And it seemed to me as if once, long, longbefore those same hands had rested on my head when childish curls coveredit, and that I had seen that noble face before.

"My name is Nobody," he replied to my question; and after that night Isaw him no more during our stay on the island.

The privileges granted by two governments to the owner of the islandwill last for fifty years more. And who knows what may happen to the worldin fifty years?

COULSON KERNAHAN

A Dead Man's Diary

Coulson Kernahan, born at Ilfracombe, England, Aug. 1, 1858,is a son of Dr. James Kernahan, M.A. He has contributed largely toperiodicals, and has written in many veins, alternating serious andreligious works with sensational novels, and literary criticism with humourand sport. It is by his imaginative booklets--now collected in one volumeunder the title of "Visions"--that he is best known. These booklets havecirculated literally "by the million," and have been translated into nofewer than sixteen languages, including Chinese. "A Dead Man's Diary"appeared anonymously in 1890, and attracted unusual attention, theauthorship being attributed, among others, to Harold Frederic and RobertBuchanan. Since then "A Dead Man's Diary"--of which Mr. J.M. Barrie, inreviewing it, said, "The vigour of the book is great, and the author hassuch a gift of intensity that upon many readers it will have mesmericeffect"--has gone through innumerable editions, in England and in America.

I.--The Ghost of the Past

Some years ago I became so seriously ill that I was pronounced dying,and, finally, dead. Dead to all intents and purposes I remained for twodays, when, to the astonishment of the physicians, I exhibited symptoms ofreturning vitality, and in a week was convalescent.

Of the moments preceding my passing I recollect only that there cameover me a strange and sudden sense of loss, as though some life-element hadgone out from me. Of pain there was none, nor any mental anxiety.

I recollect only an ethereal lightness of limb, and a sense ofsoul-emancipation and peace, a sense of soul-emancipation such as one mightfeel were he to awaken on a sunny summer morning to find that sorrow andsin were gone from the world for ever, a peace ample and restful as thehallowed hush and awe of twilight, without the twilight's tender pain.

Then I seemed to be sinking slowly and steadily through still depths ofsun-steeped, light-filled waters that sang in my ears with a sound like asweet, sad sobbing and soaring of music, and through which there swam up tome, in watered vistas of light, scenes of sunny seas and shining shoreswhere smiling isles stretched league beyond league afar.

And so life ebbed away, until there came a time when the outward anddeathward-setting tide seemed to reach its climax, and when I felt myselfswept shoreward and lifeward again on the inward-setting tide of thatlarger life into which I had died.

My next recollection is that the events of my past life were risingbefore me. The hands on the dial of time went back a score of years, and Iwas a young man of twenty-one, living in chambers off Holborn. One eveningthere burst over London a fearful thunderstorm, and hearing a knock at mydoor, I opened it, to find a beautiful girl named Dorothy, the daughter ofthe housekeeper, standing there. Terrified by the lightning, and findingherself alone, she begged to be allowed to remain until her mother'sreturn.

The words had scarcely passed her lips before there came anotherblinding flash of lightning, followed almost instantaneously by a terrificcrash of thunder. With a cry of passion and fear, she flung her arms aroundme, and the next moment I found myself pressing her to my heart and tellingher, amid a score of burning kisses, that I loved her.

Almost immediately afterwards, we heard the opening of doors, whichindicated her mother's home-coming; but, before leaving, Dorothy told methat the room immediately above mine was her own. Of the hell-born thoughtwhich rose in my mind as I listened she, I am sure, had no suspicion. NeedI tell the remainder of my story? I think not.

You may wonder, perhaps, why I recall circ*mstances that happened somany years ago. You would cease to wonder had you seen the ghost of thepast rise up to call upon God and His Christ for judgment upon thebetrayer. For this was my first glimpse of hell; this was my day ofjudgment. The recording angel of my awakened conscience showed me my sin,and the ruin my sin had wrought, as God sees, and I realised that--But no!I am sick, I am fainting! I cannot--I cannot write more.

II.--The Secret of Man's Destiny

"When anyone dies," I had been told in childhood, "he goes either toheaven or to hell, according to whether he has been a good or bad man," andI recollect being not a little troubled as to what became of the peoplewhose virtues were about equally matched with their vices. When I opened myeyes in that ante-chamber of the spirit-world into which I have hadadmittance I discovered that heaven and hell as separate places have noexistence, for the good, the bad, and the indifferent exist togetherexactly as they exist here. I do not say that there will be no day ofharvesting in which the tares shall finally be separated from the wheat. Onthat point, as on many others, I am ignorant. Men and women whom I know onearth speak of the dead--"the changed"--as being perfected in knowledge andas having solved for ever "the great secret." That is not myexperience.

So far from "the great secret," the secret of man's destiny and God'sBeing, becoming known at death, the facts as I found them are that theseremain almost as great a mystery after death as before.

Even in hell (I use the word as indicating mental or physicalsuffering--in my case, the former--not with any local significance) thereare moments when the anguish-stricken spirit is mercifully allowed atemporary reprieve. Such a moment occurred after the first awful paroxysmof self-loathing and torture which I experienced when my past life was madeknown to me in its true colours, and it was in this saner and comparativelypainless interval that I met one whom I had known on earth as a woman ofthe purest life and character. Being still under the impression that I wasin hell in the sense in which I had been accustomed to think of that place,I started back upon seeing her, and cried out in astonishment, "You here!You! And in Hades!"

"Where else should I be except where Arthur is?" she answered quietly,and I then remembered a worthless brother of that name to whom she waspassionately attached. "Even Dives in the parable," she went on, "wasunable to forget the five brethren he had left behind him, and cried outamid the flames, asking that Lazarus be sent to warn them, lest they, too,came to that place of torment. Is it likely, then, that any wife, mother,or sister, worthy the name, would be content to remain idle in heaven,knowing that a loved one was in hell and in agony? We are told that afterHis death Christ preached to the spirits in prison, and I believe that Hecame here to hell in search of the so-called lost."

"Tell me," I said, "you who are in heaven, if you are perfectlyhappy."

"You are not altogether wrong in calling this heaven," she replied,"although it is little more than the antechamber between earth and heaven.It is my heaven at present, but it will not be my heaven always, any morethan it will be always your hell, and although it is heaven, it is notthe heaven. When I was on earth, I longed for heaven, not that Imight be delivered from sorrow, but from sinfulness; and I think I maysay that I am as happy here as my failures will let me be."

"Your failures!" I exclaimed. "I thought we had done with failures."

"You remember the text in the Koran," she said. "'Paradise is under theshadow of swords.' Here, as on earth, there is no progress without effort,and here, too, there are difficulties to be overcome. Yet even on earththere was one element in the strife which lent dignity even to ourfailures. Sin and shame are, after all, only human; the effort anddetermination to overcome them are divine. Ceasing to be an angel, Satanbecame a devil. Man falls, and even in his fall retains something ofGod."

After a time we fell to talking of the past, and, mentioning the name ofthe very noblest man I have ever known, a man who made possible the purityof Sir Galahad, made possible the courage of Coeur de Lion--I had almostsaid made possible the sinfulness of Christ--I inquired whether she hadseen him in Paradise.

"As yet," she answered, "I know only one of the many circles into whichthe spirit-world seems naturally to resolve it. But I suspect that if youand I could see where he is, we should find him infinitely nearer to theFather-heart of the universe than I at least can for countless ages hope toattain!"

"What do you mean by 'circles'?" I said. "Is each human soul on itsarrival here assigned a fitting place and level among his or her spiritualfellows?"

"There is some such gathering of like to like as that of which youspeak," she answered. "The majority begin in a lower circle, and remainthere until they are fitted to move onward to a higher sphere. Others takea place in that higher sphere immediately, and some few are led into theHoly Presence straightway."

And then her voice seemed to sound to me like the voice of one in thefar distance; I felt the darkness closing in upon me on every side, andknew that my hour of punishment was again at hand.

III.--Dead Souls

Of all the faces which I saw in hell, there was one which had for me afascination. It was that of a beautiful woman, queenly of manner,fair of figure as a fullblown lily, and with those dark eyes that seem toshine out from soul-depths, deep as the distant heaven, and yet may mean nomore than the shallow facing of quicksilver behind a milliner's mirror.

On earth she had deliberately set herself to win and to break the heartof a trusting lad, and the punishment of her sin was that she should nowlove him with the same intense but hopeless passion with which he had lovedher. "My heart is broken," I heard her sob, "and in hell one cannot die ofa broken heart. If I had loved him, and he me, and he had died, I couldhave borne it, knowing that I should meet him hereafter; but to liveloveless through eternity, that is the thought which kills me."

Another sight which I saw was that of a desolate plain, low-lying andunlighted, in the centre of which there roamed one who called out as if insearch of a companion, but to whom there came no answer save the echo ofhis own voice. A more lonely and lifeless spot I have never seen. Thesilence seemed sometimes to oppress him like a presence, for, with ahalf-affrighted and despairing cry, he set off at a panic-stricken run, asif seeking to escape this silence by flight; but, notwithstanding hishaste, he made no progress, for he was but moving round and round in acircle. Once, when he passed near me, I heard him cry out: "Is there noliving soul in all this void and voiceless desert?" And, as he hurried by,I recognised him as a man whom I had often heard say on earth that hellwould not be hell to him so long as he and his boon companions weretogether.

Another whom I saw in Hades I should--save for his pitiable effort toescape observation--have passed unnoticed. His pitfall in life had beenlove of approbation, which was so strong that he was never happy except inperpetually endeavoring to pass himself off for that which he knew he wasnot. The only aim of his existence had been to win the approval of others,and, lo! one morning he awoke in Hades to find himself the despised of thedespised, and the laughing stock of the very Devil. I saw few more pitiablesights than that of this wretched creature, slinking shamefacedly throughhell, and wincing, as from a blow, at the glance of every passer.

During my wanderings I had reason to ask one whom I had known on earthconcerning the fate of an old acquaintance of his own.

"I will tell you all I know, of the man about whom you ask," he said,"but first let me explain that my sorest hindrance on earth was unbelief.Once, when I might have believed, I would not, and my punishment is thatnow, when I would believe, I cannot, but am for ever torn by hideousapprehension and doubt. Moreover, there are many things which, clear andplain as they may be to the faithful of heart and to the believing, are tomy doubting eyes wrapt around in mystery. Into these mysteries it has beenordained as part of my punishment that I shall ever desire to look, and ofall these mysteries there is none which fills me with such horror and dreadas the mystery of the dead who die."

"Of the dead who die!" I said. "What do you mean by those strange words?Surely all who die are dead."

"They are my words," he cried excitedly, and with a hysterical laugh."The words I use to myself when I think of the mystery which they strove socarefully to conceal from me, but which for all their cunning I havediscovered. When first I came here, I saw, either in hell or in heaven, thefaces of most of the dead whom I had known on earth, but some faces therewere--the man of whom you ask was one--which I missed, and from that timeto this I have never seen. 'Where, then, are they?' I asked myself, 'sinceneither earth, hell, nor heaven knows them more? Has God some fearful fatein store for sinners, which may one day fall upon me as it has alreadyfallen upon them?' And so I set myself to discover what had become of thesemissing faces, and you shall hear the result.

"When you and I were children, we were taught that every human being isborn with an immortal soul. But they did not tell us that just as neglecteddiseases can kill the body, so unchecked sin can kill the soul. But it isso, and that is what I meant when I said that he of whom you asked was 'ofthe dead who die.'

"You shake your head, and mutter that I am mad. Well, perhaps I ammad--mad with the horror of my unbelief; but why should it not be as I say?When God made man He made a creature to whom it was given to choose forhimself between good and evil. But God knew that some of those He had thusmade would deliberately choose evil, that some few would indeed sin awayall trace of their Divine origin. God did not will it so, for Hemade us men, not machines, and the evil we do is of our own choosing; butGod fore-knew it, and, foreknowing that, God owed it to Himself notto call into being a creature the result of whose creation would be thatcreature's eternal misery. Hence it was that He decreed that those for whomthere could be no hope of heaven should die out at their deaths like thebrutes. Our life is from God, and may not God take His own again? And couldanything better happen to many people whom you and I have known on earththan that they should be allowed to die out, and the very memory of them topass away for ever?"

I was convinced that he was mad--mad, as he had himself hinted, with thehorror of his unbelief.

"And I am one of them," he exclaimed. "I am of the dead who die! I havebartered away life, faith, and happiness for Dead Sea fruit; I, who oncewas young, and not altogether as I now am, a soulless creature of clay! ForI can remember the time when flowers, pictures, beautiful faces, and musicset stirring emotions within me, in which it seemed that I saw hidden awayin the depths of my own heart the shining form of a white-robedsoul-maiden, who cried out to me: 'Ah, cannot you make your life as pureand beautiful as the flowers and the music, that so you may set mefree?'

"But I chose the ignoble part, and gave myself up, body and soul, toevil and unbelief. And often in the hour when I was tempted to someshameful action I seemed to see the white arms of the soul-maiden upliftedin piteous entreaty to heaven, but at last the time came when her voice wassilent, and when I knew that I had thrust her down into a darkness whenceshe would never again come forth!

"And now the very soul of me is dead, and I know not but that at anymoment I may flicker out like a spent taper, and become as one of the deadwho die!"

IV.--On the Brink of the Pit

At last there came a time, even in hell, when the burden of my sin layso heavily upon me that I felt, if succour there was none, the very soul ofme must die.

Of myself, save for the continual crying out of my soul after its lostpurity, I scarcely cared to think. It was for Dorothy that I never ceasedto sorrow, and--sinner though I was--to pray. I saw then, pictured forth inall their horror, the inevitable consequences of the wrong I had done her.I saw her, with the sense of her sin as yet but fresh upon her, shrinkingfrom every glance, and fancying that she read the knowledge of her guilt inevery eye. I saw her not knowing where to turn for refuge from swiftlyadvancing shame and understanding no more of this life of ours than afoolish lost lamb, wandering farther and farther in the nightfall.

And then--driven out from their midst by the very Christian women whoshould have been the first to have held out a hand to save--I saw her turnaway with a heart hardened into indifference, and plunge headlong into abottomless gulf of ignominy and sin. Nor did the vision pass until, out ofthat seething vortex of lust and infamy, I saw arise the black phantom of alost soul crying out unto God and His Christ for judgment upon thebetrayer.

As these hideous spectres of the past came before me, I fell to theground, borne down by a burden of agony greater even than the very damnedin hell can bear. But even as I fell, that burden was lifted and borne awayfrom me, and then I saw, as in a vision, One kneeling in prayer. And I, whohad cried out that I could bear the burden of my sin no longer, saw thatupon Him was laid, not only my sin, but the sins of the whole world, andthat He stooped of His own accord to receive them. And as I looked upon theDivine dignity of that agonised form--forsaken of His Father that we mightnever be forsaken--I saw great beads of blood break out like sweat upon Hisbrow, and I heard wrung from Him a cry of such unutterable anguish as neverbefore rose from human lips. And at that cry the vision passed, and I awoketo find myself in hell once more, but in my heart there was a stirring asof the wings of hope--the hope which I had deemed dead for ever.

Could it be--O God of mercy! was it possible that even now itmight not be too late?--that there was indeed One Who could make my sin asthough it had never been?

But to this hope there succeeded a moment when the agonised thought,"How if there be no Christ?" leapt out at me, like the darkness which loomsbut the blacker for the lightning-flash; a moment when hell got hold of meagain, and a thousand gibbering devils arose to shriek in my ear: "Andthough there be a Christ, is it not now too late?"

I reeled at that cry, and the darkness once more closed in around. Ahorde of hideous thoughts, the very spawn of hell, swarmed like vermin inmy mind; there was the breath as of a host of contending fiends upon myface; a hundred hungry hands seemed to lay hold on me, and to strive todrag me down and down to a bottomless pit that opened at my very feet, andinto which I felt myself slipping. With a great cry to God I strove torise, but my strength failed me, and I had fallen back into the abyss hadnot one, white-robed as the morning, come suddenly to succour me bystretching forth a hand of aid; and so--beating and battling like adrowning man for breath--I fought my way out, and fell sobbing and faintupon the pit's brink. And with a great cry of anguish I prayed aloud, "LordChrist! I am foul and sinful! I do not know that I love Thee! I do not evenknow that I have repented of my sins! I only know that I cannot do thethings I would do, and that I can never undo the evil I have done. But Icome to Thee, Lord Jesus, I come to Thee as Thou biddest me. Send me notaway, O Saviour of sinners."

As I made an end of praying, I looked up and saw standing beside me One,thorn-crowned and with wounded side, Whose features were the features ofa man, but Whose face was the face of God.

And as I looked upon that face I shrank back dazed, and breathless, andblinded--shrank back with a cry like the cry of one smitten of thelightning; for beneath the wide white brows there shone out eyes, beforethe awful purity of which my sin-stained soul seemed to scorch and toshrivel like a scroll in a furnace. But as I lay, lo! there came a tendertouch upon my head, and a voice in my ear that whispered, "Son."

And as the word died away into a silence like the hallowed hush oflistening angels, and I stretched forth my arms with a cry of unutterablelonging and love, I say that He held one by the hand--even the one who hadplucked me out of the abyss into which I had fallen--and I saw that it wasDorothy--Dorothy whom He had sought out and saved from the shame to whichmy sin had driven her, and whom He had sent to succour me, that so He mightset upon my soul the seal of His pardon and of His peace.

CHARLES KINGSLEY

Alton Locke

Charles Kingsley, English novelist, poet, and clergyman, wasborn June 12, 1819, and died Jan. 23, 1875. The son of the rector ofChelsea, London, Kingsley went from King's College, London, to Cambridge,taking his B.A. degree in 1842, and becoming rector of Eversley in 1844. Hewas made one of the Queen's chaplains in 1859, and in 1873 was appointedcanon of Westminster. After publishing "Village Sermons" and "The Saint'sTragedy," Kingsley took part with F.D. Maurice in the Christian Socialistmovement of 1848, attacking the horrible sweating then rife in thetailoring trade, calling attention to the miserable plight of theagricultural labourer, and the need for sanitary reform in town andcountry. In "Alton Locke, Tailor and Poet," first published in 1849,Kingsley writes from the point of view of the earnest artisan of sixtyyears ago, and the success of the book, following the author's pamphlet on"Cheap Clothes and Nasty," did much to stimulate social and philanthropicwork in London and other great industrial centres. Various editions of thenovels of Kingsley are obtainable.

I.--A Sweating Shop

I am a co*ckney among co*ckneys.

My earliest recollections are of a suburban street; of his jumble oflittle shops and little terraces.

My mother was a widow. My father, whom I cannot recollect, was a smallretail tradesman in the city. He was unfortunate, and when he died, as manysmall tradesmen do, of bad debts and a broken heart, he left us beggars,and my mother came down and lived penuriously enough in that suburbanstreet.

My mother moved by rule and method; by God's law, as she considered, andthat only. She seldom smiled. She never commanded twice without punishing.And yet she kept the strictest watch over our morality.

Sometimes on a Sunday evening the ministers of the Baptist chapel wouldcome in to supper after the meeting. The elder was a silver-haired old man,who loved me; and I loved him, too, for there were always lollipops in hispocket for me and for my only sister Susan. The other was a younger man,tall and dark. He preached a harsher doctrine than his gentler colleague,and was much the greater favourite at the chapel. I hated him; and yearslater he married my sister.

When I had turned thirteen, my father's brother, who had risen inwealth, and now was the owner of a first-rate grocery business in the Cityand a pleasant villa at Herne Hill, and had a son preparing for Cambridge,came to visit us. When he had gone my mother told me, very solemnly andslowly, that I was to be sent to a tailor's workrooms the next day.

What could my uncle make me but a tailor--or a shoemaker? A pale,consumptive boy, all forehead and no muscle.

With a beating heart I shambled along by my mother's side to Mr. Smith'sshop, in a street off Piccadilly, and here Mr. Smith handed me over to Mr.Jones, the foreman, with instructions to "take the young man upstairs tothe workroom."

I stumbled after Mr. Jones up a dark, narrow, iron staircase till weemerged through a trap-door into a garret at the top of the house. Irecoiled with disgust at the scene before me; and here I was towork--perhaps through life! A low room, stifling me with the combinedodours of human breath and perspiration, stale beer, the sweet sickly smellof gin, and the sour and hardly less disgusting one of new cloth. On thefloor, thick with dust and dirt, scraps of stuff and ends of thread, satsome dozen haggard, untidy, shoeless men, with a mingled look of care andrecklessness that made me shudder. The windows were tight-closed to keepout the cold winter air, and the condensed breath ran in streams down thepanes.

The foreman turned to one of the men, and said, "Here, Crossthwaite,take this younker and make a tailor of him. Keep him next you, and prickhim with your needle if he shirks."

Mechanically, as if in a dream, I sat down, and as the foreman vanisheda burst of chatter rose. A tall, sharp-nosed young man bawled in my ear, "Isay, young 'un, do you know why we're nearer heaven here than ourneighbours?"

"Why?" I asked.

"Acause we're the top of the house in the first place, and next placeyer'll die here six months sooner nor if yer worked in the room below.Concentrated essence of man's flesh is this here as you're a-breathing.Cellar workroom we calls Rheumatic Ward, acause of the damp. Ground floor'sFever Ward--your nose'd tell yer why if you opened the back windy. Firstfloor's Ashmy Ward--don't you hear 'um now through the cracks in theboards, apuffing away like a nest of young locomotives? And this here mostaugust and uppercrust co*ck-loft is the Consumptive Hospital. First youbegins to cough, then you proceeds to expectorate, and then when you'vesufficiently covered the poor dear shivering backs of thehairystocracy--

Die, die, die,
Away you fly,
Your soul is in the sky!

as the hinspired Shakespeare wittily remarks."

And the ribald lay down on his back, stretched himself out, andpretended to die in a fit of coughing, which last was, alas! nocounterfeit, while poor I, shocked and bewildered, let my tears fall fastupon my knees.

I never told my mother into what pandemonium I had fallen, but from thattime my great desire was to get knowledge. I fancied that getting knowledgeI should surely get wisdom, and books, I thought, would tell me all Ineeded.

That was how it was I came to know Sandy Mackaye, whose old book-shop Iused to pass on my walk homeward. One evening, as I was reading one of thebooks on his stall, the old man called me in and asked me abruptly my name,and trade, and family.

I told him all, and confessed my love of books. And Mackaye encouragedme, and taught me Latin, and soon had me to lodge in his old shop, for mymother in her stern religion would not have me at home because I could notbelieve in the Christianity which I heard preached in the Baptistchapel.

II.--I Move Among the Gentlefolks

The death of our employer threw many of us out of work, for the son whosucceeded to the business determined to go ahead with the times, and tothat end decided to go in for the "show-trade"; which meant an alterationin the premises, the demolition of the work-rooms, and the giving out ofthe work to be made up at the men's own homes.

Mackaye would have me stay with him.

"Ye'll just mind the shop, and dust the books whiles," he said.

But this I would not do, for I thought the old man could not afford tokeep me in addition to himself. Then he suggested that I should go toCambridge and see my cousin, with a view to getting the poems publishedwhich I had been writing ever since I started tailoring.

"He's bound to it by blude," said Sandy; "and I'm thinking ye'd bettertry to get a list o' subscribers."

So to Cambridge I went.

It was some time since I had seen my cousin George, and at our lastmeeting he had taken me to the Dulwich Gallery. It was there that two youngladies, one so beautiful that I was dazzled, and an elderly clergyman, whommy cousin told me was a dean, had spoken to me about the pictures, and thatinterview marked a turning point in my life. When I got to Cambridge, andhad found my cousin's rooms, I was received kindly enough.

"You couldn't have got on at tailoring--much too sharp a fellow forthat," he said, on hearing my story. "You ought to be at college, if onecould only get you there. Those poems of yours--you must let me have themand look over them, and I dare say I shall be able to persuade the governorto do something with them."

Lord Lynedale came to my cousin's rooms next day--George told me plainlythat he made friends with those who would advance him when he was aclergyman--and taking an interest in a self-educated author, bade me bringmy poems to the Eagle and ask for Dean Winnstay. Lord Lynedale was to marryDean Winnstay's niece. When I arrived at the Eagle, the first person I sawwas Lillian--for so her father, the dean, called her--the younger lady, myheroine of the Dulwich Gallery, looking more beautiful than ever. I couldhave fallen down--fool that I was!--and worshipped--what? I could not tellyou, for I cannot tell even now.

The dean smiled recognition, bade me sit down, and disposed my papers onhis knee. I obeyed him, trembling, my eyes devouring my idol, forgettingwhy I had come, seeing nothing but her, listening for nothing but theopening of those lips.

"I think I may tell you at once that I am very much surprised andgratified with your poems," said the old gentleman.

"How very fond of beautiful things you must be, Mr. Locke," saidLillian, "to be able to describe so passionately the longing afterthem!"

I stammered out something about working-men having very fewopportunities of indulging the taste for--I forget what.

"Ah, yes! I dare say it must be a very stupid life. So littleopportunity, as he says. What a pity he is a tailor, papa! Such anunimaginative employment! How delightful it would be to send him to collegeand make him a clergyman!"

Fool that I was! I fancied--what did I not fancy?--never seeing how thatvery "he" bespoke the indifference--the gulf between us. I was not aman, an equal, but a thing--a subject, who was to be talked over andexamined, and made into something like themselves, of their supreme andundeserved benevolence.

"Gently! Gently, fair lady!" said the dean. "We must not be as headlongas some people would kindly wish to be. If this young man really has aproper desire to rise to a higher station, and I find him a fit object tobe assisted in that praiseworthy ambition, why, I think he ought to go tosome training college. Now attend to me, sir! Recollect, if it should be inour power to assist your prospects in life, you must give up, once and forall, the bitter tone against the higher classes which I am sorry to see inyour MSS. Next, I think of showing these MSS. to my publisher, to getopinion as to whether they are worth printing just now. Not that it isnecessary that you should be a poet. Most active minds write poetry at acertain age. I wrote a good deal, I recollect, myself. But that is noreason for publishing."

At this point Lillian fled the room, to my extreme disgust. But stillthe old man prosed.

"I think, therefore, that you had better stay with your cousin for thenext week. I hear from Lord Lynedale that he is a very studious, moral,rising young man, and I only hope that you will follow his good example. Atthe end of the week I shall return home, and then I shall be glad to seemore of you at my house at D----. Good-morning!"

My cousin and I stayed at D---- long enough for the dean to get a replyfrom the publishers concerning my poems. They thought that the sale of thebook might be greatly facilitated if certain passages of a strong politicaltendency were omitted; they were somewhat too strong for the present stateof the public taste.

On the dean's advice, I weakly consented to have the book emasculated.Next day I returned to town, for Sandy Mackaye had written me acharacteristic note telling me that he could deposit any trash I hadwritten in a paper called the "Weekly Warwhoop."

Before I went from D----, my cousin George warned me not to pay so muchattention to Miss Lillian if I wished to stand well with Eleanor, thedean's niece, who was to marry Lord Lynedale. He left me suspecting that hehad remarked Eleanor's wish to cool my admiration for Lillian, and waswilling, for his own purposes, to further it.

III.--Riot and Imprisonment

At last my poems were printed and published, and I enjoyed the sensationof being a real live author. What was more, my book "took" and sold, andwas reviewed favourably in journals and newspapers.

It struck me that it would be right to call upon the dean, and so I wentto his house off Harley Street. The good old man congratulated me on mysuccess, and I saw Lillian, and sat in a delirium of silent joy. LordLynedale had become Lord Ellerton, and I listened to the praises that weresung of the newly married couple--for Eleanor had become Lady Ellerton, andhad entered fully into all her husband's magnificent philanthropicschemes--a helpmeet, if not an oracular guide.

After this, I had an invitation to tea in Lillian's own hand, and thencame terrible news that Lord Ellerton had been killed by a fall from hishorse, and that the dean and Miss Winnstay had left London; and for threeyears I saw them no more.

What happened in those three years?

Mackaye had warned me not to follow after vanity. He was a Chartist, andwith him and Crossthwaite, my old fellow-workman, I was vowed to the GoodCause of the Charter. Now I found that I had fallen under suspicion.

"Can you wonder if our friends suspect you?" said Crossthwaite. "Can youdeny that you've been off and on lately between flunkeydom and the Cause,like a donkey between two bundles of hay? Have you not neglected ourmeetings? Have you not picked all the spice out of your poems? Though Sandyis too kind-hearted to tell you, you have disappointed us both miserably,and there's the long and short of it."

I hid my face in my hands. My conscience told me that I had nothing toanswer.

Mackaye, to spare me, went on to talk of the agricultural distress, andCrossthwaite explained that he wanted to send a deputation down to thecountry to spread the principles of the Charter.

"I will go," I said, starting up. "They shall see I do care for theCause. Where is the place?"

"About ten miles from D----."

"D----!" My heart sank. If it had been any other spot! But it was toolate to retract.

With many instructions from our friends and warnings from Mackaye, Istarted next day on my journey. I arrived in the midst of a dreary,treeless country, and a little pert, snub-nosed shoemaker met me, and wewalked together across the open down towards a circular camp, theearthwork, probably, of some old British town.

Inside it, some thousand or so of labouring people, all wan and haggard,with many women among them, were swarming restlessly round a single largeblock of stone.

I made my way to the stone, and listened as speaker after speaker pouredout a string of incoherent complaints. Only the intense earnestness gaveany force to the speeches.

I noticed that many of the crowd carried heavy sticks, and pitchforks,and other tools which might be used as fearful weapons; and when a fierceman with a squint asked who would be willing to come "and pull the farmabout the folks' ears," I felt that now or never was the time for me tospeak. If once the spirit of mad, aimless riot broke loose, I had not onlyno chance of a hearing, but every likelihood of being implicated in deedswhich I abhorred.

I sprang on the stone, assured them of the sympathy of the Londonworking-men, and explained the idea of the Charter.

To all which they answered surlily that they did not know anything aboutpolitics--that what they wanted was bread.

In vain I went on, more vehement than ever; the only answer was thatthey wanted bread. "And bread we will have!"

"Go, then!" I cried, losing my self-possession. "Go, and get bread!After all, you have a right to it. There are rights above all laws, and theright to live is one."

I had no time to finish. The murmur swelled into a roar for "Bread!Bread!" And amid yells and execrations, the whole mass poured down thehill, sweeping me away with them. I was shocked and terrified at theirthreats. I shouted myself hoarse about the duty of honesty; warned themagainst pillage and violence; but my voice was drowned in the uproar. Ifelt I had helped to excite them, and dare not, in honour, desert them; andtrembling, I went on, prepared to see the worst.

A large mass of farm buildings lay before us, and the mob rushedtumultuously into the yard--just in time to see an old man on horsebackgallop hatless away.

"The old rascal's gone! And he'll call up the yeomanry! We must bequick, boys!" shouted one.

The invaders entered the house, and returned, cramming their mouths withbread, and chopping asunder flitches of bacon. The granary doors werebroken open, and the contents were scrambled for, amid immense waste, bythe starving wretches.

Soon the yard was a pandemonium, as the more ruffianly part of the mobhurled furniture out of windows, or ran off with anything they could carry.The ricks had been fired, and the food of man, the labour of years,devoured in aimless ruin, when some one shouted: "The yeomanry!" And atthat sound a general panic ensued.

I did not care to run. I was utterly disgusted, disappointed, withmyself--the people. I just recollect the tramp of the yeomanry horses, anda clear blade gleaming in the air, and after that I recollect nothing--tillI awoke and found myself lying on a truckle-bed in D---- gaol, and a warderwrapping my head with wet towels.

Mackaye engaged an old compatriot as attorney at the trial, and I wascongratulated on "only getting three years."

The weary time went by. Week after week, month after month, summer aftersummer, I scored the days off, like a lonely schoolboy, on the pages of acalendar.

Not till I was released did I learn from Sandy Mackaye that my cousinGeorge was the vicar of his church, and that he was about to marry LillianWinnstay.

IV.--In Exile

Brave old Sandy Mackaye died on the morning of the tenth of April, 1848,the day of the great Chartist demonstration at Kennington Common. Mackayehad predicted failure, and every one of his predictions came true. Thepeople did not rise. Whatever sympathy they had with us, they did not careto show it. The meeting broke up pitiably piecemeal, drenched and cowed,body and soul, by pouring rain.

That same night, after wandering dispiritedly in the streets by theriver, I was sick with typhus fever.

I know not for how long my dreams and delirium lasted, but I know thatat last I sank into a soft, weary, happy sleep.

Then the spell was snapped. My fever and my dreams faded away together,and I woke to the twittering of the sparrows and the scent of the poplars,and found Eleanor, Lady Ellerton, and her uncle sitting by my bed, and withthem Crossthwaite's little wife.

I would have spoken, but Eleanor laid her finger on her lips, and takingher uncle's arm, glided from the room.

Slowly, and with relapses into insensibility, I passed, like one whor*covers from drowning, through the painful gate of birth into anotherlife.

Crossthwaite and his wife, as they sat by me, tender and careful nursesboth, told me in time that to Eleanor I owed all my comforts. "She's anangel out of heaven," he said. "Ah, Alton, she was your true friend all thetime, and not that other one, if you had but known it."

I could not rest till I had heard more of Lady Ellerton.

"Why, then, she lives not far off. When her husband died, she came, mywife Katie tells me, and lived for one year down somewhere in the East End,among the needlewomen. And now she's got a large house hereby, with fiftyor more in it, all at work together, sharing the earnings among themselves,and putting into their own pockets the profits which would have gone totheir tyrants; and she keeps the accounts for them, and gets the goodssold, and manages everything, and reads to them while they work, andteaches them every day."

Crossthwaite went on to speak of Mackaye.

"When old Mackaye's will was read, he had left £400 he'd saved, tobe parted between you and me, on condition that we'd go and cool downacross the Atlantic, and if it hadn't been for your illness, I'd have beenin Texas now."

Often did I see Eleanor in those days of convalescence, but it was nottill a month had gone by that I summoned courage to ask after my cousin.Eleanor looked solemnly at me.

"Did you not know it? He is dead--of typhus fever. He died three weeksago; and not only he, but the servant who brushed his clothes, and theshopman who had a few days before brought him a new coat home."

"How did you learn all this?"

"From Mr. Crossthwaite, who found out that you most probably caught yourfever from a house near Blackfriars, and in that house this very coat hadbeen turned out, and had covered a body dead of typhus."

Half unconscious, I stammered Lillian's name inquiringly.

"She is much changed; sorrow and sickness--for she, too, has had thefever--have worn her down. Little remains now of that loveliness----"

"Which I idolised in my folly."

"I tried to turn you from your dream. I knew there was nothing there foryour heart to rest upon. I was even angry with you for being theprotégé of anyone but myself."

Eleanor bade me go, and I obeyed her, and sailed--and here I am. And shebade me write faithfully the story of my life, and I have done so.

Yes, I have seen the land! Like a purple fringe upon the golden sea. ButI shall never reach the land. Weaker and weaker, day by day, with bleedinglungs and failing limbs, I have travelled the ocean paths. The iron hasentered too deeply into my soul.

This is an extract from a letter by John Crossthwaite.

"Galveston, Texas, October, 1848.

"And now for my poor friend, whose papers, according to my promise tohim, I transmit to you. On the very night on which he seems to haveconcluded them--an hour after we had made the land--we found him in hiscabin, dead, resting peacefully as if he had slumbered."

Hereward the Wake

With, the appearance of "Hereward the Wake," sometimes called"Hereward, the Last of the English," Kingsley brought to a close aremarkable series of works of fiction. Although the story was not publisheduntil 1866, the germ of it came to Kingsley, according to Mrs. Kingsley's"Memoirs" of her husband, during the summer of 1848, while on a visit toCrowland Abbey, near Peterborough, with the Rev. F.D. Maurice. As its titleimplies, the romance is suggested by the life and adventures of Hereward, aSaxon yeoman who flourished about 1070. The story itself perhaps does notmove along with the same spirit and vigour that characterise Kingsley'searlier works; it shows, nevertheless, that he had lost none of hiscunningness for dramatic situations, nor his vivid powers of visualisingscenes and events of the past.

I.--Hereward Seeks His Fortune

In the year of Canute's death was born Hereward, second son of Leofric,Earl of Mercia, and Godiva. At the age of eighteen he was a wild,headstrong, passionate lad, short in stature, but very broad, and his eyeswere one blue and one grey. Always in trouble with authority, the climaxcame when he robbed Herluin, steward of Peterborough, of a sum of sixteensilver pennies collected for the use of the monastery, and for this exploithe was outlawed.

Accordingly, he left his home and went north, to Siward, who was engagedin war with Macbeth, and for aught we know he may have helped to bringgreat Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill. However that may be, he stayed inScotland with one Gilbert of Ghent, at whose house, among other doughtydeeds, single-handed he slew a mighty white bear that escaped fromcaptivity, incidentally saving the life of a pretty little maiden namedAlftruda, and earning the hatred of the other men, who had not dared toface the bear.

Finding Scotland a little uncomfortable in consequence, he went toCornwall, taking with him only his faithful servant Martin, and there atthe court of Alef, a Danish kinglet, he had cause to kill a localcelebrity, a giant named Ironhook, who was betrothed to Alef's daughter,though much against her will, she being in love with Sigtryg, son ofRanald, king of Waterford.

So Hereward went to Waterford with a ring and a message from theprincess, returning later with Sigtryg, only to find that Alef hadbetrothed his daughter afresh to Hannibal of Marazion, and the weddingceremony was actually proceeding when they arrived. An ambush was laid forthe returning bridal party, Hannibal duly accounted for, and the princesscarried off to Waterford, where they

Prepared another wedding
With all their hearts so full of glee.

Earl Leofric dead, Hereward determined to take the risk of returninghome, to which end he begged two ships from Ranald and set sail. Thrown bya storm on the Flanders coast, he and all his men were like to have beenknocked on the head, after the friendly custom of the times, but for theintervention of Arnoul, grandson of Baldwin of Flanders.

Entering his service, Hereward assisted Baldwin in an argument withEustace of Guisnes, who differed with his lord on the question of paymentof certain dues, and so keenly did he reason that the difference of opinionwas satisfactorily composed--from Baldwin's point of view.

Anon a war with Holland claimed attention, but in the meantime Herewardhad fallen in love with a most beautiful damsel named Torfrida, niece ofthe Abbot of St. Berlin, reputed a sorceress. Her favour he won in thelists from Sir Ascelin, to whom she had committed it, and upon him shebestowed it, together with her love and a suit of magic armour, throughwhich no sword could pierce.

Then Hereward went off to Holland, and there he encountered DirkHammerhand, from whom to take a buffet was never to need another, andbought from him his famous mare Swallow, the price agreed on being the halfof what Hereward had offered and a box on the ear.

"Villain!" groaned Dirk as he lay on the ground. "It was I who was togive the buffet, not thou!"

"Art mad?" said Hereward, as he coolly picked up the coins which Dirkhad scattered in his fall. "It is the seller's business to take, and thebuyer's to give."

In Holland Hereward remained a year, but as, under the terms of a wagermade in a boastful mood, he went through the campaign without any armourand without changing his clothes, it was a disreputable looking man withmany a wound who returned to Bruges, where, at the court of Adela, a jestwas played on Torfrida by the countess, not without the privity ofHereward.

For before all her ladies Adela took her to task for having so longremained unmarried. Then, forming the assembly into a court of love, sheasked the ladies what punishment should be meted out. One said one thing,one another.

"Marry her to a fool," said Richilda.

"Too common a misfortune," said the Lady of France. "No," said she. "Wewill marry her to the first man who enters the castle."

And from her sentence there was no appeal. Married poor Torfrida mustbe, and to the first man who happened in, be he who he might. And the firstman was a ragged beggarman, with whom, when he was introduced into thepresence, Torfrida was preparing to deal in her own way with a littleknife, be the cost what it might, when she recognised the eye of grey andthe eye of blue.

II.--Hereward Encounters Some Old Friends

In the spring it was hey for the war again, whence Hereward returned inNovember to find himself the father of a daughter and the recipient ofletters from Harold of England and William of Normandy, both asking hisassistance. Regarding Harold as a usurper, Hereward bluntly told him so. ToWilliam his reply was equally decisive, but less uncompromising. "WhenWilliam is King of all England, Hereward will put his hands between his andbe his man."

Whereat William laughed. "It is a fair challenge from a valiant man," hesaid to the messenger. "The day shall come when I shall claim it."

In Bruges one day Hereward found Gilbert of Ghent, who for reasons ofhis own had come thither with his ward Alftruda, and mightily disappointedwas Gilbert to find him married; for he had a scheme whereby Herewardshould marry Alftruda, and he should share her dowry, which was great.Alftruda, too, was mightily displeased, as she seemed one whom Herewardthought the most beautiful he had ever beheld; indeed, for one moment heeven forgot Torfrida, and gazed at her spellbound. The only remark shevouchsafed to her former preserver was a whispered "So you could not waitfor me," and then passed on to marry Dolfin, Gospatric's eldest son; andGilbert pursued his way to France to join the Norman.

After that news came thick and fast.

News of Harold Hardraada sailing to England with a mighty host, of howthe Gonfanon of St. Peter had come to Rouen, of William of Normandy'spreparations at St. Pierre sur Dive, of the Norsem*n landing in the Humber.Anon the news of Stamford Bridge and Hardraada's death, and lastly news ofSenlac, and the death of the other Harold.

For well-nigh three years after these great happenings Hereward stayedin Flanders, grieving for the woes that had come upon his native land. Notthat he sat moping all the time, for some deed of arms was ever on hand toafford distraction; but in the main his thoughts all turned on schemes forfreeing England from the French tyrant. But not till Gyda, Harold's widowedmother, came to Baldwin for sanctuary did he take any overt action.

By skilful flattery, not unmixed with truth, she persuaded him that hewas the man destined to free England once more; and so one morning he setout alone, accompanied only by Martin Lightfoot and a dozen house-carles,to spy out the land and see what might be done. Within a week he landed atBoston, only to find that Bourne, his home, had been bestowed upon the cookof Gilbert of Ghent, and that at that moment his younger brother's head wasdecorating the gable of the hall.

And so to Bourne went Hereward by night, and burst in upon the Frenchmenduring a drunken carouse: in the morning there were fifteen heads upon thegable to replace the one that he had taken down overnight. Forthwith hereturned to Flanders, having bestowed his mother in safety at CrowlandAbbey, with a promise to his countrymen of the Fens that he would return toaid them shortly.

III.--Hereward in England

Having settled his affairs in Flanders, in due time he landed once morein the Wash with Torfrida and the child and two shiploads of stoutfighters, with whom he went through Fenland raising an army. In the springcame Sweyn with his Danes, all eager for plunder; and Hereward had much adoto prevent them from plundering Crowland Abbey, only succeeding bypromising them a richer booty in Peterborough.

So Peterborough they took and sacked, but at Peterborough Hereward foundAlftruda, who had left her husband, and rescued her from the Danes duringthe sack of the minster. And, looking upon her extraordinary beauty, forthe second time he forgot Torfrida; but for all that he sent her for safetyto old Gilbert of Ghent, who had thrown in his lot with William, and wasnow at Lincoln. Having done with Peterborough, and later with Stamford, thearmy marched to Ely and there encamped.

And in Ely a great council was held, after which Sweyn and all his Danesreturned home. For as Sweyn truly said, "While William the Frenchman isking by the sword, and Edgar the Englishman king by proclamation of earlsand thanes, there seems no room here for Sweyn, nephew of Canute, king ofkings." To which Hereward could advance no good reason to prove that therewas. Anon came William of Ely, and built a floating bridge a full half-milein length across the black abyss of mud and reeds that yawned between theisland and the mainland. But the bridge was unable to bear the weight ofall the French who crowded on to it; the fastenings at the shore-end broke,and the bridge itself overturned, so that all upon it were thrown into themud and miserably drowned.

Whereon William withdrew his forces to Brandon for a space, andHereward, being minded to find out for himself what next was purposedagainst the island, followed him thither, with shorn hair and beard, anddisguised as a travelling potter. Anon he came to William's palace with hisgood mare Swallow, bearing on her back a load of crockery. At the palace henarrowly escaped recognition, being sent to the kitchen, where he got intoa quarrel with the scullions. In consequence of which he was haled beforeWilliam himself, who quickly detected that he was other than hepretended.

"Look you," said William, "you are no common churl--you have fought toowell for that; show me your arm."

Hereward drew up his sleeve.

"Potters do not carry sword-scars like these, nor are they tattooed likeEnglish thanes. Hold up thy head, man, and let me see thy throat.

"Aha! so I suspected. There is fair ladies' work there. Is not this hewho was said to be so like Hereward? Very good. Put him in ward till I comeback from hunting, but do him no harm. For were he Hereward himself, Ishould be right glad to see Hereward safe and sound; my man at last, andearl of all between Humber and the Fens." Whereupon Hereward was clappedinto an outhouse, whence he escaped forthwith by the simple device ofcutting off the head of the man sent to fetter him, and the good mareSwallow bore him back to Ely in safety.

A little later William came again to Ely and built a stronger bridge,but this the English destroyed by fire, with many of the French on it,setting the reeds aflame on the windward side of it.

Some other scheme must now be thought out, and the one that pleasedWilliam most was to send to the monks a proclamation that, unless theysubmitted within a week, all their lands and manors outside the islandwould be confiscated. Furthermore, that if Hereward would submit he shouldhave his lands in Bourne, and a free pardon for himself and all hiscomrades.

To which message Sir Ascelin and Ivo Taillebois, not being over desirousof having Hereward as a neighbour, saw fit to add a clause exemptingTorfrida from the amnesty, but that she should be burnt on account of herabominable and notorious sorceries.

When the proclamation arrived, Hereward was away foraging. He came backin hot haste when he heard of it, but not fast enough; for ere they were insight of the minster tower they were aware of a horse galloping violentlytowards them through the dusk, and on its back were Torfrida and herdaughter. The monks had surrendered the island rather than lose theirlands.

The French were already in Ely.

And now is Hereward to the greenwood gone, to be a bold outlaw, and thefather of all outlaws, who held those forests for two hundred years fromthe Fens to the Scottish border, and with some four hundred men he rangedup the Bruneswald, dashing out to the war cry of "A Wake! A Wake!" andlaying waste with fire and sword; that is, such towns as were in the handsof Frenchmen.

Now, Hereward had been faithful to Torfrida, a virtue most rare in thosedays, and he loved her with an overwhelming adoration--as all true menlove. And for that very reason he was the more aware that his feeling forAlftruda was strangely like his feeling for Torfrida; and yet strangelydifferent. Wherefore, when it befell that once on a day there came ridingto Hereward in the Bruneswald a horseman who handed to him a letter, thesight of Alftruda's signature at the end sent a strange thrill through him.There was naught in it that he should not have read--it was but to tell himthat the French were upon him, the posse comitatus of seven countieswere rising, and so forth. Continuing, the letter told him that Dolfin hadbeen slain on the Border, and William and Gilbert of Ghent were going tomarry her to Ascelin, and that, having saved her twice, she feared thatHereward could not save her a third time; concluding with an entreaty tosubmit to William, hinting that an opportunity presented itself now whichmight never recur.

The messenger took back the answer. "Tell your lady that I kiss herhands and feet; that I cannot write, for outlaws carry no pen or ink. Butthat what she has commanded, that will I perform." Having showed the letterto Torfrida, they agreed that it were well to take precautions, andwithdrew into the heart of the forest.

Alftruda's warning was both timely and true, for anon came IvoTaillebois, who had taken to wife Hereward's niece Lucia, and AbbotThorold, of Peterborough, who had an old score to wipe off in connectionwith Hereward's last visit to his abbey, and Sir Ascelin, his nephew, andmany another. And they rode gaily through the greenwood, where presentlythey found Hereward, to their sorrow, for of their number some returnedhome only after payment of ransom, and others never returned at all. And ofthe former were Abbot Thorold and Ascelin; and the ransom that Herewardexacted for those two was thirty thousand silver marks. Whereby Herewardwas enabled to put a spoke in Ascelin's wheel.

"Eh? How, most courteous victor?" said Sir Ascelin.

"Sir Ascelin is not a very wealthy gentleman?"

Ascelin laughed assent.

"Nudus intravi, nudus exeo--England; and I fear now this mortallife likewise."

"But he looked to his rich uncle the abbot to further a certain marriageproject of his. And, of course, neither my friend, Gilbert of Ghent, nor myenemy, William of Normandy, are likely to give away so rich an heiresswithout some gratification in return."

IV.--The Last of the English

Thereafter they lived for two years in the forest, and neither Torfridanor Hereward was the better for them. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick,and a sick heart is but too apt to be a peevish one. So there were fits ofdespondency, jars, mutual recriminations. Furthermore, that first daughterwas Torfrida's only child, and she knew almost as well as he how hard thatweighed on Hereward. In him the race of Leofric, of Godiva, of Earl Oslac,would become extinct, and the girl would marry--whom? Who but some Frenchconqueror, or at best some English outlaw? What wonder if he longed for ason to pass his name down to future generations?

And one day Martin Lightfoot came with another letter to Hereward, whichhe delivered to Torfrida, who learned from him that it came from Alftruda.She bade him deliver it to Hereward, to whom it was addressed, the which hedid; but she noticed that this letter Hereward never mentioned to her, ashe had done the former.

A month later Martin came again.

"There is another letter come; it came last night," said he.

"What is that to thee or me? My lord has his state secrets. Is it for usto pry into them? Go."

"I thought--I thought--"

"Go, I say!"

There was a noise of trampling horses outside. The men were arming andsaddling, and Hereward went with them, saying that he would be back inthree days.

After he had gone she found, close to where his armour had hung, aletter from Alftruda. It congratulated Hereward on having shaken himselffree from the fascinations of "that sorceress." It said that all wassettled with King William; Hereward was to come to Winchester. She had theking's writ for his safety ready to send to him; the king would receive himas his liegeman. Alftruda would receive him as her husband. ArchbishopLanfranc had made difficulties about the dissolution of his marriage withTorfrida, but gold would do all things at Rome; and so forth.

When this was read, after a night of frenzy, to Crowland Torfrida wentunder the guidance of Martin, and laid her head upon the knees of the LadyGodiva.

"I am come, as you always told me I should do. But it has been a longway hither, and I am very tired."

And at Crowland remained Martin, donning a lay brother's frock that hemight the better serve his mistress. And to Crowland, after three days,came Leofric, the renegade priest, who had been with Hereward in thegreenwood, and with him the child.

And so it came that when Hereward returned, as he had said, after threedays, he found neither wife nor child, and to Crowland he too went, butcame away even as he had gone. But with Torfrida he had no word, nor withGodiva, for both refused him audience.

So Hereward went to Winchester, and with him forty of his knights, andplaced his hands between the hands of William, and swore to be his man.

And William walked out of the hall leaning on Hereward's shoulder, atwhich all the Normans gnashed their teeth with envy.

And thereafter Hereward married Alftruda, after the scruples of HolyChurch had been duly set at rest.

Then Hereward lived again at Bourne, and tried to bring forgetfulness bydrink--and drink brought boastfulness; for that he had no more the spiritleft to do great deeds, he must needs babble of the great deeds which hehad done, and hurl insult and defiance at his Norman neighbours. And in thespace of three years he had become as intolerable to those same neighboursas they were intolerable to him, and he was fain to keep up at Bourne thesame watch and ward that he had kept up in the forest.

And Judith came to Bourne, and besought Alftruda to accompany her toCrowland, where she would visit the tomb of Waltheof, her husband. AndAlftruda went with her, taking a goodly company of knights to be herescort, while Hereward remained at Bourne with few to guard it.

And knowing this, to Bourne came Ascelin and Taillebois, Evermue, Raoulde Dol, and many another Norman, and burst in upon Hereward in some suchfashion as he had done himself some ten years earlier. "Felons," heshouted, "your king has given me his truce! Is this your French law? Isthis your French honour? Come on, traitors all, and get what you can of anaked man; you will buy it dear. Guard my back, Winter!"

And with his constant comrade at his back, he dashed right at the pressof knights:

And when his lance did break in hand
Full fell enough he smote with brand.

And now he is all wounded, and Winter, who fought at his back, is fallenon his face, and Hereward stands alone within a ring of eleven corpses. Aknight rushes in, to make a twelfth, cloven through the helm; but with theblow Hereward's blade snaps short, and he hurls it away as his foes rushin. With his shield he beat out the brains of two, but now Taillebois andEvermue are behind him, and with four lances through his back he falls, torise no more.

So perished the last of the English.

Hypatia

In "Hypatia," published in 1853, after passing through"Fraser's Magazine," Kingsley turned from social problems in England tolife in Egypt in the fifth century, taking the same pains to give thehistorical facts of the old dying Roman world as he did to describecontemporary events at home. The moral of "Hypatia," according to itsauthor, is that "the sins of these old Egyptians are yours, their errorsyours, their doom yours, their deliverance yours. There is nothing newunder the sun."

I.--The Laura

In the 413th year of the Christian era, some 300 miles from Alexandria,the young monk Philammon was sitting on the edge of a low range of inlandcliffs, crested with drifting sand. Behind him the desert sand wastestretched, lifeless, interminable, reflecting its lurid blare on thehorizon of the cloudless vault of blue. Presently he rose and wanderedalong the cliffs in search of fuel for the monastery from whence he came,for Abbot Pambo's laura at Scetis.

It lay pleasantly enough, that lonely laura, or lane of rude Cyclopeancells, under the perpetual shadow of the southern walls of crags, amid itsgrove of ancient date-trees. And a simple, happy, gentle life was that ofthe laura, all portioned out by rules and methods. Each man had food andraiment, shelter on earth, friends and counsellors, living trust in thecontinual care of Almighty God. Thither had they fled out of cities, out ofa rotten, dying world of tyrants and slaves, hypocrites and wantons, toponder undisturbed on duty and on judgment, on death and eternity.

But to Philammon had come an insatiable craving to know the mysteries oflearning, to see the great roaring world of men. He felt he could stay nolonger, and on his return he poured out his speech to Abbot Pambo.

"Let me go! I am not discontented with you, but with myself. I knew thatobedience is noble, but danger is nobler still. If you have seen the world,why should not I? Cyril and his clergy have not fled from it."

Abbot Pambo sought counsel with the good brother Aufugus, and then badePhilammon follow him.

"And thou wouldst see the world, poor fool? Thou wouldst see the world?"said the old man when the abbot had left them alone together.

"I would convert the world!"

"Thou must know it first. Here I sit, the poor unknown old monk, until Idie. And shall I tell thee what that world is like? I was Arsenius, tutorof the emperor. There at Byzantium I saw the world which thou wouldst see,and what I saw thou wilt see. Bishops kissing the feet of parricides.Saints tearing saints in pieces for a word. Falsehood and selfishness,spite and lust, confusion seven times confounded. And thou wouldst go intothe world from which I fled?"

"If the harvest be at hand, the Lord needs labourers. Send me, and letthat day find me where I long to be, in the forefront of the battle of theLord."

"The Lord's voice be obeyed. Thou shalt go. Here are letters to Cyril,the patriarch. Thou goest of our free will as well as thine own. The abbotand I have watched thee long, knowing that the Lord had need of such asthee elsewhere. We did but prove thee, to see, by thy readiness to obey,whether thou were fit to rule. Go, and God be with thee. Covet no man'sgold or silver. Neither eat flesh nor drink wine, but live as thou hastlived--a Nazarite of the Lord. The papyrus boat lies at the ferry; thoushalt descend in it. When thou hast gone five days' journey downward, askfor the mouth of the canal of Alexandria. Once in the city, any monk willguide thee to the archbishop. Send us news of thy welfare by some holymouth. Come."

Silently they paced together down the glen to the lonely beach of thegreat stream. Pambo was there, and with slow and feeble arms he launchedthe canoe. Philammon flung himself at the old men's feet, and besoughttheir blessing and their forgiveness.

"We have nothing to forgive. Follow thou thine inward call. If it be theflesh, it will avenge itself; if it be of the Spirit, who are we that weshould fight against God? Farewell!"

A few minutes more, and the youth and his canoe were lessening down therapid stream in the golden summer twilight.

II.--Hypatia, Queen of Paganism

On his first morning in Alexandria, Philammon heard praises of Hypatiafrom a fruit porter who showed him the way to the archbishop's house.Hypatia, according to his guide, was the queen of Alexandria, a very uniqueand wonderful person, the fountain of classic wisdom.

Later in the day, after he had presented himself to Archbishop Cyril,Philammon learnt from an old priest, and from a fanatical monk named Peter,that the very name of Hypatia was enough to rouse the clergy to a fury ofexecration. It seemed that Orestes, the Roman governor of the city,although nominally a Christian, was the curse of the Alexandrian Church;and Orestes visited Hypatia, whose lectures on heathen philosophy drew allthe educated youth of the place.

Philammon's heart burned to distinguish himself at once. There were noidols now to break, but there was philosophy.

"Why does not some man of God go boldly into the lecture-room of thesorceress, and testify against her?" he asked.

"Do it yourself, if you dare," said Peter. "We have no wish to get ourbrains knocked out by all the profligate young gentlemen in the city."

"I will do it," said Philammon.

The archbishop gave permission.

"Only promise me two things," he said. "Promise me that, whateverhappens, you will not strike the first blow, and that you will not arguewith her. Contradict, denounce, defy. But give no reasons. If you do youare lost. She is subtler than the serpent, skilled in all the tricks oflogic, and you will became a laughing-stock, and run away in shame."

"Ay," said Peter, bitterly, as he ushered Philammon out. "Go up toRamoth Gilead and prosper, young fool! Ay, go, and let her convert you.Touch the accursed thing, like Achan, and see if you do not end by havingit in your tent."

And with this encouraging sentence the two parted, and Philammon, on thefollowing morning, followed the train of philosophers, students, and finegentlemen to Hypatia's lecture-room.

Philammon listened to Hypatia in bewilderment, attracted by the beautyof the speaker, the melody of her voice, and the glitter of her rhetoric.As she discoursed on truth a sea of new thoughts and questions came rushingin on his acute Greek intellect at every sentence. A hostile allusion tothe Christian Scriptures aroused him, and he cried out, "It is false,blasphemous! The Scriptures cannot lie!"

There was a yell at this. "Turn the monk out!" "Throw the rustic throughthe window!" cried a dozen young gentlemen. Several of the most valiantbegan to scramble over the benches up to him, and Philammon wascongratulating himself on the near approach of a glorious martyrdom, whenHypatia's voice, calm and silvery, stifled the noise and tumult in amoment.

"Let the youth listen, gentlemen. He is but a monk and a plebeian, andknows no better; he has been taught thus. Let him sit here quietly, andperhaps we may be able to teach him otherwise."

And, without even a change of tone, she continued her lecture.

Philammon sprang up the moment that the spell of her voice was taken offhim, and hurried out through the corridor into the street. But he had notgone fifty yards before his friend the fruit porter, breathless withrunning, told him that Hypatia called for him. "Thereon, her father,commands thee to be at her house--here--to-morrow at the third hour. Hearand obey."

Cyril heard Philammon's story and Hypatia's message with a quiet smile,and then dismissed the youth to an afternoon of labour in the city,commanding him to come for his order in the evening.

But in the evening, Peter, already jealous of Cyril's interest inPhilammon, and enraged at any toleration being extended to Hypatia, refusedto let the youth enter the archbishop's house, and then struck him full inthe face. The blow was intolerable, and in an instant Peter's long legswere sprawling on the pavement, while he bellowed like a bull to all themonks that stood by, "Seize him! The traitor! The heretic! He holdscommunion with heathens! And he was in Hypatia's lecture-room thismorning!"

A rush took place at the youth, but Philammon's blood was up. The ringof monks were baying at him like hounds round a bear, and, against suchodds, the struggle would be desperate. He turned and forced his way to thegate, amid a yell of derision which brought every drop of blood in his bodyinto his cheeks.

"Let me leave this court in safety! God knows whether I am a heretic;and the archbishop shall know of your iniquity. I will not cross thisthreshold again until Cyril himself sends for me to shame you!"

He strode on in his wrath some hundred yards or more before he askedhimself where he was going. Gradually one fixed idea began to glimmerthrough the storm--to see Hypatia and convert her. He had Cyril's leave. Itmust be right. That would justify him--to bring back, in the fetters of theGospel, the Queen of Heathendom. Yes, there was that left to live for.

III.--Pandemonium

Philammon did not convert Hypatia, but he became her favourite pupil.And Hypatia, dreaming that the worship of the old gods might be restored,and her philosophy triumph over Christianity, received daily visits fromOrestes, the governor, and entered into his plans--to her undoing.

For Orestes had an idea of becoming emperor, and of purchasing thefavour of the populace by a show of gladiators. To win Hypatia for himself,he promised to restore the heathen games, and Hypatia, caring nothing forOrestes, but always longing for the revival of the old religion, promised,against her better judgment, to bear him company on the day of thefestival, and to sit by his side, and even to acclaim him emperor.

The success of Orestes' plot depended on the success of a biggerrebellion--the attempt of Heraclian, Count of Africa, to conquer Rome.Heraclian had been defeated, and this was known to Cyril, but Orestes wasmisled by false intelligence, and counted on Heraclian's victory for hisown triumph.

When the day of the spectacle arrived, to the horror and surprise ofPhilammon, Hypatia herself sat by the side of the Roman prefect, while, onthe stage before them, a number of Libyan prisoners fought fiercely fortheir lives, only to be butchered in the end by the professionalgladiators.

The sleeping devil in the hearts of the brutalised multitude burst forthat the sight, and with jeers and applause the hired ruffians were urged onto their work of blood.

Then a shameless exhibition of Venus followed, and Philammon could bearno more. For Venus was his sister, long parted from him in childhood, andonly in the last few days had he learnt of his relationship to Pelagia, thelady who had consented to act the part of the Goddess of Love, and who wasbetrothed to Amal, the leader of the band of Goths. He rushed down throughthe dense mass of spectators, leaped the balustrade into the orchestrabelow, and tore across to the foot of the stage.

"Pelagia! Sister! My sister! Have mercy on me! On yourself! I will hideyou! Save you! We will flee together out of this infernal place! I am yourbrother! Come!"

She looked at him one moment with wide, wild eyes. The truth flashed onher. And she sprang from the platform into his arms, and then, covering herface with both her hands, sank down among the bloodstained sand.

A yell ran along the vast circle. Philammon was hurried away by theattendants, and Pelagia, her face still hidden by her hands, walked slowlyaway and vanished among the palms at the back of the stage. A cloud,whether of disgust or disappointment, now hung upon every brow, and therewas open murmuring at the cruelty and heathenry of the show. Hypatia wasutterly unnerved. Orestes alone rose to the crisis.

In a well-studied oration he declared that Heraclian the African wasconquerer of Rome, and a roar of hired applause supported him. Then theprefect of the guards encouraged the city authorities to salute Orestes asemperor, and Hypatia, amid shouts of her aristocratic scholars, rose andknelt before him, writhing inwardly with shame and despair.

At the same moment a monk's voice shouted from the highest tiers in thetheatre, "It is false! False! You are tricked! Heraclian was utterlyrouted; Cyril has known it, every Jew has known it, for a week past. Soperish all the enemies of the Lord, caught in their own snare!"

For a minute an awful silence fell on all who heard; and then arose atumult, which Orestes in vain attempted to subdue. The would-be emperorsummoned his guards around him and Hypatia, and made his way out as best hecould, while the multitude melted away like snow before the rain, to findevery church placarded by Cyril with the particulars of Heraclian'sruin.

Two days later, when Hypatia went to give her farewell lecture to herpupils--for all hope was dead--a mob of monks and their followers seizedher, dragged her into the church of the Caesareum, and there, before thegreat, still figure of Christ, Peter struck her down, and the mob tore herlimb from limb.

IV.--Back to the Desert

Philammon had done his best, struggling in vain, to pierce the densemass of people, and save Hypatia. He had been wedged against a pillar,unable to move, in the great church.

The little fruit porter, alone of all her disciples, fought his waythrough the mob, only to be thrown down the steps.

When all was over in the church, and Hypatia was dead, and the mob hadrushed out, Philammon sank down exhausted outside, and the little porterburst out into a bitter agony of human tears.

"She is with the gods," said the porter at last.

"She is with the God of gods," answered Philammon.

Then he felt that he must arise and flee for his life. He had gone forthto see the world, and he had seen it. Arsenius was in the right after all.Home to the desert. But first he would go himself, alone, and find Pelagia,and implore her to flee with him.

Abbot Pambo, as well as Arsenius, had been dead several years; theabbot's place was filled, by his own dying command, by a hermit from theneighbouring deserts, who had made himself famous for many miles round byhis extraordinary austerities, his ceaseless prayers, and his lovingwisdom.

While still in the prime of his manhood, he was dragged, against his ownentreaties, to preside over the laura of Scetis. The elder monks consideredit an indignity to be ruled by so young a man; but the monastery throve andgrew rapidly under his government. His sweetness, patience, and humility,and, above all, his marvellous understanding of the doubts and temptationsof his own generation, soon drew around him all whose sensitiveness orwaywardness had made them unmanageable in the neighbouring monasteries.

Never was the young Abbot Philammon heard to speak harshly of any humanbeing, and he stopped, by stern rebuke, any attempt to revile eitherheretics or heathens.

One thing was noted, that there mingled always with his prayers thenames of two women. And when some worthy elder, taking courage from hisyears, dared to hint kindly that this caused some scandal to the weakerbrethren, "It is true," answered he. "Tell my brethren that I pray nightlyfor two women, both of them young, both of them beautiful; both of thembeloved by me more than I love my own soul; and tell them that one of thetwo was an actress, and the other a heathen." The old monk laid his hand onhis mouth and retired.

The remainder of his history it seems better to extract from anunpublished fragment of the lives of the saints.

"Now when the said abbot had ruled the monastery of Scetis seven yearswith uncommon prudence, he called one morning to him a certain ancientbrother, and said: 'Make ready for me the divine elements, that I mayconsecrate them, and partake thereof with all my brethren, ere I departhence. For know assuredly that within the seventh day, I shall migrate tothe celestial mansions.' And the abbot, having consecrated, distributedamong his brethren, reserving only a portion of the most holy bread andwine; and then, having bestowed on them all the kiss of peace, he took thepaten and chalice in his hands, and went forth from the monastery towardsthe desert; whom the whole fraternity followed weeping. And having arrivedat the foot of a certain mountain, he stopped, and blessing them, dismissedthem, and so ascending, was taken away from their eyes.

"But the eldest brother sent two of the young men to seek their master,who, meeting with a certain Moorish people, learnt that a priest, bearing apaten and chalice, had passed before them a few days before, crossing thedesert in the direction of the cave of the holy Amma.

"And they inquiring who this Amma might be, the Moors answered that sometwenty years ago there had arrived in those mountains a woman morebeautiful than had ever before been seen in that region, who, afterdistributing among them the rich jewels which she wore, had embraced thehermit's life, and sojourned upon the highest peak of a neighbouringmountain.

"Then the two brothers, determining to proceed, arrived upon the summitof the said mountain.

"There in an open grave, guarded by two lions, lay the body ofPhilammon, the abbot; and by his side, wrapped in his cloak, the corpse ofa woman of exceeding beauty, such as the Moors had described. And by thegrave-side stood the paten and the chalice, emptied of their divinecontents. Whereupon, filling in the grave with all haste, they returnedweeping to the laura.

"Now, before they returned, one of the brethren, searching the cavewherein the holy woman dwelt, found nothing there, saving one bracelet ofgold, of large size and strange workmanship, engraven with foreigncharacters, which no one could decipher.

"And it came to pass years afterwards that certain wandering barbariansof the Vandalic race saw this bracelet in the laura of Scetis, andpretended that it had belonged to a warrior of their tribe."

So be it. Pelagia and Philammon, like the rest, went to their own place;to the only place where such in such days could find rest; to the desertand the hermit's cell.

Let him that is without sin among you cast the first stone, whether atHypatia or Pelagia, Cyril or Philammon.

Two Years Ago

Kingsley's "Two Years Ago" has been said by his son to be theonly novel, pure and simple, that ever came from the pen of the famouswriter, Published in 1857, it was begun two years earlier while staying atBideford. At this time Kingsley was deeply interested in the Crimean War,and many thousands of copies of his pamphlet, "Brave Words to BraveSoldiers," were distributed to the army. His military tastes no doubt go along way towards explaining his doctrine in "Two Years Ago" that the warwas to exercise a great regenerating influence in English life. Althoughthe story is in many respects weaker than its predecessors, it neverthelessabounds in brilliant and vivid word-paintings, the descriptions of NorthDevon scenery being probably unsurpassed in English prose.

I.--Tom Thurnall's Wanderings

To tell my story I must go back sixteen years to the days when thepleasant old town of Whitbury boasted of forty coaches a day, instead ofone railway, and set forth how there stood two pleasant houses side by sidein its southern suburb.

In one of these two houses lived Mark Armsworth, banker, solicitor, landagent, and justice of the peace. In the other lived Edward Thurnall,esquire, doctor of medicine, and consulting physician of all thecountryside. These two men were as brothers, both were honest andkind-hearted men.

Dr. Thurnall was sitting in his study, settled to his microscope, onebeautiful October morning, and his son Tom stood gazing out of the baywindow.

Tom, who had been brought up in his father's profession, was of thatbull-terrier type so common in England; sturdy, middle-sized, deep-chested,broad-shouldered, his face full of shrewdness and good nature, and ofhumour withal. It was his last day at home; tomorrow he was leaving forParis.

Presently Mark Armsworth came in, and Tom was seen cantering about thegarden with a weakly child of eight in his arms.

"Mark, the boy's heart cannot be in the wrong place while he is so fondof little children."

"If she grows up, doctor, and don't go to join her poor dear mother upthere, I don't know that I'd wish her a better husband than your boy."

"It would be a poor enough match for her."

"Tut! She'll have the money, and he the brains. Doctor, that boy'll be acredit to you; he'll make a noise in the world, or I know nothing. And ifhis fancy holds seven years hence, and he wants still to turn traveller,let him. If he's minded to go round the world, I'll back him to go,somehow, or I'll eat my head, Ned Thurnall!"

So Tom carried Mary about all the morning, and next day went to Paris,and soon became the best pistol shot and billiard-player in the QuartierLatin. Then he went to St. Mumpsimus's Hospital in London, and became thebest boxer therein, and captain of the eight-oar, besides winning prizesand certificates without end, and becoming in time the most popularhouse-surgeon in the hospital; but nothing could keep him permanently athome. Settle down in a country practice he would not. Cost his father afarthing he would not. So he started forth into the wide world with nothingbut his wits and his science, an anatomical professor to a new college insome South American republic. Unfortunately, when he got there, he foundthat the annual revolution had just taken place, and that the party who hadfounded the college had all been shot. Whereat he whistled, and started offa*gain, no man knew whither.

"Having got round half the world, daddy," he wrote home, "it's hard if Idon't get round the other half."

With which he vanished into infinite space, and was only heard of byoccasional letters dated from the Rocky Mountains, the Spanish West Indies,Otaheite, Singapore, the Falkland Islands, and all manner of unexpectedplaces, sending home valuable notes, zoological and botanical.

At last when full four years were passed and gone since Tom started forSouth America, he descended from the box of the day-mail at Whitbury, witha serene and healthful countenance, shouldered his carpet-bag, and startedfor his father's house.

He walked in, and hung up his hat in the hall, just as if he had come infrom a walk. Not finding the old man, he went into Mark Armsworth's,frightening out of her wits a pale, ugly girl of seventeen, whom hediscovered to be his old playfellow, Mary. However, she soon recovered herequanimity, and longed to throw her arms round his neck as of old, and wasonly restrained by the thought that she was grown a great girl now. Shecalled her father, and all the household, and after a while the old doctorcame home, and the fatted calf was killed, and all made merry over thereturn of this altogether unrepentant prodigal son.

Tom Thurnall stayed a month at home, and then went to America, whence hewrote home in about six months. Then came a long silence, and then a letterfrom California; and then letters more regularly from Australia. Sickenedwith California life, he had crossed the Pacific once more, and was hard atwork in the diggings, doctoring and gold-finding by turns.

"A rolling stone gathers no moss," said his father.

"He has the pluck of a hound, and the cunning of a fox," said Mark, "andhe'll be a credit to you yet."

So the years slipped on till the autumn of 1853. And then Tom, at thediggings at Ballarat, got a letter from Mary Armsworth.

"Your father is quite well in health, but his eyes have grown muchworse, and the doctors are afraid that he has little chance of recoveringthe sight, at least of the left eye. And something has happened to therailroad in which he had invested so much, and he has given up the oldhouse. He wants you to come home; but my father has entreated him to letyou stay. You know, while we are here, he is safe."

Tom walked away slowly into the forest. He felt that the crisis of hislife was come.

"I'll stay here and work," he said to himself finally, "till I make ahit or luck runs dry, and then home and settle; and, meanwhile, I'll godown to Melbourne tomorrow, and send the dear old dad two hundredpounds."

And there sprang up in him at once the intensest yearning after hisfather and the haunts of his boyhood, and the wildest dread that he shouldnever see them.

II.--The Wreck

Half the village of Aberalva is collected on the long sloping point of acliff. Sailors wrapped in pilot-cloth, oil-skinned coast guardsmen, womenwith their gowns turned over their heads, while every moment some freshcomer stumbles down the slope and asks, "Where's the wreck?" A shift ofwind, a drift of cloud, and the moon flashes out a moment.

"There she is, sir," says Brown, the head-boatman to the coastguardlieutenant.

Some three hundred yards out at sea lies a long, curved, black line,amid the white, wild leaping hills of water. A murmur from the crowd.

"A Liverpool clipper, by the lines of her."

"God help the poor passengers, then!" sobs a woman. "They're past ourhelp."

A quarter of an hour passes.

"God have mercy!" shouts Brown. "She's going!"

The black curve coils up, and then all melts away into the whiteseething waste.

The coastguard lieutenant settles down in his macintoshes, knowing thathis duty is not to leave as long as there is a chance of saving--not alife, for that was past all hope, but a chest of clothes or a stick oftimber.

And with the coastguardsmen many sailors stayed. Old Captain Willisstays because Grace Harvey, the village schoolmistress, is there, sittingupon a flat slope of rock, a little apart from the rest, with her faceresting on her hands, gazing intently out into the wild waste.

"She's not one of us," says old Willis. "There's no saying what's goingon there in her. Maybe she's praying; maybe she sees more than we do, overthe sea there."

"Look at her now! What's she after?" Brown replies.

The girl had raised her head, and was pointing toward the sea. Then shesprang to her feet with a scream.

"A man! A man! Save him!"

As she spoke a huge wave rolled in, and out of it struggled, on handsand knees, a human figure. He looked wildly up and around, and lay clingingwith outstretched arms over the edge of the rock.

"Save him!" she shrieked again, as twenty men rushed forward--andstopped short. The man was fully thirty yards from them, but between themand him stretched a long, ghastly crack, some ten feet wide, with seethingcauldrons within.

Ere they could nerve themselves for action, the wave had come,half-burying the wretched mariner, and tearing across the chasm.

The schoolmistress took one long look, and as the wave retired, rushedafter it to the very brink of the chasm, and flung herself on herknees.

"The wave has carried him across the crack, and she's got him!" screamedold Willis. And he sprang upon her, and caught her round the waist.

"Now, if you be men!" shouted he, as the rest hurried down.

"Now, if you be men; before the next wave comes!" shouted big Jan, thefisherman. "Hands together, and make a line!" And he took a grip with onehand of the old man's waistband, and held out the other for who would toseize.

Strong hand after hand was clasped, and strong knee after knee droppedalmost to the rock, to meet the coming rush of water.

It came, and surged over the man and the girl, and up to old Willis'sthroat, and round the knees of Jan and his neighbour; and then followed thereturning out-draught, and every limb quivered under the strain; but whenthe cataract had disappeared, the chain was still unbroken.

"Saved!" and a cheer broke from all lips save those of the girlherself--she was as senseless as he whom she had saved.

Gently they lifted each, and laid them on the rock; and presently theschoolmistress was safe in bed at her mother's house. And the man, weak,but alive, had been carried triumphantly up to the door of Dr. Heale, whichhaving been kicked open, the sailors insisted on carrying him rightupstairs, and depositing him on the best spare bed, saying, "If you won'tcome to your patients, doctor, your patients shall come to you."

The man grumbled when he awoke next morning at being thrown ashore withnothing in the world but an old jersey and a bag of tobacco, two hundredmiles short of the port where he hoped to land with £1,500 in hispocket.

To Dr. Heale, and to the Rev. Frank Headley, the curate, who called uponhim, he mentioned that his name was Tom Thurnall, F.R.C.S.

Later in the day Tom met the coastguard lieutenant and old CaptainWillis on the shore, and the latter introduced him to "Miss Harvey, theyoung person who saved your life last night."

Tom was struck by the beauty of the girl at once, but after thankingher, said gently, "I wish to tell you something which I do not wantpublicly talked of, but in which you may help me. I had nearly £1,500about me when I came ashore last night, sewed in a belt round my waist. Itis gone."

Grace turned pale, and her lips quivered. She turned to her mother andCaptain Willis.

"Belt! Mother! Uncle! What is this? The gentleman has lost a belt!"

"Dear me! A belt! Well, child, that's not much to grieve over, when theLord has spared his life," said her mother, somewhat testily.

Grace declared the money should be found, and Tom vowed to himself hewould stay in that little Cornish village of Aberalva until he hadrecovered it.

So after writing to some old friends at St. Mumpsimus's Hospital to sendhim down some new drugs, and to his father, he settled down as Dr. Heale'sassistant; and Dr. Heale being addicted to brandy and water, there wasplenty of room for assistance.

III.--The Cholera

Tom Thurnall had made up his mind in June 1854, that the cholera oughtto visit Aberalva in the course of the summer, and, of course, tried hisbest to persuade people to get ready for their ugly visitor; but in vain.The collective ignorance, pride, laziness, and superstition of the littletown showed a terrible front to the newcomer.

"Does he think we was all fools afore he came here?"

That was the rallying cry of the enemy, and sanitary reform was thrustout of sight.

But Lord Minchampstead, who owned the neighbouring estates ofPentremochyn, on Mark Armsworth's advice, got Tom to make a report on thesanitary state of his cottages, and then acted on the information.

Frank Headley backed up Tom in his sanitary crusade, the coastguardlieutenant proved an unexpected ally, and Grace Harvey promised that shewould do all she could.

Tom wrote up to London and detailed the condition of the place to theGeneral Board of Health, and the Board returned, for answer, that, as soonas cholera broke out in Aberalva, they would send down an inspector.

Then in August it came, and Tom Beer, the fisherman, and one of thefinest fellows in the town, was dead after two hours' illness.

Up and down the town the foul fiend sported, now here, now there,fleshing his teeth on every kind of prey. He has taken old Beer's secondson, and now clutches at the old man himself; then across the street to JanBeer, his eldest; but he is driven out from both houses by chloride oflime, and the colony of the Beers has peace awhile. The drunken cobblerdies, of course; but spotless cleanliness and sobriety do not save themother of seven children, who has been soaking her brick floor daily withwater from a poisoned well, defiling where she meant to clean. Youth doesnot save the buxom lass who has been filling herself with unripe fruit.

And yet sots and fools escape where wise men fall; weakly women, livingamid all wretchedness, nurse, unharmed, strong men who have breathed freshair all day.

Headley and Grace and old Willis, and last, but not least, Tom Thurnall,these and three or four brave women, organised themselves into a band, andcommenced at once a visitation from house to house, saving thereby many alife. But within eight-and-forty hours it was as much as they could do toattend to the acute cases.

Grace often longed to die, but knew that she should not die till she hadfound Tom's belt, and was content to wait.

Tom just thought nothing about death and danger at all, but, alwayscheerful, always busy, yet never in a hurry, went up and down, seeminglyubiquitous. Sleep he got when he could, and food as often as he could; intothe sea he leapt, morning and night, and came out fresher every time; theonly person in the town who seemed to grow healthier, and actually happier,as the work went on, in that fearful week.

The battle is over at last, and Tom is in London at the end ofSeptember, ready to go to war as medical officer to the Turks. The news ofAlma has just arrived.

But he pays a visit to Whitbury first, and there Lord Minchampstead seeshim, and his lordship expresses satisfaction at the way Tom conducted thebusiness at Pentremochyn, and offers him a post of queen's messenger in theCrimea, which Tom accepts with profuse thanks.

Before Tom left for the East old Mark Armsworth took him aside, andsaid, "What do you think of the man who marries my daughter?"

"I should think," quoth Tom, wondering who the happy man could be, "thathe would be lucky in possessing such a heart."

"Then be as good as your word, and take her yourself. I've watched you,and you'll make her a good husband."

Tom was too astonished and puzzled to reply. He had never thought thathe had found such favour in his old playfellow Mary Armsworth's eyes.

It was a terrible temptation. He knew the plain English of£50,000, and Mark Armsworth's daughter, a good house, a goodconsulting practice, and, above all, his father to live with him.

And then rose up before his imagination the steadfast eyes of GraceHarvey, and seemed to look through and through his inmost soul, as througha home which belonged of right to her, and where no other woman must dwell,or could dwell; for she was there and he knew it; and knew that, even if henever married till his dying day, he should sell his soul by marryinganyone but her.

So Tom told old Mark it was impossible, because he was in love withanother woman. And then just as he was packing up next morning came a notefrom Mark Armsworth and a cheque for £500, "To Thomas Thurnall, Esq.,for behaving like a gentleman." And Tom went Eastward Ho!--two yearsago.

IV.--Christmas Eve

It was in September, after Tom had left, that Grace found the missingbelt. Her mother had hidden it in a cave on the shore, and Grace, followingher there, came upon the hiding-place. The shock of detection brought outthe disease against which Mrs. Harvey had taken so many precautions, andwithin two days the unhappy woman was dead.

Grace sold all her mother's effects, paid off all creditors, and with afew pounds left, vanished from Aberalva. She had written at once to Tom atWhitbury, telling him that his belt and money were safe, but had receivedno answer; and now she went to Whitbury herself, only to arrive a weekafter Tom had gone. Mark Armsworth and Mary kept her for a night, and sheleft Tom's money with the old banker, retaining the belt and then set outEastward Ho! too, to nurse the wounded in the war; and, if possible, tofind Tom and clear her name of all suspicion.

How Grace Harvey worked at Scutari and at Balaclava, there is no need totell. Why mark her out from the rest, when all did more than nobly? In duetime she went home to England--home, but not to Aberalva.

She presented herself one day at Mark Armsworth's house in Whitbury, andbegged him to obtain her a place as servant to old Dr. Thurnall. And by thehelp of Mark, and Mary, Grace Harvey took up her abode in the old man'shouse; and ere a month was past she was to him a daughter.

Mary loved her--wanted to call her sister; but Grace drew back lovingly,but humbly, from all advances; for she had divined Mary's secret with thequick eye of a woman. She saw how Mary grew daily paler, sadder. Be it so;Mary had a right to him, and she had none.

And where was Tom Thurnall all the while? No man could tell.

Mark inquired; Lord Minchampstead inquired; great personages inquired;but all in vain. A few knew, and told Lord Minchampstead, who told Mark, inconfidence, that he had been heard of last in the Circassian Mountainsabout Christmas 1854; but since then all was blank.

The old man never seemed to regret him; and never mentioned his nameafter a while. None knew it was because he and Grace never talked ofanything else. So they had lived, and so they had waited.

And now it is the blessed Christmas Eve; the light is failing fast; whendown the High Street comes Mark's portly bulk. The next minute he hasentered the old doctor's house, and is full of the afternoon's run, for hehas been out fox-hunting.

The old doctor is confident to-day that his son will return, and Gracereassures him.

"Yes, he is coming soon to us," she half whispers, leaning over the oldman's chair. "Or else we are soon going to him. It may mean that, sir.Perhaps it is better that it should."

"It matters little, child, if he be near, as near he is."

And sure enough while Mark is telling of the good run he has had, Tom'sfresh voice is heard. Yes! There he was in bodily flesh and blood; thin,sallow, bearded to the eyes, dressed in ragged sailor's clothes.

Grace uttered a long, soft, half laughing cry, full of the deliciousagony of sudden relief; and then slipped from the room past the unheedingTom, who had no eyes but for his father. Straight up to the old man hewent, took both his hands, and spoke in the old, cheerful voice.

"Well, my dear old daddy! I'm afraid I've made you very anxious; but itwas not my fault; and I knew you would be certain I should come at last,eh?"

"My son! my son!" murmured the old man. "You won't go away again, dearboy? I'm getting old and forgetful; and I don't think I could bear itagain, you see."

"Never again, as long as I live, daddy."

Mark Armsworth burst out blubbering like a great boy.

"I said so! I always said so! The devil could not kill him and Godwouldn't."

"Tom," said his father presently, "you have not spoken to Grace yet. Sheis my daughter now, Tom, and has been these twelve months past."

"If she is not, she will be soon," said Tom, quietly. With that hewalked straight out of the room to find Grace in the passage.

And Grace lay silent in his arms.

Water-Babies

Charles Kingsley wrote "The Water-Babies, a Fairy Tale for aLand-Baby," under romantic circ*mstances. Reminded in 1862 of a promise hehad made that "Rose, Maurice, and Mary have got their books, the baby musthave his," Kingsley produced the story about little Tom, which forms thefirst chapter in "The Water-Babies," a fairy tale occupying a nook of itsown in the literature of fantasy for children. After running seriallythrough "Macmillan's Magazine," the "Water-Babies" was published in bookform in 1863, dedicated "To my youngest son, and to all other good littleboys." Mrs. Kingsley, in the life of her husband says "that it was perhapsthe last book that he wrote with any real ease." The story, with itsirresponsible and whimsical humour, throws an altogether delightful lightupon the character of Charles Kingsley--clergyman, lecturer, historian, andsocial reformer.

I.--"I Must be Clean!"

Once upon a time there was a little chimney-sweep, and his name was Tom.He lived in a great town in the North Country where there were plenty ofchimneys to sweep and plenty of money for Tom to earn, and his drunkenmaster to spend. He could not read nor write, and did not care to doeither; and he never washed himself, for there was no water up the courtwhere he lived. Chimney-sweeping and hunger and beatings, he took all forthe way of the world, and when his master let him have a pull at theleavings of his beer Tom was the jolliest boy in the whole town.

One day, Tom's master, Mr. Grimes, was sent for to sweep all thechimneys at Sir John Harthover's mansion, Harthover Place.

At four in the morning they passed through the silent town together andalong the peaceful country roads to Sir John's, Mr. Grimes riding thedonkey in front and Tom and the brushes walking behind. On the way theycame up with an old Irishwoman, limping slowly along and carrying a heavybundle. She walked along with Tom and asked him many questions abouthimself, and seemed very sad when he told her that he knew no prayers tosay. She told him that she lived far away by the sea; and, how the searolled and roared on winter nights and lay still in the bright summer days,for the children to bathe and play in it; and many a story more till Tomlonged to go and see the sea and bathe in it likewise.

When, at length, they came to a spring, Grimes got off his donkey, torefresh himself by dipping his head in the water. Because Tom followed hisexample, his master immediately thrashed him.

"Are you not ashamed of yourself, Thomas Grimes?" said theIrishwoman.

Grimes looked up, startled at her knowing his name; but he answered:"No, nor never was yet," and went on beating Tom.

"True for you. If you ever had been ashamed of yourself, you would havegone into Vendale long ago."

"What do you know about Vendale?" shouted Grimes; but he left offbeating Tom.

"I know about Vendale and about you, too, and if you strike that boyagain I can tell you what I know."

Grimes seemed quite cowed and got on his donkey without anotherword.

"Stop!" said the Irishwoman. "I have one more word for you both, for youwill see me again. Those that wish to be clean, clean they will be; andthose that wish to be foul, foul they will be. Remember."

She turned away into a meadow and disappeared. And Tom and Grimes wenton their way. When they came to Harthover Place, the housekeeper turnedthem into a grand room all covered up in sheets of brown paper. Up thechimney went Tom with a kick from his master.

How many chimneys Tom swept I cannot say; but he swept so many that hegot tired, and puzzled too, for they ran into one another so that he fairlylost his way in them. At last he came down. But it was the wrong chimney,and he found himself in a room the like of which he had never seen before.The room was all dressed in white: white window-curtains, whitebed-curtains, white furniture, and white walls. There was a washhand-stand,with ewers and basins, and soap and brushes and towels; and a large bathfull of clean water. What a heap of things--all for washing!

And then he happened to look towards the bed, and there lay the mostbeautiful little girl Tom had ever seen. He wondered whether all peoplewere as white as she when they were washed. Thinking of this, he tried torub some of the soot from his own wrist, and thought, perhaps, he mightlook better himself if he were clean.

And looking round, he suddenly saw a little ugly black figure withbleared eyes and grinning teeth. And behold, it was himself reflected inthe mirror. With tears of shame and anger at the contrast he turned tosneak up the chimney and hide. But in his haste he upset thefire-irons.

Up jumped the little white lady with a scream; in rushed her nurse andmade a dash at Tom. But out of the window went he and down a tree and awaythrough the garden and the park into the wood beyond, with the gardener,the groom, the dairymaid, Grimes, the steward, the keeper, Sir John, andthe Irishwoman all in hot pursuit.

Through the wood rushed Tom until he came to a wall, where his quickwits enabled him to evade his pursuers--except the Irishwoman, who followedhim all the way, although he never knew.

At length he stood on a limestone rock which overhung a valley athousand feet below, and down there he could see a little stream winding inand out, and by the stream a cottage. It was a dangerous descent, but downwent Tom without a moment's hesitation; sick and giddy, on he went until atlast he dropped on the grass and lay there unconscious. But after a time heroused himself and stumbled on to the cottage.

The old dame of the cottage took pity on him and laid him on a bed ofsweet hay. But Tom could not rest, and think of the little white lady, hefound his way to the river murmuring. "I must be clean! I must beclean!"

And still he had not seen the Irishwoman; in front of him now, for shehad stepped into the river just before Tom, and had changed into the mostbeautiful of fairies underneath the water. For she was, indeed, the Queenof the Water-Fairies, who were all waiting to receive her the moment shecame back from the land-world.

Tom was so hot and longed so to be clean for once that he tumbled asquick as he could into the cool stream. And he had not been in it half aminute before he fell into the quietest, coolest sleep that ever he had inhis life. The reason of his falling into such a delightful sleep is verysimple. It was merely that the fairies took him. In fact, they turned himinto a water-baby.

Meanwhile, of course, the chase after Tom had come to an end, althoughSir John and his keepers made a second search the next day, for he feltsorry for the little sweep, and was afraid he might have fallen over someof the crags. They found the little fellow's rags by the side of thestream, and they also discovered his body in the water, and buried it overin Vendale churchyard.

II.--A Lonely, Mischievous Water-Baby

Tom was very happy swimming about in the river, although he was now onlyabout four inches long, with a set of external gills, just like those of aneft. There are land-babies, and why not water-babies? Some people tell usthat water-babies are contrary to nature, but there are so many things innature which we don't expect to find that there may as well be water-babiesas not.

He was still as mischievous as any land-baby, and made himself a perfectnuisance to the other creatures of the water, teasing them as they wentabout their work, until they were all afraid of him, and got out of hisway, or crept into their shells; so that he had no one to speak to or toplay with.

It was from a dragon-fly that he learned some valuable lessons in goodconduct. For all his short sight the dragon-fly had noticed a great manyinteresting things in nature, about which Tom knew nothing, and of which heheard with wonder. One day he might have been eaten by an otter; but,behold, seven little terrier dogs rushed at the otter, and drove her off,much to Tom's relief, though he did not guess that these were reallywater-fairies sent to protect him.

But before the otter had been headed off she had twitted Tom with beingonly an eft, and told him he would be eaten by the salmon when they came upfrom the sea--the great wide sea. Tom himself decided he would go down thestream, and discover what the great wide sea was like.

One night Tom noticed a curious light, and heard voices of men comingfrom the bank of the river.

Soon after a large salmon was speared. Then other men seemed to arrive;there were shouts and scufflings; and then a tremendous splash, and one ofthe men fell into the river close to Tom. He lay so still that Tom thoughtthe water must have sent him to sleep as it had done him; so he screwed upcourage to go and look at him. The moonlight lit up the man's face, and Tomrecognised his old master, Grimes. Suppose he should turn into awater-baby! But he lay quite still at the bottom of the pool, and neverwent poaching salmon any more.

Every creature in the stream seemed to be hurrying down to the sea, andTom, being the only water-baby among all the squirming eels and the scoresof different things, big and little, he had many strange adventures beforehe came to the sea. But great was his disappointment to find nowater-babies there to play with, though he asked the sea-snails, and thehermit crabs, and the sun-fish, and the bass, and the porpoises. But thoughone fish told him that he had been helped the previous night by thewater-babies, Tom could find no trace of them at all.

Now, one day it befell that on the rocks where Tom was sitting with alobster there walked the little lady, Ellie, herself, and with her a verywise man, Professor Pttmllnsprts, who was a very great naturalist. He wasshowing her about one in ten thousand of all the beautiful and curiousthings that are to be seen among the rocks. Presently, as he groped withhis net among the weeds he caught poor Tom.

"Dear me!" he cried, "what a large pink Holothurian. It has actuallyeyes. Why, it must be a Cephalopod!"

"It is a water-baby," cried Ellie.

"Water-fiddlesticks, my dear!" said the professor sharply.

Now, Tom was in a most horrible fright, and between fright and rage heturned to bay and bit the professor's finger.

"Oh! Eh!" cried he, and dropped Tom on to the seaweed, whence he wasgone in a moment.

"But it was a water-baby!" cried Ellie. "Ah, it is gone!" And she jumpeddown off the rock. But she slipped and fell with her head on a sharp rock,and lay quite still.

The professor picked her up and took her home, and she was put to bed.But she would not waken at all, and after a week, one moonlight night thefairies came flying in at the window, and brought her a pair of wings. Andshe flew away, and nobody heard or saw anything of her for a longwhile.

III.--In St. Brandon's Fairy Isle

After Tom slipped away into the water again, he could not help thinkingof Ellie, and longed to have her to play with, for he had not succeeded infinding any other water-babies. But soon he had something else to think of.One day he helped a lobster caught in a lobster-pot to get free; and then,five minutes after, he came upon a real live water-baby, sitting on thewhite sand.

And it ran to Tom, and Tom ran to it, and they hugged and kissed eachother for ever so long. At last Tom said. "Well, this is wonderful! I haveseen things just like you again and again, but I thought you were shells orsea-creatures."

Now, was not this very odd? So odd, indeed, that you will, no doubt,want to know how it happened, and why Tom could never find a water-babytill after he had got the lobster out of the pot. But if you will read thisstory nine times over, you will find out why. It is not good for littleboys and girls to be told everything and never to be forced to make use oftheir own wits.

"Now," said the baby, "come and help me plant this rock which got allits flowers knocked off in the last storm, or I shall not have finishedbefore my brothers and sisters come, and it is now time to go home."

So they worked away at the rock, and planted it, and smoothed the sanddown round it, and capital fun they had till the tide began to turn. Andthen Tom heard all the other babies coming, laughing and singing andromping; and the noise they made was just like the noise of a ripple.

And in they came, dozens and dozens of them, and when they found that hewas a new baby, they hugged and kissed him. And there was no one ever sohappy as poor little Tom, and he gaily swam away with them to their home inthe caves beneath St. Brandan's fairy isle. But I wish Tom had given up allhis naughty tricks. He would meddle with the creatures, frighten the crabs,and put stones in the anemones' mouths to make them fancy dinner wascoming.

The other children warned him, and said, "Take care what you are at, asMrs. Bedonebyasyoudid is coming on Friday."

Early one Friday morning this tremendous lady came, indeed. Very uglyTom thought her, with her green spectacles on a great hooked nose and a bigbirch rod under her arm. She looked at all the children, and seemed pleasedwith them, for she gave sea-cakes or sea-lollipops to them all.

At last Tom's turn came, and she put something in his mouth, and lo! andbehold, it was a cold, hard pebble.

"Who put pebbles in the sea-anemones' mouths to make them fancy they hadcaught a good dinner? As you did to them, so I must do to you."

Tom thought her very hard, but she showed him she had to do it becauseit was her work. She told him, too, that she was the ugliest fairy in theworld, and would be until people learned to behave as they should, when shewould grow as handsome as her sister, Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby, theloveliest fairy in the world.

Tom tried hard to be good on Saturday; he did not frighten one crab, norput one pebble into a sea-anemone's mouth.

Sunday came, and so did Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby. All the childrendanced round her, for she had the sweetest, merriest face Tom had everseen.

"He's the new water-baby," they informed the fairy. "He never had anymother."

"Then I will be his mother," she said, and took him in her arms. And Tomlooked up in her face, and loved her, and fell asleep for very love. Whenhe awoke she was telling the children a story.

"Now," she said to Tom, as she prepared to go, "will you be good, andtorment no sea-beasts until I come again?"

Tom promised, and tormented no sea-beasts after that as long as helived; and he is quite alive, I assure you, still.

IV.--At the Other-End-of-Nowhere

Being happy and comfortable does not always mean being good; and so itwas with Tom. He had everything he could wish for in St. Brandan's fairyisle. But now he had grown so fond of lollipops that he could think ofnothing else, and longed to go to the cabinet where they were kept. At lasthe went to take just one; then he had one more, and another, and another,until they were all gone. And all the while Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid stoodclose behind him, though he neither heard nor saw her.

Tom was very surprised when she came again to see that she had just asmany lollipops as before. He thought therefore that she could not know.

But he was very unhappy all that week, and long after it, too. Andbecause his conscience had been pricking him inside, his outside grew hornyand prickly as well, until he could bear it no longer, and told Mrs.Bedonebyasyoudid all about it, and asked her to take away the prickles. Butshe told him only he could do that, that he must go to school, and shewould fetch him a schoolmistress.

Soon she returned with the most beautiful little girl that was everseen. Tom begged her to show him how to be good, and get rid of hisprickles. So she began, and taught him every day except on Sunday, when shewent away. In a short time all Tom's prickles had disappeared. Then thelittle girl knew him, she said, for the little chimney-sweep who had comeinto the bedroom.

"And I know you," said Tom; "you are the little white lady I saw inbed." And then they began telling each other all their story. And then theyset to work at their lessons again, and both liked them so well that theywent on till seven full years were past and gone.

Tom began to be very curious to know where Ellie went on Sundays, andwhy he could not go, too.

"Those who go there," said Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid, "must first learn togo where they do not want to go, and to help someone they do not like."

And Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby said the same. Tom was very unhappy now.He knew the fairy wanted him to go and help Grimes; he did not want to go,and was ashamed of himself for not going. But just when he was feeling mostdiscontented Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid encouraged him until he was quiteanxious to seek for Grimes.

"Mr. Grimes is now at the Other-end-of-Nowhere," said the fairy. "To getthere you must go to Shiny Wall, and through the White Gate which has neveryet been opened. You will then be at Peacepool, where you will find MotherCarey, who will direct you to the Other-end-of-Nowhere."

Tom immediately set out to find his way to Shiny Wall, asking the way ofall the birds and beasts he met. He at length received help from thepetrels, who are Mother Carey's chickens, and so reached Shiny Wall. He wasdismayed to find that there was no gate, but taking the birds' advice, hedived underneath the wall, and went along the bottom of the sea for sevendays and seven nights, until he arrived in Peacepool. There sat MotherCarey, a marble lady on a marble throne--motionless, restful, gazing downinto the depths of the sea.

Following Mother Carey's directions, Tom at length arrived at theOther-end-of-Nowhere, after meeting with many strange adventures. He hadnot long arrived in this strange land when he was overtaken by severalpolicemen's truncheons, one of which conducted him to the prison whereGrimes was quartered. Here, on the roof, his head and shoulders justshowing above the top of chimney No. 343, was poor Mr. Grimes, with a pipethat would not draw.

He thought Tom had simply come to laugh at him until he assured him thathe had only come to help. Suddenly Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid appeared. Shereminded Grimes that he was only suffering now what he had inflicted onTom. She told him, too, how his mother had gone to heaven, and would nomore weep for him. Gradually Grimes's heart softened, and when Tomdescribed her kindness to him at Vendale, Grimes wept. Then his tears didfor him what his mother's could not do, for as they fell they washed thesoot off his face and his clothes, and loosened the mortar from the bricksof the chimney.

"Will you obey me if I give you a chance?" said Mrs.Bedonebyasyoudid.

"As you please, ma'am. For I'm beat, and that's the truth," said he.

"Be it so, then--you may come out. But remember, disobey me again, andinto a worse place still you will go."

"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but I never disobeyed you that I know of. Inever set eyes upon you until I came to these ugly quarters."

"Never saw me? Who said 'Those that will be foul, foul they willbe'?"

Grimes looked up, and Tom looked up, too; for the voice was that of theIrishwoman who met them the day they went out together to Harthover. Sheordered Grimes to march off in the custody of the truncheon, who was to seethat he devoted himself to the considerable task of sweeping out the craterof Etna.

Tom went back to St. Brandan's Isle, and there found Ellie--grown into abeautiful woman. And he looked at her, and she looked at him; and theyliked the employment so much that they stood and looked for seven yearsmore, and neither spoke nor stirred.

At last they heard the fairy say, "Attention, children! Are you nevergoing to look at me again?"

They looked, and both of them cried out at once: "You are our dear Mrs.Doasyouwouldbedoneby! No, you are good Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid; but you aregrown quite beautiful now."

"To you," she said. "But look again."

"You are Mother Carey," said Tom, in a very low, solemn voice. For hehad found out something which made him very happy, and yet frightened himmore than all that he had ever seen.

And when they looked again she was neither of them, and yet all of themat once.

"My name is written in my eyes, if you have eyes to see it there."

And her eyes flashed, for one moment, clear, white, blazing light; butthe children could not read her name, for they were dazzled, and hid theirfaces in their hands.

"Not yet, young things, not yet," said she, smiling. And then she turnedto Ellie.

"You may take him home with you on Sundays, Ellie. He has won his spursin the great battle, and become fit to be a man; because he has done thething he did not like."

Westward Ho!

"Westward Ho!" was published in 1855, and, on the whole, maybe accepted as the most popular of all Charles Kingsley's novels. It is astory full of the life and stir of Elizabethan England, and its heroes andheroines are the stout-hearted Devonshire people whom Kingsley knew andloved so well. Like most historical romances, "Westward Ho!" must not beaccepted as history, in spite of the fact that its author was RegiusProfessor of History at Cambridge. Kingsley's whole-hearted and entirelycreditable patriotism and his intense devotion to the established Church ofEngland prevented his doing justice to Spain or looking with sympathy onRoman Catholicism. (See Newman, Vol. XIII.) Kingsley never could refrainfrom preaching his own convictions, and while this often interfered withthe art of the novelist, it gave a note of sincerity to all his work, andwarmth and colour to his style.

I.--How Amyas Came Home the First Time

One bright summer's afternoon in the year 1575 a tall and fair boy camelingering along Bideford Quay, in his scholar's gown, with satchel andslate in hand, watching wistfully the shipping and the sailors, till, justafter he had passed the bottom of the High Street, he came to a group ofsailors listening earnestly to someone who stood in the midst. The boy, allalive for any sea news, must needs go up to them, and so came in for thefollowing speech, delivered in a loud, bold voice, with a strong Devonshireaccent.

"I tell you, as I, John Oxenham, am a gentleman, I saw it with theseeyes, and so did Salvation Yeo there; and we measured the heap, seventyfoot long, ten foot broad, and twelve foot high, of silver bars, and eachbar between a thirty and forty pound weight. Come along! Who lists? Wholists? Who'll make his fortune?"

"Who'll list?" cried a tall, gaunt man, whom the other had calledSalvation Yeo. "Now's your time! We've got forty men to Plymouth now, readyto sail the minute we get back; and we want a dozen out of you Bidefordmen, and just a boy or two, and then we'm off and away, and make ourfortunes or go to heaven."

Then the gaunt man pulled from under his arm a great white buffalo horn,covered with rough etchings of land and sea.

The horn was passed from hand to hand, and the schoolboy got a nearersight of the marvel. To his astonished gaze displayed themselves cities andharbours, plate ships of Spain, and islands with apes and palm-trees, andhere and there over-written: "Here is gold," and again, "Much gold andsilver." The boy turned it round and round, anxious to possess thiswonderful horn. And Oxenham asked him why he was so keen after it.

"Because," said he, looking up boldly, "I want to go to sea. I want tosee the Indies. I want to fight the Spaniards." And the lad, having hurriedout his say, dropped his head.

"And you shall," cried Oxenham. "Whose son are you, my gallantfellow?"

"Mr. Leigh's, of Burrough Court."

"Bless his soul! I know him as well as I do the Eddystone. Tell yourfather John Oxenham will come and keep him company."

The boy, Amyas Leigh, took his way homewards, and that night JohnOxenham dined at Burrough Court; but failed to get Mr. Leigh's leave totake young Amyas with him, nor did Sir Richard Grenville, the boy'sgodfather, who was also at dinner, help him with his suit.

But somewhat more than a twelvemonth later, Mr. Leigh, going down onbusiness to Exeter Assizes, caught--as was too common in those days--thegaol-fever from the prisoners, sickened in the very court, and died withina week.

"You must be my father now, sir," said young Amyas firmly to Sir RichardGrenville, on the day after the funeral.

And shortly afterwards, Amyas having broken his slate on the head ofVindex Brimblecombe, Sir Richard thought it well to go up to Burrough. And,after much talk and many tears, matters were so concluded that Amyas Leighfound himself riding joyfully towards Plymouth, and being handed over toCaptain Drake, vanished for three years from the good town of Bideford.

And now he is returned in triumph, and the observed of allobservers.

The bells of Bideford church cannot help breaking forth into a jocundpeal. Bideford streets are a very flower-garden of all the colours,swarming with seamen and burghers and burghers' wives and daughters, all intheir holiday attire. Garlands are hung across the streets and tapestriesfrom every window. Every stable is crammed with horses, and Sir RichardGrenville's house is like a very tavern. Along the little churchyardstreams all the gentle blood of North Devon, and on into the church, whereall are placed according to their degrees, not without shovings andwhisperings from one high-born matron and another. At last there is asilence, and a looking toward the door, and then distant music which comesbraying and screaming up to the very church doors. Why are all eyes fixedon those four weather-beaten mariners, decked out with knots and ribbons byloving hands? And yet more on that gigantic figure who walks before them, abeardless boy, and yet with the frame and stature of a Hercules, towering,like Saul of old, a head and shoulders above all the congregation? And why,as the five fall on their knees before the altar rails, are all eyes turnedto the pew where Mrs. Leigh, of Burrough, has hid her face between herhands, and her hood rustles and shakes to her joyful sobs? Because therewas fellow-feeling of old in country and in town. And these are Devon men,and men of Bideford; and they, the first of all English mariners, havesailed round the world with Francis Drake, and are come to give Godthanks.

II.--The Brotherhood of the Rose

It was during the three years of Amyas's absence that Rose Salterne, themotherless daughter of that honest merchant, the Mayor of Bideford, hadgrown into so beautiful a girl of eighteen that half North Devon was madabout the "Rose of Torridge," as she was called. There was not a younggallant for ten miles round who would not have gone to Jerusalem to winher, and not a week passed but some nosegay or languishing sonnet wasconveyed into the Rose's chamber, all of which she stowed away with thesimplicity of a country girl.

Frank Leigh, Amyas's elder brother, who had won himself honour at homeand abroad, and was the friend of Sir Philip Sidney and in favour at thecourt of Queen Elizabeth, fell as deeply in love with the Rose when he camehome to rejoice over the return of Amyas as any young squire of thecounty.

When the time came for him to set off again for London and for Amyas tojoin the queen's forces in Ireland, where war was now raging, Frank andAmyas concocted a scheme which was put into effect the next day--first bythe innkeeper of the Ship Tavern, who began, under Amyas's orders, a bustleof roasting and boiling; and next by Amyas himself, who invited as many ofhis old schoolfellows as Frank had pointed out to him to a merry supper; bywhich crafty scheme in came each of Rose Salteme's gentle admirers andfound himself seated at the table with six rivals.

When the cloth was drawn, and sack and sugar became the order of theday, and the queen's health had been duly drunk with all the honours, Frankrose.

"And now, gentlemen, let me give you a health which none of you, I daresay, will refuse to drink with heart and soul as well as with lips--thehealth of one whom beauty and virtue have so ennobled that in their lightthe shadow of lowly birth is unseen--the health of 'The Rose of Torridge,'and a double health to that worthy gentleman, whosoever he may be, whom sheis fated to honour with her love."

Whereupon young Will Cary, of Clovelly Court, calls out, "Join hands allround, and swear eternal friendship, as brothers of the sacred order ofthe--of what, Frank Leigh?"

"The Rose!" said Frank, quietly.

And somehow or other, whether it was Frank's chivalrous speech, orCary's fun, or Amyas's good wine, or the nobleness which lies in everyyoung lad's heart, the whole party shook hands all round, and vowed on thehilt of Amyas's sword to stand by each other and by their lady-love, andneither grudge nor grumble, let her dance with, flirt with, or marry withwhom she would; and, in order that the honour of their peerless dame andthe brotherhood which was named after her might be spread through alllands, they would go home, and ask their fathers' leave to go abroadwheresoever there were "good wars."

Then Amyas, hearing a sneeze, made a dash at the arras behind him, and,finding a doorway there, speedily returned, dragging out Mr. JohnBrimblecombe, the stout, dark-skinned son of the schoolmaster.

Jack Brimblecombe, now one-and-twenty and a bachelor of Oxford, was inperson exceedingly like a pig; but he was a pig of self-helpful and serenespirit, always, while watching for the best, contented with the worst, andtherefore fattening fast while other pigs' ribs stare through theirskins.

He had lingered in the passage, hovering around the fragrant smell; and,once there he could not help hearing what passed inside, till RoseSalterne's name fell on his ear. And now behold him brought in red-handedto judgment, not without a kick or two from the wrathful foot of AmyasLeigh.

"What business have I here?" said Jack, making answer fiercely, amidmuch puffing and blowing. "As much as any of you. If you had asked me in Iwould have come. You laugh at me because I'm a poor parson's son, and youfine gentlemen. God made us both, I reckon. I tell you I've loved her thesethree years as well as e'er a one of you, I have. Make me one of yourbrotherhood, and see if I do not dare to suffer as much as any of you! Letme but be your chaplain, and pray for your luck when you're at the wars. IfI do stay at home in a country curacy, 'tis not much that you need bejealous of me with her, I reckon."

So, presently, after a certain mock ceremonial of initiation, JackBrimblecombe was declared, on the word of Frank Leigh, admitted to thebrotherhood, and was sent home with a pint of good red Alicant wine in him,while the rest had a right merry evening. After which they alldeparted--Amyas and Cary to Ireland, Frank to the court again. And so theBrotherhood of the Rose was scattered, and Mistress Salterne was left alonewith her looking-glass.

III.--The Good Ship Rose

When Amyas was in Ireland he made captive a certain Spanish grandee, DonGuzman, and sent him to Sir Richard Grenville to be held at ransom. Andthen, the Irish being for the time subdued, Amyas sailed with Sir HumphreyGilbert on that ill-fated voyage to Newfoundland, and returned in rags,landing at Plymouth, where he learnt news of Bideford.

Mrs. Hawkins, wife of John Hawkins the port admiral, gave him supper,and then told him that the Spanish prisoner had "gone off, thevillain."

"Without paying his ransom?"

"I can't say that, but there's a poor, innocent young maid gone off withhim, one Salterne's daughter."

"Rose Salterne, the mayor's daughter, the Rose of Torridge?"

"That's her. Bless your dear soul, what ails you?"

Amyas had dropped back in his seat as if he had been shot; but herecovered himself, and next morning started for Bideford.

The story was true. Don Guzman had been made governor of La Guayra, inthe West Indies, and his ransom had been paid. But he had fallen in lovewith the Rose, and the girl, driven, some said, by the over-harshness ofher father, who loved his daughter and knew not how to manage her, hadwillingly escaped with him.

Amyas called on Salterne, and the old burgher besought him to go inpursuit of the Spaniard, and promised he would spend any money that wasneeded to fit out a ship to avenge his child. And Amyas heard that honestJohn Brimblecombe, now a parson, mindful of his oath to the brotherhood,was longing to seek the Rose, though it might be in the jaws of death. WillCary, too, was for a voyage to the Indies to cut the throat of DonGuzman.

Then Mrs. Leigh and Frank, her first-born, getting permission to leavethe court, both consented to the voyage, and Frank would go too. OldSalterne grumbled at any man save himself spending a penny on the voyage,and forced on the adventurers a good ship of two hundred tons burden, andfive hundred pounds towards fitting her out; Mrs. Leigh worked day andnight at clothes and comforts of every kind; Amyas gave his time and hisbrains. Cary went about beating up recruits; while John Brimblecombepreached a fierce crusade against the Spaniards, and Frank grew more andmore proud of his brother.

Old Salvation Yeo, who was now in Bideford, again brought twenty goodmen from Plymouth who had sailed with Drake.

And now November 15, 1583, has come, and the tall ship Rose, with ahundred men on board, and food in abundance, has dropped down from BidefordQuay to Appledore Pool. She is well-fitted with cannon and muskets andswords, and all agreed so well-appointed a ship had never sailed "out overBar."

Mrs. Leigh went to the rocky knoll outside the churchyard wall andwatched the ship glide out between the yellow dunes, and lessen slowly hourby hour into the boundless west, till her hull sank below the dim horizon,and her white sails faded away into the grey Atlantic mist.

And the good ship Rose went westward ho! and came in due time to LaGuayra in the Indies, the highest cliff on earth, some seven thousand feetof rock parted from the sea by a narrow strip of bright green lowland.Amyas and his company are at last in full sight of the spot in quest ofwhich they have sailed four thousand miles of sea. Beyond the town, two orthree hundred feet up the steep mountain side, is a large white house, witha royal flag of Spain flaunting before it. That must be the governor'shouse; that must be the abode of the Rose of Torridge. There are ships ofwar in the landing-place.

Amyas's plan was to wait till midnight, attack the town on the west,plunder the government storehouses, and then fight their way back to theirboats. To reach the governor's house seemed impossible with the small forceat their disposal.

But Frank would not have their going away without doing the very thingfor which they came.

"I will go up to that house, Amyas, and speak with her!" he said.

Then Amyas, Cary, and Brimblecombe drew lots as to which of them shouldaccompany him, and the lot fell upon Amyas Leigh.

At midnight Amyas went on deck, and asked for six volunteers. Whosoeverwould come should have double prize money.

"Why six only, captain?" said an old seaman. "Give the word, and any andall of us will go up with you, sack the house, and bring off the treasureand the lady before two hours are out!"

"No, no, my brave lads! As for treasure, it is sure to have been put allsafe into the forts; and, as for the lady, God forbid that we should forceher a step without her own will."

The boat with Frank, Amyas, and the six seamen reached the pebble beach.There seemed no difficulty about finding the path to the house, so brightwas the moon. Leaving the men with the boat, they started up the beach,with their swords only.

"She may expect us," whispered Frank. "She may have seen our ship, andsome secret sympathy will draw her down towards the sea to-night."

They found the path, which wound in zig-zags up the steep, rocky slope,easily. It ended at a wicket-gate, and they found the gate was open whenthey tried it.

"What is your plan?" said Amyas.

"I have none. I go where I am called--love's willing victim."

Amyas was at his wits' end. A light was burning in a window on the upperstory; twenty black figures lay sleeping on the terrace.

Frank saw the shadow of the Rose against the window. She came down, andhe made a wild appeal to her.

"Your conscience! Your religion--"

"No, never! I can face the chance of death, but not the loss of myhusband. Go! For God's sake leave me!"

Frank turned, and Amyas dragged him down the hill. Both were too proudto run, but the whole gang of negroes were in pursuit, and stones wereflying.

They were not twenty-five yards from the boat, when the storm burst anda volley of great quartz pebbles whistled round their heads. Frank isstruck, and Amyas takes him over his shoulders and plunges wildly ontowards the beach.

"Men, to the rescue!" Amyas shouts. "Fire, men! Give it the blackvillains!"

The arquebuses crackled from the boat in front, but, balls are answeringfrom behind. The governor's guard have turned out, followed them to thebeach, and are firing over the negroes' heads.

Amyas is up to his knees in water, battered with stones, blinded withblood; but Frank is still in his arms. Another heavy blow--confused mass ofnegroes and English, foam and pebbles--a confused roar of shouts, shots,curses, and he recollects no more.

He is lying in the stern-sheets of the boat, stiff and weak. Two menonly are left of the six, and Frank is not in the boat. With weary workthey made the ship, and as, the alarm being now given, it was hardly safeto remain where they were, it was agreed to weigh anchor. Amyas had no hopethat Frank might still be alive. So ended that fatal venture of mistakenchivalry.

IV.--Amyas Comes Home for the Third Time

More than three years have passed since the Rose sailed out fromBideford, and never a word has reached England of what has befallen theship and her company.

Many have been the adventures of Amyas and the men who have followedhim. Treasure they have got in South America, and old Salvation Yeo hasfound a young girl whom he had lost twelve years before, grown up wildamong the Indians. Ayacanora she is called, and she is white, for herfather was an Englishman and her mother Spanish, for all her savage ways;and will not be separated from her discoverers, but insists on going withthem to England. And Amyas has learnt that his brother Frank was burnt byorder of the Inquisition, and with him Rose, and that Don Guzman hadresigned the governorship of La Guayra.

Amyas swore a dreadful oath before all his men when he was told of thedeath of Frank and Rose, that as long as he had eyes to see a Spaniard andhands to hew him down he would give no quarter to that accursed nation, andthat he would avenge all the innocent blood shed by them.

And now it is February, 1587, and Mrs. Leigh, grown grey and feeble instep, is pacing up and down the terrace walk at Burrough. A flash is seenin the fast darkening twilight, and then comes the thunder of a gun at sea.Twenty minutes later, and a ship has turned up the Bideford river, and acheer goes up from her crew.

Yes, Amyas has come, and with him Will Cary and the honest parson, JackBrimblecombe, and the good seamen of Devon; and Ayacanora, who knelt downobedient before Mrs. Leigh because she had seen Amyas kneel, and whom Mrs.Leigh took by the hand and led to Burrough Court.

William Salterne would take none of his share of the treasure which wasbrought home, and which he had a just claim to.

"The treasure is yours, sir," he said to Amyas. "I have enough, and morethan enough. And if I have a claim in law for aught, which I know not,neither shall ever ask--why, if you are not too proud, accept that claim asa plain burgher's thank-offering to you, sir, for a great and a noble lovewhich you and your brother have shown to one who, though I say it to myshame, was not worthy thereof."

That night old Salterne was found dead, kneeling by his daughter's bed.His will lay by him. Any money due to him as owner of the Rose, and a newbarque of 300 tons burden, he had bequeathed to Captain Amyas Leigh, oncondition that he should re-christen that barque the Vengeance, and withher sail once more against the Spaniard.

In the summer of 1588 comes the great Armada, and Captain Leigh has theVengeance fitted out for war, and is in the English Channel. He has foundout that Don Guzman is on board the Santa Catherina, and is set on takinghis revenge.

For twelve months past this hatred of Don Guzman has been eating out hisheart, and now the hour has struck. But the Armada melts away in the stormsof the North Sea, and Captain Leigh has pursued the Santa Catherina roundthe Orkneys and down to Lundy Island. And there, on the rock called theShutter, the Santa Catherina strikes, and then vanishes for ever andever.

"Shame!" cried Amyas, hurling his sword far into the sea, "to lose myright, when it was in my very grasp!"

A crack which rent the sky, a bright world of flame, and then a blank ofutter darkness. The great proud sea captain has been struck blind by theflash of lightning.

Once more Amyas Leigh has come home. His work is over, his hatred dead.And Ayacanora will comfort him.

"Amyas, my son," said Mrs. Leigh, "fear not to take her to your heart,for it is your mother who has laid her there!"

"It is true, after all," said Amyas to himself. "What God has joinedtogether, man cannot put asunder."

HENRY KINGSLEY

Geoffry Hamlyn

Henry Kingsley, younger brother of Charles Kingsley, was bornat Barnack, Northamptonshire, England, Jan. 2, 1830. Leaving WorcesterCollege, Oxford, in 1853, he, with a number of fellow-students, emigratedto the Australian goldfields. After some five years of unremunerative toilhe returned to England, poor in pocket, but possessing sufficient knowledgeof life to justify his adoption of a literary career. His first attempt,and perhaps his most successful, was "The Recollections of Geoffry Hamlyn,"published in 1859, which was based largely on his own experiences inAustralia. From that time until his death on May 24, 1876, some nineteenstories flowed in quick succession from his pen, none of them, however,reaching the high standard of his first two--"Geoffry Hamlyn" and"Ravenshoe." In 1869 Kingsley became editor of the Edinburgh "DailyReview," and on the outbreak of the Franco-German War represented thatpaper at the front. He was present at the battle of Sedan, and was thefirst Englishman to enter the town afterwards.

I.--In a Devonshire Village

The twilight of a winter's evening was fast falling into night, and oldJohn Thornton sat dozing by the fire. His face looked worn and aged, andanyone might see the old man was unhappy.

What could there be to vex him? Not poverty, at all events, for not ayear ago a relation had left him £5,000, and a like sum to hisdaughter, Mary. And his sister--a quiet, good old maid--had come to livewith him, so that now he was comfortably off, and had with him the only tworelations he cared about to make his old age happy. His daughter Mary--abeautiful girl, merry, impetuous, and thoughtless--was standing at thewindow.

The white gate swings on its hinges, and a tall man comes, with rapid,eager steps, up the walk. The maid, bringing in candles, announces: "Mr.George Hawker!"

As the light fell on him, any man or woman might have exclaimedinstantly, and with justice, "What a handsome fellow!" Handsome he was,without doubt, and yet the more you looked at him the less you liked him.The thin lips, the everlasting smile, the quick, suspicious glance werefearfully repulsive. He was the only son of a small farmer in one of theoutlying hamlets of Drumston. His mother had died when he was very young,and he had had little education, and strange stories were in circulationabout that lonely farmhouse, not much to the credit of father or son; whichstories John Thornton must, in his position of clergyman, have heardsomewhat of; so that one need hardly wonder at his uneasiness when he sawhim enter.

For Mary Thornton adored him. The rest of the village disliked andmistrusted him; but she, with a strange perversity, loved him with herwhole heart and soul. After a few words, the lovers were whispering in thewindow.

Presently the gate goes again, and another footfall is heardapproaching.

That is James Stockbridge. I should know that step in a thousand. As heentered the parlour, John's face grew bright, and he held out his hand tohim; but he got rather a cool reception from the pair at the window.

Old John and he were as father and son, and sat there before thecheerful blaze smoking their pipes.

"How are your Southdowns looking, Jim?" says the vicar. "How isScapegrace Hamlyn?"

"He is very well, sir. He and I are thinking of selling up and going toNew South Wales."

The vicar was "knocked all of a heap" at Jim's announcement; but,recovering a little, said, "You hear him? He is going to sell hisestate--250 acres of the best land in Devon--and go and live among theconvicts. And who is going with him? Hamlyn, the wise! Oh, dear me! Andwhat is he going for?"

That was a question apparently hard to answer. Yet I think the realcause was standing there, with a look of unbounded astonishment upon herpretty face.

"Going to leave us, James!" she cried. "Why, whatever shall I do withoutyou?"

"Yes, Miss Mary," said James huskily. "I think I may say we've settledto go. Hamlyn has got a letter from a cousin of his, who is making afortune; and besides, I've got tired of the old place somehow lately."

Time went on, and May was well advanced. That had at last reached thevicar's ears which had driven him to risk a quarrel with his daughter andforbid George Hawker the house.

George went home one evening and found Madge, the gipsy woman who hadbrought him up, sitting before the kitchen fire.

"Well, old woman, where's the old man?"

"Away at Colyton fair," she answered.

"I hope he'll have the sense to stay there to-night He'll fall off hishorse, coming home drunk one night, and be found dead in a ditch."

"Good thing for you if he was."

"Maybe," said George; "but I'd be sorry for him, too."

"He's been a good father to you, George, and I like you for speaking upfor him. He's an awful old rascal, my boy, but you'll be a worse if youlive."

"Now stop that, Madge! I want your help, old girl."

"Ay, and you'll get it, my pretty boy. Bend over the fire, and whisperin my ear, lad."

"Madge, old girl," he whispered, "I've wrote the old man's name where Ioughtn't to have done."

"What, again!" she answered. "Three times! For God's sake, George, mindwhat you're at! Why, you must be mad! What's this last?"

"Why, the five hundred. I only did it twice."

"You mustn't do it again, George. He likes you best of anything next hismoney, and sometimes I think he wouldn't spare you if he knew he'd beenrobbed. You might make yourself safe for any storm if you liked."

"How?"

"Marry that little doll Thornton, and get her money."

"Well," said George, "I am pushing that on. The old man won't comeround, and I want her to go off with me; but she can't get up her courageyet."

But in a few days Mary had consented. They had left the village atmidnight, and were married in London. Within a year George Hawker had spentall his wife's money, and had told her to her face he was tired of her. Hefell from bad to worse, and finally becoming the ally of a coiner, wasarrested and transported for life.

Mary Hawker, with a baby, tramped her way home to the village she hadleft.

II.--A General Exodus

The vicar had only slowly recovered from the fit in which he had fallenon the morning of Mary's departure, to find himself hopelessly paralytic.When Mary's letter, written just after her marriage, came, it was a greatrelief. They had kept from him all knowledge of George Hawker's forgery,which had been communicated to them by Major Buckley, old John Thornton'svery good friend and near neighbour.

But George' Hawker burnt the loving letters they wrote in reply, andMary remained under the impression that they had cast her off. So when, onebright Sunday morning, old Miss Thornton found a poor woman sitting on thedoorstep, Mary rose, prepared to ask forgiveness. Her aunt rushed forwardwildly, and hugged her to her honest heart.

When they were quieted, Miss Thornton went up to tell the vicar. Thepoor old man was far gone beyond feeling joy or grief to any great extent.Mary, looking in, saw he was so altered she hardly knew him.

The good news soon got up to Major Buckley's, and he was seen stridingup the path, leading the pony carrying his wife and child. While they werestill busy welcoming Mary came a ring at the door. Who but her cousin, TomTroubridge? Who else was there to raise her four good feet from the floorand call her his darling little sister?

This was her welcome home--to the home she had dreaded to come to, whereshe had meant to come only as a penitent, to leave her child and go forthto die.

After dinner, Mrs. Buckley told Mary all the news, how her husband hadheard from Stockbridge, how he and Hamlyn were so flourishing, and hadwritten such an account of the country that Major Buckley, half persuadedbefore, had now made up his mind to go there himself, and Tom Troubridgewas much inclined to go too. Mary was sad to think of losing them all sosoon, but Mrs. Buckley pointed out her father's state gently to her, andasked her to think what she would do when he was gone. Miss Thornton saidshe had made up her mind to go wherever Mary went, if it were to the otherend of the earth.

Scarcely more than a week had passed when another messenger came to oldJohn Thornton, and one so peremptory that he rose and followed it in thedead of night.

It was two months yet before the major intended to sail, and long beforethey had passed Mary and Miss Thornton had determined to cast in their lotwith the others, and cross the sea towards a more hopeful land.

III.--The New World

A new heaven, and a new earth. All creation is new and strange. Thetrees, the graceful shrubs, the bright-coloured flowers, ay, the very grassitself, are of species unknown in Europe, while flaming lories andbrilliant paroquets fly whistling through the gloomy forest, and overheadcountless co*ckatoos wheel and scream in noisy joy, as we may see the gullsdo in England.

We are in Australia, three hundred and fifty miles south of Sydney, onthe great watershed which divides the Belloury from the Maryburnong.

As the sun was going down, James Stockbridge and I, Geoffry Hamlyn,reined up our horses and gazed down the long gully at our feet. For fivedays we had been passing from run to run, making inquiries about somecattle we had lost, and were now fifty long miles from home.

At this time Stockbridge and I had been settled in our new home abouttwo years, and were beginning to get comfortable and settled. We had hadbut little trouble with the blacks, and having taken possession of a finepiece of country, were flourishing and well-to-do. I dismounted to setright some strap or other, and stood looking at the prospect, glad to easemy legs for a time, cramped with many hours' riding.

Stockbridge sat immovable and silent as a statue, and I saw that hisheart travelled farther than his eye could reach.

"Jim," said I, "I wonder what is going on at Drumston now?"

"I wonder," he said softly.

"Jim," I began again, "do you ever think of poor little Mary now?"

"Yes, old boy, I do," he replied. "I was thinking of her then--I amalways thinking of her. I wonder if she married that fellow Hawker?"

"I fear there's but little doubt of it," I said. "Try to forget her,James; you'll make all your life unhappy if you don't."

He laughed.

"That's all very well, Jeff, but it's easier said than done. Do you hearthat? There are cattle down the gully!"

There was some noise in the air beside the evening rustle of the southwind among the tree-tops. Now it sounded like a far-off hubbub of waters,now swelled up harmonious, like the booming of cathedral bells across somerich old English valley on a still summer's afternoon.

"I'll tell you what I think it is, old Jeff; it's some new chums goingto cross the watershed, and look for new country to the south. Let us godown to meet them; they will come down by the river yonder."

All doubt about what the newcomers were was solved before we reached theriver; so we sat and watched the scene so venerable and ancient--thepatriarchs moving into the desert, to find new pasture-ground.

First came the cattle lowing loudly, then horsem*n, six or seven innumber, and last, four drays came crawling up the pass.

Suddenly James dashed forward with a shout, and when I came up with him,wondering, I found myself shaking hands, talking and laughing, with MajorBuckley and Tom Troubridge.

They told us all the news as we rode with them to the drays, where satMrs. Buckley,--a noble, happy matron, laughing at her son, as he toddledabout busy gathering sticks for the fire. Beside her sat Mary, looking sadand worn, with her child on her lap, and poor old Miss Thornton, glancinguneasily round.

Mary sprang up, burst into hysterical weeping. I saw how his big heartyearned to comfort his old sweetheart in her distress, as he took the childof his rival to his bosom.

"Is nobody going to notice me or my boy, I wonder?" said Mrs. Buckley."Come here immediately, Mr. Stockbridge, before we quarrel."

Soon we were all restored to our equanimity, and laying plans for futuremeetings.

Next morning, with many hearty farewells, and having promised to spendChristmastide with them, I turned my horse homewards, and went my solitaryway. Jim was going on with them to see them settled.

IV.--Father and Son

There is a long period of dull prosperity coming to our friends. Go ontwo years. See Baroona, the Buckley's place, now. That hut where we spentthe pleasant Christmas-day is degraded into the kitchen, for a new house isbuilt--a long, low house, with deep, cool verandas all round, alreadyfestooned with passion flowers, and young grape-vines.

Mary and Miss Thornton had stayed with the Buckleys till good Cousin Tomhad got a house ready for them--a charming house covered with creepers, andbacked by huts, sheep-yards, and all the usual concomitants of aflourishing Australian sheep-station. This is Toonarbin, where Mary Hawkeris living with her son Charles as happy and uninteresting an existence asever fell to the lot of a handsome woman yet. The old dark days seem like abad dream. She had heard of her husband's re-conviction and lifesentence--finally death, and George Hawker is as one who has neverlived.

So sixteen years rolled peacefully away, until Tom Troubridge returnedfrom a journey up country with news of a great gang of bushrangers being"out." He had actually sat hob-nob with the captain in a public house,without knowing it. But his servant, William Lee, an ex-convict, knew him,and told them that the great Captain Tonan, with whose crimes the wholecountry was ringing, was George Hawker himself. Mary's terrible fear thatfather and son might meet made her ill and delirious for weeks; Tom and histrusty servant kept watch, then heard from a passing cattle-dealer that thegang had been "utterly obliterated" by Captain Desborough, the chief ofpolice--but the captain had escaped.

Things went on quietly for two months, and no one thought aboutbushrangers--but Mary, at her watch up at the lonely forest station--tillone morning Lee's body was found dead in his hut, with a pistol lying nearwith "G. Hawker" scratched upon it. A messenger was sent post haste tofetch Desborough and his troopers, who came, declared the country in astate of siege, and kept us all staying at Major Buckley's.

We were sitting merrily over our wine one day, when hasty steps camethrough the house. The bushrangers had attacked a station not far off,killed the owner, and were now riding towards Captain Brentford's, themajor's nearest neighbour and old friend. Captain Desborough rose withdeadly wrath in his face. The laughing Irishman was gone, and a stern,gloomy man stood in his place. But the villains had done their work ofdestruction before we reached Garoopm, and gone off to the mountains.

"We shall have them in the morning," said Desborough. "More particularlyas they have in their drunken madness hampered themselves in themountains."

We started before daybreak; each man of us armed with swords andpistols, and every man knew the use of his weapons well.

As we entered the mouth of the glen to which we were bound, one of themost beautiful gullies I have ever seen, I turned to the man beside me.Conceive my horror at finding it was Charles Hawker! I said fiercely, "Getback, Charles! Go home! You don't know what you're doing, lad."

He defied me. I was speaking to him again when there came a puff ofsmoke from the rocks overhead, and down I went, head over heels. A bulletgrazed my thigh, and killed my horse; so that during the fight thatfollowed, I was sitting on a rock very sick and very stupid.

"They've set a watch," said Captain Desborough. "They'll fight us now;they can't help it, thank God!"

Then, under the beetling crags, the bushrangers turned like huntedwolves, and stood at bay. Now the fight became general and confused. Allabout among the ferns and flowers men fought, and fired, and cursed. Shotswere cracking on all sides, and two riderless horses were galloping aboutneighing.

Desborough fought neither against small nor great, but only against oneman--George Hawker. Him he had sworn he would bring home, alive or dead. Hecaught sight of his quarry, and instantly made towards him. As soon asHawker saw he was recognised, he made to the left, trying to reach the onlypracticable way back to the mountains. They fired at one another withouteffect. As the ground got more open, Desborough was aware of one who camecharging recklessly up alongside of him, and recognised Charley Hawker. Hehad had no hint of the relationship.

"Good lad," he said; "come on. I must have that fellow before us. He'sthe arch-devil of the lot. We must have him!"

"We'll have him safe enough!" said Charles. "Push to the left, captain,and we shall get him among these fallen rocks."

They pushed forwards, and soon succeeded in bringing him to bay. Alas,too well!

He reined up when he saw escape was impossible, and awaited theircoming. Desborough's horse received a bullet in the chest, and down wenthorse and man together. But Charles pushed on till within ten yards of thebushranger, and levelled his pistol to fire.

For an instant father and son glared on one another as the father madehis aim more deadly. The bullet sped, and the poor boy tumbled from hissaddle, clutching wildly at the grass and flowers--shot through the chest.Then, ere Desborough had disentangled himself from his fallen horse, GeorgeHawker rode off laughing--out through the upper rock walls into thepresence of the broad snow-line that rolled above his head in endless loftytiers, and made for the broader valley which stretched beyond.

There was no pursuit, he thought. How could there be? Who knew of thisroute but he and his mates? No creature was stirring, but he mustonwards--onwards, across the snow. Twilight, and then night, and still thesnow but half passed. Strange ghosts and fancies crowd in upon him thickand fast.

Morning, and the pale ghosts have departed. He reached the gully wherehis refuge lay, utterly dispirited, just as the sun was setting. He turneda sharp angle round an abrupt cliff. He saw a horseman within ten yards ofhim--Captain Desborough, holding a pistol to his head! Hungry, cold,desperate, unarmed--his pistols had gone with his horse over aprecipice--he threw up his arms, and was instantly chained fast toDesborough's saddle, only to be loosed, he knew, by the gallows.

Without a word on either side they began their terrible journey. Theyhad gone two or three miles before Hawker said: "That young fellow I shotwhen you were after me, is he dead?"

"By this time," said Desborough. "He was dying as I came away."

"Would you mind stopping for a moment, captain? Now tell me who washe?"

"Mr. Charles Hawker, son of Mrs. Hawker, of Toonarbin."

Desborough told me his wild, despairing cry rang in his ears for yearsafterwards.

One wild, dreary day in spring, Major Buckley and I were admitted to thecondemned cell in the gaol in Sydney. Before us was a kind of bed place. Onit lay a man with his face buried in the pillow. I advanced towards him,but the governor held me back.

"My God, sir," he said, "take care! Don't, as you value your life, gowithin length of his chain."

The handsome head was raised, and my eyes met George Hawker's. I couldnot see the fierce, desperate villain who had kept our country-side interror so long; I could only see the handsome, curly-headed boy who used toplay with James Stockbridge and myself in Drumston churchyard! And, seeinghim, and him only, I sat down beside him, and put my arm round hisneck.

I don't want to be instructed in my duty. My duty as a magistrate was tostand at the farther end of the cell, and give this hardened criminal amoral lecture. But I only hung there, with my arm round his neck, and said,"Oh, George, George!" like a fool.

He put his hands on my shoulders, and looked me in the face, and said,after a time, "What! Hamlyn? Old Jeff Hamlyn! Jeff, old boy, I'm to be hungto-morrow."

"I know it," I said. "And I came to ask if I could do anything foryou."

"Anything you like, old Jeff," he said, with a laugh, "so long as youdon't get me reprieved. I've murdered my own son, Jeff. Do you knowthat?"

I answered, "Yes, I know that, George; but you did not know who hewas."

"He came at me to take my life," said Hawker. "And I tell you, if I hadguessed who he was, I'd have blown my brains out to save him from the crimeof killing me."

The major came forward, and held out his hand to George Hawker, andasked him to forgive him; he had been his enemy since they first met.

"Let me tell you, major, I feel more kind and hearty towards you andHamlyn for coming to me like this than I've felt towards any man thistwenty years. Time's up, I see. I ain't so much of a coward, am I, Jeff?Good-bye, old lad, good-bye!"

That was the last we saw of him; the next morning he was executed withfour of his comrades.

After all this, we old folks taking up our residence at Baroona hadagreed to make common house of it. We were very dull at first, but Iremember many pleasant evenings, when we played whist; and Mary Hawker, inher widow's weeds, sat sewing by the fireside contentedly enough.

But one evening next spring in stalked Tom Troubridge; and, in short, hetook her off with him, and they were married. And I think I never saw acouple more sincerely attached than she and her husband.

Ravenshoe

"Ravenshoe" was Henry Kingsley's second novel, and it waspublished in 1862, when its author was thirty-two years old. It will alwaysrank with "Geoffry Hamlyn" as Henry Kingsley's best work. These two bookswere their author's favourites among his own novels, and Charles Ravenshoewas one of his two favourite characters. It has been said that "Ravenshoe"is "alive--the expression of a man who worked both with heart and brain,"and few would care to dispute that opinion. For study of character, widecharity of outlook, brilliant descriptive writing--as, for instance, in thecharge at Balaclava, and real, not mawkish, pathos--as in the hopelessmisery of Charles, invalided, with only eighteen shillings, out of thearmy--"Ravenshoe" will always deserve to be read. It is the work of awriter who was not ashamed to avow himself an "optimist."

I.--Charles Loses His Brother and His Home

In 1820 Densil lost both his father and mother, and found himself, atthe age of thirty-seven, master of Ravenshoe--an estate worth £10,000a year--and master of himself.

Densil was an only son. His father, Peter Ravenshoe, had married Alicia,daughter of Charles, Earl of Ascot.

The Ravenshoes, an old West of England family, were Catholics; butDensil's second wife (his first wife died childless in 1816) was aProtestant, and made her husband promise that all her children, after herfirst born, should be brought up Protestant.

Mrs. Ravenshoe bore Densil two sons: Cuthbert, born 1826; Charles, born1831.

On the night Charles was born his mother lay dying, and Densil swore toher he would keep the promise he had made. And to this vow he was faithful,in spite of the indignation of Father Mackworth, the resident Catholicpriest at Ravenshoe.

The doctor insisted that a nurse was an immediate necessity, and JamesHorton, Densil's devoted servant and head keeper, suggested his wife,Norah; a proposal that had the doctor's immediate approval.

In due time Charles went to Eton and to Oxford, where he was rusticatedfor a term with his friend Lord Welter, Lord Ascot's eldest son, and fellin love with Adelaide, a penniless young lady, who acted as companion toold Lady Ascot.

At Ravenshoe, Charles and Mackworth seldom met without a "sparringmatch," for to the priest it was intolerable that this house should, in theevent of Cuthbert dying childless, pass into Protestant hands.

On the other hand, it was natural that a considerable amount offamiliarity, and a most sincere and hearty affection, should exist betweenCharles and his servant and foster-brother, William Horton. Till Charleswent to Shrewsbury he had never had another playfellow, for his brotherCuthbert was reserved and bookish; and the friendship between the two hadgrown with age.

One other inmate of Ravenshoe must be mentioned--this was little MaryCorby, who was saved miraculously from the wreck of the Warren Hastingswhen Charles was about ten. She was the daughter of Captain Corby, and whenthe ship went down in fifteen fathoms of water, the mate, assisted byfishermen, and encouraged by Densil, managed to get the little girl toshore, and to Ravenshoe--for the house was not far from the cliffs.

In spite of Densil's letters and inquiries, no friends came forward toclaim little Mary, then a child of nine, and in three months she wasconsidered as a permanent member of the household. And the night beforeCharles went to school he told her of his grand passion for Adelaide.

On the day of the Oxford and Cambridge boat-race, when Charles rowedthree in the winning boat, Densil Ravenshoe died, after two days' illness.Old James Horton's death occurred at the same time. Charles hurried home intime for the funeral, and when all was over a servant came up to him, andasked him would he see Mr. Ravenshoe in the library? Charles entered thelibrary with William, who had also been sent for.

Charles went up silently and kissed his brother on the forehead. For afew minutes Cuthbert neither moved nor spoke, while Charles greetedMackworth civilly. William stood at a little distance, looking uneasilyfrom one to another.

Cuthbert broke the silence, and as he spoke Charles, by some instinct,laid his hand on William's shoulder.

"I sent for you," he said, "on business which must be gone through with,though I expect it will kill me. I should like to prepare you for what isto come, but the blow would be equally severe whether you expect it or not.You two who stand there were nursed at the same breast. That groom on whoseshoulder you have your hand now is my real brother; you are no relation tome--you are the son of the faithful old servant whom we buried to-day withmy father!"

Charles at once asked for proofs and witnesses, and Mackworth took upthe tale.

"Your mother was Norah, James Horton's wife. James Horton was DensilRavenshoe's half-brother, and the illegitimate son of Peter. She confessedto me the wicked fraud she practised, and has committed that confession topaper. I hold it. You have not a point of ground to stand on. You have beenliving in luxury and receiving an expensive education when you should havebeen cleaning out the stable."

Charles's heart died away within him.

"Cuthbert," he said, "you are a gentleman. Is this true?"

"God knows how terribly true it is!" said Cuthbert quietly.

Father Mackworth handed the paper, signed by his mother, to him, andCharles read it. It was completely conclusive. William also read it, andturned pale.

Cuthbert spoke again in his quiet, passionless voice.

"My intention," he said, "is to make a provision of £300 a yearfor this gentleman, whom till the last few days I believed to be mybrother. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Charles, I offered FatherMackworth £10,000 for this paper, with a view to destroying it. Yousee what a poor weak rogue I am, and what a criminal I might become with alittle temptation. Father Mackworth did his duty and refused me!"

"You acted like yourself, Cuthbert. Like one who would risk body andsoul for one you loved. But it is time that this scene should end. Iutterly refuse the assistance so nobly offered. I go forth alone into theworld to make my own way, or to be forgotten. It only remains to saygood-bye. I leave this house without a hard thought towards any one in it.I am at peace with all the world. Father Mackworth, I beg your forgiveness.I have often been rude and brutal to you. Good-bye!"

He shook hands with Mackworth, then with William, and lastly he went upto Cuthbert and kissed him on the cheek; and then walked out of the doorinto the hall.

"I am going to follow him, wherever he goes," said William. "If he goesto the world's end, I will be with him!"

II.--Charles Loses Himself

Charles fled from Ravenshoe for London in the middle of the night,determined that William should not follow him. But he could not bear to goout and seek fortune without seeing Adelaide. So he called at Ranford, LordAscot's seat, only to learn that Adelaide had eloped with Lord Welter. Thetwo were married when he afterwards saw them in London.

Charles had to tell his story to old Lady Ascot, and when he had goneshe said to herself, "I will never keep another secret after this. It wasfor Alicia's sake and for Peter's that I did it, and now see what hasbecome of me!"

In London, Charles Ravenshoe committed suicide deliberately. He did nothang himself or drown himself; he hired himself out as groom--beingperfectly accomplished in everything relating to horses--to LieutenantHornby, of the 140th Hussars; and when the Crimean War broke out, enlisted,under the name of Simpson, as a trooper in Hornby's regiment.

On October 25 Charles was at Balaclava. They went down hill, straighttowards the guns, and almost at once the shot from them began to tell.Charles was in the second line, and the men in the front line began to fallterribly fast as they rode into the narrowing valley. It was impossible tokeep line. Presently the batteries right and left opened on them, and thosewho were there engaged can give us very little idea of what followed in thenext quarter of an hour. They were soon among the guns--the very guns thathad annoyed them from the first--and Charles, and two or three others knownto him, were hunting some Russian artillerymen round these guns for aminute or so.

He saw also at this time a friend of his--a cornet--on foot, and rode tohis assistance. He caught a riderless horse, and the cornet mounted. Thenthe word was given to get back again, and as they turned their faces to getout of this terrible hell, poor Charles gave a short, sharp scream, andbent down in his saddle over his horse's neck.

It was nothing. It was only as if one were to have twenty teeth pulledout at once. The pain was over in an instant. His left arm seemed nearlydead, but he could hold his reins in a way. He saw Hornby before him, andhis own friends were beside him again, and there was a rally and a charge.At guns? No. At men this time--Russian hussars--right valiant fellows, too.He could do but little himself. He rode at a Russian, and unhorsed him; heremembers seeing the man go down. They beat them back, and then turned androde--for it was time.

As the noise of the battle grew fainter behind them, he looked around tosee who was riding beside him and holding him by the right arm. It was thelittle cornet. Charles wondered why he did so.

"You're hard hit, Simpson," said the cornet. "Never mind. Keep yoursaddle a little longer. We shall be all right directly."

Charles looked down, and noticed that his left arm was hanging numbed byhis side, and that a trooper was guiding his horse.

Soon they were among English faces, and English cheers rang out inwelcome to their return, but it was nothing to him; he kept his eye, whichwas growing dim, on Hornby, and when he saw him fall off his saddle intothe arms of a trooper, he dismounted, too, and staggered towards him.

The world seemed to go round and round, and he felt about him like ablind man. But he found Hornby somehow. Presently a doctor was bending overhim.

Later, they found Hornby dead and cold, with his head on Charles's lap.Charles had been struck by a ball in the bone of his arm, and the splinterswere driven into the flesh, though the arm was not broken. It was a nastybusiness, said the doctors. All sorts of things might happen to him. Onlyone thing was certain, and that was that Charles Ravenshoe's career in thearmy was over for ever.

At home they all believed him dead, for William had traced him to Varna,and there had been informed that his foster-brother had died of cholera.The change of name was partly responsible for this, for among the dead orliving there was no signs of Charles Ravenshoe.

But he recovered, after a long spell in the hospital at Scutari, andafter a time was sent home to Fort Pitt. But that mighty left arm, whichhad done such noble work when it belonged to No. 3 in the Oxford UniversityEight, was useless; and Charles Simpson, trooper of the 140th, wasdischarged from the army, and found himself on Christmas Eve in the streetwith eighteen shillings and ninepence in his pocket, wondering blindly whatthe end would be, but no more dreaming of begging from those who had knownhim formerly than of leaping off Waterloo Bridge.

III.--The Last Eighteen Shillings

Charles's luck seemed certainly to have deserted him at last. He had gotto spend his Christmas with eighteen shillings and a crippled left arm, andhad nothing left to trust to but his little friend, the cornet, who hadcome home invalided, and was living with his mother in Hyde ParkGardens.

The cornet welcomed him with both hands, and, hearing from Charles ofhis plight, said, "Now, I know you are a gentleman, and I may offend you,but, if you are utterly hard up, take service with me. There!"

"I will do so with the deepest gratitude," said Charles. "But I cannotride, I fear. My left arm is gone."

"Pish! Ride with your right. It's a bargain."

Then Charles went upstairs, and was introduced to the cornet'smother.

He accepted his new position with dull carelessness. Life was gettingvery worthless. And all this time, had he but known it, money and a home,and sweet little Mary Corby, who had loved him ever since he was a boy,were waiting for him.

There was also a remarkable advertisem*nt which appeared in the "Times"for a considerable period, and was never seen by Charles. The advertisem*ntwas inserted by old Lady Ascot, and offered one hundred guineas to anyperson who could discover the register of marriage between Peter Ravenshoe,Esq., of Ravenshoe, in the county of Devon, and Maria Dawson, supposed tohave been solemnised about 1778.

How was Charles to know that Cuthbert Ravenshoe was dead; that William,now master of Ravenshoe, still hoped for his foster-brother's life, andthat old Lady Ascot was doing all she could to atone for a mistake?Charles, in fact, was still very weak and ill, and served his friend thecornet in a poor way. He had not recovered the shock of his fever anddelirium in the Crimea, and both nerve and health were gone.

Nobody could be more kind and affectionate than the cornet and his deafmother. They guessed that he was "somebody," and that things were wrongwith him; and the cornet once or twice invited his confidence; but he wastoo young, and Charles had not the energy to tell him anything.

And life was getting very, very weary business for Charles. By day,riding had become a terror, and at night he got no rest. And his mind beganto dwell too much on the bridges over the Thames, and on the water lappingand swirling about the piers.

Then, as it happened, a little shoeblack with whom Charles had struck upa friendship, falling sick in a foul court in South London, Charles mustneeds go and sit with him. The child died in his arms, and a dull terrorcame on Charles when he thought of his homeward journey. A scripture readerwho had been in the room came towards him and laid his hand upon hisshoulder. Charles turned from the dead child, and looked up into the faceof John Marston, the best of his old Oxford friends.

They passed out of the house together, Charles clinging tight to JohnMarston's arms. When they got to Marston's lodgings, Charles sat down bythe fire, and said quietly, "John, you have saved me! I should never havegot home this night."

But John Marston, by finding Charles, had dashed his dearest hopes tothe ground. He had always loved Mary Corby from his first visit toRavenshoe, and Mary loved Charles, who had loved Adelaide, who had marriedLord Welter. Marston thought there was just a chance for him, and now thatchance was gone. How did he behave, knowing that?

He put his hand on Charles's shoulder and said, "Charles--Charles, mydear old boy, look up! Think of Mary. She has been wooed by more than one,but I think her heart is yours yet."

"John," said Charles, "that is what has made me hide from you all likethis. I know that she loved me above all men; and partly that she shouldforget a penniless and disgraced man like myself, and partly from a sillypride, I have spent all my cunning on losing myself, hoping that you wouldbelieve me dead."

"We have hunted you hard, Charles. You do not know, I suppose, that youare a rich man, and undoubtedly heir of Ravenshoe, though one link is stillwanting."

"What do you mean?"

"There is no reasonable doubt, although we cannot prove it, that yourgrandfather Peter was married previously to his marriage with Lady AliciaStaunton, that your father James was the real Ravenshoe, while poorCuthbert and William--"

"Cuthbert! I will hide again. I will never displace Cuthbert, mindyou."

"Cuthbert is dead. He was drowned bathing last August."

Charles broke down, and cried like a child. When he was quiet, he askedafter William.

"He is very well, as he deserves to be. He gave up everything to huntyou through the world and bring you back. Now, my dear old boy, do satisfymy curiosity. What regiment did you enlist in?"

"In the 140th."

He paused, hid his face in his hands, and then his speech became rapidand incoherent.

"At Devna we got wood-pigeons, and I rode the Roucan-nosed bay, and hecarried me through it capitally. I ask your pardon, sir, but I am only apoor discharged trooper. I would not beg, sir, if I could help it, but painand hunger are hard things to bear, sir!"

"Charles--Charles! Don't you know me?"

"That is my name, sir. That is what they used to call me. I am no commonbeggar, sir. I was a gentleman once, sir, and rode a-horseback. I was inthe light cavalry charge at Balaclava. An angry business. They shouldn'tget good fellows to fight together like that--"

The next morning, old Lady Ascot, William, Mary, and John Marston wereround his bed listening to his half-uttered, delirious babble. The anxiousquestion was put to the greatest of the doctors present. "My dear Dr.B----, will he die?"

"Well, yes," said the doctor. "I would sooner say 'Yes' than 'No'--thechances are so heavy against him. You must really prepare for theworst."

IV.--A Life-Long Shadow

Of course, he did not die--I need not tell you that. The doctors pulledhim through. And when he was better the doctors removed the splinters ofbone from his arm. He did not talk much in this happy quiet time. Williamand Lady Ascot were with him all day. William, dear fellow, used to sit ona footstool and read the "Times" to him.

Lord Welter (now Lord Ascot, on the death of his father) came to seeCharles one day, and something he said made Charles ask if Adelaide wasdead.

"Tell me something," said Lord Ascot. "Have you any love left for heryet?"

"Not one spark," said Charles. "If I ever am a man again, I shall askMary Corby to marry me. I ought to have done so sooner, perhaps. But I loveyour wife, Welter, in a way; and I should grieve at her death, for I lovedher once."

"The truth is very horrible. We went out hunting together, and I wasgetting the gate open for her, when her devil of a horse rushed it, anddown they came on it together. And she broke her back, and the doctor saysshe may live till seventy, but that she will never move from where shelies--and just as I was getting to love her so dearly--"

That same afternoon Charles asked William to get Mary to come and seehim, and William straightway departed, and found Mary. And later in the dayMiss Mary Corby announced that she and Charles were engaged to bemarried.

William was still master of Ravenshoe, but he was convinced that thefirst marriage of his grandfather would be proved, and Charlesreinstated.

"Remember, Charles, I am not spending the revenues of Ravenshoe," hesaid. "They are yours. I know it. I am spending about £400 a year.When our grandfather's marriage is proved, you will provide for me and mywife, I know that. Be quiet."

William had long been engaged, from the time he had been Charles'sservant, to a fisherman's daughter, Jane Evans, and the change in hisfortunes made no difference in the matter. She was only a fisherman'sdaughter, but she was wonderfully beautiful, and gentle, and good.

The weddings took place at St. Peter's, Eaton Square. Mary and Charleswere not a handsome couple. The enthusiasm of the population was reservedfor William and Jane Evans, who certainly were.

Father Mackworth, dying after a stroke of paralysis, told us the dateand place of Peter Ravenshoe's first marriage--Finchampstead, Berks, 1778.He had known the truth, but had been anxious to keep Ravenshoe in Catholichands.

"You used to irritate and insult me, sir," he said, turning to Charles,"and I was not so near death then as now. If you can forgive me, in God'sname, say so!"

Charles went over to him, and put his arm round him.

"Forgive you!" he said. "Dear Mackworth, can you forgive me?"

The register was found, and the lawyers were soon busy. One document maybe noted, a rent charge on Ravenshoe of two thousand a year in favour ofWilliam Ravenshoe.

Well, Charles and William are both happily married now, and I sawCharles last summer playing with his eldest boy. But there was a cloud onhis face, for the memory of those few terrible months has cast its shadowupon him, and the shadow will lie, I fancy, upon that forehead until theforehead is smoothed in the sleep of death.