note: see also etext #219 which is a different version of this ebook] heart of darkness by joseph conrad i the nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the sails, and was at rest. the flood had made, the wind was nearly calm, and being bound down the river, the only thing for it was to come to and wait for the turn of the tide. the sea-reach of the thames stretched before us like the beginning of an interminable waterway. in the offing the sea and the sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. a haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness. the air was dark above gravesend, and farther back still seemed condensed into a mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the biggest, and the greatest, town on earth. the director of companies was our captain and our host. we four affectionately watched his back as he stood in the bows looking to seaward. on the whole river there was nothing that looked half so nautical. he resembled a pilot, which to a seaman is trustworthiness personified. it was difficult to realize his work was not out there in the luminous estuary, but behind him, within the brooding gloom. between us there was, as i have already said somewhere, the bond of the sea. besides holding our hearts together through long periods of separation, it had the effect of making us tolerant of each other's yarns--and even convictions. the lawyer--the best of old fellows--had, because of his many years and many virtues, the only cushion on deck, and was lying on the only rug. the accountant had brought out already a box of dominoes, and was toying architecturally with the bones. marlow sat cross-legged right aft, leaning against the mizzen-mast. he had sunken cheeks, a yellow complexion, a straight back, an ascetic aspect, and, with his arms dropped, the palms of hands outwards, resembled an idol. the director, satisfied the anchor had good hold, made his way aft and sat down amongst us. we exchanged a few words lazily. afterwards there was silence on board the yacht. for some reason or other we did not begin that game of dominoes. we felt meditative, and fit for nothing but placid staring. the day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance. the water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the essex marshes was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more somber every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun. and at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low, and from glowing white changed to a dull red without rays and without heat, as if about to go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that gloom brooding over a crowd of men. forthwith a change came over the waters, and the serenity became less brilliant but more profound. the old river in its broad reach rested unruffled at the decline of day, after ages of good service done to the race that peopled its banks, spread out in the tranquil dignity of a waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth. we looked at the venerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and departs for ever, but in the august light of abiding memories. and indeed nothing is easier for a man who has, as the phrase goes, "followed the sea" with reverence and affection, than to evoke the great spirit of the past upon the lower reaches of the thames. the tidal current runs to and fro in its unceasing service, crowded with memories of men and ships it had borne to the rest of home or to the battles of the sea. it had known and served all the men of whom the nation is proud, from sir francis drake to sir john franklin, knights all, titled and untitled--the great knights-errant of the sea. it had borne all the ships whose names are like jewels flashing in the night of time, from the golden hind returning with her round flanks full of treasure, to be visited by the queen's highness and thus pass out of the gigantic tale, to the erebus and terror, bound on other conquests--and that never returned. it had known the ships and the men. they had sailed from deptford, from greenwich, from erith--the adventurers and the settlers; kings' ships and the ships of men on 'change; captains, admirals, the dark "interlopers" of the eastern trade, and the commissioned "generals" of east india fleets. hunters for gold or pursuers of fame, they all had gone out on that stream, bearing the sword, and often the torch, messengers of the might within the land, bearers of a spark from the sacred fire. what greatness had not floated on the ebb of that river into the mystery of an unknown earth! . . . the dreams of men, the seed of commonwealths, the germs of empires. the sun set; the dusk fell on the stream, and lights began to appear along the shore. the chapman lighthouse, a three-legged thing erect on a mud-flat, shone strongly. lights of ships moved in the fairway--a great stir of lights going up and going down. and farther west on the upper reaches the place of the monstrous town was still marked ominously on the sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the stars. "and this also," said marlow suddenly, "has been one of the dark places of the earth." he was the only man of us who still "followed the sea." the worst that could be said of him was that he did not represent his class. he was a seaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead, if one may so express it, a sedentary life. their minds are of the stay-at-home order, and their home is always with them--the ship; and so is their country--the sea. one ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same. in the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as destiny. for the rest, after his hours of work, a casual stroll or a casual spree on shore suffices to unfold for him the secret of a whole continent, and generally he finds the secret not worth knowing. the yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity, the whole meaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut. but marlow was not typical (if his propensity to spin yarns be excepted), and to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination of moonshine. his remark did not seem at all surprising. it was just like marlow. it was accepted in silence. no one took the trouble to grunt even; and presently he said, very slow-"i was thinking of very old times, when the romans first came here, nineteen hundred years ago--the other day. . . . light came out of this river since--you say knights? yes; but it is like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. we live in the flicker--may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! but darkness was here yesterday. imagine the feelings of a commander of a fine--what d'ye call 'em?--trireme in the mediterranean, ordered suddenly to the north; run overland across the gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one of these craft the legionaries,--a wonderful lot of handy men they must have been too--used to build, apparently by the hundred, in a month or two, if we may believe what we read. imagine him here--the very end of the world, a sea the color of lead, a sky the color of smoke, a kind of ship about as rigid as a concertina--and going up this river with stores, or orders, or what you like. sandbanks, marshes, forests, savages,--precious little to eat fit for a civilized man, nothing but thames water to drink. no falernian wine here, no going ashore. here and there a military camp lost in a wilderness, like a needle in a bundle of hay--cold, fog, tempests, disease, exile, and death,--death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush. they must have been dying like flies here. oh yes--he did it. did it very well, too, no doubt, and without thinking much about it either, except afterwards to brag of what he had gone through in his time, perhaps. they were men enough to face the darkness. and perhaps he was cheered by keeping his eye on a chance of promotion to the fleet at ravenna by-and-by, if he had good friends in rome and survived the awful climate. or think of a decent young citizen in a toga--perhaps too much dice, you know--coming out here in the train of some prefect, or tax-gatherer, or trader even, to mend his fortunes. land in a swamp, march through the woods, and in some inland post feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him,--all that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men. there's no initiation either into such mysteries. he has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable. and it has a fascination, too, that goes to work upon him. the fascination of the abomination--you know. imagine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate." he paused. "mind," he began again, lifting one arm from the elbow, the palm of the hand outwards, so that, with his legs folded before him, he had the pose of a buddha preaching in european clothes and without a lotus-flower--"mind, none of us would feel exactly like this. what saves us is efficiency--the devotion to efficiency. but these chaps were not much account, really. they were no colonists; their administration was merely a squeeze, and nothing more, i suspect. they were conquerors, and for that you want only brute force--nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others. they grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was to be got. it was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men going at it blind--as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness. the conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. what redeems it is the idea only. an idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretense but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea--something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to. . . ." he broke off. flames glided in the river, small green flames, red flames, white flames, pursuing, overtaking, joining, crossing each other--then separating slowly or hastily. the traffic of the great city went on in the deepening night upon the sleepless river. we looked on, waiting patiently--there was nothing else to do till the end of the flood; but it was only after a long silence, when he said, in a hesitating voice, "i suppose you fellows remember i did once turn fresh-water sailor for a bit," that we knew we were fated, before the ebb began to run, to hear about one of marlow's inconclusive experiences. "i don't want to bother you much with what happened to me personally," he began, showing in this remark the weakness of many tellers of tales who seem so often unaware of what their audience would best like to hear; "yet to understand the effect of it on me you ought to know how i got out there, what i saw, how i went up that river to the place where i first met the poor chap. it was the farthest point of navigation and the culminating point of my experience. it seemed somehow to throw a kind of light on everything about me--and into my thoughts. it was somber enough too--and pitiful--not extraordinary in any way--not very clear either. no, not very clear. and yet it seemed to throw a kind of light. "i had then, as you remember, just returned to london after a lot of indian ocean, pacific, china seas--a regular dose of the east--six years or so, and i was loafing about, hindering you fellows in your work and invading your homes, just as though i had got a heavenly mission to civilize you. it was very fine for a time, but after a bit i did get tired of resting. then i began to look for a ship--i should think the hardest work on earth. but the ships wouldn't even look at me. and i got tired of that game too. "now when i was a little chap i had a passion for maps. i would look for hours at south america, or africa, or australia, and lose myself in all the glories of exploration. at that time there were many blank spaces on the earth, and when i saw one that looked particularly inviting on a map (but they all look that) i would put my finger on it and say, 'when i grow up i will go there.' the north pole was one of these places, i remember. well, i haven't been there yet, and shall not try now. the glamour's off. other places were scattered about the equator, and in every sort of latitude all over the two hemispheres. i have been in some of them, and . . . well, we won't talk about that. but there was one yet--the biggest, the most blank, so to speak--that i had a hankering after. "true, by this time it was not a blank space any more. it had got filled since my boyhood with rivers and lakes and names. it had ceased to be a blank space of delightful mystery--a white patch for a boy to dream gloriously over. it had become a place of darkness. but there was in it one river especially, a mighty big river, that you could see on the map, resembling an immense snake uncoiled, with its head in the sea, its body at rest curving afar over a vast country, and its tail lost in the depths of the land. and as i looked at the map of it in a shop-window, it fascinated me as a snake would a bird--a silly little bird. then i remembered there was a big concern, a company for trade on that river. dash it all! i thought to myself, they can't trade without using some kind of craft on that lot of fresh water--steamboats! why shouldn't i try to get charge of one? i went on along fleet street, but could not shake off the idea. the snake had charmed me. "you understand it was a continental concern, that trading society; but i have a lot of relations living on the continent, because it's cheap and not so nasty as it looks, they say. "i am sorry to own i began to worry them. this was already a fresh departure for me. i was not used to get things that way, you know. i always went my own road and on my own legs where i had a mind to go. i wouldn't have believed it of myself; but, then--you see--i felt somehow i must get there by hook or by crook. so i worried them. the men said 'my dear fellow,' and did nothing. then--would you believe it?--i tried the women. i, charlie marlow, set the women to work--to get a job. heavens! well, you see, the notion drove me. i had an aunt, a dear enthusiastic soul. she wrote: 'it will be delightful. i am ready to do anything, anything for you. it is a glorious idea. i know the wife of a very high personage in the administration, and also a man who has lots of influence with,' &c., &c. she was determined to make no end of fuss to get me appointed skipper of a river steamboat, if such was my fancy. "i got my appointment--of course; and i got it very quick. it appears the company had received news that one of their captains had been killed in a scuffle with the natives. this was my chance, and it made me the more anxious to go. it was only months and months afterwards, when i made the attempt to recover what was left of the body, that i heard the original quarrel arose from a misunderstanding about some hens. yes, two black hens. fresleven--that was the fellow's name, a dane--thought himself wronged somehow in the bargain, so he went ashore and started to hammer the chief of the village with a stick. oh, it didn't surprise me in the least to hear this, and at the same time to be told that fresleven was the gentlest, quietest creature that ever walked on two legs. no doubt he was; but he had been a couple of years already out there engaged in the noble cause, you know, and he probably felt the need at last of asserting his self-respect in some way. therefore he whacked the old nigger mercilessly, while a big crowd of his people watched him, thunderstruck, till some man,--i was told the chief's son,--in desperation at hearing the old chap yell, made a tentative jab with a spear at the white man--and of course it went quite easy between the shoulder-blades. then the whole population cleared into the forest, expecting all kinds of calamities to happen, while, on the other hand, the steamer fresleven commanded left also in a bad panic, in charge of the engineer, i believe. afterwards nobody seemed to trouble much about fresleven's remains, till i got out and stepped into his shoes. i couldn't let it rest, though; but when an opportunity offered at last to meet my predecessor, the grass growing through his ribs was tall enough to hide his bones. they were all there. the supernatural being had not been touched after he fell. and the village was deserted, the huts gaped black, rotting, all askew within the fallen enclosures. a calamity had come to it, sure enough. the people had vanished. mad terror had scattered them, men, women, and children, through the bush, and they had never returned. what became of the hens i don't know either. i should think the cause of progress got them, anyhow. however, through this glorious affair i got my appointment, before i had fairly begun to hope for it. "i flew around like mad to get ready, and before forty-eight hours i was crossing the channel to show myself to my employers, and sign the contract. in a very few hours i arrived in a city that always makes me think of a whited sepulcher. prejudice no doubt. i had no difficulty in finding the company's offices. it was the biggest thing in the town, and everybody i met was full of it. they were going to run an over-sea empire, and make no end of coin by trade. "a narrow and deserted street in deep shadow, high houses, innumerable windows with venetian blinds, a dead silence, grass sprouting between the stones, imposing carriage archways right and left, immense double doors standing ponderously ajar. i slipped through one of these cracks, went up a swept and ungarnished staircase, as arid as a desert, and opened the first door i came to. two women, one fat and the other slim, sat on straw-bottomed chairs, knitting black wool. the slim one got up and walked straight at me--still knitting with downcast eyes--and only just as i began to think of getting out of her way, as you would for a somnambulist, stood still, and looked up. her dress was as plain as an umbrella-cover, and she turned round without a word and preceded me into a waiting-room. i gave my name, and looked about. deal table in the middle, plain chairs all round the walls, on one end a large shining map, marked with all the colors of a rainbow. there was a vast amount of red--good to see at any time, because one knows that some real work is done in there, a deuce of a lot of blue, a little green, smears of orange, and, on the east coast, a purple patch, to show where the jolly pioneers of progress drink the jolly lager-beer. however, i wasn't going into any of these. i was going into the yellow. dead in the center. and the river was there--fascinating--deadly--like a snake. ough! a door opened, a white-haired secretarial head, but wearing a compassionate expression, appeared, and a skinny forefinger beckoned me into the sanctuary. its light was dim, and a heavy writing-desk squatted in the middle. from behind that structure came out an impression of pale plumpness in a frock-coat. the great man himself. he was five feet six, i should judge, and had his grip on the handle-end of ever so many millions. he shook hands, i fancy, murmured vaguely, was satisfied with my french. bon voyage. "in about forty-five seconds i found myself again in the waiting-room with the compassionate secretary, who, full of desolation and sympathy, made me sign some document. i believe i undertook amongst other things not to disclose any trade secrets. well, i am not going to. "i began to feel slightly uneasy. you know i am not used to such ceremonies, and there was something ominous in the atmosphere. it was just as though i had been let into some conspiracy--i don't know--something not quite right; and i was glad to get out. in the outer room the two women knitted black wool feverishly. people were arriving, and the younger one was walking back and forth introducing them. the old one sat on her chair. her flat cloth slippers were propped up on a foot-warmer, and a cat reposed on her lap. she wore a starched white affair on her head, had a wart on one cheek, and silver-rimmed spectacles hung on the tip of her nose. she glanced at me above the glasses. the swift and indifferent placidity of that look troubled me. two youths with foolish and cheery countenances were being piloted over, and she threw at them the same quick glance of unconcerned wisdom. she seemed to know all about them and about me too. an eerie feeling came over me. she seemed uncanny and fateful. often far away there i thought of these two, guarding the door of darkness, knitting black wool as for a warm pall, one introducing, introducing continuously to the unknown, the other scrutinizing the cheery and foolish faces with unconcerned old eyes. ave! old knitter of black wool. morituri te salutant. not many of those she looked at ever saw her again--not half, by a long way. "there was yet a visit to the doctor. 'a simple formality,' assured me the secretary, with an air of taking an immense part in all my sorrows. accordingly a young chap wearing his hat over the left eyebrow, some clerk i suppose,--there must have been clerks in the business, though the house was as still as a house in a city of the dead,--came from somewhere up-stairs, and led me forth. he was shabby and careless, with ink-stains on the sleeves of his jacket, and his cravat was large and billowy, under a chin shaped like the toe of an old boot. it was a little too early for the doctor, so i proposed a drink, and thereupon he developed a vein of joviality. as we sat over our vermouths he glorified the company's business, and by-and-by i expressed casually my surprise at him not going out there. he became very cool and collected all at once. 'i am not such a fool as i look, quoth plato to his disciples,' he said sententiously, emptied his glass with great resolution, and we rose. "the old doctor felt my pulse, evidently thinking of something else the while. 'good, good for there,' he mumbled, and then with a certain eagerness asked me whether i would let him measure my head. rather surprised, i said yes, when he produced a thing like calipers and got the dimensions back and front and every way, taking notes carefully. he was an unshaven little man in a threadbare coat like a gaberdine, with his feet in slippers, and i thought him a harmless fool. 'i always ask leave, in the interests of science, to measure the crania of those going out there,' he said. 'and when they come back, too?' i asked. 'oh, i never see them,' he remarked; 'and, moreover, the changes take place inside, you know.' he smiled, as if at some quiet joke. 'so you are going out there. famous. interesting too.' he gave me a searching glance, and made another note. 'ever any madness in your family?' he asked, in a matter-of-fact tone. i felt very annoyed. 'is that question in the interests of science too?' 'it would be,' he said, without taking notice of my irritation, 'interesting for science to watch the mental changes of individuals, on the spot, but . . .' 'are you an alienist?' i interrupted. 'every doctor should be--a little,' answered that original, imperturbably. 'i have a little theory which you messieurs who go out there must help me to prove. this is my share in the advantages my country shall reap from the possession of such a magnificent dependency. the mere wealth i leave to others. pardon my questions, but you are the first englishman coming under my observation. . . .' i hastened to assure him i was not in the least typical. 'if i were,' said i, 'i wouldn't be talking like this with you.' 'what you say is rather profound, and probably erroneous,' he said, with a laugh. 'avoid irritation more than exposure to the sun. adieu. how do you english say, eh? good-by. ah! good-by. adieu. in the tropics one must before everything keep calm.' . . . he lifted a warning forefinger. . . . 'du calme, du calme. adieu.' "one thing more remained to do--say good-by to my excellent aunt. i found her triumphant. i had a cup of tea--the last decent cup of tea for many days--and in a room that most soothingly looked just as you would expect a lady's drawing-room to look, we had a long quiet chat by the fireside. in the course of these confidences it became quite plain to me i had been represented to the wife of the high dignitary, and goodness knows to how many more people besides, as an exceptional and gifted creature--a piece of good fortune for the company--a man you don't get hold of every day. good heavens! and i was going to take charge of a two-penny-halfpenny river-steamboat with a penny whistle attached! it appeared, however, i was also one of the workers, with a capital--you know. something like an emissary of light, something like a lower sort of apostle. there had been a lot of such rot let loose in print and talk just about that time, and the excellent woman, living right in the rush of all that humbug, got carried off her feet. she talked about 'weaning those ignorant millions from their horrid ways,' till, upon my word, she made me quite uncomfortable. i ventured to hint that the company was run for profit. "'you forget, dear charlie, that the laborer is worthy of his hire,' she said, brightly. it's queer how out of touch with truth women are. they live in a world of their own, and there had never been anything like it, and never can be. it is too beautiful altogether, and if they were to set it up it would go to pieces before the first sunset. some confounded fact we men have been living contentedly with ever since the day of creation would start up and knock the whole thing over. "after this i got embraced, told to wear flannel, be sure to write often, and so on--and i left. in the street--i don't know why--a queer feeling came to me that i was an impostor. odd thing that i, who used to clear out for any part of the world at twenty-four hours' notice, with less thought than most men give to the crossing of a street, had a moment--i won't say of hesitation, but of startled pause, before this commonplace affair. the best way i can explain it to you is by saying that, for a second or two, i felt as though, instead of going to the center of a continent, i were about to set off for the center of the earth. "i left in a french steamer, and she called in every blamed port they have out there, for, as far as i could see, the sole purpose of landing soldiers and custom-house officers. i watched the coast. watching a coast as it slips by the ship is like thinking about an enigma. there it is before you--smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid, or savage, and always mute with an air of whispering, 'come and find out.' this one was almost featureless, as if still in the making, with an aspect of monotonous grimness. the edge of a colossal jungle, so dark-green as to be almost black, fringed with white surf, ran straight, like a ruled line, far, far away along a blue sea whose glitter was blurred by a creeping mist. the sun was fierce, the land seemed to glisten and drip with steam. here and there grayish-whitish specks showed up, clustered inside the white surf, with a flag flying above them perhaps. settlements some centuries old, and still no bigger than pin-heads on the untouched expanse of their background. we pounded along, stopped, landed soldiers; went on, landed custom-house clerks to levy toll in what looked like a god-forsaken wilderness, with a tin shed and a flag-pole lost in it; landed more soldiers--to take care of the custom-house clerks, presumably. some, i heard, got drowned in the surf; but whether they did or not, nobody seemed particularly to care. they were just flung out there, and on we went. every day the coast looked the same, as though we had not moved; but we passed various places--trading places--with names like gran' bassam little popo, names that seemed to belong to some sordid farce acted in front of a sinister backcloth. the idleness of a passenger, my isolation amongst all these men with whom i had no point of contact, the oily and languid sea, the uniform somberness of the coast, seemed to keep me away from the truth of things, within the toil of a mournful and senseless delusion. the voice of the surf heard now and then was a positive pleasure, like the speech of a brother. it was something natural, that had its reason, that had a meaning. now and then a boat from the shore gave one a momentary contact with reality. it was paddled by black fellows. you could see from afar the white of their eyeballs glistening. they shouted, sang; their bodies streamed with perspiration; they had faces like grotesque masks--these chaps; but they had bone, muscle, a wild vitality, an intense energy of movement, that was as natural and true as the surf along their coast. they wanted no excuse for being there. they were a great comfort to look at. for a time i would feel i belonged still to a world of straightforward facts; but the feeling would not last long. something would turn up to scare it away. once, i remember, we came upon a man-of-war anchored off the coast. there wasn't even a shed there, and she was shelling the bush. it appears the french had one of their wars going on thereabouts. her ensign dropped limp like a rag; the muzzles of the long eight-inch guns stuck out all over the low hull; the greasy, slimy swell swung her up lazily and let her down, swaying her thin masts. in the empty immensity of earth, sky, and water, there she was, incomprehensible, firing into a continent. pop, would go one of the eight-inch guns; a small flame would dart and vanish, a little white smoke would disappear, a tiny projectile would give a feeble screech--and nothing happened. nothing could happen. there was a touch of insanity in the proceeding, a sense of lugubrious drollery in the sight; and it was not dissipated by somebody on board assuring me earnestly there was a camp of natives--he called them enemies!--hidden out of sight somewhere. "we gave her her letters (i heard the men in that lonely ship were dying of fever at the rate of three a day) and went on. we called at some more places with farcical names, where the merry dance of death and trade goes on in a still and earthy atmosphere as of an overheated catacomb; all along the formless coast bordered by dangerous surf, as if nature herself had tried to ward off intruders; in and out of rivers, streams of death in life, whose banks were rotting into mud, whose waters, thickened into slime, invaded the contorted mangroves, that seemed to writhe at us in the extremity of an impotent despair. nowhere did we stop long enough to get a particularized impression, but the general sense of vague and oppressive wonder grew upon me. it was like a weary pilgrimage amongst hints for nightmares. "it was upward of thirty days before i saw the mouth of the big river. we anchored off the seat of the government. but my work would not begin till some two hundred miles farther on. so as soon as i could i made a start for a place thirty miles higher up. "i had my passage on a little sea-going steamer. her captain was a swede, and knowing me for a seaman, invited me on the bridge. he was a young man, lean, fair, and morose, with lanky hair and a shuffling gait. as we left the miserable little wharf, he tossed his head contemptuously at the shore. 'been living there?' he asked. i said, 'yes.' 'fine lot these government chaps--are they not?' he went on, speaking english with great precision and considerable bitterness. 'it is funny what some people will do for a few francs a month. i wonder what becomes of that kind when it goes up country?' i said to him i expected to see that soon. 'so-o-o!' he exclaimed. he shuffled athwart, keeping one eye ahead vigilantly. 'don't be too sure,' he continued. 'the other day i took up a man who hanged himself on the road. he was a swede, too.' 'hanged himself! why, in god's name?' i cried. he kept on looking out watchfully. 'who knows? the sun too much for him, or the country perhaps.' "at last we opened a reach. a rocky cliff appeared, mounds of turned-up earth by the shore, houses on a hill, others, with iron roofs, amongst a waste of excavations, or hanging to the declivity. a continuous noise of the rapids above hovered over this scene of inhabited devastation. a lot of people, mostly black and naked, moved about like ants. a jetty projected into the river. a blinding sunlight drowned all this at times in a sudden recrudescence of glare. 'there's your company's station,' said the swede, pointing to three wooden barrack-like structures on the rocky slope. 'i will send your things up. four boxes did you say? so. farewell.' "i came upon a boiler wallowing in the grass, then found a path leading up the hill. it turned aside for the bowlders, and also for an undersized railway-truck lying there on its back with its wheels in the air. one was off. the thing looked as dead as the carcass of some animal. i came upon more pieces of decaying machinery, a stack of rusty rails. to the left a clump of trees made a shady spot, where dark things seemed to stir feebly. i blinked, the path was steep. a horn tooted to the right, and i saw the black people run. a heavy and dull detonation shook the ground, a puff of smoke came out of the cliff, and that was all. no change appeared on the face of the rock. they were building a railway. the cliff was not in the way or anything; but this objectless blasting was all the work going on. "a slight clinking behind me made me turn my head. six black men advanced in a file, toiling up the path. they walked erect and slow, balancing small baskets full of earth on their heads, and the clink kept time with their footsteps. black rags were wound round their loins, and the short ends behind wagged to and fro like tails. i could see every rib, the joints of their limbs were like knots in a rope; each had an iron collar on his neck, and all were connected together with a chain whose bights swung between them, rhythmically clinking. another report from the cliff made me think suddenly of that ship of war i had seen firing into a continent. it was the same kind of ominous voice; but these men could by no stretch of imagination be called enemies. they were called criminals, and the outraged law, like the bursting shells, had come to them, an insoluble mystery from over the sea. all their meager breasts panted together, the violently dilated nostrils quivered, the eyes stared stonily uphill. they passed me within six inches, without a glance, with that complete, deathlike indifference of unhappy savages. behind this raw matter one of the reclaimed, the product of the new forces at work, strolled despondently, carrying a rifle by its middle. he had a uniform jacket with one button off, and seeing a white man on the path, hoisted his weapon to his shoulder with alacrity. this was simple prudence, white men being so much alike at a distance that he could not tell who i might be. he was speedily reassured, and with a large, white, rascally grin, and a glance at his charge, seemed to take me into partnership in his exalted trust. after all, i also was a part of the great cause of these high and just proceedings. "instead of going up, i turned and descended to the left. my idea was to let that chain-gang get out of sight before i climbed the hill. you know i am not particularly tender; i've had to strike and to fend off. i've had to resist and to attack sometimes--that's only one way of resisting--without counting the exact cost, according to the demands of such sort of life as i had blundered into. i've seen the devil of violence, and the devil of greed, and the devil of hot desire; but, by all the stars! these were strong, lusty, red-eyed devils, that swayed and drove men--men, i tell you. but as i stood on this hillside, i foresaw that in the blinding sunshine of that land i would become acquainted with a flabby, pretending, weak-eyed devil of a rapacious and pitiless folly. how insidious he could be, too, i was only to find out several months later and a thousand miles farther. for a moment i stood appalled, as though by a warning. finally i descended the hill, obliquely, towards the trees i had seen. "i avoided a vast artificial hole somebody had been digging on the slope, the purpose of which i found it impossible to divine. it wasn't a quarry or a sandpit, anyhow. it was just a hole. it might have been connected with the philanthropic desire of giving the criminals something to do. i don't know. then i nearly fell into a very narrow ravine, almost no more than a scar in the hillside. i discovered that a lot of imported drainage-pipes for the settlement had been tumbled in there. there wasn't one that was not broken. it was a wanton smash-up. at last i got under the trees. my purpose was to stroll into the shade for a moment; but no sooner within than it seemed to me i had stepped into a gloomy circle of some inferno. the rapids were near, and an uninterrupted, uniform, headlong, rushing noise filled the mournful stillness of the grove, where not a breath stirred, not a leaf moved, with a mysterious sound--as though the tearing pace of the launched earth had suddenly become audible. "black shapes crouched, lay, sat between the trees, leaning against the trunks, clinging to the earth, half coming out, half effaced within the dim light, in all the attitudes of pain, abandonment, and despair. another mine on the cliff went off, followed by a slight shudder of the soil under my feet. the work was going on. the work! and this was the place where some of the helpers had withdrawn to die. "they were dying slowly--it was very clear. they were not enemies, they were not criminals, they were nothing earthly now,--nothing but black shadows of disease and starvation, lying confusedly in the greenish gloom. brought from all the recesses of the coast in all the legality of time contracts, lost in uncongenial surroundings, fed on unfamiliar food, they sickened, became inefficient, and were then allowed to crawl away and rest. these moribund shapes were free as air--and nearly as thin. i began to distinguish the gleam of eyes under the trees. then, glancing down, i saw a face near my hand. the black bones reclined at full length with one shoulder against the tree, and slowly the eyelids rose and the sunken eyes looked up at me, enormous and vacant, a kind of blind, white flicker in the depths of the orbs, which died out slowly. the man seemed young--almost a boy--but you know with them it's hard to tell. i found nothing else to do but to offer him one of my good swede's ship's biscuits i had in my pocket. the fingers closed slowly on it and held--there was no other movement and no other glance. he had tied a bit of white worsted round his neck--why? where did he get it? was it a badge--an ornament--a charm--a propitiatory act? was there any idea at all connected with it? it looked startling round his black neck, this bit of white thread from beyond the seas. "near the same tree two more bundles of acute angles sat with their legs drawn up. one, with his chin propped on his knees, stared at nothing, in an intolerable and appalling manner: his brother phantom rested its forehead, as if overcome with a great weariness; and all about others were scattered in every pose of contorted collapse, as in some picture of a massacre or a pestilence. while i stood horror-struck, one of these creatures rose to his hands and knees, and went off on all-fours towards the river to drink. he lapped out of his hand, then sat up in the sunlight, crossing his shins in front of him, and after a time let his woolly head fall on his breastbone. "i didn't want any more loitering in the shade, and i made haste towards the station. when near the buildings i met a white man, in such an unexpected elegance of get-up that in the first moment i took him for a sort of vision. i saw a high starched collar, white cuffs, a light alpaca jacket, snowy trousers, a clear necktie, and varnished boots. no hat. hair parted, brushed, oiled, under a green-lined parasol held in a big white hand. he was amazing, and had a penholder behind his ear. "i shook hands with this miracle, and i learned he was the company's chief accountant, and that all the bookkeeping was done at this station. he had come out for a moment, he said, 'to get a breath of fresh air.' the expression sounded wonderfully odd, with its suggestion of sedentary desk-life. i wouldn't have mentioned the fellow to you at all, only it was from his lips that i first heard the name of the man who is so indissolubly connected with the memories of that time. moreover, i respected the fellow. yes; i respected his collars, his vast cuffs, his brushed hair. his appearance was certainly that of a hairdresser's dummy; but in the great demoralization of the land he kept up his appearance. that's backbone. his starched collars and got-up shirt-fronts were achievements of character. he had been out nearly three years; and, later on, i could not help asking him how he managed to sport such linen. he had just the faintest blush, and said modestly, 'i've been teaching one of the native women about the station. it was difficult. she had a distaste for the work.' this man had verily accomplished something. and he was devoted to his books, which were in apple-pie order. "everything else in the station was in a muddle,--heads, things, buildings. strings of dusty niggers with splay feet arrived and departed; a stream of manufactured goods, rubbishy cottons, beads, and brass-wire sent into the depths of darkness, and in return came a precious trickle of ivory. "i had to wait in the station for ten days--an eternity. i lived in a hut in the yard, but to be out of the chaos i would sometimes get into the accountant's office. it was built of horizontal planks, and so badly put together that, as he bent over his high desk, he was barred from neck to heels with narrow strips of sunlight. there was no need to open the big shutter to see. it was hot there too; big flies buzzed fiendishly, and did not sting, but stabbed. i sat generally on the floor, while, of faultless appearance (and even slightly scented), perching on a high stool, he wrote, he wrote. sometimes he stood up for exercise. when a truckle-bed with a sick man (some invalided agent from up-country) was put in there, he exhibited a gentle annoyance. 'the groans of this sick person,' he said, 'distract my attention. and without that it is extremely difficult to guard against clerical errors in this climate.' "one day he remarked, without lifting his head, 'in the interior you will no doubt meet mr. kurtz.' on my asking who mr. kurtz was, he said he was a first-class agent; and seeing my disappointment at this information, he added slowly, laying down his pen, 'he is a very remarkable person.' further questions elicited from him that mr. kurtz was at present in charge of a trading post, a very important one, in the true ivory-country, at 'the very bottom of there. sends in as much ivory as all the others put together. . . .' he began to write again. the sick man was too ill to groan. the flies buzzed in a great peace. "suddenly there was a growing murmur of voices and a great tramping of feet. a caravan had come in. a violent babble of uncouth sounds burst out on the other side of the planks. all the carriers were speaking together, and in the midst of the uproar the lamentable voice of the chief agent was heard 'giving it up' tearfully for the twentieth time that day. . . . he rose slowly. 'what a frightful row,' he said. he crossed the room gently to look at the sick man, and returning, said to me, 'he does not hear.' 'what! dead?' i asked, startled. 'no, not yet,' he answered, with great composure. then, alluding with a toss of the head to the tumult in the station-yard, 'when one has got to make correct entries, one comes to hate those savages--hate them to the death.' he remained thoughtful for a moment. 'when you see mr. kurtz,' he went on, 'tell him from me that everything here'--he glanced at the desk--'is very satisfactory. i don't like to write to him--with those messengers of ours you never know who may get hold of your letter--at that central station.' he stared at me for a moment with his mild, bulging eyes. 'oh, he will go far, very far,' he began again. 'he will be a somebody in the administration before long. they, above--the council in europe, you know--mean him to be.' "he turned to his work. the noise outside had ceased, and presently in going out i stopped at the door. in the steady buzz of flies the homeward-bound agent was lying flushed and insensible; the other, bent over his books, was making correct entries of perfectly correct transactions; and fifty feet below the doorstep i could see the still tree-tops of the grove of death. "next day i left that station at last, with a caravan of sixty men, for a two-hundred-mile tramp. "no use telling you much about that. paths, paths, everywhere; a stamped-in network of paths spreading over the empty land, through long grass, through burnt grass, through thickets, down and up chilly ravines, up and down stony hills ablaze with heat; and a solitude, a solitude, nobody, not a hut. the population had cleared out a long time ago. well, if a lot of mysterious niggers armed with all kinds of fearful weapons suddenly took to traveling on the road between deal and gravesend, catching the yokels right and left to carry heavy loads for them, i fancy every farm and cottage thereabouts would get empty very soon. only here the dwellings were gone too. still i passed through several abandoned villages. there's something pathetically childish in the ruins of grass walls. day after day, with the stamp and shuffle of sixty pair of bare feet behind me, each pair under a 60-lb. load. camp, cook, sleep, strike camp, march. now and then a carrier dead in harness, at rest in the long grass near the path, with an empty water-gourd and his long staff lying by his side. a great silence around and above. perhaps on some quiet night the tremor of far-off drums, sinking, swelling, a tremor vast, faint; a sound weird, appealing, suggestive, and wild--and perhaps with as profound a meaning as the sound of bells in a christian country. once a white man in an unbuttoned uniform, camping on the path with an armed escort of lank zanzibaris, very hospitable and festive--not to say drunk. was looking after the upkeep of the road, he declared. can't say i saw any road or any upkeep, unless the body of a middle-aged negro, with a bullet-hole in the forehead, upon which i absolutely stumbled three miles farther on, may be considered as a permanent improvement. i had a white companion too, not a bad chap, but rather too fleshy and with the exasperating habit of fainting on the hot hillsides, miles away from the least bit of shade and water. annoying, you know, to hold your own coat like a parasol over a man's head while he is coming-to. i couldn't help asking him once what he meant by coming there at all. 'to make money, of course. what do you think?' he said, scornfully. then he got fever, and had to be carried in a hammock slung under a pole. as he weighed sixteen stone i had no end of rows with the carriers. they jibbed, ran away, sneaked off with their loads in the night--quite a mutiny. so, one evening, i made a speech in english with gestures, not one of which was lost to the sixty pairs of eyes before me, and the next morning i started the hammock off in front all right. an hour afterwards i came upon the whole concern wrecked in a bush--man, hammock, groans, blankets, horrors. the heavy pole had skinned his poor nose. he was very anxious for me to kill somebody, but there wasn't the shadow of a carrier near. i remembered the old doctor,--'it would be interesting for science to watch the mental changes of individuals, on the spot.' i felt i was becoming scientifically interesting. however, all that is to no purpose. on the fifteenth day i came in sight of the big river again, and hobbled into the central station. it was on a back water surrounded by scrub and forest, with a pretty border of smelly mud on one side, and on the three others inclosed by a crazy fence of rushes. a neglected gap was all the gate it had, and the first glance at the place was enough to let you see the flabby devil was running that show. white men with long staves in their hands appeared languidly from amongst the buildings, strolling up to take a look at me, and then retired out of sight somewhere. one of them, a stout, excitable chap with black mustaches, informed me with great volubility and many digressions, as soon as i told him who i was, that my steamer was at the bottom of the river. i was thunderstruck. what, how, why? oh, it was 'all right.' the 'manager himself' was there. all quite correct. 'everybody had behaved splendidly! splendidly!'--'you must,' he said in agitation, 'go and see the general manager at once. he is waiting!' "i did not see the real significance of that wreck at once. i fancy i see it now, but i am not sure--not at all. certainly the affair was too stupid--when i think of it--to be altogether natural. still. . . . but at the moment it presented itself simply as a confounded nuisance. the steamer was sunk. they had started two days before in a sudden hurry up the river with the manager on board, in charge of some volunteer skipper, and before they had been out three hours they tore the bottom out of her on stones, and she sank near the south bank. i asked myself what i was to do there, now my boat was lost. as a matter of fact, i had plenty to do in fishing my command out of the river. i had to set about it the very next day. that, and the repairs when i brought the pieces to the station, took some months. "my first interview with the manager was curious. he did not ask me to sit down after my twenty-mile walk that morning. he was commonplace in complexion, in features, in manners, and in voice. he was of middle size and of ordinary build. his eyes, of the usual blue, were perhaps remarkably cold, and he certainly could make his glance fall on one as trenchant and heavy as an ax. but even at these times the rest of his person seemed to disclaim the intention. otherwise there was only an indefinable, faint expression of his lips, something stealthy--a smile--not a smile--i remember it, but i can't explain. it was unconscious, this smile was, though just after he had said something it got intensified for an instant. it came at the end of his speeches like a seal applied on the words to make the meaning of the commonest phrase appear absolutely inscrutable. he was a common trader, from his youth up employed in these parts--nothing more. he was obeyed, yet he inspired neither love nor fear, nor even respect. he inspired uneasiness. that was it! uneasiness. not a definite mistrust--just uneasiness--nothing more. you have no idea how effective such a . . . a . . . faculty can be. he had no genius for organizing, for initiative, or for order even. that was evident in such things as the deplorable state of the station. he had no learning, and no intelligence. his position had come to him--why? perhaps because he was never ill . . . he had served three terms of three years out there . . . because triumphant health in the general rout of constitutions is a kind of power in itself. when he went home on leave he rioted on a large scale--pompously. jack ashore--with a difference--in externals only. this one could gather from his casual talk. he originated nothing, he could keep the routine going--that's all. but he was great. he was great by this little thing that it was impossible to tell what could control such a man. he never gave that secret away. perhaps there was nothing within him. such a suspicion made one pause--for out there there were no external checks. once when various tropical diseases had laid low almost every 'agent' in the station, he was heard to say, 'men who come out here should have no entrails.' he sealed the utterance with that smile of his, as though it had been a door opening into a darkness he had in his keeping. you fancied you had seen things--but the seal was on. when annoyed at meal-times by the constant quarrels of the white men about precedence, he ordered an immense round table to be made, for which a special house had to be built. this was the station's mess-room. where he sat was the first place--the rest were nowhere. one felt this to be his unalterable conviction. he was neither civil nor uncivil. he was quiet. he allowed his 'boy'--an overfed young negro from the coast--to treat the white men, under his very eyes, with provoking insolence. "he began to speak as soon as he saw me. i had been very long on the road. he could not wait. had to start without me. the up-river stations had to be relieved. there had been so many delays already that he did not know who was dead and who was alive, and how they got on--and so on, and so on. he paid no attention to my explanations, and, playing with a stick of sealing-wax, repeated several times that the situation was 'very grave, very grave.' there were rumors that a very important station was in jeopardy, and its chief, mr. kurtz, was ill. hoped it was not true. mr. kurtz was . . . i felt weary and irritable. hang kurtz, i thought. i interrupted him by saying i had heard of mr. kurtz on the coast. 'ah! so they talk of him down there,' he murmured to himself. then he began again, assuring me mr. kurtz was the best agent he had, an exceptional man, of the greatest importance to the company; therefore i could understand his anxiety. he was, he said, 'very, very uneasy.' certainly he fidgeted on his chair a good deal, exclaimed, 'ah, mr. kurtz!' broke the stick of sealing-wax and seemed dumbfounded by the accident. next thing he wanted to know 'how long it would take to' . . . i interrupted him again. being hungry, you know, and kept on my feet too, i was getting savage. 'how could i tell,' i said. 'i hadn't even seen the wreck yet--some months, no doubt.' all this talk seemed to me so futile. 'some months,' he said. 'well, let us say three months before we can make a start. yes. that ought to do the affair.' i flung out of his hut (he lived all alone in a clay hut with a sort of veranda) muttering to myself my opinion of him. he was a chattering idiot. afterwards i took it back when it was borne in upon me startlingly with what extreme nicety he had estimated the time requisite for the 'affair.' "i went to work the next day, turning, so to speak, my back on that station. in that way only it seemed to me i could keep my hold on the redeeming facts of life. still, one must look about sometimes; and then i saw this station, these men strolling aimlessly about in the sunshine of the yard. i asked myself sometimes what it all meant. they wandered here and there with their absurd long staves in their hands, like a lot of faithless pilgrims bewitched inside a rotten fence. the word 'ivory' rang in the air, was whispered, was sighed. you would think they were praying to it. a taint of imbecile rapacity blew through it all, like a whiff from some corpse. by jove! i've never seen anything so unreal in my life. and outside, the silent wilderness surrounding this cleared speck on the earth struck me as something great and invincible, like evil or truth, waiting patiently for the passing away of this fantastic invasion. "oh, these months! well, never mind. various things happened. one evening a grass shed full of calico, cotton prints, beads, and i don't know what else, burst into a blaze so suddenly that you would have thought the earth had opened to let an avenging fire consume all that trash. i was smoking my pipe quietly by my dismantled steamer, and saw them all cutting capers in the light, with their arms lifted high, when the stout man with mustaches came tearing down to the river, a tin pail in his hand, assured me that everybody was 'behaving splendidly, splendidly,' dipped about a quart of water and tore back again. i noticed there was a hole in the bottom of his pail. "i strolled up. there was no hurry. you see the thing had gone off like a box of matches. it had been hopeless from the very first. the flame had leaped high, driven everybody back, lighted up everything--and collapsed. the shed was already a heap of embers glowing fiercely. a nigger was being beaten near by. they said he had caused the fire in some way; be that as it may, he was screeching most horribly. i saw him, later on, for several days, sitting in a bit of shade looking very sick and trying to recover himself: afterwards he arose and went out--and the wilderness without a sound took him into its bosom again. as i approached the glow from the dark i found myself at the back of two men, talking. i heard the name of kurtz pronounced, then the words, 'take advantage of this unfortunate accident.' one of the men was the manager. i wished him a good evening. 'did you ever see anything like it--eh? it is incredible,' he said, and walked off. the other man remained. he was a first-class agent, young, gentlemanly, a bit reserved, with a forked little beard and a hooked nose. he was stand-offish with the other agents, and they on their side said he was the manager's spy upon them. as to me, i had hardly ever spoken to him before. we got into talk, and by-and-by we strolled away from the hissing ruins. then he asked me to his room, which was in the main building of the station. he struck a match, and i perceived that this young aristocrat had not only a silver-mounted dressing-case but also a whole candle all to himself. just at that time the manager was the only man supposed to have any right to candles. native mats covered the clay walls; a collection of spears, assegais, shields, knives was hung up in trophies. the business intrusted to this fellow was the making of bricks--so i had been informed; but there wasn't a fragment of a brick anywhere in the station, and he had been there more than a year--waiting. it seems he could not make bricks without something, i don't know what--straw maybe. anyways, it could not be found there, and as it was not likely to be sent from europe, it did not appear clear to me what he was waiting for. an act of special creation perhaps. however, they were all waiting--all the sixteen or twenty pilgrims of them--for something; and upon my word it did not seem an uncongenial occupation, from the way they took it, though the only thing that ever came to them was disease--as far as i could see. they beguiled the time by backbiting and intriguing against each other in a foolish kind of way. there was an air of plotting about that station, but nothing came of it, of course. it was as unreal as everything else--as the philanthropic pretense of the whole concern, as their talk, as their government, as their show of work. the only real feeling was a desire to get appointed to a trading-post where ivory was to be had, so that they could earn percentages. they intrigued and slandered and hated each other only on that account,--but as to effectually lifting a little finger--oh, no. by heavens! there is something after all in the world allowing one man to steal a horse while another must not look at a halter. steal a horse straight out. very well. he has done it. perhaps he can ride. but there is a way of looking at a halter that would provoke the most charitable of saints into a kick. "i had no idea why he wanted to be sociable, but as we chatted in there it suddenly occurred to me the fellow was trying to get at something--in fact, pumping me. he alluded constantly to europe, to the people i was supposed to know there--putting leading questions as to my acquaintances in the sepulchral city, and so on. his little eyes glittered like mica discs--with curiosity,--though he tried to keep up a bit of superciliousness. at first i was astonished, but very soon i became awfully curious to see what he would find out from me. i couldn't possibly imagine what i had in me to make it worth his while. it was very pretty to see how he baffled himself, for in truth my body was full of chills, and my head had nothing in it but that wretched steamboat business. it was evident he took me for a perfectly shameless prevaricator. at last he got angry, and to conceal a movement of furious annoyance, he yawned. i rose. then i noticed a small sketch in oils, on a panel, representing a woman, draped and blindfolded, carrying a lighted torch. the background was somber--almost black. the movement of the woman was stately, and the effect of the torchlight on the face was sinister. "it arrested me, and he stood by civilly, holding a half-pint champagne bottle (medical comforts) with the candle stuck in it. to my question he said mr. kurtz had painted this--in this very station more than a year ago--while waiting for means to go to his trading-post. 'tell me, pray,' said i, 'who is this mr. kurtz?' "'the chief of the inner station,' he answered in a short tone, looking away. 'much obliged,' i said, laughing. 'and you are the brickmaker of the central station. everyone knows that.' he was silent for a while. 'he is a prodigy,' he said at last. 'he is an emissary of pity, and science, and progress, and devil knows what else. we want,' he began to declaim suddenly, 'for the guidance of the cause intrusted to us by europe, so to speak, higher intelligence, wide sympathies, a singleness of purpose.' 'who says that?' i asked. 'lots of them,' he replied. 'some even write that; and so _he_ comes here, a special being, as you ought to know.' 'why ought i to know?' i interrupted, really surprised. he paid no attention. 'yes. to-day he is chief of the best station, next year he will be assistant-manager, two years more and . . . but i dare say you know what he will be in two years' time. you are of the new gang--the gang of virtue. the same people who sent him specially also recommended you. oh, don't say no. i've my own eyes to trust.' light dawned upon me. my dear aunt's influential acquaintances were producing an unexpected effect upon that young man. i nearly burst into a laugh. 'do you read the company's confidential correspondence?' i asked. he hadn't a word to say. it was great fun. 'when mr. kurtz,' i continued severely, 'is general manager, you won't have the opportunity.' "he blew the candle out suddenly, and we went outside. the moon had risen. black figures strolled about listlessly, pouring water on the glow, whence proceeded a sound of hissing; steam ascended in the moonlight, the beaten nigger groaned somewhere. 'what a row the brute makes!' said the indefatigable man with the mustaches, appearing near us. 'serve him right. transgression--punishment--bang! pitiless, pitiless. that's the only way. this will prevent all conflagrations for the future. i was just telling the manager . . .' he noticed my companion, and became crestfallen all at once. 'not in bed yet,' he said, with a kind of servile heartiness; 'it's so natural. ha! danger--agitation.' he vanished. i went on to the river-side, and the other followed me. i heard a scathing murmur at my ear, 'heap of muffs--go to.' the pilgrims could be seen in knots gesticulating, discussing. several had still their staves in their hands. i verily believe they took these sticks to bed with them. beyond the fence the forest stood up spectrally in the moonlight, and through the dim stir, through the faint sounds of that lamentable courtyard, the silence of the land went home to one's very heart,--its mystery, its greatness, the amazing reality of its concealed life. the hurt nigger moaned feebly somewhere near by, and then fetched a deep sigh that made me mend my pace away from there. i felt a hand introducing itself under my arm. 'my dear sir,' said the fellow, 'i don't want to be misunderstood, and especially by you, who will see mr. kurtz long before i can have that pleasure. i wouldn't like him to get a false idea of my disposition. . . .' "i let him run on, this _papier-mache_ mephistopheles, and it seemed to me that if i tried i could poke my forefinger through him, and would find nothing inside but a little loose dirt, maybe. he, don't you see, had been planning to be assistant-manager by-and-by under the present man, and i could see that the coming of that kurtz had upset them both not a little. he talked precipitately, and i did not try to stop him. i had my shoulders against the wreck of my steamer, hauled up on the slope like a carcass of some big river animal. the smell of mud, of primeval mud, by jove! was in my nostrils, the high stillness of primeval forest was before my eyes; there were shiny patches on the black creek. the moon had spread over everything a thin layer of silver--over the rank grass, over the mud, upon the wall of matted vegetation standing higher than the wall of a temple, over the great river i could see through a somber gap glittering, glittering, as it flowed broadly by without a murmur. all this was great, expectant, mute, while the man jabbered about himself. i wondered whether the stillness on the face of the immensity looking at us two were meant as an appeal or as a menace. what were we who had strayed in here? could we handle that dumb thing, or would it handle us? i felt how big, how confoundedly big, was that thing that couldn't talk, and perhaps was deaf as well. what was in there? i could see a little ivory coming out from there, and i had heard mr. kurtz was in there. i had heard enough about it too--god knows! yet somehow it didn't bring any image with it--no more than if i had been told an angel or a fiend was in there. i believed it in the same way one of you might believe there are inhabitants in the planet mars. i knew once a scotch sailmaker who was certain, dead sure, there were people in mars. if you asked him for some idea how they looked and behaved, he would get shy and mutter something about 'walking on all-fours.' if you as much as smiled, he would--though a man of sixty--offer to fight you. i would not have gone so far as to fight for kurtz, but i went for him near enough to a lie. you know i hate, detest, and can't bear a lie, not because i am straighter than the rest of us, but simply because it appalls me. there is a taint of death, a flavor of mortality in lies,--which is exactly what i hate and detest in the world--what i want to forget. it makes me miserable and sick, like biting something rotten would do. temperament, i suppose. well, i went near enough to it by letting the young fool there believe anything he liked to imagine as to my influence in europe. i became in an instant as much of a pretense as the rest of the bewitched pilgrims. this simply because i had a notion it somehow would be of help to that kurtz whom at the time i did not see--you understand. he was just a word for me. i did not see the man in the name any more than you do. do you see him? do you see the story? do you see anything? it seems to me i am trying to tell you a dream--making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams. . . ." he was silent for a while. ". . . no, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence,--that which makes its truth, its meaning--its subtle and penetrating essence. it is impossible. we live, as we dream--alone. . . ." he paused again as if reflecting, then added--"of course in this you fellows see more than i could then. you see me, whom you know. . . ." it had become so pitch dark that we listeners could hardly see one another. for a long time already he, sitting apart, had been no more to us than a voice. there was not a word from anybody. the others might have been asleep, but i was awake. i listened, i listened on the watch for the sentence, for the word, that would give me the clew to the faint uneasiness inspired by this narrative that seemed to shape itself without human lips in the heavy night-air of the river. ". . . yes--i let him run on," marlow began again, "and think what he pleased about the powers that were behind me. i did! and there was nothing behind me! there was nothing but that wretched, old, mangled steamboat i was leaning against, while he talked fluently about 'the necessity for every man to get on.' 'and when one comes out here, you conceive, it is not to gaze at the moon.' mr. kurtz was a 'universal genius,' but even a genius would find it easier to work with 'adequate tools--intelligent men.' he did not make bricks--why, there was a physical impossibility in the way--as i was well aware; and if he did secretarial work for the manager, it was because 'no sensible man rejects wantonly the confidence of his superiors.' did i see it? i saw it. what more did i want? what i really wanted was rivets, by heaven! rivets. to get on with the work--to stop the hole. rivets i wanted. there were cases of them down at the coast--cases--piled up--burst--split! you kicked a loose rivet at every second step in that station yard on the hillside. rivets had rolled into the grove of death. you could fill your pockets with rivets for the trouble of stooping down--and there wasn't one rivet to be found where it was wanted. we had plates that would do, but nothing to fasten them with. and every week the messenger, a lone negro, letter-bag on shoulder and staff in hand, left our station for the coast. and several times a week a coast caravan came in with trade goods,--ghastly glazed calico that made you shudder only to look at it, glass beads value about a penny a quart, confounded spotted cotton handkerchiefs. and no rivets. three carriers could have brought all that was wanted to set that steamboat afloat. "he was becoming confidential now, but i fancy my unresponsive attitude must have exasperated him at last, for he judged it necessary to inform me he feared neither god nor devil, let alone any mere man. i said i could see that very well, but what i wanted was a certain quantity of rivets--and rivets were what really mr. kurtz wanted, if he had only known it. now letters went to the coast every week. . . . 'my dear sir,' he cried, 'i write from dictation.' i demanded rivets. there was a way--for an intelligent man. he changed his manner; became very cold, and suddenly began to talk about a hippopotamus; wondered whether sleeping on board the steamer (i stuck to my salvage night and day) i wasn't disturbed. there was an old hippo that had the bad habit of getting out on the bank and roaming at night over the station grounds. the pilgrims used to turn out in a body and empty every rifle they could lay hands on at him. some even had sat up o' nights for him. all this energy was wasted, though. 'that animal has a charmed life,' he said; 'but you can say this only of brutes in this country. no man--you apprehend me?--no man here bears a charmed life.' he stood there for a moment in the moonlight with his delicate hooked nose set a little askew, and his mica eyes glittering without a wink, then, with a curt good night, he strode off. i could see he was disturbed and considerably puzzled, which made me feel more hopeful than i had been for days. it was a great comfort to turn from that chap to my influential friend, the battered, twisted, ruined, tin-pot steamboat. i clambered on board. she rang under my feet like an empty huntley & palmer biscuit-tin kicked along a gutter; she was nothing so solid in make, and rather less pretty in shape, but i had expended enough hard work on her to make me love her. no influential friend would have served me better. she had given me a chance to come out a bit--to find out what i could do. no, i don't like work. i had rather laze about and think of all the fine things that can be done. i don't like work--no man does--but i like what is in the work,--the chance to find yourself. your own reality--for yourself, not for others--what no other man can ever know. they can only see the mere show, and never can tell what it really means. "i was not surprised to see somebody sitting aft, on the deck, with his legs dangling over the mud. you see i rather chummed with the few mechanics there were in that station, whom the other pilgrims naturally despised--on account of their imperfect manners, i suppose. this was the foreman--a boiler-maker by trade--a good worker. he was a lank, bony, yellow-faced man, with big intense eyes. his aspect was worried, and his head was as bald as the palm of my hand; but his hair in falling seemed to have stuck to his chin, and had prospered in the new locality, for his beard hung down to his waist. he was a widower with six young children (he had left them in charge of a sister of his to come out there), and the passion of his life was pigeon-flying. he was an enthusiast and a connoisseur. he would rave about pigeons. after work hours he used sometimes to come over from his hut for a talk about his children and his pigeons; at work, when he had to crawl in the mud under the bottom of the steamboat, he would tie up that beard of his in a kind of white serviette he brought for the purpose. it had loops to go over his ears. in the evening he could be seen squatted on the bank rinsing that wrapper in the creek with great care, then spreading it solemnly on a bush to dry. "i slapped him on the back and shouted, 'we shall have rivets!' he scrambled to his feet exclaiming 'no! rivets!' as though he couldn't believe his ears. then in a low voice, 'you . . . eh?' i don't know why we behaved like lunatics. i put my finger to the side of my nose and nodded mysteriously. 'good for you!' he cried, snapped his fingers above his head, lifting one foot. i tried a jig. we capered on the iron deck. a frightful clatter came out of that hulk, and the virgin forest on the other bank of the creek sent it back in a thundering roll upon the sleeping station. it must have made some of the pilgrims sit up in their hovels. a dark figure obscured the lighted doorway of the manager's hut, vanished, then, a second or so after, the doorway itself vanished too. we stopped, and the silence driven away by the stamping of our feet flowed back again from the recesses of the land. the great wall of vegetation, an exuberant and entangled mass of trunks, branches, leaves, boughs, festoons, motionless in the moonlight, was like a rioting invasion of soundless life, a rolling wave of plants, piled up, crested, ready to topple over the creek, to sweep every little man of us out of his little existence. and it moved not. a deadened burst of mighty splashes and snorts reached us from afar, as though an ichthyosaurus had been taking a bath of glitter in the great river. 'after all,' said the boiler-maker in a reasonable tone, 'why shouldn't we get the rivets?' why not, indeed! i did not know of any reason why we shouldn't. 'they'll come in three weeks,' i said confidently. "but they didn't. instead of rivets there came an invasion, an infliction, a visitation. it came in sections during the next three weeks, each section headed by a donkey carrying a white man in new clothes and tan shoes, bowing from that elevation right and left to the impressed pilgrims. a quarrelsome band of footsore sulky niggers trod on the heels of the donkeys; a lot of tents, camp-stools, tin boxes, white cases, brown bales would be shot down in the courtyard, and the air of mystery would deepen a little over the muddle of the station. five such installments came, with their absurd air of disorderly flight with the loot of innumerable outfit shops and provision stores, that, one would think, they were lugging, after a raid, into the wilderness for equitable division. it was an inextricable mess of things decent in themselves but that human folly made look like the spoils of thieving. "this devoted band called itself the eldorado exploring expedition, and i believe they were sworn to secrecy. their talk, however, was the talk of sordid buccaneers: it was reckless without hardihood, greedy without audacity, and cruel without courage; there was not an atom of foresight or of serious intention in the whole batch of them, and they did not seem aware these things are wanted for the work of the world. to tear treasure out of the bowels of the land was their desire, with no more moral purpose at the back of it than there is in burglars breaking into a safe. who paid the expenses of the noble enterprise i don't know; but the uncle of our manager was leader of that lot. "in exterior he resembled a butcher in a poor neighborhood, and his eyes had a look of sleepy cunning. he carried his fat paunch with ostentation on his short legs, and during the time his gang infested the station spoke to no one but his nephew. you could see these two roaming about all day long with their heads close together in an everlasting confab. "i had given up worrying myself about the rivets. one's capacity for that kind of folly is more limited than you would suppose. i said hang!--and let things slide. i had plenty of time for meditation, and now and then i would give some thought to kurtz. i wasn't very interested in him. no. still, i was curious to see whether this man, who had come out equipped with moral ideas of some sort, would climb to the top after all, and how he would set about his work when there." ii "one evening as i was lying flat on the deck of my steamboat, i heard voices approaching--and there were the nephew and the uncle strolling along the bank. i laid my head on my arm again, and had nearly lost myself in a doze, when somebody said in my ear, as it were: 'i am as harmless as a little child, but i don't like to be dictated to. am i the manager--or am i not? i was ordered to send him there. it's incredible.' . . . i became aware that the two were standing on the shore alongside the forepart of the steamboat, just below my head. i did not move; it did not occur to me to move: i was sleepy. 'it _is_ unpleasant,' grunted the uncle. 'he has asked the administration to be sent there,' said the other, 'with the idea of showing what he could do; and i was instructed accordingly. look at the influence that man must have. is it not frightful?' they both agreed it was frightful, then made several bizarre remarks: 'make rain and fine weather--one man--the council--by the nose'--bits of absurd sentences that got the better of my drowsiness, so that i had pretty near the whole of my wits about me when the uncle said, 'the climate may do away with this difficulty for you. is he alone there?' 'yes,' answered the manager; 'he sent his assistant down the river with a note to me in these terms: "clear this poor devil out of the country, and don't bother sending more of that sort. i had rather be alone than have the kind of men you can dispose of with me." it was more than a year ago. can you imagine such impudence!' 'anything since then?' asked the other, hoarsely. 'ivory,' jerked the nephew; 'lots of it--prime sort--lots--most annoying, from him.' 'and with that?' questioned the heavy rumble. 'invoice,' was the reply fired out, so to speak. then silence. they had been talking about kurtz. "i was broad awake by this time, but, lying perfectly at ease, remained still, having no inducement to change my position. 'how did that ivory come all this way?' growled the elder man, who seemed very vexed. the other explained that it had come with a fleet of canoes in charge of an english half-caste clerk kurtz had with him; that kurtz had apparently intended to return himself, the station being by that time bare of goods and stores, but after coming three hundred miles, had suddenly decided to go back, which he started to do alone in a small dug-out with four paddlers, leaving the half-caste to continue down the river with the ivory. the two fellows there seemed astounded at anybody attempting such a thing. they were at a loss for an adequate motive. as to me, i seemed to see kurtz for the first time. it was a distinct glimpse: the dug-out, four paddling savages, and the lone white man turning his back suddenly on the headquarters, on relief, on thoughts of home--perhaps; setting his face towards the depths of the wilderness, towards his empty and desolate station. i did not know the motive. perhaps he was just simply a fine fellow who stuck to his work for its own sake. his name, you understand, had not been pronounced once. he was 'that man.' the half-caste, who, as far as i could see, had conducted a difficult trip with great prudence and pluck, was invariably alluded to as 'that scoundrel.' the 'scoundrel' had reported that the 'man' had been very ill--had recovered imperfectly. . . . the two below me moved away then a few paces, and strolled back and forth at some little distance. i heard: 'military post--doctor--two hundred miles--quite alone now--unavoidable delays--nine months--no news--strange rumors.' they approached again, just as the manager was saying, 'no one, as far as i know, unless a species of wandering trader--a pestilential fellow, snapping ivory from the natives.' who was it they were talking about now? i gathered in snatches that this was some man supposed to be in kurtz's district, and of whom the manager did not approve. 'we will not be free from unfair competition till one of these fellows is hanged for an example,' he said. 'certainly,' grunted the other; 'get him hanged! why not? anything--anything can be done in this country. that's what i say; nobody here, you understand, _here_, can endanger your position. and why? you stand the climate--you outlast them all. the danger is in europe; but there before i left i took care to--' they moved off and whispered, then their voices rose again. 'the extraordinary series of delays is not my fault. i did my possible.' the fat man sighed, 'very sad.' 'and the pestiferous absurdity of his talk,' continued the other; 'he bothered me enough when he was here. "each station should be like a beacon on the road towards better things, a center for trade of course, but also for humanizing, improving, instructing." conceive you--that ass! and he wants to be manager! no, it's--' here he got choked by excessive indignation, and i lifted my head the least bit. i was surprised to see how near they were--right under me. i could have spat upon their hats. they were looking on the ground, absorbed in thought. the manager was switching his leg with a slender twig: his sagacious relative lifted his head. 'you have been well since you came out this time?' he asked. the other gave a start. 'who? i? oh! like a charm--like a charm. but the rest--oh, my goodness! all sick. they die so quick, too, that i haven't the time to send them out of the country--it's incredible!' 'h'm. just so,' grunted the uncle. 'ah! my boy, trust to this--i say, trust to this.' i saw him extend his short flipper of an arm for a gesture that took in the forest, the creek, the mud, the river,--seemed to beckon with a dishonoring flourish before the sunlit face of the land a treacherous appeal to the lurking death, to the hidden evil, to the profound darkness of its heart. it was so startling that i leaped to my feet and looked back at the edge of the forest, as though i had expected an answer of some sort to that black display of confidence. you know the foolish notions that come to one sometimes. the high stillness confronted these two figures with its ominous patience, waiting for the passing away of a fantastic invasion. "they swore aloud together--out of sheer fright, i believe--then pretending not to know anything of my existence, turned back to the station. the sun was low; and leaning forward side by side, they seemed to be tugging painfully uphill their two ridiculous shadows of unequal length, that trailed behind them slowly over the tall grass without bending a single blade. "in a few days the eldorado expedition went into the patient wilderness, that closed upon it as the sea closes over a diver. long afterwards the news came that all the donkeys were dead. i know nothing as to the fate of the less valuable animals. they, no doubt, like the rest of us, found what they deserved. i did not inquire. i was then rather excited at the prospect of meeting kurtz very soon. when i say very soon i mean it comparatively. it was just two months from the day we left the creek when we came to the bank below kurtz's station. "going up that river was like traveling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings. an empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. the air was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish. there was no joy in the brilliance of sunshine. the long stretches of the waterway ran on, deserted, into the gloom of overshadowed distances. on silvery sandbanks hippos and alligators sunned themselves side by side. the broadening waters flowed through a mob of wooded islands; you lost your way on that river as you would in a desert, and butted all day long against shoals, trying to find the channel, till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from everything you had known once--somewhere--far away--in another existence perhaps. there were moments when one's past came back to one, as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare to yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of this strange world of plants, and water, and silence. and this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. it was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. it looked at you with a vengeful aspect. i got used to it afterwards; i did not see it any more; i had no time. i had to keep guessing at the channel; i had to discern, mostly by inspiration, the signs of hidden banks; i watched for sunken stones; i was learning to clap my teeth smartly before my heart flew out, when i shaved by a fluke some infernal sly old snag that would have ripped the life out of the tin-pot steamboat and drowned all the pilgrims; i had to keep a look-out for the signs of dead wood we could cut up in the night for next day's steaming. when you have to attend to things of that sort, to the mere incidents of the surface, the reality--the reality, i tell you--fades. the inner truth is hidden--luckily, luckily. but i felt it all the same; i felt often its mysterious stillness watching me at my monkey tricks, just as it watches you fellows performing on your respective tight-ropes for--what is it? half-a-crown a tumble--" "try to be civil, marlow," growled a voice, and i knew there was at least one listener awake besides myself. "i beg your pardon. i forgot the heartache which makes up the rest of the price. and indeed what does the price matter, if the trick be well done? you do your tricks very well. and i didn't do badly either, since i managed not to sink that steamboat on my first trip. it's a wonder to me yet. imagine a blindfolded man set to drive a van over a bad road. i sweated and shivered over that business considerably, i can tell you. after all, for a seaman, to scrape the bottom of the thing that's supposed to float all the time under his care is the unpardonable sin. no one may know of it, but you never forget the thump--eh? a blow on the very heart. you remember it, you dream of it, you wake up at night and think of it--years after--and go hot and cold all over. i don't pretend to say that steamboat floated all the time. more than once she had to wade for a bit, with twenty cannibals splashing around and pushing. we had enlisted some of these chaps on the way for a crew. fine fellows--cannibals--in their place. they were men one could work with, and i am grateful to them. and, after all, they did not eat each other before my face: they had brought along a provision of hippo-meat which went rotten, and made the mystery of the wilderness stink in my nostrils. phoo! i can sniff it now. i had the manager on board and three or four pilgrims with their staves--all complete. sometimes we came upon a station close by the bank, clinging to the skirts of the unknown, and the white men rushing out of a tumble-down hovel, with great gestures of joy and surprise and welcome, seemed very strange,--had the appearance of being held there captive by a spell. the word ivory would ring in the air for a while--and on we went again into the silence, along empty reaches, round the still bends, between the high walls of our winding way, reverberating in hollow claps the ponderous beat of the stern-wheel. trees, trees, millions of trees, massive, immense, running up high; and at their foot, hugging the bank against the stream, crept the little begrimed steamboat, like a sluggish beetle crawling on the floor of a lofty portico. it made you feel very small, very lost, and yet it was not altogether depressing, that feeling. after all, if you were small, the grimy beetle crawled on--which was just what you wanted it to do. where the pilgrims imagined it crawled to i don't know. to some place where they expected to get something, i bet! for me it crawled toward kurtz--exclusively; but when the steam-pipes started leaking we crawled very slow. the reaches opened before us and closed behind, as if the forest had stepped leisurely across the water to bar the way for our return. we penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness. it was very quiet there. at night sometimes the roll of drums behind the curtain of trees would run up the river and remain sustained faintly, as if hovering in the air high over our heads, till the first break of day. whether it meant war, peace, or prayer we could not tell. the dawns were heralded by the descent of a chill stillness; the woodcutters slept, their fires burned low; the snapping of a twig would make you start. we were wanderers on a prehistoric earth, on an earth that wore the aspect of an unknown planet. we could have fancied ourselves the first of men taking possession of an accursed inheritance, to be subdued at the cost of profound anguish and of excessive toil. but suddenly, as we struggled round a bend, there would be a glimpse of rush walls, of peaked grass-roofs, a burst of yells, a whirl of black limbs, a mass of hands clapping, of feet stamping, of bodies swaying, of eyes rolling, under the droop of heavy and motionless foliage. the steamer toiled along slowly on the edge of a black and incomprehensible frenzy. the prehistoric man was cursing us, praying to us, welcoming us--who could tell? we were cut off from the comprehension of our surroundings; we glided past like phantoms, wondering and secretly appalled, as sane men would be before an enthusiastic outbreak in a madhouse. we could not understand, because we were too far and could not remember, because we were traveling in the night of first ages, of those ages that are gone, leaving hardly a sign--and no memories. "the earth seemed unearthly. we are accustomed to look upon the shackled form of a conquered monster, but there--there you could look at a thing monstrous and free. it was unearthly, and the men were--no, they were not inhuman. well, you know, that was the worst of it--this suspicion of their not being inhuman. it would come slowly to one. they howled, and leaped, and spun, and made horrid faces; but what thrilled you was just the thought of their humanity--like yours--the thought of your remote kinship with this wild and passionate uproar. ugly. yes, it was ugly enough; but if you were man enough you would admit to yourself that there was in you just the faintest trace of a response to the terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there being a meaning in it which you--you so remote from the night of first ages--could comprehend. and why not? the mind of man is capable of anything--because everything is in it, all the past as well as all the future. what was there after all? joy, fear, sorrow, devotion, valor, rage--who can tell?--but truth--truth stripped of its cloak of time. let the fool gape and shudder--the man knows, and can look on without a wink. but he must at least be as much of a man as these on the shore. he must meet that truth with his own true stuff--with his own inborn strength. principles? principles won't do. acquisitions, clothes, pretty rags--rags that would fly off at the first good shake. no; you want a deliberate belief. an appeal to me in this fiendish row--is there? very well; i hear; i admit, but i have a voice too, and for good or evil mine is the speech that cannot be silenced. of course, a fool, what with sheer fright and fine sentiments, is always safe. who's that grunting? you wonder i didn't go ashore for a howl and a dance? well, no--i didn't. fine sentiments, you say? fine sentiments, be hanged! i had no time. i had to mess about with white-lead and strips of woolen blanket helping to put bandages on those leaky steam-pipes--i tell you. i had to watch the steering, and circumvent those snags, and get the tin-pot along by hook or by crook. there was surface-truth enough in these things to save a wiser man. and between whiles i had to look after the savage who was fireman. he was an improved specimen; he could fire up a vertical boiler. he was there below me, and, upon my word, to look at him was as edifying as seeing a dog in a parody of breeches and a feather hat, walking on his hind-legs. a few months of training had done for that really fine chap. he squinted at the steam-gauge and at the water-gauge with an evident effort of intrepidity--and he had filed teeth too, the poor devil, and the wool of his pate shaved into queer patterns, and three ornamental scars on each of his cheeks. he ought to have been clapping his hands and stamping his feet on the bank, instead of which he was hard at work, a thrall to strange witchcraft, full of improving knowledge. he was useful because he had been instructed; and what he knew was this--that should the water in that transparent thing disappear, the evil spirit inside the boiler would get angry through the greatness of his thirst, and take a terrible vengeance. so he sweated and fired up and watched the glass fearfully (with an impromptu charm, made of rags, tied to his arm, and a piece of polished bone, as big as a watch, stuck flatways through his lower lip), while the wooded banks slipped past us slowly, the short noise was left behind, the interminable miles of silence--and we crept on, towards kurtz. but the snags were thick, the water was treacherous and shallow, the boiler seemed indeed to have a sulky devil in it, and thus neither that fireman nor i had any time to peer into our creepy thoughts. "some fifty miles below the inner station we came upon a hut of reeds, an inclined and melancholy pole, with the unrecognizable tatters of what had been a flag of some sort flying from it, and a neatly stacked woodpile. this was unexpected. we came to the bank, and on the stack of firewood found a flat piece of board with some faded pencil-writing on it. when deciphered it said: 'wood for you. hurry up. approach cautiously.' there was a signature, but it was illegible--not kurtz--a much longer word. 'hurry up.' where? up the river? 'approach cautiously.' we had not done so. but the warning could not have been meant for the place where it could be only found after approach. something was wrong above. but what--and how much? that was the question. we commented adversely upon the imbecility of that telegraphic style. the bush around said nothing, and would not let us look very far, either. a torn curtain of red twill hung in the doorway of the hut, and flapped sadly in our faces. the dwelling was dismantled; but we could see a white man had lived there not very long ago. there remained a rude table--a plank on two posts; a heap of rubbish reposed in a dark corner, and by the door i picked up a book. it had lost its covers, and the pages had been thumbed into a state of extremely dirty softness; but the back had been lovingly stitched afresh with white cotton thread, which looked clean yet. it was an extraordinary find. its title was, 'an inquiry into some points of seamanship,' by a man tower, towson--some such name--master in his majesty's navy. the matter looked dreary reading enough, with illustrative diagrams and repulsive tables of figures, and the copy was sixty years old. i handled this amazing antiquity with the greatest possible tenderness, lest it should dissolve in my hands. within, towson or towser was inquiring earnestly into the breaking strain of ships' chains and tackle, and other such matters. not a very enthralling book; but at the first glance you could see there a singleness of intention, an honest concern for the right way of going to work, which made these humble pages, thought out so many years ago, luminous with another than a professional light. the simple old sailor, with his talk of chains and purchases, made me forget the jungle and the pilgrims in a delicious sensation of having come upon something unmistakably real. such a book being there was wonderful enough; but still more astounding were the notes penciled in the margin, and plainly referring to the text. i couldn't believe my eyes! they were in cipher! yes, it looked like cipher. fancy a man lugging with him a book of that description into this nowhere and studying it--and making notes--in cipher at that! it was an extravagant mystery. "i had been dimly aware for some time of a worrying noise, and when i lifted my eyes i saw the wood-pile was gone, and the manager, aided by all the pilgrims, was shouting at me from the river-side. i slipped the book into my pocket. i assure you to leave off reading was like tearing myself away from the shelter of an old and solid friendship. "i started the lame engine ahead. 'it must be this miserable trader--this intruder,' exclaimed the manager, looking back malevolently at the place we had left. 'he must be english,' i said. 'it will not save him from getting into trouble if he is not careful,' muttered the manager darkly. i observed with assumed innocence that no man was safe from trouble in this world. "the current was more rapid now, the steamer seemed at her last gasp, the stern-wheel flopped languidly, and i caught myself listening on tiptoe for the next beat of the boat, for in sober truth i expected the wretched thing to give up every moment. it was like watching the last flickers of a life. but still we crawled. sometimes i would pick out a tree a little way ahead to measure our progress towards kurtz by, but i lost it invariably before we got abreast. to keep the eyes so long on one thing was too much for human patience. the manager displayed a beautiful resignation. i fretted and fumed and took to arguing with myself whether or no i would talk openly with kurtz; but before i could come to any conclusion it occurred to me that my speech or my silence, indeed any action of mine, would be a mere futility. what did it matter what anyone knew or ignored? what did it matter who was manager? one gets sometimes such a flash of insight. the essentials of this affair lay deep under the surface, beyond my reach, and beyond my power of meddling. "towards the evening of the second day we judged ourselves about eight miles from kurtz's station. i wanted to push on; but the manager looked grave, and told me the navigation up there was so dangerous that it would be advisable, the sun being very low already, to wait where we were till next morning. moreover, he pointed out that if the warning to approach cautiously were to be followed, we must approach in daylight--not at dusk, or in the dark. this was sensible enough. eight miles meant nearly three hours' steaming for us, and i could also see suspicious ripples at the upper end of the reach. nevertheless, i was annoyed beyond expression at the delay, and most unreasonably too, since one night more could not matter much after so many months. as we had plenty of wood, and caution was the word, i brought up in the middle of the stream. the reach was narrow, straight, with high sides like a railway cutting. the dusk came gliding into it long before the sun had set. the current ran smooth and swift, but a dumb immobility sat on the banks. the living trees, lashed together by the creepers and every living bush of the undergrowth, might have been changed into stone, even to the slenderest twig, to the lightest leaf. it was not sleep--it seemed unnatural, like a state of trance. not the faintest sound of any kind could be heard. you looked on amazed, and began to suspect yourself of being deaf--then the night came suddenly, and struck you blind as well. about three in the morning some large fish leaped, and the loud splash made me jump as though a gun had been fired. when the sun rose there was a white fog, very warm and clammy, and more blinding than the night. it did not shift or drive; it was just there, standing all round you like something solid. at eight or nine, perhaps, it lifted as a shutter lifts. we had a glimpse of the towering multitude of trees, of the immense matted jungle, with the blazing little ball of the sun hanging over it--all perfectly still--and then the white shutter came down again, smoothly, as if sliding in greased grooves. i ordered the chain, which we had begun to heave in, to be paid out again. before it stopped running with a muffled rattle, a cry, a very loud cry, as of infinite desolation, soared slowly in the opaque air. it ceased. a complaining clamor, modulated in savage discords, filled our ears. the sheer unexpectedness of it made my hair stir under my cap. i don't know how it struck the others: to me it seemed as though the mist itself had screamed, so suddenly, and apparently from all sides at once, did this tumultuous and mournful uproar arise. it culminated in a hurried outbreak of almost intolerably excessive shrieking, which stopped short, leaving us stiffened in a variety of silly attitudes, and obstinately listening to the nearly as appalling and excessive silence. 'good god! what is the meaning--?' stammered at my elbow one of the pilgrims,--a little fat man, with sandy hair and red whiskers, who wore side-spring boots, and pink pyjamas tucked into his socks. two others remained open-mouthed a whole minute, then dashed into the little cabin, to rush out incontinently and stand darting scared glances, with winchesters at 'ready' in their hands. what we could see was just the steamer we were on, her outlines blurred as though she had been on the point of dissolving, and a misty strip of water, perhaps two feet broad, around her--and that was all. the rest of the world was nowhere, as far as our eyes and ears were concerned. just nowhere. gone, disappeared; swept off without leaving a whisper or a shadow behind. "i went forward, and ordered the chain to be hauled in short, so as to be ready to trip the anchor and move the steamboat at once if necessary. 'will they attack?' whispered an awed voice. 'we will all be butchered in this fog,' murmured another. the faces twitched with the strain, the hands trembled slightly, the eyes forgot to wink. it was very curious to see the contrast of expressions of the white men and of the black fellows of our crew, who were as much strangers to that part of the river as we, though their homes were only eight hundred miles away. the whites, of course greatly discomposed, had besides a curious look of being painfully shocked by such an outrageous row. the others had an alert, naturally interested expression; but their faces were essentially quiet, even those of the one or two who grinned as they hauled at the chain. several exchanged short, grunting phrases, which seemed to settle the matter to their satisfaction. their headman, a young, broad-chested black, severely draped in dark-blue fringed cloths, with fierce nostrils and his hair all done up artfully in oily ringlets, stood near me. 'aha!' i said, just for good fellowship's sake. 'catch 'im,' he snapped, with a bloodshot widening of his eyes and a flash of sharp teeth--'catch 'im. give 'im to us.' 'to you, eh?' i asked; 'what would you do with them?' 'eat 'im!' he said curtly, and, leaning his elbow on the rail, looked out into the fog in a dignified and profoundly pensive attitude. i would no doubt have been properly horrified, had it not occurred to me that he and his chaps must be very hungry: that they must have been growing increasingly hungry for at least this month past. they had been engaged for six months (i don't think a single one of them had any clear idea of time, as we at the end of countless ages have. they still belonged to the beginnings of time--had no inherited experience to teach them as it were), and of course, as long as there was a piece of paper written over in accordance with some farcical law or other made down the river, it didn't enter anybody's head to trouble how they would live. certainly they had brought with them some rotten hippo-meat, which couldn't have lasted very long, anyway, even if the pilgrims hadn't, in the midst of a shocking hullabaloo, thrown a considerable quantity of it overboard. it looked like a high-handed proceeding; but it was really a case of legitimate self-defense. you can't breathe dead hippo waking, sleeping, and eating, and at the same time keep your precarious grip on existence. besides that, they had given them every week three pieces of brass wire, each about nine inches long; and the theory was they were to buy their provisions with that currency in river-side villages. you can see how _that_ worked. there were either no villages, or the people were hostile, or the director, who like the rest of us fed out of tins, with an occasional old he-goat thrown in, didn't want to stop the steamer for some more or less recondite reason. so, unless they swallowed the wire itself, or made loops of it to snare the fishes with, i don't see what good their extravagant salary could be to them. i must say it was paid with a regularity worthy of a large and honorable trading company. for the rest, the only thing to eat--though it didn't look eatable in the least--i saw in their possession was a few lumps of some stuff like half-cooked dough, of a dirty lavender color, they kept wrapped in leaves, and now and then swallowed a piece of, but so small that it seemed done more for the looks of the thing than for any serious purpose of sustenance. why in the name of all the gnawing devils of hunger they didn't go for us--they were thirty to five--and have a good tuck in for once, amazes me now when i think of it. they were big powerful men, with not much capacity to weigh the consequences, with courage, with strength, even yet, though their skins were no longer glossy and their muscles no longer hard. and i saw that something restraining, one of those human secrets that baffle probability, had come into play there. i looked at them with a swift quickening of interest--not because it occurred to me i might be eaten by them before very long, though i own to you that just then i perceived--in a new light, as it were--how unwholesome the pilgrims looked, and i hoped, yes, i positively hoped, that my aspect was not so--what shall i say?--so--unappetizing: a touch of fantastic vanity which fitted well with the dream-sensation that pervaded all my days at that time. perhaps i had a little fever too. one can't live with one's finger everlastingly on one's pulse. i had often 'a little fever,' or a little touch of other things--the playful paw-strokes of the wilderness, the preliminary trifling before the more serious onslaught which came in due course. yes; i looked at them as you would on any human being, with a curiosity of their impulses, motives, capacities, weaknesses, when brought to the test of an inexorable physical necessity. restraint! what possible restraint? was it superstition, disgust, patience, fear--or some kind of primitive honor? no fear can stand up to hunger, no patience can wear it out, disgust simply does not exist where hunger is; and as to superstition, beliefs, and what you may call principles, they are less than chaff in a breeze. don't you know the devilry of lingering starvation, its exasperating torment, its black thoughts, its somber and brooding ferocity? well, i do. it takes a man all his inborn strength to fight hunger properly. it's really easier to face bereavement, dishonor, and the perdition of one's soul--than this kind of prolonged hunger. sad, but true. and these chaps too had no earthly reason for any kind of scruple. restraint! i would just as soon have expected restraint from a hyena prowling amongst the corpses of a battlefield. but there was the fact facing me--the fact dazzling, to be seen, like the foam on the depths of the sea, like a ripple on an unfathomable enigma, a mystery greater--when i thought of it--than the curious, inexplicable note of desperate grief in this savage clamor that had swept by us on the river-bank, behind the blind whiteness of the fog. "two pilgrims were quarreling in hurried whispers as to which bank. 'left.' 'no, no; how can you? right, right, of course.' 'it is very serious,' said the manager's voice behind me; 'i would be desolated if anything should happen to mr. kurtz before we came up.' i looked at him, and had not the slightest doubt he was sincere. he was just the kind of man who would wish to preserve appearances. that was his restraint. but when he muttered something about going on at once, i did not even take the trouble to answer him. i knew, and he knew, that it was impossible. were we to let go our hold of the bottom, we would be absolutely in the air--in space. we wouldn't be able to tell where we were going to--whether up or down stream, or across--till we fetched against one bank or the other,--and then we wouldn't know at first which it was. of course i made no move. i had no mind for a smash-up. you couldn't imagine a more deadly place for a shipwreck. whether drowned at once or not, we were sure to perish speedily in one way or another. 'i authorize you to take all the risks,' he said, after a short silence. 'i refuse to take any,' i said shortly; which was just the answer he expected, though its tone might have surprised him. 'well, i must defer to your judgment. you are captain,' he said, with marked civility. i turned my shoulder to him in sign of my appreciation, and looked into the fog. how long would it last? it was the most hopeless look-out. the approach to this kurtz grubbing for ivory in the wretched bush was beset by as many dangers as though he had been an enchanted princess sleeping in a fabulous castle. 'will they attack, do you think?' asked the manager, in a confidential tone. "i did not think they would attack, for several obvious reasons. the thick fog was one. if they left the bank in their canoes they would get lost in it, as we would be if we attempted to move. still, i had also judged the jungle of both banks quite impenetrable--and yet eyes were in it, eyes that had seen us. the river-side bushes were certainly very thick; but the undergrowth behind was evidently penetrable. however, during the short lift i had seen no canoes anywhere in the reach--certainly not abreast of the steamer. but what made the idea of attack inconceivable to me was the nature of the noise--of the cries we had heard. they had not the fierce character boding of immediate hostile intention. unexpected, wild, and violent as they had been, they had given me an irresistible impression of sorrow. the glimpse of the steamboat had for some reason filled those savages with unrestrained grief. the danger, if any, i expounded, was from our proximity to a great human passion let loose. even extreme grief may ultimately vent itself in violence--but more generally takes the form of apathy. . . . "you should have seen the pilgrims stare! they had no heart to grin, or even to revile me; but i believe they thought me gone mad--with fright, maybe. i delivered a regular lecture. my dear boys, it was no good bothering. keep a look-out? well, you may guess i watched the fog for the signs of lifting as a cat watches a mouse; but for anything else our eyes were of no more use to us than if we had been buried miles deep in a heap of cotton-wool. it felt like it too--choking, warm, stifling. besides, all i said, though it sounded extravagant, was absolutely true to fact. what we afterwards alluded to as an attack was really an attempt at repulse. the action was very far from being aggressive--it was not even defensive, in the usual sense: it was undertaken under the stress of desperation, and in its essence was purely protective. "it developed itself, i should say, two hours after the fog lifted, and its commencement was at a spot, roughly speaking, about a mile and a half below kurtz's station. we had just floundered and flopped round a bend, when i saw an islet, a mere grassy hummock of bright green, in the middle of the stream. it was the only thing of the kind; but as we opened the reach more, i perceived it was the head of a long sandbank, or rather of a chain of shallow patches stretching down the middle of the river. they were discolored, just awash, and the whole lot was seen just under the water, exactly as a man's backbone is seen running down the middle of his back under the skin. now, as far as i did see, i could go to the right or to the left of this. i didn't know either channel, of course. the banks looked pretty well alike, the depth appeared the same; but as i had been informed the station was on the west side, i naturally headed for the western passage. "no sooner had we fairly entered it than i became aware it was much narrower than i had supposed. to the left of us there was the long uninterrupted shoal, and to the right a high, steep bank heavily overgrown with bushes. above the bush the trees stood in serried ranks. the twigs overhung the current thickly, and from distance to distance a large limb of some tree projected rigidly over the stream. it was then well on in the afternoon, the face of the forest was gloomy, and a broad strip of shadow had already fallen on the water. in this shadow we steamed up--very slowly, as you may imagine. i sheered her well inshore--the water being deepest near the bank, as the sounding-pole informed me. "one of my hungry and forbearing friends was sounding in the bows just below me. this steamboat was exactly like a decked scow. on the deck there were two little teak-wood houses, with doors and windows. the boiler was in the fore-end, and the machinery right astern. over the whole there was a light roof, supported on stanchions. the funnel projected through that roof, and in front of the funnel a small cabin built of light planks served for a pilot-house. it contained a couch, two camp-stools, a loaded martini-henry leaning in one corner, a tiny table, and the steering-wheel. it had a wide door in front and a broad shutter at each side. all these were always thrown open, of course. i spent my days perched up there on the extreme fore-end of that roof, before the door. at night i slept, or tried to, on the couch. an athletic black belonging to some coast tribe, and educated by my poor predecessor, was the helmsman. he sported a pair of brass earrings, wore a blue cloth wrapper from the waist to the ankles, and thought all the world of himself. he was the most unstable kind of fool i had ever seen. he steered with no end of a swagger while you were by; but if he lost sight of you, he became instantly the prey of an abject funk, and would let that cripple of a steamboat get the upper hand of him in a minute. "i was looking down at the sounding-pole, and feeling much annoyed to see at each try a little more of it stick out of that river, when i saw my poleman give up the business suddenly, and stretch himself flat on the deck, without even taking the trouble to haul his pole in. he kept hold on it though, and it trailed in the water. at the same time the fireman, whom i could also see below me, sat down abruptly before his furnace and ducked his head. i was amazed. then i had to look at the river mighty quick, because there was a snag in the fairway. sticks, little sticks, were flying about--thick: they were whizzing before my nose, dropping below me, striking behind me against my pilot-house. all this time the river, the shore, the woods, were very quiet--perfectly quiet. i could only hear the heavy splashing thump of the stern-wheel and the patter of these things. we cleared the snag clumsily. arrows, by jove! we were being shot at! i stepped in quickly to close the shutter on the land side. that fool-helmsman, his hands on the spokes, was lifting his knees high, stamping his feet, champing his mouth, like a reined-in horse. confound him! and we were staggering within ten feet of the bank. i had to lean right out to swing the heavy shutter, and i saw a face amongst the leaves on the level with my own, looking at me very fierce and steady; and then suddenly, as though a veil had been removed from my eyes, i made out, deep in the tangled gloom, naked breasts, arms, legs, glaring eyes,--the bush was swarming with human limbs in movement, glistening, of bronze color. the twigs shook, swayed, and rustled, the arrows flew out of them, and then the shutter came to. 'steer her straight,' i said to the helmsman. he held his head rigid, face forward; but his eyes rolled, he kept on lifting and setting down his feet gently, his mouth foamed a little. 'keep quiet!' i said in a fury. i might just as well have ordered a tree not to sway in the wind. i darted out. below me there was a great scuffle of feet on the iron deck; confused exclamations; a voice screamed, 'can you turn back?' i caught shape of a v-shaped ripple on the water ahead. what? another snag! a fusillade burst out under my feet. the pilgrims had opened with their winchesters, and were simply squirting lead into that bush. a deuce of a lot of smoke came up and drove slowly forward. i swore at it. now i couldn't see the ripple or the snag either. i stood in the doorway, peering, and the arrows came in swarms. they might have been poisoned, but they looked as though they wouldn't kill a cat. the bush began to howl. our wood-cutters raised a warlike whoop; the report of a rifle just at my back deafened me. i glanced over my shoulder, and the pilot-house was yet full of noise and smoke when i made a dash at the wheel. the fool-nigger had dropped everything, to throw the shutter open and let off that martini-henry. he stood before the wide opening, glaring, and i yelled at him to come back, while i straightened the sudden twist out of that steamboat. there was no room to turn even if i had wanted to, the snag was somewhere very near ahead in that confounded smoke, there was no time to lose, so i just crowded her into the bank--right into the bank, where i knew the water was deep. "we tore slowly along the overhanging bushes in a whirl of broken twigs and flying leaves. the fusillade below stopped short, as i had foreseen it would when the squirts got empty. i threw my head back to a glinting whizz that traversed the pilot-house, in at one shutter-hole and out at the other. looking past that mad helmsman, who was shaking the empty rifle and yelling at the shore, i saw vague forms of men running bent double, leaping, gliding, distinct, incomplete, evanescent. something big appeared in the air before the shutter, the rifle went overboard, and the man stepped back swiftly, looked at me over his shoulder in an extraordinary, profound, familiar manner, and fell upon my feet. the side of his head hit the wheel twice, and the end of what appeared a long cane clattered round and knocked over a little camp-stool. it looked as though after wrenching that thing from somebody ashore he had lost his balance in the effort. the thin smoke had blown away, we were clear of the snag, and looking ahead i could see that in another hundred yards or so i would be free to sheer off, away from the bank; but my feet felt so very warm and wet that i had to look down. the man had rolled on his back and stared straight up at me; both his hands clutched that cane. it was the shaft of a spear that, either thrown or lunged through the opening, had caught him in the side just below the ribs; the blade had gone in out of sight, after making a frightful gash; my shoes were full; a pool of blood lay very still, gleaming dark-red under the wheel; his eyes shone with an amazing luster. the fusillade burst out again. he looked at me anxiously, gripping the spear like something precious, with an air of being afraid i would try to take it away from him. i had to make an effort to free my eyes from his gaze and attend to the steering. with one hand i felt above my head for the line of the steam-whistle, and jerked out screech after screech hurriedly. the tumult of angry and warlike yells was checked instantly, and then from the depths of the woods went out such a tremulous and prolonged wail of mournful fear and utter despair as may be imagined to follow the flight of the last hope from the earth. there was a great commotion in the bush; the shower of arrows stopped, a few dropping shots rang out sharply--then silence, in which the languid beat of the stern-wheel came plainly to my ears. i put the helm hard a-starboard at the moment when the pilgrim in pink pyjamas, very hot and agitated, appeared in the doorway. 'the manager sends me--' he began in an official tone, and stopped short. 'good god!' he said, glaring at the wounded man. "we two whites stood over him, and his lustrous and inquiring glance enveloped us both. i declare it looked as though he would presently put to us some question in an understandable language; but he died without uttering a sound, without moving a limb, without twitching a muscle. only in the very last moment, as though in response to some sign we could not see, to some whisper we could not hear, he frowned heavily, and that frown gave to his black death-mask an inconceivably somber, brooding, and menacing expression. the luster of inquiring glance faded swiftly into vacant glassiness. 'can you steer?' i asked the agent eagerly. he looked very dubious; but i made a grab at his arm, and he understood at once i meant him to steer whether or no. to tell you the truth, i was morbidly anxious to change my shoes and socks. 'he is dead,' murmured the fellow, immensely impressed. 'no doubt about it,' said i, tugging like mad at the shoe-laces. 'and, by the way, i suppose mr. kurtz is dead as well by this time.' "for the moment that was the dominant thought. there was a sense of extreme disappointment, as though i had found out i had been striving after something altogether without a substance. i couldn't have been more disgusted if i had traveled all this way for the sole purpose of talking with mr. kurtz. talking with. . . . i flung one shoe overboard, and became aware that that was exactly what i had been looking forward to--a talk with kurtz. i made the strange discovery that i had never imagined him as doing, you know, but as discoursing. i didn't say to myself, 'now i will never see him,' or 'now i will never shake him by the hand,' but, 'now i will never hear him.' the man presented himself as a voice. not of course that i did not connect him with some sort of action. hadn't i been told in all the tones of jealousy and admiration that he had collected, bartered, swindled, or stolen more ivory than all the other agents together? that was not the point. the point was in his being a gifted creature, and that of all his gifts the one that stood out pre-eminently, that carried with it a sense of real presence, was his ability to talk, his words--the gift of expression, the bewildering, the illuminating, the most exalted and the most contemptible, the pulsating stream of light, or the deceitful flow from the heart of an impenetrable darkness. "the other shoe went flying unto the devil-god of that river. i thought, 'by jove! it's all over. we are too late; he has vanished--the gift has vanished, by means of some spear, arrow, or club. i will never hear that chap speak after all,'--and my sorrow had a startling extravagance of emotion, even such as i had noticed in the howling sorrow of these savages in the bush. i couldn't have felt more of lonely desolation somehow, had i been robbed of a belief or had missed my destiny in life. . . . why do you sigh in this beastly way, somebody? absurd? well, absurd. good lord! mustn't a man ever--here, give me some tobacco." . . . there was a pause of profound stillness, then a match flared, and marlow's lean face appeared, worn, hollow, with downward folds and dropped eyelids, with an aspect of concentrated attention; and as he took vigorous draws at his pipe, it seemed to retreat and advance out of the night in the regular flicker of the tiny flame. the match went out. "absurd!" he cried. "this is the worst of trying to tell. . . . here you all are, each moored with two good addresses, like a hulk with two anchors, a butcher round one corner, a policeman round another, excellent appetites, and temperature normal--you hear--normal from year's end to year's end. and you say, absurd! absurd be--exploded! absurd! my dear boys, what can you expect from a man who out of sheer nervousness had just flung overboard a pair of new shoes. now i think of it, it is amazing i did not shed tears. i am, upon the whole, proud of my fortitude. i was cut to the quick at the idea of having lost the inestimable privilege of listening to the gifted kurtz. of course i was wrong. the privilege was waiting for me. oh yes, i heard more than enough. and i was right, too. a voice. he was very little more than a voice. and i heard--him--it--this voice--other voices--all of them were so little more than voices--and the memory of that time itself lingers around me, impalpable, like a dying vibration of one immense jabber, silly, atrocious, sordid, savage, or simply mean, without any kind of sense. voices, voices--even the girl herself--now--" he was silent for a long time. "i laid the ghost of his gifts at last with a lie," he began suddenly. "girl! what? did i mention a girl? oh, she is out of it--completely. they--the women, i mean--are out of it--should be out of it. we must help them to stay in that beautiful world of their own, lest ours gets worse. oh, she had to be out of it. you should have heard the disinterred body of mr. kurtz saying, 'my intended.' you would have perceived directly then how completely she was out of it. and the lofty frontal bone of mr. kurtz! they say the hair goes on growing sometimes, but this--ah specimen, was impressively bald. the wilderness had patted him on the head, and, behold, it was like a ball--an ivory ball; it had caressed him, and--lo!--he had withered; it had taken him, loved him, embraced him, got into his veins, consumed his flesh, and sealed his soul to its own by the inconceivable ceremonies of some devilish initiation. he was its spoiled and pampered favorite. ivory? i should think so. heaps of it, stacks of it. the old mud shanty was bursting with it. you would think there was not a single tusk left either above or below the ground in the whole country. 'mostly fossil,' the manager had remarked disparagingly. it was no more fossil than i am; but they call it fossil when it is dug up. it appears these niggers do bury the tusks sometimes--but evidently they couldn't bury this parcel deep enough to save the gifted mr. kurtz from his fate. we filled the steamboat with it, and had to pile a lot on the deck. thus he could see and enjoy as long as he could see, because the appreciation of this favor had remained with him to the last. you should have heard him say, 'my ivory.' oh yes, i heard him. 'my intended, my ivory, my station, my river, my--' everything belonged to him. it made me hold my breath in expectation of hearing the wilderness burst into a prodigious peal of laughter that would shake the fixed stars in their places. everything belonged to him--but that was a trifle. the thing was to know what he belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him for their own. that was the reflection that made you creepy all over. it was impossible--it was not good for one either--trying to imagine. he had taken a high seat amongst the devils of the land--i mean literally. you can't understand. how could you?--with solid pavement under your feet, surrounded by kind neighbors ready to cheer you or to fall on you, stepping delicately between the butcher and the policeman, in the holy terror of scandal and gallows and lunatic asylums--how can you imagine what particular region of the first ages a man's untrammeled feet may take him into by the way of solitude--utter solitude without a policeman--by the way of silence, utter silence, where no warning voice of a kind neighbor can be heard whispering of public opinion? these little things make all the great difference. when they are gone you must fall back upon your own innate strength, upon your own capacity for faithfulness. of course you may be too much of a fool to go wrong--too dull even to know you are being assaulted by the powers of darkness. i take it, no fool ever made a bargain for his soul with the devil: the fool is too much of a fool, or the devil too much of a devil--i don't know which. or you may be such a thunderingly exalted creature as to be altogether deaf and blind to anything but heavenly sights and sounds. then the earth for you is only a standing place--and whether to be like this is your loss or your gain i won't pretend to say. but most of us are neither one nor the other. the earth for us is a place to live in, where we must put up with sights, with sounds, with smells too, by jove!--breathe dead hippo, so to speak, and not be contaminated. and there, don't you see? your strength comes in, the faith in your ability for the digging of unostentatious holes to bury the stuff in--your power of devotion, not to yourself, but to an obscure, back-breaking business. and that's difficult enough. mind, i am not trying to excuse or even explain--i am trying to account to myself for--for--mr. kurtz--for the shade of mr. kurtz. this initiated wraith from the back of nowhere honored me with its amazing confidence before it vanished altogether. this was because it could speak english to me. the original kurtz had been educated partly in england, and--as he was good enough to say himself--his sympathies were in the right place. his mother was half-english, his father was half-french. all europe contributed to the making of kurtz; and by-and-by i learned that, most appropriately, the international society for the suppression of savage customs had intrusted him with the making of a report, for its future guidance. and he had written it too. i've seen it. i've read it. it was eloquent, vibrating with eloquence, but too high-strung, i think. seventeen pages of close writing he had found time for! but this must have been before his--let us say--nerves, went wrong, and caused him to preside at certain midnight dances ending with unspeakable rites, which--as far as i reluctantly gathered from what i heard at various times--were offered up to him--do you understand?--to mr. kurtz himself. but it was a beautiful piece of writing. the opening paragraph, however, in the light of later information, strikes me now as ominous. he began with the argument that we whites, from the point of development we had arrived at, 'must necessarily appear to them [savages] in the nature of supernatural beings--we approach them with the might as of a deity,' and so on, and so on. 'by the simple exercise of our will we can exert a power for good practically unbounded,' &c., &c. from that point he soared and took me with him. the peroration was magnificent, though difficult to remember, you know. it gave me the notion of an exotic immensity ruled by an august benevolence. it made me tingle with enthusiasm. this was the unbounded power of eloquence--of words--of burning noble words. there were no practical hints to interrupt the magic current of phrases, unless a kind of note at the foot of the last page, scrawled evidently much later, in an unsteady hand, may be regarded as the exposition of a method. it was very simple, and at the end of that moving appeal to every altruistic sentiment it blazed at you, luminous and terrifying, like a flash of lightning in a serene sky: 'exterminate all the brutes!' the curious part was that he had apparently forgotten all about that valuable postscriptum, because, later on, when he in a sense came to himself, he repeatedly entreated me to take good care of 'my pamphlet' (he called it), as it was sure to have in the future a good influence upon his career. i had full information about all these things, and, besides, as it turned out, i was to have the care of his memory. i've done enough for it to give me the indisputable right to lay it, if i choose, for an everlasting rest in the dust-bin of progress, amongst all the sweepings and, figuratively speaking, all the dead cats of civilization. but then, you see, i can't choose. he won't be forgotten. whatever he was, he was not common. he had the power to charm or frighten rudimentary souls into an aggravated witch-dance in his honor; he could also fill the small souls of the pilgrims with bitter misgivings: he had one devoted friend at least, and he had conquered one soul in the world that was neither rudimentary nor tainted with self-seeking. no; i can't forget him, though i am not prepared to affirm the fellow was exactly worth the life we lost in getting to him. i missed my late helmsman awfully,--i missed him even while his body was still lying in the pilot-house. perhaps you will think it passing strange this regret for a savage who was no more account than a grain of sand in a black sahara. well, don't you see, he had done something, he had steered; for months i had him at my back--a help--an instrument. it was a kind of partnership. he steered for me--i had to look after him, i worried about his deficiencies, and thus a subtle bond had been created, of which i only became aware when it was suddenly broken. and the intimate profundity of that look he gave me when he received his hurt remains to this day in my memory--like a claim of distant kinship affirmed in a supreme moment. "poor fool! if he had only left that shutter alone. he had no restraint, no restraint--just like kurtz--a tree swayed by the wind. as soon as i had put on a dry pair of slippers, i dragged him out, after first jerking the spear out of his side, which operation i confess i performed with my eyes shut tight. his heels leaped together over the little door-step; his shoulders were pressed to my breast; i hugged him from behind desperately. oh! he was heavy, heavy; heavier than any man on earth, i should imagine. then without more ado i tipped him overboard. the current snatched him as though he had been a wisp of grass, and i saw the body roll over twice before i lost sight of it for ever. all the pilgrims and the manager were then congregated on the awning-deck about the pilot-house, chattering at each other like a flock of excited magpies, and there was a scandalized murmur at my heartless promptitude. what they wanted to keep that body hanging about for i can't guess. embalm it, maybe. but i had also heard another, and a very ominous, murmur on the deck below. my friends the wood-cutters were likewise scandalized, and with a better show of reason--though i admit that the reason itself was quite inadmissible. oh, quite! i had made up my mind that if my late helmsman was to be eaten, the fishes alone should have him. he had been a very second-rate helmsman while alive, but now he was dead he might have become a first-class temptation, and possibly cause some startling trouble. besides, i was anxious to take the wheel, the man in pink pyjamas showing himself a hopeless duffer at the business. "this i did directly the simple funeral was over. we were going half-speed, keeping right in the middle of the stream, and i listened to the talk about me. they had given up kurtz, they had given up the station; kurtz was dead, and the station had been burnt--and so on--and so on. the red-haired pilgrim was beside himself with the thought that at least this poor kurtz had been properly revenged. 'say! we must have made a glorious slaughter of them in the bush. eh? what do you think? say?' he positively danced, the bloodthirsty little gingery beggar. and he had nearly fainted when he saw the wounded man! i could not help saying, 'you made a glorious lot of smoke, anyhow.' i had seen, from the way the tops of the bushes rustled and flew, that almost all the shots had gone too high. you can't hit anything unless you take aim and fire from the shoulder; but these chaps fired from the hip with their eyes shut. the retreat, i maintained--and i was right--was caused by the screeching of the steam-whistle. upon this they forgot kurtz, and began to howl at me with indignant protests. "the manager stood by the wheel murmuring confidentially about the necessity of getting well away down the river before dark at all events, when i saw in the distance a clearing on the river-side and the outlines of some sort of building. 'what's this?' i asked. he clapped his hands in wonder. 'the station!' he cried. i edged in at once, still going half-speed. "through my glasses i saw the slope of a hill interspersed with rare trees and perfectly free from undergrowth. a long decaying building on the summit was half buried in the high grass; the large holes in the peaked roof gaped black from afar; the jungle and the woods made a background. there was no inclosure or fence of any kind; but there had been one apparently, for near the house half-a-dozen slim posts remained in a row, roughly trimmed, and with their upper ends ornamented with round carved balls. the rails, or whatever there had been between, had disappeared. of course the forest surrounded all that. the river-bank was clear, and on the water-side i saw a white man under a hat like a cart-wheel beckoning persistently with his whole arm. examining the edge of the forest above and below, i was almost certain i could see movements--human forms gliding here and there. i steamed past prudently, then stopped the engines and let her drift down. the man on the shore began to shout, urging us to land. 'we have been attacked,' screamed the manager. 'i know--i know. it's all right,' yelled back the other, as cheerful as you please. 'come along. it's all right. i am glad.' "his aspect reminded me of something i had seen--something funny i had seen somewhere. as i maneuvered to get alongside, i was asking myself, 'what does this fellow look like?' suddenly i got it. he looked like a harlequin. his clothes had been made of some stuff that was brown holland probably, but it was covered with patches all over, with bright patches, blue, red, and yellow,--patches on the back, patches on front, patches on elbows, on knees; colored binding round his jacket, scarlet edging at the bottom of his trousers; and the sunshine made him look extremely gay and wonderfully neat withal, because you could see how beautifully all this patching had been done. a beardless, boyish face, very fair, no features to speak of, nose peeling, little blue eyes, smiles and frowns chasing each other over that open countenance like sunshine and shadow on a windswept plain. 'look out, captain!' he cried; 'there's a snag lodged in here last night.' what! another snag? i confess i swore shamefully. i had nearly holed my cripple, to finish off that charming trip. the harlequin on the bank turned his little pug nose up to me. 'you english?' he asked, all smiles. 'are you?' i shouted from the wheel. the smiles vanished, and he shook his head as if sorry for my disappointment. then he brightened up. 'never mind!' he cried encouragingly. 'are we in time?' i asked. 'he is up there,' he replied, with a toss of the head up the hill, and becoming gloomy all of a sudden. his face was like the autumn sky, overcast one moment and bright the next. "when the manager, escorted by the pilgrims, all of them armed to the teeth, had gone to the house, this chap came on board. 'i say, i don't like this. these natives are in the bush,' i said. he assured me earnestly it was all right. 'they are simple people,' he added; 'well, i am glad you came. it took me all my time to keep them off.' 'but you said it was all right,' i cried. 'oh, they meant no harm,' he said; and as i stared he corrected himself, 'not exactly.' then vivaciously, 'my faith, your pilot-house wants a clean up!' in the next breath he advised me to keep enough steam on the boiler to blow the whistle in case of any trouble. 'one good screech will do more for you than all your rifles. they are simple people,' he repeated. he rattled away at such a rate he quite overwhelmed me. he seemed to be trying to make up for lots of silence, and actually hinted, laughing, that such was the case. 'don't you talk with mr. kurtz?' i said. 'you don't talk with that man--you listen to him,' he exclaimed with severe exaltation. 'but now--' he waved his arm, and in the twinkling of an eye was in the uttermost depths of despondency. in a moment he came up again with a jump, possessed himself of both my hands, shook them continuously, while he gabbled: 'brother sailor . . . honor . . . pleasure . . . delight . . . introduce myself . . . russian . . . son of an arch-priest . . . government of tambov . . . what? tobacco! english tobacco; the excellent english tobacco! now, that's brotherly. smoke? where's a sailor that does not smoke?' "the pipe soothed him, and gradually i made out he had run away from school, had gone to sea in a russian ship; ran away again; served some time in english ships; was now reconciled with the arch-priest. he made a point of that. 'but when one is young one must see things, gather experience, ideas; enlarge the mind.' 'here!' i interrupted. 'you can never tell! here i have met mr. kurtz,' he said, youthfully solemn and reproachful. i held my tongue after that. it appears he had persuaded a dutch trading-house on the coast to fit him out with stores and goods, and had started for the interior with a light heart, and no more idea of what would happen to him than a baby. he had been wandering about that river for nearly two years alone, cut off from everybody and everything. 'i am not so young as i look. i am twenty-five,' he said. 'at first old van shuyten would tell me to go to the devil,' he narrated with keen enjoyment; 'but i stuck to him, and talked and talked, till at last he got afraid i would talk the hind-leg off his favorite dog, so he gave me some cheap things and a few guns, and told me he hoped he would never see my face again. good old dutchman, van shuyten. i've sent him one small lot of ivory a year ago, so that he can't call me a little thief when i get back. i hope he got it. and for the rest i don't care. i had some wood stacked for you. that was my old house. did you see?' "i gave him towson's book. he made as though he would kiss me, but restrained himself. 'the only book i had left, and i thought i had lost it,' he said, looking at it ecstatically. 'so many accidents happen to a man going about alone, you know. canoes get upset sometimes--and sometimes you've got to clear out so quick when the people get angry.' he thumbed the pages. 'you made notes in russian?' i asked. he nodded. 'i thought they were written in cipher,' i said. he laughed, then became serious. 'i had lots of trouble to keep these people off,' he said. 'did they want to kill you?' i asked. 'oh no!' he cried, and checked himself. 'why did they attack us?' i pursued. he hesitated, then said shamefacedly, 'they don't want him to go.' 'don't they?' i said, curiously. he nodded a nod full of mystery and wisdom. 'i tell you,' he cried, 'this man has enlarged my mind.' he opened his arms wide, staring at me with his little blue eyes that were perfectly round." iii "i looked at him, lost in astonishment. there he was before me, in motley, as though he had absconded from a troupe of mimes, enthusiastic, fabulous. his very existence was improbable, inexplicable, and altogether bewildering. he was an insoluble problem. it was inconceivable how he had existed, how he had succeeded in getting so far, how he had managed to remain--why he did not instantly disappear. 'i went a little farther,' he said, 'then still a little farther--till i had gone so far that i don't know how i'll ever get back. never mind. plenty time. i can manage. you take kurtz away quick--quick--i tell you.' the glamour of youth enveloped his particolored rags, his destitution, his loneliness, the essential desolation of his futile wanderings. for months--for years--his life hadn't been worth a day's purchase; and there he was gallantly, thoughtlessly alive, to all appearance indestructible solely by the virtue of his few years and of his unreflecting audacity. i was seduced into something like admiration--like envy. glamour urged him on, glamour kept him unscathed. he surely wanted nothing from the wilderness but space to breathe in and to push on through. his need was to exist, and to move onwards at the greatest possible risk, and with a maximum of privation. if the absolutely pure, uncalculating, unpractical spirit of adventure had ever ruled a human being, it ruled this be-patched youth. i almost envied him the possession of this modest and clear flame. it seemed to have consumed all thought of self so completely, that, even while he was talking to you, you forgot that it was he--the man before your eyes--who had gone through these things. i did not envy him his devotion to kurtz, though. he had not meditated over it. it came to him, and he accepted it with a sort of eager fatalism. i must say that to me it appeared about the most dangerous thing in every way he had come upon so far. "they had come together unavoidably, like two ships becalmed near each other, and lay rubbing sides at last. i suppose kurtz wanted an audience, because on a certain occasion, when encamped in the forest, they had talked all night, or more probably kurtz had talked. 'we talked of everything,' he said, quite transported at the recollection. 'i forgot there was such a thing as sleep. the night did not seem to last an hour. everything! everything! . . . of love too.' 'ah, he talked to you of love!' i said, much amused. 'it isn't what you think,' he cried, almost passionately. 'it was in general. he made me see things--things.' "he threw his arms up. we were on deck at the time, and the headman of my wood-cutters, lounging near by, turned upon him his heavy and glittering eyes. i looked around, and i don't know why, but i assure you that never, never before, did this land, this river, this jungle, the very arch of this blazing sky, appear to me so hopeless and so dark, so impenetrable to human thought, so pitiless to human weakness. 'and, ever since, you have been with him, of course?' i said. "on the contrary. it appears their intercourse had been very much broken by various causes. he had, as he informed me proudly, managed to nurse kurtz through two illnesses (he alluded to it as you would to some risky feat), but as a rule kurtz wandered alone, far in the depths of the forest. 'very often coming to this station, i had to wait days and days before he would turn up,' he said. 'ah, it was worth waiting for!--sometimes.' 'what was he doing? exploring or what?' i asked. 'oh yes, of course;' he had discovered lots of villages, a lake too--he did not know exactly in what direction; it was dangerous to inquire too much--but mostly his expeditions had been for ivory. 'but he had no goods to trade with by that time,' i objected. 'there's a good lot of cartridges left even yet,' he answered, looking away. 'to speak plainly, he raided the country,' i said. he nodded. 'not alone, surely!' he muttered something about the villages round that lake. 'kurtz got the tribe to follow him, did he?' i suggested. he fidgeted a little. 'they adored him,' he said. the tone of these words was so extraordinary that i looked at him searchingly. it was curious to see his mingled eagerness and reluctance to speak of kurtz. the man filled his life, occupied his thoughts, swayed his emotions. 'what can you expect?' he burst out; 'he came to them with thunder and lightning, you know--and they had never seen anything like it--and very terrible. he could be very terrible. you can't judge mr. kurtz as you would an ordinary man. no, no, no! now--just to give you an idea--i don't mind telling you, he wanted to shoot me too one day--but i don't judge him.' 'shoot you!' i cried. 'what for?' 'well, i had a small lot of ivory the chief of that village near my house gave me. you see i used to shoot game for them. well, he wanted it, and wouldn't hear reason. he declared he would shoot me unless i gave him the ivory and then cleared out of the country, because he could do so, and had a fancy for it, and there was nothing on earth to prevent him killing whom he jolly well pleased. and it was true too. i gave him the ivory. what did i care! but i didn't clear out. no, no. i couldn't leave him. i had to be careful, of course, till we got friendly again for a time. he had his second illness then. afterwards i had to keep out of the way; but i didn't mind. he was living for the most part in those villages on the lake. when he came down to the river, sometimes he would take to me, and sometimes it was better for me to be careful. this man suffered too much. he hated all this, and somehow he couldn't get away. when i had a chance i begged him to try and leave while there was time; i offered to go back with him. and he would say yes, and then he would remain; go off on another ivory hunt; disappear for weeks; forget himself amongst these people--forget himself--you know.' 'why! he's mad,' i said. he protested indignantly. mr. kurtz couldn't be mad. if i had heard him talk, only two days ago, i wouldn't dare hint at such a thing. . . . i had taken up my binoculars while we talked and was looking at the shore, sweeping the limit of the forest at each side and at the back of the house. the consciousness of there being people in that bush, so silent, so quiet--as silent and quiet as the ruined house on the hill--made me uneasy. there was no sign on the face of nature of this amazing tale that was not so much told as suggested to me in desolate exclamations, completed by shrugs, in interrupted phrases, in hints ending in deep sighs. the woods were unmoved, like a mask--heavy, like the closed door of a prison--they looked with their air of hidden knowledge, of patient expectation, of unapproachable silence. the russian was explaining to me that it was only lately that mr. kurtz had come down to the river, bringing along with him all the fighting men of that lake tribe. he had been absent for several months--getting himself adored, i suppose--and had come down unexpectedly, with the intention to all appearance of making a raid either across the river or down stream. evidently the appetite for more ivory had got the better of the--what shall i say?--less material aspirations. however he had got much worse suddenly. 'i heard he was lying helpless, and so i came up--took my chance,' said the russian. 'oh, he is bad, very bad.' i directed my glass to the house. there were no signs of life, but there was the ruined roof, the long mud wall peeping above the grass, with three little square window-holes, no two of the same size; all this brought within reach of my hand, as it were. and then i made a brusque movement, and one of the remaining posts of that vanished fence leaped up in the field of my glass. you remember i told you i had been struck at the distance by certain attempts at ornamentation, rather remarkable in the ruinous aspect of the place. now i had suddenly a nearer view, and its first result was to make me throw my head back as if before a blow. then i went carefully from post to post with my glass, and i saw my mistake. these round knobs were not ornamental but symbolic; they were expressive and puzzling, striking and disturbing--food for thought and also for the vultures if there had been any looking down from the sky; but at all events for such ants as were industrious enough to ascend the pole. they would have been even more impressive, those heads on the stakes, if their faces had not been turned to the house. only one, the first i had made out, was facing my way. i was not so shocked as you may think. the start back i had given was really nothing but a movement of surprise. i had expected to see a knob of wood there, you know. i returned deliberately to the first i had seen--and there it was, black, dried, sunken, with closed eyelids,--a head that seemed to sleep at the top of that pole, and, with the shrunken dry lips showing a narrow white line of the teeth, was smiling too, smiling continuously at some endless and jocose dream of that eternal slumber. "i am not disclosing any trade secrets. in fact the manager said afterwards that mr. kurtz's methods had ruined the district. i have no opinion on that point, but i want you clearly to understand that there was nothing exactly profitable in these heads being there. they only showed that mr. kurtz lacked restraint in the gratification of his various lusts, that there was something wanting in him--some small matter which, when the pressing need arose, could not be found under his magnificent eloquence. whether he knew of this deficiency himself i can't say. i think the knowledge came to him at last--only at the very last. but the wilderness had found him out early, and had taken on him a terrible vengeance for the fantastic invasion. i think it had whispered to him things about himself which he did not know, things of which he had no conception till he took counsel with this great solitude--and the whisper had proved irresistibly fascinating. it echoed loudly within him because he was hollow at the core. . . . i put down the glass, and the head that had appeared near enough to be spoken to seemed at once to have leaped away from me into inaccessible distance. "the admirer of mr. kurtz was a bit crestfallen. in a hurried, indistinct voice he began to assure me he had not dared to take these--say, symbols--down. he was not afraid of the natives; they would not stir till mr. kurtz gave the word. his ascendency was extraordinary. the camps of these people surrounded the place, and the chiefs came every day to see him. they would crawl. . . . 'i don't want to know anything of the ceremonies used when approaching mr. kurtz,' i shouted. curious, this feeling that came over me that such details would be more intolerable than those heads drying on the stakes under mr. kurtz's windows. after all, that was only a savage sight, while i seemed at one bound to have been transported into some lightless region of subtle horrors, where pure, uncomplicated savagery was a positive relief, being something that had a right to exist--obviously--in the sunshine. the young man looked at me with surprise. i suppose it did not occur to him mr. kurtz was no idol of mine. he forgot i hadn't heard any of these splendid monologues on, what was it? on love, justice, conduct of life--or what not. if it had come to crawling before mr. kurtz, he crawled as much as the veriest savage of them all. i had no idea of the conditions, he said: these heads were the heads of rebels. i shocked him excessively by laughing. rebels! what would be the next definition i was to hear? there had been enemies, criminals, workers--and these were rebels. those rebellious heads looked very subdued to me on their sticks. 'you don't know how such a life tries a man like kurtz,' cried kurtz's last disciple. 'well, and you?' i said. 'i! i! i am a simple man. i have no great thoughts. i want nothing from anybody. how can you compare me to . . .?' his feelings were too much for speech, and suddenly he broke down. 'i don't understand,' he groaned. 'i've been doing my best to keep him alive, and that's enough. i had no hand in all this. i have no abilities. there hasn't been a drop of medicine or a mouthful of invalid food for months here. he was shamefully abandoned. a man like this, with such ideas. shamefully! shamefully! i--i--haven't slept for the last ten nights. . . .' "his voice lost itself in the calm of the evening. the long shadows of the forest had slipped down hill while we talked, had gone far beyond the ruined hovel, beyond the symbolic row of stakes. all this was in the gloom, while we down there were yet in the sunshine, and the stretch of the river abreast of the clearing glittered in a still and dazzling splendor, with a murky and over-shadowed bend above and below. not a living soul was seen on the shore. the bushes did not rustle. "suddenly round the corner of the house a group of men appeared, as though they had come up from the ground. they waded waist-deep in the grass, in a compact body, bearing an improvised stretcher in their midst. instantly, in the emptiness of the landscape, a cry arose whose shrillness pierced the still air like a sharp arrow flying straight to the very heart of the land; and, as if by enchantment, streams of human beings--of naked human beings--with spears in their hands, with bows, with shields, with wild glances and savage movements, were poured into the clearing by the dark-faced and pensive forest. the bushes shook, the grass swayed for a time, and then everything stood still in attentive immobility. "'now, if he does not say the right thing to them we are all done for,' said the russian at my elbow. the knot of men with the stretcher had stopped too, half-way to the steamer, as if petrified. i saw the man on the stretcher sit up, lank and with an uplifted arm, above the shoulders of the bearers. 'let us hope that the man who can talk so well of love in general will find some particular reason to spare us this time,' i said. i resented bitterly the absurd danger of our situation, as if to be at the mercy of that atrocious phantom had been a dishonoring necessity. i could not hear a sound, but through my glasses i saw the thin arm extended commandingly, the lower jaw moving, the eyes of that apparition shining darkly far in its bony head that nodded with grotesque jerks. kurtz--kurtz--that means short in german--don't it? well, the name was as true as everything else in his life--and death. he looked at least seven feet long. his covering had fallen off, and his body emerged from it pitiful and appalling as from a winding-sheet. i could see the cage of his ribs all astir, the bones of his arm waving. it was as though an animated image of death carved out of old ivory had been shaking its hand with menaces at a motionless crowd of men made of dark and glittering bronze. i saw him open his mouth wide--it gave him a weirdly voracious aspect, as though he had wanted to swallow all the air, all the earth, all the men before him. a deep voice reached me faintly. he must have been shouting. he fell back suddenly. the stretcher shook as the bearers staggered forward again, and almost at the same time i noticed that the crowd of savages was vanishing without any perceptible movement of retreat, as if the forest that had ejected these beings so suddenly had drawn them in again as the breath is drawn in a long aspiration. "some of the pilgrims behind the stretcher carried his arms--two shot-guns, a heavy rifle, and a light revolver-carbine--the thunderbolts of that pitiful jupiter. the manager bent over him murmuring as he walked beside his head. they laid him down in one of the little cabins--just a room for a bed-place and a camp-stool or two, you know. we had brought his belated correspondence, and a lot of torn envelopes and open letters littered his bed. his hand roamed feebly amongst these papers. i was struck by the fire of his eyes and the composed languor of his expression. it was not so much the exhaustion of disease. he did not seem in pain. this shadow looked satiated and calm, as though for the moment it had had its fill of all the emotions. "he rustled one of the letters, and looking straight in my face said, 'i am glad.' somebody had been writing to him about me. these special recommendations were turning up again. the volume of tone he emitted without effort, almost without the trouble of moving his lips, amazed me. a voice! a voice! it was grave, profound, vibrating, while the man did not seem capable of a whisper. however, he had enough strength in him--factitious no doubt--to very nearly make an end of us, as you shall hear directly. "the manager appeared silently in the doorway; i stepped out at once and he drew the curtain after me. the russian, eyed curiously by the pilgrims, was staring at the shore. i followed the direction of his glance. "dark human shapes could be made out in the distance, flitting indistinctly against the gloomy border of the forest, and near the river two bronze figures, leaning on tall spears, stood in the sunlight under fantastic headdresses of spotted skins, warlike and still in statuesque repose. and from right to left along the lighted shore moved a wild and gorgeous apparition of a woman. "she walked with measured steps, draped in striped and fringed cloths, treading the earth proudly, with a slight jingle and flash of barbarous ornaments. she carried her head high; her hair was done in the shape of a helmet; she had brass leggings to the knee, brass wire gauntlets to the elbow, a crimson spot on her tawny cheek, innumerable necklaces of glass beads on her neck; bizarre things, charms, gifts of witch-men, that hung about her, glittered and trembled at every step. she must have had the value of several elephant tusks upon her. she was savage and superb, wild-eyed and magnificent; there was something ominous and stately in her deliberate progress. and in the hush that had fallen suddenly upon the whole sorrowful land, the immense wilderness, the colossal body of the fecund and mysterious life seemed to look at her, pensive, as though it had been looking at the image of its own tenebrous and passionate soul. "she came abreast of the steamer, stood still, and faced us. her long shadow fell to the water's edge. her face had a tragic and fierce aspect of wild sorrow and of dumb pain mingled with the fear of some struggling, half-shaped resolve. she stood looking at us without a stir and like the wilderness itself, with an air of brooding over an inscrutable purpose. a whole minute passed, and then she made a step forward. there was a low jingle, a glint of yellow metal, a sway of fringed draperies, and she stopped as if her heart had failed her. the young fellow by my side growled. the pilgrims murmured at my back. she looked at us all as if her life had depended upon the unswerving steadiness of her glance. suddenly she opened her bared arms and threw them up rigid above her head, as though in an uncontrollable desire to touch the sky, and at the same time the swift shadows darted out on the earth, swept around on the river, gathering the steamer into a shadowy embrace. a formidable silence hung over the scene. "she turned away slowly, walked on, following the bank, and passed into the bushes to the left. once only her eyes gleamed back at us in the dusk of the thickets before she disappeared. "'if she had offered to come aboard i really think i would have tried to shoot her,' said the man of patches, nervously. 'i had been risking my life every day for the last fortnight to keep her out of the house. she got in one day and kicked up a row about those miserable rags i picked up in the storeroom to mend my clothes with. i wasn't decent. at least it must have been that, for she talked like a fury to kurtz for an hour, pointing at me now and then. i don't understand the dialect of this tribe. luckily for me, i fancy kurtz felt too ill that day to care, or there would have been mischief. i don't understand. . . . no--it's too much for me. ah, well, it's all over now.' "at this moment i heard kurtz's deep voice behind the curtain, 'save me!--save the ivory, you mean. don't tell me. save _me!_ why, i've had to save you. you are interrupting my plans now. sick! sick! not so sick as you would like to believe. never mind. i'll carry my ideas out yet--i will return. i'll show you what can be done. you with your little peddling notions--you are interfering with me. i will return. i . . .' "the manager came out. he did me the honor to take me under the arm and lead me aside. 'he is very low, very low,' he said. he considered it necessary to sigh, but neglected to be consistently sorrowful. 'we have done all we could for him--haven't we? but there is no disguising the fact, mr. kurtz has done more harm than good to the company. he did not see the time was not ripe for vigorous action. cautiously, cautiously--that's my principle. we must be cautious yet. the district is closed to us for a time. deplorable! upon the whole, the trade will suffer. i don't deny there is a remarkable quantity of ivory--mostly fossil. we must save it, at all events--but look how precarious the position is--and why? because the method is unsound.' 'do you,' said i, looking at the shore, 'call it "unsound method"?' 'without doubt,' he exclaimed, hotly. 'don't you?' . . . 'no method at all,' i murmured after a while. 'exactly,' he exulted. 'i anticipated this. shows a complete want of judgment. it is my duty to point it out in the proper quarter.' 'oh,' said i, 'that fellow--what's his name?--the brickmaker, will make a readable report for you.' he appeared confounded for a moment. it seemed to me i had never breathed an atmosphere so vile, and i turned mentally to kurtz for relief--positively for relief. 'nevertheless i think mr. kurtz is a remarkable man,' i said with emphasis. he started, dropped on me a cold heavy glance, said very quietly, 'he _was_,' and turned his back on me. my hour of favor was over; i found myself lumped along with kurtz as a partisan of methods for which the time was not ripe: i was unsound! ah! but it was something to have at least a choice of nightmares. "i had turned to the wilderness really, not to mr. kurtz, who, i was ready to admit, was as good as buried. and for a moment it seemed to me as if i also were buried in a vast grave full of unspeakable secrets. i felt an intolerable weight oppressing my breast, the smell of the damp earth, the unseen presence of victorious corruption, the darkness of an impenetrable night. . . . the russian tapped me on the shoulder. i heard him mumbling and stammering something about 'brother seaman--couldn't conceal--knowledge of matters that would affect mr. kurtz's reputation.' i waited. for him evidently mr. kurtz was not in his grave; i suspect that for him mr. kurtz was one of the immortals. 'well!' said i at last, 'speak out. as it happens, i am mr. kurtz's friend--in a way.' "he stated with a good deal of formality that had we not been 'of the same profession,' he would have kept the matter to himself without regard to consequences. 'he suspected there was an active ill-will towards him on the part of these white men that--' 'you are right,' i said, remembering a certain conversation i had overheard. 'the manager thinks you ought to be hanged.' he showed a concern at this intelligence which amused me at first. 'i had better get out of the way quietly,' he said, earnestly. 'i can do no more for kurtz now, and they would soon find some excuse. what's to stop them? there's a military post three hundred miles from here.' 'well, upon my word,' said i, 'perhaps you had better go if you have any friends amongst the savages near by.' 'plenty,' he said. 'they are simple people--and i want nothing, you know.' he stood biting his lips, then: 'i don't want any harm to happen to these whites here, but of course i was thinking of mr. kurtz's reputation--but you are a brother seaman and--' 'all right,' said i, after a time. 'mr. kurtz's reputation is safe with me.' i did not know how truly i spoke. "he informed me, lowering his voice, that it was kurtz who had ordered the attack to be made on the steamer. 'he hated sometimes the idea of being taken away--and then again. . . . but i don't understand these matters. i am a simple man. he thought it would scare you away--that you would give it up, thinking him dead. i could not stop him. oh, i had an awful time of it this last month.' 'very well,' i said. 'he is all right now.' 'ye-e-es,' he muttered, not very convinced apparently. 'thanks,' said i; 'i shall keep my eyes open.' 'but quiet--eh?' he urged, anxiously. 'it would be awful for his reputation if anybody here--' i promised a complete discretion with great gravity. 'i have a canoe and three black fellows waiting not very far. i am off. could you give me a few martini-henry cartridges?' i could, and did, with proper secrecy. he helped himself, with a wink at me, to a handful of my tobacco. 'between sailors--you know--good english tobacco.' at the door of the pilot-house he turned round--' i say, haven't you a pair of shoes you could spare?' he raised one leg. 'look.' the soles were tied with knotted strings sandal-wise under his bare feet. i rooted out an old pair, at which he looked with admiration before tucking it under his left arm. one of his pockets (bright red) was bulging with cartridges, from the other (dark blue) peeped 'towson's inquiry,' &c., &c. he seemed to think himself excellently well equipped for a renewed encounter with the wilderness. 'ah! i'll never, never meet such a man again. you ought to have heard him recite poetry--his own too it was, he told me. poetry!' he rolled his eyes at the recollection of these delights. 'oh, he enlarged my mind!' 'goodby,' said i. he shook hands and vanished in the night. sometimes i ask myself whether i had ever really seen him--whether it was possible to meet such a phenomenon! . . . "when i woke up shortly after midnight his warning came to my mind with its hint of danger that seemed, in the starred darkness, real enough to make me get up for the purpose of having a look round. on the hill a big fire burned, illuminating fitfully a crooked corner of the station-house. one of the agents with a picket of a few of our blacks, armed for the purpose, was keeping guard over the ivory; but deep within the forest, red gleams that wavered, that seemed to sink and rise from the ground amongst confused columnar shapes of intense blackness, showed the exact position of the camp where mr. kurtz's adorers were keeping their uneasy vigil. the monotonous beating of a big drum filled the air with muffled shocks and a lingering vibration. a steady droning sound of many men chanting each to himself some weird incantation came out from the black, flat wall of the woods as the humming of bees comes out of a hive, and had a strange narcotic effect upon my half-awake senses. i believe i dozed off leaning over the rail, till an abrupt burst of yells, an overwhelming outbreak of a pent-up and mysterious frenzy, woke me up in a bewildered wonder. it was cut short all at once, and the low droning went on with an effect of audible and soothing silence. i glanced casually into the little cabin. a light was burning within, but mr. kurtz was not there. "i think i would have raised an outcry if i had believed my eyes. but i didn't believe them at first--the thing seemed so impossible. the fact is i was completely unnerved by a sheer blank fright, pure abstract terror, unconnected with any distinct shape of physical danger. what made this emotion so overpowering was--how shall i define it?--the moral shock i received, as if something altogether monstrous, intolerable to thought and odious to the soul, had been thrust upon me unexpectedly. this lasted of course the merest fraction of a second, and then the usual sense of commonplace, deadly danger, the possibility of a sudden onslaught and massacre, or something of the kind, which i saw impending, was positively welcome and composing. it pacified me, in fact, so much, that i did not raise an alarm. "there was an agent buttoned up inside an ulster and sleeping on a chair on deck within three feet of me. the yells had not awakened him; he snored very slightly; i left him to his slumbers and leaped ashore. i did not betray mr. kurtz--it was ordered i should never betray him--it was written i should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice. i was anxious to deal with this shadow by myself alone,--and to this day i don't know why i was so jealous of sharing with anyone the peculiar blackness of that experience. "as soon as i got on the bank i saw a trail--a broad trail through the grass. i remember the exultation with which i said to myself, 'he can't walk--he is crawling on all-fours--i've got him.' the grass was wet with dew. i strode rapidly with clenched fists. i fancy i had some vague notion of falling upon him and giving him a drubbing. i don't know. i had some imbecile thoughts. the knitting old woman with the cat obtruded herself upon my memory as a most improper person to be sitting at the other end of such an affair. i saw a row of pilgrims squirting lead in the air out of winchesters held to the hip. i thought i would never get back to the steamer, and imagined myself living alone and unarmed in the woods to an advanced age. such silly things--you know. and i remember i confounded the beat of the drum with the beating of my heart, and was pleased at its calm regularity. "i kept to the track though--then stopped to listen. the night was very clear: a dark blue space, sparkling with dew and starlight, in which black things stood very still. i thought i could see a kind of motion ahead of me. i was strangely cocksure of everything that night. i actually left the track and ran in a wide semicircle (i verily believe chuckling to myself) so as to get in front of that stir, of that motion i had seen--if indeed i had seen anything. i was circumventing kurtz as though it had been a boyish game. "i came upon him, and, if he had not heard me coming, i would have fallen over him too, but he got up in time. he rose, unsteady, long, pale, indistinct, like a vapor exhaled by the earth, and swayed slightly, misty and silent before me; while at my back the fires loomed between the trees, and the murmur of many voices issued from the forest. i had cut him off cleverly; but when actually confronting him i seemed to come to my senses, i saw the danger in its right proportion. it was by no means over yet. suppose he began to shout? though he could hardly stand, there was still plenty of vigor in his voice. 'go away--hide yourself,' he said, in that profound tone. it was very awful. i glanced back. we were within thirty yards from the nearest fire. a black figure stood up, strode on long black legs, waving long black arms, across the glow. it had horns--antelope horns, i think--on its head. some sorcerer, some witch-man, no doubt: it looked fiend-like enough. 'do you know what you are doing?' i whispered. 'perfectly,' he answered, raising his voice for that single word: it sounded to me far off and yet loud, like a hail through a speaking-trumpet. 'if he makes a row we are lost,' i thought to myself. this clearly was not a case for fisticuffs, even apart from the very natural aversion i had to beat that shadow--this wandering and tormented thing. 'you will be lost,' i said--'utterly lost.' one gets sometimes such a flash of inspiration, you know. i did say the right thing, though indeed he could not have been more irretrievably lost than he was at this very moment, when the foundations of our intimacy were being laid--to endure--to endure--even to the end--even beyond. "'i had immense plans,' he muttered irresolutely. 'yes,' said i; 'but if you try to shout i'll smash your head with--' there was not a stick or a stone near. 'i will throttle you for good,' i corrected myself. 'i was on the threshold of great things,' he pleaded, in a voice of longing, with a wistfulness of tone that made my blood run cold. 'and now for this stupid scoundrel--' 'your success in europe is assured in any case,' i affirmed, steadily. i did not want to have the throttling of him, you understand--and indeed it would have been very little use for any practical purpose. i tried to break the spell--the heavy, mute spell of the wilderness--that seemed to draw him to its pitiless breast by the awakening of forgotten and brutal instincts, by the memory of gratified and monstrous passions. this alone, i was convinced, had driven him out to the edge of the forest, to the bush, towards the gleam of fires, the throb of drums, the drone of weird incantations; this alone had beguiled his unlawful soul beyond the bounds of permitted aspirations. and, don't you see, the terror of the position was not in being knocked on the head--though i had a very lively sense of that danger too--but in this, that i had to deal with a being to whom i could not appeal in the name of anything high or low. i had, even like the niggers, to invoke him--himself his own exalted and incredible degradation. there was nothing either above or below him, and i knew it. he had kicked himself loose of the earth. confound the man! he had kicked the very earth to pieces. he was alone, and i before him did not know whether i stood on the ground or floated in the air. i've been telling you what we said--repeating the phrases we pronounced,--but what's the good? they were common everyday words,--the familiar, vague sounds exchanged on every waking day of life. but what of that? they had behind them, to my mind, the terrific suggestiveness of words heard in dreams, of phrases spoken in nightmares. soul! if anybody had ever struggled with a soul, i am the man. and i wasn't arguing with a lunatic either. believe me or not, his intelligence was perfectly clear--concentrated, it is true, upon himself with horrible intensity, yet clear; and therein was my only chance--barring, of course, the killing him there and then, which wasn't so good, on account of unavoidable noise. but his soul was mad. being alone in the wilderness, it had looked within itself, and, by heavens! i tell you, it had gone mad. i had--for my sins, i suppose--to go through the ordeal of looking into it myself. no eloquence could have been so withering to one's belief in mankind as his final burst of sincerity. he struggled with himself, too. i saw it,--i heard it. i saw the inconceivable mystery of a soul that knew no restraint, no faith, and no fear, yet struggling blindly with itself. i kept my head pretty well; but when i had him at last stretched on the couch, i wiped my forehead, while my legs shook under me as though i had carried half a ton on my back down that hill. and yet i had only supported him, his bony arm clasped round my neck--and he was not much heavier than a child. "when next day we left at noon, the crowd, of whose presence behind the curtain of trees i had been acutely conscious all the time, flowed out of the woods again, filled the clearing, covered the slope with a mass of naked, breathing, quivering, bronze bodies. i steamed up a bit, then swung down-stream, and two thousand eyes followed the evolutions of the splashing, thumping, fierce river-demon beating the water with its terrible tail and breathing black smoke into the air. in front of the first rank, along the river, three men, plastered with bright red earth from head to foot, strutted to and fro restlessly. when we came abreast again, they faced the river, stamped their feet, nodded their horned heads, swayed their scarlet bodies; they shook towards the fierce river-demon a bunch of black feathers, a mangy skin with a pendent tail--something that looked like a dried gourd; they shouted periodically together strings of amazing words that resembled no sounds of human language; and the deep murmurs of the crowd, interrupted suddenly, were like the response of some satanic litany. "we had carried kurtz into the pilot-house: there was more air there. lying on the couch, he stared through the open shutter. there was an eddy in the mass of human bodies, and the woman with helmeted head and tawny cheeks rushed out to the very brink of the stream. she put out her hands, shouted something, and all that wild mob took up the shout in a roaring chorus of articulated, rapid, breathless utterance. "'do you understand this?' i asked. "he kept on looking out past me with fiery, longing eyes, with a mingled expression of wistfulness and hate. he made no answer, but i saw a smile, a smile of indefinable meaning, appear on his colorless lips that a moment after twitched convulsively. 'do i not?' he said slowly, gasping, as if the words had been torn out of him by a supernatural power. "i pulled the string of the whistle, and i did this because i saw the pilgrims on deck getting out their rifles with an air of anticipating a jolly lark. at the sudden screech there was a movement of abject terror through that wedged mass of bodies. 'don't! don't you frighten them away,' cried someone on deck disconsolately. i pulled the string time after time. they broke and ran, they leaped, they crouched, they swerved, they dodged the flying terror of the sound. the three red chaps had fallen flat, face down on the shore, as though they had been shot dead. only the barbarous and superb woman did not so much as flinch, and stretched tragically her bare arms after us over the somber and glittering river. "and then that imbecile crowd down on the deck started their little fun, and i could see nothing more for smoke. "the brown current ran swiftly out of the heart of darkness, bearing us down towards the sea with twice the speed of our upward progress; and kurtz's life was running swiftly too, ebbing, ebbing out of his heart into the sea of inexorable time. the manager was very placid, he had no vital anxieties now, he took us both in with a comprehensive and satisfied glance: the 'affair' had come off as well as could be wished. i saw the time approaching when i would be left alone of the party of 'unsound method.' the pilgrims looked upon me with disfavor. i was, so to speak, numbered with the dead. it is strange how i accepted this unforeseen partnership, this choice of nightmares forced upon me in the tenebrous land invaded by these mean and greedy phantoms. "kurtz discoursed. a voice! a voice! it rang deep to the very last. it survived his strength to hide in the magnificent folds of eloquence the barren darkness of his heart. oh, he struggled! he struggled! the wastes of his weary brain were haunted by shadowy images now--images of wealth and fame revolving obsequiously round his unextinguishable gift of noble and lofty expression. my intended, my station, my career, my ideas--these were the subjects for the occasional utterances of elevated sentiments. the shade of the original kurtz frequented the bedside of the hollow sham, whose fate it was to be buried presently in the mold of primeval earth. but both the diabolic love and the unearthly hate of the mysteries it had penetrated fought for the possession of that soul satiated with primitive emotions, avid of lying fame, of sham distinction, of all the appearances of success and power. "sometimes he was contemptibly childish. he desired to have kings meet him at railway-stations on his return from some ghastly nowhere, where he intended to accomplish great things. 'you show them you have in you something that is really profitable, and then there will be no limits to the recognition of your ability,' he would say. 'of course you must take care of the motives--right motives--always.' the long reaches that were like one and the same reach, monotonous bends that were exactly alike, slipped past the steamer with their multitude of secular trees looking patiently after this grimy fragment of another world, the forerunner of change, of conquest, of trade, of massacres, of blessings. i looked ahead--piloting. 'close the shutter,' said kurtz suddenly one day; 'i can't bear to look at this.' i did so. there was a silence. 'oh, but i will wring your heart yet!' he cried at the invisible wilderness. "we broke down--as i had expected--and had to lie up for repairs at the head of an island. this delay was the first thing that shook kurtz's confidence. one morning he gave me a packet of papers and a photograph,--the lot tied together with a shoe-string. 'keep this for me,' he said. 'this noxious fool' (meaning the manager) 'is capable of prying into my boxes when i am not looking.' in the afternoon i saw him. he was lying on his back with closed eyes, and i withdrew quietly, but i heard him mutter, 'live rightly, die, die . . .' i listened. there was nothing more. was he rehearsing some speech in his sleep, or was it a fragment of a phrase from some newspaper article? he had been writing for the papers and meant to do so again, 'for the furthering of my ideas. it's a duty.' "his was an impenetrable darkness. i looked at him as you peer down at a man who is lying at the bottom of a precipice where the sun never shines. but i had not much time to give him, because i was helping the engine-driver to take to pieces the leaky cylinders, to straighten a bent connecting-rod, and in other such matters. i lived in an infernal mess of rust, filings, nuts, bolts, spanners, hammers, ratchet-drills--things i abominate, because i don't get on with them. i tended the little forge we fortunately had aboard; i toiled wearily in a wretched scrap-heap--unless i had the shakes too bad to stand. "one evening coming in with a candle i was startled to hear him say a little tremulously, 'i am lying here in the dark waiting for death.' the light was within a foot of his eyes. i forced myself to murmur, 'oh, nonsense!' and stood over him as if transfixed. "anything approaching the change that came over his features i have never seen before, and hope never to see again. oh, i wasn't touched. i was fascinated. it was as though a veil had been rent. i saw on that ivory face the expression of somber pride, of ruthless power, of craven terror--of an intense and hopeless despair. did he live his life again in every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of complete knowledge? he cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision,--he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath-"'the horror! the horror!' "i blew the candle out and left the cabin. the pilgrims were dining in the mess-room, and i took my place opposite the manager, who lifted his eyes to give me a questioning glance, which i successfully ignored. he leaned back, serene, with that peculiar smile of his sealing the unexpressed depths of his meanness. a continuous shower of small flies streamed upon the lamp, upon the cloth, upon our hands and faces. suddenly the manager's boy put his insolent black head in the doorway, and said in a tone of scathing contempt-"'mistah kurtz--he dead.' "all the pilgrims rushed out to see. i remained, and went on with my dinner. i believe i was considered brutally callous. however, i did not eat much. there was a lamp in there--light, don't you know--and outside it was so beastly, beastly dark. i went no more near the remarkable man who had pronounced a judgment upon the adventures of his soul on this earth. the voice was gone. what else had been there? but i am of course aware that next day the pilgrims buried something in a muddy hole. "and then they very nearly buried me. "however, as you see, i did not go to join kurtz there and then. i did not. i remained to dream the nightmare out to the end, and to show my loyalty to kurtz once more. destiny. my destiny! droll thing life is--that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. the most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself--that comes too late--a crop of unextinguishable regrets. i have wrestled with death. it is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. it takes place in an impalpable grayness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clamor, without glory, without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid skepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still less in that of your adversary. if such is the form of ultimate wisdom, then life is a greater riddle than some of us think it to be. i was within a hair's-breadth of the last opportunity for pronouncement, and i found with humiliation that probably i would have nothing to say. this is the reason why i affirm that kurtz was a remarkable man. he had something to say. he said it. since i had peeped over the edge myself, i understand better the meaning of his stare, that could not see the flame of the candle, but was wide enough to embrace the whole universe, piercing enough to penetrate all the hearts that beat in the darkness. he had summed up--he had judged. 'the horror!' he was a remarkable man. after all, this was the expression of some sort of belief; it had candor, it had conviction, it had a vibrating note of revolt in its whisper, it had the appalling face of a glimpsed truth--the strange commingling of desire and hate. and it is not my own extremity i remember best--a vision of grayness without form filled with physical pain, and a careless contempt for the evanescence of all things--even of this pain itself. no! it is his extremity that i seem to have lived through. true, he had made that last stride, he had stepped over the edge, while i had been permitted to draw back my hesitating foot. and perhaps in this is the whole difference; perhaps all the wisdom, and all truth, and all sincerity, are just compressed into that inappreciable moment of time in which we step over the threshold of the invisible. perhaps! i like to think my summing-up would not have been a word of careless contempt. better his cry--much better. it was an affirmation, a moral victory paid for by innumerable defeats, by abominable terrors, by abominable satisfactions. but it was a victory! that is why i have remained loyal to kurtz to the last, and even beyond, when a long time after i heard once more, not his own voice, but the echo of his magnificent eloquence thrown to me from a soul as translucently pure as a cliff of crystal. "no, they did not bury me, though there is a period of time which i remember mistily, with a shuddering wonder, like a passage through some inconceivable world that had no hope in it and no desire. i found myself back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying through the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and silly dreams. they trespassed upon my thoughts. they were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretense, because i felt so sure they could not possibly know the things i knew. their bearing, which was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals going about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, was offensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the face of a danger it is unable to comprehend. i had no particular desire to enlighten them, but i had some difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in their faces, so full of stupid importance. i dare say i was not very well at that time. i tottered about the streets--there were various affairs to settle--grinning bitterly at perfectly respectable persons. i admit my behavior was inexcusable, but then my temperature was seldom normal in these days. my dear aunt's endeavors to 'nurse up my strength' seemed altogether beside the mark. it was not my strength that wanted nursing, it was my imagination that wanted soothing. i kept the bundle of papers given me by kurtz, not knowing exactly what to do with it. his mother had died lately, watched over, as i was told, by his intended. a clean-shaved man, with an official manner and wearing gold-rimmed spectacles, called on me one day and made inquiries, at first circuitous, afterwards suavely pressing, about what he was pleased to denominate certain 'documents.' i was not surprised, because i had had two rows with the manager on the subject out there. i had refused to give up the smallest scrap out of that package, and i took the same attitude with the spectacled man. he became darkly menacing at last, and with much heat argued that the company had the right to every bit of information about its 'territories.' and, said he, 'mr. kurtz's knowledge of unexplored regions must have been necessarily extensive and peculiar--owing to his great abilities and to the deplorable circumstances in which he had been placed: therefore'--i assured him mr. kurtz's knowledge, however extensive, did not bear upon the problems of commerce or administration. he invoked then the name of science. 'it would be an incalculable loss if,' &c., &c. i offered him the report on the 'suppression of savage customs,' with the postscriptum torn off. he took it up eagerly, but ended by sniffing at it with an air of contempt. 'this is not what we had a right to expect,' he remarked. 'expect nothing else,' i said. 'there are only private letters.' he withdrew upon some threat of legal proceedings, and i saw him no more; but another fellow, calling himself kurtz's cousin, appeared two days later, and was anxious to hear all the details about his dear relative's last moments. incidentally he gave me to understand that kurtz had been essentially a great musician. 'there was the making of an immense success,' said the man, who was an organist, i believe, with lank gray hair flowing over a greasy coat-collar. i had no reason to doubt his statement; and to this day i am unable to say what was kurtz's profession, whether he ever had any--which was the greatest of his talents. i had taken him for a painter who wrote for the papers, or else for a journalist who could paint--but even the cousin (who took snuff during the interview) could not tell me what he had been--exactly. he was a universal genius--on that point i agreed with the old chap, who thereupon blew his nose noisily into a large cotton handkerchief and withdrew in senile agitation, bearing off some family letters and memoranda without importance. ultimately a journalist anxious to know something of the fate of his 'dear colleague' turned up. this visitor informed me kurtz's proper sphere ought to have been politics 'on the popular side.' he had furry straight eyebrows, bristly hair cropped short, an eye-glass on a broad ribbon, and, becoming expansive, confessed his opinion that kurtz really couldn't write a bit--'but heavens! how that man could talk! he electrified large meetings. he had faith--don't you see?--he had the faith. he could get himself to believe anything--anything. he would have been a splendid leader of an extreme party.' 'what party?' i asked. 'any party,' answered the other. 'he was an--an--extremist.' did i not think so? i assented. did i know, he asked, with a sudden flash of curiosity, 'what it was that had induced him to go out there?' 'yes,' said i, and forthwith handed him the famous report for publication, if he thought fit. he glanced through it hurriedly, mumbling all the time, judged 'it would do,' and took himself off with this plunder. "thus i was left at last with a slim packet of letters and the girl's portrait. she struck me as beautiful--i mean she had a beautiful expression. i know that the sunlight can be made to lie too, yet one felt that no manipulation of light and pose could have conveyed the delicate shade of truthfulness upon those features. she seemed ready to listen without mental reservation, without suspicion, without a thought for herself. i concluded i would go and give her back her portrait and those letters myself. curiosity? yes; and also some other feeling perhaps. all that had been kurtz's had passed out of my hands: his soul, his body, his station, his plans, his ivory, his career. there remained only his memory and his intended--and i wanted to give that up too to the past, in a way,--to surrender personally all that remained of him with me to that oblivion which is the last word of our common fate. i don't defend myself. i had no clear perception of what it was i really wanted. perhaps it was an impulse of unconscious loyalty, or the fulfillment of one of these ironic necessities that lurk in the facts of human existence. i don't know. i can't tell. but i went. "i thought his memory was like the other memories of the dead that accumulate in every man's life,--a vague impress on the brain of shadows that had fallen on it in their swift and final passage; but before the high and ponderous door, between the tall houses of a street as still and decorous as a well-kept alley in a cemetery, i had a vision of him on the stretcher, opening his mouth voraciously, as if to devour all the earth with all its mankind. he lived then before me; he lived as much as he had ever lived--a shadow insatiable of splendid appearances, of frightful realities; a shadow darker than the shadow of the night, and draped nobly in the folds of a gorgeous eloquence. the vision seemed to enter the house with me--the stretcher, the phantom-bearers, the wild crowd of obedient worshipers, the gloom of the forests, the glitter of the reach between the murky bends, the beat of the drum, regular and muffled like the beating of a heart--the heart of a conquering darkness. it was a moment of triumph for the wilderness, an invading and vengeful rush which, it seemed to me, i would have to keep back alone for the salvation of another soul. and the memory of what i had heard him say afar there, with the horned shapes stirring at my back, in the glow of fires, within the patient woods, those broken phrases came back to me, were heard again in their ominous and terrifying simplicity. i remembered his abject pleading, his abject threats, the colossal scale of his vile desires, the meanness, the torment, the tempestuous anguish of his soul. and later on i seemed to see his collected languid manner, when he said one day, 'this lot of ivory now is really mine. the company did not pay for it. i collected it myself at a very great personal risk. i am afraid they will try to claim it as theirs though. h'm. it is a difficult case. what do you think i ought to do--resist? eh? i want no more than justice.' . . . he wanted no more than justice--no more than justice. i rang the bell before a mahogany door on the first floor, and while i waited he seemed to stare at me out of the glassy panel--stare with that wide and immense stare embracing, condemning, loathing all the universe. i seemed to hear the whispered cry, 'the horror! the horror!' "the dusk was falling. i had to wait in a lofty drawing-room with three long windows from floor to ceiling that were like three luminous and bedraped columns. the bent gilt legs and backs of the furniture shone in indistinct curves. the tall marble fireplace had a cold and monumental whiteness. a grand piano stood massively in a corner, with dark gleams on the flat surfaces like a somber and polished sarcophagus. a high door opened--closed. i rose. "she came forward, all in black, with a pale head, floating towards me in the dusk. she was in mourning. it was more than a year since his death, more than a year since the news came; she seemed as though she would remember and mourn for ever. she took both my hands in hers and murmured, 'i had heard you were coming.' i noticed she was not very young--i mean not girlish. she had a mature capacity for fidelity, for belief, for suffering. the room seemed to have grown darker, as if all the sad light of the cloudy evening had taken refuge on her forehead. this fair hair, this pale visage, this pure brow, seemed surrounded by an ashy halo from which the dark eyes looked out at me. their glance was guileless, profound, confident, and trustful. she carried her sorrowful head as though she were proud of that sorrow, as though she would say, 'i--i alone know how to mourn for him as he deserves.' but while we were still shaking hands, such a look of awful desolation came upon her face that i perceived she was one of those creatures that are not the playthings of time. for her he had died only yesterday. and, by jove! the impression was so powerful that for me too he seemed to have died only yesterday--nay, this very minute. i saw her and him in the same instant of time--his death and her sorrow--i saw her sorrow in the very moment of his death. do you understand? i saw them together--i heard them together. she had said, with a deep catch of the breath, 'i have survived;' while my strained ears seemed to hear distinctly, mingled with her tone of despairing regret, the summing-up whisper of his eternal condemnation. i asked myself what i was doing there, with a sensation of panic in my heart as though i had blundered into a place of cruel and absurd mysteries not fit for a human being to behold. she motioned me to a chair. we sat down. i laid the packet gently on the little table, and she put her hand over it. . . . 'you knew him well,' she murmured, after a moment of mourning silence. "'intimacy grows quick out there,' i said. 'i knew him as well as it is possible for one man to know another.' "'and you admired him,' she said. 'it was impossible to know him and not to admire him. was it?' "'he was a remarkable man,' i said, unsteadily. then before the appealing fixity of her gaze, that seemed to watch for more words on my lips, i went on, 'it was impossible not to--' "'love him,' she finished eagerly, silencing me into an appalled dumbness. 'how true! how true! but when you think that no one knew him so well as i! i had all his noble confidence. i knew him best.' "'you knew him best,' i repeated. and perhaps she did. but with every word spoken the room was growing darker, and only her forehead, smooth and white, remained illumined by the unextinguishable light of belief and love. "'you were his friend,' she went on. 'his friend,' she repeated, a little louder. 'you must have been, if he had given you this, and sent you to me. i feel i can speak to you--and oh! i must speak. i want you--you who have heard his last words--to know i have been worthy of him. . . . it is not pride. . . . yes! i am proud to know i understood him better than anyone on earth--he told me so himself. and since his mother died i have had no one--no one--to--to--' "i listened. the darkness deepened. i was not even sure whether he had given me the right bundle. i rather suspect he wanted me to take care of another batch of his papers which, after his death, i saw the manager examining under the lamp. and the girl talked, easing her pain in the certitude of my sympathy; she talked as thirsty men drink. i had heard that her engagement with kurtz had been disapproved by her people. he wasn't rich enough or something. and indeed i don't know whether he had not been a pauper all his life. he had given me some reason to infer that it was his impatience of comparative poverty that drove him out there. "'. . . who was not his friend who had heard him speak once?' she was saying. 'he drew men towards him by what was best in them.' she looked at me with intensity. 'it is the gift of the great,' she went on, and the sound of her low voice seemed to have the accompaniment of all the other sounds, full of mystery, desolation, and sorrow, i had ever heard--the ripple of the river, the soughing of the trees swayed by the wind, the murmurs of wild crowds, the faint ring of incomprehensible words cried from afar, the whisper of a voice speaking from beyond the threshold of an eternal darkness. 'but you have heard him! you know!' she cried. "'yes, i know,' i said with something like despair in my heart, but bowing my head before the faith that was in her, before that great and saving illusion that shone with an unearthly glow in the darkness, in the triumphant darkness from which i could not have defended her--from which i could not even defend myself. "'what a loss to me--to us!'--she corrected herself with beautiful generosity; then added in a murmur, 'to the world.' by the last gleams of twilight i could see the glitter of her eyes, full of tears--of tears that would not fall. "'i have been very happy--very fortunate--very proud,' she went on. 'too fortunate. too happy for a little while. and now i am unhappy for--for life.' "she stood up; her fair hair seemed to catch all the remaining light in a glimmer of gold. i rose too. "'and of all this,' she went on, mournfully, 'of all his promise, and of all his greatness, of his generous mind, of his noble heart, nothing remains--nothing but a memory. you and i--' "'we shall always remember him,' i said, hastily. "'no!' she cried. 'it is impossible that all this should be lost--that such a life should be sacrificed to leave nothing--but sorrow. you know what vast plans he had. i knew of them too--i could not perhaps understand,--but others knew of them. something must remain. his words, at least, have not died.' "'his words will remain,' i said. "'and his example,' she whispered to herself. 'men looked up to him,--his goodness shone in every act. his example--' "'true,' i said; 'his example too. yes, his example. i forgot that.' "'but i do not. i cannot--i cannot believe--not yet. i cannot believe that i shall never see him again, that nobody will see him again, never, never, never.' "she put out her arms as if after a retreating figure, stretching them black and with clasped pale hands across the fading and narrow sheen of the window. never see him! i saw him clearly enough then. i shall see this eloquent phantom as long as i live, and i shall see her too, a tragic and familiar shade, resembling in this gesture another one, tragic also, and bedecked with powerless charms, stretching bare brown arms over the glitter of the infernal stream, the stream of darkness. she said suddenly very low, 'he died as he lived.' "'his end,' said i, with dull anger stirring in me, 'was in every way worthy of his life.' "'and i was not with him,' she murmured. my anger subsided before a feeling of infinite pity. "'everything that could be done--' i mumbled. "'ah, but i believed in him more than anyone on earth--more than his own mother, more than--himself. he needed me! me! i would have treasured every sigh, every word, every sign, every glance.' "i felt like a chill grip on my chest. 'don't,' i said, in a muffled voice. "'forgive me. i--i--have mourned so long in silence--in silence. . . . you were with him--to the last? i think of his loneliness. nobody near to understand him as i would have understood. perhaps no one to hear. . . .' "'to the very end,' i said, shakily. 'i heard his very last words. . . .' i stopped in a fright. "'repeat them,' she said in a heart-broken tone. 'i want--i want--something--something--to--to live with.' "i was on the point of crying at her, 'don't you hear them?' the dusk was repeating them in a persistent whisper all around us, in a whisper that seemed to swell menacingly like the first whisper of a rising wind. 'the horror! the horror!' "'his last word--to live with,' she murmured. 'don't you understand i loved him--i loved him--i loved him!' "i pulled myself together and spoke slowly. "'the last word he pronounced was--your name.' "i heard a light sigh, and then my heart stood still, stopped dead short by an exulting and terrible cry, by the cry of inconceivable triumph and of unspeakable pain. 'i knew it--i was sure!' . . . she knew. she was sure. i heard her weeping; she had hidden her face in her hands. it seemed to me that the house would collapse before i could escape, that the heavens would fall upon my head. but nothing happened. the heavens do not fall for such a trifle. would they have fallen, i wonder, if i had rendered kurtz that justice which was his due? hadn't he said he wanted only justice? but i couldn't. i could not tell her. it would have been too dark--too dark altogether. . . ." marlow ceased, and sat apart, indistinct and silent, in the pose of a meditating buddha. nobody moved for a time. "we have lost the first of the ebb," said the director, suddenly. i raised my head. the offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed somber under an overcast sky--seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness. dragon's blood by henry milner rideout with illustrations by harold m. brett 1909 to charles townsend copeland, 15 hollis hall, cambridge, massachusetts dear cope, mr. peachey carnehan, when he returned from kafiristan, in bad shape but with a king's head in a bag, exclaimed to the man in the newspaper office, "and you've been sitting there ever since!" there is only a pig in the following poke; and yet in giving you the string to cut and the bag to open, i feel something of peachey's wonder to think of you, across all this distance and change, as still sitting in your great chair by the green lamp, while past a dim background of books moves the procession of youth. many of us, growing older in various places, remember well your friendship, and are glad that you are there, urging our successors to look backward into good books, and forward into life. yours ever truly, h. m. r. _sausalito, california_. contents i. a lady and a griffin ii. the pied piper iii. under fire iv. the sword-pen v. in town vi. the pagoda vii. iphigenia viii. the hot night ix. passage at arms x. three portals xi. white lotus xii. the war board xiii. the spare man xiv. off duty xv. kaú fai xvi. the gunwale xvii. lamp of heaven xviii. siege xix. brother moles xx. the hakka boat xxi. the dragon's shadow illustrations _"good-by! a pleasant voyage"_ ... frontispiece _rudolph was aware of crowded bodies, of yellow faces grinning_ _he let the inverted cup dangle from his hands_ _he went leaping from sight over the crest_ chapter i a lady and a griffin it was "about first-drink time," as the captain of the tsuen-chau, bound for shanghai and japan ports, observed to his friend cesare domenico, a good british subject born at malta. they sat on the coolest corner in port said, their table commanding both the cross-way of chareh sultan el osman, and the short, glaring vista of desert dust and starved young acacias which led to the black hulks of shipping in the canal. from the bar la poste came orchestral strains--"ai nostri monti"--performed by a piano indoors and two violins on the pavement. the sounds contended with a thin, scattered strumming of cafe mandolins, the tinkle of glasses, the steady click of dominoes and backgammon; then were drowned in the harsh chatter of arab coolies who, all grimed as black as nubians, and shouldering spear-headed shovels, tramped inland, their long tunics stiff with coal-dust, like a band of chain-mailed crusaders lately caught in a hurricane of powdered charcoal. athwart them, parisian gowns floated past on stout italian forms; hulking third-class australians, in shirtsleeves, slouched along toward their mail-boat, hugging whiskey bottles, baskets of oranges, baskets of dates; british soldiers, khaki-clad for india, raced galloping donkeys through the crowded and dusty street. it was mail-day, and gayety flowed among the tables, under the thin acacias, on a high tide of amer picon. through the inky files of the coaling-coolies burst an alien and bewildered figure. he passed unnoticed, except by the filthy little arab bootblacks who swarmed about him, trotting, capering, yelping cheerfully: "mista ferguson!--polish, finish!--can-can--see nice frencha girl--mista mckenzie, scotcha fella from dublin--smotta picture--polish, finish!"--undertoned by a squabbling chorus. but presently, studying his face, they cried in a loud voice, "nix! alles!" and left him, as one not desiring polish. "german, that chap," drawled the captain of the tsuen-chau, lazily, noticing the uncertain military walk of the young man's clumsy legs, his uncouth clothes, his pale visage winged by blushing ears of coral pink. "the eitel's in, then," replied cesare. and they let the young teuton vanish in the vision of mixed lives. down the lane of music and chatter and drink he passed slowly, like a man just wakened,--assailed by oriental noise and smells, jostled by the races of all latitudes and longitudes, surrounded and solitary, unheeded and self-conscious. with a villager's awkwardness among crowds, he made his way to a german shipping-office. "dispatches for rudolph hackh?" he inquired, twisting up his blond moustache, and trying to look insolent and peremptory, like an employer of men. "there are none, sir," answered an amiable clerk, not at all impressed. abashed once more in the polyglot street, still daunted by his first plunge into the foreign and the strange, he retraced his path, threading shyly toward the quai françois joseph. he slipped through the barrier gate, signaled clumsily to a boatman, crawled under the drunken little awning of the dinghy, and steered a landsman's course along the shining canal toward the black wall of a german mail-boat. cramping the arab's oar along the iron side, he bumped the landing-stage. safe on deck, he became in a moment stiff and haughty, greeting a fellow passenger here and there with a half-military salute. all afternoon he sat or walked alone, unapproachable, eyeing with a fierce and gloomy stare the squalid front of wooden houses on the african side, the gray desert glare of asia, the pale blue ribbon of the great canal stretching southward into the unknown. he composed melancholy german verses in a note-book. he recalled famous exiles--camoens, napoleon, byron--and essayed to copy something of all three in his attitude. he cherished the thought that he, clerk at twenty-one, was now agent at twenty-two, and traveling toward a house with servants, off there beyond the turn of the canal, beyond the curve of the globe. but for all this, rudolph hackh felt young, homesick, timid of the future, and already oppressed with the distance, the age, the manifold, placid mystery of china. toward that mystery, meanwhile, the ship began to creep. behind her, houses, multi-colored funnels, scrubby trees, slowly swung to blot out the glowing mediterranean and the western hemisphere. gray desert banks closed in upon her strictly, slid gently astern, drawing with them to the vanishing-point the bright lane of traversed water. she gained the bitter lakes; and the red conical buoys, like beads a-stringing, slipped on and added to the two converging dotted lines. "good-by to the west!" thought rudolph. as he mourned sentimentally at this lengthening tally of their departure, and tried to quote appropriate farewells, he was deeply touched and pleased by the sadness of his emotions. "now what does byron say?" the sombre glow of romantic sentiment faded, however, with the sunset. that evening, as the ship glided from ruby coal to ruby coal of the gares, following at a steady six knots the theatric glare of her search-light along arsenically green cardboard banks, rudolph paced the deck in a mood much simpler and more honest. in vain he tried the half-baked philosophy of youth. it gave no comfort; and watching the clear desert stars of two mysterious continents, he fell prey to the unbounded and unintelligible complexity of man's world. his own career seemed no more dubious than trivial. succeeding days only strengthened this mood. the red sea passed in a dream of homesickness, intolerable heat, of a pale blue surface stretched before aching eyes, and paler strips of pink and gray coast, faint and distant. like dreams, too, passed aden and colombo; and then, suddenly, he woke to the most acute interest. he had ignored his mess-mates at their second-class table; but when the new passengers from colombo came to dinner, he heard behind him the swish of stiff skirts, felt some one brush his shoulder, and saw, sliding into the next revolving chair, the vision of a lady in white. "_mahlzeit_" she murmured dutifully. but the voice was not german. rudolph heard her subside with little flouncings, and felt his ears grow warm and red. delighted, embarrassed, he at last took sufficient courage to steal side-glances. the first showed her to be young, fair-haired, and smartly attired in the plainest and coolest of white; the second, not so young, but very charming, with a demure downcast look, and a deft control of her spoon that, to rudolph's eyes, was splendidly fastidious; at the third, he was shocked to encounter the last flitting light of a counter-glance, from large, dark-blue eyes, not devoid of amusement. "she laughs at me!" fumed the young man, inwardly. he was angry, conscious of those unlucky wing-and-wing ears, vexed at his own boldness. "i have been offensive. she laughs at me." he generalized from long inexperience of a subject to which he had given acutely interested thought: "they always do." anger did not prevent him, however, from noting that his neighbor traveled alone, that she must be an englishwoman, and yet that she diffused, somehow, an aura of the far east and of romance. he shot many a look toward her deck-chair that evening, and when she had gone below, strategically bought a cigar, sat down in the chair to light it, and by a carefully shielded match contrived to read the tag that fluttered on the arm: "b. forrester, hongkong." afterward he remembered that by early daylight he might have read it for nothing; and so, for economic penance, smoked to the bitter end, finding the cigar disagreeable but manly. at all events, homesickness had vanished in a curious impatience for the morrow. miss forrester: he would sit beside miss forrester at table. if only they both were traveling first-class!--then she might be a great lady. to be enamored of a countess, now--a cigar, after all, was the proper companion of bold thoughts. at breakfast, recalling her amusement, he remained silent and wooden. at tiffin his heart leaped. "you speak english, i'm sure, don't you?" miss forrester was saying, in a pleasant, rather drawling voice. her eyes were quite serious now, and indeed friendly. confusion seized him. "i have less english to amuse myself with the ladies," he answered wildly. next moment, however, he regained that painful mastery of the tongue which had won his promotion as agent, and stammered: "pardon. i would mean, i speak so badly as not to entertain her." "indeed, you speak very nicely," she rejoined, with such a smile as no woman had ever troubled to bestow on him. "that will be so pleasant, for my german is shocking." dazed by the compliment, by her manner of taking for granted that future conversation which had seemed too good to come true, but above all by her arch, provoking smile, rudolph sat with his head in a whirl, feeling that the wide eyes of all the second-cabiners were penetrating the tumultuous secret of his breast. again his english deserted, and left him stammering. but miss forrester chatted steadily, appeared to understand murmurs which he himself found obscure, and so restored his confidence that before tiffin was over he talked no less gayly, his honest face alight and glowing. she taught him the names of the strange fruits before them; but though listening and questioning eagerly, he could not afterward have told loquat from pumelo, or custard-apple from papaya. nor could this young man, of methodical habits, ever have told how long their voyage lasted. it passed, unreal and timeless, in a glorious mist, a delighted fever: the background a blur of glossy white bulkheads and iron rails, awnings that fluttered in the warm, languorous winds, an infinite tropic ocean poignantly blue; the foreground, miss forrester. her white figure, trim and dashing; her round blue eyes, filled with coy wonder, the arch innocence of a spoiled child; her pale, smooth cheeks, rather plump, but coming oddly and enticingly to a point at the mouth and tilted chin; her lips, somewhat too full, too red, but quick and whimsical: he saw these all, and these only, in a bright focus, listening meanwhile to a voice by turns languid and lively, with now and then a curious liquid softness, perhaps insincere, yet dangerously pleasant. questioning, hinting, she played at motherly age and wisdom. as for him, he never before knew how well he could talk, or how engrossing his sober life, both in his native village on the baltic and afterward in bremen, could prove to either himself or a stranger. yet he was not such a fool, he reflected, as to tell everything. so far from trading confidences, she had told him only that she was bound straight on to hongkong; that curiosity alone had led her to travel second-class, "for the delightful change, you know, from all such formality"; and that she was "really more french than english." her reticence had the charm of an incognito; and taking this leaf from her book, he gave himself out as a large, vaguely important person journeying on a large, vague errand. "but you are a griffin?" she had said, as they sat together at tea. "pardon?" he ventured, wary and alarmed, wondering whether he could claim this unknown term as in character with his part. "i mean," miss forrester explained, smiling, "it is your first visit to the far east?" "oh, yes," he replied eagerly, blushing. he would have given worlds to say, "no." "griffins are such nice little monsters," she purred. "i like them." sometimes at night, waked by the snores of a fat prussian in the upper berth, he lay staring into the dark, while the ship throbbed in unison with his excited thoughts. he was amazed at his happy recklessness. he would never see her again; he was hurrying toward lonely and uncertain shores; yet this brief voyage outvalued the rest of his life. in time, they had left penang,--another unheeded background for her arch, innocent, appealing face,--and forged down the strait of malacca in a flood of nebulous moonlight. it was the last night out from singapore. that veiled brightness, as they leaned on the rail, showed her brown hair fluttering dimly, her face pale, half real, half magical, her eyes dark and undefined pools of mystery. it was late; they had been silent for a long time; and rudolph felt that something beyond the territory of words remained to be said, and that the one brilliant epoch of his life now drew madly to a close. "what do you think of it all?" the woman asked suddenly, gravely, as though they had been isolated together in the deep spaces of the same thought. "i do not yet--of what?" rejoined rudolph, at a loss. "of all this." she waved an eloquent little gesture toward the azure-lighted gulf. "oh," he said. "of the world?" "yes," she answered slowly. "the world. life." her tone, subdued and musical, conveyed in the mere words their full enigma and full meaning. "all this that we see." "who can tell?" he took her seriously, and ransacked all his store of second-hand philosophy for a worthy answer,--a musty store, dead and pedantic, after the thrilling spirit of her words. "why, i think--it is--is it not all now the sense-manifest substance of our duty? pardon. i am obscure. '_das versinnlichte material unserer pflicht_' no?" her clear laughter startled him. "oh, how moral!" she cried. "what a highly moral little griffin!" she laughed again (but this time it was like the splash of water in a deep well), and turned toward him that curiously tilted point of chin and mouth, her eyes shadowy and mocking. she looked young again,--the spirit of youth, of knowledge, of wonderful brightness and unbelief. "must we take it so very, very hard?" she coaxed. "isn't it just a place to be happy in?" as through a tumult he heard, and recognized the wisdom of the ages. "because," she added, "it lasts such a little while--" on the rail their hands suddenly touched. he was aware of nothing but the nearness and pallor of her face, the darkness of her eyes shining up at him. all his life seemed to have rushed concentrating into that one instant of extreme trouble, happiness, trembling fascination. footsteps sounded on the deck behind them; an unwelcome voice called jocosely:-"good efening!" the ship's doctor advanced with a roguish, paternal air. "you see at the phosphor, not?" even as she whipped about toward the light, rudolph had seen, with a touch of wonder, how her face changed from a bitter frown to the most friendly smile. the frown returned, became almost savage, when the fat physician continued:-"to see the phosphor is too much moon, mrs. forrester?" had the steamer crashed upon a reef, he would hardly have noticed such a minor shipwreck. mrs. forrester? why, then--when the doctor, after ponderous pleasantries, had waddled away aft, rudolph turned upon her a face of tragedy. "was that true?" he demanded grimly. "was what true?" she asked, with baby eyes of wonder, which no longer deceived, but angered. "what the doctor said." rudolph's voice trembled. "the tittle--the title he gave you." "why, of course," she laughed. "and you did not tell me!" he began, with scorn. "don't be foolish," she cut in. from beneath her skirt the toe of a small white shoe tapped the deck angrily. of a sudden she laughed, and raised a tantalizing face, merry, candid, and inscrutable. "why, you never asked me, and--and of course i thought you were saying it all along. you have such a dear, funny way of pronouncing, you know." he hesitated, almost believing; then, with a desperate gesture, wheeled and marched resolutely aft. that night it was no prussian snores which kept him awake and wretched. "everything is finished," he thought abysmally. he lay overthrown, aching, crushed, as though pinned under the fallen walls of his youth. at breakfast-time, the ship lay still beside a quay where mad crowds of brown and yellow men, scarfed, swathed, and turbaned in riotous colors, worked quarreling with harsh cries, in unspeakable interweaving uproar. the air, hot and steamy, smelled of strange earth. as rudolph followed a malay porter toward the gang-plank, he was painfully aware that mrs. forrester had turned from the rail and stood waiting in his path. "without saying good-by?" she reproached him. the injured wonder in her eyes he thought a little overdone. "good-by." he could not halt, but, raising his cap stiffly, managed to add, "a pleasant voyage," and passed on, feeling as though she had murdered something. he found himself jogging in a rickshaw, while equatorial rain beat like down-pouring bullets on the tarpaulin hood, and sluiced the chinaman's oily yellow back. over the heavy-muscled shoulders he caught glimpses of sullen green foliage, ponderous and drooping; of half-naked barbarians that squatted in the shallow caverns of shops; innumerable faces, black, yellow, white, and brown, whirling past, beneath other tarpaulin hoods, or at carriage windows, or shielded by enormous dripping wicker hats, or bared to the pelting rain. curious odors greeted him, as of sour vegetables and of unknown rank substances burning. he stared like a visionary at the streaming multitude of alien shapes. the coolie swerved, stopped, tilted his shafts to the ground. rudolph entered a sombre, mouldy office, where the darkness rang with tiny silver bells. pig-tailed men in skull-caps, their faces calm as polished ivory, were counting dollars endlessly over flying finger-tips. one of these men paused long enough to give him a sealed dispatch,--the message to which the ocean-bed, the midgard ooze, had thrilled beneath his tardy keel. "zimmerman recalled," the interpretation ran; "take his station; proceed at once." he knew the port only as forlorn and insignificant. it did not matter. one consolation remained: he would never see her again. chapter ii the pied piper a gray smudge trailing northward showed where the fa-hien--scottish oriental, sixteen hundred tons--was disappearing from the pale expanse of ocean. the sampan drifted landward imperceptibly, seeming, with nut-brown sail unstirred, to remain where the impatient steamer had met it, dropped a solitary passenger overside, and cast him loose upon the breadth of the antipodes. rare and far, the sails of junks patched the horizon with umber polygons. rudolph, sitting among his boxes in the sampan, viewed by turns this desolate void astern and the more desolate sweep of coast ahead. his matting sail divided the shining bronze outpour of an invisible river, divided a low brown shore beyond, and above these, the strips of some higher desert country that shone like snowdrifts, or like sifted ashes from which the hills rose black and charred. their savage, winter-blasted look, in the clear light of an almost vernal morning, made the land seem fabulous. yet here in reality, thought rudolph, as he floated toward that hoary kingdom,--here at last, facing a lonely sea, reared the lifeless, inhospitable shore, the sullen margin of china. the slow creaking of the spliced oar, swung in its lashing by a half-naked yellow man, his incomprehensible chatter with some fellow boatman hidden in the bows, were sounds lost in a drowsy silence, rhythms lost in a wide inertia. time itself seemed stationary. rudolph nodded, slept, and waking, found the afternoon sped, the hills gone, and his clumsy, time-worn craft stealing close under a muddy bank topped with brown weeds and grass. they had left behind the silted roadstead, and now, gliding on a gentle flood, entered the river-mouth. here and there, against the saffron tide, or under banks quaggy as melting chocolate, stooped a naked fisherman, who--swarthy as his background but for a loin-band of yellow flesh--shone wet and glistening while he stirred a dip-net through the liquid mud. faint in the distance harsh cries sounded now and then, and the soft popping of small-arms,--tiny revolts in the reign of a stillness aged and formidable. crumbling walls and squat ruins, black and green-patched with mould--old towers of defense against pirates--guarded from either bank the turns of the river. in one reach, a "war-junk," her sails furled, lay at anchor, the red and white eyes staring fish-like from her black prow: a silly monster, the painted tompions of her wooden cannon aiming drunkenly askew, her crew's wash fluttering peacefully in a line of blue dungaree. beyond the next turn, a fowling-piece cracked sharply, close at hand; something splashed, and the ruffled body of a snipe bobbed in the bronze flood alongside. "hang it!" complained a voice, loudly. "the beggar was too--hallo! oh, i say, gilly! gilly, ahoy! pick us up, there's a good chap! the bird first, will you, and then me." a tall young man in brown holland and a battered _terai_ stood above on the grassy brink. "oh, beg pardon," he continued. "took you for old gilly, you know." he snapped the empty shells from his gun, and blew into the breech, before adding, "would _you_ mind, then? that is, if you're bound up for stink-chau. it's a beastly long tramp, and i've been shooting all afternoon." followed by three coolies who popped out of the grass with game-bags, the young stranger descended, hopped nimbly from tussock to gunwale, and perched there to wash his boots in the river. "might have known you weren't old gilly," he said over his shoulder. "wutzler said the fa-hien lay off signaling for sampan before breakfast. going to stay long?" "i am agent," answered rudolph, with a touch of pride, "for fliegelman and sons." "oh?" drawled the hunter, lazily. he swung his legs inboard, faced about, and studied rudolph with embarrassing frankness. he was a long-limbed young englishman, whose cynical gray eyes, and thin face tinged rather sallow and oriental, bespoke a reckless good humor. "life sentence, eh? then your name's--what is it again?--hackh, isn't it? heywood's mine. so you take zimmerman's place. he's off already, and good riddance. he _was_ a bounder!--charming spot you've come to! i daresay if your fliegelmans opened a hong in hell, you might possibly get a worse station." without change of manner, he uttered a few gabbling, barbaric words. a coolie knelt, and with a rag began to clean the boots, which, from the expression of young mr. heywood's face, were more interesting than the arrival of a new manager from germany. "it will be dark before we're in," he said. "my place for the night, of course, and let your predecessor's leavings stand over till daylight. after dinner we'll go to the club. dinner! chicken and rice, chicken and rice! better like it, though, for you'll eat nothing else, term of your life." "you are very kind," began rudolph; but this bewildering off-hand youngster cut him short, with a laugh:-"no fear, you'll pay me! your firm supplies unlimited liquor. much good that ever did us, with old zimmerman." the sampan now slipped rapidly on the full flood, up a narrow channel that the setting of the sun had turned, as at a blow, from copper to indigo. the shores passed, more and more obscure against a fading light. a star or two already shone faint in the lower spaces. a second war-junk loomed above them, with a ruddy fire in the stern lighting a glimpse of squat forms and yellow goblin faces. "it is very curious," said rudolph, trying polite conversation, "how they paint so the eyes on their jonks." "no eyes, no can see; no can see, no can walkee," chanted heywood in careless formula. "i say," he complained suddenly, "you're not going to 'study the people,' and all that rot? we're already fed up with missionaries. their cant, i mean; no allusion to cannibalism." he lighted a cigarette. after the blinding flare of the match, night seemed to have fallen instantaneously. as their boat crept on to the slow creaking sweep, both maintained silence, rudolph rebuked and lonely, heywood supine beneath a comfortable winking spark. "what i mean is," drawled the hunter, "we need all the good fellows we can get. bring any new songs out? oh, i forgot, you're a german, too.--a sweet little colony! gilly's the only gentleman in the whole half-dozen of us, and heaven knows he's not up to much.--ah, we're in. on our right, fellow sufferers, we see the blooming village of stinks." he had risen in the gloom. beyond his shadow a few feeble lights burned low and scattered along the bank. strange cries arose, the bumping of sampans, the mournful caterwauling of a stringed instrument. "the native town's a bit above," he continued. "we herd together here on the edge. no concession, no bund, nothing." their sampan grounded softly in malodorous ooze. each mounting the bare shoulders of a coolie, the two europeans rode precariously to shore. "my boys will fetch your boxes," called heywood. "come on." the path, sometimes marshy, sometimes hard-packed clay or stone flags deeply littered, led them a winding course in the night. now and then shapes met them and pattered past in single file, furtive and sinister. at last, where a wall loomed white, heywood stopped, and, kicking at a wooden gate, gave a sing-song cry. with rattling weights, the door swung open, and closed behind them heavily. a kind of empty garden, a bare little inclosure, shone dimly in the light that streamed from a low, thick-set veranda at the farther end. dogs flew at them, barking outrageously. "down, chang! down, chutney!" cried their master. "be quiet, flounce, you fool!" on the stone floor of the house, they leaped upon him, two red chows and a fox-terrier bitch, knocking each other over in their joy. "olo she-dog he catchee plenty lats," piped a little chinaman, who shuffled out from a side-room where lamplight showed an office desk. "too-day catchee. plenty lats. no can." "my compradore, ah pat," said heywood to rudolph. "ah pat, my friend he b'long number one flickleman, boss man." the withered little creature bobbed in his blue robe, grinning at the introduction. "you welly high-tone man," he murmured amiably. "catchee goo' plice." "all the same, i don't half like it," was heywood's comment later. he had led his guest upstairs into a bare white-washed room, furnished in wicker. open windows admitted the damp sea breeze and a smell, like foul gun-barrels, from the river marshes. "where should all the rats be coming from?" he frowned, meditating on what rudolph thought a trifle. above the sallow brown face, his chestnut hair shone oddly, close-cropped and vigorous. "maskee, can't be helped.--o boy, one sherry-bitters, one bamboo!" "to our better acquaintance," said rudolph, as they raised their glasses. "what? oh, yes, thanks," the other laughed. "any one would know you for a griffin here, mr. hackh. you've not forgotten your manners yet." when they had sat down to dinner in another white-washed room, and had undertaken the promised rice and chicken, he laughed again, somewhat bitterly. "better acquaintance--no fear! you'll be so well acquainted with us all that you'll wish you never clapped eyes on us." he drained his whiskey and soda, signaled for more, and added: "were you ever cooped up, yachting, with a chap you detested? that's the feeling you come to have.--here, stand by. you're drinking nothing." rudolph protested. politeness had so far conquered habit, that he felt uncommonly flushed, genial, and giddy. "that," urged heywood, tapping the bottle, "that's our only amusement. you'll see. one good thing we can get is the liquor. 'nisi damnose bibimus,'--forget how it runs: 'drink hearty, or you'll die without getting your revenge,'" "you are then a university's-man?" cried rudolph, with enthusiasm. the other nodded gloomily. on the instant his face had fallen as impassive as that of the chinese boy who stood behind his chair, straight, rigid, like a waxen image of gravity in a blue gown.--"yes, of sorts. young fool. scrapes. debt. out to orient. same old story. more debt. trust the firm to encourage that! debt and debt and debt. tied up safe. transfer. finish! never go home."--he rose with a laugh and an impatient gesture.--"come on. might as well take in the club as to sit here talking rot." outside the gate of the compound, coolies crouching round a lantern sprang upright and whipped a pair of sedan-chairs into position. heywood, his feet elevated comfortably over the poles, swung in the lead; rudolph followed, bobbing in the springy rhythm of the long bamboos. the lanterns danced before them down an open road, past a few blank walls and dark buildings, and soon halted before a whitened front, where light gleamed from the upper story. "mind the stairs," called heywood. "narrow and beastly dark." as they stumbled up the steep flight, rudolph heard the click of billiard balls. a pair of hanging lamps lighted the room into which he rose,--a low, gloomy loft, devoid of comfort. at the nearer table, a weazened little man bent eagerly over a pictorial paper; at the farther, chalking their cues, stood two players, one a sturdy englishman with a gray moustache, the other a lithe, graceful person, whose blue coat, smart as an officer's, and swarthy but handsome face made him at a glance the most striking figure in the room. a little chinese imp in white, who acted as marker, turned on the new-comers a face of preternatural cunning. "mr. wutzler," said heywood. the weazened reader rose in a nervous flutter, underwent his introduction to rudolph with as much bashful agony as a school-girl, mumbled a few words in german, and instantly took refuge in his tattered _graphic_. the players, however, advanced in a more friendly fashion. the englishman, whose name rudolph did not catch, shook his hand heartily. "mr. hackh is a welcome addition." he spoke with deliberate courtesy. something in his voice, the tired look in his frank blue eyes and serious face, at once engaged respect. "for our sakes," he continued, "we're glad to see you here. i am sure doctor chantel will agree with me." "ah, indeed," said the man in military blue, with a courtier's bow. both air and accent were french. "most welcome." "let's all have a drink," cried heywood. despite his many glasses at dinner, he spoke with the alacrity of a new idea. "o boy, whiskey _ho-lan suey, fai di_!" away bounded the boy marker like a tennis-ball. "hello, wutzler's off already!"--the little old reader had quietly disappeared, leaving them a vacant table.--"isn't he weird?" laughed heywood, as they sat down. "comes and goes like a ghost." "it is his chinese wife," declared chantel, preening his moustache. "he is always ashame to meet the new persons." "poor old chap," said heywood. "i know--feels himself an outcast and all that. humph! with us! quite unnecessary."--the chinese page, quick, solemn, and noiseless, glided round the table with his tray.--"ah, you young devil! you're another weird one, you atom. see those bead eyes watching us, eh? a gilpin homer, you are, and some fine day we'll see you go off in a flash of fire. if you don't poison us all first.--well, here's fortune!" "your health, mr. hackh," amended the other englishman. as they set down their glasses, a strange cry sounded from below,--a stifled call, inarticulate, but in such a key of distress that all four faced about, and listened intently. "kom down," called a hesitating voice, "kom down and look-see." they sprang to the stairs, and clattered downward. dim radiance flooded the landing, from the street door. outside, a smoky lantern on the ground revealed the lower levels. in the wide sector of light stood wutzler, shrinking and apologetic, like a man caught in a fault, his wrinkled face eloquent of fear, his gesture eloquent of excuse. round him, as round a conjurer, scores of little shadowy things moved in a huddling dance, fitfully hopping like sparrows over spilt grain. where the light fell brightest these became plainer, their eyes shone in jeweled points of color. "by jove, gilly, they are rats!" said heywood, in a voice curiously forced and matter-of-fact. "flounce killed several this afternoon, so my--" no one heeded him; all stared. the rats, like beings of incantation, stole about with an absence of fear, a disregard of man's presence, that was odious and alarming. "earthquake?" the elder englishman spoke as though afraid of disturbing some one. the french doctor shook his head. "no," he answered in the same tone. "look." the rats, in all their weaving confusion, displayed one common impulse. they sprang upward continually, with short, agonized leaps, like drowning creatures struggling to keep afloat above some invisible flood. the action, repeated multitudinously into the obscure background, exaggerated in the foreground by magnified shadows tossing and falling on the white walls, suggested the influence of some evil stratum, some vapor subtle and diabolic, crawling poisonously along the ground. heywood stamped angrily, without effect. wutzler stood abject, a magician impotent against his swarm of familiars. gradually the rats, silent and leaping, passed away into the darkness, as though they heard the summons of a pied piper. "it doesn't attack europeans." heywood still used that curious inflection. "then my brother julien is still alive," retorted doctor chantel, bitterly. "what do you think, gilly?" persisted heywood. his compatriot nodded in a meaningless way. "the doctor's right, of course," he answered. "i wish my wife weren't coming back." "dey are a remember," ventured wutzler, timidly. "a warnung." the others, as though it had been a point of custom, ignored him. all stared down, musing, at the vacant stones. "then the concert's off to-morrow night," mocked heywood, with an unpleasant laugh. "on the contrary." gilly caught him up, prompt and decided. "we shall need all possible amusements; also to meet and plan our campaign. meantime,--what do you say, doctor?--chloride of lime in pots?" "that, evidently," smiled the handsome man. "yes, and charcoal burnt in braziers, perhaps, as père fenouil advises. fumigate."--satirical and debonair, he shrugged his shoulders.--"what use, among these thousands of yellow pigs?" "i wish she weren't coming," repeated gilly. rudolph, left outside this conference, could bear the uncertainty no longer. "i am a new arrival," he confided to his young host. "i do not understand. what is it?" "the plague, old chap," replied heywood, curtly. "these playful little animals get first notice. you're not the only arrival to-night." chapter iii under fire the desert was sometimes gobi, sometimes sahara, but always an infinite stretch of sand that floated up and up in a stifling layer, like the tide. rudolph, desperately choked, continued leaping upward against an insufferable power of gravity, or straining to run against the force of paralysis. the desert rang with phantom voices,--chinese voices that mocked him, chanting of pestilence, intoning abhorrently in french. he woke to find a knot of bed-clothes smothering him. to his first unspeakable relief succeeded the astonishment of hearing the voices continue in shrill chorus, the tones chinese, the words, in louder fragments, unmistakably french. they sounded close at hand, discordant matins sung by a mob of angry children. once or twice a weary, fretful voice scolded feebly: "un-peu-de-s'lence! un-peu-de-s'lence!" rudolph rose to peep through the heavy jalousies, but saw nothing more than sullen daylight, a flood of vertical rain, and thin rivulets coursing down a tiled roof below. the morning was dismally cold. "jolivet's kids wake you?" heywood, in a blue kimono, nodded from the doorway. "public nuisance, that school. quite needless, too. some bally french theory, you know, sphere of influence, and that rot. game played out up here, long ago, but they keep hanging on.--bath's ready, when you like." he broke out laughing. "did you climb into the water-jar, yesterday, before dinner? boy reports it upset. you'll find the dipper more handy.--how did you ever manage? one leg at a time?" echoes of glee followed his disappearance. rudolph, blushing, prepared to descend into the gloomy vault of ablution. charcoal fumes, however, and the glow of a brazier on the dark floor below, not only revived all his old terror, but at the stair-head halted him with a new. "is the water safe?" he called. heywood answered impatiently from his bedroom. "nothing safe in this world, mr. hackh. user's risk." an inaudible mutter ended with, "keep clean, anyway." at breakfast, though the acrid smoke was an enveloping reminder, he made the only reference to their situation. "rain at last: too late, though, to flush out the gutters. we needed it a month ago.--i say, hackh, if you don't mind, you might as well cheer up. from now on, it's pure heads and tails. we're all under fire together." glancing out of window at the murky sky, he added thoughtfully, "one excellent side to living without hope, maskee fashion: one isn't specially afraid. i'll take you to your office, and you can make a start. nothing else to do, is there?" dripping bearers and shrouded chairs received them on the lower floor, carried them out into a chill rain that drummed overhead and splashed along the compound path in silver points. the sunken flags in the road formed a narrow aqueduct that wavered down a lane of mire. a few grotesque wretches, thatched about with bamboo matting, like bottles, or like rosebushes in winter, trotted past shouldering twin baskets. the smell of joss-sticks, fish, and sour betel, the subtle sweetness of opium, grew constantly stronger, blended with exhalations of ancient refuse, and (as the chairs jogged past the club, past filthy groups huddling about the well in a marketplace, and onward into the black yawn of the city gate) assailed the throat like a bad and lasting taste. now, in the dusky street, pent narrowly by wet stone walls, night seemed to fall, while fresh waves of pungent odor overwhelmed and steeped the senses. rudolph's chair jostled through hundreds and hundreds of chinese, all alike in the darkness, who shuffled along before with switching queues, or flattened against the wall to stare, almost nose to nose, at the passing foreigner. with chairpoles backing into one shop or running ahead into another, with raucous cries from the coolies, he swung round countless corners, bewildered in a dark, leprous, nightmare bazaar. overhead, a slit of cloudy sky showed rarely; for the most part, he swayed along indoors, beneath a dingy lattice roof. all points of the compass vanished; all streets remained alike,--the same endless vista of mystic characters, red, black, and gold, on narrow suspended tablets, under which flowed the same current of pig-tailed men in blue and dirty white. from every shop, the same yellow faces stared at him, the same elfin children caught his eye for a half-second to grin or grimace, the same shaven foreheads bent over microscopical tasks in the dark. at first, rudolph thought the city loud and brawling; but resolving this impression to the hideous shouts of his coolies parting the crowd, he detected, below or through their noise, from all the long cross-corridors a wide and appalling silence. gradually, too, small sounds relieved this: the hammering of brass-work, the steady rattle of a loom, or the sing-song call and mellow bell of some burdened hawker, bumping past, his swinging baskets filled with a pennyworth of trifles. but still the silence daunted rudolph in this astounding vision, this masque of unreal life, of lost daylight, of annihilated direction, of placid turmoil and multifarious identity, made credible only by the permanence of nauseous smells. somewhere in the dark maze, the chairs halted, under a portal black and heavy as a gate of dreams. and as by the anachronism of dreams there hung, among its tortuous symbols, the small, familiar placard--"fliegelman and sons, office." heywood led the way, past two ducking chinese clerks, into a sombre room, stone-floored, furnished stiffly with a row of carved chairs against the wall, lighted coldly by roof-windows of placuna, and a lamp smoking before some commercial god in his ebony and tinsel shrine. "there," he said, bringing rudolph to an inner chamber, or dark little pent-house, where another draughty lamp flickered on a european desk. "here's your cell. i'm off--call for you later. good luck!"--wheeling in the doorway, he tossed a book, negligently.--"caught! you may as well start in, eh?--'cantonese made worse,'" to his departing steps rudolph listened as a prisoner, condemned, might listen to the last of all earthly visitors. peering through a kind of butler's window, he saw beyond the shrine his two pallid subordinates, like mystic automatons, nodding and smoking by the doorway. beyond them, across a darker square like a cavern-mouth, flitted the living phantoms of the street. it seemed a fit setting for his fears. "i am lost," he thought; lost among goblins, marooned in the age of barbarism, shut in a labyrinth with a black death at once actual and mediaeval: he dared not think of home, but flung his arms on the littered desk, and buried his face. on the tin pent-roof, the rain trampled inexorably. at last, mustering a shaky resolution, he set to work ransacking the tumbled papers. happily, zimmerman had left all in confusion. the very hopelessness of his accounts proved a relief. working at high tension, rudolph wrestled through disorder, mistakes, falsification; and little by little, as the sorted piles grew and his pen traveled faster, the old absorbing love of method and dispatch--the stay, the cordial flagon of troubled man--gave him strength to forget. at times, felt shoes scuffed the stone floor without, and high, scolding voices rose, exchanging unfathomable courtesy with his clerks. one after another, strange figures, plump and portly in their colored robes, crossed his threshold, nodding their buttoned caps, clasping their hands hidden in voluminous sleeves. "my 'long speakee my goo' flien'," chanted each of these apparitions; and each, after a long, slow discourse that ended more darkly than it began, retired with fatuous nods and smirks of satisfaction, leaving rudolph dismayed by a sense of cryptic negotiation in which he had been found wanting. noon brought the only other interval, when two solemn "boys" stole in with curry and beer. eat he could not in this lazaret, but sipped a little of the dark kirin brew, and plunged again into his researches. alone with his lamp and rustling papers, he fought through perplexities, now whispering, now silent, like a student rapt in some midnight fervor. "what ho! mustn't work this fashion!" heywood's voice woke him, sudden as a gust of sharp air. "makee finish!" the summons was both welcome and unwelcome; for as their chairs jostled homeward through the reeking twilight, rudolph felt the glow of work fade like the mockery of wine. the strange seizure returned,--exile, danger, incomprehensibility, settled down upon him, cold and steady as the rain. tea, at heywood's house, was followed by tobacco, tobacco by sherry, and this by a dinner from yesterday's game-bag. the two men said little, sitting dejected, as if by agreement. but when heywood rose, he changed into gayety as a man slips on a jacket. "now, then, for the masked ball! i mean, we can't carry these long faces to the club, can we? ladies' night--what larks!" he caught up his cap, with a grimace. "the lord loveth a cheerful liar. come ahead!" on the way, he craned from his chair to shout, in the darkness:-"i say! if you can do a turn of any sort, let the women have it. all the fun they get. be an ass, like the rest of us. maskee how silly! mind you, it's all hands, these concerts!" no music, but the click of ivory and murmur of voices came down the stairway of the club. at first glance, as rudolph rose above the floor, the gloomy white loft seemed vacant as ever; at second glance, embarrassingly full of europeans. four strangers grounded their cues long enough to shake his hand. "mr. nesbit,--sturgeon--herr kempner--herr teppich,"--he bowed stiffly to each, ran the battery of their inspection, and found himself saluting three other persons at the end of the room, under a rosy, moon-bellied lantern. a gray matron, stout, and too tightly dressed for comfort, received him uneasily, a dark-eyed girl befriended him with a look and a quiet word, while a tall man, nodding a vigorous mop of silver hair, crushed his hand in a great bony fist. "mrs. earle," heywood was saying, "miss drake, and--how are you, padre?--dr. earle." "good-evening," boomed the giant, in a deep and musical bass. "we are very glad, very glad." his voice vibrated through the room, without effort. it struck one with singular force, like the shrewd, kind brightness of his eyes, light blue, and oddly benevolent, under brows hard as granite. "sit down, mr. hackh," he ordered genially, "and give us news of the other world! i mean," he laughed, "west of suez. smoking's allowed--here, try that!" he commanded them, as it were, to take their ease,--the women among cushions on a rattan couch, the men stretched in long chairs. he put questions, indolent, friendly questions, opening vistas of reply and recollection; so that rudolph, answering, felt the first return of homely comfort. a feeble return, however, and brief: in the pauses of talk, misgiving swarmed in his mind, like the leaping vermin of last night. the world into which he had been thrown still appeared disorderly, incomprehensible, and dangerous. the plague--it still recurred in his thoughts like a sombre motive; these friendly people were still strangers; and for a moment now and then their talk, their smiles, the click of billiards, the cool, commonplace behavior, seemed a foolhardy unconcern, as of men smoking in a powder magazine. "clearing a bit, outside," called nesbit. a little, wiry fellow, with cheerful cockney speech, he stood chalking his cue at a window. "i say, what's the matter one piecee picnic this week? pink pagoda, eh? mrs. gilly's back, you know." "no, is she?" wheezed the fat sturgeon, with something like enthusiasm. "now we'll brighten up! by jove, that's good news. that's worth hearing. eh, heywood?" "rather!" drawled rudolph's friend, with an alacrity that seemed half cynical, half enigmatic. a quick tread mounted the stairs, and into the room rose dr. chantel. he bowed gracefully to the padre's group, but halted beside the players. whatever he said, they forgot their game, and circled the table to listen. he spoke earnestly, his hands fluttering in nervous gestures. "something's up," grumbled heywood, "when the doctor forgets to pose." behind chantel, as he wheeled, heaved the gray bullet-head and sturdy shoulders of gilly. "alone?" called the padre. "why, where's the mem?" he came up with evident weariness, but replied cheerfully:-"she's very sorry, and sent chin-chins all round. but to-night--her journey, you know. she's resting.--i hope we've not delayed the concert?" "last man starts it!" heywood sprang up, flung open a battered piano, and dragged chantel to the stool. "come, gilly, your forfeit!" the elder man blushed, and coughed. "why, really," he stammered. "really, if you wish me to!" heywood slid back into his chair, grinning. "proud as an old peacock," he whispered to rudolph. "peacock's voice, too." dr. chantel struck a few jangling chords, and skipping adroitly over sick notes, ran a flourish. the billiard-players joined the circle, with absent, serious faces. the singer cleared his throat, took on a preternatural solemnity, and began. in a dismal, gruff voice, he proclaimed himself a miner, deep, deep down:-"and few, i trow, of my being know, and few that an atom care!" his hearers applauded this gloomy sentiment, till his cheeks flushed again with honest satisfaction. but in the full sweep of a brilliant interlude, chantel suddenly broke down. "i cannot," he declared sharply. as he turned on the squealing stool, they saw his face white and strangely wrought. "i had meant," he said, with painful precision, "to say nothing to-night, and act as--i cannot. judge you, what i feel." he got uncertainly to his feet, hesitating. "ladies, you will not be alarmed." the four players caught his eye, and nodded. "it is well that you know. there is no danger here, more than--i am since disinfected. monsieur jolivet, my compatriot--you see, you understand. yes, the plague." for a space, the distant hum of the streets invaded the room. then heywood's book of music slapped the floor like a pistol-shot. "you left him!" he bounced from his chair, raging. "you--pêng! where's my cap?" quick as he was, the dark-eyed girl stood blocking his way. "not you, mr. heywood," she said quietly. "i must go stay with him." they confronted each other, man and woman, as if for a combat of will. the outbreak of voices was cut short; the whole company stood, like homeric armies, watching two champions. chantel, however, broke the silence. "nobody must go." he eyed them all, gravely. "i left him, yes. he does not need any one. personne. very sudden. he went to the school sick this morning. swollen axillae--the poor fool, not to know!--et puis--enfin--he is dead." heywood pitched his cap on the green field of the billiard-cloth. "the poor pedagogue!" he said bitterly. "_he_ was going home." sudden, hot and cold, like the thrust of a knife, it struck rudolph that he had heard the voice of this first victim,--the peevish voice which cried so weakly for a little silence, at early daylight, that very morning. a little silence: and he had received the great. a gecko fell from the ceiling, with a tiny thump that made all start. he had struck the piano, and the strings answered with a faint, aeolian confusion. then, as they regarded one another silently, a rustle, a flurry, sounded on the stairs. a woman stumbled into the loft, sobbing, crying something inarticulate, as she ran blindly toward them, with white face and wild eyes. she halted abruptly, swayed as though to fall, and turned, rather by instinct than by vision, to the other women. "bertha!" protested gilly, with a helpless stare. "my dear!" "i couldn't stay!" she cried. "the amah told me. why did you ever let me come back? oh, do something--help me!" the face and the voice came to rudolph like another trouble across a dream. he knew them, with a pang. this trembling, miserable heap, flung into the arms of the dark-eyed girl, was mrs. forrester. "go on," said the girl, calmly. she had drawn the woman down beside her on the rattan couch, and clasping her like a child, nodded toward the piano. "go on, as if the doctor hadn't--hadn't stopped." heywood was first to obey. "come, chantel, chantez! here's your song." he took the stool in leap-frog fashion, and struck a droll simultaneous discord. "come on.-well, then, catch me on the chorus!" "pour qu' j' finisse mon service au tonkin je suis parti!" to a discreet set of verses, he rattled a bravado accompaniment. presently chantel moved to his side, and, with the same spirit, swung into the chorus. the tumbled white figure on the couch clung to her refuge, her bright hair shining below the girl's quiet, thoughtful face. she was shaken with convulsive regularity. in his riot of emotions, rudolph found an over-mastering shame. a picture returned,--the strait of malacca, this woman in the blue moonlight, a mistress of life, rejoicing, alluring,--who was now the single coward in the room. but was she? the question was quick and revolting. as quickly, a choice of sides was forced on him. he understood these people, recalled heywood's saying, and with that, some story of a regiment which lay waiting in the open, and sang while the bullets picked and chose. all together: as now these half-dozen men were roaring cheerfully:-"ma tonkikí, ma tonkikí, ma tonkinoise, yen a d'autr's qui m' font les doux yeux, mais c'est ell' que j'aim' le mieux!" the new recruit joined them, awkwardly. chapter iv the sword-pen "wutzler was missing last night," said heywood, lazily. he had finished breakfast, and lighted a short, fat, glossy pipe. "just occurred to me. we must have a look in on him. poor old wutz, he's getting worse and worse. chantel's right, i fancy: it's the native wife." he rose, with a short laugh. "queer. the rest never feel so,--nesbit, and sturgeon, and that lot. but then, they don't fall so low as to marry theirs." "by the way," he sneered, on the landing, "until this scare blows over, you'd better postpone any such establishment, if you intend--" "i do not," stammered rudolph. to his amazement, the other clapped him on the shoulder. "i say!" the sallow face and cynical gray eyes lighted, for the first time, with something like enthusiasm. next moment they had darkened again, but not before he had said gruffly, "you're not a bad little chap." morosely, as if ashamed of this outburst, he led the way through the bare, sunny compound, and when the gate had closed rattling behind them, stated their plans concisely and sourly. "no work to-day, not a stroke! we'll just make it a holiday, catchee good time.--what? no. rot! i won't work, and you can't. that's all there is about that. don't be an ass! come along. we'll go out first and see captain kneebone." and when rudolph, faithful to certain tradesmen snoring in bremen, would have protested mildly, he let fly a stinging retort, and did not regain his temper until they had passed the outskirts of the village. yet even the quarrel seemed part of some better understanding, some new, subtle bond between two lonely men. before them opened a broad field dotted with curious white disks, like bone buttons thrown on a green carpet. near at hand, coolies trotted and stooped, laying out more of these circular baskets, filled with tiny dough-balls. makers of rice-wine, said heywood; as he strode along explaining, he threw off his surly fit. the brilliant sunlight, the breeze stirring toward them from a background of drooping bamboos, the gabble of coolies, the faint aroma of the fermenting _no-me_ cakes, began, after all, to give a truant sense of holiday. almost gayly, the companions threaded a marshy path to the river, and bargained with a shrewd, plump woman who squatted in the bow of a sampan. she chaffered angrily, then laughed at some unknown saying of heywood's, and let them come aboard. summoned by voluble scolding, her husband appeared, and placidly labored at the creaking sweep. they slipped down a river of bronze, between the oozy banks; and the war-junks, the naked fisherman, the green-coated ruins of forts, drifted past like things in reverie, while the men lay smoking, basking in bright weather. they looked up into serene spaces, and forgot the umbra of pestilence. heywood, now lazy, now animated, exchanged barbaric words with the boat-woman. as their tones rose and fell, she laughed. long afterward, rudolph was to remember her, a wholesome, capable figure in faded blue, darting keen glances from her beady eyes, flashing her white teeth in a smile, or laughing till the green pendants of false jade trembled in her ears. "her name is mrs. wu," said heywood, between smoke-rings, "and she is a lady of humor. we are discussing the latest lawsuit, which she describes as suing a flea and winning the bite. her maiden name was the pretty lily. she is captain of this sampan, and fears that her husband does not rate a. b." where the river disembogued, the pretty lily, cursing and shrilling, pattering barefoot about her craft, set a matting sail and caught the breeze. over the copper surface of the roadstead, the sampan drew out handily. ahead, a black, disreputable little steamer lay anchored, her name--two enormous hieroglyphics painted amidships--staring a bilious yellow in the morning sun. under these, at last, the sampan came bumping, unperceived or neglected. overhead, a pair of white shoes protruded from the rail in a blue film of smoke. they twitched, as a dry cackle of laughter broke out. "kut sing, ahoy!" shouted heywood. "on deck! kneebone!" the shoes whipped inboard. outboard popped a ruddy little face, set in the green circle of a _topi_, and contorted with laughter. "listen to this, will ye!" cried the apparition, as though illustrating a point. leaning his white sleeves on the rail, cigar in one fist, tauchnitz volume in the other, he roared down over the side a passage of prose, from which his visitors caught only the words "ginger dick" and "peter russet," before mirth strangled him. "god bless a man," he cried, choking, "that can make a lonesome old beggar laugh, out here! eh, what? how he ever thinks up--but he's took to writing plays, they tell me. plays!" he scowled ferociously. "fat lot o' good they are, for skippers, and planters, and gory exiles! eh, what? be-george, i'll write him a chit! _i'll_ tell him! plays be damned; we want more stories!" red and savage, he hurled the book fluttering into the sea, then swore in consternation. "oh, i say!" he wailed. "fish her out! i've not finished her. my intention was, ye know, to fling the bloomin' cigar!" heywood, laughing, rescued the volume on a long bamboo. "just came out on the look-see, captain," he called up. "can't board you. plague ashore." "plague be 'anged!" scoffed the little captain. "that hole's no worse with plague than't is without. got two cases on board, myself--coolies. stowed 'em topside, under the boats.--come up here, ye castaway! come up, ye goatskin robinson crusoe, and get a white man's chow!" he received them on deck,--a red, peppery little officer, whose shaven cheeks and close gray hair gave him the look of a parson gone wrong, a hedge-priest run away to sea. two tall chinese boys scurried about with wicker chairs, with trays of bottles, ice, and cheroots, while he barked his orders, like a fox-terrier commanding a pair of solemn dock-rats. the white men soon lounged beside the wheel-house. "so you brought mrs. forrester," drawled heywood. rudolph, wondering if they saw him wince, listened with painful eagerness. but the captain disposed of that subject very simply. "_she's_ no good." he stared up at the grimy awning. "what i'm thinking is, will that there dacca babu at koprah slip me through his blessed quarantine for twenty-five dollars. what?" their talk drifted far away from rudolph, far from china itself, to touch a hundred ports and islands, cebu and sourabaya, tavoy and selangor. they talked of men and women, a death at zamboanga, a birth at chittagong, of obscure heroism or suicide, and fortunes made or lost; while the two boys, gentle, melancholy, gliding silent in bright blue robes, spread a white tablecloth, clamped it with shining brass, and laid the tiffin. then the talk flowed on, the feast made a tiny clatter of jollity in the slumbering noon, in the silence of an ocean and a continent. and when at last the visitors clambered down the iron side, they went victorious with spanish wine. "mind ye," shouted captain kneebone, from the rail, "that don't half exhaust the subjeck o' lott'ries! why, luck"--he shook both fists aloft, triumphantly, as if they had been full of money. "just ye wait. i've a tip from calcutta that--never mind. bar sells, when that fortch'n comes, my boy, the half's yours! home we go, remember that!" the sampan drew away. sweeping his arm violently, to threaten the coast of china and the whole range of his vision,-"you're the one man," he roared, "that makes all this mess--worth a cowrie!" heywood laughed, waved his helmet, and when at last he turned, sat looking downward with a queer smile. "illusions!" he chuckled. "what would a chap ever do without 'em? old kneebone there: his was always that--a fortune in a lottery, and then home! illusions! and he's no fool, either. good navigator. decent old beggar." he waved his helmet again, before stretching out to sleep. "do you know, i believe--he _would_ take me." the clinkered hills, quivering in the west, sank gradually into the heated blur above the plains. as gradually, the two men sank into dreams. furious, metallic cries from the pretty lily woke them, in the blue twilight. she had moored her sampan alongside a flight of stone steps, up which, vigorously, with a bamboo, she now prodded her husband. he contended, snarling, but mounted; and when heywood's silver fell jingling into her palm, lighted his lantern and scuffed along, a churlish guide. at the head of the slimy stairs, heywood rattled a ponderous gate in a wall, and shouted. some one came running, shot bolts, and swung the door inward. the lantern showed the tawny, grinning face of a servant, as they passed into a small garden, of dwarf orange trees pent in by a lofty, whitewashed wall. "these grounds are yours, hackh," said heywood. "your predecessor's boy; and there"--pointing to a lonely barrack that loomed white over the stunted grove--"there's your house. you draw the largest in the station. a portuguese nunnery, it was, built years ago. my boys are helping set it to rights; but if you don't mind, i'd like you to stay on at my beastly hut until this--this business takes a turn. plenty of time." he nodded at the fat little orange trees. "we may live to take our chow under those yet, of an evening. also a drink. eh?" the lantern skipped before them across the garden, through a penitential courtyard, and under a vaulted way to the main door and the road. with rudolph, the obscure garden and echoing house left a sense of magical ownership, sudden and fleeting, like riches in the arabian nights. the road, leaving on the right a low hill, or convex field, that heaved against the lower stars, now led the wanderers down a lane of hovels, among dim squares of smoky lamplight. wu, their lantern-bearer, had turned back, and they had begun to pass a few quiet, expectant shops, when a screaming voice, ahead, outraged the evening stillness. at the first words, heywood doubled his pace. "come along. here's a lark--or a tragedy." jostling through a malodorous crowd that blockaded the quarrel, they gained the threshold of a lighted shop. against a rank of orderly shelves, a fat merchant stood at bay, silent, quick-eyed, apprehensive. before him, like an actor in a mad scene, a sobbing ruffian, naked to the waist, convulsed with passion, brandished wild fists and ranted with incredible sounds. when breath failed, he staggered, gasping, and swept his audience with the glazed, unmeaning stare of drink or lunacy. the merchant spoke up, timid and deprecating. as though the words were vitriol, the other started, whirled face to face, and was seized with a new raving. something protruded at his waistband, like a rudimentary, darwinian stump. to this, all at once, his hand flung back. with a wrench and a glitter, he flourished a blade above his head. heywood sprang to intervene, in the same instant that the disturber of trade swept his arm down in frenzy. against his own body, hilt and fist thumped home, with the sound as of a football lightly punted. he turned, with a freezing look of surprise, plucked at the haft, made one step calmly and tentatively toward the door, stumbled, and lay retching and coughing. the fat shop-keeper wailed like a man beside himself. he gabbled, imploring heywood. the young man nodded. "yes, yes," he repeated irritably, staring down at the body, but listening to the stream of words. murmurs had risen, among the goblin faces blinking in the doorway. behind them, a sudden voice called out two words which were caught up and echoed harshly in the street. heywood whipped about. "never called me that before," he said quickly. "come outside." he flung back a hurried sentence to the merchant, caught rudolph's arm, and plunged into the crowd. the yellow men gave passage mechanically, but with lowering faces. once free in the muddy path, he halted quickly, and looked about. "might have known," he grumbled. "never called me 'foreign dog' before, or 'jesus man,' he set 'em on." rudolph followed his look. in the dim light, at the outskirts of the rabble, a man was turning away, with an air of contempt or unconcern. the long, pale, oval face, the hard eyes gleaming with thought, had vanished at a glance. a tall, slight figure, stooping in his long robe, he glided into the darkness. for all his haste, the gait was not the gait of a coolie. "that," said heywood, turning into their former path, "that was fang, the sword-pen, so-called. very clever chap. of the two most dangerous men in the district, he's one." they had swung along briskly for several minutes, before he added: "the other most dangerous man--you've met him already. if i'm not mistaken, he's no less a person than the reverend james earle." "what!" exclaimed rudolph, in dull bewilderment. "yes," grunted his friend. "the padre. we must find him to-night, and report." he strode forward, with no more comment. at his side, rudolph moved as a soldier, carried onward by pressure and automatic rhythm, moves in the apathy of a forced march. the day had been so real, so wholesome, full of careless talk and of sunlight. and now this senseless picture blotted all else, and remained,--each outline sharper in memory, the smoky lamp brighter, the blow of the hilt louder, the smell of peanut oil more pungent. the episode, to him, was a disconnected, unnecessary fragment, one bloody strand in the whole terrifying snarl. but his companion stalked on in silence, like a man who saw a pattern in the web of things, and was not pleased. chapter v in town night, in that maze of alleys, was but a more sinister day. the same slant-eyed men, in broken files, went scuffing over filthy stone, like wanderers lost in a tunnel. the same inexplicable noises endured, the same smells. under lamps, the shaven foreheads still bent toward microscopic labor. the curtained window of a fantan shop still glowed in orange translucency, and from behind it came the murmur and the endless chinking of cash, where fortune, a bedraggled, trade-fallen goddess, split hairs with coolies for poverty or zero. nothing was altered in these teeming galleries, except that turbid daylight had imperceptibly given place to this other dimness, in which lanterns swung like tethered fire-balloons. life went on, mysteriously, without change or sleep. while the two white men shouldered their way along, a strange chorus broke out, as though from among the crowded carcasses in a butcher's stall. shrill voices rose in unearthly discord, but the rhythm was not of asia. "there goes the hymn!" scoffed heywood. he halted where, between the butcher's and a book-shop, the song poured loud through an open doorway. nodding at a placard, he added: "here we are: 'jesus religion chapel.' hear 'em yanging! 'there is a gate that stands ajar.' that being the case, in you go!" entering a long, narrow room, lighted from sconces at either side, they sat down together, like schoolmates, on a low form near the door. from a dais across at the further end, the vigorous white head of dr. earle dominated the company,--a strange company, of lounging chinamen who sucked at enormous bamboo pipes, or squinted aimlessly at the vertical inscriptions on the walls, or wriggling about, stared at the late-comers, nudged their neighbors, and pointed, with guttural exclamations. the song had ended, and the padre was lifting up his giant's voice. to rudolph, the words had been mere sound and fury, but for a compelling honesty that needed no translation. this man was not preaching to heathen, but talking to men. his eyes had the look of one who speaks earnestly of matters close at hand, direct, and simple. along the forms, another and another man forgot to plait his queue, or squirm, or suck laboriously at his pipe. they listened, stupid or intent. when some waif from the outer labyrinth scuffed in, affable, impudent, hailing his friends across the room, he made but a ripple of unrest, and sank gaping among the others like a fish in a pool. even heywood sat listening--with more attention than respect, for once he muttered, "rot!" toward the close, however, he leaned across and whispered, "the old boy reels it off rather well to-night. different to what one imagined." rudolph, for his part, sat watching and listening, surprised by a new and curious thought. a band of huddled converts sang once more, in squealing discords, with an air of sad, compulsory, and diabolic sarcasm. a few "inquirers" slouched forward, and surrounding the tall preacher, questioned him concerning the new faith. the last, a broad, misshapen fellow with hanging jowls, was answered sharply. he stood arguing, received another snub, and went out bawling and threatening, with the contorted face and clumsy flourishes of some fabulous hero on a screen. the missionary approached smiling, but like a man who has finished the day's work. "that fellow--good-evening: and welcome to our street chapel, mr. hackh--that fellow," he glanced after the retreating figure, "he's a lesson in perseverance, gentlemen. a merchant, well-to-do: he has a lawsuit coming on--notorious--and tries to join us for protection. cheaper to buy a little belief, you know, than to pay yamên fines. every night he turns up, grinning and bland. i tell him it won't do, and out he goes, snorting like a dragon." rudolph's impulse came to a head. "dr. earle," he stammered, "i owe you a gratitude. you spoke to these people so--as--i do not know. but i listened, i felt--before always are they devils, images! and after i hear you, they are as men." the other shook his great head like a silver mane, and laughed. "my dear young man," he replied, "they're remarkably like you and me." after a pause, he added soberly:-"images? yes, you're right, sir. so was adam. the same clay, the same image." his deep voice altered, his eyes lighted shrewdly, as he turned to heywood. "this is an unexpected pleasure." "quite," said the young man, readily. "if you don't mind, padre, you made number one talk. fast bowling, and no wides. but we really came for something else." in a few brief sentences, he pictured the death in the shop.--so, like winking! the beggar gave himself the iron, fell down, and made finish. now what i pieced out, from his own bukhing, and the merchant's, was this:-"the dead man was one aú-yöng, a cormorant-fisher. some of his best birds died, he had a long run of bad luck, and came near starving. so he contrived, rather cleverly, to steal about a hundred catties of fuh-kien hemp. the owner, this merchant, went to the elders of aú-yöng's neighborhood, who found and restored the hemp, nearly all. merchant lets the matter drop. but the neighbors kept after this cormorant fellow, worked one beastly squeeze or another, ingenious baiting, devilish--rot! you know their neighborhoods better than i! well, they pushed him down-hill--poor devil, showing that's always possible, no bottom! he brooded, and all that, till he thought the merchant and the jesus religion were the cause of all. so bang he goes down the pole,--gloriously drunk,--marches into his enemy's shop, and uses that knife. the joke is now on the merchant, eh?" "just a moment," begged the padre. "one thread i don't follow--the religion. who was christian? the merchant?" "well, rather! thought i told you," said heywood. "one of yours--big, mild chap--chok chung." the elder man sat musing. "yes," the deep bass rumbled in the empty chapel, "he's one of us. extremely honest. i'm--i'm very sorry. there may be trouble." "must be, sir," prompted the younger. "the mob, meanwhile, just stood there, dumb,--mutes and audience, you know. all at once, the hindmost began squalling 'foreign dog,' 'goat man.' we stepped outside, and there, passing, if you like, was that gentle bookworm, mr. fang." "fang?" echoed the padre, as in doubt. "i've heard the name." "heard? why, doctor," cried heywood, "that long, pale chap,--lives over toward the dragon spring. confucian, very strict; keen reader; might be a mandarin, but prefers the country gentleman sort; bally mischief-maker, he's done more people in the eye than all the yamên hacks and all their false witnesses together! hence his nickname--the sword-pen." dr. earle sharpened his heavy brows, and studied the floor. "fang, the sword-pen," he growled; "yes, there will be trouble. he hates us. given this chance--humph! saul of tarsus.--we're not the roman church," he added, with his first trace of irritation. "always occurring, this thing." once more he meditated; then heaved his big shoulders to let slip the whole burden. "one day at a time," he laughed. "thank you for telling us.--you see, mr. hackh, they're not devils. the only fault is, they're just human beings. you don't speak the language? i'll send you my old teacher." they talked of things indifferent; and when the young men were stumbling along the streets, he called after them a resounding "good-night! thanks!"--and stood a resolute, gigantic silhouette, filling, as a right doone filled their doorframe, the entrance to his deserted chapel. at his gate, felt rudolph, they had unloaded some weight of responsibility. he had not only accepted it, but lightened them further, girt them, by a word and a look. somehow, for the first time since landing, rudolph perceived that through this difficult, troubled, ignorant present, a man might burrow toward a future gleam. the feeling was but momentary. as for heywood, he still marched on grimly, threading the stuffed corridors like a man with a purpose. "no dinner!" he snapped. "catchee bymby, though. we must see wutzler first. to lose sight of any man for twenty-four hours, nowadays,--well, it's not hardly fair. is it?" they turned down a black lane, carpeted with dry rubbish. at long intervals, a lantern guttering above a door showed them a hand's-breadth of the dirty path, a litter of broken withes and basket-weavers' refuse, between the mouldy wall of the town and a row of huts, no less black and silent. in this greasy rift the air lay thick, as though smeared into a groove. suddenly, among the hovels, they groped along a checkered surface of brick-work. the flare of heywood's match revealed a heavy wooden door, which he hammered with his fist. after a time, a disgruntled voice within snarled something in the vernacular. heywood laughed. "ai-yah! who's afraid? wutzler, you old pirate, open up!" a bar clattered down, the door swung back, and there, raising a glow-worm lantern of oiled paper, stood such a timorous little figure as might have ventured out from a masquerade of gnomes. the wrinkled face was wutzler's, but his weazened body was lost in the glossy black folds of a native jacket, and below the patched trousers, his bare ankles and coolie-sandals of straw moved uneasily, as though trying to hide behind each other. "kom in," said this hybrid, with a nervous cackle. "i thought you are thiefs. kom in." following through a toy courtyard, among shadow hints of pigmy shrubs and rockery, they found themselves cramped in a bare, clean cell, lighted by a european lamp, but smelling of soy and asiatics. stiff black-wood chairs lined the walls. a distorted landscape on rice-paper, narrow scarlet panels inscribed with black cursive characters, pith flowers from amoy, made blots of brightness. "it iss not moch, gentlemen," sighed wutzler, cringing. "but i am ver' glad." heywood flung himself into a chair. "not dead yet, you rascal?" he cried. "and we came all the way to see you. no chow, either." "oh, allow me," mumbled their host, in a flutter. "my--she--i will speak, i go bring you." he shuffled away, into some further chamber. heywood leaned forward quickly. "eat it," he whispered, "whether you can or not! pleases the old one, no bounds. we're his only visitors--" "here iss not moch whiskey." wutzler came shambling in, held a bottle against the light, and squinted ruefully at the yellow dregs. "i will gif you a _kong_ full, but i haf not." he dodged out again. they heard his angry whispers, and a small commotion of the household,--brazen dishes clinking, squeals, titters, and tiny bare feet skipping about,--all the flurry of a rabbit-hutch in wonderland. once, near the threshold, a chubby face, very pale, with round eyes of shining jet, peered cautious as a mouse, and popped out of sight with a squeak. wutzler, red with excitement, came and went like an anxious waiter, bringing in the feast. "here iss not moch," he repeated sadly. but there were bits of pig-skin stewed in oil; bean-cakes; steaming buns of wheat-flour, stuffed with dice of fat pork and lumps of sugar; three-cornered rice puddings, _no-me_ boiled in plantain-leaf wrappers; with the last of the whiskey, in green cups. while the two men ate, the shriveled outcast beamed timidly, hovering about them, fidgeting. "herr hackh," he suddenly exclaimed, in a queer, strained voice, "you do not know how dis yong man iss goot! no! he hass to me--_immer_--" he choked, turned away, and began fussing with the pith flowers; but not before rudolph had seen a line glistening down the sun-dried cheeks. "stuff! cadging for chow, does one acquire merit?" retorted heywood, over his shoulder. "you talk like a bonze, wutz." he winked. "i'd rather hear the sing-song box." "_ach so_, i forget!" still whimpering, wutzler dragged something from a corner, squatted, and jerked at a crank, with a noise of ratchets. "she blay not so moch now," he snuffled. "captain kneepone he has gifen her, when she iss all op inside for him. i haf rebaired, but she blay only one song yet. a man does not know, herr hackh, what he may be. once i haf piano, and viola my own, yes, and now haf i diss small, laffing, sick teufel!" he rose, and faced heywood with a trembling, passionate gesture. "but diss yong man, he stand by der oldt fellow!" the streaming eyes blinked absurdly. behind him, with a whirring sound, a metallic voice assailed them in a gabble of words, at first husky and broken, then clear, nasal, a voice from neither europe nor asia, but america:-"then did i laff? ooh, aha-ha ha ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! i could not help but laffing, ooh, aha-ha ..." from a throat of tin, it mocked them insanely with squealing, black-hearted guffaws. heywood sat smoking, with the countenance of a stoic; but when the laughter in the box was silent, he started abruptly. "we're off, old chap," he announced. "bedtime. just came to see you were all up-standing. tough as ever? good! don't let--er--anything carry you off." at the gate, wutzler held aloft his glow-worm lantern. "dose fellows catch me?" he mumbled, "der plagues--dey will forget me. all zo many shoots, _kugel_, der bullet,--'_gilt's mir, oder gilt es dir?_' men are dead in der silk-weafer street. dey haf hong up nets, and dorns, to keep out der plague's-goblins off deir house. listen, now, dey beat gongs!--but we are white men. you--you tell me zo, to-night!" he blubbered something incoherent, but as the gate slammed they heard the name of god, in a broken benediction. they had groped out of the cleft, and into a main corridor, before heywood paused. "that devil in the box!" he shook himself like a spaniel. "queer it should get into me so. but i hate being laughed at by--anybody." a confused thunder of gongs, the clash of cymbals smothered in the distance, maintained a throbbing uproar, pierced now and then by savage yells, prolonged and melancholy. as the two wanderers listened,-"where's the comfort," said heywood, gloomily, "of knowing somebody's worse off?--no, i wasn't thinking of wutzler, then. talk of germs! why, over there, it's goblins they're scaring away. think, behind their nets and thorns, what wretches--women, too, and kids--may be crouched down, quaking, sick with terror. humph!--i don't mind saying"--for a moment his hand lay on rudolph's shoulder--"that i loathe giving this muck-hole the satisfaction--i'd hate to go out here, that's all." chapter vi the pagoda he was spared that inconvenience. the untimely rain and cold, some persons said, the few days of untimely heat following, had drowned or dried, frozen or burnt out, the seeds of peril. but accounts varied, reasons were plentiful. soldiers had come down from the chow city, two-score _li_ inland, and charging through the streets, hacking and slashing the infested air, had driven the goblins over the walls, with a great shout of victory. a priest had freighted a kite with all the evil, then cut it adrift in the sky. a mob had dethroned the god of sickness, and banished his effigy in a paper junk, launched on the river at night, in flame. a geomancer proclaimed that a bamboo grove behind the town formed an angle most correct, germane, and pleasant to the azure dragon and the white tiger, whose occult currents, male and female, run throughout nature. for any or all of these reasons, the town was delivered. the pestilence vanished, as though it had come but to grant monsieur jolivet his silence, and to add a few score uncounted living wretches to the dark, mighty, imponderable host of ancestors. the relief, after dragging days of uncertainty, came to rudolph like a sea-breeze to a stoker. to escape and survive,--the bare experience seemed to him at first an act of merit, the deed of a veteran. the interim had been packed with incongruity. there had been a dinner with kempner, solemn, full of patriotism and philosophy; a drunken dinner at teppich's; another, and a worse, at nesbit's; and the banquet of a native merchant, which began at four o'clock on melon-seeds, tea, black yearling eggs, and a hot towel, and ended at three in the morning on rice-brandy and betel served by unreal women with chalked faces and vermilion-spotted lips, simpering and melancholy. by day, there was work, or now and then a lesson with dr. earle's teacher, a little aged chinaman of intricate, refined, and plaintive courtesy. under his guidance rudolph learned rapidly, taking to study as a prodigal might take to drink. and with increasing knowledge came increasing tranquillity; as when he found that the hideous cry, startling him at every dawn, was the signal not for massacre, but buffalo-milk. then, too, came the mild excitement of moving into his own house, the portuguese nunnery. through its desolate, lime-coated spaces, his meagre belongings were scattered all too easily; but the new servants, their words and ways, not only kept his hands full, but gave strange food for thought. the silent evenings, timed by the plash of a frog in a pool, a cry from the river, or the sing-song of a "boy" improvising some endless ballad below-stairs; drowsy noons above the little courtyard, bare and peaceful as a jail; homesick moments at the window, when beyond the stunted orangery, at sunset, the river was struck amazingly from bronze to indigo, or at dawn flashed from pearl-gray to flowing brass;--all these, and nights between sleep and waking, when fancy peopled the echoing chambers with the visionary lives, now ended, of meek, brown sisters from goa or macao, gave to rudolph intimations, vague, profound, and gravely happy, as of some former existence almost recaptured. once more he felt himself a householder in the arabian tales. and yet, when his life was growing all but placid, across it shot some tremor of disquieting knowledge. one evening, after a busy day among his piece-goods, he had walked afield with heywood, and back by an aimless circuit through the twilight. his companion had been taciturn, of late; and they halted, without speaking, where a wide pool gleamed toward a black, fantastic belt of knotted willows and sharp-curving roofs. through these broke the shadow of a small pagoda, jagged as a war-club of shark's teeth. vesper cymbals clashed faintly in a temple, and from its open door the first plummet of lamplight began to fathom the dark margin. a short bridge curved high, like a camel's hump, over the glimmering half-circle of a single arch. close by, under a drooping foreground of branches, a stake upheld an oblong placard of neat symbols, like a cartouche to explain a painting. "it is very beautiful," ventured rudolph, twisting up his blond moustache with satisfaction. "very sightly. i would say--picturesque, no?" "very," said heywood, absently. "willow pattern." "and the placard, so finishing, so artistic--that says?" "eh, what? oh, i wasn't listening." heywood glanced carelessly at the upright sentence. that's a notice:-"'girls may not be drowned in this pond.'" he started on, without comment. without reply, rudolph followed, gathering as he walked the force of this tremendous hint. slow, far-reaching, it poisoned the elegiac beauty of the scene, alienated the night, and gave to the fading country-side a yet more ancient look, sombre and implacable. he was still pondering this, when across their winding foot-path, with a quick thud of hoofs, swept a pair of equestrian silhouettes. it was half glimpse, half conjecture,--the tough little ponies trotting stubbornly, a rider who leaned across laughing, and a woman who gayly cried at him: "you really do understand me, don't you?" the two jogging shadows melted in the bamboo tracery, like things blown down the wind. but for years rudolph had known the words, the laugh, the beguiling cadence, and could have told what poise of the head went with them, what dangerous glancing light. suddenly, without reason, he felt a gust of rage. it was he that understood. it was to him these things belonged. the memory of her weakness was lost in the shining memory of her power. he should be riding there, in the dusk of this lonely and cruel land. heywood had thrown after them a single gloomy stare, down the pointed aisle of bamboos. "well matched!" he growled. "chantel--he bounds in the saddle, and he bounds afoot!" rudolph knew that he had hated chantel at sight. he could not bring himself, next day, to join their party for tiffin at the flowery pagoda. but in the midst of his brooding, teppich and the fat sturgeon assailed the nunnery gate with pot-valiant blows and shouts. they had brought chairs, to carry him off; and being in no mood to fail, though panting and struggling, they packed him into a palanquin with many bottles of the best wine known to fliegelman and sons. by a short cut through the streets--where checkered sunshine, through the lattice roof, gave a muddy, subdued light as in a roiled aquarium--the revelers passed the inland wall. here, in the shade, grooms awaited them with ponies; and scrambling into saddle, they trotted off through gaps in the bamboos, across a softly rolling country. tortuous foot-paths of vivid pink wound over brilliant green terraces of young paddy. the pink crescents of new graves scarred the hillsides, already scalloped and crinkled with shelving abodes of the venerable dead. great hats of farmers stooping in the fields, gleamed in the sun like shields of brass. over knolls and through hollows the little cavalcade jogged steadily, till, mounting a gentle eminence, they wound through a grove of camphor and flame-of-the-forest. above the branches rose the faded lilac shaft of an ancient pagoda, ruinously adorned with young trees and wild shrubs clinging in the cornices. at the foot of this aged fantasy in stone, people were laughing. the three riders broke cover in time to see mrs. forrester, flushed and radiant, end some narrative with a droll pantomime. she stood laughing, the life and centre of a delighted group. "and gilbert forrester," she cried, turning archly on her husband, "said that wasn't funny!" gilly tugged his gray moustache, in high good-nature. chantel, nesbit, and kempner laughed uproariously, the padre and the dark-eyed miss drake quietly, heywood more quietly, while even stout, uneasy mrs. earle smiled as in duty bound. a squad of chinese boys, busy with tiffin-baskets, found time to grin. to this lively actress in the white gown they formed a sylvan audience under the gnarled boughs and the pagoda. "too late!" called the white-haired giant, indulgently, to the dismounting trio. "mr. hackh, you should have come spurring." rudolph advanced, pale, but with a calmness of which, afterward, he was justly proud. the heroine of the moment turned toward him quickly, with a look more natural, more sincere, than she had ever given him. "is this mr. hackh?" she said graciously. "i've heard so much about you!" the young man himself was almost deceived. was there a german mail-boat? was there a club, from which he had stolen out while she wept, ignominiously, in that girl's arms? and then of a sudden he perceived, with a fatuous pleasure, how well she knew him, to know that he had never spoken. his english, as he drew up a stool beside miss drake, was wild and ragged; but he found her an astonishing refuge. for the first time, he recalled that this quiet girl had been beautiful, the other night; and though now by day that beauty was rather of line than of color, he could not understand how it had been overlooked. tiffin, meanwhile, sped by like an orgy. he remembered asking so many questions, about the mission hospital and her school for orphans, that the girl began at last to answer with constraint, and with puzzled, sidelong scrutiny. he remembered how even the tolerant heywood shot a questioning glance toward his wine-glass. he remembered telling a brilliant story, and reciting "old captain mau in vegesack,"--rhymes long forgotten, now fluent and spontaneous. the applause was a triumph. through it, as through a haze, he saw a pair of wide blue eyes shining with startled admiration. but the best came when the sun had lowered behind the grove, the company grown more silent, and mrs. forrester, leaning beside the door of the tower, turned the great pegs of a chinese lute. the notes tinkled like a mandolin, but with now and then an alien wail, a lament unknown to the west. "sing for us," begged the dark-eyed girl; "a native song." the other smiled, and bending forward as if to recollect, began in a low voice, somewhat veiled, but musical and full of meaning. "the jasmine flower," first; then, "my love is gathering dolichos"; and then she sang the long ballad of the rice,--of the husband and wife planting side by side, the springing of the green blades, the harvest by millions upon millions of sheaves, the wealth of the state, more fragrant to ancestors than offerings of spice:-"...o labor and love and hallowed land! think you these things are but still to come? think you they are but near at hand, only now and here?--behold. they were the same in years of old!" in her plaintive interlude, the slant-eyed servants watched her, nodding and muttering under the camphor trees. "and here's a song of exile," she said. "i render it very badly."--rudolph had never seen her face like this, bending intently above the lute. it was as though in the music she found and disclosed herself, without guile. "...blue was the sky, and blue the rice-pool water lay holding the sky; blue was the robe she wore that day. alas, my sorrow! why must life bear all away, away, away, ah, my beloved, why?" a murmur of praise went round the group, as she put aside the instrument. "the sun's getting low," she said lightly, "and i _must_ see that view from the top." chantel was rising, but sat down again with a scowl, as she turned to rudolph. "you've never seen it, mr. hackh? do come help me up." inside, with echoing steps, they mounted in a squalid well, obscurely lighted from the upper windows, toward which decaying stairs rose in a dangerous spiral, without guard-rail. a misstep being no trifle, rudolph offered his hand for the mere safety; but she took it with a curious little laugh. they climbed cautiously. once, at a halt, she stood very close, with eyes shining large in the dusk. her slight body trembled, her head shook with stifled merriment, like a girl overcome by mischief. "what a queer little world!" she whispered. "you and i here!--i never dreamed you could be funny. it made me so proud of you, down there!" he muttered something vague; and--the stairs ending in ruin at the fourth story--handed her carefully through the window to a small outer balustrade. as they stood together at the rail, he knew not whether to be angry, suspicious, or glad. "i love this prospect," she began quietly. "that's why i wanted you to come." beyond the camphors, a wide, strange landscape glowed in the full, low-streaming light. the ocean lay a sapphire band in the east; in the west, on a long ridge, undulated the gray battlements of a city, the antique walls, warmed and glorified, breasting the flood of sunset. all between lay vernal fields and hillocks, maidenhair sprays of bamboo, and a wandering pattern of pink foot-paths. slowly along one of these, a bright-gowned merchant rode a white pony, his bells tinkling in the stillness of sea and land. everywhere, like other bells more tiny and shrill, sounded the trilling of frogs. as the two on the pagoda stood listening,-"it was before rome," she declared thoughtfully. "before egypt, and has never changed. you and i are just--" she broke off, humming:-"only here and now? behold they were the same in years of old!" her mood colored the scene: the aged continuity of life oppressed him. yet he chose rather to watch the straggling battlements, far off, than to meet her eyes or see her hair gleaming in the sun. through many troubled days he had forgotten her, despised her, bound his heart in triple brass against a future in her hateful neighborhood; and now, beside her at this time-worn rail, he was in danger of being happy. it was inglorious. he tried to frown. "you poor boy." suddenly, with an impulse that must have been generous, she rested her hand on his arm. "i was sorry. i thought of you so often." at these close quarters, her tremulous voice and searching upward glance meant that she alone understood all his troubles. he started, turned for some rush of overwhelming speech, when a head popped through the window behind them. "boot and saddle, mrs. forrester," announced heywood. his lean young face was very droll and knowing. "we're leaving, bottom-side." "thank you so much, maurice," she answered, perhaps dryly. "you're a dear, to climb all those dreadful stairs." "oh!" said heywood, with his gray eyes fastened on rudolph, "no trouble." all three went down the dark well together. when the company were mounted, and trooping downhill through the camphor shadow, heywood's pony came sidling against rudolph's, till legging chafed legging. "you blossomed, old boy," he whispered. "quite the star, after your comedy turn." he reined aside, grinning. "what price sympathy on a pagoda?" for that moment, rudolph could have struck down the one sure friend he had in china. chapter vii iphigenia "don't chop off a hen's head with a battle-axe." heywood, still with a malicious, friendly quirk at the corners of his mouth, held in his fretful pony. rudolph stood bending a whip viciously. they two had fetched a compass about the town, and now in the twilight were parting before the nunnery gate. "a tiff's the last thing i'd want with you. the lady, in confidence, is not worth--" "i do not wish," declared rudolph, trembling,--"i do not wish you to say those things, so!" "right!" laughed the other, and his pony wheeled at the word. "i'll give you one month--no: you're such a good, thorough little chap, it will take longer--two months, to change your mind. only"--he looked down at rudolph with a comic, elderly air--"let me observe, our yellow people have that rather neat proverb. a hen's head, dear chap,--not with a battle-axe! no. hot weather's coming, too. no sorrows of werther, now, over such"--he laughed again. "don't scowl, i'll be good. i won't say it. you'll supply the word, in two months!" he let the pony have his way, and was off in a clatter. lonely, fuming with resentment, rudolph stared after him. what could he know, this airy, unfeeling meddler, so free with his advice and innuendo? let him go, then, let him canter away. he had seen quickly, guessed with a diabolic shrewdness, yet would remain on the surface, always, of a mystery so violent and so profound. the young man stalked into his vacant nunnery in a rage, a dismal pomp of emotion: reason telling him that a friend had spoken sense, imagination clothing him in the sceptred pall of tragedy. yet one of these unwelcome words had stuck: he was werther, it was true--a man who came too late. another word was soon fulfilled; for the hot weather came, sudden, tropical, ferocious. without gradation, the vernal days and languid noons were gone in a twinkling. the change came like another act of a play. one morning--though the dawn stirred cool and fragrant as all dawns before--the "boy" laid out rudolph's white tunic, slipped in the shining buttons, smeared pipe-clay on his heaviest helmet; and rudolph, looking from his window, saw that on the river, by the same instinct, boatmen were stretching up their bamboo awnings. breakfast was hardly ended, before river, and convex field, and huddling red tiles of the town, lay under a blurred, quivering distortion. the day flamed. at night, against a glow of fiery umber, the western hills broke sharp and thin as sheet-iron, while below them rose in flooding mirage a bright strip of magical water. thus, in these days, he rode for his exercise while the sun still lay behind the ocean; and thus her lively, pointed face and wide blue eyes, wondering or downcast or merry, were mingled in his thoughts with the first rousing of the world, the beat of hoofs in cool silences, the wide lights of creation over an aged, weary, alien empire. their ponies whinnying like old friends, they met, by chance or appointment, before the power of sleep had lifted from eyes still new and strange against the morning. sometimes chantel the handsome rode glowering beside them, sometimes gilly, erect and solid in the saddle, laid upon their talk all the weight of his honest, tired commonplaces. but one morning she cantered up alone, laughing at her escape. his pony bolted, and they raced along together as comrades happily join forces in a headlong dream. quivering bamboo swept behind them; the river, on their other hand, met and passed in hurrying panorama. they had no time for words, but only laughter. words, indeed, had never yet advanced them beyond that moment on the pagoda. and now, when their ponies fell into a shambling trot, came the first impulse of speech. "how lucky!" she cried. "how lucky we came this way! now i can really test you!" he turned. her glowing face was now averted, her gesture was not for him, but for the scene. he studied that, to understand her. the river, up which they had fled, now rested broad and quiet as a shallow lake, burnished faintly, brooded over by a floating, increasing light, not yet compounded into day. tussocks, innumerable clods and crumbs of vivid green, speckled all the nearer water. on some of these storks meditated,--sage, pondering heads and urbane bodies perched high on the frailest penciling of legs. in the whole expanse, no movement came but when a distant bird, leaving his philosophic pose, plunged downward after a fish. beyond them rose a shapeless mound or isle, like some half-organic monster grounded in his native ooze. "there!" said the woman, pointing. "are you all excuses, like the others? or do you dare?" "i am not afraid of anything--now," retorted rudolph, and with truth, after the dash of their twilight encounter. "dare what?" "go see what's on that island," she answered. "i dared them all. twice i've seen natives land there and hurry away. mr. nesbit was too lazy to try; dr. chantel wearing his best clothes. maurice heywood refused to mire his horse for a whim. whim? it's a mystery! come, now. do you dare?" in a rare flush of pride, rudolph wheeled his stubborn mount and bullied him down the bank. a poor horseman, he would have outstripped curtius to the gulf. but no sooner had his dancing pony consented to make the first rebellious, sidelong plunge, than he had small joy of his boast. fore-legs sank floundering, were hoisted with a terrified wrench of the shoulders, in the same moment that hind-legs went down as by suction. the pony squirmed, heaved, wrestled in a frenzy, and churning the red water about his master's thighs, went deeper and fared worse. with a clangor of wings, the storks rose, a streaming rout against the sky, trailed their tilted legs, filed away in straggling flight, like figures interlacing on a panel. at the height of his distress, rudolph caught a whirling glimpse of the woman above him, safe on firm earth, easy in her saddle, and laughing. quicksand, then, was a joke,--but he could not pause for this added bewilderment. the pony, using a skill born of agony, had found somewhere a solid verge and scrambled up, knee-deep, well out from the bank. with a splash, rudolph stood beside him among the tufts of salad green. as he patted the trembling flanks, he heard a cry from the shore. "oh, well done!" she mocked them. "well done!" a gust of wholesome anger refreshed him. she might laugh, but now he would see this folly through. he tore off his coat, flung it across the saddle, waded out alone through the tussocks, and shooting forward full length in the turbid water, swam resolutely for the island. sky and water brightened while he swam; and as he rose, wrapped in the leaden weight of dripping clothes, the sun, before and above him, touched wonderfully the quaggy bank and parched grasses. he lurched ashore, his feet caked with enormous clods as of melting chocolate. a filthy scramble left him smeared and disheveled on the summit. he had come for nothing. the mound lay vacant, a tangled patch, a fragment of wilderness. yet as he stood panting, there rose a puny, miserable sound. what presence could lurk there? the distress, it might be, of some small animal--a rabbit dying in a forgotten trap. faint as illusion, a wail, a thin-spun thread of sorrow, broke into lonely whimpering, and ceased. he moved forward, doubtfully, and of a sudden, in the scrubby level of the isle, stumbled on the rim of a shallow circular depression. at first, he could not believe the discovery; but next instant--as at the temple pond, though now without need of placard or interpreter--he understood. this bowl, a tiny crater among the weeds, showed like some paltry valley of ezekiel, a charnel place of herod's innocents, the battlefield of some babes' crusade. a chill struck him, not from the water or the early mists. in stupor, he viewed that savage fact. through the stillness of death sounded again the note of living discontent. he was aware also of some stir, even before he spied, under a withered clump, the saffron body of an infant girl, feebly squirming. by a loathsome irony, there lay beside her an earthen bowl of rice, as an earnest or symbol of regret. blind pity urged him into the atrocious hollow. seeing no further than the present rescue, he caught up the small unclean sufferer, who moaned the louder as he carried her down the bank, and waded out through the sludge. to hold the squalling mouth above water, and swim, was no simple feat; yet at last he came floundering among the tussocks, wrapped the naked body in his jacket, and with infinite pains tugged his terrified pony along a tortuous bar to the land. once in the river-path, he stood gloomily, and let mrs. forrester canter up to join him. indeed, he had almost forgotten her. "splendid!" she laughed. "what a figure of fun! but what can you have brought back? oh, please! i can't wait!" he turned on her a muddy, haggard face, without enthusiasm, and gently unfolded the coat. the man and the woman looked down together, in silence, at the child. he had some foolish hope that she would take it, that his part was ended. like an outlandish doll, with face contorted and thick-lidded eyes shut tightly against the sunshine, the outcast whimpered, too near the point of death for even the rebellion of arms and legs. the woman in the saddle gave a short, incredulous cry. her face, all gay curiosity, had darkened in a shock of disgust. "what in the world!" she scolded. "oh! such a nasty little--why did--what do you propose doing with it?" rudolph shook his head, like a man caught in some stupid blunder. "i never thought of that," he explained heavily. "she has no--no friends." "cover it," his companion ordered. "cover it up. i can't bear to see it." with a sombre, disappointed air, he obeyed; then looked up, as if in her face he read strange matter. "i can't bear," she added quickly, "to see any kind of suffering. why did--it's all my fault for sending you! we were having such a good ride together, and now i've spoiled it all, with this.--poor little filthy object!" she turned her hands outward, with a helpless, dainty gesture. "but what can we do? these things happen every day." rudolph was studying the ground again. his thoughts, then, had wronged her. drenched and downhearted, holding this strange burden in his jacket, he felt that he had foolishly meddled in things inevitable, beyond repair. she was right. yet some vague, insurgent instinct, which would not down, told him that there had been a disappointment. still, what had he expected? no woman could help; no woman. then suddenly he mounted, bundle and all, and turned his willing pony homeward. "come," he said; and for the first time, unwittingly, had taken charge. "what is it?" she called. "you foolish boy! what's your plan?" "we shall see," he answered. without waiting, he beckoned her to follow. she came. they rode stirrup to stirrup, silent as in their escape at dawn, and as close bodily, but in spirit traveling distant parallels. he gave no thought to that, riding toward his experiment. near the town, at last, he reined aside to a cluster of buildings,--white walls and rosy tiles under a great willow. "you may save your steps," she declared, with sudden petulance. "the hospital's more out of funds than ever, and more crowded. they'll not thank you." rudolph nodded back at her, with a queer smile, half reckless and half confident. "then," he replied, dismounting, "i will replenish my nunnery." squatting coolies sprang up and raced to hold his pony. others, in the shade of the wall, cackled when they saw a son of the red-haired so beplastered and sopping. a few pointed at his bundle, with grunts of sudden interest; and a leper, bearing the visage as of a stone lion defaced by time, cried something harshly. at his words, the whole band of idlers began to chatter. rudolph turned to aid his companion. she sat watching them sharply. an uneasy light troubled the innocent blue eyes, which had not even a glance for him. "no, i shan't get down," she said angrily. "it's just what might be--your little brat will bring no good to any of us." he flung away defiantly, strode through the gate, and calling aloud, traversed an empty compound, already heated by the new-risen sun. a cooler fringe of veranda, or shallow cloister, lined a second court. two figures met him,--the dark-eyed miss drake, all in white, and behind her a shuffling, grinning native woman, who carried a basin, in which permanganate of potash swam gleaming like diluted blood. "good-morning." with one droll look of amusement, the girl had understood, and regained that grave yet happy, friendly composure which had the virtue, he discovered, of being easily forgotten, to be met each time like something new. "what have you there for us?" again he unfolded the jacket. "a child." the naked mite lay very still, the breath weakly fluttered. a somewhat nauseous gift, the girl raised her arms and received it gently, without haste,--the saffron body appearing yet more squalid against the palladian whiteness of her tunic, plain and cool as drapery in marble. "it may live," she said. "we'll do what we can." and followed by the black-trousered woman, she moved quickly away to offer battle with death. a plain, usual fact, it seemed, involving no more surprise than repugnance. her face had hardly altered; and yet rudolph, for the first time in many days, had caught the fleeting brightness of compassion. mere light of the eyes, a half-imagined glory, incongruous in the sharp smell of antiseptics, it left him wondering in the cloister. he knew now what had been missing by the river. "i was naked, and"--how ran the lines? he turned to go, recalling in a whirl snatches of truth he had never known since boyhood, never seen away from home. across a court the padre hailed him,--a tall, ungainly patriarch under an enormous mushroom helmet of solar pith,--and walking along beside, listened shrewdly to his narrative. they paused at the outer gate. the padre, nodding, frowning slightly, stood at ease, all angles and loose joints, as if relaxed by the growing heat. suddenly he stood erect as a grenadier. "that lie again!" he cried. "listen!" the leper, without, harangued from his place apart, in a raucous voice filled with the solitary pride of intellect. "well, men shall revile you," growled dr. earle. "he says we steal children, to puncture their eyes for magic medicine!" then, heaving his wide shoulders,-"oh, well!" he said wearily, "thanks, anyhow. come see us, when we're not so busy? good!--look out these fellows don't fly at you." tired and befouled, rudolph passed through into the torrid glare. the leper cut short his snarling oration. but without looking at him, the young man took the bridle from the coolie. there had been a test. he had seen a child, and two women. and yet it was with a pang he found that mrs. forrester had not waited. chapter viii the hot night rudolph paced his long chamber like a wolf,--a wolf in summer, with too thick a coat. in sweat of body and heat of mind, he crossed from window to window, unable to halt. a faintly sour smell of parched things, oppressing the night without breath or motion, was like an interminable presence, irritating, poisonous. the punkah, too, flapped incessant, and only made the lamp gutter. broad leaves outside shone in mockery of snow; and like snow the stifled river lay in the moonlight, where the wet muzzles of buffaloes glistened, floating like knots on sunken logs, or the snouts of crocodiles. birds fluttered, sleepless and wretched. coolies, flung asleep on the burnt grass, might have been corpses, but for the sound of their troubled breathing. "if i could believe," he groaned, sitting with hands thrust through his hair. "if i believe in her--but i came too late." the lamp was an added torment. he sprang up from it, wiped the drops off his forehead, and paced again. he came too late. all alone. the collar of his tunic strangled him. he stuffed his fingers underneath, and wrenched; then as he came and went, catching sight in a mirror, was shocked to see that, in biblical fashion, he had rent his garments. "this is bad," he thought, staring. "it is the heat. i must not stay alone." he shouted, clapped his hands for a servant, and at last, snatching a coat from his unruffled boy, hurried away through stillness and moonlight to the detested club. on the stairs a song greeted him,--a fragment with more breath than melody, in a raw bass:-"jolly boating weather, and a hay harvest breeze!" "shut up!" snarled another voice. "good god, man!" the loft was like a cave heated by subterranean fires. two long punkahs flapped languidly in the darkness, with a whine of pulleys. under a swinging lamp, in a pool of light and heat, four men sat playing cards, their tousled heads, bare arms, and cinglets torn open across the chest, giving them the air of desperadoes. "jolly boating weather," wheezed the fat sturgeon. he stood apart in shadow, swaying on his feet. "what would you give," he propounded thickly, "for a hay harvest breeze?" he climbed, or rolled, upon the billiard-table, turned head toward punkah, and suddenly lay still,--a gross white figure, collapsed and sprawling. "how much does he think a man can stand?" snapped nesbit, his lean cockney face pulled in savage lines. "beast of a song! he'll die to-night, drinking." "die yourself," mumbled the singer, "'m goin' sleep. more 'n you can do." a groan from the players, and the vicious flip of a card, acknowledged the hit. rudolph joined them, ungreeting and ungreeted. the game went on grimly, with now and then the tinkle of ice, or the popping of soda bottles. sharp cords and flaccid folds in wutzler's neck, chantel's brown cheeks, the point of heywood's resolute chin, shone wet and polished in the lamplight. all four men scowled pugnaciously, even the pale nesbit, who was winning. bad temper filled the air, as palpable as the heat and stink of the burning oil. only heywood maintained a febrile gayety, interrupting the game perversely, stirring old wutzler to incoherent speech. "what's that about rome?" he asked. "you were saying?" "rome is safed!" cried the outcast, with sudden enthusiasm. "in your paper _tit-bit_, i read. how dey climb der walls op, yes, but rome is safed by a flook of geeze. gracious me, der history iss great sopjeck! i lern moch.--but iss rome yet a fortify town?" chantel rapped out a parisian oath. "do we play cards," he cried sourly, "or listen to the chatter of senility?" heywood held to the previous question. "no, wutz, that town's no longer fortified," he answered slowly. "geese live there, still, as in--many other places." dr. chantel examined his finger-tips as though for some defect; then, snatching up the cards, shuffled and dealt with intense precision. the game went on as before. "i read alzo," stammered wutzler, like a timid scholar encouraged to lecture, "i read zo how your englishman, rawf ralli, he spreadt der fine clock for your queen, and lern your queen smoking, no?" he mopped his lean throat with the back of his hand. "in bengal are dere rallis. dey handle jute." "yes?" heywood smiled a weary indulgence. next instant he whirled on rudolph in fury.--"is this a game, or idiot's joy?" "i'm playing my best," explained rudolph, sulkily. "then your best is the worst i ever saw! better learn, before sitting in!" chantel laughed, without merriment; rudolph flung down his cards, stalked to the window, and stood looking out, in lonely, impotent rage. a long time passed, marked by alarming snores from the billiard-table. the half-naked watchers played on, in ferocious silence. the night wore along without relief. hours might have lapsed, when dr. chantel broke out as though the talk had but paused a moment. "so it goes!" he sneered. "fools will always sit in, when they do not know. they rush into the water, also, and play the hero!" again his laughter was brief but malignant. heywood had left his cards, risen, and crossing the room, stood looking over rudolph's shoulder into the snowy moonlight. on the shoulder his hand rested, as by accident. "it's the heat, old chap," he said wearily. "don't mind what we say to-night." rudolph made no sign, except to move from under his hand, so that, with their quarrel between them, the two men stared out across the blanched roofs and drooping trees, where long black shadows at last crept toward the dawn. "these heroes!" continued the mocker. "what is danger? pouf--nothing! they make it for the rest of us, so easily! do you know," his voice rose and quickened, "do you know, the other end of town is in an uproar? we murder children, it appears, for medicine!" rudolph started, turned, but now sat quiet under heywood's grasp. chantel, in the lamplight, watched the punkahs with a hateful smile. "the gascons are not all dead," he murmured. "they plunge us all into a turmoil, for the sake of a woman." he made a sudden startling gesture, like a man who has lost control. "for the sake," he cried angrily, "of a person we all know! oh! we all know her! she is nothing more--" there was a light scuffle at the window. "dr. chantel," began heywood, with a sharp and dangerous courtesy, "we are all unlike ourselves to-night. i am hardly the person to remind you, but this club is hardly the place--" "oh, la la!" the other snapped his fingers, and reverting to his native tongue, finished his sentence wildly. "you cad!" heywood advanced in long strides deliberately, as if gathering momentum for a collision. before his blow could fall, he was sent spinning. rudolph, his cheeks on fire, darted past and dealt, full force, a clumsy backhand sweep of the arm. light and quick as a leopard, chantel was on foot, erect, and even while his chair crashed on the floor, had whipped out a handkerchief. "you are right, mr. heywood," he said, stanching his lips, in icy composure. his eyes held an odd gleam of satisfaction. "you are right. we are not like ourselves, at present. i will better ask mr. sturgeon to see your friend to-morrow morning. this morning, rather." not without dignity, he turned, stepped quickly to the stairs, saluted gravely, and went down. "no, no!" panted nesbit, wrestling with rudolph. "easy on, now! let you go? no fear!" heywood wrenched the captive loose, but only to shake him violently, and thrust him into a chair. "be quiet, you little ass!" he scolded. "i've a great mind, myself, to run after the bounder and kick him. but that sort of thing--you did enough. who'd have thought? you young spitfire! chantel took you on, exactly as he wanted." the fat sleeper continued to snore. wutzler came slinking back from his refuge in the shadows. "it iss zo badt!" he whined, gulping nervously. "it iss zo badt!" "right you are," said heywood. with arms folded, he eyed them sternly. "it's bad. we might have known. if only i'd reached him first! by jove, you must let me fight that beast. duels? the idiot, nobody fights duels any more. i've always--his cuffs are always dirty, too, on the inside!" rudolph leaned back, like a man refreshed and comforted, but his laugh was unsteady, and too boisterous. "it is well," he bragged. "pistol-bullets--they fly on the wings of chance! no?--all is well." "pistols? my dear young gentleman," scoffed his friend, "there's not a pair of matched pistols in the settlement. and if there were, chantel has the choice. he'll take swords." he paused, in a silence that grew somewhat menacing. from a slit in the wall the wheel of the punkah-thong whined insistently,--rise and fall, rise and fall of peevish complaint, distressing as a brain-fever bird. "swords, of course," continued heywood. "if only out of vanity. fencing,--oh, i hate the man, and the art's by-gone, if you like, but he's a beautiful swordsman! wonderful!" rudolph still lay back, but now with a singular calm. "it's just as well," he declared quietly. heywood loosed a great breath, a sigh of vast relief. "my word!" he cried, grinning. "so you're there, too, eh? you young sly-boots! if you're another expert--bravo! we'll beat him at his own game! hoist with his own what-d'-ye-call-it! i'd give anything"--he thumped the table, and pitched the cards broadcast, like an explosion of confetti, in a little carnival of glee. "you old sly-boots!--but are you sure? he's quick as lightning." "i am not afraid," replied rudolph, modestly. he trained his young moustache upward with steady fingers, and sat very quiet, thinking long thoughts. a quaint smile played about his eyes. "good for you!" said heywood. "now let him come, as the lord mayor said of the hare. what sport! with an even chance--and what a load off one's mind!" he moved away to the window, as though searching for air. instead of moonlight, without, there swam the blue mist of dawn. "not a word must ever reach old gilly," he mused. "do you hear, nesbit?" "if you think," retorted the clerk, stiffly, "i don't know the proper course of be'aviour! not likely!" the tall silhouette in the window made no reply, but stood grumbling privately: "a club! yes, where we drink out of jam-pots--dead cushions, dead balls--no veranda--fellow that soils the inside of his cuffs first! we're a pack of beach-combers." he propped his elbows on the long sill, and leaned out, venting fragments of disgust. then of a sudden he turned, and beckoned eagerly. "come here, you chaps. look-see." the others joined him. gray vapors from river and paddy-field, lingering like steam in a slow breeze, paled and dispersed in the growing light, as the new day, worse than the old, came sullenly without breath or respite. a few twilight shapes were pattering through the narrow street--a squad of yamên runners haling a prisoner. "the sword-pen remains active," said heywood, thoughtfully. "that dingy little procession, do you know, it's quite theatrical? the cross and the dragon. eh? another act's coming." even rudolph could spare a misgiving from his own difficulty while he watched the prisoner. it was chok chung, the plump christian merchant, slowly trudging toward the darkest of human courts, to answer for the death of the cormorant-fisher. the squad passed by. rudolph saw again the lighted shop, the tumbled figure retching on the floor; and with these came a memory of that cold and scornful face, thinking so cruelly among the unthinking rabble. the sword-pen had written something in the dark. "i go find out"; and wutzler was away, as keen as a village gossip. "trouble's comin'," nesbit asserted glibly. "there's politics afloat. but i don't care." he stretched his arms, with a weary howl. "that's the first yawn i've done to-night. trouble keeps, worse luck. i'm off--seek my downy." alone with the grunting sleeper, the two friends sat for a long time and watched the flooding daylight. "what," began rudolph, suddenly, and his voice trembled, "what is your true opinion? you are so kind, and i was just a fool. that other day, i would not listen. you laughed. now tell me, so--as you were to die next. you were joking? can i truly be proud of--of her?" he leaned forward, white and eager, waiting for the truth like a dicer for the final throw. "of yourself, dear old chap. not of the lady. she's the fool, not you. poor old gilly forrester slaves here to send her junketing in japan, kashmir, ceylon, home. what chantel said--well, between the two of us, i'm afraid he's right. it's a pity." heywood paused, frowning. "a pity, too, this quarrel. so precious few of us, and trouble ahead. the natives lashing themselves into a state of mind, or being lashed. the least spark--rough work ahead, and here we are at swords' points." "and the joke is," rudolph added quietly, "i do not know a sword's point from a handle." heywood turned, glowered, and twice failed to speak. "rudie--old boy," he stammered, "that man--preposterous! why, it's plain murder!" rudolph stared straight ahead, without hope, without illusions, facing the haggard light of morning. a few weeks ago he might have wept; but now his laugh, short and humorous, was worthy of his companion. "i do not care, more," he answered. "luck, so called i it, when i escaped the militar' service. ho ho! luck, to pass into the _ersatz!_--i do not care, now. i cannot believe, even cannot i fight. worthless--dreamer! my deserts. it's a good way out." chapter ix passage at arms "boy." "sai." "s'pose mr. forrester bym-by come, you talkee he, master no got, you chin-chin he come-back." "can do." the long-coated boy scuffed away, across the chunam floor, and disappeared in the darkness. heywood submitted his head once more to the nimble hands of his groom, who, with horse-clippers and a pair of enormous iron shears, was trimming the stubborn chestnut locks still closer. the afternoon glow, reflected from the burnt grass and white walls of the compound, struck upward in the vault-spaces of the ground floor, and lighted oddly the keen-eyed yellow mafoo and his serious young master. nesbit, pert as a jockey, sat on the table swinging his feet furiously. "sturgeon would take it all right, of course," he said, with airy wisdom. "quite the gentleman, he is. netch'rally. no fault of his." "not the least," heywood assented gloomily. "did everything he could. if i were commissioned to tell 'em outright--'the youngster can't fence'--why, we might save the day. but our man won't even listen to that. fight's the word. chantel will see, on the spot, directly they face. but will that stop him? no fear: he's worked up to the pitch of killing. he'll lunge first, and be surprised afterward.--so regrettable! such remorse!--oh, i know _him!_" the cockney fidgeted for a time. his face--the face of a street-bred urchin--slowly worked into lines of abnormal cunning. "i say! i was thinking," he ventured at last. "two swords, that's all? just so. now--my boy used to be learn-pidgin at chantel's. knows that 'ouse inside out--loafs there now, the beggar, with chantel's cook. why not send him over--prowling, ye know--fingers the bric-a-brac, bloomin' ass, and breaks a sword-blade. perfectly netch'ral. 'can secure, all plopah,' accident, ye know. all off with their little duel. what?" heywood chuckled, and bowed his head to the horse-clippers. "last week," he replied. "not to-day. this afternoon's rather late for accidents. you make me feel like pompey on his galley: 'this thou shouldst have done, and not have spoken on't,'--besides, those swords belonged to chantel's father. he began as a gentleman.--but you're a good sort, nesbit, to take the affair this fashion." lost in smoke, the clerk grumbled that the gory affair was unmentionable nonsense. "quite," said heywood. "we've tried reasoning. no go. as you say, an accident. that's all can save the youngster now. impossible, of course." he sighed. then suddenly the gray eyes lighted, became both shrewd and distant; a malicious little smile stole about the corners of his mouth. "have-got! the credit's yours, nesbit. accident: can do. and this one--by jove, it won't leave either of 'em a leg to stand on!--here, mafoo, makee finish!" he sprang up, clapped a helmet on the shorn head, and stalked out into the sunlight. "come on," he called. "it's nearly time. we must pick up our young hotspur." the clerk followed, through the glowing compound and the road. in the shade of the nunnery gate they found rudolph, who, raising his rattan, saluted them with a pale and stoic gravity. "are we ready?" he asked; and turning, took a slow, cool survey of the nunnery, as though looking his last--from the ditch at their feet to the red tiles, patched with bronze mould, that capped the walls and the roof. "i never left any place with less regret. come, let's go." the three men had covered some ground before rudolph broke the silence. "you'll find a few little things up there in my strong-box, maurice. some are marked for you, and the rest--will you send them home, please?" he hesitated. "i hope neither of you will misunderstand me. i'm horribly afraid, but not--but only because this fellow will make me look absurd. if i knew the first motion!" he broke out angrily. "i cannot bear to have him laugh, also! i cannot bear!" heywood clapped him on the shoulder, and gave a queer cough. "if that's all, never you fear! i'll teach you your guard. 'once in a while we can finish in style.' eh?--rudie, you blooming german, i--i think we must have been brothers! we'll pull it off yet." heywood spoke with a strange alacrity, and tried again to cough. this time, however, there was no mistake--he was laughing. rudolph shot at him one glance of startled unbelief, and then, tossing his head, marched on without a word. pride and loneliness overwhelmed him. the two at his side were no companions--not even presences. he went alone, conscious only of the long flood of sunset, and the black interlacing pattern of bamboos. the one friendly spirit had deserted, laughing; yet even this last and worst of earthly puzzles did not matter. it was true, what he had read; this, which they called death, was a lonely thing. on a broken stone bench, sturgeon, sober and dejected, with puffy circles under his eyes, sat waiting. a long parcel, wrapped in green baize, lay across his knees. he nodded gloomily, without rising. at his feet wandered a path, rankly matted with burnt weeds, and bordered with green bottle-ends, the "dimples" choked with discs of mud. the place was a deserted garden, where the ruins of a european house--burnt by natives in some obscure madness, years ago--sprawled in desolation among wild shrubs. a little way down the path stood teppich and chantel, each with his back turned and his hands clasped, like a pair of sulky napoleons, one fat, one slender. the wooden pretense of their attitude set rudolph, for an instant, to laughing silently and bitterly. this final scene,--what justice, that it should be a mean waste, the wreck of silly pleasure-grounds, long forgotten, and now used only by grotesque play-actors. he must die, in both action and setting, without dignity. it was some comfort, he became aware, to find that the place was fairly private. except for the breach by which they had entered, the blotched and spotted compound walls stood ruinous yet high, shutting out all but a rising slant of sunlight, and from some outpost line of shops, near by, the rattle of an abacus and the broken singsong of argument, now harsh, now drowsy. heywood had been speaking earnestly to sturgeon:-"a little practice--try the balance of the swords. no more than fair." "fair? most certainly," croaked that battered convivialist. "chantel can't object." he rose, and waddled down the path. rudolph saw chantel turn, frowning, then nod and smile. the nod was courteous, the smile full of satire. the fat ambassador returned. "right-oh," he puffed, tugging from the baize cover a shining pair of bell-hilted swords. "here, try 'em out." his puffy eyes turned furtively toward rudolph. "may be bad form, hackh, but--we all wish you luck, i fancy." then, in a burst of candor, "wish that unspeakable ass felt as seedy as i do--heat-stroke--drop dead--that sort of thing." still grumbling treason, this strange second rejoined his principal. "jackets off," commanded heywood; and in their cinglets, each with sword under arm, the two friends took shelter behind a ragged clump of plantains. the yellow leaves, half dead with drought and blight, hung ponderous as torn strips of sheet metal in the lifeless air. behind this tattered screen, rudolph studied, for a moment, the lethal object in his hand. it was very graceful,--the tapering, three-cornered blade, with shallow grooves in which blood was soon to run, the silver hilt where his enemy's father had set, in florid letters, the name of "h.b. st. a. chantel," and a date. how long ago, he thought, the steel was forged for this day. "it is fate." he looked up sadly. "come, show me how to begin; so that i can stand up to him." "here, then." slowly, easily, his long limbs transformed with a sudden youthful grace, heywood moved through the seven positions of on guard. "try it." rudolph learned only that his own clumsy imitation was hopeless. "once more.--he can't see us." again and again, more and more rapidly, they performed the motions of this odd rehearsal. suddenly heywood stepped back, and lowering his point, looked into his pupil's face, long and earnestly. "for the last time," he said: "won't you let me tell him? this is extremely silly." rudolph hung his head, like a stubborn child. "do you still think," he answered coldly, "that i would beg off?" with a hopeless gesture of impatience, heywood stepped forward briskly. "very well, then. once more." and as their blades clashed softly together, a quick light danced in his eyes. "here's how our friend will stick you!" his point cut a swift little circle, and sped home. by a wild instinct, the novice beat it awkwardly aside. his friend laughed, poised again, disengaged again, but in mid-career of this heartless play, stumbled and came pitching forward. rudolph darted back, swept his arm blindly, and cried out; for with the full impetus of the mishap, a shock had run from wrist to elbow. he dropped his sword, and in stupefaction watched the red blood coursing down his forearm, and his third finger twitching convulsively, beyond control. "dear fellow!" cried his opponent, scrambling upright. "so sorry! i say, that's a bad one." with a stick and a handkerchief, he twisted on a tourniquet, muttering condolence: "pain much? lost my balance, you know. that better?--what a clumsy accident!" then, dodging out from the plantain screen, and beckoning,--"all you chaps! come over here!" nesbit came running, but at sight of the bloody victim, pulled up short. "what ho!" he whispered, first with a stare, then a grin of mysterious joy. sturgeon gave a sympathetic whistle, and stolidly unwound bandages. at first the two napoleons remained aloof, but at last, yielding to indignant shouts, haughtily approached. the little group stood at fault. heywood wiped his sword-blade very carefully on a plantain leaf; then stood erect, to address them with a kind of cool severity. "i regret this more than anybody," he declared, pausing, and picking his words. "we were at practice, and my friend had the misfortune to be run through the arm." chantel flung out his hands, in a motion at once furious and impudent. "zut! what a farce!--will you tell me, please, since your friend has disabled himself"-heywood wheeled upon him, scornfully. "you have no right to such an expression," he stated, with a coldness which conveyed more rage than the other man's heat. "this was entirely my fault. it's i who have spoiled your--arrangement, and therefore i am quite ready to take up my friend's quarrel." "i have no quarrel with you," replied chantel, contemptuously. "you saw last night how he--" "he was quicker than i, that's all. by every circumstance, i'm the natural proxy. besides"--the young man appealed to the company, smiling--"besides, what a pity to postpone matters, and spoil the occasion, when doctor chantel has gone to the trouble of a clean shirt." the doctor recoiled, flung up a trembling arm, and as quickly dropped it. his handsome face burned darker, then faded with a mortal pallor, and for one rigid moment, took on such a strange beauty as though it were about to be translated into bronze. his brown fingers twitched, became all nerves and sinews and white knuckles. then, stepping backward, he withdrew from the circle. "very well," he said lightly. "since we are all so--irregular. i will take the substitute." rudolph gave a choking cry, and would have come forward; but sturgeon clung to the wounded arm, and bound on his bandage. "hold still, there!" he scolded, as though addressing a horse; then growled in heywood's ear, "why did _you_ go lose your temper?" "didn't. we can't let him walk over us, though." the young man held the sword across his throat, and whispered, "only angry up to here!" and indeed, through the anxious preliminary silence, he stood waiting as cool and ready as a young centurion. his adversary, turning back the sleeves of the unfortunate white linen, picked up the other sword, and practiced his fingering on the silver hilt, while the blade answered as delicately as the bow to a violinist. at last he came forward, with thin lips and hard, thoughtful eyes, like a man bent upon dispatch. both men saluted formally, and sprang on guard. from the first twitter of the blades, even rudolph knew the outcome. heywood, his face white and anxious in the failing light, fought at full stretch, at the last wrench of skill. chantel, for the moment, was fencing; and though his attacks came ceaseless and quick as flame, he was plainly prolonging them, discarding them, repeating, varying, whether for black-hearted merriment, or the vanity of perfect form, or love of his art. graceful, safe, easy, as though performing the grand salute, he teased and frolicked, his bright blade puzzling the sight, scattering like quicksilver in the endless whirl and clash. teppich was gaping foolishly, sturgeon shaking his head, the cockney, with narrow body drawn together, watching, shivering, squatting on toes and finger-tips, like a runner about to spring from a mark. rudolph, dizzy with pain and suspense, nursed his forearm mechanically. the hurried, silver ring of the hilts dismayed him, the dust from the garden path choked him like an acrid smoke. suddenly chantel, dropping low like a deflected arrow, swooped in with fingers touching the ground. on "three feet," he had delivered the blow so long withheld. the watchers shouted. nesbit sprang up, released. but heywood, by some desperate sleight, had parried the certainty, and even tried a riposte. still afoot and fighting, he complained testily above the sword-play:-"don't shout like that! fair field, you chaps!" above the sword-play, too, came gradually a murmur of voices. through the dust, beyond the lunging figures, rudolph was distantly aware of crowded bodies, of yellow faces grinning or agape, in the breach of the compound wall. men of the neighboring hamlet had gathered, to watch the foreign monsters play at this new, fantastic game. shaven heads bobbed, saffron arms pointed, voices, sharp and guttural, argued scornfully. the hilts rang, the blades grated faster. but now it was plain that heywood could do no more, by luck or inspiration. fretted by his clumsy yet strong and close defense, chantel was forcing on the end. he gave a panting laugh. instantly, all saw the weaker blade fly wide, the stronger swerve, to dart in victorious,--and then saw doctor chantel staggering backward, struck full in the face by something round and heavy. the brown missile skipped along the garden path. another struck a bottle-end, and burst into milk-white fragments, like a bomb. a third, rebounding from teppich's girdle, left him bent and gasping. strange yells broke out, as from a tribe of apes. the air was thick with hurtling globes. cocoanuts rained upon the company, tempestuously, as though an invisible palm were shaken by a hurricane. among them flew sticks, jagged lumps of sun-dried clay, thick scales of plaster. "aow!" cried nesbit, "the bloomin' coolies!" first to recover, he skipped about, fielding and hurling back cocoanuts. a small but raging phalanx crowded the gap in the wall, throwing continually, howling, and exhorting one another to rush in. "a riot!" cried heywood, and started, sword in hand. "come on, stop 'em!" but it was nesbit who, wrenching a pair of loose bottles from the path, brandishing them aloft like clubs, and shouting the unseemly battle-cries of a street-fighter, led the white men into this deadly breach. at the first shock, the rioters broke and scattered, fled round corners of the wall, crashed through bamboos, went leaping across paddy-fields toward the river. the tumult--except for lonely howls in the distance--ended as quickly as it had risen. the little band of europeans returned from the pursuit, drenched with sweat, panting, like a squad of triumphant football players; but no one smiled. "that explains it," grumbled heywood. he pointed along the path to where, far off, a tall, stooping figure paced slowly toward the town, his long robe a moving strip of color, faint in the twilight. "the sword-pen dropped some remarks in passing." the others nodded moodily, too breathless for reply. nesbit's forehead bore an ugly cut, rudolph's bandage was red and sopping. chantel, more rueful than either, stared down at a bleeding hand, which held two shards of steel. he had fallen, and snapped his sword in the rubble of old masonry. "no more blades," he said, like a child with a broken toy; "there are no more blades this side of saigon." "then we must postpone." heywood mopped his dripping and fiery cheeks. he tossed a piece of silver to one who wailed in the ditch,--a forlorn stranger from hai-nan, lamenting the broken shells and empty baskets of his small venture.--"contribution, you chaps. a bad day for imported cocoanuts. wish i carried some money: this chit system is damnable.--meanwhile, doctor, won't you forget anything i was rude enough to say? and come join me in a peg at the club? the heat is excessive." chapter x three portals not till after dinner, that evening, did rudolph rouse from his stupor. with the clerk, he lay wearily in the upper chamber of heywood's house. the host, with both his long legs out at window, sat watching the smoky lights along the river, and now and then cursing the heat. "after all," he broke silence, "those cocoanuts came time enough." "didn't they just?" said nesbit, jauntily; and fingering the plaster cross on his wounded forehead, drawled: "you might think i'd done a bit o' dueling myself, by the looks.--but i had _some_ part. now, that accident trick. rather neat, what? but for me, you might never have thought o' that--" "idiot!" snapped heywood, and pulling in his legs, rose and stamped across the room. a glass of ice and tansan smashed on the floor. rudolph was on foot, clutching his bandaged arm as though the hurt were new. "you!" he stammered. "you did that!" he stood gaping, thunderstruck. felt soles scuffed in the darkness, and through the door, his yellow face wearing a placid and lofty grin, entered ah pat, the compradore. "one coolie-man hab-got chit." he handed a note to his master, who snatched it as though glad of the interruption, bent under the lamp, and scowled. the writing was in a crabbed, antique german character:-"please to see bearer, in bad clothes but urgent. we are all in danger. _um gottes willen_--" it straggled off, illegible. the signature, "otto wutzler," ran frantically into a blot. "can do," said heywood. "you talkee he, come topside." the messenger must have been waiting, however, at the stairhead; for no sooner had the compradore withdrawn, than a singular little coolie shuffled into the room. lean and shriveled as an opium-smoker, he wore loose clothes of dirty blue,--one trousers-leg rolled up. the brown face, thin and comically small, wore a mask of inky shadow under a wicker bowl hat. his eyes were cast down in a strange fashion, unlike the bold, inquisitive peering of his countrymen,--the more strange, in that he spoke harshly and abruptly, like a racer catching breath. "i bring news." his dialect was the vilest and surliest form of the colloquial "clear speech."--"one pair of ears, enough." "you can speak and act more civilly," retorted heywood, "or taste the bamboo." the man did not answer, or look up, or remove his varnished hat. still downcast and hang-dog, he sidled along the verge of the shadow, snatched from the table the paper and a pencil, and choosing the darkest part of the wall, began to write. the lamp stood between him and the company: heywood alone saw--and with a shock of amazement--that he did not print vertically as with a brush, but scrawled horizontally. he tossed back the paper, and dodged once more into the gloom. the postscript ran in the same shaky hand:-"send way the others both." "what!" cried the young master of the house; and then over his shoulder, "excuse us a moment--me, i should say." he led the dwarfish coolie across the landing, to the deserted dinner-table. the creature darted past him, blew out one candle, and thrust the other behind a bottle, so that he stood in a wedge of shadow. "eng-lish speak i ver' badt," he whispered; and then with something between gasp and chuckle, "but der _pak-wa_ goot, no? when der live dependt, zo can mann--" he caught his breath, and trembled in a strong seizure. "good?" whispered heywood, staring. "why, man, it's wonderful! you _are_ a coolie"--wutzler's conical wicker-hat ducked as from a blow. "i beg your pardon. i mean, you're--" the shrunken figure pulled itself together. "you are right," he whispered, in the vernacular. "to-night i am a coolie--all but the eyes. therefore this hat." heywood stepped back to the door, and popped his head out. the dim hall was empty. "go on," he said, returning. "what is your news?" "riots. they are coming. we are all marked for massacre. all day i ran about the town, finding out. the trial of chok chung, your--_our_ christian merchant--i saw him 'cross the hall.' they kept asking, 'do you follow the foreign dogs and goats?' but he would only answer, 'i follow the lord jesus.' so then they beat out his teeth with a heavy shoe, and cast him into prison. now they wait, to see if his padre will interfere with the law. it is a trap. the suit is certainly brought by fang the scholar, whom they call the sword-pen." "that much," said heywood, "i could have told you." wutzler glanced behind him fearfully, as though the flickering shadows might hear. "but there is more. since dark i ran everywhere, watching, listening to gossip. i painted my skin with mangrove-bark water. you know this sign?" he patted his right leg, where the roll of trousers bound his thigh. "it is for protection in the streets. it says, 'i am a heaven-and-earth man.'" "the triad!" heywood whistled. "you?" the other faltered, and hung his head. "yes," he whispered at last. "my--my wife's cousin, he is a grass sandal. he taught her the verses at home, for safety.--we mean no harm, now, we of the triad. but there is another secret band, having many of our signs. it is said they ape our ritual. fang the scholar heads their lodge. they are the white lotus." "white lotus?" heywood snapped his fingers. "nonsense. extinct, this hundred years." "extinct? they meet to-night," said the outcast, in sudden grief and passion. "they drink blood--plan blood. extinct? are _you_ married to these people? does the knowledge come so cheap, or at a price? all these years--darkness--sunken--alone"--he trembled violently, but regained his voice. "o my friend! this very night they swear in recruits, and set the day. i know their lodge-room. for any sake, believe me! i know!" "right," said heywood, curtly. "i believe you. but why come here? why not stay, and learn more?" wutzler's head dropped on his breast again. the varnished hat gleamed softly in the darkness. "i--i dare not stay," he sobbed. "oh, exactly!" heywood flung out an impatient arm. "the date, man! the day they set. you came away without it!--we sit tight, then, and wait in ignorance." the droll, withered face, suddenly raised, shone with great tears that streaked the mangrove stain. "my head sits loosely already, with what i have done to-night. i found a listening place--next door: a long roof. you can hear and see them--but i could not stay. yes, i am a coward." "there, there!" heywood patted his shoulder. "i didn't mean--here, have a drink." the man drained the tumbler at a gulp; stood without a word, sniffing miserably; then of a sudden, as though the draught had worked, looked up bold and shrewd. "do you?" he whispered. "do _you_ dare go to the place i show you, and hide? you would learn." heywood started visibly, paused, then laughed. "excellent," he said. "_tu quoque_ is good argument. can you smuggle me?--then come on." he stepped lightly across the landing, and called out, "you chaps make yourselves at home, will you? business, you know. what a bore! i'll not be back till late." and as he followed the slinking form downstairs, he grumbled, "if at all, perhaps." the moon still lurked behind the ocean, making an aqueous pallor above the crouching roofs. the two men hurried along a "goat" path, skirted the town wall, and stole through a dark gate into a darker maze of lonely streets. drawing nearer to a faint clash of cymbals in some joss-house, they halted before a blind wall. "in the first room," whispered the guide, "a circle is drawn on the floor. put your right foot there, and say, 'we are all in-the-circle men,' if they ask, remember: you go to pluck the white lotus. these men hate it, they are triad brothers, they will let you pass. you come from the east, where the fusang cocks spit orient pearls; you studied in the red flower pavilion; your eyes are bloodshot because"--he lectured earnestly, repeating desperate nonsense, over and over. "no: not so. say it exactly, after me." they held a hurried catechism in the dark. "there," sighed wutzler, at last, "that is as much as we can hope. do not forget. they will pass you through hidden ways.--but you are very rash. it is not too late to go home." receiving no answer, he sighed more heavily, and gave a complicated knock. bars clattered within, and a strip of dim light widened. "who comes?" said a harsh but guarded voice, with a strong hakka brogue. "a brother," answered the outcast, "to pluck the white lotus. aid, brothers.--go in, i can help no further. if you are caught, slide down, and run westward to the gate which is called the meeting of the dragons." heywood nodded, and slipped in. beside a leaf-point flame of peanut-oil, a broad, squat giant sat stiff and still against the opposite wall, and stared with cruel, unblinking eyes. if the stranger were the first white man to enter, this motionless grim janitor gave no sign. on the earthen floor lay a small circle of white lime. heywood placed his right foot inside it. "we are all in-the-circle men." "pass," said the guard. out from shadow glided a tall native with a halberd, who opened a door in the far corner. in the second room, dim as the first, burned the same smoky orange light on the same table. but here a twisted cripple, his nose long and pendulous with elephantiasis, presided over three cups of tea set in a row. heywood lifted the central cup, and drank. "will you bite the clouds?" asked the second guard, in a soft and husky bass. as he spoke, the great nose trembled slightly. "no, i will bite ginger," replied the white man. "why is your face so green?" "it is a melon-face--a green face with a red heart." "pass," said the cripple, gently. he pulled a cord--the nose quaking with this exertion--and opened the third door. again the chamber was dim. a venerable man in gleaming silks--a grandfather, by his drooping rat-tail moustaches--sat fanning himself. in the breath of his black fan, the lamplight tossed queer shadows leaping, and danced on the table of polished camagon. except for this unrest, the aged face might have been carved from yellow soapstone. but his slant eyes were the sharpest yet. "you have come far," he said, with sinister and warning courtesy. too far, thought heywood, in a sinking heart; but answered:-"from the east, where the fusang cocks spit orient pearls." "and where did you study?" the black fan stopped fluttering. "in the red flower pavilion." "what book did you read?" "the book," said heywood, holding his wits by his will, "the book was ten thousand thousand pages." "and the theme?" "the waters of the deluge crosswise flow." "and what"--the aged voice rose briskly--"what saw you on the waters?" "the eight abbots, floating," answered heywood, negligently.--"but," ran his thought, "he'll pump me dry." "why," continued the examiner, "do you look so happy?" "because heaven has sent the unicorn." the black fan began fluttering once more. it seemed a hopeful sign; but the keen old eyes were far from satisfied. "why have you such a sensual face?" "i was born under a peach tree." "pass," said the old man, regretfully. and heywood, glancing back from the mouth of a dark corridor, saw him, beside the table of camagon, wagging his head like a judge doubtful of his judgment. the narrow passage, hot, fetid, and blacker than the wholesome night without, crooked about sharp corners, that bruised the wanderer's hands and arms. suddenly he fell down a short flight of slimy steps, landing in noisome mud at the bottom of some crypt. a trap, a suffocating well, he thought; and rose filthy, choked with bitterness and disgust. only the taunting justice of wutzler's argument, the retort _ad hominem_, had sent him headlong into this dangerous folly. he had scolded a coward with hasty words, and been forced to follow where they led. to this loathsome hole. behind him, a door closed, a bar scraped softly into place. before him, as he groped in rage and self-reproach, rose a vault of solid plaster, narrow as a chimney. but presently, glancing upward, he saw a small cluster of stars blinking, voluptuous, immeasurably overhead. their pittance of light, as his eyesight cleared, showed a ladder rising flat against the wall. he reached up, grasped the bamboo rungs, hoisted with an acrobatic wrench, and began to climb cautiously. above, faint and muffled, sounded a murmur of voices. chapter xi white lotus he was swarming up, quiet as a thief, when his fingers clawed the bare plaster. the ladder hung from the square end of a protruding beam, above which there were no more rungs. he hung in doubt. then, to his great relief, something blacker than the starlight gathered into form over his head,--a slanting bulk, which gradually took on a familiar meaning. he chuckled, reached for it, and fingering the rough edge to avoid loose tiles, hauled himself up to a foothold on the beam, and so, flinging out his arms and hooking one knee, scrambled over and lay on a ribbed and mossy surface, under the friendly stars. the outcast and his strange brethren had played fair: this was the long roof, and close ahead rose the wall of some higher building, an upright blackness from which escaped two bits of light,--a right angle of hairbreadth lines, and below this a brighter patch, small and ragged. here, louder, but confused with a gentle scuffing of feet, sounded the voices of the rival lodge. toward these he crawled, stopping at every creak of the tiles. once a broken roll snapped off, and slid rattling down the roof. he sat up, every muscle ready for the sudden leap and shove that would send him sliding after it into the lower darkness. it fell but a short distance, into something soft. gradually he relaxed, but lay very still. nothing followed; no one had heard. he tried again, crawled forward his own length, and brought up snug and safe in the angle where roof met wall. the voices and shuffling feet were dangerously close. he sat up, caught a shaft of light full in his face, and peered in through the ragged chink. two legs in bright, wrinkled hose, and a pair of black shoes with thick white soles, blocked the view. for a long time they shifted, uneasy and tantalizing. he could hear only a hubbub of talk,--random phrases without meaning. the legs moved away, and left a clear space. but at the same instant, a grating noise startled him, directly overhead, out of doors. the thin right angle of light spread instantly into a brilliant square. with a bang, a wooden shutter slid open. heywood lay back swiftly, just as a long, fat bamboo pipe, two sleeves, and the head of a man in a red silk cap were thrust out into the night air. "_ai-yah!"_ sighed the man, and puffed at his bamboo. "it is hot." heywood tried to blot himself against the wall. the lounger, propped on elbows, finished his smoke, spat upon the tiles, and remained, a pensive silhouette. "_ai-yah!"_ he sighed again; then knocking out the bamboo, drew in his head. not until the shutter slammed, did heywood shake the burning sparks from his wrist. in the same movement, however, he raised head and shoulders to spy through the chink. this time the bright-hosed legs were gone. he saw clear down a brilliant lane of robes and banners, multicolored, and shining with embroidery and tinsel,--a lane between two ranks of crowded men, who, splendid with green and blue and yellow robes of ceremony, faced each other in a strong lamplight, that glistened on their oily cheeks. the chatter had ceased. under the crowded rows of shaven foreheads, their eyes blinked, deep-set and expectant. at the far end of the loft, through two circular arches or giant hoops of rattan, heywood at last descried a third arch, of swords; beyond this, a tall incense jar smouldering gray wisps of smoke, beside a transverse table twinkling with candles like an altar; and over these, a black image with a pale, carved face, seated bolt upright before a lofty, intricate, gilded shrine of the patriot war-god. a tall man in dove-gray silk with a high scarlet turban moved athwart the altar, chanting as he solemnly lifted one by one a row of symbols: a round wooden measure, heaped with something white, like rice, in which stuck a gay cluster of paper flags; a brown, polished abacus; a mace carved with a dragon, another carved with a phoenix; a rainbow robe, gleaming with the plumage of siamese kingfishers. all these, and more, he displayed aloft and replaced among the candles. when his chant ended, a brisk little man in yellow stepped forward into the lane. "o fragrant ones," he shrilled, "i bring ten thousand recruits, to join our army and swear brotherhood. attend, o master of incense." behind him, a squad of some dozen barefoot wretches, in coolie clothes, with queues un-plaited, crawled on all fours through the first arch. they crouched abject, while the tall master of incense in the dove-gray silk sternly examined their sponsor. in the outer darkness, heywood craned and listened till neck and shoulders ached. he could make nothing of the florid verbiage. with endless ritual, the crawling novices reached the arch of swords. they knelt, each holding above his head a lighted bundle of incense-sticks,--red sparks that quivered like angry fireflies. above them the tall master of incense thundered:-"o spirits of the hills and brooks, the land, the swollen seeds of the ground, and all the veins of earth; o thou, young bearer of the axe that cleared the hills; o imperial heaven, and ye, five dragons of the five regions, with all the holy influences who pass and instantly re-pass through unutterable space:--draw near, record our oath, accept the draught of blood." he raised at arm's length a heavy baton, which, with a flowing movement, unrolled to the floor a bright yellow scroll thickly inscribed. from this he read, slowly, an interminable catalogue of oaths. heywood could catch only the scolding sing-song of the responses:-"if any brother shall break this, let him die beneath ten thousand knives." "--who violates this, shall be hurled down into the great sky." "--let thunder from the five regions annihilate him." silence followed, broken suddenly by the frenzied squawking of a fowl, as suddenly cut short. near the chink, heywood heard a quick struggling and beating. next instant he lay flattened against the wall. the shutter grated open, a flood of light poured out. within reach, in that radiance, a pair of sinewy yellow hands gripped the neck of a white cock. the wretched bird squawked once more, feebly, flapped its wings, and clawed the air, just as a second pair of arms reached out and sliced with a knife. the cock's head flew off upon the tiles. hot blood spattered on heywood's cheek. half blinded, but not daring to move, he saw the knife withdrawn, and a huge goblet held out to catch the flow. then arms, goblet, and convulsive wings jerked out of sight, and the shutter slid home. "twice they've not seen me," thought heywood. it was darker, here, than he had hoped. he rose more boldly to the peep-hole. under the arch of swords, the new recruits, now standing upright, stretched one by one their wrists over the goblet. the incense master pricked each yellow arm, to mingle human blood with the blood of the white cock; then, from a brazen vessel, filled the goblet to the brim. it passed from hand to hand, like a loving-cup. each novice raised it, chanted some formula, and drank. then all dispersed. there fell a silence. suddenly, in the pale face of the black image seated before the shrine, the eyes turned, scanning the company with a cold contempt. the lips moved. the voice, level and ironic, was that of fang, the sword-pen:-"o fragrant ones, when shall the foreign monsters perish like this cock?" a man in black, with a red wand, bowed and answered harshly:-"the time, great elder brother, draws at hand." "how shall we know the hour?" "the hour," replied the red wand, "shall be when the black dog barks." "and the day?" heywood pressed his ear against the chink, and listened, his five senses fused into one. no answer came, but presently a rapid, steady clicking, strangely familiar and commonplace. he peered in again. the red wand stood by the abacus, rattling the brown beads with flying fingers, like a shroff. plainly, it was no real calculation, but a ceremony before the answer. the listener clapped his ear to the crevice. would that answer, he wondered, be a month, a week, to-morrow? the shutter banged, the light streamed, down went heywood against the plaster. thick dregs from the goblet splashed on the tiles. a head, the flattened profile of the brisk man in yellow, leaned far out from the little port-hole. grunting, he shook the inverted cup, let it dangle from his hands, stared up aimlessly at the stars, and then--to heywood's consternation--dropped his head to meditate, looking straight down. "he sees me," thought heywood, and held himself ready, trembling. but the fellow made no sign, the broad squat features no change. the pose was that of vague, comfortable thought. yet his vision seemed to rest, true as a plumb-line, on the hiding-place. was he in doubt?--he could reach down lazily, and feel. worst of all, the greenish pallor in the eastern sky had imperceptibly turned brighter; and now the ribbed edge of a roof, across the way, began to glow like incandescent silver. the moon was crawling up. the head and the dangling goblet were slowly pulled in, just before the moonlight, soft and sullen through the brown haze of the heat, stole down the wall and spread upon the tiles. the shutter remained open. but heywood drew a free breath: those eyes had been staring into vacancy. "now, then," he thought, and sat up to the cranny; for the rattle of the abacus had stopped. "the counting is complete," announced the red wand slowly, "the hours are numbered. the day--" movement, shadow, or nameless instinct, made the listener glance upward swiftly. he caught the gleam of yellow silk, the poise and downward jab, and with a great heave of muscles went shooting down the slippery channel of the cock's blood. a spearhead grazed his scalp, and smashed a tile behind him. as he rolled over the edge, the spear itself whizzed by him into the dark. "the chap saw," he thought, in mid-air; "beastly clever--all the time--" he landed on the spear-shaft, in a pile of dry rubbish, snatched up the weapon, and ran, dimly conscious of a quiet scurrying behind and above him, of silent men tumbling after, and doors flung violently open. he raced blindly, but whipped about the next corner, leaving the moon at his back. westward, somebody had told him, to the gate where dragons met. there had been no uproar; but running his hardest down the empty corridors of the streets, he felt that the pack was gaining. ahead loomed something gray, a wall, the end of a blind alley. scale it, or make a stand at the foot,--he debated, racing. before the decision came, a man popped out of the darkness. heywood shifted his grip, drew back the spear, but found the stranger bounding lightly alongside, and muttering,-"to the west-south, quick! a brother waits. i fool those who follow--" obeying, heywood dove to the left into the black slit of an alley, while the other fugitive pattered straight on into the seeming trap, with a yelp of encouragement to the band who swept after. the alley was too dark for speed. heywood ran on, fell, rose and ran, fell again, losing his spear. a pair of trembling hands eagerly helped him to his feet. "my cozin's boy, he ron quick," said wutzler. "dose fellows, dey not catch him! kom." they threaded the gloom swiftly. wutzler, ready and certain of his ground, led the tortuous way through narrow and greasy galleries, along the side of a wall, and at last through an unlighted gate, free of the town. in the moonlight he stared at his companion, cackled, clapped his thighs, and bent double in unholy convulsions. "my gracious me!" he laughed immoderately. "oh, i wait zo fearful, you kom zo fonny!" for a while he clung, shaking, to the young man's arm. "my friendt, zo fonny you look! my gootness me!" at last he regained himself, stood quiet, and added very pointedly, "what did _yow_ lern?" "nothing," replied heywood, angrily. "nothing. fragrant ones! not a bad name. phew!--oh, i say, what did they mean? what black dog is to bark?" "black dog? black dog iss cannon." the man became, once more, as keen as a gossip. "what cannon? when dey shoot him off?" "can't tell," said his friend. "that's to be their signal." "i do not know," the conical hat wagged sagely. "i go find out." he pointed across the moonlit spaces. "ofer dere iss your house. you can no more. _schlafen sie wohl_." the two men wrung each other's hands. "shan't forget this, wutz." "oh, for me--all you haf done--" the outcast turned away, shaking his head sadly. never did heywood's fat water-jar glisten more welcome than when he gained the vaulted bath-room. he ripped off his blood-stained clothes, scrubbed the sacrificial clots from his hair, and splashed the cool water luxuriously over his exhausted body. when at last he had thrown a kimono about him, and wearily climbed the stairs, he was surprised to see rudolph, in the white-washed room ahead, pacing the floor and ardently twisting his little moustache. as heywood entered, he wheeled, stared long and solemnly. "i must wait to tell you." he stalked forward, and with his sound left hand grasped heywood's right. "this afternoon, you--" "my dear boy, it's too hot. no speeches." but rudolph's emotion would not be hindered. "this afternoon," he persisted, with tragic voice and eyes, "this afternoon i nearly was killed." "so was i.--which seems to meet that." and heywood pulled free. "oh," cried rudolph, fervently. "i know! i feel--if you knew what i--my life--" the weary stoic in the blue kimono eyed him very coldly, then plucked him by the sleeve.--"come here, for a bit." both men leaned from the window into the hot, airless night. a chinese rebeck wailed, monotonous and nasal. heywood pointed at the moon, which now hung clearly above the copper haze. "what do you see there?" he asked dryly. "the moon," replied his friend, wondering. "good.--you know, i was afraid you might just see rudie hackh." the rebeck wailed a long complaint before he added:-"if i didn't like you fairly well--the point is--good old cynthia! that bally orb may not see one of us to-morrow night, next week, next quarter. 'through this same garden, and for us in vain.' every man jack. let me explain. it will make you better company." chapter xii the war board "rigmarole?" drawled heywood, and abstained from glancing at chantel. "dare say. however, gilly, their rigmarole _may_ mean business. on that supposition, i made my notes urgent to you chaps." "quite right," said mr. forrester, tugging his gray moustache, and studying the floor. "obviously. rigmarole or not, your plan is thoroughly sound: stock one house, and if the pinch comes, fortify." chantel drummed on heywood's long table, and smiled quaintly, with eyes which roved out at window, and from mast to bare mast of the few small junks that lay moored against the distant bank. he bore himself, to-day, like a lazy cock of the walk. the rest of the council, nesbit, teppich, sturgeon, kempner, and the great snow-headed padre, surrounded the table with heat-worn, thoughtful faces. when they looked up, their eyes went straight to heywood at the head; so that, though deferring to his elders, the youngest man plainly presided. chantel turned suddenly, merrily, his teeth flashing in a laugh. "if we are then afraid, let us all take a jonc down the river," he scoffed, "or the next vessel for hongkong!" gilly's tired, honest eyes saw only the plain statement. "impossible." he shook his bullet head. "we can't run away from a rumor, you know. can we, now? the women, perhaps. but we should lose face no end--horribly." "let's come to facts," urged heywood. "arms, for example. what have we? to my knowledge, one pair of good rifles, mine and sturgeon's. ammunition--uncertain, but limited. two revolvers: my webley.450, and that little thing of nesbit's, which is not man-stopping. shot-guns? every one but you, padre: fit only for spring snipe, anyway, or bamboo partridge. hackh has just taken over, from this house, the only real weapons in the settlement--one dozen old mausers, argentine, calibre.765. my predecessor left 'em, and three cases of cartridges. i've kept the guns oiled, and will warrant the lot sound.--now, who'll lend me spare coolies, and stuff for sand-bags?" "over where?" puffed sturgeon. "where's he taking your mausers?" "nunnery, of course." "oh, i say!" mr. forrester looked up, with an injured air. "as the senior here, except dr. earle, i naturally thought the choice would be my house." "right!" cried two or three voices from the foot of the table. "it should be--farthest off--" all talked at once, except chantel, who eyed them leniently, and smiled as at so many absurd children. kempner--a pale, dogged man, with a pompous white moustache which pouted and bristled while he spoke--rose and delivered a pointless oration. "ignoring race and creed," he droned, "we must stand together--" heywood balanced a pencil, twirled it, and at last took to drawing. on the polished wood he scratched, with great pains, the effigy of a pig, whose snout blared forth a gale of quarter-notes. "whistle away!" he muttered; then resumed, as if no one had interrupted: "very good of you, gilly. but with your permission, i see five points.--here's a rough sketch, made some time ago." he tossed on the table a sheet of paper. forrester spread it, frowning, while the others leaned across or craned over his chair. "all out of whack, you see," explained the draughtsman; "but here are my points, gilly. one: your house lies quite inland, with four sides to defend: the river and marsh give rudie's but two and a fraction. boats? not hardly: we'd soon stop that, as you'll see, if they dare. anyhow,--point two,--your house is all hillocks behind, and shops roundabout: here's just one low ridge, and the rest clear field. third: the portuguese built a well of sorts in the courtyard; water's deadly, i dare say, but your place has no well whatever. and as to four, suppose--in a sudden alarm, say, those cut off by land could run another half-chance to reach the place by river.--by the way, the nunnery has a bell to ring." gilbert forrester shoved the map along to his neighbor, and cleared his throat. "gentlemen," he declared slowly, "you once did me the honor to say that in--in a certain event, you would consider me as acting head. frankly, i confess, my plans were quite--ah!--vague. i wish to--briefly, to resign, in favor of this young--ah--bachelor." "don't go rotting me," complained heywood, and his sallow cheeks turned ruddy. "i merely bring up these points. and five is this: your compound's very cramped, where the nunnery could shelter the goodly blooming fellowship of native converts." chantel laughed heartily, and stretched his legs at ease under the table. [illustration: portuguese nunnery:--sketch map.] "what strategy!" he chuckled, preening his moustache. "your mythical siege--it will be brief! for me, i vote no to that: no rice-christians filling their bellies--eating us into a surrender!" he made a pantomime of chop-sticks. "a compound full, eating, eating!" one or two nodded, approving the retort. heywood, slightly lifting his chin, stared at the speaker coldly, down the length of their council-board. the red in his cheeks burned darker. "our everlasting shame, then," he replied quietly. "it will be everlasting, if we leave these poor devils in the lurch, after cutting them loose from their people. excuse me, padre, but it's no time to mince our words. we made them strangers in their own land. desert 'em? damned if we do!" no one made reply. the padre, who had looked up, looked down quickly, musing, and smoothed his white hair with big fingers that somewhat trembled. "besides," continued the speaker, in a tone of apology, "we'll need 'em to man the works. meantime, you chaps must lend coolies, eh? look here." with rising spirits, he traced an eager finger along the map. "i must run a good strong bamboo scaffold along the inside wall, with plenty of sand-bags ready for loopholing--specially atop the servants' quarters and pony-shed, and in that northeast angle, where we'll throw up a mound or platform.--what do you say? suggestions, please!" chantel, humming a tune, reached for his helmet, and rose. he paused, struck a match, and in an empty glass, shielding the flame against the breeze of the punkah, lighted a cigarette. "since we have appointed our dictator," he began amiably, "we may repose--" from the landing, without, a coolie bawled impudently for the master of the house. "wutzler!" said heywood, jumping up. "i mean--his messenger." he was gone a noticeable time, but came back smiling. "good news, gilly." he held aloft a scrap of chinese paper, scrawled on with pencil. "we need expect nothing these ten days. they wait for more ammunition--'more shoots,' the text has it. the hak kaú--their black dog--is a bronze cannon, nine feet long, cast at rotterdam in 1607. he writes, 'i saw it in shed last night, but is gone to-day. o.w.' gentlemen, for a timid man, our friend does not scamp his reports. thorough, rather? little o.w. is o.k." chantel, still humming, had moved toward the door. all at once he halted, and stared from the landward window. cymbals clashed somewhere below. "what's this?" he cried sharply. the noise drew nearer, more brazen, and with it a clatter of hoofs. "here come swordsmen!" "to play with you, i suppose. your fame has spread." heywood spoke with a slow, mischievous drawl; but he crossed the room quickly. "what's up?" below, by the open gate, a gay grotesque rider reined in a piebald pony, and leaning down, handed to the house-boy a ribbon of scarlet paper. behind him, to the clash of cymbals, a file of men in motley robes swaggered into position, wheeled, and formed the ragged front of a falstaff regiment. overcome by the scarlet ribbon, the long-coated "boy" bowed, just as through the gate, like a top-heavy boat swept under an arch, came heaving an unwieldy screened chair, borne by four broad men: not naked and glistening coolies, but "tail-less horses" in proud livery. before they could lower their shafts, heywood ran clattering down the stairs. slowly, cautiously, like a little fat old woman, there clambered out from the broadcloth box a rotund man, in flowing silks, and a conical, tasseled hat of fine straw. he waddled down the compound path, shading with his fan a shrewd, bland face, thoughtful, yet smooth as a babe's. the watchers in the upper room saw heywood greet him with extreme ceremony, and heard the murmur of "pray you, i pray you," as with endless bows and deprecations the two men passed from sight, within the house. a long time dragged by. the visitor did not join the company, but from another room, now and then, sounded his clear-pitched voice, full of odd and courteous modulations. when at last the conference ended, and their unmated footsteps crossed the landing, a few sentences echoed from the stairway. "that is all," declared the voice, pleasantly. "the chow ceremonial says, 'that man is unwise who knowingly throws away precious things.' and in the analects we read, 'there is merit in dispatch.'" heywood's reply was lost, except the words, "stupid people." "in every nation," agreed the placid voice. "it is true. what says the viceroy of hupeh: 'they see a charge of bird-shot, and think they are tasting broiled owl.'--walk slowly!" "a safe walk, your excellency." the cymbals struck up, the cavalcade, headed by ragamuffin lictors with whips, went swaying past the gate. heywood, when he returned, was grinning. "wonderful old chap!" he exclaimed. "hates this station, i fancy, much as we hate it." "anything to concern us?" asked gilly. "intimated he could beat me at chess," laughed the young man, "and will bet me a jar of peach wine to a box of manila cigars!" chantel, from a derisive dumb-show near the window, had turned to waddle solemnly down the room. at sight of heywood's face he stopped guiltily. "chantel!" all the laughter was gone from the voice and the hard gray eyes. "yesterday we humored you tin-soldier fashion, but to-day let's put away childish things.--i like that magistrate, plainly, a damned deal better than i like you. when you or i show one half his ability, we're free to mock him--in my house." for the first time within the memory of any man present, the mimic wilted. "i--i did not know," he stammered, "that old man was your friend." very quiet, and a little flushed, he took his seat among the others. "i like him no end." still more quiet, heywood appealed to the company. "part for his hard luck--stuck down, a three-year term, in this neglected hole. enemies in power, higher up. fang, the sword-pen, in great favor up there.--what? oh, said nothing directly, of course. friendly call, and all that. but his indirections speak straight enough. we understood each other. the dregs of the town are all stirred up--bottomside topside--danger point. he, in case--you know--can't give us any help. no means, no recourse. his chief's fairly itching to cashier him.--spoke highly of your hospital work, padre, but said, 'even good deeds may be misconstrued.'--in short, gentlemen, without saying a word, he tells us honestly in plain terms, 'sorry, but look out for yourselves.'" a beggar rattled his bowl of cash in the road, below; from up the river sounded wailing cries. "did he mention," said the big padre, presently, "the case against my man, chok chung?" heywood's eyes became evasive, his words reluctant. "the magistrate dodged that--that unpleasant subject. the case was forced on him. some understrapper tried it. let's be fair." dr. earle's great elbows left the board. without rising, he seemed to grow in bulk and stature, and send his vision past the company, into those things which are not, to confound the things which are. "for myself, it does not matter. 'he buries his workmen, but carries on his work.'" the man spoke in a heavy, broken voice, as though it were his body that suffered. "but it comes hard to hear, from a young man, so good a friend, after many years"--the deep-set eyes returned, and with a sudden lustre, made a sharp survey from face to face. "if i have made my flock a remnant--aliens--rejected--tell me, what shall i do? tell me. i have shut eyes and conscience, and never meddled, never!--not even when money was levied for the village idols. and here's a man beaten, cast into prison--" he shoved both fists out on the table, and bowed his white head. "my safety is nothing. but yours--and his.--to keep one, i desert the other. either way." the padre groaned. "what must i choose?" "we're all quite helpless," said heywood, gently. "quite. it's a long way to the nearest gunboat." "tell me," repeated the other, stubbornly. at the same moment it happened that the cries came louder along the river-bank, and that some one bounded up the stairs. the runner was rudolph. all morning he had gone about his errands very calmly, playing the man of action, in a new philosophy learned overnight. but now he forgot to imitate his teacher, and darted in, so headlong that all the dogs came with him, bouncing and barking. "look," he called, stumbling toward the farther window, while flounce the terrier and a wonk puppy ran nipping at his heels. "come, look at them! out on the river!" chapter xiii the spare man beyond the scant greenery of heywood's garden--a ropy little banyan, a low rank of glossy whampee leaves, and the dusty sage-green tops of stunted olives--glared the river. wide, savage sunlight lay so hot upon it, that to aching eyes the water shone solid, like a broad road of yellow clay. only close at hand and by an effort of vision, appeared the tiny, quiet lines of the irresistible flood pouring toward the sea; there whipped into the pool of banyan shade black snippets and tails of reflection, darting ceaselessly after each other like a shoal of frightened minnows. but elsewhere the river lay golden, solid, and painfully bright. things afloat, in the slumberous procession of all eastern rivers, swam downward imperceptibly, now blurred, now outlined in corrosive sharpness. the white men stood crowding along the spacious window. the dogs barked outrageously; but at last above their din floated, as before, the high wailing cries. a heaping cairn of round-bellied, rosy-pink earthen jars came steering past, poled by a naked statue of new copper, who balanced precariously on the edge of his hidden raft. no sound came from him; nor from the funeral barge which floated next, where still figures in white robes guarded the vermilion drapery of a bier, decked with vivid green boughs. all these were silent. "no, above!" cried rudolph, pointing. after the mourners' barge, at some distance, came hurrying a boat crowded with shining yellow bodies and dull blue jackets. long bamboo poles plied bumping along her gunwale, sticking into the air all about her, many and loose and incoordinate, like the ribs of an unfinished basket. from the bow spurted a white puff of smoke. the dull report of a musket lagged across the water. the bullet skipped like a schoolboy's pebble, ripping out little rags of white along that surface of liquid clay. the line of fire thus revealed, revealed the mark. untouched, a black head bobbed vigorously in the water, some few yards before the boat. the saffron crew, poling faster, yelled and cackled at so clean a miss, while a coolie in the bow reloaded his matchlock. the fugitive head labored like that of a man not used to swimming, and desperately spent. it now gave a quick twist, and showed a distorted face, almost of the same color with the water. the mouth gaped black in a sputtering cry, then closed choking, squirted out water, and gaped once more, to wail clearly:-"i am jesus christ!" in the broad, bare daylight of the river, this lonely and sudden blasphemy came as though a person in a dream might declare himself to a waking audience of skeptics. the cry, sharp with forlorn hope, rang like an appeal. "why--look," stammered heywood. "he sees us--heading here. look, it's--quick! let me out!" just as he turned to elbow through his companions, and just as the cry sounded again, the matchlock blazed from the bow. no bullet skipped. the swimmer, who had reached the shallows, suddenly rose with an incredible heave, like a leaping salmon, flung one bent arm up and back in the gesture of the laocoön, and pitched forward with a turbid splash. the quivering darkness under the banyan blotted everything: death had dispersed the black minnows there, in oozy wriggles of shadow; but next moment the fish-tail stripes chased in a more lively shoal. the gleaming potter, below his rosy cairn, stared. the mourners forgot their grief. heywood, after his impulse of rescue, stood very quiet. "you saw," he repeated dully. "you all saw." the clutching figure, bolt upright in the soaked remnant of prison rags, had in that leap and fall shown himself for chok chung, the christian. he had sunk in mystery, to become at one forever with the drunken cormorant-fisher. obscene delight raged in the crowded boat, with yells and laughter, and flourish of bamboo poles. "come away from the window," said heywood; and then to the white-haired doctor: "your question's answered, padre. strange, to come so quick." he jerked his thumb back toward the river. "and that's only first blood." the others had broken into wrangling. "escaped? nonsense--cat--and--mouse game, i tell you; those devils let him go merely to--we'll never know--of course! plain as your nose--to stand by, and never lift a hand! oh, it's--rot! look here, why--acquitted, then set on him--but we'll _never_ know!--fang watching on the spot. trust him!" a calm "boy," in sky-blue gown, stood beside them, ready to speak. the dispute paused, while they turned for his message. it was a disappointing trifle: mrs. forrester waited below for her husband, to walk home. "can't leave now," snapped gilly. "i'll be along, tell her--" "had she better go alone?" suggested heywood. "no; right you are." the other swept a fretful eye about the company. "but this business begins to look urgent.--here, somebody we can spare. you go, hackh, there's a good chap." chantel dropped the helmet he had caught up. bowing stiffly, rudolph marched across the room and down the stairs. his face, pale at the late spectacle, had grown red and sulky, "can spare me, can you?--i'm the one." he descended, muttering. viewing himself thus, morosely, as rejected of men, he reached the compound gate to fare no better with the woman. she stood waiting in the shadow of the wall; and as he drew unwillingly near, the sight of her--to his shame and quick dismay--made his heart leap in welcome. she wore the coolest and severest white, but at her throat the same small furbelow, every line of which he had known aboard ship, in the days of his first exile and of his recent youth. it was now as though that youth came flooding back to greet her. "good-morning." he forgot everything, except that for a few priceless moments they would be walking side by side. she faced him with a start, never so young and beautiful as now--her blue eyes wide, scornful, and blazing, her cheeks red and lips trembling, like a child ready to cry. "i did not want _you_" she said curtly. "nor did they." pride forged the retort for him, at a blow. he explained in the barest of terms, while she eyed him steadily, with every sign of rising temper. "i can spare you, too," she whipped out; then turned to walk away, holding her helmet erect, in the poise of a young goddess, pert but warlike. this double injustice left rudolph chafing. in two strides, however, he had overtaken her. "i am under orders," he stated grimly. her pace gradually slackened in the growing heat; but she went forward with her eyes fixed on the littered, sunken flags of their path. this rankling silence seemed to him more unaccountable and deadly than all former mischances, and left him far more alone. from the sultry tops of bamboos, drooping like plants in an oven, an amorous multitude of cicadas maintained the buzzing torment of steel on emery wheels, as though the universal heat had chafed and fretted itself into a dry, feverish utterance. once mrs. forrester looked about, quick and angry, like one ready to choke that endless voice. but for the rest, the two strange companions moved steadily onward. in an alley of checkered light a buffalo with a wicker nose-ring, and heavy, sagging horns that seemed to jerk his head back in agony, heaved toward them, ridden by a naked yellow infant in a nest-like saddle of green fodder. scenting with fright the disgusting presence of white aliens, the sleep-walking monster shied, opened his eyes, and lowered his blue muzzle as if to charge. there was a pause, full of menace. "don't run!" said rudolph, and catching the woman roughly about the shoulders, thrust her behind him. she clutched him tightly by the wounded arm. the buffalo stared irresolute, with evil eyes. the naked boy in the green nest brushed a swarm of flies from his handful of sticky sweetmeats, looked up, pounded the clumsy shoulders, and shrilled a command. staring doubtfully, and trembling, the buffalo swayed past, the wrinkled armor of his gray hide plastered with dry mud as with yellow ochre. to the slow click of hoofs, the surly monster, guided by a little child, went swinging down the pastoral shade,--ancient yet living shapes from a picture immemorial in art and poetry. "please," begged rudolph, trying with his left hand to loosen her grip. "please, that hurts." for a second they stood close, their fingers interlacing. with a touch of contempt, he found that she still trembled, and drew short breath. her eyes slowly gathered his meaning. "oh, that!" she tore her hand loose, as though burned. "that! it _was_ all true, then. i forgot." she caught aside her skirts angrily, and started forward in all her former disdain. but this, after their brief alliance, was not to be tolerated. "what was all true?" he insisted. "you shall not treat me so. if anybody has a right--" after several paces, she flashed about at him in a whirl of words:-"all alike, every one of you! and i was fool enough to think you were different!" the conflict in her eyes showed real, beyond suspicion. "he told me all about it. last evening. and you dare talk of rights, and come following me here--" "lucky i did," retorted rudolph, with sudden spirit; and holding out his wounded arm, indignantly: "that scratch, if you know how it came--" "i know, perfectly." she stared as at some crowning impudence. "he was chicken-hearted. you came off cheaply.--i know all you said. but the one thing i'll never understand, is where you found the courage, after he struck you, at the club. you'll always have _that_ to admire!" "after he struck"--a light broke in on rudolph, somehow. "chantel? oh, that liar!" he wheeled and started to go back. "wait, stop!" she called, in a strangely altered voice, which brought him up short. "they're all with him now. you can't--what did you mean?" he explained, sulkily at first, but ending in a kind of generous rage. "so i couldn't even stand up to him. and except for maurice heywood--oh, you need not frown; he's the best friend i ever had." mrs. forrester had walked on, with the same cloudy aspect, the same light, impatient step. he felt the greater surprise when, suddenly turning, she raised toward him her odd, enticing, pointed face, and the friendly mischief of her eyes. "the best?" she echoed, in the same half-whisper as when she had flattered him, that afternoon in the dusky well of the pagoda stairway. "the very best friend? don't you think you have a better?" rudolph stared. "oh, you funny, funny boy!" she cried, with a bewildering laugh, of delight and pride. "i hate people all prim and circumspect, and you--you'd have flown back there straight at him, before my--before all the others. that's why i like you so!--but you must leave that horrid, lying fellow to me." all unaware, she had led him along the blinding white wall of the forrester compound, and halted in the hot shadow that lay under the tiled gateway. as though timidly, her hand stole up and rested on his forearm. "so sorry." the confined space, narrow and covered, gave to her voice a plaintive ring. "that's twice you protected me, and i hurt you.--you _are_ different. this doesn't happen between people, often. when you did--that, for me, yesterday, didn't it seem different and rather splendid, and--like a book?" "it seemed nonsense," replied rudolph, sturdily. "the heat. we were fools." she laughed again, and at close range watched him from under consciously drooping lashes that almost veiled a liquid brilliancy. everywhere the cicadas kept the heat vibrating with their strident buzz. it recalled some other widespread mist of treble music, long ago. the trilling of frogs, that had been, before. "you dear, brave boy," she said slowly. "you're so honest, too. i'm not ungrateful. do you know what i'd like--oh, there's the _amah!"_ she drew back, with an impatient gesture. "that stupid, fat mrs. earle's waiting for me.--i hate to leave you." the stealthy brightness of her admiration changed to a slow, inscrutable appeal. "don't forget. haven't you--a better friend?" and with an instant, bold, and tantalizing grimace, she had vanished within. * * * * * to his homeward march, her cicadas shrilled the music of fifes. he, the despised, the man to spare, now cocked up his helmet like fortune's minion, dizzy with new honors. nobody had ever praised him to his face. and now she, she of all the world, had spoken words which he feared and longed to believe, and which even said still less than her searching and mysterious look. on the top of his exultation, he reached the nunnery, and entered his big, bare living-room, to find heywood stretched in a wicker chair. "hallo, rudie! i've asked myself to tiffin," drawled the lounger, from a little tempest of blue smoke, tossed by the punkah. "how's the fair bertha?--mausers all right? and by the way, did you make that inventory of provisions?" rudolph faced him with a sudden conviction of guilt, of treachery to a leader. "yes," he stammered; "i--i'll get it for you." he passed into his bedroom, caught up the written list from a table, and for a moment stood as if dreaming. before him the mausers, polished and orderly, shone in their new rack against the lime-coated wall. though appearing to scan them, rudolph saw nothing but his inward confusion. "after all this man did for me," he mused. what had loosed the bond, swept away all the effects? a sound near the window made him turn. an imp in white and red livery, pêng, the little billiard-marker from the club, stood hurling things violently into the outer glare. "what thing you do?" called rudolph, sharply. some small but heavy object clattered on the floor. the urchin stooped, snatched it up, and flung it hurtling clean over the garden to the river. he turned, grinning amiably. "goo-moh? ning-seh. how too you too," he chanted. "i am welly? glat to-see you." a boat-coolie, he explained, had called this house bad names. he, pêng, threw stones. bad man. "out of here, you rascal!" rudolph flicked a riding-whip at the scampering legs, as the small defender of his honor bolted for the stairs. "what's wrong?" heywood appeared promptly at the door. from the road, below, a gleeful voice piped:-"goat-men! baby-killers!" in the noon blaze, pêng skipped derisively, jeered at them, performed a brief but indecorous pantomime, and then, kicking up his heels with joy, scurried for his life. "chucked his billet," said heywood, without surprise. "little devil, i always thought--what's missing?" rudolph scanned his meagre belongings, rummaged his dressing-table, opened a wardrobe. "nothing," he answered. "a boat-coolie--" but heywood had darted to the rack of mausers, knelt, and sprung up, raging. "side-bolts! man," he cried, in a voice that made rudolph jump,--"man, why didn't you stop him? the side-bolts, all but two.--young heathen, he's crippled us: one pair of rifles left." chapter xiv off duty the last of the sunlight streamed level through a gap in the western ridges. it melted, with sinuous, tender shadows, the dry contour of field and knoll, and poured over all the parching land a liquid, undulating grace. like the shadow of clouds on ripe corn, the red tiles of the village roofs patched the countryside. from the distant sea had come a breath of air, cool enough to be felt with gratitude, yet so faint as neither to disturb the dry pulsation of myriad insect-voices, nor to blur the square mirrors of distant rice-fields, still tropically blue or icy with reflected clouds. miss drake paused on the knoll, and looked about her. "this remains the same, doesn't it, for all our troubles?" she said; then to herself, slowly, "'it is a beauteous evening, calm and free.'" heywood made no pretense of following her look. "'dear nun,'" he blurted; "no, how does it go again?--'dear child, that walkest with me here--'" the girl started down the slope, with the impatience of one whose mood is frustrated. the climate had robbed her cheeks of much color, but not, it seemed, of all. "your fault," said heywood, impenitent. "merely to show you. i could quote, once." "aged man!" she laughed, as though glad of this turn. "i like you better in prose. go on, please, where we left off. what did you do then?" heywood's smile, half earnest, half mischievous, obediently faded. "oh, that! why, then, of course, i discharged rudolph's gatekeeper, put a trusty of my own in his place, sent out to hire a diver, and turned all hands to hunting. 'obviously,' as gilly would say.--we picked up two side-bolts in the garden, by the wall, one in the mud outside, and three the diver got in shallow water. total recovered, six; plus two pêng had no time for, eight. we can ill spare four guns, though; and the affair shows they keep a beastly close watch." "yes," said miss drake, absently; then drew a slow breath. "pêng was the most promising pupil we had." "he was," stated her companion, "a little, unmitigated, skipping, orange-tawny goblin!" she made no reply. as they footed slowly along the winding path, flounce, the fox-terrier, who had scouted among strange clumps of bamboo, now rejoined them briskly, cantering with her fore-legs delicately stiff and joyful. miss drake stooped to pat her, saying:-"poor little dog. little foreign dog!" she rose with a sigh, to add incongruously, "oh, the things we dream beforehand, and then the things that happen!" "i don't know." heywood looked at her keenly. "sometimes they're the same." the jealous terrier scored her dusty paws down his white drill, from knee to ankle, before he added:-"you know how the queen of heaven won her divinity." "another," said the girl, "of your heathen stories?" "rather a pretty one," he retorted. "it happened in a seaport, a good many hundred miles up the coast. a poor girl lived there, with her mother, in a hut. one night a great gale blew, so that everybody was anxious. three junks were out somewhere at sea, in that storm. the girl lay there in the dark. her sweetheart on board, it would be in a western story; but these were only her friends, and kin, and townsmen, that were at stake. so she lay there in the hut, you see, and couldn't rest. and then it seemed to her, in the dark, that she was swimming out through the storm, out and out, and not in the least afraid. she had become larger, and more powerful, somehow, than the rain, or the dark, or the whole ocean; for when she came upon the junks tossing there, she took one in each hand, the third in her mouth, and began to swim for home. just retrieved 'em, you know. but then across the storm she heard her mother calling in the dark, and had to open her mouth to answer. so she lost that junk." "well, then her spirit was back in the hut. but next day the two junks came in; the third one, never. and for that dream, she was made, after her death, the great and merciful queen of heaven." as heywood ended, they were entering a pastoral village, near the town, but hidden low under great trees, ancient and widely gnarled. "you told that," said miss drake, "as though it had really happened." "if you believe, these things have reality; if not, they have none." his gesture, as he repeated the native maxim, committed him to neither side. miss drake looked back toward the hills. "her dream was play, compared to--some." "that," he answered, "is abominably true." the curt, significant tone made her glance at him quickly. in her dark eyes there was no impatience, but only trouble. "we do better," she said, "when we are both busy." he nodded, as though reluctantly agreeing, not so much to the words as to the silence which followed. the evening peace, which lay on the fields and hills, had flooded even the village streets. without pause, without haste, the endless labor of the day went on as quiet as a summer cloud. meeting or overtaking, coolies passed in single file, their bare feet slapping the enormous flags of antique, sunken granite, their twin baskets bobbing and creaking to the rhythm of their wincing trot. the yellow muscles rippled strongly over straining ribs, as with serious faces, and slant eyes intent on their path, they chanted in pairs the ageless refrain, the call and answer which make burdens lighter:-"o heh!--o ha? o ho ho! o heh!--o ha? o ho ho!" from hidden places sounded the whir of a jade-cutter's wheel, a cobbler's rattle, or the clanging music of a forge. yet everywhere the slow movements, the faded, tranquil colors,--dull blue garments, dusky red tiles, deep bronze-green foliage overhanging a vista of subdued white and gray,--consorted with the spindling shadows and low-streaming vesper light. keepers of humble shops lounged in the open air with their gossips, smoking bright pipes of the yunnan white copper, nodding and blinking gravely. above them, no less courteous and placid, little doorway shrines besought the earth-god to lead the giver of wealth within. sometimes, where a narrow lane gaped opposite a door, small stone lions sat grinning upon pillars, to scare away the secret arrow of misfortune. but these rarely: the village seemed a happy place, favored of the influences. in the grateful coolness men came and went, buying, joking, offering neighborly advice to chance-met people. a plump woman, who carried two tiny silver fish in an immense flat basket, grinned at miss drake, and pointed roguishly. "see the two boats going by!" she called. "her feet are bigger than my golden lilies!" and laughing, she wriggled her own dusty toes, strong, free, and perfect in modeling. an old, withered barber looked up from shaving a blue forehead, under a tree. "their women," he growled, "are shameless, and walk everywhere!" but a stern man, bearing a palm-leaf fan and a lark in a cage, frowned him down. "she brought my son safe out of the three sicknesses," he declared. "mind your trade, catcher of lively ones!" then bending over the cage, with solicitude, he began gently to fan the lark. as heywood and the girl paused beside him, he glanced up, and smiled gravely. "i give my pet his airing," he said; and then, quickly but quietly, "when you reach the town, do not pass through the west quarter. it is full of evil-minded persons. their placards are posted." a shrill trio of naked boys came racing and squabbling, to offer grasshoppers for sale. "we have seen no placards," replied heywood. "you will to-morrow," said the owner of the lark, calmly; and squatting, became engrossed in poking a grasshopper between the brown, varnished splints of the cage. "maker of music, here is your evening rice." the two companions passed on, with flounce timidly at heel. "you see," heywood broke out. "warnings everywhere. now please, won't you listen to my advice? no telling when the next ship _will_ call, but when it does--" "i can't run away." she spoke as one clinging to a former answer. "i must stand by my dream, such as it used to be--and even such as it is." he eyed her sadly, shook his head, and said no more. for a moment they halted, where the path broadened on a market-place, part shade, part luminous with golden dust. a squad of lank boys, kicking miraculously with flat upturned soles, kept a wicker ball shining in the air, as true and lively as a plaything on a fountain-jet. beyond, their tiny juniors, girls and boys knee-high, and fat tumbling babies in rainbow finery, all hand-locked and singing, turned their circle inside out and back again, in the dizzy graces of the "water wheel." other boys, and girls still trousered and queued like boys, played at hopscotch, in and out among shoes that lay across the road. all traffic, even the steady trotting coolies, fetched a lenient compass roundabout. "lucky hand, lucky hand! allow me to pass," begged a coffin-maker's man, bent under a plank. "these long-life boards are heavy." "ho, lame chicken!" called another, blocked by the hop-scotch. he was a brown grass-cutter, who grinned, and fondled a smoky cloth that buzzed--some tribe of wild bees, captured far afield. "ho, lame chicken! do not bump me. they will sting." he came through safely; for at the same moment the musical "cling-clank" of a sweetmeat-seller's bell turned the game into a race. the way was clear, also, for a tiny, aged collector of paper, flying the gay flag of an "exalted literary society," and plodding, between two great baskets, on his pious rounds. "revere and spare," he piped, at intervals,-"revere and spare the written word!" all the bright picture lingered with the two alien wayfarers, long after they had passed and the sun had withdrawn from their path. in the hoary peace of twilight,-"what can _we_ do here?" the girl cried abruptly. "there--i never meant to say it. but it runs in my head all the time. i work and work, to keep it down. what can we do here?" heywood watched her face, set straight before them, and now more clearly cut in the failing light. were there only pride in those fine and resolute lines, it might have been a face from some splendid coin, or medal of victory. "you work too hard," he said. "think, instead, of all the good--" but at that she seemed to wince. "the good? as if there weren't dark streets and crooked children at home! oh, the pride and ignorance that sent me here!" she spoke quietly, with a kind of wonder. "just blind, ignorant feelings, i took them for--for something too great and mysterious. it's all very strange to look back on, and try to put into words. i remember painted glass, and solemn music--and thinking--then!--that i knew this lovely and terrible world--and its maker and master." she looked down the dusky lanes, where glowworm lanterns began to bob and wink. "oh, this land! where you see the days running into years!" "the dragon's a wise old beast," he ventured. "he teaches--something." she assented gravely:-"and in those days i thought it was a dark continent--of lost souls." "there are no dark continents," declared heywood suddenly, in a broken voice. "the heart of one man--can hold more darkness--you would never see into it--" "don't!" she cried sharply. "what did we promise?" they stood close in the dusk, and a tremor, a wave, passed through them both. "i forgot--i couldn't help"--he stammered; then, as they stumbled forward, he regained his former tone, keen and ready. "mustn't get to fussing about our work, must we?--curious thing: speaking of dreams, you know. the other night i thought you were somewhere out on board a junk, and flounce with you. i swam like anything, miles and miles, but couldn't get out to you. worked like steam, and no headway. flounce knew i was coming, but you didn't. deuced odd, how real it seemed." she laughed, as though they had walked past some danger. "and speaking of dragons," she rejoined. "they _do_ help. the man in the story, that dipped in dragon's blood, was made invulnerable." "oh?" he stood plainly at a loss. "oh, i see. german, wasn't he?--pity they didn't pop rudie hackh in!" her swift upward glance might have been admiration, if she had not said:-"your mind works very slowly." "oh?" again he paused, as though somewhat hurt; then answered cheerfully: "dare say. always did. thought at first you meant the rattan-juice kind, from sumatra." the gate of the town yawned black. from the streets glimmered a few lanterns, like candles in a long cave. but shunning these unfriendly corridors, he led her roundabout, now along the walls, now through the dim ways of an outlying hamlet. a prolonged shriek of growing fright and anguish came slowly toward them--the cry of a wheelbarrow carrying the great carcass of a pig, waxy white and waxy red, like an image from a chamber of horrors. in the blue twilight, fast deepening, the most familiar things became grotesque. a woman's voice telling stories behind shadow pictures, and the capricious play of the black puppets on her lighted screen, had the effect of incantation. before the booth of a dentist, the long strings of black teeth swayed in the lantern-glow, rattling, like horrid necklaces of cannibals. and from a squat den--where on a translucent placard in the dull window flickered the words "foreign earth," and the guttering door-lantern hinted "as you like it"--there came a sweet, insidious, potent smell that seemed more poisonous than mere opium. "let's go faster," said the girl. "somehow, the dark makes me uneasy to-night." skirting the town, they struck at last the open road beyond, and saw against a fading sky the low black bulk of the nunnery, pierced with orange squares. past its landward wall, lanterns moved slowly, clustered here and there by twos and threes, and dispersed. cackling argument came from the ditch, wherever the lantern-bearers halted; and on the face of the wall, among elbowing shadows, shone dim strips of scarlet. both pillars of the gate were plastered with them. "placards," said heywood. "things are ripening fast." lighting match from match, he studied the long red scrolls, crowded with neat rows of symbols. he read them off slowly. 'the garden of the three exquisites.'--pshaw! that's a theatre notice: enterprising manager.--ah, more like it. long preamble, regular trimetrical platitudes--here we are:-"'these red-bristled ghosts teach their dupes to break the ancestral tablets, and to worship the picture of a naked infant, which points one finger toward heaven, another toward earth.--to each man entering the false religion, a pill is given which confuses and darkens the mind.--why they dig out babies' eyes: from one hundred pounds of chinese lead can be extracted seven pounds of silver, and the remaining ninety-three pounds can be sold at the original cost. this silver can be extracted only by the elixir of black eyes. the green eyes of barbarians are of no use.'--really, what follows is too--er--obscure. but here's the close: 'tao-tais of the villages, assemble your population. patriots, join! let us hurl back these wizard-beasts beyond the oceans, to take their place among the strange things of creation!'" "and the big characters," she added, "the big characters you tried to hide, are 'kill' and 'burn'?" gray eyes and dark eyes met steadily, while the last match, reddening the blood in his fingers, slowly burned out. chapter xv kaú fai at the top of the nunnery stairs, rudolph met them with awkward ceremony, and with that smiling air of encouragement which a nurse might use in trying cheerfully to deceive a sick man. heywood laughed, without mercy, at this pious fraud. "hallo, you red-bristled ghost!" he cried. "we came early--straight from our walk. are the rest coming? and did my cook arrive to help yours?" their host, carried by assault, at once became less mournful. "the cook is here," he replied, "by the kitchen-sounds. they disagree, i think. i have asked everybody. we should have a full dinner-table." "good," said his friend; and then whispering, as they followed miss drake to the living-room, "i say, don't act as though you expected the ghost of banquo." in the bare, white loft, by candle-light, sturgeon sat midway in some long and wheezy tale, to which the padre and his wife listened with true forbearance. greetings over, the stodgy annalist continued. the story was forgotten as soon as ended; talk languished; and even by the quaking light of the candles, it was plain that the silence was no mere waiting solemnity before meat, but a period of tension. the relief came oddly. up from the road sounded a hubbub of voices, the tramp of feet, and loud halloos. "by jove!" cried sturgeon, like a man who fears the worst; and for all his bulk, he was first at the window. a straggling file of lanterns, borne by some small army, came jogging and crowding to a halt under the walls. yellow faces gleamed faintly, bare heads bobbed, and men set down burdens, grunting. among the vanguard an angry voice scolded in a strange tongue. "_burra suar!_" it raged; then hailed imperiously, "_ko hai?_" where the lanterns clustered brightest, an active little figure in white waved a helmet, crying,-"on deck! where the devil does maurice heywood live?" "i'm up here," called that young man. for reply, the stranger began to skip among his cohorts, jerking out his white legs like a dancing marionette. then, with a sudden drop-kick, he sent the helmet flickering high into the darkness over the wall. "here we come!" he shouted, in hilarious warning. the squabbling retinue surged after him through the gate, and one by one the lanterns disappeared under the covered way. "it's the captain!" laughed heywood, in amazement. "kneebone--ashore! he can't be sober!" all stared; for captain kneebone, after one historically brief and outspoken visit, had never in all these years set foot in the port. the two young men hurried to the stairs. chinamen and lanterns crowded the courtyard, stuffed the passage, and still came straggling in at the gate. by the noise and clatter, it might have been a caravan, or a band of half-naked robbers bringing plunder. everywhere, on the stone flags, coolies were dumping down bundles, boxes, jute-bags crammed with heavy objects. among them, still brawling in bad hindustani, the little captain gave his orders. at sight of heywood, however, he began once more to caper, with extravagant grimaces. by his smooth, ruddy face, and tunic of purest white, he seemed a runaway parson gone farther wrong than ever. "i've come to stay a month!" he cried; and dancing up, caught heywood's hands and whirled him about. "i was fair bursting to see ye, my boy! and here we are, at last!" though his cheeks were flushed, and eyes alarmingly bright, he was beyond question sober. over his head, heywood and rudolph exchanged an anxious glance. "good! but this is hackh's house--the nunnery," said the one; and the other added, "you're just in time for dinner." the captain found these facts to be excruciating. he clapped rudolph on the arm, and crowed:-"nunnery? we'll make it a bloomin' chummery!--dinner be 'anged! a banquet. what's more, i've brought the chow"--he swept the huddled boxes with a prodigal gesture,--"lashin's o' food and drink! that's what it is: a banquet!" he turned again to his sweating followers, and flung the head coolie a handful of silver, crying, "_sub-log kiswasti!_ divide, and be off with ye! _jao_, ye beggars! not a pice more. finish! i'll not spend it all on _you_!" then, pouncing on the nearest crate, he burst it open with a ferocious kick. "stores? the choicest to be 'ad in all saigong! look here"--he held up a tin and scanned the label triumphantly: "chow de bruxelles, what? never saw chow spelt with an 'x' before, did ye? french, my boy. bad spellers, but good cooks, are the french." heywood lost his worried frown. something had happened,--evidently at calcutta, for the captain always picked up his vernacular where he dropped his latest cargo; but at all events these vagaries were not the effect of heat or loneliness. "what's up, captain?" he laughed. but now that the coolies had gone, captain kneebone's heels were busy, staving open boxes right and left. a bottle rolled out, and smashed in a hissing froth of champagne. "plenty more," he cried, rejoicing. "that shows ye how much _i_ care! oho!" suddenly he turned from this destruction, and facing heywood, began mysteriously to exult over him. "old fool and his earnings, eh? fixed ideas, eh? 'no good,' says you. 'that cock won't fight,' says you. 'let it alone.'--ho-ho! what price fixed ideas now?" the eyes of his young friend widened in unbelief. "no," he cried, with a start: "you haven't?" the captain seized both hands again, and took on--for his height--a roman stateliness. "i have." he nodded solemnly. "bar sells, i have. no more, now. we'll--be-george, we'll announce it, at the banquet! announce, that's the word. first time in _my_ life: announce!" heywood suddenly collapsed on a sack, and laughed himself into abject silence. "awfully glad, old chap," he at last contrived to say, and again choked. the captain looked down at the shaking body with a singular, benign, and fatherly smile. "a funny world, ain't it?" he declared sagely. "i've known this boy a long time," he explained to rudolph. "this matter's--we'll let you in, presently. lend me some coolies here, while we turn your dinner into my banquet. eh? you don't care? once in a bloomin' lifetime." with a seafaring bellow, he helped rudolph to hail the servants' quarters. a pair of cooks, a pair of number twos, and all the "learn-pidgin" youngsters of two households came shuffling into the court; and arriving guests found all hands broaching cargo, in a loud confusion of orders and miscomprehension. the captain's dinner was the more brilliant. throughout the long, white room, in the slow breeze of the punkah, scores of candles burned soft and tremulous, as though the old days had returned when the brown sisters lighted their refectory; but never had their table seen such profusion of viands, or of talk and laughter. the saigon stores--after daily fare--seemed of a strange and corinthian luxury. the captain's wine proved excellent. and his ruddy little face, beaming at the head of the table, wore an extravagant, infectious grin. his quick blue eyes danced with the light of some ineffable joke. he seemed a conjurer, creating banquets for sheer mischief in the wilderness. "there's a soup!" he had proclaimed. "patent, mind ye! stick a knife into the tin, and she 'eats 'erself!" among all the revelers, one face alone showed melancholy. chantel, at the foot of the table, sat unregarded by all save rudolph, who now and then caught from him a look filled with gloom and suspicion. it was beside rudolph that mrs. forrester laughed and chattered, calling all eyes toward her, and yet finding private intervals in which to dart a sidelong shaft at her neighbor. rudolph's ears shone coral pink; for now again he was aboard ship, hiding a secret at once dizzy, dangerous, and entrancing. across the talk, the wine, the many lights, came the triumph of seeing that other hostile face, glowering in defeat. never before had chantel, and all the others, dwindled so far into such nonentity, or her presence vibrated so near. soon he became aware that captain kneebone had risen, with a face glowing red above the candles. even sturgeon forgot the flood of bounties, and looked expectantly toward their source. the captain cleared his throat, faltered, then turning sheepish all at once, hung his head. "be 'anged, i can't make a speech, after all," he grumbled; and wheeling suddenly on heywood, with a peevish air of having been defrauded: "aboard ship i could sit and think up no end o' flowery talk, and now it's all gone!" he stared at his plate miserably. it was miss drake who came to his rescue. "tell us the secret," she begged. "how do you manage all these nice things?" the captain's eyes surveyed the motley collection down the length of the bright table, then returned to her, gratefully:-"this ain't anything. only a little--bloomin'--" "impromptu," suggested heywood. "that's the word!" captain kneebone eyed them both with uncommon favor. "that's it, ye know. i just 'opped about saigong like a--jackdaw, picking up these impromptus. but i came here all the way to break the news proper, by word o' mouth." he faced the company, and gathering himself for the effort,-"i'm rich," he declared. "i'm da--i'm remarkable rich." pausing for the effect, he warmed to his oratory. "it ain't for me to boast. sailormen as a rule are bad hands to save money. but i've won first prize in the derby sweepstake lott'ry, and the money's safe to my credit at the h.k. and s. in calcutta, and i'm retired and going home! more money than the old kut sing earned since her launching--so much i was frightened, first, and lost my sleep! and me without chick nor child, as the saying is--to go home and live luxurious ever after!" "ow!" cried nesbit, "lucky beggar!"--"sincerely glad," said mr. forrester. and a volley of compliments went round the board. the captain plainly took heart, and flushing still redder at so much praise and good will, stood now at ease, chuckling. "most men," he began, when there came a lull, "most men makes a will after they're dead. that's a shore way o' doing things! now _i_ want to see the effects, living. so be 'anged, here goes, right and proper. to miss drake, for her hospital and kiddies, two thousand rupees." in the laughter and friendly uproar, the girl sat dazed. "what shall i say?" she whispered, wavering between amusement and distress. "i can't accept it--" "nonsense!" grumbled heywood, with an angry glance. "don't spoil the happiest evening of an old man's life." "you're right," she answered quickly; and when the plaudits ended, she thanked the captain in a very simple, pretty speech, which made him duck and grin,--a proud little benefactor. "that ain't all," he cried gayly; then leveled a threatening finger, like a pistol, at her neighbor. "who poked fun at me, first and last? who always came out aboard to tell me what an old ass i was? fixed ideas, eh? no go?--look you here. what did i come so many hundred miles for? to say what i always said: half-shares." the light-blue eyes, keen with sea-cunning and the lonely sight of many far horizons, suffered an indescribable change. "my boy, the half's yours. there's two rich men here to-night. i've come to take you home." it was heywood's turn to be struck dumb. he grew very pale. "oh, i say," he stammered at last, "it's not fair--" "don't spoil the happiest evening--" whispered the girl beside him. he eyed her ruefully, groaned, then springing up, went swiftly to the head of the table and wrung the captain's brown paw, without a word to say. "can do, can do," said captain kneebone, curtly. "i was afraid ye might not want to come." then followed a whirlwind; and teppich rose with his moustache bristling, and the ready nesbit jerked him down again in the opening sentence; and everybody laughed at heywood, who sat there so white, with such large eyes; and the dinner going by on the wings of night, the melancholy "boy" circled the table, all too soon, with a new silver casket full of noble cigars from paiacombo, manila, and dindigul. as the three ladies passed the foot of the table, rudolph saw mrs. forrester make an angry signal. and presently, like a prisoner going to his judge, chantel slipped out of the room. he was not missed; for already the streaming candle-flames stood wreathed in blue layers, nor was it long before the captain, mounting his chair, held a full glass aloft. "here," he cried in triumph, "here's to every nail in the hoof--" the glass crashed into splinters and froth. a flying stone struck the boom of the punkah, and thumped on the table. through the open windows, from the road, came a wild chorus of yells, caught up and echoed by many voices in the distance. "shutters!" called heywood. "quick!" as they slammed them home, more stones drummed on the boards and clattered against the wall. conches brayed somewhere, followed by an unaccountable, sputtering fusillade as of tiny muskets, and then by a formidable silence. while the banqueters listened in the smoky room, there came a sullen, heavy sound, like a single stroke on a large and very slack bass-drum. "_kaú fai!_" shrilled the voices below; and then in a fainter gabble, as though hurrying off toward the sound,--"_kaú fai!_" "the black dog," said heywood, quietly. "he has barked. earlier than we figured, gilly. lucky the scaffolding's up. gentlemen, we all know our posts. guns are in the first bedroom. quietly, now. rudie, go call chantel. don't frighten the women. if they ask about that noise, tell 'em anything--dragon boat festival beginning. anything.--we can easily hold this place, while the captain gets 'em out to his ship." the captain wheeled, with an injured air. "what ship?" he inquired testily. "told ye, plain, i was retired. came the last bit in a stinking native boat, and _she's_ cleared by now. think i carry ships in my pocket?" outside, the swollen discord of shouts, thunder of gongs, and hoarse calling of the conches came slowly nearer, extending through the darkness. chapter xvi the gunwale rudolph's mission began quietly, with a glimpse which he afterward recalled as incredibly peaceful. two of the women, at least, showed no fear. in the living-room sat mrs. earle, her chin cramped on her high bosom, while she mournfully studied his colored picture-book of the rhine. miss drake, who leaned in one of the river windows, answered him, saying rather coldly that chantel and mrs. forrester had gone down to the garden. in the court, however, he ran across ah pat, loitering beside a lantern. the compradore grinned, and in a tone of great unconcern called out that the pair were not in the garden. "walkee so." he pointed down the passage to the main gate, and hooked his thumb toward the right, to indicate their course. "makee finish, makee die now," he added calmly; "too muchee, no can." rudolph experienced his first shock of terror, like an icy blow on the scalp. they had gone outside before the alarm; she, bertha, was swept away in that tumult which came raging through the darkness.--he stood transfixed, but only for an instant, rather by the stroke of helplessness than by fear; and then, blindly, without plan or foresight, darted down the covered way. the tiny flame of a pith wick, floating in a saucer of oil, showed heywood's gatekeeper sitting at his post, like a gnome in the gallery of a mine. rudolph tore away the bar, heard the heavy gate slam shut, and found himself running down the starlit road. not all starlight, however; a dim red glow began to flicker on the shapes which rushed behind him in his flight. wheeling once, he saw two broad flames leaping high in wild and splendid rivalry,--one from heywood's house, one from the club. he caught also a whirling impression of many heads and arms, far off, tiny, black, and crowded in rushing disorder; of pale torches in the road; and of a hissing, snarling shout, a single word, like "_sha, sha_!" repeated incessantly in a high key. the flame at the club shot up threefold, with a crash; and a glorious criss-cross multitude of sparks flew hissing through the treetops, like fiery tadpoles through a net. he turned and ran on, dazzled; fell over some one who lay groaning; rose on hands and knees, groped in the dust, and suddenly fingered thin, rough cloth, warm and sopping. in a nausea of relief, he felt that this was a native,--some unknown dying man, who coughed like a drunkard. rudolph sprang up and raced again, following by habit the path which he and she had traversed at noon. once, with a heavy collision, he stopped short violently in the midst of crowded men, who shouted, clung to him, wrestling, and struck out with something sharp that ripped his tunic. he kicked, shook them off, hammered his fists right and left, and ran free, with a strange conviction that to-night he was invincible. stranger still, as the bamboo leaves now and then brushed his bare forehead, he missed the sharp music of her cicadas. the looming of a wall checked him. here stood her house; she had the briefest possible start of him, and he had run headlong the whole way; by all the certainty of instinct, he knew that he had chosen the right path: why, then, had he not overtaken her? if she met that band which he had just broken through--he wavered in the darkness, and was turning wildly to race back, when a sudden light sprang up before him in her window. he plunged forward, in at the gate, across a plot of turf, stumbled through the goddess of mercy bamboo that hedged the door, and went falling up the dark stairs, crying aloud,--for the first time in his life,--"bertha! bertha!" empty rooms rang with the name, but no one answered. at last, however, reaching the upper level, he saw by lamplight, through the open door, two figures struggling. just before he entered, she tore herself free and went unsteadily across the room. chantel, white and abject, turned as in panic. "oh!" plainly he had not expected to see another face as white as his own. breathless and trembling, he spoke in a strangely little voice; but his staring eyes lighted with a sudden and desperate resolution. "help me with her," he begged. "she won't listen. the woman's out of her wits." he caught rudolph by the arm; and standing for a moment like close friends, the two panting rivals watched her in stupefaction. she ransacked a great cedar chest, a table, shelves, boxes, and strewed the contents on the floor,--silk scarfs, shining benares brass, chinese silver, vivid sarongs from the preanger regency, kyoto cloisonné, a wild heap of plunder from the bazaars of all the nations where gilly's meagre earnings had been squandered. a cingalese box dropped and burst open, scattering bright stones, false or precious, broadcast. she trampled them in her blind and furious search. "come," said chantel, and snatched at her. "leave those. come to the boat. every minute--" she pushed him aside like a thing without weight or meaning, stooped again among the gay rubbish, caught up a necklace, flung it down for the sake of a brooch, then dropped everything and turned with blank, dilated eyes, and the face of a child lost in a crowd. "rudolph," she whimpered, "help me. what shall i do?" without waiting for answer, she bent once more to sort and discard her pitiful treasures, to pause vaguely, consider, and wring her hands. rudolph, in his turn, caught her by the arm, but fared no better. "we must humor her," whispered chantel, and, kneeling like a peddler among the bazaar-stuffs, spread on the floor a java sarong, blue and brown, painted with men and buffaloes. on this he began to heap things pell-mell. the woman surrendered, and all at once flung her arms about rudolph, hiding her face, and clinging to him as if with the last of her strength. "come, he'll bring them," she sobbed. "let's go--to the boat. he must find his own way. take me." hurry and fright choked her. "take me--leave him, if he won't come--i scolded him--then the noises came, and we ran--" "what boat?" said rudolph. chantel did not look up. "i have one ready and stocked," he mumbled, tugging with his teeth at the knot in the sarong corners. "you can come. we'll drop down the river, and try it along the coast. only chance. come on." he rose, and started for the door, slinging the bright-colored bundle over his shoulder. "come on," he snarled. against the gay pattern, his handsome pirate face shone brown and evil in the lamplight. "damn you, i've waited long enough for your whims. stay there and be killed, then." he ran to the stairs, and down. the woman's arms began to drag loosely, as if she were slipping to the floor; then suddenly, with a cry, she turned and bolted. run as he might, rudolph did not overtake her till she had caught chantel at the gate. all three, silent, sped across fields toward the river, through the startling shadows and dim orange glow from distant flames. the rough ground sloped, at last, and sent them stumbling down into mud. behind them the bank ran black and ragged against the glow; before them, still more black, lay the river, placid, mysterious, and safe. through the mud they labored heavily toward a little, smoky light--a lantern gleaming faintly on a polished gunwale, the shoulders of a man, and the thin, slant line that was his pole. "lowdah?" called chantel; and the shoulders moved, the line shifted, as the boatman answered. chantel pitched the bundle over the lantern, and leapt on board. rudolph came slowly, carrying in his arms the woman, who lay quiet and limp, clasping him in a kind of drowsy oblivion. he felt the flutter of her lips, while she whispered in his ear strange, breathless entreaties, a broken murmur of endearments, unheard-of, which tempted him more than the wide, alluring darkness of the river. he lowered her slowly; and leaning against the gunwale, she still clung to his hands. "aboard! quickly!" snapped their leader, from the dusk behind the lantern. obeying by impulse, rudolph moved nearer the gunwale. the slippery edge, polished by bare feet through many years, seemed the one bit of reality in this dream, except the warmth of her hands. "to the nunnery?" he asked, trying dully to rouse from a fascination. "no, no," she wailed. "down--away--safe." "no, back to them," he answered stupidly. "they are all there. your--he is there. we can't leave--" "you fool!" chantel swore in one tongue, and in another cried to the boatman--"shove off, if they won't come!" he seized the woman roughly and pulled her on board; but she reached out and caught rudolph's hand again. "come, hurry," she whispered, tugging at him. "come, dear boy. i won't leave you. quickly. you saw it burning. they're all dead. it's no use. we must live. we must live, darling." she was right, somehow; there was no power to confute her. he must come with her, or run back, useless, into the ring of swords and flames. she and life were in the boat; ashore, a friend cut off beyond reach, an impossible duty, and death. his eyes, dull and fixed in the smoky lantern-light, rested for an age on the knotted sarong. it meant nothing; then in a flash, as though for him all light of the eyes had concentrated in a single vision, it meant everything. the colored cloth--rudely painted in the hut of some forgotten mountaineer--held all her treasure and her heart, the things of this world. she must go with those. it was fitting. she was beautiful--in all her fear and disorder, still more beautiful. she went with life, departing into a dream. this glossy gunwale, polished by bare feet, was after all the sole reality, a shining line between life and death. "then i must die," he groaned, and wrenched his hands away from that perilous boundary. he vaguely heard her cry out, vaguely saw chantel rise above the lantern and slash down at him with the lowdah's pole. the bamboo struck him, heavy but glancing, on the head. he staggered, lost his footing, and fell into the mud, where, as though his choice had already overtaken him, he lay without thought or emotion, watching the dim light float off into the darkness. by and by it was gone. from somewhere in another direction came a sharp, continual, crackling fusillade, like the snapping of dry bamboo-joints in a fire. the unstirring night grew heavier with the smell of burnt gunpowder. but rudolph, sitting in the mud, felt only that his eyes were dry and leaden in their sockets, that there was a drumming in his ears, and that if heat and weariness thus made an end of him, he need no longer watch the oppressive multitude of stars, or hear the monotony of flowing water. something stirred in the dry grass above him. without turning, he heard a man scramble down the bank; without looking up, he felt some one pause and stoop close. when at last, in profound apathy, he raised his eyes, he saw against the starlight the hat, head, and shoulders of a coolie. quite natural, he thought, that the fellow should be muttering in german. it was only the halting, rusty fashion of the speech that finally fretted him into listening. the words did not concern him. "are you dead, then?" grumbled the coolie. "did she kill you?" rudolph dismissed him with a vague but angry motion. some time afterward the same voice came louder. the coolie was still there. "you cannot sit here all night," he said. "by daylight they will catch you. come. perhaps i can take you to your friends. come." rudolph felt sharp knuckles working at his lips, and before he could rebel, found his mouth full of sweet fiery liquid. he choked, swallowed, and presently heard the empty bottle splash in the river. "_stösst an_!" said the rescuer, and chuckled something in dispraise of women. "is that not better?" the rice-brandy was hot and potent; for of a sudden rudolph found himself afoot and awake. a dizzy warmth cleared his spirit. he understood perfectly. this man, for some strange reason, was wutzler, a coolie and yet a brother from the fatherland. he and his nauseous alien brandy had restored the future. there was more to do. "come on." the forsaken lover was first man up the bank. "see!" he cried, pointing to a new flare in the distance. the whole region was now aglow like a furnace, and filled with smoke, with prolonged yells, and a continuity of explosions that ripped the night air like tearing silk. "her house is burning now." "you left in time." wutzler shuffled before him, with the trot of a lean and exhausted laborer. "i was with the men you fought, when you ran. i followed to the house, and then here, to the river. i was glad you did not jump on board." he glanced back, timidly, for approbation. "i am a great coward, herr heywood told me so,--but i also stay and help." he steered craftily among the longest and blackest shadows, now jogging in a path, now threading the boundary of a rice-field, or waiting behind trees; and all the time, though devious and artful as a deer-stalker, crept toward the centre of the noise and the leaping flames. when the quaking shadows grew thin and spare, and the lighted clearings dangerously wide, he swerved to the right through a rolling bank of smoke. they coughed as they ran. once rudolph paused, with the heat of the fire on his cheeks. "the nunnery is burning," he said hopelessly. his guide halted, peered shrewdly, and listened. "no, they are still shooting," he answered, and limped onward, skirting the uproar. at last, when by pale stars above the smoke and flame and sparks, rudolph judged that they were somewhere north of the nunnery, they came stumbling down into a hollow encumbered with round, swollen obstacles. like a patch of enormous melons, oil-jars lay scattered. "hide here, and wait," commanded wutzler. "i will go see." and he flitted off through the smoke. smuggled among the oil-jars, rudolph lay panting. shapes of men ran past, another empty jar rolled down beside him, and a stray bullet sang overhead like a vibrating wire. soon afterward, wutzler came crawling through the huddled pottery. "lie still," he whispered. "your friends are hemmed in. you cannot get through." the smell of rancid oil choked them, yet they could breathe without coughing, and could rest their smarting eyes. in the midst of tumult and combustion, the hollow lay dark as a pool. along its rim bristled a scrubby fringe of weeds, black against a rosy cloud. after a time, something still blacker parted the weeds. in silhouette, a man's head, his hand grasping a staff or the muzzle of a gun, remained there as still as though, crawling to the verge, he lay petrified in the act of spying. chapter xvii lamp of heaven the white men peered from among the oil-jars, like two of the forty thieves. they could detect no movement, friendly or hostile: the black head lodged there without stirring. the watcher, whether he had seen them or not, was in no hurry; for with chin propped among the weeds, he held a pose at once alert and peaceful, mischievous and leisurely, as though he were master of that hollow, and might lie all night drowsing or waking, as the humor prompted. wutzler pressed his face against the earth, and shivered in the stifling heat. the uncertainty grew, with rudolph, into an acute distress. his legs ached and twitched, the bones of his neck were stretched as if to break, and a corner of broken clay bored sharply between his ribs. he felt no fear, however: only a great impatience to have the spy begin,--rise, beckon, call to his fellows, fire his gun, hit or miss. this longing, or a flash of anger, or the rice-brandy working so nimbly in his wits, gave him both impulse and plan. "don't move," he whispered; "wait here." and wriggling backward, inch by inch, feet foremost among the crowded bellies of the jars, he gained the further darkness. so far as sight would carry, the head stirred no more than if it had been a cannon-ball planted there on the verge, against the rosy cloud. from crawling, rudolph rose to hands and knees, and silently in the dust began to creep on a long circuit. once, through a rift in smoke, he saw a band of yellow musketeers, who crouched behind some ragged earthwork or broken wall, loading and firing without pause or care, chattering like outraged monkeys, and all too busy to spare a glance behind. their heads bobbed up and down in queer scarlet turbans or scarfs, like the flannel nightcaps of so many diabolic invalids. passing them unseen, he crept back toward his hollow. in spite of smoke, he had gauged and held his circle nicely, for straight ahead lay the man's legs. taken thus in the rear, he still lay prone, staring down the slope, inactive; yet legs, body, and the bent arm that clutched a musket beside him in the grass, were stiff with some curious excitement. he seemed ready to spring up and fire. no time to lose, thought rudolph; and rising, measured his distance with a painful, giddy exactness. he would have counted to himself before leaping, but his throat was too dry. he flinched a little, then shot through the air, and landed heavily, one knee on each side, pinning the fellow down as he grappled underneath for the throat. almost in the same movement he had bounded on foot again, holding both hands above his head, as high as he could withdraw them. the body among the weeds lay cold, revoltingly indifferent to stratagem or violence, in the same tense attitude, which had nothing to do with life. rudolph dropped his hands, and stood confounded by his own brutal discourtesy. wutzler, crawling out from the jars, scrambled joyfully up the bank. "you have killed him?" quavered the dry little voice. "you are very brave!" "no, no," cried rudolph, earnestly. "he was, already." by the scarlet headgear, and a white symbol on the back of his jacket, the man at their feet was one of the musketeers. he had left the firing-line, crawled away in the dark, and found a quiet spot to die in. "so! this is good luck!" wutzler doffed his coolie hat, slid out of his jacket, tossed both down among the oil-jars, and stooping over the dead man, began to untwist the scarlet turban. in the dim light his lean arms and frail body, coated with black hair, gave him the look of a puny ape robbing a sleeper. he wriggled into the dead man's jacket, wound the blood-red cloth about his own temples, and caught up musket, ramrod, powder-horn, and bag of bullets.--"now i am all safe," he chuckled. "now i can go anywhere, to-night." he shouldered arms and stood grinning as though all their troubles were ended. "so! i am rebel soldier. we try again; come.--not too close behind me; and if i speak, run back." in this order they began once more to scout through the smoke. no one met them, though distant shapes rushed athwart the gloom, yelping to each other, and near by, legs of runners moved under a rolling cloud of smoke as if their bodies were embedded and swept along in the wrack:--all confused, hurried, and meaningless, like the uproar of gongs, horns, conches, whistling bullets, crackers, and squibs that sputtering, string upon string, flower upon rising flower of misty red gold explosion, ripped all other noise to tatters. where and how he followed, rudolph never could have told; but once, as they ran slinking through the heaviest smoke and, as it seemed, the heart of the turmoil, he recognized the yawning rim of a clay-pit, not a stone's throw from his own gate. it was amazing to feel that safety lay so close; still more amazing to catch a glimpse of many coolies digging in the pit by torchlight, peacefully, as though they had heard of no disturbance that evening. hardly had the picture flashed past, than he wondered whether he had seen or imagined it, whose men they were, and why, even at any time, they should swarm so busy, thick as ants, merely to dig clay. he had worry enough, however, to keep in view the white cross-barred hieroglyphic on his guide's jacket. suddenly it vanished, and next instant the muzzle of the gun jolted against his ribs. "run, quick," panted wutzler, pushing him aside. "to the left, into the go-down. here they are!--to your left!" and with the words, he bounded off to the right, firing his gun to confuse the chase. rudolph obeyed, and, running at top speed, dimly understood that he had doubled round a squad of grunting runners, whose bare feet pattered close by him in the smoke. before him gaped a black square, through which he darted, to pitch head first over some fat, padded bulk. as he rose, the rasping of rough jute against his cheek told him that he had fallen among bales; and a familiar, musty smell, that the bales were his own, in his own go-down, across a narrow lane from the nunnery. with high hopes, he stumbled farther into the darkness. once, among the bales, he trod on a man's hand, which was silently pulled away. with no time to think of that, he crawled and climbed over the disordered heaps, groping toward the other door. he had nearly reached it, when torchlight flared behind him, rushing in, and savage cries, both shrill and guttural, rang through the stuffy warehouse. he had barely time, in the reeling shadows, to fall on the earthen floor, and crawl under a thin curtain of reeds to a new refuge. into this--a cubby-hole where the compradore kept his tally-slips, umbrella, odds and ends--the torchlight shone faintly through the reeds. lying flat behind a roll of matting, rudolph could see, as through the gauze twilight of a stage scene, the tossing lights and the skipping men who shouted back and forth, jabbing their spears or pikes down among the bales, to probe the darkness. their search was wild but thorough. before it, in swift retreat, some one crawled past the compradore's room, brushing the splint partition like a snake. this, as rudolph guessed, might be the man whose hand he had stepped on. the stitches in the curtain became beads of light. a shadowy arm heaved up, fell with a dry, ripping sound and a vertical flash. a sword had cut the reeds from top to bottom. through the rent a smoking flame plunged after the sword, and after both, a bony yellow face that gleamed with sweat. rudolph, half wrapped in his matting, could see the hard, glassy eyes shine cruelly in their narrow slits; but before they lowered to meet his own, a jubilant yell resounded in the go-down, and with a grunt, the yellow face, the flambeau, and the sword were snatched away. he lay safe, but at the price of another man's peril. they had caught the crawling fugitive, and now came dragging him back to the lights. through the tattered curtain rudolph saw him flung on the ground like an empty sack, while his captors crowded about in a broken ring, cackling, and prodding him with their pikes. some jeered, some snarled, others called him by name, with laughing epithets that rang more friendly, or at least more jocular; but all bent toward him eagerly, and flung down question after question, like a little band of kobolds holding an inquisition. at some sharper cry than the rest, the fellow rose to his knees and faced them boldly. a haggard christian, he was being fairly given his last chance to recant. "open your mouth! open your mouth!" they cried, in rage or entreaty. the kneeling captive shook his head, and made some reply, very distinct and simple. "open your mouth!" they struck at him with the torches. the same sword that had slashed the curtain now pricked his naked chest. rudolph, clenching his fists in a helpless longing to rush out and scatter all these men-at-arms, had a strange sense of being transported into the past, to watch with ghostly impotence a mediaeval tragedy. the kneeling man repeated his unknown declaration. his round, honest, oily face was anything but heroic, and wore no legendary, transfiguring light. he seemed rather stupid than calm; yet as he mechanically wound his queue into place once more above the shaven forehead, his fingers moved surely and deftly. not once did they slip or tremble. "open your mouth!" snarled the pikemen and the torch-bearers, with the fierce gestures of men who have wasted time and patience. "the lamp of heaven!" bawled the swordsman, beside himself. "give him the lamp of heaven!" to the others, this phrase acted as a spark to powder. "good! good!" they shrilled, nodding furiously. "the lamp of heaven!" and several men began to rummage and overhaul the chaos of the go-down. rudolph had given orders, that afternoon, to remove all necessary stores to the nunnery. but from somewhere in the darkness, one rioter brought a sack of flour, while another flung down a tin case of petroleum. the sword had no sooner cut the sack across and punctured the tin, than a fat villain in a loin cloth, squatting on the earthen floor, kneaded flour and oil into a grimy batch of dough. "will you speak out and live," cried the swordsman, "or will you die?" for a second the christian did not stir. then, as though the option were not in his power,-"die," he answered. the fat baker sprang up, and clapped on the obstinate head a shapeless gray turban of dough. half a dozen torches jostled for the honor of lighting it. the christian, crowned with sooty flames, gave a single cry, clear above all the others. he was calling--as even rudolph knew--on the strange god across the sea, saviour of the children of the west, not to forget his nameless and lonely servant. rudolph groaned aloud, rose, and had parted the curtain to run out and fall upon them all, when suddenly, close at hand and sharp in the general din, there burst a quick volley of rifleshots. splinters flew from the attap walls. a torch-bearer and the man with the sword spun half round, collided, and fell, the one across the other, like drunken wrestlers. the survivors flung down their torches and ran, leaping and diving over bales. on the ground, the smouldering lamp of heaven showed that its wearer, rescued by a lucky bullet, lay still in a posture of humility. strange humility, it seemed, for one so suddenly given the complete and profound wisdom that confirms all faith, foreign or domestic, new or old. with a sense of all this, but no clear sense of action, rudolph found the side-door, opened it, closed it, and started across the lane. he knew only that he should reach the mafoo's little gate by the pony-shed, and step out of these dark ages into the friendly present; so that when something from the wall blazed point-blank, and he fell flat on the ground, he lay in utter defeat, bitterly surprised and offended. his own friends: they might miss him once, but not twice. let it come quickly. instead, from the darkness above came the most welcome sound he had ever known,--a keen, high voice, scolding. "what the devil are you firing at?" it was heywood, somewhere on the roof of the pony-shed. he put the question sharply, yet sounded cool and cheerful. "a shadow? rot! you waste another cartridge so, and i'll take your gun away. remember that!" nesbit's voice clipped out some pert objection. "potted the beggar, any'ow--see for yourself--go-down 's afire." "saves us the trouble of burning it." the other voice moved away, with a parting rebuke. "no more of that, sniping and squandering. wait till they rush you." rudolph lifted his head from the dust. "maurice!" he called feebly. "maurice, let me in!" "hallo!" answered his captain on the wall, blithely. "steady on, we'll get you." of all hardships, this brief delay was least bearable. then a bight of rope fell across rudolph's back. he seized it, hauled taut, and planting his feet against the wall, went up like a fish, to land gasping on a row of sand-bags. "ho, you wandering german!" his invisible friend clapped him on the shoulder. "by jove, i'm glad. no time to burble now, though. off with you. compradore has a gun for you, in the court. collect a drink as you go by. report to kneebone at the northeast corner. danger point there: we need a good man, so hurry. devilish glad. cut along." rudolph, scrambling down from the pony-shed, ran across the compound with his head in a whirl. yet through all the scudding darkness and confusion, one fact had pierced as bright as a star. on this night of alarms, he had turned the great corner in his life. like the pale stranger with his crown of fire, he could finish the course. he caught his rifle from the compradore's hand, but needed no draught from any earthly cup. brushing through the orange trees, he made for the northeast angle, free of all longing perplexities, purged of all vile admiration, and fit to join his friends in clean and wholesome danger. chapter xviii siege he never believed that they could hold the northeast corner for a minute, so loud and unceasing was the uproar. bullets spattered sharply along the wall and sang overhead, mixed now and then with an indescribable whistling and jingling. the angle was like the prow of a ship cutting forward into a gale. yet rudolph climbed, rejoicing, up the short bamboo ladder, to the platform which his coolies had built in such haste, so long ago, that afternoon. his high spirits went before a fall. as he stood up, in the full glow from the burning go-down, somebody tackled him about the knees and threw him head first on the sand-bags. "how many times must i give me orders?" barked the little sea-captain. "under cover, under cover, and stay under cover, or i'll send ye below, ye gallivanting--oh! it's you, is it? well, there's your port-hole." a stubby finger pointed in the obscurity. "there! and don't ye fire till i say so!" thus made welcome, rudolph crawled toward a chink among the bags, ran the muzzle of his gun into place, and lay ready for whatever might come out of the quaking lights and darknesses beyond. nothing came, however, except a swollen continuity of sound, a rolling cloud of noises, thick and sullen as the smell of burnt gunpowder. it was strange, thought rudolph, how nothing happened from moment to moment. no yellow bodies came charging out of the hubbub. he himself lay there unhurt; his fellows joked, grumbled, shifted their legs on the platform. at times the heavier, duller sound, which had been the signal for the whole disorder,--one ponderous beat, as on a huge and very slack bass-drum,--told that the black dog from rotterdam was not far off. yet even then there followed no shock of round-shot battering at masonry, but only an access of the stormy whistling and jingling. "copper cash," declared the voice of heywood, in a lull. by the sound, he was standing on the rungs of the ladder, with his head at the level of the platform; also by the sound, he was enjoying himself inordinately. "what a jolly good piece of luck! scrap metal and copper cash. firing money at us--like you, captain. just what we thought, too. some unruly gang among them wouldn't wait, and forced matters. tonight was premature. the beggars have plenty of powder, and little else. so far." rudolph listened in wonder. here, in the thick of the fight, was a light-hearted, busy commander, drawing conclusions and extracting news from chaos. "look out for arrows," continued the speaker, as he crawled to a loophole between rudolph's and the captain's. "they're shooting arrows up over. killed one convert and wounded two, there by the water gate. they can't get the elevation for you chaps here, though." and again he added, cheerfully, "so far, at least." the little band behind the loopholes lay watching through the smoke, listening through the noise. the black dog barked again, and sent a shower of money clinking along the wall. "how do you like it, rudie?" chuckled his friend. "it is terrible," answered rudolph, honestly. "terrible racket, yes. fireworks, to frighten us. wait till their ammunition comes; then you'll see fun. fireworks, all this." heywood turned to his other companion. "i say, kneebone, what's your idea? sniping all night, will it be?--or shall we get a fair chance at 'em?" the captain, a small, white, recumbent spectre, lifted his head and appeared to sniff the smoke judicially. "they get a chance at us, more like!" he grumbled. "my opinion, the blighters have shot and burnt themselves into a state o' mind; bloomin' delusion o' grandeur, that's what. wildest of 'em will rush us to-night, once--maybe twice. we stave 'em off, say: that case, they'll settle down to starve us, right and proper." "siege," assented heywood. "siege, like you read about." the captain lay flat again. "wish a man could smoke up here." heywood laughed, and turned his head:-"how much do you know about sieges, old chap?" "nothing," rudolph confessed. "nor i, worse luck. outside of school--_testudine facia,_ that sort of thing. however," he went on cheerfully, "we shall before long"--he broke off with a start. "rudie! by jove, i forgot! did you find them? where's bertha forrester?" "gone," said rudolph, and struggling to explain, found his late adventure shrunk into the compass of a few words, far too small and bare to suggest the magnitude of his decision. "they went," he began, "in a boat--" he was saved the trouble; for suddenly captain kneebone cried in a voice of keen satisfaction, "here they come! i told ye!"--and fired his rifle. through a patch of firelight, down the gentle slope of the field, swept a ragged cohort of men, some bare-headed, some in their scarlet nightcaps, as though they had escaped from bed, and all yelling. one of the foremost, who met the captain's bullet, was carried stumbling his own length before he sank underfoot; as the mausers flashed from between the sand-bags, another and another man fell to his knees or toppled sidelong, tripping his fellows into a little knot or windrow of kicking arms and legs; but the main wave poured on, all the faster. among and above them, like wreckage in that surf, tossed the shapes of scaling-ladders and notched bamboos. two naked men, swinging between them a long cylinder or log, flashed through the bonfire space and on into the dark below the wall. "pung-dongs!" bawled the captain. "look out for the pung-dong!" his friends were too busy firing into the crowded gloom below. rudolph, fumbling at side-bolt and pulling trigger, felt the end of a ladder bump his forehead, saw turban and mediaeval halberd heave above him, and without time to think of firing, dashed the muzzle of his gun at the climber's face. the shock was solid, the halberd rang on the platform, but the man vanished like a shade. "very neat," growled heywood, who in the same instant, with a great shove, managed to fling down the ladder. "perfectly silly attack. we'll hold 'em." while he spoke, however, something hurtled over their heads and thumped the platform. the queer log, or cylinder, lay there with a red coal sputtering at one end, a burning fuse. heywood snatched at it and missed. some one else caught up the long bulk, and springing to his feet, swung it aloft. firelight showed the bristling moustache of kempner, his long, thin arms poising a great bamboo case bound with rings of leather or metal. he threw it out with his utmost force, staggered as though to follow it; then, leaping back, straightened his tall body with a jerk, flung out one arm in a gesture of surprise, no sooner rigid than drooping; and even while he seemed inflated for another of his speeches, turned half-round and dove into the garden and the night. by the ending of it, he had redeemed a somewhat rancid life. before, the angle was alive with swarming heads. as he fell, it was empty, and the assault finished; for below, the bamboo tube burst with a sound that shook the wall; liquid flame, the greek fire of stink-pot chemicals, squirted in jets that revealed a crowd torn asunder, saffron faces contorted in shouting, and men who leapt away with clothes afire and powder-horns bursting at their sides. dim figures scampered off, up the rising ground. "that's over," panted heywood. "thundering good lesson,--here, count noses. rudie? right-oh. sturgeon, teppich, padre, captain? good! but look sharp, while i go inspect." he whispered to rudolph. "come down, won't you, and help me with--you know." at the foot of the ladder, they met a man in white, with a white face in what might be the dawn, or the pallor of the late-risen moon. "is hackh there?" he hailed them in a dry voice, and cleared his throat, "where is she? where's my wife?" it was here, accordingly, while heywood stooped over a tumbled object on the ground, that rudolph told her husband what bertha forrester had chosen. the words came harder than before, but at last he got rid of them. his questioner stood very still. it was like telling the news of an absent ghost to another present. "this town was never a place," said gilly, with all his former steadiness,--"never a place to bring a woman. and--and of her age." all three men listened to the conflict of gongs and crackers, and to the shouting, now muffled and distant behind the knoll. all three, as it seemed to rudolph, had consented to ignore something vile. "that's all i wanted to know," said the older man, slowly. "i must get back to my post. you didn't say, but--she made no attempt to come here? well, that's--that's lucky. i'll go back." for some time again they stood as though listening, till heywood spoke:-"holding your own, are you, by the water gate?" "oh, yes," replied forrester, rousing slightly. "all quiet there. no more arrows. converts behaving splendidly. two or three have begged for guns." "give 'em this." heywood skipped up the ladder, to return with a rifle. "and this belt--kempner's. poor chap, he'll never ask you to return them.--anything else?" "no," answered gilly, taking the dead man's weapon, and moving off into the darkness. "no, except "--he halted. "except if we come to a pinch, and need a man for some tight place, then give me first chance. won't you? i could do better, now, than--than you younger men. oh, and hackh; your efforts to-night--well, few men would have dared, and i feel immensely grateful." he disappeared among the orange trees, leaving rudolph to think about such gratitude. "now, then," called heywood, and stooped to the white bundle at their feet. "don't stand looking. can't be helped. trust old gilly to take it like a man. come bear a hand." and between them the two friends carried to the nunnery a tiresome theorist, who had acted once, and now, himself tired and limp, would offend no more by speaking. when the dawn filled the compound with a deep blue twilight, and this in turn grew pale, the night-long menace of noise gradually faded also, like an orgy of evil spirits dispersing before cockcrow. to ears long deafened, the wide stillness had the effect of another sound, never heard before. even when disturbed by the flutter of birds darting from top to dense green top of the orange trees, the air seemed hushed by some unholy constraint. through the cool morning vapors, hot smoke from smouldering wreckage mounted thin and straight, toward where the pale disk of the moon dissolved in light. the convex field stood bare, except for a few overthrown scarecrows in naked yellow or dusty blue, and for a jagged strip of earthwork torn from the crest, over which the black dog thrust his round muzzle. in a truce of empty silence, the defenders slept by turns among the sand-bags. the day came, and dragged by without incident. the sun blazed in the compound, swinging overhead, and slanting down through the afternoon. at the water gate, rudolph, heywood, and the padre, with a few forlorn christians,--driven in like sheep, at the last moment,--were building a rough screen against the arrows that had flown in darkness, and that now lay scattered along the path. one of these a workman suddenly caught at, and with a grunt, held up before the padre. the head was blunt. about the shaft, wound tightly with silk thread, ran a thin roll of chinese paper. dr. earle nodded, took the arrow, and slitting with a pocket-knife, freed and flattened out a painted scroll of complex characters. his keen old eyes ran down the columns. his face, always cloudy now, grew darker with perplexity. "a message," he declared slowly. "i think a serious message." he sat down on a pile of sacks, and spread the paper on his knee. "but the characters are so elaborate--i can't make head or tail." he beckoned heywood, and together they scowled at the intricate and meaningless symbols. "all alike," complained the younger man. "maddening." then his face lighted. "no, see here--lower left hand." the last stroke of the brush, down in the corner, formed a loose "o. w." "from wutzler. must mean something." for all that, the painted lines remained a stubborn puzzle. "something, yes. but what?" the padre pulled out a cigar, and smoking at top speed, spaced off each character with his thumb. "they are all alike, and yet"--he clutched his white hair with big knuckles, and tugged; replaced his mushroom helmet; held the paper at a new focus. "ah!" he said doubtfully; and at last, "yes." for some time he read to himself, nodding. "a triad cipher." "well?" resumed heywood, patiently. the reader pointed with his cigar. "take only the left half of that word, and what have you?" "'lightning,'" read heywood. "the right half?" "'boat.'" "take," the padre ordered, "this one; left half?" "'lightning,'" repeated his pupil. "the right half--might be 'rice-scoop,' but that's nonsense." "no," said the padre. "you have the secret. it's good triad writing. subtract this twisted character 'lightning' from each, and we've made the crooked straight. the writer was afraid of being caught. here's the sense of his message, i take it." and he read off, slowly:-"a hakka boat on opposite shore; a green flag and a rice-scoop hoisted at her mast; light a fire on the water-gate steps, and she will come quickly, day or night.--o.w." heywood took the news coldly. he shook his head, and stood thinking. "that won't help," he said curtly. "never in the world." with the aid of a convert, he unbarred the ponderous gate, and ventured out on the highest slab of the landing-steps. across the river, to be sure, there lay--between a local junk and a stray _papico_ from the north--the high-nosed hakka boat, her deck roofed with tawny basket-work, and at her masthead a wooden rice-measure dangling below a green rag. aft, by the great steering-paddle, perched a man, motionless, yet seeming to watch. heywood turned, however, and pointed downstream to where, at the bend of the river, a little spit of mud ran out from the marsh. on the spit, from among tussocks, a man in a round hat sprang up like a thin black toadstool. he waved an arm, and gave a shrill cry, summoning help from further inland. other hats presently came bobbing toward him, low down among the marsh. puffs of white spurted out from the mud. and as heywood dodged back through the gate, and nesbit's rifle answered from his little fort on the pony-shed, the distant crack of the muskets joined with a spattering of ooze and a chipping of stone on the river-stairs. "covered, you see," said heywood, replacing the bar. "last resort, perhaps, that way. still, we may as well keep a bundle of firewood ready here." the shots from the marsh, though trivial and scattering, were like a signal; for all about the nunnery, from a ring of hiding-places, the noise of last night broke out afresh. the sun lowered through a brown, burnt haze, the night sped up from the ocean, covering the sky with sudden darkness, in which stars appeared, many and cool, above the torrid earth and the insensate turmoil. so, without change but from pause to outbreak, outbreak to pause, nights and days went by in the siege. nothing happened. one morning, indeed, the fragments of another blunt arrow came to light, broken underfoot and trampled into the dust. the paper scroll, in tatters, held only a few marks legible through dirt and heel-prints: "listen--work fast--many bags--watch closely." and still nothing happened to explain the warning. that night heywood even made a sortie, and stealing from the main gate with four coolies, removed to the river certain relics that lay close under the wall, and would soon become intolerable. he had returned safely, with an ancient musket, a bag of bullets, a petroleum squirt, and a small bundle of pole-axes, and was making his tour of the defenses, when he stumbled over rudolph, who knelt on the ground under what in old days had been the chapel, and near what now was kempner's grave. he was not kneeling in devotion, for he took heywood by the arm, and made him stoop. "i was coming," he said, "to find you. the first night, i saw coolies working in the clay-pit. bend, a moment over. put now the ear close." heywood laid his cheek in the dust. "they're keeping such a racket outside," he muttered; and then, half to himself: "it certainly is. rudie, it's--it's as if poor kempner were--waking up." he listened again. "you're right. they are digging." the two friends sat up, and eyed each other in the starlight. chapter xix brother moles this new danger, working below in the solid earth, had thrown rudolph into a state of sullen resignation. what was the use now, he thought indignantly, of all their watching and fighting? the ground, at any moment, might heave, break, and spring up underfoot. he waited for his friend to speak out, and put the same thought roundly into words. instead, to his surprise, he heard something quite contrary. "now we know!" said heywood, in lively satisfaction. "now we know what the beasts have up their sleeve. that's a comfort. rather!" he sat thinking, a white figure in the starlight, cross-legged like a buddha. "that's why they've all been lying doggo," he continued. "and then their bad marksmanship, with all this sniping--they don't care, you see, whether they pot us or not. they'd rather make one clean sweep, and 'blow us at the moon.' eh? cheer up, rudie: so long as they're digging, they're not blowing. are they?" while he spoke, the din outside the walls wavered and sank, at last giving place to a shrill, tiny interlude of insect voices. in this diluted silence came now and then a tinkle of glass from the dark hospital room where miss drake was groping among her vials. heywood listened. "if it weren't for that," he said quietly, "i shouldn't much care. except for the women, this would really be great larks." then, as a shadow flitted past the orange grove, he roused himself to hail: "ah pat! go catchee four piecee coolie-man!" "can do." the shadow passed, and after a time returned with four other shadows. they stood waiting, till heywood raised his head from the dust. "those noises have stopped, down there," he said to rudolph; and rising, gave his orders briefly. the coolies were to dig, strike into the sappers' tunnel, and report at once: "chop-chop.--meantime, rudie, let's take a holiday. we can smoke in the courtyard." a solitary candle burned in the far corner of the inclosure, and cast faint streamers of reflection along the wet flags, which, sluiced with water from the well, exhaled a slight but grateful coolness. heywood stooped above the quivering flame, lighted a cigar, and sinking loosely into a chair, blew the smoke upward in slow content. "luxury!" he yawned. "nothing to do, nothing to fret about, till the compradore reports. wonderful--too good to be true." for a long time, lying side by side, they might have been asleep. through the dim light on the white walls dipped and swerved the drunken shadow of a bat, who now whirled as a flake of blackness across the stars, now swooped and set the humbler flame reeling. the flutter of his leathern wings, and the plash of water in the dark, where a coolie still drenched the flags, marked the sleepy, soothing measures in a nocturne, broken at strangely regular intervals by a shot, and the crack of a bullet somewhere above in the deserted chambers. "queer," mused heywood, drowsily studying his watch. "the beggar puts one shot every five minutes through the same window.--i wonder what he's thinking about? lying out there, firing at the red-bristled ghosts. odd! wonder what they're all"--he put back his cigar, mumbling. "handful of poor blackguards, all upset in their minds, and sweating round. and all the rest tranquil as ever, eh?--the whole country jogging on the same old way, or asleep and dreaming dreams, perhaps, same kind of dreams they had in marco polo's day." the end of his cigar burned red again; and again, except for that, he might have been asleep. rudolph made no answer, but lay thinking. this brief moment of rest in the cool, dim courtyard--merely to lie there and wait--seemed precious above all other gain or knowledge. some quiet influence, a subtle and profound conviction, slowly was at work in him. it was patience, wonder, steady confidence,--all three, and more. he had felt it but this once, obscurely; might die without knowing it in clearer fashion; and yet could never lose it, or forget, or come to any later harm. with it the stars, above the dim vagaries of the bat, were brightly interwoven. for the present he had only to lie ready, and wait, a single comrade in a happy army. through a dark little door came miss drake, all in white, and moving quietly, like a symbolic figure of evening, or the genius of the place. her hair shone duskily as she bent beside the candle, and with steady fingers tilted a vial, from which amber drops fell slowly into a glass. with dark eyes watching closely, she had the air of a young, beneficent medea, intent on some white magic. "aren't you coming," called heywood, "to sit with us awhile?" "can't, thanks," she replied, without looking up. "i'm too busy." "that's no excuse. rest a little." she moved away, carrying her medicines, but paused in the door, smiled back at him as from a crypt, and said:-"have _you_ been hurt?" "only my feelings." "i've no time," she laughed, "for lazy able-bodied persons." and she was gone in the darkness, to sit by her wounded men. with her went the interval of peace; for past the well-curb came another figure, scuffing slowly toward the light. the compradore, his robes lost in their background, appeared as an oily face and a hand beckoning with downward sweep. the two friends rose, and followed him down the courtyard. in passing out, they discovered the padre's wife lying exhausted in a low chair, of which she filled half the length and all the width. heywood paused beside her with some friendly question, to which rudolph caught the answer. "oh, quite composed." her voice sounded fretful, her fan stirred weakly. "yes, wonderfully composed. i feel quite ready to suffer for the faith." "dear mrs. earle," said the young man, gently, "there ought to be no need. nobody shall suffer, if we can prevent. i think we can." under the orange trees, he laid an unsteady hand on rudolph's arm, and halting, shook with quiet merriment. "poor dear lady!" he whispered, and went forward chuckling. loose earth underfoot warned them not to stumble over the new-raised mound beside the pit, which yawned slightly blacker than the night. kempner's grave had not been quieter. the compradore stood whispering: they had found the tunnel empty, because, he thought, the sappers were gone out to eat their chow. "we'll see, anyway," said heywood, stripping off his coat. he climbed over the mound, grasped the edges, and promptly disappeared. in the long moment which followed, the earth might have closed on him. once, as rudolph bent listening over the shaft, there seemed to come a faint momentary gleam; but no sound, and no further sign, until the head and shoulders burrowed up again. "big enough hole down there," he reported, swinging clear, and sitting with his feet in the shaft. "regular cave. three sacks of powder stowed already, so we're none too soon.--one sack was leaky. i struck a match, and nearly blew myself to casabianca." he paused, as if reflecting. "it gives us a plan, though. rudie: are you game for something rather foolhardy? be frank, now; for if you wouldn't really enjoy it, i'll give old gilly forrester his chance." "no!" said rudolph, stung as by some perfidy. "you make me--ashamed! this is all ours, this part, so!" "can do," laughed the other. "get off your jacket. give me half a moment start, so that you won't jump on my head." and he went wriggling down into the pit. an unwholesome smell of wet earth, a damp, subterranean coolness, enveloped rudolph as he slid down a flue of greasy clay, and stooping, crawled into the horizontal bore of the tunnel. large enough, perhaps, for two or three men to pass on all fours, it ran level, roughly cut, through earth wet with seepage from the river, but packed into a smooth floor by many hands and bare knees. it widened suddenly before him. in the small chamber of the mine, choked with the smell of stale betel, he bumped heywood's elbow. "some fragrant ones have been working here, i should say." the speaker patted the ground with quick palms, groping. "phew! they've worked like steam. this explains old wutz, and his broken arrow. i say, rudie, feel about. i saw a coil of fuse lying somewhere.--at least, i thought it was. ah, never mind: have-got!" he pulled something along the floor. "how's the old forearm i gave you? i forgot that. equal to hauling a sack out? good! catch hold, here." sweeping his hand in the darkness, he captured rudolph's, and guided it to where a powder-bag lay. "now, then, carry on," he commanded; and crawling into the tunnel, flung back fragments of explanation as he tugged at his own load. "carry these out--far as we dare--touch 'em off, you see, and block the passage. far out as possible, though. we can use this hole afterward, for listening in, if they try--" he cut the sentence short. their tunnel had begun to slope gently downward, with niches gouged here and there for the passing of burden-bearers. rudolph, toiling after, suddenly found his head entangled between his leader's boots. "quiet," he heard him whisper. "somebody coming." an instant later, the boots withdrew quickly. an odd little squeak of surprise followed, a strange gurgling, and a succession of rapid shocks, as though some one were pummeling the earthen walls. "got the beggar," panted heywood. "only one of 'em. roll clear, rudie, and let us pass. collar his legs, if you can, and shove." squeezing past rudolph in his niche, there struggled a convulsive bulk, like some monstrous worm, too large for the bore, yet writhing. bare feet kicked him in violent rebellion, and a muscular knee jarred squarely under his chin. he caught a pair of naked legs, and hugged them dearly. "not too hard," called heywood, with a breathless laugh. "poor devil--must think he ran foul of a genie." indeed, their prisoner had already given up the conflict, and lay under them with limbs dissolved and quaking. "pass him along," chuckled his captor. "make him go ahead of us." prodded into action, the man stirred limply, and crawled past them toward the mine, while heywood, at his heels, growled orders in the vernacular with a voice of dismal ferocity. in this order they gained the shaft, and wriggled up like ferrets into the night air. rudolph, standing as in a well, heard a volley of questions and a few timid answers, before the returning legs of his comrade warned him to dodge back into the tunnel. again the two men crept forward on their expedition; and this time the leader talked without lowering his voice. "that chap," he declared, "was fairly chattering with fright. coolie, it seems, who came back to find his betel-box. the rest are all outside eating their rice. we have a clear track." they stumbled on their powder-sacks, caught hold, and dragged them, at first easily down the incline, then over a short level, then arduously up a rising grade, till the work grew heavy and hot, and breath came hard in the stifled burrow. "far enough," said heywood, puffing. "pile yours here." rudolph, however, was not only drenched with sweat, but fired by a new spirit, a spirit of daring. he would try, down here in the bowels of the earth, to emulate his friend. "but let us reconnoitre," he objected. "it will bring us to the clay-pit where i saw them digging. let us go out to the end, and look." "well said, old mole!" heywood snapped his fingers with delight. "i never thought of that." by his tone, he was proud of the amendment. "come on, by all means. i say, i didn't really--i didn't _want_ poor old gilly down here, you know." they crawled on, with more speed but no less caution, up the strait little gallery, which now rose between smooth, soft walls of clay. suddenly, as the incline once more became a level, they saw a glimmering square of dusky red, like the fluttering of a weak flame through scarlet cloth. this, while they shuffled toward it, grew higher and broader, until they lay prone in the very door of the hill,--a large, square-cut portal, deeply overhung by the edge of the clay-pit, and flanked with what seemed a bulkhead of sand-bags piled in orderly tiers. between shadowy mounds of loose earth flickered the light of a fire, small and distant, round which wavered the inky silhouettes of men, and beyond which dimly shone a yellow face or two, a yellow fist clutched full of boiled rice like a snowball. beyond these, in turn, gleamed other little fires, where other coolies were squatting at their supper. "rudie, look!" heywood's voice trembled with joyful excitement. "look, these bags; not sand-bags at all! it's powder, old chap, powder! their whole supply. wait a bit--oh, by jove, wait a bit!" he scurried back into the hill like a great rat, returned as quickly and swiftly, and with eager hands began to uncoil something on the clay threshold. "do you know enough to time a fuse?" he whispered. "neither do i. powder's bad, anyhow. we must guess at it. here, quick, lend me a knife." he slashed open one of the lower sacks in the bulkhead by the door, stuffed in some kind of twisted cord, and, edging away, sat for an instant with his knife-blade gleaming in the ruddy twilight. "how long, rudie, how long?" he smothered a groan. "too long, or too short, spoils everything. oh, well--here goes." the blade moved. "now lie across," he ordered, "and shield the tandstickor." with a sudden fuff, the match blazed up to show his gray eyes bright and dancing, his face glossy with sweat; below, on the golden clay, the twisted, lumpy tail of the fuse, like the end of a dusty vine. darkness followed, quick and blinding. a rosy, fitful coal sputtered, darting out short capillary lines and needles of fire. "cut sticks--go like the devil! if it blows up, and caves the earth on us--" heywood ran on hands and knees, as if that were his natural way of going. rudolph scrambled after, now urged by an ecstasy of apprehension, now clogged as by the weight of all the hill above them. if it should fall now, he thought, or now; and thus measuring as he crawled, found the tunnel endless. when at last, however, they gained the bottom of the shaft, and were hoisted out among their coolies on the shelving mound, the evening stillness lay above and about them, undisturbed. the fuse could never have lasted all these minutes. their whole enterprise was but labor lost. they listened, breathing short. no sound came. "gone out," said heywood, gloomily. "or else they saw it." he climbed the bamboo scaffold, and stood looking over the wall. rudolph perched beside him,--by the same anxious, futile instinct of curiosity, for they could see nothing but the night and the burning stars. "gone out. underground again, rudie, and try our first plan." heywood turned to leap down. "the sword-pen looks to set off his mine to-morrow morning." he clutched the wall in time to save himself, as the bamboo frame leapt underfoot. outside, the crest of the slope ran black against a single burst of flame. the detonation came like the blow of a mallet on the ribs. "let him look! let him look!" heywood jumped to the ground, and in a pelting shower of clods, exulted:-"he looked again, and saw it was the middle of next week!" "come on, brother mole. spread the news!" he ran off, laughing, in the wide hush of astonishment. chapter xx the hakka boat "pretty fair," captain kneebone said. "but that ain't the end." this grudging praise--in which, moreover, heywood tamely acquiesced--was his only comment. on rudolph it had singular effects: at first filling him with resentment, and almost making him suspect the little captain of jealousy; then amusing him, as chance words of no weight; but in the unreal days that followed, recurring to convince him with all the force of prompt and subtle fore-knowledge. it helped him to learn the cold, salutary lesson, that one exploit does not make a victory. the springing of their countermine, he found, was no deliverance. it had two plain results, and no more: the crest of the high field, without, had changed its contour next morning as though a monster had bitten it; and when the day had burnt itself out in sullen darkness, there burst on all sides an attack of prolonged and furious exasperation. the fusillade now came not only from the landward sides, but from a long flotilla of boats in the river; and although these vanished at dawn, the fire never slackened, either from above the field, or from a distant wall, newly spotted with loopholes, beyond the ashes of the go-down. on the night following, the boats crept closer, and suddenly both gates resounded with the blows of battering-rams. these and later assaults were beaten off. by daylight, the nunnery walls were pitted as with small-pox; yet the little company remained untouched, except for teppich, whose shaven head was trimmed still closer and redder by a bullet, and for gilbert forrester, who showed--with the grave smile of a man when fates are playful--two shots through his loose jacket. he was the only man to smile; for the others, parched by days and sweltered by nights of battle, questioned each other with hollow eyes and sleepy voices. one at a time, in patches of hot shade, they lay tumbled for a moment of oblivion, their backs studded thickly with obstinate flies like the driven heads of nails. as thickly, in the dust, empty mauser cartridges lay glistening. "and i bought food," mourned the captain, chafing the untidy stubble on his cheeks, and staring gloomily down at the worthless brass. "i bought chow, when all saigong was full o' cartridges!" the sight of the spent ammunition at their feet gave them more trouble than the swarming flies, or the heat, or the noises tearing and splitting the heat. even heywood went about with a hang-dog air, speaking few words, and those more and more surly. once he laughed, when at broad noonday a line of queer heads popped up from the earthwork on the knoll, and stuck there, tilted at odd angles, as though peering quizzically. both his laugh, however, and his one stare of scrutiny were filled with a savage contempt,--contempt not only for the stratagem, but for himself, the situation, all things. "dummies--lay figures, to draw our fire. what a childish trick! maskee!" he added, wearily "we couldn't waste a shot at 'em now even if they were real." his grimy hearers nodded mechanically. they knew, without being told, that they should fire no more until at close quarters in some final rush. "only a few more rounds apiece," he continued. "our friends outside must have run nearly as short, according to the coolie we took prisoner in the tunnel. but they'll get more supplies, he says, in a day or two. what's worse, his generalissimo fang expects big reinforcement, any day, from up country. he told me that a moment ago." "perhaps he's lying," said captain kneebone, drowsily. "wish he were," snapped heywood. "no such luck. too stupid." "that case," grumbled the captain, "we'd better signal your hakka boat, and clear out." again their hollow eyes questioned each other in discouragement. it was plain that he had spoken their general thought; but they were all too hot and sleepy to debate even a point of safety. thus, in stupor or doubt, they watched another afternoon burn low by invisible degrees, like a great fire dying. another breathless evening settled over all--at first with a dusty, copper light, widespread, as though sky and land were seen through smoked glass; another dusk, of deep, sad blue; and when this had given place to night, another mysterious lull. midnight drew on, and no further change had come. prowlers, made bold by the long silence in the nunnery, came and went under the very walls of the compound. in the court, beside a candle, ah pat the compradore sat with a bundle of halberds and a whetstone, sharpening edge after edge, placidly, against the time when there should be no more cartridges. heywood and rudolph stood near the water gate, and argued with gilbert forrester, who would not quit his post for either of them. "but i'm not sleepy," he repeated, with perverse, irritating serenity. "i'm not, i assure you. and that river full of their boats?--go away." while they reasoned and wrangled, something scraped the edge of the wall. they could barely detect a small, stealthy movement above them, as if a man, climbing, had lifted his head over the top. suddenly, beside it, flared a surprising torch, rags burning greasily at the end of a long bamboo. the smoky, dripping flame showed no man there, but only another long bamboo, impaling what might be another ball of rags. the two poles swayed, inclined toward each other; for one incredible instant the ball, beside its glowing fellow, shone pale and took on human features. black shadows filled the eye-sockets, and gave to the face an uncertain, cavernous look, as though it saw and pondered. how long the apparition stayed, the three men could not tell; for even after it vanished, and the torch fell hissing in the river, they stood below the wall, dumb and sick, knowing only that they had seen the head of wutzler. heywood was the first to make a sound--a broken, hypnotic sound, without emphasis or inflection, as though his lips were frozen, or the words torn from him by ventriloquy. "we must get the women--out of here." afterward, when he was no longer with them, his two friends recalled that he never spoke again that night, but came and went in a kind of silent rage, ordering coolies by dumb-show, and carrying armful after armful of supplies to the water gate. he would neither pause nor answer. the word passed, or a listless, tacit understanding, that every one must hold himself ready to go aboard so soon after daylight as the hostile boats should leave the river. "if," said gilly to rudolph, while they stood thinking under the stars, "if his boat is still there, now that he--after what we saw." at dawn they could see the ragged flotilla of sampans stealing up-river on the early flood; but of the masts that huddled in vapors by the farther bank, they had no certainty until sunrise, when the green rag and the rice-measure appeared still dangling above the hakka boat. even then it was not certain--as captain kneebone sourly pointed out--that her sailors would keep their agreement. and when he had piled, on the river-steps, the dry wood for their signal fire, a new difficulty rose. one of the wounded converts was up, and hobbling with a stick; but the other would never be ferried down any stream known to man. he lay dying, and the padre could not leave him. all the others waited, ready and anxious; but no one grumbled because death, never punctual, now kept them waiting. the flutter of birds, among the orange trees, gradually ceased; the sun came slanting over the eastern wall; the gray floor of the compound turned white and blurred through the dancing heat. a torrid westerly breeze came fitfully, rose, died away, rose again, and made captain kneebone curse. "a fair wind lost," he muttered. "next we'll lose the ebb, too, be 'anged." noon passed, and mid-afternoon, before the padre came out from the courtyard, covering his white head with his ungainly helmet. "we may go now," he said gravely, "in a few minutes." no more were needed, for the loose clods in the old shaft of their counter-mine were quickly handled, and the necessary words soon uttered. captain kneebone had slipped out through the water gate, beforehand, and lighted the fire on the steps. but not one of the burial party turned his head, to watch the success or failure of their signal, so long as the padre's resonant bass continued. when it ceased, however, they returned quickly through the little grove. the captain opened the great gate, and looked out eagerly, craning to see through the smoke that poured into his face. "the wasters!" he cried bitterly. "she's gone." the hakka boat had, indeed, vanished from her moorings. on the bronze current, nothing moved but three fishing-boats drifting down, with the smoke, toward the marsh and the bend of the river, and a small junk that toiled up against wind and tide, a cluster of naked sailors tugging and shoving at her heavy sweep, which chafed its rigging of dry rope, and gave out a high, complaining note like the cry of a sea-gull. "she's gone," repeated captain kneebone. "no boat for us." but the compradore, dragging his bundle of sharp halberds, poked an inquisitive head out past the captain's, and peered on all sides through the smoke, with comical thoroughness. he dodged back, grinning and ducking amiably. "moh bettah look-see," he chuckled; "dat coolie come-back, he too muchee waitee, b'long one piecee foolo-man." he was wrong. whoever handled the hakka boat was no fool, but by working upstream on the opposite shore, crossing above, and dropping down with the ebb, had craftily brought her along the shallow, so close beneath the river-wall, that not till now did even the little captain spy her. the high prow, the mast, now bare, and her round midships roof, bright golden-thatched with leaves of the edible bamboo, came moving quiet as some enchanted boat in a calm. the fugitives by the gate still thought themselves abandoned, when her beak, six feet in air, stole past them, and her lean boatmen, prodding the river-bed with their poles, stopped her as easily as a gondola. the yellow steersman grinned, straining at the pivot of his gigantic paddle. "good boy, lowdah!" called kneebone. "remember _you_ in my will, too!" and the grinning lowdah nodded, as though he understood. they had now only to pitch their supplies through the smoke, down on the loose boards of her deck. then--rudolph and the captain kicking the bonfire off the stairs--the whole company hurried down and safely over her gunwale: first the two women, then the few huddling converts, the white men next, the compradore still hugging his pole-axes, and last of all, heywood, still in strange apathy, with haggard face and downcast eyes. he stumbled aboard as though drunk, his rifle askew under one arm, and in the crook of the other, flounce, the fox-terrier, dangling, nervous and wide awake. he looked to neither right nor left, met nobody's eye. the rest of the company crowded into the house amidships, and flung themselves down wearily in the grateful dusk, where vivid paintings and mysteries of rude carving writhed on the fir bulkheads. but heywood, with his dog and the captain and rudolph, sat in the hot sun, staring down at the ramshackle deck, through the gaps in which rose all the stinks of the sweating hold. the boatmen climbed the high slant of the bow, planted their stout bamboos against their shoulders, and came slowly down, head first, like straining acrobats. as slowly, the boat began to glide past the stairs. thus far, though the fire lay scattered in the mud, the smoke drifted still before them and obscured their silent, headlong transaction. now, thinning as they dropped below the corner of the wall, it left them naked to their enemies on the knoll. at the same instant, from the marsh ahead, the sentinel in the round hat sprang up again, like an instantaneous mushroom. he shouted, and waved to his fellows inland. they had no time, however, to leave the high ground; for the whole chance of the adventure took a sudden and amazing turn. heywood sprang out of his stupor, and stood pointing. "look there!" he snarled. "those--oh!" he ended with a groan. the face of his friend, by torchlight above the wall, had struck him dumb. now that he spoke, his companions saw, exposed in the field to the view of the nunnery, a white body lying on a framework as on a bier. near the foot stood a rough sort of windlass. above, on the crest of the field, where a band of men had begun to scramble at the sentinel's halloo, there sat on a white pony the bright-robed figure of the tall fanatic, fang the sword-pen. "he did it!" heywood's hands opened and shut rapidly, like things out of control. "oh, wutz, how did they--saint somebody--the martyrdom-poussin's picture in the vatican.--i can't stand this, you chaps!" he snatched blindly at his gun, caught instead one of the compradore's halberds, and without pause or warning, jumped out into the shallow water. he ran splashing toward the bank, turned, and seemed to waver, staring with wild eyes at the strange tudor weapon in his hand. then shaking it savagely,-"this will do!" he cried. "good-by, everybody. good-by!" he wheeled again, staggered to his feet on dry ground, and ran swiftly along the eastern wall, up the rising field, straight toward his mark. of the men on the knoll, a few fired and missed, the others, neutrals to their will, stood fixed in wonder. four or five, as the runner neared, sprang out to intercept, but flew apart like ninepins. the watchers in the boat saw the halberd flash high in the late afternoon sun, the frightened pony swerve, and his rider go down with the one sweep of that homeric blow. the last they saw of heywood, he went leaping from sight over the crest, that swarmed with figures racing and stumbling after. the unheeded sentinel in the marsh fled, losing his great hat, as the boat drifted round the point into midstream. chapter xxi the dragon's shadow the lowdah would have set his dirty sails without delay, for the fair wind was already drooping; but at the first motion he found himself deposed, and a usurper in command, at the big steering-paddle. captain kneebone, his cheeks white and suddenly old beneath the untidy stubble of his beard, had taken charge. in momentary danger of being cut off downstream, or overtaken from above, he kept the boat waiting along the oozy shore. puckering his eyes, he watched now the land, and now the river, silent, furtive, and keenly perplexed, his head on a swivel, as though he steered by some nightmare chart, or expected some instant and transforming sight. not until the sun touched the western hills, and long shadows from the bank stole out and turned the stream from bright copper to vague iron-gray, did he give over his watch. he left the tiller, with a hopeless fling of the arm. "do as ye please," he growled, and cast himself down on deck by the thatched house. "go on.--i'll never see _him_ again.--the heat, and all--by the head, he was--go on. that's all. finish." he sat looking straight before him, with dull eyes that never moved; nor did he stir at the dry rustle and scrape of the matting sail, slowly hoisted above him. the quaggy banks, now darkening, slid more rapidly astern; while the steersman and his mates in the high bow invoked the wind with alternate chant, plaintive, mysterious, and half musical:-"ay-ly-chy-ly ah-ha-aah!" to the listeners, huddled in silence, the familiar cry became a long, monotonous accompaniment to sad thoughts. through the rhythm, presently, broke a sound of small-arms,--a few shots, quick but softened by distance, from far inland. the stillness of evening followed. the captain stirred, listened, dropped his head, and sat like stone. to rudolph, near him, the brief disturbance called up another evening--his first on this same river, when from the grassy brink, above, he had first heard of his friend. now, at the same place, and by the same light, they had heard the last. it was intolerable: he turned his back on the captain. inside, in the gloom of the painted cabin, the padre's wife began suddenly to cry. after a time, the deep voice of her husband, speaking very low, and to her alone, became dimly audible:-"'all this is come upon us; yet have we not--our heart is not turned back, neither have our steps declined--though thou hast sore broken us in the place of dragons, and covered us with the shadow of death.'" the little captain groaned, and rolled aside from the doorway. "all very fine," he muttered, his head wrapped in his arms. "but that's no good to me. i can't stand it." whether she heard him, or by chance, miss drake came quietly from within, and found a place between him and the gunwale. he did not rouse; she neither glanced nor spoke, but leaned against the ribs of smooth-worn fir, as though calmly waiting. when at last he looked up, to see her face and posture, he gave an angry start. "and i thought," he blurted, "be 'anged if sometimes i didn't think you liked him!" her dark eyes met the captain's with a great and steadfast clearness. "no," she whispered; "it was more than that." the captain sat bolt upright, but no longer in condemnation. for a long time he watched her, marveling; and when finally he spoke, his sharp, domineering voice was lowered, almost gentle. "always talked too much," he said. "don't mind me, my dear. i never meant--don't ye mind a rough old beggar, that don't know that hasn't one thing more between him and the grave. not a thing--but money. and that, now--i wish't was at the bottom o' this bloomin' river!" they said no more, but rested side by side, like old friends joined closer by new grief. flounce, the terrier, snuffing disconsolately about the deck, and scratching the boards in her zeal to explore the shallow hold, at last grew weary, and came to snuggle down between the two silent companions. not till then did the girl turn aside her face, as though studying the shore, which now melted in a soft, half-liquid band as black as coal-tar, above the luminous indigo of the river. suddenly rudolph got upon his feet, and craning outboard from gunwale and thatched eaves, looked steadily forward into the dusk. a chatter of angry voices came stealing up, in the pauses of the wind. he watched and listened, then quickly drew in his head. "sit quiet," he said. "a boat full of men. i do not like their looks." two or three of the voices hailed together, raucously. the steersman, leaning on the loom of his paddle, made neither stir nor answer. they hailed again, this time close aboard, and as it seemed, in rage. glancing contemptuously to starboard, the lowdah made some negligent reply, about a cargo of human hair. his indifference appeared so real, that for a moment rudolph suspected him: perhaps he had been bought over, and this meeting arranged. the thought, however, was unjust. the voices began to drop astern, and to come in louder confusion with the breeze. but at this point flounce, the terrier, spoiled all by whipping up beside the lowdah, and furiously barking. hers was no pariah's yelp: she barked with spirit, in the king's english. for answer, there came a shout, a sharp report, and a bullet that ripped through the matting sail. the steersman ducked, but clung bravely to his paddle. men tumbled out from the cabin, rifles in hand, to join rudolph and the captain. astern, dangerously near, they saw the hostile craft, small, but listed heavily with crowding ruffians, packed so close that their great wicker hats hung along the gunwale to save room, and shone dim in the obscurity like golden shields of vikings. a squat, burly fellow, shouting, jammed the yulow hard to bring her about. "save your fire," called captain kneebone. "no shots to waste. sit tight." as he spoke, however, an active form bounced up beside the squat man at the sweep,--a plump, muscular little barefoot woman in blue. she tore the fellow's hands away, and took command, keeping the boat's nose pointed up-river, and squalling ferocious orders to all on board. "the pretty lily!" cried rudolph. this small, nimble, capable creature could be no one but mrs. wu, their friend and gossip of that morning, long ago.... the squat man gave an angry shout, and turned on her to wrest away the handle. he failed, at once and for all. with great violence, yet with a neat economy of motion, the pretty lily took one hand from her tiller, long enough to topple him overboard with a sounding splash. her passengers, at so prompt and visual a joke, burst into shrill, cackling laughter. yet more shrill, before their mood could alter, the pretty lily scourged them with the tongue of a humorous woman. she held her course, moreover; the two boats drifted so quickly apart that when she turned, to fling a comic farewell after the white men, they could no more than descry her face, alert and comely, and the whiteness of her teeth. her laughing cry still rang, the overthrown leader still floundered in the water, when the picture blurred and vanished. down the wind came her words, high, voluble, quelling all further mutiny aboard that craft of hers. "we owe this to you." the tall padre eyed rudolph with sudden interest, and laid his big hand on the young man's shoulder. "did you catch what she said? you made a good friend there." "no," answered rudolph, and shook his head, sadly. "we owe that to--some one else." later, while they drifted down to meet the sea and the night, he told the story, to which all listened with profound attention, wondering at the turns of fortune, and at this last service, rendered by a friend they should see no more. they murmured awhile, by twos and threes huddled in corners; then lay silent, exhausted in body and spirit. the river melted with the shore into a common blackness, faintly hovered over by the hot, brown, sullen evening. unchallenged, the hakka boat flitted past the lights of a war-junk, so close that the curved lantern-ribs flickered thin and sharp against a smoky gleam, and tawny faces wavered, thick of lip and stolid of eye, round the supper fire. a greasy, bitter smell of cooking floated after. then no change or break in the darkness, except a dim lantern or two creeping low in a sampan, with a fragment of talk from unseen passers; until, as the stars multiplied overhead, the night of the land rolled heavily astern and away from another, wider night, the stink of the marshes failed, and by a blind sense of greater buoyancy and sea-room, the voyagers knew that they had gained the roadstead. ahead, far off and lustrous, a new field of stars hung scarce higher than their gunwale, above the rim of the world. the lowdah showed no light; and presently none was needed, for--as the shallows gave place to deeps--the ocean boiled with the hoary, green-gold magic of phosphorus, that heaved alongside in soft explosions of witch-fire, and sent uncertain smoky tremors playing through the darkness on deck. rudolph, watching this tropic miracle, could make out the white figure of the captain, asleep near by, under the faint semicircle of the deck-house; and across from him, miss drake, still sitting upright, as though waiting, with flounce at her side. landward, against the last sage-green vapor of daylight, ran the dim range of the hills, in long undulations broken by sharper crests, like the finny back of leviathan basking. over there, thought rudolph, beyond that black shape as beyond its guarding dragon, lay the whole mysterious and peaceful empire, with uncounted lives going on, ending, beginning, as though he, and his sore loss, and his heart vacant of all but grief, belonged to some unheard-of, alien process, to nature's most unworthy trifling. this boatload of men and women--so huge a part of his own experience--was like the tiniest barnacle chafed from the side of that dark, serene monster. rudolph stared long at the hills, and as they faded, hung his head. from that dragon he had learned much; yet now all learning was but loss. of a sudden the girl spoke, in a clear yet guarded voice, too low to reach the sleepers. "what are you thinking of?" she said. "come tell me. it will be good for both of us." rudolph crossed silently, and stood leaning on the gunwale beside her. "i thought only," he answered, "how much the hills looked so--as a dragon." "how strange." the trembling phosphorus half-revealed her face, pale and still. "i was thinking of that, in a way. it reminded me of what he said, once--when we were walking together." to their great relief, they found themselves talking of heywood, sadly, but freely, and as it were in a sudden calm. their friendship seemed, for the moment, a thing as long established as the dragon hills. years afterward, rudolph recalled her words, plainer than the fiery wonder that spread and burst round their little vessel, or the long play of heat-lightning which now, from time to time, wavered instantly along the eastern sea-line. "you are right," she declared once. "to go on with life, even when we are alone--you will go on, i know. bravely." and again she said: "yes, such men as he are--a sort of happy warrior." and later, in her slow and level voice: "you learned something, you say. isn't that--what i call--being invulnerable? when a man's greater than anything that happens to him--" so they talked, their speech bare and simple, but the pauses and longer silences filled with deep understanding, solemnized by the time and the place, as though their two lonely spirits caught wisdom from the night, scope from the silent ocean, light from the flickering east. the flashes, meanwhile, came faster and prolonged their glory, running behind a thin, dead screen of scalloped clouds, piercing the tropic sky with summer blue, and ripping out the lost horizon like a long black fibre from pulp. the two friends watched in silence, when rudolph rose, and moved cautiously aft. "good-night," he whispered. "you must sleep now." that was not, however, the reason. so long as the boiling witch-fire turned their wake to golden vapor, he could not be sure; but whenever the heat-lightning ran, and through the sere, phantasmal sail, the lookout in the bow flashed like a sharp silhouette through wire gauze,--then it seemed to rudolph that another small black shape leapt out astern, and vanished. he stood by the lowdah, watching anxiously. time and again the ocean flickered into view, like the floor of a measureless cavern; and still he could not tell. but at last the lowdah also turned his head, and murmured. their boat creaked monotonously, drifting to leeward in a riot of golden mist; yet now another creaking disturbed the night, in a different cadence. another boat followed them, rowing fast and gaining. in a brighter flash, her black sail fluttered, unmistakable. rudolph reached for his gun, but waited silently. he would not call out. some chance fisherman, it might be, or any small craft holding the same course along the coast. still, he did not like the hurry of the sweeps, which presently groaned louder and threw up nebulous fire. the stranger's bow became an arrowhead of running gold. and here was flounce, ready to misbehave once more. before he could catch her, the small white body of the terrier whipped by him, and past the steersman. this time, however, as though cowed, she began to whimper, and then maintained a long, trembling whine. beside rudolph, the compradore's head bobbed up. "allo same she mastah come." and in his native tongue, ah pat grumbled something about ghosts. a harsh voice hailed, from the boat astern; the lowdah answered; and so rapidly slid the deceptive glimmer of her bow, that before rudolph knew whether to wake his friends, or could recover, next, from the shock and ecstasy of unbelief, a tall white figure jumped or swarmed over the side. "by jove, my dream!" sounded the voice of heywood, gravely. with fingers that dripped gold, he tried to pat the bounding terrier. she flew up at him, and tumbled back, in the liveliest danger of falling overboard. "old girl,--my dream!" the figure rose. "hallo, rudie." in a daze, rudolph gripped the wet and shining hands, and heard the same quiet voice: "rest all asleep, i suppose? don't wake 'em. to-morrow will do.--have you any money on you? toss that fisherman--whatever you think i'm worth. he really rowed like steam, you know." rudolph flung his purse into the other boat. when he turned, this man restored from the sea had disappeared. but he had only stolen forward, dog in arms, to sit beside miss drake. so quietly had all happened, that none of the sleepers, not even the captain, was aware. rudolph drew near the two murmuring voices. "--couldn't help it, honestly," said heywood. "can't describe, or explain. just something--went black inside my head, you know." he paused. "no: don't recall seeing a thing, really, until i pitched away the--what happened to be in my hands. a blank, all that. losing your head, i suppose they call it. most extraordinary." the girl's question recalled him from his puzzle. "do? oh!" he disposed of the subject easily. "i ran, that's all.--oh, yes, but i ran faster.--not half so many as you'd suppose. most of 'em were away, burning your hospital. saw the smoke, as i ran. all gone but a handful. hence those stuffed hats, rudie, in the trench.--only three of the lot could run. i merely scuttled into the next bamboo, and kept on scuttling. no: they weren't half loaded. oh, yes, arrow in the shoulder--scratch. of course, when it came dark, i stopped running, and made for the nearest fisherman. that's all." "but," protested rudolph, wondering, "we heard shots." "yes, i had my webley in my belt. fortunately. i _told_ you: three of them could run." the speaker patted the terrier in his lap. "my dream, eh, little dog? you _were_ the only one to know." "no," said the girl: "i knew--all the time, that--" whatever she meant, rudolph could only guess; but it was true, he thought, that she had never once spoken as though the present meeting were not possible, here or somewhere. recalling this, he suddenly but quietly stepped away aft, to sit beside the steersman, and smile in the darkness. the two voices flowed on. he did not listen, but watched the phosphorus welling soft and turbulent in the wake, and far off, in glimpses of the tropic light, the great dragon weltering on the face of the waters. the shape glimmered forth, died away, like a prodigy. how ran the verse? "ich lieg' und besitze. lass mich schlafen." "and yet," thought the young man, "i have one pearl from his hoard." that girl was right: like siegfried tempered in the grisly flood, the raw boy was turning into a man, seasoned and invulnerable. heywood was calling to him:-"you must go home with us. do you hear? i've made a wonderful plan--with the captain's fortune! dear old kneebone." a small white heap across the deck began to rise. "how often," complained a voice blurred with sleep, "how often must i tell ye--wake me, unless the ship--chart's all--good god!" at the captain's cry, those who lay in darkness under the thatched roof began to mutter, to rise, and grope out into the trembling light, with sleepy cries of joy. generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) it happened in japan. [illustration] to my brother major arthur haggard. [illustration] ... "_pearl's was a perfect japanese garden: it was a garden of the past, a poem, a creation of an art whose charm and loveliness only a japanese can produce._" --_page 28._ it happened in japan. by baroness albert d'anethan author of "his chief's wife" "love songs and other songs" with coloured frontispiece by willard straight london brown, langham & co., ltd. 78, new bond street, w. 1906. contents. page. chapter i.--renunciation -- -- -- 1 chapter ii.--in lotus land -- -- -- 25 chapter iii.--pains and penalties -- -- 56 chapter iv.--deep waters -- -- -- 75 chapter v.--home news -- -- -- 91 chapter vi.--a woman's womanliness -- -- 118 chapter vii.--tried as by fire -- -- 146 chapter viii.--amy to the rescue -- -- 159 chapter ix.--on the verge of the unknown -- 176 chapter x.--in the shadow of a tomb -- 198 chapter xi.--the price of a kiss -- -- 222 chapter xii.--danger signals -- -- 244 chapter xiii.--hidden fires -- -- -- 265 chapter xiv.--a bird of ill omen -- -- 280 chapter xv.--'twixt scylla and charybdis -- 298 chapter xvi.--"it is best so, amy, dear" -- 315 chapter i. renunciation. two men, side by side, were slowly pacing the deck of the _empress of india_ on her outward voyage to japan. a week had almost passed since the boat had sailed from vancouver, and the extremely bad weather encountered until this afternoon had prevented all but the most hardened good sailors from penetrating from below. now, however, the wind and sea had somewhat abated, the first ray of sun had brought the storm-tossed and sea-sick from their berths, and the broad decks were soon swarming with passengers of both sexes, whose faces and general demeanour expressed entire satisfaction at their restored liberty. monsieur de güldenfeldt, the newly-appointed swedish minister to japan, though an experienced and enterprising traveller, was watching this motley crew through his eye-glass with an amused and somewhat quizzical expression. he had seen many such scenes, and yet to his observant mind they were ever new and always entertaining. he was at the present moment occupied in gazing at a french priest, a german commercial traveller, and a cadaverous-looking englishman discussing with varied gesticulations some point in the political situation, on which question each appeared as ignorant as he was positive, and he was vaguely wondering what means they would ultimately find to unravel the tangled skein, when he felt his companion, a tall dark man with a black moustache and a distinguished nose, grip him by the arm. "by jove, de güldenfeldt!" exclaimed the latter excitedly, while an unusual air of animation lit up his somewhat sleepy eyes, "isn't that mrs. norrywood? that woman about whom there has been all that fuss, you know. or am i dreaming?" monsieur de güldenfeldt glanced along the deck and fixed his eyes on a lady who, all unconscious of the notice she was attracting, slowly came towards them. "not much doubt on that point, i fancy," he replied, as the tall, graceful figure passed near them. "i've known her for years. as one knows people about town, you know. dined with her, and that sort of thing. there's no mistaking her. sapristi! what a beautiful woman she is! i wonder if martinworth is on board: if they are together, you know." sir ralph nicholson pensively stroked his moustache, but did not reply. "it would give me intense satisfaction to be acquainted with the rights of that story," continued de güldenfeldt. "it was an uncommonly mixed up affair. doubtless, nicholson, you will put me down as a fool, but i believe that i am one of the few people who, after having followed the evidence from the beginning to the end, still believe in her and martinworth's innocence. why! you can't look into that woman's eyes, and not feel convinced that she is all right. i defy you to do so." "my dear fellow, it is just because she looks so uncommonly innocent and pure, and all that sort of thing, that she's probably as bad as they make 'em," replied sir ralph sententiously. "you are such a devilishly indulgent fellow, de güldenfeldt. all the many years that i have known you, and all the time you were posted in london, i hardly ever heard you utter a word against a soul: especially if the individual discussed happened to be a woman. yet heaven knows, in the course of a long and successful career you must have had plenty of knowledge of the fair sex and their peculiar little ways." "believe me, my dear boy," replied de güldenfeldt somewhat gravely, "women are far more sinned against than sinning. but it's no earthly use arguing with a juvenile cynic, such as no doubt you consider yourself, on this much disputed point. at present, you have all the censoriousness and hard-heartedness of youth on your side. only wait ten or fifteen years--till you are my mature age--and then tell me what you think about the matter. but," he added, "to return to our friend mrs. norrywood. you have no notion what a brute was norrywood. it was only after years of neglect and infidelity, even downright cruelty on his part, that his wife took up at last with that nice fellow martinworth. one only wonders she didn't console herself ages before." "but surely it was _she_ who started the divorce proceedings?" "yes. you see one day things came to a climax when she--oh! well, don't let's go over the whole sordid history. suffice it to say, that no woman with a particle of self-respect could, knowing what she knew, put up a day longer with such a blackguard. then he--norrywood--you know, brought the counter charge against her, poor soul, and lord martinworth; and at one time things were made to look uncommonly black against them. however, nothing was proved, for the excellent reason, in my opinion, that there was absolutely nothing to prove. and in the end she got her divorce right enough." "yes, and everyone said she would marry martinworth within the year." "well, the year is almost past. we shall see whether everyone was right, and whether martinworth is on board; and if so, in what capacity. here she comes again. i shall stop and speak to her this time, i think," and monsieur de güldenfeldt, hat in hand, went towards the lady. "how do you do, mrs. norrywood," he said; "how extremely pleasant it is for me to think that we are fated to be travelling companions." the person addressed stopped a moment in her walk, raising her clear grey eyes, in which lurked a look of annoyance and of slight surprise, to monsieur de güldenfeldt's face. "i think," she said very slowly but very clearly and incisively, "you have made a mistake. i am no long--i am not mrs. norrywood. my name is nugent," and with a slight bow she swept past him. with a look of stupefaction on his expressive face, monsieur de güldenfeldt's outstretched hand fell slowly to his side as he stared after the retreating form. he turned slowly round to sir ralph, who had been watching the whole incident with interest and considerable amusement. "tell me, ralph," he exclaimed, "am i dreaming? is it not mrs. norrywood? is it her double? but what a fool i am," he added; "of course there is not a doubt of it. the fact is, my dear boy, that i--i, stanislas de güldenfeldt, have been deliberately cut by one of the prettiest and smartest women in town. a by no means pleasant experience, i can tell you!" and monsieur de güldenfeldt, with a twinkle in his blue eyes, gave a little shake to his shoulders that was distinctly foreign and decidedly expressive. "yes," smiled nicholson, "if she had snubbed a nobody like me, now, there would have been nothing to be surprised at. precious glad, though, i didn't give her the chance," he added, with a cheery laugh. "i should never have survived it, whereas a diplomat like you can of course, get even with her any day. forgive my laughing, de güldenfeldt, but really it was rather a comic spectacle for an onlooker, you know." "laugh away, laugh away, my dear boy. perhaps, however, when your hilarity has spent itself, you will kindly help me to unravel this mystery. what the dickens does it mean, eh?" "oh! i don't think we need go very far for an explanation. probably she is going out to the antipodes to try and start afresh. of course, the first step towards that operation is to wipe out the past. so she begins by cutting her old friends, you see. 'pon my word, i admire her pluck. but i shall take warning from your adventure, and before making a move shall wait with resignation until mrs. norrywood--i beg her pardon--mrs. nugent, condescends to recognise in me a former acquaintance. it's a beastly bore being snubbed by a pretty woman, isn't it old fellow? come, don't eat me, but let's go below and see if martinworth's name is among the list of passengers." meanwhile the subject of the above conversation was standing in her cabin, and with flushed cheeks and a beating heart was thinking deeply. this meeting with two members of the set in which she had originally moved had come upon her as a most unpleasant shock, a shock for which she was totally unprepared. indeed, she had been so taken by surprise that she had behaved, as she told herself now, in a most unwarrantably tactless manner. both de güldenfeldt and nicholson she had known fairly well in the old days, and in calmly thinking over the circumstances of the meeting, it struck her what a false step she had made in this crude attempt of ignoring persons whom, indeed, it was impossible to ignore. she remembered now having read in a paper before leaving england, that de güldenfeldt had been named swedish minister to the court of japan, in which case she knew that sooner or later she was bound to come across him again, and as for nicholson, it did not take her long to recall that his relations with lord martinworth had been in former years of the most friendly nature. the meeting with these two men brought back vividly to pearl all the wretchedness of her past life, and it was only now that she realised to the full the intense relief and sense of freedom that filled her soul, as she stepped aboard the atlantic liner at southampton, and had watched the coast-line of england fade--as she then had sincerely hoped--for ever from her eyes. sir ralph nicholson had judged the situation rightly. pearl norrywood, or nugent, had left england with the firm intention of forgetting everything connected with her unhappy past. she was determined, as far as it was possible, to wipe out all the despair, the hatred, the humiliation of the last ten years of her life. but in doing this, she felt there could be no half measures. that in company with the misery must also be obliterated all the joy and happiness she had experienced in the one love of her existence. she told herself that with this blotting out of the past, dick martinworth must be sacrificed with the rest. there was a decision of character, a certain sternness in her nature which she knew would help her to carry out that determination, and from the day that she and lord martinworth left the divorce court a suspected, but in spite of all, an unconvicted couple, pearl nugent had never again seen the man who for a series of years had exercised so great an influence over her life. she had been but little past twenty when she put her future into the charge of a husband whom three months later she learned to utterly loathe and fear. from that time, every day, every hour, was a fiery ordeal from which, indeed, but few women could have hoped to escape unscathed. the inevitable arose ere long in the appearance on the scene of the honourable dick pelham, as he was in those far-away days. mr. pelham had at once been struck by the refined beauty and grace of the girl with sad grey eyes. then in getting to know her well he learnt to pity her, a feeling which ultimately culminated before many months passed into a deep and passionate love. it did not indeed take pelham long to learn that he worshipped the very ground on which pearl trod, and no great interval passed before he told her so. the world never knew, never would know, whether pearl norrywood had listened to these protestations. all that it saw was that she behaved as if she had done so, for from the day that dick pelham commenced to haunt her side she became another person. she developed into an extremely beautiful woman. the grey eyes lost their sadness, the lovely lips learned to smile, and there was a radiance over the whole charming face that is only seen around those who love. the world put down this wonderful transformation to the presence of dicky pelham, and for once the world was right. society indeed at this period of their existence was more than indulgent to pearl and mr. pelham. with the indifference and cynicism which characterises a certain class, not only did it condone, but it appeared on the contrary to encourage pelham's devotion, to smile with approbation upon the marked and evident intimacy existing between this happy and good-looking couple. to invite one without the other would have indeed shown a total _manque de savoir faire_, and the same post that carried a letter begging pearl's presence at a certain entertainment, or a certain house, as a matter of course conveyed another to mr. pelham containing the same request. and yet, if the truth were known, this inseparableness, this constant daily companionship, was apt at times to prove to both more of a trial than a joy, more of a curse than a blessing. on pelham's side it was a never-ending, feverish dream of unsatisfied desire, which pearl was eternally resisting, eternally fighting against with all the weapons of her decidedly religious training, and a genuine and innate purity of heart. and thus matters remained for the next five or six years. dick pelham succeeded in course of time to the title, and blossomed into lord martinworth, and his devotion to pearl instead of cooling increased in intensity as time went on. one day, after years of waiting and imploring, he finally succeeded in persuading mrs. norrywood to take the decisive step of issuing divorce proceedings against her husband. this had long been his aim. but not only pearl's hatred of open scandal and publicity, but her better judgment had prevented her hitherto from listening to his persuasions and from acceding to his unwearying entreaties. a severe, and what indeed might have proved a fatal injury from a blow bestowed in one of his ungovernable rages by the husband who had tortured her for so many years, finally however, decided pearl to give ear to martinworth's prayers, and at length to go to the extremity of sueing for a divorce. she succeeded, after days of suspense, in obtaining her divorce. but whereas she had entered the court with the smiles and approbation of the world, she left it with a ruined reputation, a social outcast, and with hardly a friend to hold out a helping hand. the decree _nisi_ had indeed been dearly bought, and as pearl drove away from the divorce court she was the first to realise and to acknowledge to herself that in obtaining her freedom she had, from a worldly point of view, brought about her own doom. as the judgment was pronounced, martinworth cast her one radiant glance, which expressed as plainly as words "at last you are mine. at last! at last! after all these years." but there was no answering look of triumph in pearl's eyes, for at that moment she felt that never again could she raise them to the face of man. in after times she often wondered how she had lived through all those awful days, how she could have remained silent, drinking in that terrible evidence which her husband had raked up from the very gutters. nevertheless she survived this truly distressing ordeal, and with a look of utter scorn on her face sat patiently listening to servants' lies, and to sordid details of innocent situations, which under the clever cross examination were transformed into all that seemed most guilty and most damaging to her cause. she walked away that day with martinworth, and as she passed into her carriage people whispered together and nudged each other. nothing had been proved,--and yet, in the eyes of her world, she knew that everything had been proved. "but, of course, she will marry martinworth now," it said. "he is only too willing to make the position a regular one. that is why she put norrywood into the divorce court, though evidently she never dreamt the old fox would succeed thus thoroughly in turning the tables on her. she has really been somewhat of a fool for her pains. why didn't she let things go on as they were? why did she want to put old norry's back up? she had just as much liberty before as she will have now, and if she had left him alone we should never have heard all these abominable things about her. of course, before this scandalous case it was easy enough to feign ignorance of all their goings on. now she has put herself outside the pale altogether, and in spite of that ridiculous verdict one really cannot continue the acquaintance. no doubt, once she is martinworth's wife,--though of course she won't go to court--their country neighbours will call on her, and she is just the sort of woman to be adored by the poor people. pity we can't see her any more. such a sweet woman, you know," etc., etc., etc. pearl knew her world. she heard words such as these ringing in her ears, and as on the doorstep of her house she said good-bye to lord martinworth, she vowed to herself never would she see him again. she was an innocent woman, whatever the world might call her. her first desire had been to have a certain satisfaction in disappointing the cynics of their laughter, and by not marrying the man whose name had so long been coupled with hers, and whom everyone had without doubt expected her to marry, to prove indisputably her innocence. but that was only a momentary thought. worthier reasons against this union soon took root in her mind. she loved martinworth with all her soul. the knowledge flashed upon her, that only by not marrying him could she prove her devotion to the man who would willingly have sacrificed all--his position in society, his future, his life's ambitions--by bestowing on her the protection of his name. that night all pearl norrywood's possessions were packed. when her arrangements were completed she sent away her maid, and set herself to the task of writing a letter. it took her a long, long time that letter, and tears were streaming down her cheeks as she penned these words:- "i am leaving you, my darling; for i can never be your wife. dick! you must not blame me for this, for it is just because of my great love for you that i can never take your name. the woman who shares that name must never have had the vile things said of her that have been said of me in that horrible court, this last week. you, in your great love and generosity, had but one thought when my freedom was pronounced--i read it in your eyes, dear. but all during those dreadful hours it was gradually becoming clear to me, i was slowly realising, that for your sake alone, i must never give the world the right of confirming what the world has said. had i only myself to think of i would, as you know, scorn what people may say, and now that i am free i would marry you, and at last taste what true happiness is. but, dick, you are a public man. you have a great name and high position to maintain, and the woman who bears that name must be above suspicion. dick! you are no child. you are a man of the world and of experience, and therefore i beg of you to look around among your acquaintances and friends and to ask yourself if there is a single one who, in spite of the verdict to-day, will believe in our innocence? such being the case, how can i ruin your life by marrying you? "i feel no bashfulness in writing this before you speak to me again, for by expressing my decision i thus make it impossible for you ever to speak. yes, dick, i am leaving you for ever--for ever. do not attempt to find me. all your efforts will be fruitless, and oh! indeed, indeed! this separation will be far better for us both. do not become hard against me, dick, for you will know--you must believe, dearest, that it is only my love that induces me to leave you. one day you will marry some pure young girl, and you will then bless me for trying to rectify the evil that i have done you, and you will perhaps forgive me for the years that you have wasted with me. and yet, if having made a woman in her darkest hour happy, if having prevented a heart from becoming cold and callous and cruel, if having cast many glorious rays of sunshine around an existence which, without you, would have been one dark abyss, if having blessed me with your beautiful, strong, supporting love, if, having done and given all this, you think your years have been wasted, let me tell you, dick, they have not--they have not! and now i bid you farewell. what it costs me to write that word, i alone can know. for with it i vanish from your life. if i were strong i should say 'forget me,' but you know me as a poor weak woman, and knowing me thus you will understand that i can only say 'forgive me.' "pearl." for several months pearl nugent lived in an obscure welsh village, buried like a hermit. she was awaiting an answer to a letter she had written to japan, and in due course it arrived. it was a satisfactory letter, welcoming her to the land of the rising sun. immediately on obtaining her divorce she had written to her cousin, mrs. rawlinson, begging her to secure a house for her either in yokohama or tokyo, and to make other arrangements subject to her approaching arrival. mrs. rawlinson, who was some years senior to the girl she loved as a younger sister, was the wife of an englishman engaged by the japanese government. she was a clever and large-minded woman. many a time had her kind heart ached for pearl, and when the divorce proceedings commenced she had prayed but for one conclusion. the complication connected with lord martinworth had certainly proved somewhat of a shock to her well-ordered mind, but in spite of the compromising evidence, not for one instant did she allow herself to believe the worst, and the personal love and pity she felt for the poor, storm-tossed girl, coupled with pearl's frank and affectionate letter, made her long for the day when she could fold and comfort her within her motherly arms. pearl had merely stated facts, and had asked for no advice. she knew her cousin well enough to be confident that none would be offered unasked. there was only one other person to acquaint with her decision. mr. hall was her lawyer and trustee, an old and valued friend of her father's. many a time when a child had he dandled her on his knee, and to him pearl now opened her whole heart, for certain business formalities had to be transacted connected with her change of residence and of name, and with regard to her fortune, which though not large, would be amply sufficient for her needs. during all those dreary months mr. hall was the only friend she saw. he ran down from town constantly, armed as a rule with documents to sign, and the appearance of this bright, cheery little man, with a face like a russet apple, was pearl's one pleasure during that period of grief and solitude. one day, when she had been in hiding a considerable time, he paid her one of his welcome visits. on this occasion, contrary to his habits, he appeared grave and preoccupied, and it was only after a certain time that, with a little preliminary cough, he seemed to make up his mind to speak. he took pearl's hand between his own. "my dear," he said gravely, "i want to ask you something. may i?" "yes, mr. hall, of course you are privileged to say anything to me. what is it?" "pearl, has it never struck you that lord martinworth would hardly be likely to rest satisfied with the request contained in your letter?" "he has been looking for me?" exclaimed pearl, flushing. "yes, he has been moving heaven and earth to find you. necessarily, his first step was to come to me." "and--you said--what?" "what could i say, but that i was in your confidence, and that i declined to betray it?" "and you told him nothing--nothing?" "no, in spite of prayers and threats, i of course divulged nothing." was it a shade of disappointment that for a moment clouded pearl's eyes mr. hall found himself wondering? at any rate, there was a pause before she continued in a low voice: "you were quite--quite right, mr. hall. thank you. then you think he has got no trace?" "even with the aid of detectives whom, i hear, he has since been employing, i don't fancy he has so far discovered your whereabouts. but-but----" "but--you think there is danger that he may do so?" "i should say there was every danger. for one thing, he could easily have me followed." he hesitated, then continued: "my dear child, you have honoured me with your entire confidence in this matter, and you must not think that i wish to take advantage of this fact if, before you finally decide to take this important step, i beg of you to reconsider. you love this man, and he loves you. his dearest wish--i know from his own lips--is to make you his wife. think what you are giving up, pearl, by flinging this all away, by flying from him. love, happiness, honour. you--" "forgive me, my dear old friend," interrupted pearl, "love and happiness i know, but not honour, no, not honour." she rose from her seat and stood by mr. hall's side. her eyes were wet with tears. "no," she repeated in a low voice, "not honour. i should never gain honour by marrying lord martinworth, for in marrying him i should despise myself. think of the ruin to him! knowing this--feeling this all the time, should i not, as the years went on, learn to hate myself for being the cause of his sacrifice? and though he is so good, so generous, i know he would never show me he had repented of the step, my own intuition would be sufficient. no words would be necessary to tell me that i had been the destroyer of his life, the stumbling block in the realisation of his hopes and of his ambitions. oh! mr. hall, my only friend, do not turn against me, do not tempt me. i have told you this before, many and many a time, and you listened and understood. do not, i pray you, at the last moment, try to convince me that i am unwise, that i am wrong, when i know--i know i am doing the only thing that can possibly be right." she paused, but mr. hall did not break the silence. "if," she continued with a deeper note of appeal, "if there were only myself to consider in this matter, do you think there could be a moment's hesitation on my part? do you think i should care what my world might say--what it would be sure to say if i married lord martinworth? not i! no fear of the opinion of a few people who once called themselves my friend, would make me hesitate in realising that happiness for which i have so long pined, and which at one time i thought was so nearly mine. "but now dear friend," she laid her hand upon his arm, "let us, i beg you, dismiss this subject, dismiss it for ever. you know my feelings on this matter, and once more i implore you not to try to persuade me against those feelings. indeed," she continued, smiling through her tears, "it would be useless, for i received a letter two days ago from mrs. rawlinson, and have consequently taken my passage by the 'paris,' sailing in a few weeks from southampton for new york. so you see the die is cast." pearl nugent's affairs occupied mr. hall's thoughts considerably as he travelled back to town that afternoon. "hum!" he said to himself, as he unfolded his newspaper and adjusted his spectacles to the right angle on his nose. "she thinks herself sincere, poor child, when she says it is all for martinworth's sake she doesn't marry him, but pearl norrywood--or nugent, as she insists on calling herself now--hasn't been a woman of society for ten years for nothing; and she has more consideration for the opinion of that world over which she reigned so long than she has any notion of. she is an innocent woman, but as proud as lucifer. i know her, bless her soul! she'll be hanged if she lets society have the satisfaction of having the laugh on its side. of course, she firmly believes she is sacrificing herself for martinworth's sake, but it's confounded nonsense, all the same. i know my pearl. her beastly pride is at the bottom of everything. damn it! why can't she marry the man and have done with it?" which soliloquy of the worthy old lawyer's proves that even our best friends are apt to misjudge us sometimes. meanwhile we have left pearl nugent standing in her cabin debating with herself what she ought to do. she stood plunged in thought, realising more and more into what a false position her impulsiveness had led her. it went without saying she had mortally offended monsieur de güldenfeldt. she, who could not afford to make a single enemy, however humble his position, had doubtless by this rash action incurred the lasting aversion of one who by the holding up of his little finger might do her such irretrievable harm in this new life upon which she was about to enter. she saw it all clearly enough now, and poor pearl laughed a little hollow laugh of wretchedness as she began to make the few alterations in her dress necessary for the shipboard dinner. if she had been somewhat vainer she would have been consoled by the remembrance that she belonged to a world where the fascination and charm and beauty of woman are still dominant features. but pearl's self-esteem of late had suffered too severe a blow for her to put great store on either her beauty or her qualities of fascination; though if she had known not only her own powers, but monsieur de güldenfeldt, somewhat better, she need never have passed through that disagreeable period of regret and apprehension. at dinner, considerably to her dismay, she found herself placed between her two quondam friends. she arrived rather late at table, and with flushed cheeks and a slight bow to each, sat down. her soup went away untouched. then finally taking her courage in both hands, she resolutely turned towards the swedish minister. "monsieur de güldenfeldt," she said with a slightly tremulous voice, "i must ask your pardon for my rude, and what must indeed seem to you, inexplicable behaviour of this afternoon. will you--will you believe that i was labouring under a misapprehension, and be generous enough to accept this as my only explanation?" it was very simply said, and monsieur de güldenfeldt answered her request as simply. he looked at the beautiful and perplexed face with a mixture of admiration and amusement in his eyes. "let us forget the past, mrs.--mrs.--nugent," he said, "and begin afresh. shall we?" and from that day commenced a friendship which was to prove an important factor in pearl nugent's life. chapter ii. in lotus-land. pearl nugent had every reason to congratulate herself on her energy in having renounced her old life and surroundings, for the three years passed in tokyo had proved the happiest, and certainly the most peaceful, of her hitherto somewhat stormy existence. on her first arrival in japan she had remained for some weeks--until she had settled herself in her own house--with her cousin, mrs. rawlinson. it had been a profitable and happy time for both, and for pearl especially the association at this uncertain period of her life with a woman like rosina rawlinson, was beneficial in every respect. everybody in tokyo knew, respected, and loved rosina, as she was generally called behind her back. it was rosina to whom one flew for advice when placed in a slight difficulty, or for comfort when overcome by a great trouble. it was rosina who would get up in the middle of the night to nurse a sick child, and it was she who received the confidences of the various young men and women of the community, received them with bright sympathy, and however trifling, kept them secretly locked within her own breast. again it was to rosina, or to rosina's husband, that everybody of importance seemed to bring letters of introduction, and many was the helpless and inexperienced globe-trotter whose appeal for aid had been listened to by rosina. above all, it was rosina who gave the jolliest, cheeriest little bridge dinners in tokyo, dinners where the wine and food were both above reproach, and where the most amusing people, and those most congenial to each other, were sure to be gathered together. those little dinners of rosina's were alone enough to make her the most popular person in japan. for the first fortnight after pearl's arrival, to her infinite relief, mrs. rawlinson, with her usual tact, had closed her doors to every one. "you will soon see enough of the people, my dear," she said, "without the necessity of being bored just at present. you and i have plenty to talk about, heaven knows! so we'll just sit over the fire and yarn, as that dear sailor boy of mine calls it, until we are both hoarse. i sent my niece amy away on purpose, for i knew you would have many things to say to me that it's as well she should know nothing about, and, as for tom, he doesn't count, you know, for he's at his office all day, and he sleeps all the evening. he is a dear old thing, but i can't say he's a particularly lively husband. he says i do the talking for both, but even in that case one expects more than a grunt as a reply, and i assure you that is often all he vouchsafes me." "and amy?" asked pearl, "has she grown up as pretty as she promised to be? i haven't seen her for four years now, for you remember i was abroad all that last year she was at school at brighton." "i am anxious to know what you think of amy," responded mrs. rawlinson. "out here she is considered a beauty. but of course, coming straight from europe as you do, and accustomed to seeing all the loveliest women in paris and in london, you may think nothing of her. people tell me she is the handsomest girl in japan, and certainly i have seen no one with such glorious eyes or brilliant colouring. but i may be prejudiced in her favour, and therefore, my dear, i am quite anxious to have your opinion. one thing, however, i do know, and that is she is the most terrible flirt that ever was born. what i have gone through, my dear pearl, with that girl no one knows. she has had heaps of offers--good ones, you know, from diplomats and people in excellent positions, but my lady turns up that pretty nose of hers at one and all. pure conceit i call it, for she knows she is penniless. i always tell her that under the circumstances she is lucky to have had an offer at all." "yes," replied pearl, "girls at home are now beginning to find that offers of marriage are not to be had by merely looking pretty, or even by being clever and amusing. the practical, modern young man generally thinks of his pocket before all other considerations. looks and intelligence are quite in the minority, i assure you." "of course! but i might just as well speak to a stone wall as to discuss the advantages of matrimony with amy. and then, you know, she behaves so badly. she never shows the least repentance when she refuses these men one after the other. she says she knows none of them will break their hearts about her, and that she has not the slightest intention of wasting her sympathy over people who doubtless one and all will be consoled in less than three months. such nonsense, you know, and so hard-hearted! yes, certainly amy is a strange girl. she is really rather a trial to me sometimes. yet, in spite of all her faults, she is wonderfully lovable. i think you will discover this fact on your own account." but three years had passed since this and many such conversations, and pearl nugent one lovely spring morning was seated in her garden, in the neighbourhood of some magnificent flowering cherry trees, idly thinking of what those years had brought her. pearl's was a perfect japanese garden. it was a garden of the past, a poem--a creation of an art whose charm and loveliness only a japanese can produce. she was seated on the curved branch of a very ancient pine. a few feet distant from her stood a little stone shrine, chipped and blemished, and covered with thick grown moss, while on her left were uneven rocks, and quaint-shaped basins of various forms and designs. two stone lanterns, green with age, formed on her right a sort of entrance to the miniature lake dotted with tiny islands and surrounded by knolls of bright green grass, from the smooth surface of which rose the spreading cherry trees, now in full bloom. some of these cherry trees had great gnarled trunks, and were very ancient. their fallen petals, covering the turf, formed a carpet like delicate pink snow, while above was one glorious burst of blossom, hiding every branch in its mantle of perfect form and beauty. in and out of the little knolls and hills and elevations, which were reached by stone steps of various shapes, were sanded paths which looked as if they never were meant to be trod upon, and to prevent such a desecration flat, queer shaped stepping stones were placed in strange and irregular positions. everything was irregular and unexpected in this fascinating garden. flowers were rare, but fine old trees abounded, and shrubs and ancient pines,--some allowed to grow at their own sweet will, others dwarfed in stature, and trimmed by careful training into fantastic and uncanny shapes. beyond was a distant view of fujiyama still wrapped in its white mantle, though great bare places streaked the mountain, forming weird shadows where the snow had already melted. pearl felt a certain companionship in this grand old mountain, solitary like herself. she would sit for hours watching it in all its different, but ever lovely aspects, at one time in its snowy covering almost dazzling the eyes in the brilliant morning sunshine, and later on at eventide but vaguely distinct through banks of heavy purple clouds, till gradually fading from view, fuji would become merged into the fading sky, finally disappearing into the shadows of the darkening night. her eyes were dreamily fixed on fuji now, standing out white and clear. she was not alone, for de güldenfeldt lay stretched on the grass at her feet. his eyes, however, were employed in studying and admiring what at that moment he considered far more beautiful, far more entrancing, than any mountain in the world--namely, his companion's face. pearl was looking considerably younger and handsomer still than when she had left england. ease of mind and a quiet life had accomplished their work, and the sweet placid face bore no traces of the storms that for a time had marred its beauty, and somewhat hardened its expression. her past life was to her like an unhappy dream, from which she awoke, to discover with a feeling of infinite relief that it was indeed but a dream, a dream that had faded away for ever. she would find herself in her idle moments, trying to piece the past together, and failing most strangely in the attempt. the utterly miserable life she had spent with her husband, her long moral struggle with martinworth, those terrible scenes in the divorce court, all the incidents of those bitter ten years,--now seemed one and all, like a vanishing and almost forgotten vision. at times she would deliberately set herself to the task of the retrospection of each miserable occurrence, each wretched episode, for there were periods when her present happiness had the effect of almost terrifying her--it seemed so impossible, so unreal. she would then tell herself that it were best and wisest that she should attempt to recall what once had been her life, what once had been her sorrow and despair. could this happiness, could this peace of mind really be hers? would it not fade as a dream even as her past was so quickly vanishing from her mind? how strange! how very strange! she often thought, that she should experience this difficulty in remembering. even dick martinworth was becoming a faint shadow, whose features, voice, and manner she often found it hard to recall. and yet she told herself she loved him as much as ever. she would place his photograph before her and try to remember scenes where they had been together, words that had been spoken between them, and she would be angry with herself to find how difficult it was for her to picture those scenes, to recollect those words. all seemed so far--so very far away, and somewhat to her dismay, pearl was beginning to realise that she had almost achieved the object in view when she left england--that of complete obliteration, entire forgetfulness of the past. "the world forgetting, by the world forgot," she quoted half aloud as she rose from her seat and stretched out her hand to pluck a branch of the heavily-laden cherry tree. "such is now my life, but i do not complain, for it has certainly many advantages--especially one. no one here ever seems to care to ask awkward questions, and if they know my secret they treat me none the worse for it. _is_ it known, monsieur de güldenfeldt?" she inquired suddenly of her companion. the question came very abruptly, so abruptly, that the swedish minister paused before replying. this was the first time since their meeting on the boat three years ago, that pearl, in spite of her close friendship with stanislas de güldenfeldt, had in any way referred to her past history. he looked up quickly, wondering what was working in her mind. "why do you ask me that, my dear lady?" he eventually inquired, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "yes, why do i ask it?" she echoed. "why do we ever wish to know anything that may possibly prove painful to us? why not rest satisfied with this happy, dreamy, forgetting life? why not, indeed? what a true lotus eater i have become since i came to live in this poetical, beautiful japan. i hardly know myself. my life glides along, and i take no count of the hours, nor of the days, and to me it is indeed 'always afternoon.' 'with half closed eyes ever to seem falling asleep in a half dream.' such, indeed, has been my life since i fled to this 'far-off land.' it is delicious, it is almost perfect. but it must not continue, for i know it is enervating. yes, and what is more, my dear friend, downright demoralising." "you use strong words, mrs. nugent," replied de güldenfeldt, raising himself on his elbow, and gazing into her flushed face with a look of lurking amusement. "what has upset you to-day?" "oh, i don't know," replied pearl impatiently, "i have been feeling for some time that i ought not to go on in this aimless, indifferent way. it is only quite lately that i bothered about anything--what people might think of me, you know. but the idea has taken possession of me, and i cannot get free from it. so i decided that i would ask you to tell me, for i shall surely get the truth from you. do they know?" she repeated, fixing her clear grey eyes on his face. "do they know that i am deceiving them--that i am a fraud, that my name is not really nugent? do they know that my husband and i are divorced? do they know--do they know--about?--do they know--everything?" "and you expect me to answer all these questions?" said de güldenfeldt slowly. "yes, i do. i expect you to be perfectly honest and frank with me. it is the least you can do for me, for you call yourself my friend. and, indeed," she added, with her sweet smile, "ever since the day that i first put my feet on these shores you have proved yourself my best, my truest friend." "now, i wonder why it should be the duty of a so-called friend to be given the disagreeable task of announcing disagreeable facts," responded de güldenfeldt pensively. "and indeed, mrs. nugent, what good will it do if i repeat all the gossip that is bound to go on in a place like this? you can't stop it, you know, any more than you can hope to turn the tide." "then they do gossip about me?" continued pearl with persistency. "of course they do." "and what do they say?" "oh, heavens! give me a woman for tenacity of purpose!" exclaimed de güldenfeldt, rising and stretching his long limbs. "by the by," he continued, suddenly changing the subject, "do you know that nicholson arrived in yokohama yesterday? i thought, in spite of his hasty departure over eighteen months ago now, the attractions of japan would ultimately prove too strong for him." "amy refused him, you know. but i believe she really liked him all the time. are you thinking of her when you speak of attractions?" "i should say she is the sole and only one. i know at the time he was awfully hard hit. it was our conversation that made me think of him. never shall i forget the way he stuck up for you one evening at the club, when that little brute reichter--who has left, thank god--came out with some garbled version of your story. _mon dieu!_ didn't nicholson give it him, just! he is such a lazy, _nonchalant_ beggar that one never expected to see him fly into such a passion. we all stood aghast, while he lashed the mean little brute with his sarcastic tongue. yes! you have got a loyal, good friend in nicholson, mrs. nugent." "and another in you. yet you change the conversation to avoid telling me what i want so much to know. it is not very kind of you, i think." "well, i suppose you will get your way in the end," de güldenfeldt replied, with a smile, "so i may as well surrender without further hesitation. yes, people know your story, mrs. nugent. however strictly your cousin mrs. rawlinson, nicholson and i have kept the secret, it has somehow oozed out. i firmly believe that it was those globe-trotters--the clive-carnishers, who, recognising you at the last chrysanthemum party, set it about. at any rate, it is known at the english legation who you really are, for thomson spoke to me about it one day. you see," he added deprecatingly, "if you had never entertained, if you had been ugly and stupid and uninteresting, people certainly would not have troubled their heads about you, nor have gone to the bother of raking up old stories. but being what you are, charming and beautiful, no matter if you hide yourself in the moon, no matter if you change your name a dozen times, no matter if you live the life of a hermit--your story, dear lady, will follow you to the end of your existence. there! now i have given in and told you the truth, and what good will it do you, i should like to know?" "it has already eased my mind considerably, only that," replied pearl, "i don't know what has possessed me of late, but i have felt as if i were a cheat--a fraud. you see, i have grown fond of the people here, both japanese and europeans, and i have begun to recognise that i was rewarding their kindness but indifferently. because i was rosina's cousin, everyone, when i first came, received me with open arms. then i think they got to like me a little for my own sake. now you tell me they know my story. well, this shows, at any rate, that i was right in leaving england, and choosing instead this dear japan as my home. it is only in a place like this that one would find so much kindness, so much indulgence. the foreign community is so small, so very restricted you see, that i suppose people can't afford to be too exclusive, too particular," she added, rather bitterly. de güldenfeldt did not reply. he knew there was considerable truth in pearl's remarks. if mrs. nugent had remained in england she would henceforth, necessarily, have only been received on sufferance. she would by degrees have sunk into the ranks of _les déclassées_, with no fixed abode, reduced to wandering from second-rate watering-places to out-of-the-way continental towns, seeking rest and finding none. thus her youth, embittered and disappointed, would finally have passed, and she who formerly had ever been welcome within the portals of good society, would have found herself crawling on her knees, discrowned, outside those closed gates. here, on the contrary, in the limited european society of the facile east, in spite of varied and garbled versions of her story being known, not only did she receive and was received, but she was considered an acquisition, indeed, much sought after for her beauty and sweetness, her charm and many social talents. as de güldenfeldt walked away from pearl's house that day he was very pensive. the knowledge that he loved pearl nugent came as nothing fresh to his mind. he had been fully aware of this fact since their encounter long ago on board the canadian pacific liner. at that time however, if anyone had ventured to tell him he would have ever contemplated marrying a woman who had gone through pearl's unfortunate experiences, a woman who had been tarred by the dirty brush of the divorce court, he would have been the first to have scouted the idea as utterly impossible and absurd. stanislas de güldenfeldt was extremely ambitious. his profession was his god, and ever since the day he had entered on his career all his natural tastes and longings, all his passions and desires, had been subservient to this love of his profession and to the determination to excel. he was possessed of many talents and a considerable amount of good looks, which gifts, combined with great charm of manner and the attractions of his position, all helped to made him a favourite with men and women alike. but a natural cautiousness of disposition, together with this ruling love of his profession, caused him to feel general indifference as far as women were concerned, and though he certainly affected their society, and was never otherwise than courteous and charming towards them, he had, with but one or two exceptions been but little influenced by the feminine sex throughout his life. these exceptions had on each occasion proved themselves episodes rather of a pleasant than of a painful nature. he had experienced nevertheless, a certain relief when in the natural course of events these chapters of his life were closed, and with a mind free from all outward influences, once more he could devote his time and his thoughts entirely to his work. he would tell himself that in the abstract he admired women, that on the whole he thought them superior to his own sex. then he would find himself wondering how it was that in spite of this undoubted admiration, and what indeed might almost be called veneration, he had really loved them so seldom, why the real depths of his nature had been so little stirred, so little troubled by their presence. he knew the answer to that question well enough, but he would seldom give it even to himself, for he frequently felt irritated with himself at this entire absorption in his work, and above all for what he was wont at times to fancy was an absolute want of sentiment in his nature. and yet as he emerged from pearl nugent's garden that spring morning, monsieur de güldenfeldt realised to the full what he had more or less known for three years past--that he was even as others were, and that he could love, love with the full power of his long pent-up feelings, and learning this fact, instead of blessing he lamented his fate. he thought of pearl with her distinguished yet perfectly simple air. he thought of the straight, clear-cut profile, and the firm, rather square little chin, of those pure and clear grey eyes, and the habit she had of doubling her fingers tightly into the palms of her hands. he thought of those many outward examples of her firm and reliant character--and his heart sank. he felt he desired her above everything in the wide world, and he knew as surely as he knew he was himself that if he wished to gratify that desire he must marry her. stanislas de güldenfeldt had not studied pearl's character for three years for nothing. he was confident in his own mind that she had never listened to martinworth's entreaties, and he knew that in spite of the irregularity of her present position--perhaps for that very reason--there was a pride, a certain hardness in her nature, that would debar him from venturing to propose any union but one which, in the eyes of the world, was strictly conventional and correct. that day de güldenfeldt, whistling for his dogs, started on a solitary walk of some miles, far away from the stir and haste of the city. it was a perfect spring day, with a soft breeze blowing, and a hot sun overhead. stanislas skirted the fields, already bright with the young corn, his eyes lingering on the beauty of the rich and varied foliage, and on the little knolls of many a secluded and shaded grove fringed with clumps of feathery bamboos and an occasional palm waving aloft in the balmy air. contrasting with the vivid and many shaded greens, and always on the loftiest hill, half hidden in the shadiest spot of the neighbourhood, would be visible the red portal or _torii_ of some little shrine raised to _inari sama_--the god of farming--or perhaps to some other deity of the province, while away in the distance rose a range of purple mountains, and on the east a streak of sea gleamed like silver in the bright afternoon sun. he crossed more than one stream of water, in the cool depths of which groups of stark naked urchins were frisking in the wild abandoned gambols of happy childhood. peasant women of all ages, wrapped in their scanty upper garments and blue cotton trousers, far more resembling men than members of the gentler sex, would pass along the road, bent and almost hidden beneath overwhelming burdens of huge bundles of faggots, yet ever ready with a cheerful greeting as they toiled on towards the thatched farm houses nestling in the hamlets and villages beyond. stanislas longed to be an artist to depict on paper these simple scenes of japanese country life, to be capable of immortalising this lovely peaceful nature, chief of which in his eyes were for the present the snowy blooms of the cherry tree, contrasting with the sombre cryptomeria pines, and the brilliant green and red of the giant wild camellia. but stanislas, equally ignorant of the kodak as of the paint brush, with a faint sigh of regret continued his tramp alongside the little square fields of the fresh young corn, emerald-green in colour, traversing in his walk many an enchanting silent grove, till at length he reached the goal of his pilgrimage. hidden away in the little village of meguro, and overgrown by vegetation, is a miniature and ancient graveyard. two grey and battered stones, half fallen on the ground, and half hidden in the long rank grass, is all that is left in this old, old burying ground to mark the last resting place of the dead. stanislas knew well the pathetic love tale connected with these gravestones, placed there over three hundred years ago, and he paused to examine once again the faint inscription borne by one of them. "the tomb of the shiyoku," he read, the shiyoku being, he knew, fabulous birds, emblems of love and fidelity. this moss-grown stone, lying battered and broken before him, told of a love-tale romantic in many of its details, and tragic in its ending. there it had stood for generations, the sole memorial of the burial place of the robber gompachi, remarkable for his valour and great personal beauty, and of his companion in death, the lovely and loving courtesan, komurasaki. the story relates how gompachi after many murders, was at length caught red-handed and promptly executed, his body being rescued and buried by devoted friends in the grounds of the temple of meguro. komurasaki, getting news of her lover's death, hied to the spot, wept and prayed long over the tomb, then drawing the dagger--a weapon which in those days every woman wore on her person--from the folds of her "obi,"[1] she plunged it into her heart, and, sinking on the ground, sighed her last breath over the grave of her beloved. [1] a sash worn over the dress. the legend continues how the priests, touched and greatly struck at the devotion of this beautiful maiden, laid her by the side of her lover, burying them in one grave. there they placed to their memory the stone which remains to this day, and before which incense is burnt, and flowers and offerings are laid, by all true and devoted lovers. hard by the gravestone under which so long have mouldered the remains of gompachi and komurasaki, is another memorial which appears almost as ancient, on which is engraved the following words which many a time had been read and translated to stanislas: "in the old days of genroku, she pined for the beauty of her lover, who was as fair to look upon as the flowers, and now, beneath the moss of this old tombstone, all has perished of her love but her name. amid the changes of a fitful world, this tomb is decaying under the dew and the rain, gradually crumbling beneath its own dust, its outline alone remaining. stranger, bestow an alms to preserve this stone, and we, sparing neither pain nor labour, will second you with all our hearts. greeting it again, let us preserve it from decay for future generations, and let us write the following verse upon it:--'these two birds, beautiful as the cherry blossom, perished before their time, like flowers broken down by the wind before they have borne seed.'" for some time de güldenfeldt hovered round this romantic spot, musing long on this old-world tale of a love, faithful and lasting even in death. but the time wore on, the shadows lengthened, and half-regretfully he rose, wending his way to the buddhist temple of fudo sama, a spot that he knew well, buried within a grove of ancient maple trees. this was a very favourite resort of his. he passed through the _torii_ or stone gateway, bounding up the many steps that led to the shrine, and before which was placed the deep stone-lined basin of water, kept replenished by the ancient bronze fountain carved in the form of a dragon, spouting out from the rock behind. stanislas sat himself down by the basin, and lighting a cigarette ruminated on the strange superstition that to this day induces many a weary and penitent pilgrim, winter and summer alike, to stand often for hours at a time under the rushing waterfall. there they would patiently stand, praying fervently that the icy water, in cleansing and purifying the body would by the intercession of the merciful and all powerful buddha, thus cleanse and purify the soul within. de güldenfeldt lingered for a time beneath the maple and cherry trees, while bright-faced, bright-clothed _nesan_[2] from the picturesque tea-house hard by, brought him tiny cups of japanese tea, chattering in their happy childish way, with laughter, smiles and bows. he sat there for over an hour thinking deeply, and when at length the sun, sinking behind the hill, warned him that it was time to go, his resolution was formed. [2] waiting maids. he would ask pearl nugent to be his wife. after all, what was his profession to him compared with his great absorbing love? it was true that hitherto all had been sacrificed to his career, but that was before he had met pearl, before the love that now filled his heart had taught him what it really was to live and to enjoy. a marriage such as he contemplated would he knew well, be a hindrance to his profession, and, consequently, a severe blow to his ambitions, but for the time being he banished all thought of personal aggrandisement from his mind, and as he rose and once more tramped across the fields, in stanislas de güldenfeldt's blue eyes there was a light, and round his firm lips a smile, that had been strangers there for many a long day. that same day mrs. nugent ordered her carriage and drove round to her cousin's house. she made a point of going to see mrs. rawlinson whenever she felt restless or discontented, for rosina acted on her nerves like a stimulant. to-day when she got there rosina was not at home, but she found her pretty young cousin amy mendovy seated by the open window, sketching fujiyama with the evening glow upon it. "forgive my not getting up, pearl," the girl said, "but i must finish this before the sun sinks. have you ever seen fuji looking more divine? no wonder the japanese worship the mountain. just look at it with that hazy, purple light upon it. i have been breaking it gently to aunt rosy that i am going to become a shintoist or a buddhist, or something." "oh, indeed. may i inquire why?" "so that i may worship fuji, of course." "i don't see the connection." "oh, don't you? then you are very dense, my dear. aren't the japanese shintoists or buddhists? and don't they worship fuji? or, if they don't they hold it sacred, which is very much the same thing." "don't talk nonsense, amy. what is the matter with you to-day? you seem so nervous and excited. why! i declare you have been crying." no answer, only energetic daubs of green and yellow and carmine, all mixed together on the paper. "amy, dear, why have you been crying?" asked pearl in her soft voice, laying her hand on her cousin's arm. "now my dear pearl, don't be silly; have you ever seen me cry?" "yes, often. tears are as near your eyes as smiles are to your lips, you april day. but tell me, what is wrong?" "look here, pearl," answered amy, raising her sleek head while her eyes flashed, "i won't be bothered. and if i choose to cry i shall cry, so there." "certainly, my dear, and as i came to see rosina and not you, i have no wish to disturb you in such a profitable occupation. so i'll take my departure. _addio_," and pearl turned towards the door. she hadn't got far, however, before she felt two strong arms round her waist and various energetic kisses upon the back of her neck. "come back, pearl darling. have some tea and don't be crusty. why, i have just been longing for you. aunt rosy is no good, she doesn't understand me, and never will understand me; so it's no use trying to make her." "i should like to know who does," said pearl. "well, you do. so i am just going to tell you all about it. come here and sit on the windowsill. give me your hand, and let us look at fuji till the light dies away." and during a quarter of an hour's silence they watched fujiyama that rose up dim and indistinct against the setting sun. there it stood in all its solemn majesty, solitary in all its grand repose, superb in all its noble isolation. the dark lights grew fainter and more indistinct, the brilliant blood-red sky with its shifting gleams took paler shades, till little by little it seemed to mingle with the misty colouring of the lonely peak, and behold, even as they watched, night fell, enshrouding all in its vast impenetrable mantle. "now, dear," said pearl, "it's dark, i can hardly see your face, so tell me what is the matter." amy rose abruptly and switched on the electric light. "as to that," she said with a nervous laugh, "pray don't think i am ashamed of being seen. i've done nothing wrong, you know." "well, at any rate there's a certain comfort in that affirmation," replied pearl drily. "oh, now you are laughing at me. never mind, i am accustomed to it." then, after a pause, "pearl, he's come back." "who's come back?" "don't tease. you know whom i mean--sir ralph nicholson, of course." "oh, then it was a matter of course that he should come back? well, continue your confession. he has been here, i suppose?" "yes. he told me he returned on purpose to see me, you know. pearl, he asked me again to be his wife! he was so kind and nice, but he seemed to be so awfully sure that i was going to accept him that i really couldn't help it, but--but--i believe he thinks that i refused him." "and now you are sorry, i suppose, and have been crying about it. oh! amy, amy! you foolish, foolish girl! why, you love that man with all your heart. you have never ceased to think of him since he left. and now, when just like in a novel, he turns up again and gives you another chance, you go and throw it away like this. i have no patience with you, amy, and i don't pity you a bit. you surely ought to understand that ralph nicholson is a man in a thousand. a delightful man, a clever man, and, from a worldly point of view, an excellent match. and pray, who are you, miss, that you should treat him like this? if you didn't care for him it would be another question, but you told me yourself you have never been happy since you said 'no' before. and now--oh! really, i can't tell you what i think, i am so annoyed." amy's bright colouring paled while pearl was speaking. she rose from her seat, and stood with clasped hand and bent head. "pearl," she replied, with a break in her voice, "go on--go on scolding me. i feel i deserve every word you say, and you cannot blame me more than i blame myself. i can't think what induced me to behave as i did. but you alone know how sometimes a spirit of contradiction takes possession of me, and when he said, 'i have come back all these thousands of miles to ask you again to be my wife. you will have me this time, won't you, amy?' i just answered--'and pray, sir ralph, why should i answer yes now more than eighteen months ago? the circumstances, i imagine, are just the same as far as i am concerned.'" "you said that? good heavens! what cruel creatures women are!" exclaimed pearl. "and what was his answer?" "i think he turned very white, and he said--'this, then, is your only answer after--after all this time?'" "and what did you reply?" "what did i reply? oh, nothing." "nothing? oh, amy!" "i couldn't, pearl. but i did the next best thing. i went to the piano and played some bars of a waltz, that waltz of strauss' to which he and i have danced so much in the old days. of course, i thought that he would understand by that--that--well--that i didn't mean 'no' exactly. a woman would have understood the _nuance_ in a second, but men are so dense. i put plenty of expression into my playing, too. but when i looked up he was gone!" pearl couldn't help laughing at this very original form of replying to an offer of marriage. she took the girl in her arms and kissed her. "really, amy, you are a most extraordinary girl. what other person would think of doing such a thing? you really deserve that he should never come back again. a serious man like sir ralph is not to be coquetted with like a boy. he put you a question, a question on which depends the happiness of his life, and all you seem capable of doing is to reply in this flippant manner." "don't you think i see all that clearly enough now?" replied amy mournfully, "and what is worse, there is a mail going out to-morrow--the 'china,' and i'm convinced he'll sail by it. oh, pearl! do help me. what am i to do? i can't let him go away again. i really can't." "now look here, amy, if i come to the rescue in this matter--which is far more than you deserve, miss--will you promise to be guided by me?" "well, you know, pearl," replied amy, with a mischievous light in her eyes, "i hate making promises, for i no sooner make one than i find _c'est plus fort que moi_, and lo! it is broken. but in this case my own interests are so much at stake that perhaps--perhaps--" pearl rose from her seat and began putting on her cloak. "oh, amy, amy! why will you not be more like other people? you give most people, dear, such an entirely false impression of your real nature. but never mind, i am not going to preach any more to-day. good-bye! and if sir ralph ever has the temerity to ask you again, try and behave for once in your life like a rational being." pearl's thoughts were much occupied with miss mendovy as she drove home that afternoon. she was extremely attached to her young cousin, and perhaps she sympathised better than most people with the contradictions of that girlish nature. amy mendovy, the only child of a sister of mrs. rawlinson's, was left an orphan while still an infant. rosina adopted her, in every way fulfilling the mother's part. she loved the girl with all her heart. but in spite of her great affection and indeed, genuine admiration, she did not profess in the smallest degree to understand her. consequently their ideas, habits, and ways of looking at things generally, were hardly what could be called congenial or sympathetic. mrs. rawlinson was a simple-minded creature, and deluded herself with the belief that she was now extremely modern and up-to-date. if the truth were known, she had never entirely recovered from the narrow, calvinistic training of her youth, a proof of which was particularly shown in the prim, little manner she affected when she thought it necessary to correct her niece. amy delighted in rousing that manner, indeed, at times her chief joy in life appeared to be that of teasing her aunt. it was only when she had succeeded in finally driving the poor soul to the verge of desperation that she would throw her arms around her neck, coax her, blame herself, ask pardon--in fact, behave generally in such a bewitching _caline_ way, that it would indeed be a stony heart that could resist her, and certainly not the soft organ that rosina rawlinson was generally credited with possessing. pearl as she drove home, was thinking of this strain of perversity in her cousin's disposition. she confessed to herself that it added greatly to her charm, but nevertheless she deeply regretted this peculiarity, preferring to dwell on those deeper traits in the girl's character which to others were so seldom visible. under the apparently frivolous, somewhat futile manner, there was a strength, almost a grandeur of soul, the glimpses of which more than once had literally taken away pearl's breath, so totally had she been unprepared for such an exhibition. it was strange to hear some deep thought expressed by those lips, that seemed formed only for mockery and laughter, and still stranger to see the flash of cold disdain, of righteous scorn, that would fill the dark eyes at the sight of some mean or unworthy action, or at the sound of some paltry, petty speech. but it was only to very few that the beautiful miss mendovy ever showed this finer side of her nature, and to the world at large she was looked upon as a girl of moods--original and impetuous--lovely as a dream, and as heartless as a stone. chapter iii. pains and penalties. sir ralph nicholson appeared the next day at pearl's house in answer to a note he had found awaiting him on his return from dining at the swedish legation the evening before. stanislas de güldenfeldt and he were old and intimate friends, yet in spite of the fact that he was feeling bitterly mortified at miss mendovy's cool reception, not once did amy's name cross his lips in the conversation kept up between the two men until the early hours of the morning. de güldenfeldt, on the contrary, spoke incessantly of pearl, and ralph wondered if his friend had the vaguest idea how much he betrayed himself in every word he let fall. he gazed at him with amazement. here was a man who had been known throughout his career as the most cautious, the most guarded, and the most reticent of diplomatists, proving by every remark that passed his lips, in the very expression of his flushed and handsome face, the thoughts that were evidently entirely monopolising his mind. for the time being the two men seemed to have changed personalities, and the more de güldenfeldt spoke of pearl, the more silent and reserved did nicholson become. he watched him with half-closed eyes through his cigar smoke, and with a cynicism he had somewhat adopted of late, found himself pitying what he chose to designate as his friend's "state of demoralisation." "poor old fellow," he thought, "japan is spoiling him. three years ago one would never have heard him maudling about a woman in this ridiculous way. good heavens! what confounded fools these women make of us!" to mrs. nugent the following day he gave expression to almost the same sentiment, though on that occasion it was entirely in reference to himself. to her he was as frank and open as he had been reticent to de güldenfeldt. little by little the whole story came out. how it was not the charm of the scenery of japan, not its people so clever, brave and fascinating, not its engrossing art, much as he appreciated beautiful things, in fact none of these attractions that had recalled him to the country after a few months absence, but simply the recollection of one little rebellious curl on amy mendovy's white forehead, the distinct and haunting impression of a seductively mocking expression in the bright eyes that had induced him to cast all home duties and pleasures to the winds, and had once more dragged him back to her side. "and you see, mrs. nugent, how i have been rewarded for my constancy. but then men are such confounded fools! she refused me eighteen months ago, you know. nevertheless i always had a faint hope that _au fond_ she was not so entirely indifferent to me, which proves what a conceited, fatuous ass i am. perhaps it is only fair that i should be punished for my folly." "and are you so very positive that she does not care for you?" asked pearl, looking up into his face with a smile. "judge for yourself. if a girl cared two straws for a man, would she in response to an offer of marriage, after a journey of eleven thousand miles taken by that unfortunate fellow for her sake, sit down and begin to strum on the piano? i ask you, would any girl with a scrap of feeling or of heart do such an outrageous thing?" "what did she play?" "how am i to know? and i'm sure i don't care. i have no ear for music. something very noisy and jingly, that's all i heard." "you didn't recognise the waltz you used to dance together, then?" and pearl, without looking at him, began putting straight the little ivory _netsuke_[3] on her mantelpiece. [3] carved objects that attach the tobacco pouch. "by jove!" exclaimed ralph, jumping from his seat, "you don't mean to tell me she was playing _that_! now you mention it, the tune did seem familiar to me. you mean, then, that--good heavens! i see it all now. mrs. nugent, what an infernal idiot i have been!" "yes," said pearl quietly, "perhaps you have been rather a goose." "but how the dickens was i to know? who would ever have imagined she would act in such an extraordinary way?" "in all your dealings with that young woman you must bear in mind that she never does things quite like other people," replied pearl. "that must always be taken into consideration, and your own conduct consequently must be dependent on this knowledge. so, instead of rushing off to her instantly again, as i see you are dying to do, i should refrain if i were you." "but what am i to do?" "i should simply for a time take absolutely no notice of her, and what would be better still, and would certainly lead to most excellent results, get up a mild flirtation with someone else." sir ralph looked serious. "mrs. nugent," he said, "i am not a bit that sort of fellow, you know. i'm really an awful duffer at saying pretty things to a woman, especially when i don't mean them." "never mind, try your best for once in a way. for take my word for it, if you want amy as a wife, you must first rouse her _pique_, her jealousy. she feels far too sure of you now, and she will be surer still if she finds you have no intention of going off again--as she now half fears you may do. if i were you, and if really you care to be guided by me, i should advise you to choose a married woman for your flirtation, a woman who would be sensible enough not to take too much _au grand serieux_ any nonsense you may talk." sir ralph nicholson thrust his hands down into his pockets and walked to the window. he stood gazing for some moments out on to the cherry trees shining like pale pink snow in the brilliant sunshine. then he turned suddenly round and faced pearl. "mrs. nugent," he said, "i have something on my mind which i must tell you. may i?" "certainly," replied pearl quietly, "i am accustomed to receiving confidences. what is it?" "oh, it is not a confidence. it is something about--about you--this time. at least i mean not about you, but about--martinworth." pearl rose from her seat, and going up to ralph clutched nervously at his sleeve. "what is it?" she asked breathlessly, while she turned very pale. "is--is he dead?" "dead! good heavens! no. he was in the most flourishing state of health when i saw him last in paris, but he has nevertheless dished himself pretty considerably. he is--he is--you must know sooner or later--he is--married, and--and--what's more, he is coming out here." "he is married and he is coming out here!" pearl echoed the words in a dull voice as she stared into sir ralph's sympathetic face. "dick married and coming out here with his wife! good god! what shall i do?" and she remained motionless with her distressed eyes fixed on nicholson. "my dear mrs. nugent--my dear lady," blundered ralph, "please don't look like that. for god's sake, i implore you to sit down! say--do--something. i wish i hadn't told you. but i thought it best, for of course, you are bound to meet them if they come here. so i thought--i thought you had better be prepared. but confound it all! i would have risked anything rather than that you should have taken it so badly." this last phrase roused pearl from the dismay and stupefaction experienced on first hearing nicholson's unexpected news. she managed to smile while she nervously put her hand to her forehead and pushed back the curls of her hair. after all, who was sir ralph that she should betray herself like this? a friend, it is true; a valued friend who knew her history; but that was no reason why he should also become acquainted with her heart. with an effort that cost her much she was successful in recovering a certain amount of control over her features. she sat down with her back to the light, and, taking a book from a table, began turning over the leaves. "your news naturally interests me much," she said in a voice that she succeeded in rendering almost indifferent. "of course, at first it took me by surprise. i--i'm sure i don't know why--but i--i--never thought lord martinworth would marry. whom--whom has he? sir ralph, would you mind telling me if his wife is anyone i know? whom has he married?" alas! for pearl's reputation for imperturbability, these last questions were asked in a very low, a very unsteady voice. "oh yes, you know her. you must have seen her knocking about town for a dozen seasons at least. he has married that extraordinary type: his cousin, lady harriet joyce; the large, fair one, who generally goes by the name of 'harry'"---"harry joyce! oh yes, i remember her," said pearl quietly. "she has run him down at last. she and her people have been trying it on for years, you know." pearl did not reply. when she next spoke it was excessively calmly, on a totally different subject. but oh, the bitterness of it all! she sat and thought it all over when sir ralph had left her. so martinworth had forgotten her so soon--so soon! and yet, she thought, ought she to blame him? ought she not, instead of feeling this sentiment of utter despondency, utter disgust, be rejoicing that martinworth by this step could henceforth no longer be anything nearer to her than an ordinary friend, an ordinary acquaintance? she accused herself over and over again for her inconsistency. she told herself that she was absurd, illogical, unreasonable. had she not fled from this man--hidden herself from him--for the express purpose that he should forget her? had she not advised him to marry some woman who could show an honest front to the world, and be a credit to him? and now that apparently after some delay he had obeyed her injunctions, what right had she to complain, to regret, to feel angry and bitter, and to cavil against the inconstancy of man? pearl's thoughts turned before long from herself and martinworth to the girl he had married. at last she experienced the satisfaction of being able to give full vent to her anger and disappointment. to think that it was _she_--that it was harry joyce whom he had chosen as his wife out of all the women of his world! that elderly young lady whose whole soul was wrapped up in guns and horses, in motor cars and rational costumes. harry joyce, who never opened a book, and whose newspaper and magazine reading was confined to the racing calendar and to the sporting journals. harry of the strident voice and weather-beaten countenance, whose ordinary way of greeting her intimates of the opposite sex was to call them by their nick-names, and to slap them on the back. a woman who disregarded all the ordinary usages of society, every outward form of conventionalism, and yet, because she was the only daughter of a duke, was not only time after time forgiven, but what was more, was accepted as a matter of course, and in her frequent eccentricities was never at a loss to find in either sex both followers and admirers. "perhaps she has improved now, but she used to be a horrible girl," exclaimed pearl aloud, and rising from her chair she paced up and down the room. "dick always told me he detested her, and was ashamed to acknowledge her as his cousin. and to think of his committing the enormity of marrying such a woman. he must be mad! they haven't got a single idea in common. in old days he cordially hated the emancipated female. some men of course find that sort of thing amusing. i have heard her called more than once 'a capital fellow,' but imagine dick, my dick, with such a wife! imagine dick uniting his lot with 'a capital fellow!' every word she will utter, every action, every gesture, will grate on his nerves--will horrify and disgust him. oh, what could have possessed him to ruin his life by such an outrageous marriage?" for many days did pearl ponder over this problem, till at last she arrived at what was perhaps more or less the right solution. would she have been human if, having decided in her own mind the reason for this marriage, she did not at the bottom of her heart feel a sneaking satisfaction that the wife he had taken was after all the masculine and unattractive lady harriet joyce, and not the sweet and innocent and beautiful maid whom she herself had prescribed? nevertheless, in spite of any slight comfort she may have succeeded in deriving from this thought, poor pearl felt very sore and very forlorn, and when a few days later monsieur de güldenfeldt offered her his hand and his heart, she was more than half inclined to yield to the temptation of accepting a man who in positive terms assured her of his love, and who could give her not only a much-to-be-desired, but what was more, a safe and tangible position. stanislas had, on the occasion referred to, accompanied her in her ride, and they had stopped at a little tea-house to rest themselves and their horses. they wandered off on foot through a grove of bamboos, and the conversation turning on ralph nicholson's unexpected return to the country, pearl found herself speaking with considerable feeling, of his constancy to her erratic young cousin. "nevertheless i have given him a piece of very worldly and very wicked advice," she said with her pretty laugh--"i told him to get up a mild flirtation with a married woman." "why married?" asked de güldenfeldt. "because if he has no serious intentions, what's the good of compromising a girl? girls fall in love so easily; whereas married women," she added with a sigh, "know so well how to look after themselves." monsieur de güldenfeldt did not reply for a moment. then he stopped in his walk, and gazing at his companion, asked somewhat gravely: "mrs. nugent, are you quite sure that all married women know so very well how to take care of themselves?" "i think," answered pearl in a low voice, "if, as i judge from your question you are thinking of me, i really know pretty well how to look out for myself. but then, of course my position is different from the majority of married women. i am a sort of anomaly, and have had the sad necessity of learning the lesson how to protect my poor battered self. i confess, at times i have found it a somewhat difficult task. but i feel sure i have mastered it thoroughly now. it has been a case of _force majeure_, you see." and tears glistened in her eyes as she looked up at him. stanislas de güldenfeldt's heart swelled as, glancing at this beautiful woman with the troubled face, he thought of the unhappiness of her past life, and of her present dignity and courage. he stopped again, and seized hold of her hands. "mrs. nugent--pearl," he said in a deep voice, "instead of for the future fighting your own battles, dear, will you let me fight them for you? will you marry me? will you let me have the gratification of being in the blesséd position of having the right to protect you? of shielding you from evil tongues, and of trying to render you the happy woman you deserve to be?" the colour flew into pearl's cheeks, but she did not withdraw her hands from his. she looked at him, extreme astonishment depicted on her face. "you are asking me to marry you?" she said, "you--you----?" "yes--i love you deeply, and my greatest desire on earth is to make you my wife. why should you be so surprised at that? why, pearl?" for a minute pearl looked down into the blue eyes that, full of tenderness, were resting on her face. she gazed at them as if trying to penetrate their very depths. they were kind, true eyes, she thought; but she withdrew her hands gently from his, and turned away with a sigh. "no," she said, "i can never marry you. oh! that i could--that i could! do you know," she added hastily, without waiting for the reply that she saw trembling on his lips, "do you know, monsieur de güldenfeldt, that i think you one of the best, one of the most generous of men. you are offering me everything. i, who can give so little--nothing in return." "i ask you for much: for your love, pearl. will you not give it to me, dear?" pearl did not reply. her thoughts travelled as fast as the clouds above her. why after all should she not accept him? it was a brilliant offer; an offer that a woman placed as she was placed could never in her wildest dreams have thought probable, or even possible. by marrying de güldenfeldt she was perfectly aware that her position in society, which now hung on so delicate a thread, would become regular and secure. he knew her story. she had no inconvenient confessions to make. he was evidently willing to take the risk of all future possible contingencies, and of his love and tenderness and regard she felt no doubt. lord martinworth would come and would find her engaged, or married; and for one brief moment pearl experienced a glow of satisfaction at the thought that her former lover on his arrival, would find her, not pining or regretting, not angry or dismayed, but in the proud position of a happy and a triumphant wife. but this thought was instantly crushed as unworthy. she blushed to think she had ever entertained it, and she told herself that the natural grief, or _pique_, or whatever it was she felt in connection with lord martinworth's marriage, must have no influence on her present decision--must, in no way whatsoever, affect that answer which she knew she must give within the next few minutes. de güldenfeldt was, she was well aware, a clever and a good man; a man of a certain present and of a brilliant future; a man that any woman might be proud to call husband; and here he stood, offering her--a poor waif and stray in society--his love and his name. and yet she felt that it was beyond her to accept these gifts offered thus generously. why? she hardly asked herself. was it because she still loved martinworth?--perhaps--she could not tell. but of one thing she felt convinced, she did not love, could never love, stanislas de güldenfeldt. she admired and respected and liked him more than she admired or liked most men. she delighted in his society and in his conversation, which was full of piquant anecdote, intellect and charm. she felt absolutely contented, thoroughly at ease in his companionship, which acted as a stimulant in her otherwise somewhat monotonous life. she did not disguise from herself for a moment the many advantages she was renouncing in setting aside this offer, and yet pearl felt that it was absolutely impossible for her to accept him, for if she did she would she knew, be true neither to de güldenfeldt, whom she liked so well, nor, above all, true to herself. by this time the two were seated on a little bamboo bench, and de güldenfeldt, waiting and watching with anxiety the expressive face, half guessed and wholly feared the struggle that was being fought within. he rose hurriedly. "don't say anything, don't speak now," he exclaimed, "wait, pearl. take your time to consider, but remember, my darling--i may call you so this once?--that my whole life's future, my whole life's happiness, depends on your answer." pearl felt greatly tempted to abide by this advice and to delay. as he gave her this chance, why commit herself by answering at once? but her hesitation lasted only a minute. her natural candour and frankness of disposition warned her it would be more than cowardly to postpone her refusal. she turned towards him and said in her low voice: "monsieur de güldenfeldt, it is best you should know at once that which always must be known, for i know my decision can never change. i fear it is--it must be--'no.' i can never marry you. for your own sake it must be so, for i do not love you as you should--as you deserve to be loved. my liking, my respect, my admiration is unbounded, but love--forgive me for paining you--such as i have known the word, is not, can never be mine to give you." de güldenfeldt let his keen blue eyes rest for a minute on pearl's flushed face, then without a single word in reply--with a quick, impatient shrug of the shoulders--without a moment's hesitation he turned and strode abruptly away. left by herself on the bench, mrs. nugent watched this precipitate departure with considerable dismay. she had seen and known the swedish minister in many moods. ironical, pensive, bubbling over with good spirits one day, melancholy and depressed the next, but, so far, she never remembered having been a witness to his anger. she gazed after him now with genuine consternation, as he paced the little path with his head thrown back, and his hands thrust well down into the pockets of his riding breeches. her spirits sank as the minutes passed, and he finally disappeared from view. eventually the sentiment of trepidation that had at first seized her changed to that of irritation and considerable annoyance. after all, she thought, she had answered him as gently as surely, in the circumstances, it was possible to reply, and the more she considered the question, the more did a feeling of extreme vexation and surprise overcome her at her refusal being received in this apparently intensely angry and rebellious spirit. women at best are but unreasonable creatures, and mrs. nugent was no exception to the rule, forgetting to make allowances for the necessary blow that such a prompt refusal must certainly inflict on a man of stanislas de güldenfeldt's proud and rather unyielding disposition. on his side he was fully aware of the many and great advantages of his offer, and of the sacrifices on his part that such a marriage would entail. it had by no means been fear of failure alone that had prevented him from suggesting a connection of a possibly too unbinding or temporary nature. since his final determination to make this marriage, he had learnt that the great love he bore pearl would in itself, independent of any other reason, be sufficient to cause him to reject the former idea with promptitude and distaste. he did not however, disguise from himself that, situated as she was, nine men out of ten would have hesitated before offering her their name. he himself had deliberated and paused before taking this step, but having once, with complete disregard of his future, proposed to give up all for her, he found it impossible to recover from the mortification that her abrupt rejection of his offer, and the refusal for one moment even to consider his proposal, had caused him. stanislas, greatly angered and deep in thought, strode on and on. it was only the fact of unexpectedly finding himself once more at the tea-house that roused him from his vexatious thoughts, recalling to him the fact of his hasty departure, and unceremonious desertion of pearl. he then and there retraced his steps, and found her where he had left her on the bench, with a heightened colour, and a look of decided reproach in her eyes. he was very pale as he lifted his hat to her. "pardon me for leaving you alone," he merely said. "shall we return now. it is getting chilly." pearl rose without a word. she followed humbly, feeling somewhat like a naughty child in disgrace. it was not long before her pride rebelled against this sentiment, so unpleasantly novel to her, and though her voice trembled, and her throat felt rough and dry, she nerved herself to break the prolonged and awkward silence. "i don't think you are treating me very well," she said rather defiantly. "you did me the honour to ask me a question, and i replied in the only way that seemed possible to me. i can only say i grieve if it was not the answer you appear evidently to have expected." monsieur de güldenfeldt did not speak. he merely slowly raised his head, and with his searching eyes gave pearl one long and steadfast look. this look had the unpleasant effect of causing mrs. nugent to sincerely wish she had bitten her tongue out sooner than have ventured to break the silence. chapter iv. deep waters. stanislas fled from tokyo. he felt as if he hated the place, as if he never wished to set foot in it again. the evening of the day that pearl refused him he wrote to his government requesting leave to return home, but he worked almost single-handed at his legation, and he knew that it would be impossible to take his departure until someone had been sent out to relieve him, a circumstance which meant many months of weary waiting. what might happen during those months he found himself wondering, as he read over the letter he had written so impetuously? a day, a week might alter the whole chain of events, and by the time his government had given him permission to take advantage of his leave, making all arrangements to facilitate his departure, he knew that it was more than possible that the idea of throwing up his work and of leaving japan would be the last desire prominent in his mind. even in moments of the greatest excitement or of distress, stanislas--where the question of his work was in any way involved--rarely acted hastily or without looking at the question from all sides. thus in the present case, though it would have been impossible for him to have explained the exact reason why, after weighty consideration, he ended by thrusting the hastily written letter into a drawer, where it reposed peacefully until destroyed many months later. not that at this moment de güldenfeldt for one second contemplated asking mrs. nugent a second time to become his wife. no thought, indeed, was further from his mind. after much quiet deliberation, indeed considerable hesitation, he had brought himself to the point of making this offer, and greatly to his surprise, disappointment, and distress, he had been refused. he was deeply in love with pearl, but it must be confessed the sentiment for the moment that had the greatest hold on the spirit of stanislas de güldenfeldt, swamping all other feelings,--even for the time being that of his love--was that of wounded pride, stanislas was by no means perfect, his faults were many and manifold, and like all those who from their earliest youth have acted as their own masters--seldom having been crossed in either whims or desires--he was extra-ordinarily intolerant, even in small matters, of the slightest contradiction or hindrance to his wishes. but when it came to the point of renouncing what he most desired in life, not only for the moment, but he knew well for all futurity, stanislas was consumed with what was far more than a merely temporary sentiment of annoyance and distress. a great astonishment, a permanent anger and resentment filled his whole being, and his one thought at the present moment was to fly from pearl and all associations of her, striving his utmost to entirely banish from his mind the woman who had so strangely upset his equanimity, disarranging so completely his rather settled habits and whole system of life. thus it was, travelling by slow stages and passing his nights at clean and picturesque tea-houses sleeping on _futon_[4] and eating the food of the country, stanislas, and the young interpreter of his legation, suzuki, his sole companion in his travels, one day found themselves at sendai, from which place they took the train to shiogama. there a _sampan_--the flat bottomed junk of the japanese--was engaged, and for several hours stanislas, stretched at the bottom of the boat, with hands clasped behind his head, and eyes gazing lazily up unto the unclouded sky above, glided in and out through the thousands of lovely islands of this archipelago, so full of mystery and of dreams. weird and wonderful were those islands, bays, and promontories, in some cases beautiful and entrancing in their wealth of thick grown pines and rich and varied vegetation, and in others, almost uncanny in their bare, naked, volcanic rocks, worn into strange patterns and fantastic shapes by the inroads of the ever surging sea. under the late afternoon sun, and across this lovely limpid sea of green, would fade far away in the distance vast and misty ranges of thickly wooded hills, while here and there, gleaming through the soft whiteness of the light, a great peak of purple would arise aloft like a beckoning finger, reaching far beyond into the fast flying clouds of the faintly shaded sky. [4] japanese quilts. on reaching matsushima (the "island of the pines") after this never-to-be-forgotten sail of some delicious hours, and on arriving at the tea-house perched on a rock high above the water, that was to be his shelter for the night, de güldenfeldt, while the evening meal was being prepared under the supervision of suzuki, leaned idly over the little barrier of the verandah. he leant and gazed wonderingly at the beautiful scene, till his whole soul was pervaded by the gentleness, the dreamy passionlessness, the immense repose of the solemn charm of the sight before him. the musically rippling water, the many thousand islands, the fading sun-set, with its great shafts of glowing colour shooting across the sky, and merging mysteriously into soft and subtle twilight--all had a peculiar beauty and character of their own. it seemed to him like nothing he had ever seen before. no old recollections, no old memories were stirred to life as his eyes wandered over the waters, and dwelt on the many thousand islands of every form and size, now growing shapeless and dim in the darkening shadows of the night. and as he gazed thus, drinking in the beauty of the scene and thinking of nothing--not even for the moment of pearl--and as the short twilight gradually faded and night fell, stanislas was the witness of a strange and picturesque sight. thousands and thousands of dazzling lights were shimmering on the surface of the dark calm sea before him, each light growing gradually fainter and fainter, and gliding further and further away into the open. then it was that de güldenfeldt remembered that it was the sacred and yearly ceremony of the "shoryobune," or the launching of the ships of the souls, when thousands of little skiffs and barks, each illuminated with a single lantern, are once a year set afloat upon the open sea by the simple fisher-folk. on this date the ocean is nought for the time being but one vast highway of the dead, whose passing souls must cross the waters, be they rough or calm, to eventually reach the haven of their distant and eternal home. now gleaming on the crest of the wave, now disappearing beneath the waters, those fires of the dead take their onward uncertain journey. sad indeed, is the fate of the lost lamenting soul, whose little craft with its twinkling light is submerged and extinguished by the scudding spray of the sea, disappearing for ever from all human sight and ken. for that poor struggling spirit is no rest, nor eternal repose, forever and forever will it be an outcast and a wanderer, hovering on the shores of that land in which nirvâna is found, but fated never to dwell within the regions of its blessed calm and peace. it is said that as these ghostly lights take their strange and onward journey across the sea, the distant murmur of many voices is heard like the mournful roar of the surf beating on the strand, the language uncomprehended and indistinguishable of those many thousand weary souls, struggling on towards their long prayed-for, long-expected haven of peace and holy contemplation. and as de güldenfeldt gazed out thus far before him, his eye became fixed upon one little glimmer, dancing up and down on the water, and a cry above the murmur of the many voices seemed to him to come from the direction of that light. stanislas could not tear his eyes away from this distant gleam, nor shut his ears to the sound of that cry, so faint and weak, and yet so strangely dominant over all other sounds around him. and as he looked, fascinated and engrossed, the fancy seized him that it was even at the spectacle of his own striving weary soul he was gazing, and that the wail that proceeded from that flickering light, rising and falling across the waters, was the echo of the cry of desolation and despair that had filled and rent his heart, ever since the day he had parted from pearl nugent in anger and bitter disillusion. he leant further over the balcony, trying to pierce the gloom and to follow the wind-fraught vagaries of that one faint glimmering light. now it tore swiftly along, now it rose high above the waves, seeming to challenge with its swift and triumphant haste the more backward competitors in this strenuous race, of which the distant goal was the stormy and open sea. it disappeared for the space of an instant, and dreading that it was engulfed for ever by the waters, stanislas' heart sank within him. ah! no! there it was again, solitary and triumphant, shining like a colossal diamond, far, far away--as far as eye could see. alone it was, reaching a great distance beyond the others, and de güldenfeldt felt grieved for this flickering uncertain light, always solitary, always struggling, however much it was in advance, or appeared to have vanquished those who had first started with it in the race. it was, therefore, with a certain glow of joy, a sentiment of excitement, which he made no effort to suppress, that he finally perceived another distant light, yet as luminous and as steady as the first, flying with all speed over the suddenly roughening ocean, every instant approaching nearer to the brilliant spark that for so long had remained triumphantly mistress of the seas. stanislas, without hesitation, joyously decided in his own mind that this second light could be none other than the soul-light of pearl, for as it gained on the distant gleam the faint piteous cry that had hitherto proceeded from the latter ceased, and the light stood still on the face of the waters, and stanislas knew that his own expectant spirit was waiting for pearl's soul to join it. swifter and swifter it flew, nearer and nearer it came, gaining every moment on that other trembling light that was pausing on the crest of the wave to bear it company on that rough and onward journey. stanislas felt assured that just one faint effort more, one short critical moment, would join in happy and eternal union these two distant lights. but as he gazed breathlessly, the light which he called pearl's soul, for one brief second gleamed up high into the horizon, gave a faint wavering flicker, and the surface that an instant before was all aglow with its vaporous brilliancy, grew as dark as the inky night that so suddenly seemed to envelope all things, and the little spark, engulfed by the waters, vanished for ever from all human sight! and there still remained his light, his soul, solitary and forlorn, drifting aimlessly on and on. once again stanislas caught the sound from far across the waters of that moaning cry, that piteous faint lament, the echo of the desolation in his own heart; and the wail rang in his ears till the light on the sea, growing smaller and smaller, and fainter and fainter, finally merged into the distant horizon, and was seen no more. "i wonder what is coming to me," sighed de güldenfeldt, as reluctantly stirring from the balcony, he sat himself down on the pile of cushions prepared for him on the _tatami_,[5] "i am as sentimental, as great a fool as any boy indulging in his first attack of calf-love. yet--and yet--i wish to god pearl's light had not gone out, but had succeeded in eventually reaching mine. it would somehow have seemed more reassuring, a better omen for the future, whereas now----" [5] japanese mats. stanislas de güldenfeldt passed a bad night. the tea-house, famous for its lovely and extensive view, but for little else, was by no means the haven of rest he had hoped for. the celebration of a _geisha_ feast in the next room, with all its accompaniments of cheerful voices, rippling laughter, and the doubtful charms of the music of the _samisen_,[6] destroyed through the earlier hours of the night all thoughts of repose. when at length the last convivial guest, after many _o'yasumi nasai_,[7] had finally taken his departure, stanislas found to his cost that his _futon_ were both hard and lumpy, and that the japanese green mosquito net, perforated with holes, seemed expressly fabricated to admit scores of those wily and vicious insects, with which his tussles were many and necessarily totally unsuccessful. he tossed and turned, dozed for a few minutes, and in his uneasy dreams was haunted by the soul-lights. now dancing on the waves, now taking weird shapes of grotesque birds of prey, or fish and animals of no known description, they seemed to imperiously beckon him to join them, or enveloping him in strange uncanny arms, they dragged his struggling form far beneath the waters. finally he no longer could support in patience the discomfort of his room or these weird nightmares of an excited brain, and rising from his lowly couch and pushing open the _amado_,[8] he looked out into the night. [6] a musical instrument like a guitar in form. [7] good-nights. [8] wooden sliding shutters. the moon was full, illuminating with its bright glory the calm sea from which all the lights had long since vanished, and from the surface of which the islands rose from out the water like great gaps blackened by mysterious and ever-moving shadows. on the right, partly hidden by its sacred groves, approached by the red _torii_[9] resting almost on the water's edge, stood bathed in the mystic light, the ancient and picturesque shrine. this lovely little shrine was entirely framed by one immense cedar, whose great branches, motionless in the silent night air, stretched far beyond, like dark angels guarding the consecrated ground. not a living creature was to be seen, and with the exception of the hum of the night insects, all was as silent as the aged moss-grown tombstones on which the moonbeams fell in ghostly streaks of light. [9] the gateway leading to a temple. "oh, heavenly orb! whose pale but magic light, sheds liquid glory through the realms of night. oh, pathless wanderer! whose holy gleam enshrines the heavens around with silv'ry beam. dear to my longing heart thy wondrous ray, kindling pure thoughts that shun the glaring day. here while i pensive kneel, gazing above, thy silver sheen melts wild thoughts into love; and radiant dreams, and hopes and fancies roll in 'wild'ring rapture through my restless soul. shine on, mild, mystic moon! aid tears to cease, through my sad heart shed thy calm light of peace." this simple verse was the composition of the english mother he had adored, and the repetition of it, so appropriate to the sweet scene before stanislas' eyes, tended greatly towards bestowing that repose which till now had eluded his weary yet restless mind. but the beauty and peace and silence were not to last. a shadow fell across the surface of the moon, and a fitful and mysterious wind wailed from behind the hills. suddenly, with no previous warning, every cur in every little hamlet from far and near commenced a discordant and incessant barking. before stanislas could ask himself what meant this unwelcomed disturbance of the calm night, a premonitory trembling of the wooden verandah on which he stood warned him that all the terrors of an earthquake were before him. there was no time to realise this disagreeable fact before another shock followed the first, more violent and more prolonged, then a third, in which the wood creaking, rose like the waves of the ocean from beneath his feet. stanislas found himself clinging to the bamboo rails of the verandah, watching with a strange fascination the branches of the sacred cedar waving violently backwards and forwards as if shaken by the force of a tempest, and the red _torii_ beyond, trembling in its balance. the shock continued, each second increasing the violence thereof, till, with a deafening roar, like the roar of the ocean, with one stupendous and prolonged crash, the frail building, sliding from its slight foundations, collapsed like a house of cards! stanislas remembered no more until he found himself stretched on the ground outside all that now remained of the once picturesque tea-house. a few yards further and he would have been over the cliff. as it was, he was on his feet in a moment, feeling none the worse for his fall, which had been from no great height, and was broken by the heap of stones and rubbish on which he fell. the house was a mass of ruins. such indeed, as soon as his somewhat dazed condition allowed him to look around him, seemed to be the melancholy condition of most of the miniature matchbox habitations that three minutes before had stood edging the sea in all their simple and romantic beauty. the _torii_ that he had admired so short a time ago bathed in the calm moonlight, now lay prone on the ground, while half the roof of the little shrine had vanished in a cloud of dust. only remained the great and ancient cedar to compete against and triumphantly conquer many another revolution of angry nature. this noble tree had survived hundreds of years of earth oscillations and currents, tidal waves and earthquakes, volcanic agencies to which we are told japan itself owes her very being. doubtless to the same terrible and disastrous causes, perhaps to-day, perhaps to-morrow, perhaps only in the far distant ages to come, will this beautiful fairyland owe her ultimate destruction. güldenfeldt's first thought in the chaos that followed was of his young interpreter suzuki. he shouted his name aloud, but in the din and confusion and the chorus of wails and weepings over lost property--and, alas! in many cases, lost dear ones--his voice was unheard. he knew the boy had been sleeping in the room next to his own, but that little room was now with the rest of the building, heaped on the ground a mass of ruins. calling on some of the fishermen who were standing by him stupefied by the scene of bitter desolation before them--he tore wildly at the _débris_ of planks and paper and matting piled on the ground, feeling sure that he had but to persevere long enough to find him for whom he searched. in far too short a space of time in lifting a heavy beam of wood, the body of this dear companion of his travels was discovered beneath, motionless and dead. from the first indeed, a presentiment of coming evil had warned stanislas he would thus find him. the moon, once more unclouded and brilliant, lit up the boy's good-looking face and slim young form. still resting on his _futon_ there was an expression of such complete peace and happiness on his countenance that for a moment it was indeed difficult not to consider as merely slumbering, this youth hurled thus suddenly into eternity. de güldenfeldt raised the burden, so light and delicate in his arms, and pushing away the dark hair from the brow he perceived a deep jagged cut on the temple. that wound in itself was enough to cause instant death. the blood had ceased to flow with the ceasing of the heart-throbs, and as his eyes lingered sadly on the inanimate form within his arm, the tears welled up into de güldenfeldt's eyes. he had loved this young man born at the legation, and educated at the french school, the worthy son of a noble samurai, who himself after the revolution and on the loss of his fortune, had in years gone-by, been only too grateful to accept the situation of interpreter at the swedish legation. from the first day that stanislas had held the post of minister in japan, this youth, unusually quick and intelligent, had proved not only his companion, but his right hand. he had returned the affection of his master with the fidelity and devotion of his race, had accompanied him in his many travels throughout the country, was an excellent interpreter, and had directed his household with the thoroughness and conscientiousness of an upright and honest man, devoted to his master's interests. de güldenfeldt felt that in losing this bright and intelligent companion of many lonely hours, he was losing half himself. "one shall be taken and the other left," he murmured, as unrestrained the tears fell. "indeed the ways of providence are strange. why has this lad, so full of promise and with all before him, been the one taken, while i, a lonely man, with no hold on life, no ties, no inducements to keep me here--am the unfortunate one that is left?" and the next day during the sad process of cremation, when, after three brief hours, all that was left of this charming companion of years was a handful of ashes and a few splinters of bone, stanislas, with a feeling of intense loss and desolation, again asked himself that question. why was he the one whom providence had chosen to continue the strife? "no one cares for me, no one wants me," he thought, as he sadly supervised the placing of the ashes in the urn. and to this day those ashes repose, and have incense and flowers offered before them in the grounds of the great temple of the _koya san_. chapter v. home news. while de güldenfeldt was pursuing his travels, a prey to morbid thoughts increased by this tragic event which had touched him so nearly, and while he was trying to learn that hardest lesson in the world--the lesson to forget, or in his weaker moments, for man is but human after all, dreaming dreams and weaving fancies, dangerous and alluring, pearl, the chief cause of his depression, yet the subject of those heavenly dreams and fancies, was pursuing the even tenour of her way in tokyo. pearl likewise had passed through her moments of weakness and regret. there were times, indeed, when she arrived at the somewhat humiliating conclusion that, considering all things, there was not much to choose between her manner of acting and that of the foolish girl whom she had taken it upon herself so severely to lecture. she and her young cousin were much in each other's society at this time, the mere fact of both being placed in fairly similar positions, helping, perhaps to strengthen the tie of kinship, and that of their mutual affection one for the other. it was during one of their early morning rides that mrs. nugent told amy of de güldenfeldt's offer, of her rejection thereof, and of the swedish minister's consequent irritation and final disappearance from the centre of operations. at this information confided to her, a mischievous gleam sparkled from miss mendovy's eyes. "really, my dear pearl," she said, very fairly imitating her cousin's voice and manner, "i must speak seriously to you. how could you have been so foolish as to have treated monsieur de güldenfeldt as if he were a mere boy? i have no patience with you, pearl. you forget that the swedish minister is a man in a thousand,--a delightful man, a clever man, and from a worldly point of view an excellent match, etc., etc., etc. don't you think, my dear," she added, turning round in her saddle, and glancing at pearl with a face brimming over with laughter, "don't you think that these, your own words remember, addressed no doubt perfectly justly to your erring but i assure you long-ago-repentant cousin, might apply most admirably in your own case? it is rather a pity you were so 'previous,' i think, wasting your breath on me, instead of reserving it for your own delinquencies." "it seems to me," replied pearl, as she gave a little flick to her mare, "that you in your eloquence, miss amy, are forgetting one vital difference in the two cases. whereas you, by your own confession, are in love with sir ralph nicholson, and what is more, have been in this blissful condition for ages, i have no feeling for monsieur de güldenfeldt but that of great liking and the very deepest admiration for his cleverness and wit. this rather alters the situation, don't you think, you extremely sarcastic and facetious young person?" "oh, love!" ejaculated amy with uptilted nose, "pray who thinks nowadays of such an out-of-date sentiment as love? what is love, compared to the advantages of a profitable marriage? besides, pearl, if you are not in love with him, you ought to be. he's a dear man, and you have recklessly and deliberately thrown away an excellent chance. and for what? an idea, a mere antiquated worn-out idea. and that's a fact, so it is no use trying to make out the contrary." "you are doubtless right, amy, perfectly right," answered pearl in an unusually humble voice, "i know i am never likely to get such a chance again. considering my position, it was a stroke of luck i had no right to expect, and yet--and yet--my dear amy, it comes to this, it's no use talking to a girl like you. you've never been married, so how can you in the least realize what marriage means? i know, to my cost, only too well what it entails. so is it to be wondered at that i hesitate before making a second venture, however advisable to your inexperienced eyes such a marriage may seem?" they trotted on in silence for some minutes, then amy replied somewhat dubiously, "you are right, pearl. of course i can't in the least know the consequences, good or bad, of matrimony. what is more, as far as i can see, i am never likely to have the chance of finding out. for i am decided on one point--nobody but ralph shall have the honour of calling me wife, an honour which, so far, that young man seems in no hurry whatsoever to burden himself with. it is ages and ages since he condescended to come near me. and when by chance, once in a blue moon, we do happen to meet, his excellency as a rule is far too occupied with some other fascinating member of the fair sex to think it worth his while to hardly cast me a glance of recognition. rather different from the old days, eh, pearl?" "you brought it on yourself, my dear cousin." "i confess, pearl, i have hitherto looked upon you as a fairly intelligent woman. another lost illusion, i suppose. pray, how does the fact of my having brought this state of things on myself in the least alter or improve matters? bother the men! don't let's talk any more about them. the world would certainly be far jollier if they didn't exist. i see," she added with a serio-comic twinkle in her eye, "there is only one thing left for me to do, and that is to pray that sir ralph's ultimate fate in the shape of a wife may be a shrew, the plague of his life, someone who will lead him a nice dance in fact. then perhaps he may feel inclined to indulge in some moments of regret that he did not stick a little longer to dear, amiable, sweet-tempered amy mendovy. come along, pearl, let's have a canter, and for one brief moment forget that disagreeable appendage--man." but amy was not fated to be in luck that morning, for shortly afterwards a sharp turn in the road brought the two ladies face to face with that particular "appendage" who was evidently engrossing miss mendovy's thoughts. ralph was accompanied by two extremely pretty girls, all three on horseback, and apparently, from their peals of happy laughter, in the highest of spirits and the greatest good humour with themselves and the world in general. amy mendovy flushed crimson, and with a bow that included the whole party, she gave a cut to her pony, and trotted quickly on, while pearl, calling out to one of the girls, "i hope you have had a nice ride this lovely morning, eulalie," followed after her cousin. "why did you not stop, amy?" she asked as she caught her up. "the de bourvilles reined in their horses with the intention of having a chat. they looked so astonished and annoyed when you went tearing past them in that strange, erratic manner." "if you find the society of those girls so fascinating, my dear, why did you pay any attention to my movements, and not stop yourself?" replied amy sharply. "i had to follow you. if i had not done so it would have made your behaviour appear still more markedly rude," answered pearl quietly. "as it is, they may possibly attribute our tearing past them in that extraordinary manner, to some real necessity for haste." "i really don't in the least care what they think. the opinions of the mesdemoiselles de bourville never have interested me, nor will they ever interest me in the very slightest degree. the only thing that distresses me somewhat is to see two unfortunate girls, neither of whom have the vaguest notion of sitting a horse, attempting to ride." "well, you see, they are merely beginners. no doubt as they go out now so often with sir ralph he will soon teach them to sit straight," replied pearl rather maliciously. "they've got nice figures, and are both adorably pretty. i'm sure their habits are english made." "doubtless," said amy, with a slight drawl, which she affected when she wished to appear bored, "but really their riding habits excite me as little as the owners themselves. do let us talk of something more interesting, pearl." pearl smiled quietly to herself as she thought, with a certain satisfaction, how quickly the remedy which she herself had prescribed was working on the all-unconscious patient. "i have never seen amy in such a temper, or heard her use such an unpleasant tone towards other girls before," she thought. "poor child! she's green with jealousy. no wonder! when in the old days there was never a question of ralph riding with anyone but herself. dear, wise ralph! if only you continue to play your cards as well as you have started, there's no reason whatsoever, knowing my fair cousin as i do, but that you will be married to her whenever you choose to fix the day." that same morning, on her return from her ride, pearl found she was likely to have far more serious matters than amy's affairs of the heart to occupy her mind. the mail had come in, an event that ordinarily did not greatly excite mrs. nugent. having shut herself off from all old associations, all former connections, she seldom, with the exception of an occasional communication from her banker or lawyer, received much of interest by the post, the pile of newspapers and magazines, despatched to her weekly, being her sole and only means of keeping in touch with the outer world. but this morning, on entering her cosy little boudoir, one glance at the writing table showed, lying in a prominent place, a couple of letters, one from mr. hall and the other in a former well-known and altogether dreaded handwriting. no need to lift the letter from the table to recognize only too well the once familiar, but now almost forgotten writing of the husband whom she had divorced. on perceiving it she made an exclamation of dismay, for a moment hesitating whether she should not destroy unread this unexpected and most unwelcome missive. nevertheless, though vexed and irritated, the sight of the letter aroused no keen feelings in her mind. since she had freed herself from him, the writer himself had grown so completely indifferent--belonging so entirely to that black chapter of the past, which, until reopened by nicholson, she had flattered herself was closed for ever--that she felt, whatever he might elect to write, whatever insults, whatever injuries might be addressed to her in this letter, no sentiment but that of a sort of dreary contempt, a partial and temporary irritation unworthy even of the name of anger, was now capable of being once more stirred to life. indifference to vituperation did not however, carry her so far as to swamp all natural feelings of curiosity, and when, after a few moments of deliberation, she lifted the letter by the corner, she examined the envelope with a certain interest and wonder. the letter was fully directed to her present name and address, a fact which, on consideration, caused an incipient fear, and certainly unbounded astonishment. so he knew not only of her change of name, but of her whereabouts, by what occult means she did not wait to consider, but delaying no longer, pearl hastily opened the epistle, and read the following contents: "dear pearl, "i do not for one moment flatter myself that it is likely you should take the smallest interest in the fate of the man who once called himself your husband. as, however, i am informed that surely--and i am personally convinced by no means slowly--my days are numbered, i am writing before the breath vanishes for ever from this poor suffering body, to make, entirely for my own satisfaction, a certain communication to you. "i am leaving you--for reasons which it is hardly necessary for me to enumerate--the complete mistress of my fortune. for fear, however, that you should be deluded into the belief that this proceeding is an act of, what you might be pleased to consider reparation on my part, i wish before the end comes, to entirely disabuse your mind of that fallacy. "i am a dying man, it is true, but a worn out carcass does not necessarily entail a clouded or impaired intelligence. my mind, believe me, is as clear as when you knew me, and i solemnly here announce on my death-bed a fact, which except in public you have heretofore never given me the chance of declaring, that in my marital relations, i was as deeply wronged, as you no doubt are perfectly justified in considering i wronged you. "you obtained your divorce by the breadth of a hair, you will doubtless remember. the fact that after having achieved your ends no marriage with martinworth took place, did not for one instant throw dust in my eyes, whatever may have been the effect on that individual himself, or on the many, who at that time, called themselves your friends. i repeat, that for many years i possessed the positive conviction that martinworth was your lover. in no wise did this fact interfere with me or my plans. indeed, the knowledge that you were agreeably occupied entirely suited my book, and under the circumstances i found it a natural and convenient arrangement for all parties concerned. "if, my dear pearl, you had only shown that cleverness which you had exhibited for so many years, and if instead of dragging me into the divorce court you had been satisfied to let well alone, we should have continued a comfortable _ménage à trois_ till the end of the chapter. that chapter, as far as i am concerned, would soon have closed, and in three or four years' time you would have found yourself, while still fairly young and extremely handsome, playing the satisfactory and the justifiable _rôle_ of the bereaved, but by no means inconsolable widow. that awkward impediment the husband, having been conveniently disposed of underground, no stumbling block would have stood in the way of legalizing your position, by a marriage at some fashionable church, to which interesting ceremony lustre would have been added by the presence, no doubt, of the smartest set in town. "but you were too hasty in your desire to cast off your shackles. seeing, however, the precious little use you have made of your freedom, is it to be wondered at that my breath should have been taken away by such an exhibition of complete _manque de savoir faire_. by one, too, whom, when i gave myself the trouble to think about her at all, i certainly considered possessed that quality to perfection. "what? i ask you, have you gained by this most ill-advised step, on the taking of which, if you had only consulted me, i should most certainly, for your own sake, have counselled you against? have you achieved liberty of action? certainly not. before your divorce you were completely free. a firmer and less compromising stand in society? hardly, you must allow, considering the many doubtful and unpleasant incidents of your life, that to shield my own reputation my counsel had to bring to light. undisturbed union with your lover? your own subsequent and most inexplicable behaviour forfeited for ever all chance of such a future. "now, in the place of gain, compare your losses. exile from your native land. the loss of the protection of your husband's name. the loss of the constant companionship of an adoring lover, and while you were my wife, however much you might have thought fit to scorn that position, the loss of a tangible and by no means insignificant place in that society, which for over ten years had been to you as the very breath of your nostrils. "oh! poor, blind, benighted fool! i cannot but pity you, pearl, my rage and spite having long ago exhausted themselves. it is to prove to you this truth, namely, that i have no bitterness, no rancour, that i am acting as i do, leaving you the complete controller of that fortune, which, from the fact of you having shared it for so many years, you well know is by no means inconsiderable. do as you will with it. as you will see, it is yours without conditions. you in your turn can leave this wealth to whom you desire, my own few distant relatives having no claim whatsoever upon me. "one word more before i close these lines. "once, being no longer master of my actions, i was so unfortunate as to strike you. it was principally on the fact of that blow that you obtained your divorce. i apologise to you for this deed. i can only add that, whatever the provocation, i should never have acted thus in my sober moments. "and now, adieu. by the time you receive this i shall, in all probability be beneath the sod. no doubt you will experience a certain natural satisfaction in feeling assured that for the future you no longer can be troubled by "guy norrywood." arl stood for a long time with this letter clasped tightly in her hand, pea prey to strangely mixed feelings. though, during all the years they had spent together, norrywood had evidently not considered it worth his while to express his opinion, she nevertheless had by no means been in ignorance of her husband's true sentiments towards her. before the crash she in her turn, had scorned to confute or to argue this opinion, though if she had for a moment supposed that every questionable position, every compromising action on her part was to have been brought as evidence against her in her own suit, she certainly would have taken more pains in those early days, even to the man whom she despised so thoroughly, to have explained and proved her innocence. but neither she, nor martinworth, nor her counsel had for one moment contemplated such a step on norrywood's part, and indeed at one time it was believed the case would proceed in its course undefended. judge then of her astonishment when her husband appeared in court armed with these many powerful, aye! deadly weapons against her. too late then to explain or temporize, and pearl in bitterness of spirit realised fully her egregious folly in having from the very commencement so completely scorned, so entirely despised her foe. bitter memories were aroused in mrs. nugent's breast by the perusal of this letter--memories and regrets and rage that long had remained dormant, so much so, that she asked herself whether after all, her philosophy was beginning to play her false. but norrywood's unvarnished opinion of her, the complete cynicism of his plain speaking, the crude bluntness, brutality indeed, of his well weighed and deliberate conclusions touched her not at all. she had all along been aware of his opinion, and to some extent she could comprehend his having arrived at such an unflattering conclusion, and almost forgave him for it. she felt, however, a slight regret that he should have died unchanged in this belief, especially as on the whole the letter aroused her sympathies, and a vague feeling of pity in her breast. she read between the lines, and in spite of his refutation of the same, she knew that this will in her favour was an act of reparation--tardy amends for all he had made her suffer during his lifetime. the act, if not the words, confessed remorse. such being the case, and with this barrier of the tomb between them, she felt that she could forgive him much. she had never for one instant contemplated the possibility of inheriting his money. she did not wish for it, and as she restored the letter to the envelope she deluded herself with the belief that no power on earth could force her to accept this undesired, this unexpected gift. but there was still mr. hall's letter to be read. it was, she perceived, dated ten days later than that of her husband, and contained the contents of his will and the details of his miserable death, which had taken place suddenly a few days after the writing of this last long epistle. "your former husband," wrote mr. hall, "has for the last year been suffering from an extremely painful, and from the first, incurable disease. i was surprised that i, and not his own lawyer, should be called in to draw up his last will and testament, but his reasons for this act were later on, explained. i was touched by the great change i perceived in the poor sufferer's whole character and demeanour, and though nothing i could say would induce him to change his opinion on one point,--namely, as to your relations with lord martinworth,--the approach of death, that great softener, had melted the hitherto stony heart, and he spoke gently and kindly of you, and with a genuine regret for the constant sorrow of which he had been the cause. mr. norrywood's standard of morals, as we know to our cost, was at no times a high one. presumably it was owing to this fact that he appeared to think the intimacy, which to the last he insisted existed between you and his lordship, was not otherwise than natural, and by no means blamable under the circumstances of his own acknowledged infidelity to you. but what seemed to astonish him beyond words was the fact of your having gone to the length of putting him into court at all. he told me he wished, before he died, to express what he had so far never had an opportunity of doing, his opinion of your folly in taking this step. 'naturally i had to defend myself,' he said, 'and the consequences have been my wife's social ruin.' he said much more on this point, and concluded by asking for your address for the purpose--he told me--of expressing his sentiments, and of informing you of his monetary intentions towards you. "considering it was the request of a dying man, i felt--in spite of your strict injunctions to the contrary, and consequently certain qualms of conscience on my part--that the only thing i could do in the circumstances was to accede to his request. i therefore wrote down for him your present name and address, and i can only trust, my dear young friend, that mr. norrywood, in this his last letter to you, confined himself to facts, inscribing nothing of a particularly unkind or painful nature. "you will see by the enclosed copy of the will that mr. norrywood has left you a very wealthy woman. however distasteful the source may be from which the money springs, remember, my child, that much good can be done with this large fortune, of which you are left complete mistress, now and for the future. knowing you as i do, i am convinced that your first impulse will be to refuse this wealth. but i also believe that on impartial and thoughtful consideration you will understand the immense folly of such a step. indeed, a great portion of it having been settled on you at your marriage, must be yours in any case. so do not act hastily, but remember that in years to come there may be others besides yourself who can be benefited by these large sums. "i should much like to know your intentions as to the future. have you any thoughts of returning home? your absence has been a long one. the persons that you dreaded are removed from your path--one by death and the other by marriage. it is therefore hardly necessary for me to point out that on inheriting this fortune your presence, for a short period at least in your native land, is highly desirable, i may even add, necessary." mr. hall concluded his letter with various business details as to investments, etc., also with much fatherly and kind advice, which he considered it his duty to offer, but which no one knew better than he himself was more likely to be ignored than followed. pearl, with puckered brow, was still standing by her writing table, pondering over these momentous and upsetting communications, when a _'ricksha_ rattled up to the door, and a moment later mrs. rawlinson was in the room. "dearest rosina," exclaimed pearl as she embraced her cousin, "what a wonderful woman you are! you have the blessèd knack of always appearing on the spot when most needed. i was wishing for you so much, and was just contemplating ordering the carriage and driving round to azabu." "what's the matter now?" enquired mrs. rawlinson, as she glanced at the two letters in pearl's hand with a certain alarm in her brown eyes. "i want you to read these letters brought by this morning's mail. no, this one first." rosina took mr. norrywood's letter handed to her, and walking to the window stood with her back to mrs. nugent. she read it straight through, and until she had replaced it in the envelope made no remark. "well, i suppose, judging from what he writes of his condition, the poor man must be dead by this time," and rosina's cheerful voice as she turned round contrasted rather ludicrously with the _figure de circonstance_ conjured up for the occasion. "yes," said pearl quietly, "he is dead." "it's no use humbugging, and pretending one is sorry when one isn't," retorted mrs. rawlinson. "to put it mildly, pearl, that man's death is--is--what shall we say? well, let us call it a merciful release. that's an expression that can hurt no one." "he's done me no harm for some years, and time softens things," replied pearl gently. "i think, too, he was perhaps sorry at the last." "hum! death-bed repentance," said mrs. rawlinson drily. "i've not much faith in that sort of thing myself. so easy to say you are sorry when circumstances over which you have no control make it impossible for you to have the chance of doing further harm. at any rate, i am glad to see that his repentance--if repentance it was--took a tangible form, and that in dying he had the decency to make certain amends for his disgraceful conduct towards you during his lifetime. you'll be a rich woman, pearl. let us trust, dear, that you will make better use of the money than he did." "yes," said pearl, "i shall be rich, very rich, if i accept the money." "if--what?" and rosina stared. "if i accept mr. norrywood's money," repeated pearl. "i have by no means decided to do so, rosina." "are you mad?" "not that i am aware of." "my dear pearl," and mrs. rawlinson settled herself squarely in an arm chair, "i shall not even give myself the trouble of demanding your reasons for this totally absurd, ridiculously quixotic hesitation on your part." "such being the case," retorted pearl with a slight flush, "i shall likewise, greatly to my relief, be exempted from the trouble of informing you of them. nevertheless i am, i confess, somewhat disappointed, for i flattered myself that you at least, rosina, would have understood my motives--my--well--my scruples on this point." "well, then, i don't, and that's a fact," replied her cousin tersely. "the man, as all the world knows, treated you shamefully, made your life a misery from the very commencement. after putting up for years not only with neglect and infidelity, but with downright cruelty, you had the strength of mind to appeal to the law, and to divorce him. he is dying, and he writes you a letter. and even on his death-bed he cannot resist insulting you--accusing you of various disgraceful and altogether impossible actions. he has however, enough decency left in his composition to apologise for one of the many hundreds of his villainous acts, and, above all, he makes a certain reparation by leaving you his fortune. after all, my dear pearl, a large portion of that fortune is already yours. he made excellent settlements, i remember, and you have been profiting by the interest of that sum ever since you left him. i really can't see the difference if, instead of a portion--the quarter, the half, whatever has hitherto been yours--you should for the future take over the whole of the fortune." pearl was silent. rosina's calm unemotional manner of regarding matters always influenced her more impulsive and excitable nature. she felt there was much good sense and wisdom in what her cousin said. "you seem to be of the same opinion as mr. hall," she said, after a minute. "he thinks i ought to keep the money. you will see what he says in this letter." "he is a good friend to you, pearl, that old lawyer," remarked mrs. rawlinson, as after carefully reading the letter, she returned it to mrs. nugent. "i can only impress on you to follow his and my advice. above all, don't act in a hurry. what do you intend to do about going home?" "oh! spare me, rosina! why, i have only just received these letters. i haven't thought of making plans. but who knows? if my presence in england is really necessary for business purposes, i may possibly take a trip home after the summer. but my absence will be only temporary. i shall return. while you are here, rosina dear, japan will always be my home." "well! there might be worse places," and mrs. rawlinson pulled down her veil, preparatory to departure, "in spite of slight drawbacks in the way of distance, typhoons, earthquakes, etc. by the way, i wanted to telephone to you on wednesday after that awful shock, but the wires were disarranged. were you frightened? did you suffer much loss?" "several of my best pieces of imari china were smashed," replied pearl, "and i picked up my big delft vase in fear and trembling. but it was uninjured, mercifully. stranger still, this heavy bronze clock was thrown off the mantelpiece, and was still going when i picked it up. frightened? i should think i was frightened. i and all the japanese servants rushed into the garden, and watched the house rocking backwards and forwards, expecting every moment to see it collapse." "it was the worst earthquake we've had for years," added rosina, "but it was nothing here compared to what it was in the north. i see by the newspapers whole villages were destroyed, and there has been immense loss of life. amy will have told you how tom retired as usual under the table. and did you hear how those two american globe-trotters, those dear old miss mordants, each clutching her own particular chin dog, fled precipitately from the grand hotel, clad in little else than their stockings and chemises, and took refuge in a _'ricksha_ in the middle of the bund? thus airily clad, with the hood down and the apron up, they insisted on remaining for several hours. and then poor nelly richards, who was completely lost, and at last, after a long search, was found up a tree in the garden. i am told no power in heaven or earth would induce her to desert her tree until dragged down by main force by her infuriated parent." "yes, even earthquakes have their comical side. i heard of a certain mutual friend of ours who was indulging in a bath at that moment, and who fled into the street adorned tastefully but extremely simply in a high hat and a walking-stick," and pearl laughed, but a second later her face became once more overclouded, and she sighed deeply. "now my dear," said rosina, as she took her in her arms and kissed her affectionately, "be your own brave philosophical self, and don't worry about things. and as for your late husband, the last thing you could possibly manage to do is to mourn him, you know. personally, i make no attempt to disguise how greatly relieved i am that a merciful providence has thought fit to remove him from this troublesome world to another, and,--we'll hope,--a brighter sphere. while he was alive, in spite of your divorce, one could never feel quite sure that he might not take it into that evil head of his to annoy you in some way. why! who knows? he might have turned up here in tokyo!" "there may be, for all you think, a far worse danger threatening me than the unexpected arrival of a divorced husband," murmured pearl oracularly. she was on the verge of confiding to rosina the probable arrival in japan of lord martinworth. she would have done so if it had not been that, since those few confidential conversations held on pearl's first arrival three years ago, the name and even the existence of martinworth had, by a sort of tacit consent and mutual understanding, been ignored by the two women in all later intercourse. pearl was longing for rosina's sympathy and advice in the difficulties she saw before her, but an incipient feeling of shyness, a kind of _mauvaise honte_, prevented her from venturing to reopen a subject which for so long had been closed between them. she therefore held her peace. "after all," she thought, as she seated herself at her writing table after mrs. rawlinson's departure, "it may simply be a mare's nest of sir ralph's. dick may never come in the end. a thousand incidents may occur to cause him to change his mind. and even if he and his wife do come to japan, it is just as likely we shall not meet. what scores of globe-trotters visit this country whom i never see. i can easily abstain for the next two or three months from accepting invitations to the english legation, the one place where we are likely to run across each other. yes, after all, i am glad i said nothing to rosina." and yet in spite of all her sophistries, deep down in her heart of hearts, pearl never doubted for a moment but that it was ordained by fate that dick martinworth should visit japan, and that once again, whether for weal or for woe she knew not, their paths in life should cross. mr. hall's and rosina's arguments combined carried weight, and the next mail conveyed a letter from mrs. nugent to the former, in which no mention was made of renouncing the wealth left her. indeed, enclosed with the letter was the rough draft of a will, by which, with the exception of a very substantial legacy to mrs. rawlinson, and another to the old lawyer himself, the whole of pearl's vast fortune was left unconditionally to her young cousin, miss amy mendovy. chapter vi. a woman's womanliness. the imperial cherry garden party was fixed that year for the 21st of april, the day proving one of the most perfect of a perfect japanese spring. pearl had been prevented from attending both the spring parties that had taken place since her arrival. therefore, though suffering from a certain depression of spirits which, in spite of her efforts to the contrary, possessed her at times, she found herself looking forward with considerable pleasure to the coming event. as a member of the rawlinson family she had a right to an invitation. she accompanied her cousins, and as they drove towards the hama-goten palace, mrs. rawlinson's critical eyes rested admiringly on pearl's beautiful face, and on the almost equal loveliness of her young niece seated opposite to her. her heart swelled with natural pride as she complacently smoothed out the creases of the purple shot silk that in various forms and shapes had graced many an imperial garden party. "there's not the slightest doubt," she ejaculated, "but that my niece and my cousin will be two of the prettiest and best dressed women at the party to-day. you are both of you, my dears, looking perfectly charming. don't you agree with me, tom? come now, say something, you tiresome person. pay your relatives a compliment for once in a way." mr. rawlinson opened his lazy eyes with somewhat of an effort. "both pearl and amy are quite vain enough of their looks without any compliments from me," he grunted. "the only thing unusual that i observe about them to-day is that the things they are wearing on their heads look, if anything, a shade more absurd and grotesque than they do even on ordinary occasions. my dear rosina, i do wish you would leave me alone, and make the proper use of your parasol, instead of employing it for the sole purpose of poking me in the ribs. it is bad enough to be dragged to this infernal garden-party, without being massacred before i get there." this last remark was accompanied with a twinkle in the very kindly eyes. tom rawlinson was somewhat of a rough diamond, and he affected a certain gruffness both in speech and manner. his bark, however, was well known for being considerably worse than his bite, and many there were who could vouch for his open-handedness in their moments of distress and need, his ever-ready helpful generosity, and above all, that priceless treasure in this unfeeling world--a warm heart. "now don't call the garden-party names, my dear, just because you would prefer to be wasting this beautiful day in that stupid, stuffy office of yours. and, amy, don't pay any attention to what your uncle says. your hat is very pretty. i am sure it ought to be, as nothing was considered good enough for your ladyship but a fabrication from paris. by the bye, pearl, do you know anything about sir ralph nicholson? is he still here? he never comes our way now. what's the matter with him? i have seen him once since his return, and he appeared considerably changed from the genial, pleasant fellow that i remember him." both pearl and amy reddened at mrs. rawlinson's questions. neither conscience was entirely free from guilt. "yes," answered the former hesitatingly, "he is still here. he came to see me yesterday, and said that he would be at the party to-day. but here we are," she added, as with a certain relief she saw the entrance to the palace gardens. "oh, pearl, isn't it lovely?" exclaimed amy. "i never saw the cherry trees so beautiful as they are this year." they walked through the picturesque grounds, planted with the world-famed cherry tree, heavy with its fragrant mass of blossom. interspersed was the graceful _momiji_, or spring maple, clothed in its luxurious mantle of brilliant red, forming with the dark foliage of the lofty pines, and the varied greens of rare and ancient trees in all their rich and perfect beauty, an enchanting contrast to the cloudless azure sky above. pearl for a moment, in her admiration of these beauties of nature, perfected by the cunning art of man, forgot to be anxious and unhappy. her sweet face was no longer grave, and her eyes shone, as, giving herself up to the enjoyment of the hour, she experienced the charm of gazing at a landscape glorified at that moment by glowing, brilliant sunshine, and scented by the delicate odour of a myriad faintly-tinted, profusely clustering blooms. her eyes revelled in the unrivalled beauty of these lovely grounds, and only when she arrived at the waiting place beneath the ancient and wide-spreading trees, and was quickly surrounded and greeted by her many friends, did she realise that she was there not merely to admire, but, in her turn, to be equally admired. she was in an animated conversation with the minister of foreign affairs and the belgian and spanish _chefs de mission_, when amy came up to her. "fancy, pearl," she exclaimed, "baron de pennett has just told me that monsieur de güldenfeldt is still away at sendai and hakodate, and all sorts of out-of-the-way places. you are guilty of keeping him away like this," she added in a whisper. "he loves these functions as a rule. but no doubt he has forgotten all about you by this time. men are strange animals. talk about the fickleness and changeableness of women indeed! just look at the pronounced way sir ralph is flirting with that strong-minded looking female in magenta. not that i care a bit, you know. though i can't say i particularly admire his taste, do you?" and amy's dark orbs flashed disdainfully. pearl let her eyes travel in the direction indicated, and, as she looked, a puzzled expression came into them. "i seem to know that face," she said musingly. "where can i have seen it before?" she was still pondering, when her thoughts were interrupted by a man's voice behind her enquiring, in a strong foreign accent, "madame nugent, may i be allowed to have the honour of presenting an old friend of mine to you?" and turning, pearl with no previous warning of the ordeal before her, met lord martinworth face to face. the meeting was so unexpected,--for she had gathered from sir ralph that it would still be some weeks before the martinworth's arrival,--that pearl found herself murmuring commonplaces, and mechanically bowing, as she would have murmured and bowed to a complete stranger. later on she realised how dazed, how completely lost she had been at the moment. it was only on perceiving the deathly pallor of the face before her that she remembered that she was in public, that a thousand eyes were upon her, and with a supreme effort she partially succeeded in recovering her presence of mind. lord martinworth had been standing conversing with count carlitti, a member of one of the foreign legations and a former acquaintance whom he had unearthed in tokyo, when the latter caught sight of pearl's tall figure and straight back, clad in a perfectly cut gown. he had already announced himself as one of her many admirers, though, having only lately arrived in japan, he was unacquainted as yet with the gossip of his new post. always talking himself, and never giving another a chance to put in a word, he was so far, in ignorance of mrs. nugent's history. he had heard vaguely that she was separated from her husband, a fact which he considered much in her favour, for in the opinion of this vivacious gentleman every pretty woman profited much, certainly as far as he personally was concerned, in being placed in a position more or less irregular or equivocal. at any rate, if unfortunately a husband did happen to exist, the more such an inconvenient appendage remained in the background, the greater approval was the lady of the hour likely to find in count carlitti's soft brown eyes. those eyes were ever on the look out for a pretty face or a rounded bust. his taste in female beauty was considered, certainly by himself if by no one else, indisputable. so when at the club he had once given out that there was no doubt whatsoever but that mrs. nugent was _la plus belle femme de tokyo_, no one troubled, even if they disagreed, to contradict one who counted himself such an experienced judge of the correct and classic lines of feminine loveliness. "i must, _mon ami_," he said to martinworth, "present you to _une beauté--mais une beauté incomparable!_ madame nugent is english. you see that beautiful, straight back, and leetle head poised so haughtily? ah, i perceive you admire! but wait, _mon ami_, till you see her face. and when you will have seen her face, wait a leetle longer till you have seen her _en robe de bal! quelles epaules mon cher, ah! quelles epaules!_ then tell me if we do not possess a gem in _ce triste tokyo_." the introduction promptly followed, and shortly afterwards count carlitti was heard relating that _la parfaite beauté de cette madame nugent_ had made such an impression on _ce brave martinworth_ that he had actually trembled, and turned ashen from the violence of his emotions. "my triumph is complete," he was saying to tom spence, a junior member of the english legation. "_c'etait le coup de foudre!_" "_coup de foudre_, by jove! i should just think it must have been," exclaimed spence. "why, my dear fellow, martinworth is the very man with whom mrs. nugent (that's not her real name, you know) was mixed up with in that divorce-suit two or three years ago. she came out here, they say, to get rid of him. and now you go and introduce them to each other as if they had never met before! ha, ha, ha! upon my word, that's the best joke, the rummest situation i have ever heard of!" "_mon dieu_," exclaimed carlitti, with a shrug of his shoulders, "if women change their names, how is it possible to know the right--what do you call it--co-respondents--that belong to them? _mais sapristi! quelle guigne!_" "what is the matter, count?" asked lady thomson, who, with her husband the english minister, at that moment joined the two young men. "you look quite upset. an unusual state of things for you." "carlitti has just been distinguishing himself by introducing lord martinworth to mrs. nugent," explained the amused spence. "he evidently wished for a sensation." the british minister was a very dignified person, and no one realised better than his excellency himself that he was assisting in a prominent position at an important court function. at his secretary's words however, he screwed up his mouth into the form of a button, and a sound very like a whistle issued from his lips. "my dear carlitti, what a terrible situation! you mean to say you didn't know about the divorce, and all the rest of it?" "_mais naturellement, monsieur le ministre, je n'en savais rien._ i desired to make a pleasure to _mon ami martinworth_, for he knows himself well _en beauté de femme_. and i was assured that he would admire _la belle madame nugent. aprés tout j'avais raison, je connais bien son gôut._" "yes! you are quite right, count," murmured the english wife of one of the german secretaries, equally remarkable for her extreme prettiness, her sharp tongue, and her very many indiscretions, "lord martinworth certainly knows something about the good points of _le beau sexe_. as for mrs. nugent, he has had in her case, i am told, many years of leisure in london to study this particular example. well, now he can re-commence, and can still further improve himself in what you dear, foolish men tell us is an absorbing and inexhaustible occupation,--the study of the female heart. dear mrs. nugent's heart must be so very, very interesting. it is a pity that, so far, this boring, dull tokyo has never provided her with an adorer, to help to solve its mysteries." "don't, i pray you, waste your pity where it is not required, my dear little countess," laughed lady thomson. "mrs. nugent could have had, i feel assured, as many adorers as she desired. but you know as well as i do, that in spite of her somewhat difficult position she does not lay herself out for admiration and that sort of thing. she is certainly not a bit of a flirt. by the bye," she added _sotto voce_ to her husband, "do you think i ought to say anything to her about that horrid man's death, and the fortune? or shall i ignore the whole subject? what do you think about it?" "by all means hold your tongue," replied the cautious diplomatist. "to refer to the fellow's death would be in the worst possible taste. why, i see she doesn't even wear mourning, and quite right, too. it would be the height of hypocrisy. come along, my dear. collect the wives of my secretaries and those other ladies whom it is your duty to introduce to the empress, for it will soon be our turn to be received in audience. we must take our place." for the rest of that afternoon count carlitti retired into the background, and this usually volatile gentleman was extremely silent and considerably suppressed. allowing for a certain amount of exaggeration, the description he gave tom spence of lord martinworth's demeanour at the moment of introduction was far from being incorrect. if, instead of bounding away after someone else, carlitti had remained a little longer on the spot, his surprise would have been greatly increased by hearing the one word, "pearl," issuing in deep, astounded tones from the man's lips, and by witnessing the intense look of joy that, after the first shock of amazement, illumined the handsome but somewhat stern features. to show emotion at an unexpected meeting, neither words nor violent outbursts of excitement are necessary. lord martinworth and pearl nugent met, and had at one glance, recognised each other. she had let her trembling hand lie in his for a moment, while that one look, that one word, had passed between them. she could not have spoken if her life had depended on the opening of her lips, and she felt it indeed a cause of thankfulness when the court chamberlains chose that moment to divide the crowd, forming it into two lines facing each other, and when in the necessary confusion, martinworth was separated from her side. the _corps diplomatique_ took up their stand in line, by order of precedence, the rest of the crowd placing themselves beyond and behind, where they could obtain the best view. the military bands repeated one after the other, the very solemn and impressive national anthem, while their imperial majesties, accompanied by the princes and princesses of the blood and all the court, walked slowly by between the two lines of their respectful subjects, and that of the _corps diplomatique_, acknowledging graciously the deferential salutations of this large gathering of people. immediately on the passing of the court, the _corps diplomatique_ took their place in the procession. the crowds of guests followed, and pearl found herself leaning heavily on nicholson's arm, walking, in a sort of trance across the picturesque bridges, and along the lovely verdure-shaded paths. ralph had been an anxious and interested spectator of the meeting between his two friends. he was exchanging banalities with lady martinworth--the recollection of whose face had proved so great a puzzle to pearl--when he had observed the greeting, and his kind heart had beaten sympathetically at what he knew must indeed be a terrible ordeal to both. he witnessed pearl's sudden dismay, the dazed and frightened look, and the nervous clutch of the handle of her parasol. unceremoniously deserting his companion, he made his way towards mrs. nugent, and when everyone started to follow in the procession he without a word, simply drew her arm through his, holding her up through all that long and silent promenade. when the imperial party at length arrived at the marquee prepared for them, and the crowd was waiting expectantly on the turf outside, ralph succeeded in obtaining a chair for his companion. pearl by this time had regained a certain amount of control, and was so far composed that she could watch with interest their imperial majesties receiving the members of the _corps diplomatique_, and accepting the various presentations that are made to them on these occasions. while this ceremony was still proceeding, amy mendovy occupied with her own affairs, and all unconscious of the event that had just taken place, came up to her cousin. "you lucky woman," she said, "to have got a chair. i am simply dead with fatigue. but, pearl," she added, struck with her cousin's pallor and gazing at her with anxiety, "how terribly pale you look. are you not well, dear?" "mrs. nugent felt the sun a little. i have persuaded her to sit down," replied nicholson, who with open parasol was still standing guard over pearl. amy raised her eyebrows, and instead of glancing at him gazed somewhat superciliously down her straight nose. she was feeling deeply offended with ralph. he had not approached her the whole of that day, and--as she had confessed to pearl--had indeed scarcely honoured her with his society, at home or abroad, since the memorable piano incident. ralph nicholson was following strictly to the letter pearl's advice, and was feeling extremely pleased with himself in consequence. "after all, what clever creatures women are," he thought. "now, unless it had been put into my dull head, i should never have dreamt of this very easy plan of getting round the little witch. i should simply either have cut it, or else like an idiot have rushed off and proposed again. either of which proceedings would, according to mrs. nugent, have proved fatal to my chances. now i see my lady is just wild with me. she won't even look at me. she saw me at work though, as i intended she should do, on that queer fish, lady martinworth, who, by the bye, is not half a bad sort and capital company to boot. _tant mieux_, miss mendovy. your punishment will last considerably longer, i can tell you!" thus thought ralph, as he stood at the back of pearl's chair, complacently twirling his moustache, and furtively watching the lady of his dreams. he found her looking more charming, more seductive than ever to-day, in her pretty gown and extremely becoming hat. her dark eyes were flashing, the rich colour in her cheeks was coming and going with suppressed excitement, as completely ignoring nicholson's presence, she bent down and wrapped a lace scarf around pearl's shoulders. "i think," said sir ralph, this time addressing himself to pearl, "if you will excuse me, mrs nugent, as you have miss mendovy with you now, and as i see many of your acquaintances making their way towards you, i will just go and give lady martinworth a look. i see her casting signals of distress. she knows no one here in all this crowd, you know. and she is awfully nice." so with a grin, and a parting glance at the back of amy's dark head, off he went. pearl watched him go. then she looked at amy, who had turned, with apparently great animation, to address one of her numerous admirers hard by. "i hope," she thought, "he won't over-act it. men can never do things by halves. and of course, two can play at that game." the truth of which remark miss mendovy was determined to prove. for, during the rest of the afternoon she succeeded in attaching to her charming person a by no means unworthy suitor, a certain good-looking secretary of legation, who long had been known to sigh hopelessly for her hand. pearl never quite recalled how she got through the rest of the ceremony. afterwards she remembered vaguely catching a somewhat distant view of their imperial majesties seated at a table within the tent, discussing their repast in solitary grandeur. near them were placed the imperial princes and princesses, and beyond were little tables at which were seated the ministers of state, and the members of the _corps diplomatique_ with their wives and families. she had a dim recollection of someone forcing her to swallow a fragment of _paté de foie gras_ and a glass of champagne, and she once remembered raising her eyes and finding those of lady martinworth fixed with a look of mocking enquiry and scrutiny upon her face. this expression on lady martinworth's countenance was an additional shock to the many that pearl was fated to experience that afternoon. fortunately shortly after this incident, the imperial party broke up, thereby allowing the guests the liberty to take their departure, or the long strain on pearl's nerves, and the dread that martinworth would again approach her, would inevitably have culminated in a breakdown. as it was, her first action on reaching the shelter of her home was a characteristic one of her sex. she shut herself into her drawing room, and walking straight up to the glass over the mantelpiece, she gazed at herself for fully two minutes. in spite of the pallor of her cheeks this close examination apparently did not prove otherwise than satisfactory, for there was a slight smile about the lips as she drew the long pins from her hat, and laid her head back on the pillows of the sofa. she was anxious to collect her thoughts, and if possible, to devise some plan for the immediate future. whether that plan would ever have been formed it is difficult to say. as it was, her cogitations were speedily interrupted by the simple fact of a violent ring at the door bell. pearl was on her feet in an instant, and her hand was pressed against her heart to still its beating. who could it be? was it?---yes, it must be martinworth, who had probably ascertained without difficulty her whereabouts, and had lost no time in following her. she experienced a strange sensation--a mixture of disappointment and relief when she realized it was not martinworth's voice, but a woman's, that she heard in the hall. the next moment lady martinworth entered the room. she made a considerable noise as she strode with long steps toward pearl, who was standing erect, with a slight look of defiance in her wide-open eyes. "how do you do, mrs. norrywood," she exclaimed, holding out a large hand. "i saw you at the garden party, easily found out where you lived, and thought it best to come on here without delay, to have a necessary yarn with you. no objection, i suppose, to my bearding you in your den like this?" she added, with a broad, decidedly good-natured smile. pearl drew herself up, and threw her head back in a manner peculiar to herself. she felt completely mistress of her actions, quite ready for the fray, as she answered calmly: "before proceeding further in our interview, lady martinworth," the name stuck in her throat, "i think it best that you should be aware that i am known here under the name of nugent. will you not sit down?" "thanks. oh! so you have changed your name," was the reply. "well, perhaps it is just as well in the circumstances." "i am glad it meets with your approval. may i offer you a cup of tea, or perhaps a cigarette? you smoke, i believe?" "thanks, yes, i smoke. oh! egyptians, i see. fearfully doctored, you know. couldn't think of drinking tea. i ate enough of that spread this afternoon to last me for a week. pretty sight, but i was dying to get away to have a smoke, and now, like a good samaritan, you have come to my rescue." another broad smile. then followed a silence which pearl for one was determined not to break. lady martinworth threw herself back in her chair, stuck her feet out before her, and made rings with the cigarette smoke. "pretty place, this tokyo. been here long?" at length she ejaculated. "i have lived here rather more than three years," replied pearl quietly. "have you come to see me for the purpose of obtaining some information about the place or the people?" "nothing further from my thoughts, i assure you. you like it better than london, i suppose? uncommonly dull place to live in, though, i should think. but no accounting for tastes. i didn't know you were here, you know, or of course i shouldn't have been such a brute as to have come to japan and disturbed your peace of mind." pearl slightly lifted her eyebrows, and looked her companion straight in the face. "and may i enquire," she asked suavely, "in what possible way you would be likely to do that?" lady martinworth tossed her cigarette into the grate, and rising from her armchair, went and perched herself on the music stool. "in bringing martinworth here attached to my apron strings, of course. hard luck on you both, i call it. not very pleasant for me, either, you know. why, he'll detest me more than ever now, which is saying a good deal." pearl seated herself in a chair near the music-stool on which her visitor was twirling herself round and round, accompanied by that teeth-edging squeak with which music-stools seem chronically to be affected. she laid her hand on the stool to try to stop the movement. "lady martinworth," she said, "do you not think it would be wiser for us both to keep lord martinworth's name out of this conversation? he and i are old friends. we meet again after some years, and we----" "oh, i say," interrupted her companion rudely, "stop that. i don't want a long jobation about your and martinworth's friendship, you know. i know all about _that_. read the whole case from the beginning to the end with the greatest interest. i made up my mind years ago to marry dick, but of course everyone knew he was otherwise engaged, and when you got your divorce, it was given out that he would marry you. and so he would have done, if you had not bolted like the little idiot you were. well, ''tis an ill wind that blows no one any good.' you no sooner made yourself scarce than i seized my opportunity. i needn't tell you _he_ never asked me to marry him. i saved him that trouble. and here i am lady martinworth, whereas you are.----by the way, by what outlandish name did you say you called yourself?" pearl rose and calmly went towards the door, which she threw open. "lady martinworth," she said, very slowly and very icily, "no doubt my education has been sadly neglected, but i must confess, in private matters of this kind, i have only been accustomed to dealing with ladies. as therefore, it is absolutely impossible for me to cope with a person of your calibre, i must beg of you to do me the favour of leaving my house directly." but lady martinworth did not stir from her seat. on the contrary, the eternal smile grew broader on the somewhat homely features. she took a single eyeglass from the breast pocket of her coat, and rubbing it with a silk handkerchief, stuck it calmly into her left eye, gazing meanwhile complacently at pearl. "bravo, bravo!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands, "you really did that very well, you know. what an actress you would make, with your figure and _grand air_. no wonder martinworth fell in love with you. i admire his excellent taste, 'pon my word, i do. poor old fellow, it is hard lines on him, that after having been your slave for so long he should now have to fall back on _me_. never mind, we won't talk about him if you don't like it. do be a sensible woman. come and sit down, and leave that door to take care of itself. i'm not going just yet, you know, for i have something i want to say to you." much to her own astonishment, pearl found herself obediently following her ladyship's request. she closed the door, and came once more and sat down by her side. if she had been asked to do so, she could not have defined her sentiments towards this strange woman, who all unbidden, had forced herself into her presence. coarse, utterly wanting in tact and delicacy as she seemed to be, there was something about her very honesty and good nature that attracted pearl. she found herself trying to analyse her companion's character, wondering what there was in it, and in the situation altogether, that was tending to change her sentiments towards her visitor. was it sympathy she asked herself--a feeling of sorrow that was now taking possession of her? she answered gently, "forgive me for my brusqueness. if there is anything you wish to say to me, i shall be willing to listen to you. can i be of use to you in any way?" without a moment's hesitation, lady martinworth rose from her seat and clasped pearl's two hands. "yes," she said, "you can be of great use to me, if you will. you can be my friend. will you?" there was no reply, for pearl was deeply considering this extraordinary request. what did it mean? was the woman sincere, or was it merely a clever move on her part to secure the alliance of a person who otherwise might be an impediment, a dangerous rival? the ups and downs of a stormy existence had developed in pearl a certain mistrustfulness, a suspiciousness of disposition, otherwise unnatural to her, and considering the circumstances of the case, she felt in no wise inclined to jump at this unexpected proposal. while she was debating in her mind what reply to make, lady martinworth spoke again. "well, i see you don't like the notion," she said, moving towards the window. "why should you? i suppose you and i haven't an idea or a taste in common. i have never had a woman friend in my life, and have never wanted to have one. till now i have always looked on women as poor creatures. but somehow you seem different from the rest. i liked the way you went to that door and wanted to turn me out. real plucky i call it, and one so seldom sees pluck in a woman. then the way you left it when i asked you to do so showed me you had a heart, for i saw you were feeling sorry for me. i've got a heart too, whatever you may think of me. yes, mrs. nugent, i've got a heart. one that is full of love for my husband, too, though he little knows it." as lady martinworth uttered these last words, she might have been called almost pretty. a wonderfully tender light lit up the small eyes, and the wide mouth smiled very sweetly as she continued: "and that is just it, that is just why i ask you to be my friend. i love my husband. he doesn't care a rap about me, you know. no! not one little bit. in fact, i know there are times when he downright detests me. i well know he is just as devoted to you as ever he was. of course he has adored you for years. you are a good woman, i know you are, in spite of that nasty speech i made about the divorce case. with your pretty face and unhappy married life you must, of course, have had heaps of temptations, and yet, as i look at you, i feel convinced you have always kept as straight as a die. you have got such nice true eyes. yes, 'pon my word, i like you, mrs. nugent. i feel you are a trump, and it would make me thoroughly happy if you would do me the kindness of calling me your friend. cannot you make an effort in that direction? do try. i know i am not a very attractive person, but one thing i swear to you, i am neither mean nor petty, and i am sure that, so far, i have never willingly done a shabby action. of course, those qualities are not much to boast of, but they are all i possess, so i enumerate them, and i do so want a friend--oh! i do so want a friend." at these words lady martinworth suddenly hid her face in her hands and burst into a flood of tears. pearl began to think there was to be no end to the surprises of that day. now, behold! as a climax to every excitement, lady martinworth, succumbing, like any other member of her sex, to an hysterical attack of nerves. it was this womanly, weak action that conquered pearl, and if lady martinworth had but known it, she could not have chosen better tactics to have achieved her ends. pearl understood that in spite of those mannish ways and the abrupt speech, in spite of the general roughness and uncouthness, in spite of all these outward traits that on ordinary occasions would have gone so far towards repelling a gentle nature such as her own, that nevertheless she had there, seated in her house in the abandonment of grief, a friendless, miserable woman, with a woman's heart and a woman's weakness. realizing this, pearl kissed her and put her arms about her, as only a woman knows how to kiss and soothe, and comfort another of her sex. half an hour later, a grateful and transformed lady martinworth departed from mrs. nugent's house, and pearl was left once more to her thoughts. poor pearl! they could hardly be reckoned pleasant thoughts. she perfectly well understood that she was being entangled in a net, that net of circumstances which is oft-times so strangely and so strongly woven that to the unfortunate victim entrapped within there appears no possible loophole of escape. she thought of this interview just past, and asked herself where would it lead her? an hour ago she considered herself the natural enemy of the wife of the man she loved. now, to her bewilderment, she found she had vowed eternal friendship and protection to this woman, who in the usual order of things, according to all natural laws, she ought to treat, if not with great dislike, certainly with fear, avoidance and distrust. and yet, strange to say, she did not in the least regret her action, for she pitied with all her heart the woman who in such a genuine outburst of grief, had prayed for her friendship. all the chivalry of pearl's generous nature was aroused when she thought of this poor, friendless, heart-broken woman crying to her for help--to her who, from lady martinworth's own confession, was still the sole recipient of dick martinworth's love. lady martinworth had thrown herself, as it were, on her protection, and pearl then and there vowed to herself, that as far as it lay in her power, as far as strength would be given her to carry out her intentions, she would not prove her false. she had she knew well, a difficult task before her, and she did not disguise from herself the fact that in this matter there would be not only herself, not only her own strength, her own endurance to be reckoned with, but martinworth, from whom she had fled, and who was here once more on the spot. he knew his power, and he would surely use it. of that she had no doubt. her dread of that power, of that determination of will, was as great now as had been the case in former years. after all,--as she had written of herself in her farewell letter at that time,--she was but a woman--a helpless, loving woman, weak and frail. on that occasion, when she had thought, rightly or wrongly, her disappearance was for his benefit, her love had given her the almost superhuman strength to fly from him. now she had only herself to think of, and one other forlorn woman--a stranger,--who had prayed to her for help. could she hope to be given a second time the power to resist his undeniable influence over her? could she resist his importunities,--his prayers? he was so strong, so very strong, and she was so loving, so lonely, and so weak. again the bell rang. this time it was lord martinworth who entered the room, and with his arrival, pearl knew that her resolutions, her force of will, would be put straightway to the test. chapter vii. tried as by fire. there are moments in one's career when one knows as clearly as if written in letters of fire that one's whole future may depend on an action or a word. both may appear insignificant enough in themselves, and yet that one little action, that one little word, may be all-sufficient to make or mar a life. pearl was fully aware of this fact as she saw lord martinworth with outstretched hands, his face and eyes all aglow, coming towards her. the moment was portentous! her first instinct was to greet him with all the pent-up feelings of years, and to throw herself into his arms; but realizing how greatly everything depended on her self-control, she took refuge in silence and inaction, and shrinking back behind her chair, she waited with down-cast eyes for him to speak. lord martinworth did not appear to resent her silence, or to notice the fear and unrest of her movement. the chair acted as no barrier to his impetuosity, and brushing it aside he seized her two hands and kept them within his own. "at last, pearl," he said in a low voice, "at last i have found you." she did not reply, but slowly raising her eyes to his, gazed long and steadily into his face. what she saw was a man approaching middle age, with lined face and saddened eyes, and _not_ the martinworth whom she had known. she had left behind her a man with dark hair, frank and laughing blue eyes, and a mobile and expressive mouth. he whom she saw before her now had hair thickly sprinkled with grey, his eyes, blue as in days of yore, laughed no longer, but gleamed mournfully and somewhat wildly from beneath the finely marked eyebrows, while the beauty of the well shaped mouth was marred by certain hard and scornful lines that surrounded the slightly parted lips. his very figure seemed altered. he was a tall man, and had formerly been remarkable for his erect carriage. now there was a stoop in the shoulders, and in spite of the well-cut frock coat, his stature seemed to pearl to have decreased. all these outward examples of change, these slight signs of degeneration, struck pearl with a sudden chill. she let her eyes rest on the man before her, feeling as if she were in the presence of a stranger. "why do you not speak to me?" he asked at last. "have you no word of welcome for me, pearl?" "i do not seem to know you," answered pearl sadly, as she withdrew her hands from his. "you are changed, very changed. you are not the dick martinworth i remember." "you find me changed? doubtless i am. well! i will credit you with believing that it does not give you much pleasure to look at a wretched, a broken-hearted man. to gaze at your own handiwork," he answered bitterly. "my handiwork?" faltered pearl. "yes, your handiwork. listen, pearl! god knows i did not come here with the intention of reproaching you, but nevertheless i must tell you a little of the harm that you have done. the man who loved his occupations and enjoyed all that life had to give him, now has taste for none of these things, but on the contrary is possessed,--poor soul,--with the demon of perpetual unrest. the man who had a certain faith in purity and truth, and was not otherwise than happy in that faith, now doubts whether such things really exist. and yet, pearl, i did believe in goodness and in truth, for i believed in _you_. you left me, after years of waiting and of longing, left me at the moment i thought my dearest hopes were to be realised. you threw me a letter and left me,--and in so doing you have ruined my life. yes, you have ruined my future and my life." as martinworth was speaking, his eyes grew larger and wilder, and pearl shrank back further behind the chair. "i did it for the best," she murmured in a smothered voice, "dick, i did it for your sake." he took a step towards her, and clasped her by the wrist. "oh, pearl! you dare to stand there and to tell me that lie. you tell me you did it for my sake, when you know it was only of yourself, it was only of your own reputation, your own good name, you were thinking. i'm not a fool, pearl, whatever you may think me, and it was easy enough to read through the falseness, the hypocrisy of that letter you wrote me. why, during all those years we knew and loved each other, were you not always considering, always fearful of what the world--your little mean world--would say? and it was just because you drew your own conclusions as to what would be the verdict of that world if you married me, that without one word of warning, you left me. and you tell me now you did it for the best, that you did it for my sake. may god forgive you!" and walking to the chimney-piece martinworth buried his face in his hands. pearl was very pale as she came and stood before him. "and you believe _that_," she said--"you believe that of _me_? you are actually capable of believing that i, whom you loved all those years, and who, despite your present accusations, in spite of that overwhelming fear of the world's opinion you speak of, you well know, braved that world many and many a time for your sake. you are capable of believing that i, who already had sacrificed so much for you, could lie to you--lie to you at such a supreme moment? if such is the case, lord martinworth, i feel, that whatever may have been the motive at the time, the mean, interested one that you lay to my charge, or the single-hearted one of self-sacrifice, which before god i swear it was, whatever i repeat, may have been the motive--i bless heaven for the instinct that prompted me to leave you. the man who can harbour such a thought of the woman he professes to love, is only worthy to be despised and scorned, as i despise and scorn you now!" martinworth had evidently not expected this furious onslaught. his face expressed the utmost astonishment, the utmost dismay. "pearl--pearl," he cried, "calm yourself, i pray you. what are you calling me? what are you saying? if i have wronged you----" "wronged me," she interrupted, as she cast the hand away that he had stretched towards her, "you have not only wronged me, but you have insulted me with the injustice of such mean, such paltry thoughts. oh, leave me. why have you come here to disturb me? i have been happy enough these last three forgetting years. leave me, i implore you. you are married. go back to your wife, to the wife who loves you, and leave me in peace." martinworth looked up with a strange light in his eyes. "my wife?" he said, "what has _she_ got to do in this matter? have you seen her?" "yes, she has been here. go back to her. go back and leave me. this interview is most distressing to me. it is painful to us both. it were surely best to end it? perhaps later on we may be calmer, and able to meet without mutual reproaches, mutual regrets. now we are both of us angry and bitter. oh! how could you say those things of me? i beg you to go. i can never, never forget what you have just said. go, dick--go!" tears stood in her eyes, as she held out her hand as a token of farewell. martinworth took it and kept it within his own. his face had become softer as she was speaking, and pearl at last realised, as he gazed fixedly at her, with the well-known devoted look of old, that standing before her was indeed the dick martinworth she had always loved. the colour flew into her cheeks, and her heart beat as once again she felt his touch, the contact of his hand, and her thoughts went back to scenes and days gone-by. he was looking at her with those beautiful eyes of his. they had lost their wildness now, and were gazing down into hers, with a world of regret, of tenderness, and of sorrow in their depths. "sit down," he said, quietly, "i wish to speak to you, pearl, before i go. you must listen to me dear." she let him press her gently back into a low chair, and he knelt down beside her, taking her two hands in his. he heard her heart throbbing, and before she knew what he was premeditating, he leant forward and kissed her lips. pearl closed her eyes, as for one brief moment her head rested on his shoulder, and his lips clung to hers. then she pushed him from her, and rose from her chair. "ah, leave me, dick!" she cried. "what are you premeditating? what are you doing? do not take hold of me any more. do not kiss me again. do not touch me--but leave me--leave me." he had sprung to his feet. "i cannot leave you," he said. "i have loved you so long, pearl. i lost you, i have found you, and do you think i can leave you now? i can live no longer without you." "oh, no, no, no!" she cried, "you must not love me now. i cannot forfeit my salvation even for you, dick. leave me--and never come back. i implore you, never come back again!" "you tell me to go, pearl, but you still care for me. i see it in your face, your eyes. i know you love me, as much as you have always loved me, and tell me what is salvation compared with our love? our great absorbing love. oh, come to me, my pearl. i have waited for you so long, so very long, and have found you again after all these years. though many and many a time i have railed against you, and even cursed you, pearl, i have never ceased to love you, dear, to dream of you as mine. and now, once more we are together, and we must never be parted again, pearl, my pearl!" he ceased, but the words still rang in her ears--we must never be parted again, pearl, my pearl! the sound intoxicated her. with beating heart, and eyes shining like stars, she went towards him. "dick," she cried breathlessly, "i shall lose my soul for all eternity--i shall lose it now in spite of all my many years of fighting and of striving. but, after all, i am but a woman, and i love you. yes! i love you. i long for you as much--ah! more--ah! more--than you have ever longed for me. i am only a woman, a poor, weak, tempted woman. what can i do against you, who are so strong? therefore i come to you, my love--i come!" she flew to his arms and he folded her within them. this time she gave him back kiss for kiss. "wait," she said a minute later, unclasping his arms from her neck, "wait a moment, and let me think." "no, no, no," he cried, "you must not think; you must not wait to think. come with me now. come away from this place. come with me, darling, where we can live forgotten and unknown." she did not seem to hear him. she had walked towards the window, and was gazing out into the garden, where, round the shrubs and flowers, the twilight was quickly gathering. she stood there motionless for many minutes, it seemed to him, then she turned and faced him. round the lips there was a look of great and stern resolve, though the eyes were softened by unshed tears. "no," she said, "i have changed my mind. i will not--i will never go with you! my resolution must not--cannot--be altered. dear dick, i implore you to go, to leave me now, for i will not come between your wife and you. i have promised her." "my wife!--my wife!--why drag in my wife again?" he cried. "what is she to you? what is she to me? i tell you, pearl, she is nothing to me, and i am less than nothing to her. she goes her way and i go mine. she has her friends, i have mine. she is my wife only in name. and you compare this--this arrangement to the perfect love that you and i have for each other,--to the devotion of years? you will let this wretched, this unnatural state of things stand between us? no, you shall not do so, pearl! god knows i am accustomed enough to your--to women's moods. but a minute ago you said you would come with me, you were even willing to sacrifice your salvation for my sake. why change now? you shall not change now. you are bound to me by your flight--by your word, by our love, by--by--everything, and, by god! you _shall_ come." and he caught her once more in his arms, kissing her hands and face. she wrenched herself free. "dick," she said, with eyes large with fear, and warding him off with her hands, "listen to me, i pray you. you are wrong about your wife, totally, entirely wrong. you may not love her, but she loves you, deeply, truly. indeed she does. she wept to-day when she mentioned your name. i promised her, recklessly perhaps, that i would be her friend. it was a foolish, a rash promise, i know, but while i have breath in my body i intend to keep it. so go back to her, dick. she loves you. oh, dick, in the old days you always listened to me. you always did what i desired. once more i beg, i implore you to do so now, and to leave me." "but to-day is not yesterday, and i will listen no longer. you have fooled me too often, pearl. you are free now, and you shall be mine for ever and ever. do you hear? for ever and ever," and once again he was going towards her with outstretched arms, when he stopped abruptly in his approach. the varied trials and excitements of the day had resulted in one termination, and that a natural one. pearl's overstrained nerves at length gave way. with a cry like a wounded animal she threw herself on the sofa, her head buried in the cushions, sobbing in all the abandonment of grief and fear, while lord martinworth,--standing perfectly still,--watched her. in the many years he had known and loved pearl he had never seen her weep before. no, not even that time years ago, when she had bared her arm and shown him the bruises caused by her husband's blow. as he watched her now in bitter silence, he perceived perhaps for the first time, the terrible struggle between right and wrong that he had aroused, and a hitherto unknown feeling of utter contempt, complete abhorrence of self welled up within him. he knew now that he had conquered in the fight, that he had but to take her within his arms and she would be his, body and soul--his for ever. but the certainty of this knowledge brought him no triumph, no joy. for once he saw himself as he was, and the inequality of the contest, the self-acknowledged cowardice of his present conduct, brought a flush of humiliation and of shame to his cheeks. he stood for a moment hesitating as he watched the quivering form and listened to the stifled sobs. he took one step towards her. he gently touched her hair. then he paused, and with a parting glance revealing both grief and remorse, without a word he turned and fled. and pearl, lying there with her head buried in the cushions, heard the door close, the retreating footsteps, and the noise of the carriage driving away, and then, but only then, she understood that she had banished him for all eternity. she rushed to the open window, and cried to him in a voice sharp with agony; but the occupant of the carriage was far beyond the sound of her call, and once more she threw herself on the sofa and hid her face in her hands. "what have i done?" she cried aloud. "i have sent him away--i have sent him away. oh! what made me do it? how could i do this thing? what do i care for duty and honour? and his wife--what is she to me? what right had she to exact such a promise from me? why should i be her friend? she is my enemy, not my friend. and her husband, my love, my only love, i have sent away, i have sent away." thus pearl raved while the night closed in upon her. and yet that evening as she knelt by her bedside this prayer was uttered in all sincerity from the depths of her heart:-"oh god," she prayed, "keep him away from me, for i am very weak and he is strong. keep him from me--keep him from me." for two days, morning, noon, and night, that prayer was offered up to the throne of heaven. the third day and the fourth it passed her lips haltingly but once. the fifth, sixth, and seventh days it was uttered no more. hardly a week had gone by, when one morning, with a racking head and trembling fingers, pearl sat herself down by her writing table. she did not hesitate as she took the pen and wrote these words:- "my heart's darling: "i know now what i have done. i have sent you away. you whom i love and have ever loved. come back to me. come to me after dinner to-night, and i will teach you what a woman's sacrifice, a woman's love can be." "pearl." chapter viii. amy to the rescue. "pearl, what is the matter with you?" this question was asked sharply by mrs. rawlinson, as she scrutinised her cousin's face with her quick eyes. "matter? oh, nothing," answered pearl, flushing under the examination. "nonsense, my dear! haven't i known you from babyhood? and for you to sit there and tell me that you are in your usual equable state of mind is simply ridiculous. i haven't seen you for a week. not since the cherry party. you have not condescended to come to my house, and each time i have come to yours i have been told that you were out, and, what is more, have had the door calmly shut in my face by that extremely impertinent 'boy' of yours. amy tells me she has met with the same fate. may i ask the reason of this strange behaviour?" "certainly," replied pearl, calmly. "you may ask what you like, but i don't fancy the reply will enlighten you much. i was busy saying my prayers." mrs. rawlinson stared, as well she might, at this unexpected answer to her question. pearl laughed nervously at the expression on her cousin's face. "oh, you need have no fear for the state of my brain," she replied. "i have finished now. i prayed for the last time yesterday evening." "pearl," replied mrs. rawlinson gravely, as she rose and began fastening her cloak. "i don't understand you in this flippant mood. i have never known you to joke about sacred subjects before, and i can't imagine what possesses you now. your looks, too, have changed. you seem to have grown quite thin in a week. your eyes are shining, and your cheeks have two red spots on them. what is the meaning of all this?" pearl looked impatiently at the clock, an action which as she intended, was not lost on her cousin. "you are going out?" she said; "well, good-bye. we shall meet at the prime minister's ball to-night, i suppose, and then dearest, you will have plenty of time as you do not dance, to tell me what is troubling you." pearl gave a sigh of relief as the door closed behind mrs. rawlinson. "oh, these relations!" she ejaculated. "much as we may love and appreciate them on ordinary occasions, how utterly wearisome and _de trop_ they prove themselves at certain moments of one's existence." once more she glanced at the clock, noticing that the hands pointed to half-past five. "three hours and a half more," she sighed, as, for the twentieth time that day, she drew from her pocket martinworth's passionate reply to her summons. "how shall i ever get through them?" * * * * * at a quarter to nine that evening, just as amy mendovy was rising from the table, with the intention of dressing for one of the events of the spring--the prime minister's ball--a note from mrs. nugent was put into her hands. "dearest amy," it ran, "as you love me come to me immediately on receipt of this line. i am in great trouble, and in dire need of you. give up the ball for my sake, and come to me, i implore you. yours, pearl." "p.s.--i am not ill." amy's face clouded. what! give up the ball! this ball on which she had so greatly reckoned for the sole reason that she knew sir ralph would be present? she had long ago decided in her own mind that this was to be the occasion on which might be expressed, without loss of self-respect, a reasonable amount of contrition and regret. there were moments when amy flattered herself that she knew her power well enough to be fairly certain that she had only to offer the olive branch to see it promptly accepted. and yet again, at other times, she felt considerable doubt as to her advances being well received. sir ralph's conduct of late had certainly not held out much promise of success. she had not seen him since the garden party, and her vanity suffered more than one wound as the disagreeable conviction slowly dawned upon her--that he was persistently keeping out of her way. from all sides she heard of his devoted attendance upon lady martinworth. though amy had more than once seen this lady she did not know her. in moments of depression therefore, she found herself picturing her rival as the owner--if not of beauty--of much fascination and every charm, coupled with those powerful weapons, a clever woman's designing and seductive wiles. lady martinworth would have been the first to have felt intense amusement at such gifted and extremely unlikely traits of character being attributed to her. poor amy was therefore, somewhat perplexed and annoyed, and at times she felt extremely sorry for herself. she concluded that she had already been more than amply punished for those few bars played so thoughtlessly on the piano, and sometimes she declared to herself that it was an imperative necessity to end the present unsettled situation. these last few weeks of uncertainty had taught her, more than all the previous months put together, how true and sincere was her love for ralph nicholson. she could only pray now that her own foolish conduct had not for ever put it out of her power to prove this fact to him. the ball, she knew, would settle matters one way or the other, and it was with a feverish anxiety, very unlike the usual indifferent _insouciante_ amy, that she awaited the evening's event. and now the receipt of this frantic little note upset all her calculations, destroying at one blow all her brilliant castles in the air. she hesitated. pearl herself wrote she was not ill. what reason strong enough could therefore exist to cause amy to relinquish this entertainment, an entertainment where so much that was momentous might occur. her absence from the ball would cause sir ralph to doubtlessly put a wrong construction upon her action, and as he never came to see her now, when should she have another chance of explaining matters to him? no, she would not go to pearl. it was really asking too much. she could not give up this opportunity, even for her cousin for whom her affection was so great. but the moment that amy arrived at this determination, and as she read the note again, she realised that this was no childish whim on pearl's part, that her presence for some reason unknown was necessary to her cousin, and such being the case, her own wishes, her own inclinations, must certainly be ignored. there was a suspicion of tears in her eyes as, putting the note into her pocket, she rose from the table and looked across at her aunt. "auntie," she said, "i am sorry, but i can't go to the ball to-night. you and uncle must go without me." "what's this nonsense?" growled mr. rawlinson. "what business have your aunt and i skipping about at balls? we are both too old to make fools of ourselves. our object in going is simply to look after you, and if you choose to take a ridiculous whim into your head to stay at home, why, we stay at home too, that's all." and with a look on his face that expressed: "nothing in heaven or earth will tear me hence," mr. rawlinson settled himself by the fire and deliberately lit a cigar. "i'm dreadfully sorry to have to give it up," replied amy, as she went towards the door, "but pearl wants me. she writes very pressingly, and though she says she is not ill, i feel i must go." "how tiresome of pearl!" exclaimed mrs. rawlinson, "and yet--though i have no doubt your disappointment is very great, my dear--i think you are right to go to her. she seemed strangely unlike herself this afternoon when i was there, and i came away with the impression that she had something on her mind. if that's the case, i should have thought the best person to help her would be myself. but i certainly have no intention of being huffy with the poor child. life is too short for such sillinesses. go and cheer her up, amy, and if you are not back by eleven, i shall know that you are spending the night there, and will give orders that the maid is to take over your things. good night, my dear," she continued, embracing her niece, "take the carriage and send it back for me. your uncle may stay at home smoking his horrid old cigar if he likes, but i, for one, certainly intend going to the ball. i should never look the dear marquis and marchioness in the face again if no member of the family were to put in an appearance to-night. there are occasions when it is absolutely necessary to sacrifice one's self on the altar of duty. this is one of them." amy exchanged a sly glance with mr. rawlinson as she left the room. they both knew rosina. as she entered mrs. nugent's drawing-room, amy, glancing at the clock, noticed that it marked exactly half-past nine. three-quarters of an hour had therefore elapsed since she had first received the note summoning her. "am i in time?" she enquired breathlessly, as she went towards her cousin. she did not know why she asked such a question, unless it was that the expectant look on pearl's face seemed to call for it. pearl was standing near the grand piano. she looked as if she had just risen from it, and her hand was pressed against her heart. her tall figure was draped in a tea-gown of white chiffon and of silver embroidery, and her face, framed in its masses of auburn hair, was almost as colourless as the gown. the grey eyes were the only features that moved in this countenance that seemed carved in stone. they were restless and sorrowful--almost despairing--and amy stopped short in her approach as their glance fell upon her. pearl, perceiving the look of frightened astonishment, turned away, and said in a low voice: "i thought--i thought when i heard the bell, that it was--that it was--some one else. but of course i at once remembered, amy dear, that i had sent for you. it is good of you, very good of you to give up the ball--and to come to me." amy went up to her cousin and put her arms round her. "of course i came," she said. "you wrote that you were in need of me, and i see you are right. what is it, darling? whom were you expecting when you heard the bell?" "amy," pearl said excitedly, clasping her tighter to her, "promise me that you will stay by me--close by me all the time--with your arms about me, as they are now. they are so strong, these arms of yours. i feel so safe with them around me, and with your honest eyes looking at me, amy. you will stay and sleep with me to-night, will you not? you will not leave me a minute--until--until--until----" she hesitated. "no, pearl, i will not leave you," answered amy. "of course i will stay the night, if you wish it. come, let us sit on the sofa. i will keep my arms around you, and you shall tell me how i can help you. come, darling, lay your head on my shoulder--so, and tell me what is distressing you. what do you fear?" "no--no--amy, i cannot--i dare not tell you. but you will see--you will understand shortly, very shortly--in a minute--two minutes. you will know, and then you will want to leave me. but you will not--you must not, amy. promise me you will not leave me. whatever you may see, whatever you may hear, promise me you will stay to-night." "calm yourself, pearl. i have already promised. have i not come to be near you? hark! there is the bell." the two women rose instinctively to their feet, with their arms around each other's waists, their eyes fixed upon the door. amy had caught pearl's excitement. she felt as if her nerves were strung on wires while waiting for the door to open. her sense of hearing seemed intensified, as first she heard the front door open and close, then the slight sounds connected with an arrival, and lastly, the japanese 'boy's' shuffling gait, followed by the quick, firm footsteps of a man. it seemed a century to both women before the door finally opened. at length, however, the handle turned, and lord martinworth stood upon the threshold! he took one step forward. in his eyes was a glad light, and round his lips a smile. but he ventured no farther into the room. his face changed as if by magic. he seemed rooted to the spot, his eyes resting on the two women with their terrified faces, clasped in each other's arms. perfect silence reigned in the room as the three stood motionless, staring into each other's eyes. amy, half supporting pearl, felt her form quivering in her arms, and observing the pallor of her face feared she was about to lose consciousness. she led her cousin to the sofa, then went towards martinworth. "pardon me, lord martinworth," she said, bowing slightly, "i see my cousin is not in a fit state to go through the form of introduction. i am miss mendovy, and i know who you are, for you were pointed out to me at the garden party. my cousin is not well, and she--she sent for me. i had just arrived when you came. will--will you not sit down?" it was in a state of desperation that amy made this commonplace request. if she had followed her inclinations she would have shrieked aloud--"for god's sake, go! don't you understand that every moment you are standing here is torture to this woman?" but lord martinworth did not seem to hear either the request or the words that preceded it. he remained motionless, like one paralysed, staring at pearl, who, with ashen face and closed eyes, was lying back on the sofa in a state of semi-collapse. in that moment he realised to the full all that she had experienced before and since she had sent him that letter of summons. for the first time in his life he understood, through what a deadly conflict must pass a woman who by nature is virtuous and chaste, before she casts honour, and purity, and self-respect to the winds. strange to say, he forgot himself--his own bitter humiliation and disappointment. he forgot the rapture he had felt on receiving her summons, and the despair and rage that had taken its place when his eyes first alighted on the shrinking form, sheltered in the girl's arms. he forgot all the varied, conflicting emotions that had taken possession of him since his entrance into pearl's drawing room, and, as his eyes remained fixed on the shame-stricken woman before him, he found himself thinking only of her. once before, in this same room, when he had watched her weeping on that same sofa, he had partially divined what suffering this woman, whom he loved, and for whom at that moment he would gladly have given his life, was undergoing. but it was only now, seeing her before him almost senseless with grief and shame, that the full magnitude of the torture she was enduring flashed upon him. he watched her there, breathing hard, without a trace of colour in her cheeks, and with her hands pressed against her heart, and his whole being went out in pity to her. and, mingled with the pity, was a feeling of admiration--almost of veneration. he realised to the full that the hesitation, the faltering weakness had reached a climax, that her better self had conquered, and though crushed for the moment, he saw her rising triumphant from the struggle, a nobler and a stronger woman. how long he stood there, watching that shrinking form--troubled, turbulent thoughts following each other in quick rapidity through his brain--martinworth never knew. he did not feel the girl's antagonistic yet enquiring eyes upon him, indeed, he was indifferent to, almost unconscious of her presence. he knew that he was bidding adieu, an eternal adieu, to this the only love of his life. he felt none of the bitterness, or unreasonable anger that had assailed him when pearl, with such determination, left him three years before, for, judging now by his own sentiments, he knew that what she had then written was indeed the truth--that in her renunciation of him she had sacrificed herself and her love for his sake. but he would show her that he also could be prompt in this spirit of self-sacrifice. he would prove his love by leaving her, and she would thus learn and appreciate that, erring man though he was, he also could renounce, he also could be strong. yes! he would bid adieu to her now. the love, the passion of years would, he knew well, remain with him till the grave, but--he swore to himself--never again, by word or by action, would he raise that look of agony and of shame upon pearl nugent's face. he took a step towards her, and, kneeling beside her sofa, he lifted the hand hanging listlessly down, and pressed it between his own. "good-bye," he said, "i am leaving you, dear. you have conquered once again, pearl. you have always conquered. the struggle has been very great, harder than ever this time, but once more you have chosen the right. you would always do right in the end. so loving you as much as i venerate you, pearl, i leave you, dear. from me you have nothing more to fear. i ask your forgiveness for the suffering i have caused you," and raising to his lips the hand which he still held, he kissed it once--twice, and waiting for no reply, looking neither to the right nor to the left, lord martinworth walked towards the door. pearl nugent half rose on her sofa. she watched with wide-open, miserable eyes. then let him go without a word. the hall door closed. for a long time neither of the women spoke. amy glanced once more at the clock, and noticed that it wanted ten minutes to ten. lord martinworth had been in the room seven or eight minutes, and during that time pearl had not once opened her lips. it was, nevertheless, mrs. nugent who, arousing herself, broke the silence. "you know now, amy, why i wanted you," she said in a low, weak voice. "i thank god that you came, for you have saved me. you must not hate me, dear. i have been a very foolish, a very wicked woman. perhaps i ought not to have sent for you, a girl, and yet--and yet--you have saved me, amy." "my dear pearl," replied amy, smiling through her tears, "don't get tragic, for goodness sake. we surely have had enough of that kind of thing. and it's nonsense about my having saved you, whatever you may mean by that. of one thing i am certain, that my presence in your house this evening in no wise affected lord martinworth's conduct. he would have acted in precisely the same manner if i had not been here. the man is a gentleman. anyone can see that. don't make any confidences, dear," she added, as pearl was about to speak. "you are just in the mood to tell me all your secrets, and, believe me, you will only regret it later. so i will be magnanimous, and will refrain from asking you questions. besides, you know, i am not a fool. i can guess a good deal, so my magnanimity is not so very tremendous after all. now, dear, don't let us talk any more, but i will sing you something while you lie back and shut your eyes." amy strolled towards the piano, and, placing her hands on the keys, watched pearl from under her long eyelashes. neither her soothing presence, nor the sweetest lullaby she could think of, seemed however, at first to have much effect upon her cousin's excited nerves. pearl walked restlessly up and down the room, trailing her white dress behind her, with sad eyes shining feverishly from out the still whiter face, looking like a troubled spirit from another world. for some time she continued pacing the room. then, as if struck with a sudden idea, she unlocked a drawer of her writing-table, extracted from some hidden recess martinworth's reply to her letter, read it deliberately through, tore it into a hundred pieces, and cast it into the flames. she watched it burn until nothing but the blackened ashes remained. at length, with a sigh of exhaustion, she stretched herself once more on the sofa, and ere long amy had the satisfaction of perceiving the eyelids droop, and the weary and worn-out pearl fall into a dreamless slumber. amy continued playing low strains of music for some time longer. then she rose noiselessly, and seated herself near pearl. for over an hour amy sat silent and motionless watching the sorrowful and beautiful face, on the cheeks of which traces of tears still remained. and as she watched, hardly daring to breathe for fear of rousing the sleeper, her thoughts dwelt on many matters connected with pearl. the full details of the divorce had been studiously kept from her, but amy would not have been a modern young lady if she had not been acquainted with a good deal more than her elders gave her the credit of knowing. she was perfectly aware that pearl had run away from some man who had been mixed up in her case, and who had wanted to marry her, and though she had never heard his name, by the simple process of putting two and two together, it was not difficult to divine that the man concerned was lord martinworth. "how he adores her," thought amy. "what a pity she did not marry him, instead of throwing him into the clutches of that awful woman." for, with the harshness of youth, it was thus that miss mendovy designated lord martinworth's wife. her imagination pictured "that awful woman" whirling in the giddy waltz with sir ralph nicholson, while big tears of disappointment clouded her pretty eyes. she wondered if her act of self-sacrifice had been wasted or the reverse. but even as she debated this question in her own mind, she recalled once more the look of triumphant anticipation on martinworth's face as he entered the room that evening, contrasting so painfully with pearl's expression of shame, her action of shrinking terror. the remembrance of these two faces at that portentous moment were imprinted vividly on her brain. and amy knew that it was needless to doubt any longer. her question was answered. chapter ix. on the verge of the unknown. the exaltation, indecision, and agony of mind experienced by pearl for the last fortnight culminated in a general breakdown. towards dawn of the next day amy, sleeping in the adjoining room, was roused from slumber by sounds of talking in pearl's apartment. the walls of tokyo houses are proverbially thin, even those constructed on european principles, and as pearl was talking loud, every word she said could easily be overheard. a short time sufficed to rouse amy from her bed, and in a minute she was in the next room. there to her horror she found pearl in night attire, with wide-open staring eyes, her glorious hair streaming down her back, pacing frantically up and down the room, uttering muttered sounds and incoherent words and exclamations. amy was genuinely terrified at the appearance of those wild eyes and flushed cheeks, at the smothered cries and the constant stream of senseless words. all her attempts to calm her cousin and to lead her back to bed proving fruitless, she lost no time in awakening the household, and ere long she was in telephonic communication with both mrs. rawlinson and the nearest doctor. before the arrival of these persons, amy had however, succeeded in persuading pearl to return to bed, where, with the help of the terrified _amahs_,[10] and by holding her down by main force, she had so far managed to keep her. no prayers or entreaties however, seemed to have the slightest effect on the distracted mind, or soothing movements to influence the restless body. [10] maids. it did not take long for the doctor to make his diagnosis. a sudden and acute attack of brain fever was the verdict. "mrs. nugent must have passed through some great and unexpected shock or struggle to have undergone such a sudden and complete collapse," he gravely remarked. "i must ask to be allowed to call in dr. takayama in consultation. i find it impossible to say how the malady may turn." and then followed days and nights, aye, weeks of anxious watching. for long, not only pearl's reason but life itself was despaired of. terrible was the consternation caused by this news among the many who loved and admired, and even those who at one time may have disliked and envied the beautiful mrs. nugent. her magnificent hair was sacrificed. amy wept hot tears as she watched the scissors performing their ruthless task. she gathered the thick masses up in her arms, and separating one glossy auburn lock from the rest, enclosed it in an envelope. the direction bore the name of lord martinworth, and on the note paper that surrounded the tress were scribbled these five words:--"she is very ill--dying." but that note was fated never to be forwarded to its destination. amy's impulses, though generally erring on the side of generosity and good nature, were frequently, for this very reason, unwise. on the rare occasions, however, that she gave herself time to consider, she seldom did a foolish thing. a trifling incident prevented her sending the communication and its enclosure that day, and the next saw it safely committed to the recesses of a drawer, from which it was only extracted several months later, under circumstances that brought back many a vivid and painful memory. 'it is an ill wind that blows no one any good.' pearl's dangerous illness had at least one beneficial and unexpected result--that of proving the means of an ultimate meeting and a complete reconciliation between amy and ralph nicholson. not a day passed without the latter calling to inquire after pearl. amy however, busy with her aunt in the sick room, had never chanced to see him, and it was only when pearl's illness had lasted almost a month, and the doctors had lifted the awful weight from their minds by at last finding a slight improvement in her condition, that an encounter between the two at length took place. mrs. rawlinson had sent amy out into the garden for a breath of fresh air, and the girl was seated under the shade of the great stone lantern by the side of the miniature lake, watching the gold fish darting in and out among the rocks, and pondering sadly over the distress and the gnawing anxiety of the past weeks. great tears were flowing down her cheeks, which were pale and drawn. she fixed her eyes on fujiyama, hazy and indistinct in the afternoon sun, and she wondered mournfully whether poor pearl would ever gaze at her beloved mountain again. there was one little fleecy cloud hovering over the summit. it was snowy white, with a silver edge, and amy found herself dreamily comparing this mystical, almost transparent cloud to pearl's pure, unsullied soul. her eyelids drooped. she wondered and wept no more, for amy slept the sleep of utter exhaustion. it was fully an hour later when she opened her eyes to find ralph nicholson standing by her side. "poor little thing," he said sorrowfully, as she started up from her chair, "how sad, how weary you look. go to sleep again. i will leave you. but first tell me, how is she to-day?" amy brushed away the tears that were still wet on her eyelids. "the doctors see a slight improvement," she replied. "the fever is, they say, a shade lower. but she seems no better to auntie and myself. oh! sir ralph, i am sure she will die. she cannot resist. it has been going on so long now. she is still delirious at times, and i know the fever is gradually but surely wearing her away." ralph looked at the sweet face, on which all the joy and sparkle had died out, and on which grief for the time being had made such havoc. and as he looked, he knew that he had never admired, that he had never loved amy mendovy as he admired and loved her to-day in this soft and saddened mood. he sat down on the grass beside her chair and took her hand between his own. amy did not withdraw it. "amy, dear," he said very quietly, "i cannot tell you how unhappy i am. it is awful to me to see your grief, for, as you know--you know it well amy, though you never would listen to me--i love you, and have loved you for long, darling. may i share your trouble with you, amy? may i help you to bear it a little? will you be kind to me, and after my long waiting give me the right to do this?" amy never quite knew how it occurred, but shortly after this request she found her head leaning on ralph's shoulder, while that individual was busily employed in kissing away the tears--tears whether now of joy or of sorrow,--it was somewhat difficult to tell. but amy would not have been a woman, and certainly not amy mendovy, if before her lover left her that day, she had not satisfied herself as to the future disposal of the lady whom she chose to consider as her rival. "and lady martinworth?" she inquired, "what are you going to do about her? you will, i suppose, be kind enough to stop going about with her and flirting, now that you have at last made up your mind to be engaged to me. oh! ralph, you don't care for her really, do you?" ralph laughed and twirled his black moustache, as he looked down into the flushed face. "nobody," he replied, "has ever yet accused me of ingratitude. i certainly have no intention of casting off lady martinworth, for she has done me an uncommonly good turn." "what do you mean?" inquired amy, on the defensive at once. "simply that my flirtation, not that it deserves such a name--for lady martinworth, let me tell you, darling, hasn't got the remotest notion as to what flirting means--our--late--intercourse, was nothing more nor less than a pre-arranged plan formed with mrs. nugent to produce the desired result of bringing you, miss mendovy, to your senses. i couldn't have got on much longer without you, you know. so we had to contrive some means by which you should learn to know your own mind. it was mrs. nugent's happy notion that i should try to make you jealous, amy. she is ill now, so you must forgive her, you know. and as for me, i don't care if you forgive me or not, for now that you have once said 'yes,' you won't find it very easy to get rid of me again. i can tell you that." of course, amy wasted a good deal of breath in pointing out that she had never for a single instant experienced the sentiment of jealousy, a sentiment for which, she assured him, she had indeed the very greatest contempt. she took some little trouble to explain that she had merely felt considerable regret that ralph should have--well--caused gossip, by allowing his name to be coupled with that of a married woman. in fact, she begged he would understand that her anxiety from the first had been solely for the condition of his morals, and she seized this opportunity to deliver quite an eloquent little homily on the iniquity of flirtations in general, and with married women in particular. to all of which words of wisdom ralph listened attentively, the effect, however, being somewhat marred, in amy's opinion, by a persistent and most apparent twinkle in the dark eyes. she inwardly wondered if he could by any possibility be laughing at her, and she felt that she really had some right to be aggrieved, when, after her lecture, which had lasted fully five minutes, he merely said in reply that lady martinworth was a real good soul, and though he perfectly understood amy being somewhat prejudiced against her for the moment, he had not the slightest doubt that eventually the two would become the closest of friends. "she is the kindest-hearted, straightest woman i know," he added, "and she really has an awfully sad life. martinworth doesn't care two straws for her. he is away now--went off weeks ago, and never offered to take her with him. she is terribly lonely, for she knows very few people here. i think you might take pity on her, darling, and chum up a bit with her." which tactless and unfortunate suggestion was met with the severity it deserved. miss mendovy regretted, but she really did not think that she and lady martinworth were likely to prove congenial. from her childhood she had possessed a strong dislike for mannish women. and though, of course, she could not but feel sorry for the poor thing's solitude, she really feared that just at present, with her mind and hands so full of dear pearl, she would have but little spare time to devote to outsiders. this fact reminded amy that it was impossible to waste further precious moments in talking about a person who really interested her so very slightly, so that if ralph would excuse her, she would go and relieve her aunt in the sick room. but amy was not allowed to depart just yet. sir ralph was wise enough to see that he had--to use his own phraseology--"put his foot into it," and he mentally decided that, for the future, lady martinworth's name should figure as little as possible in his and amy's conversations. he promptly made up for lost time. and when amy parted from him a quarter of an hour later the radiance of her face proved that, certainly for the time being, the fact that such an annoying person as lady martinworth existed was entirely obliterated from her mind. meanwhile, sir ralph nicholson had spoken the truth when he announced that the lady discussed was an unhappy woman, though perhaps he would have been more accurate if he had contented himself by saying that she was an intensely bored woman. she hated tokyo, and, for that reason alone, she had been somewhat disappointed when her husband had started on his travels without her. as for his indifference to her companionship, she was too much accustomed to that state of things to greatly worry herself on that score. it was only on very rare occasions, such as the day when she had unbosomed herself to pearl, that she would allow the fact of her husband's want of affection to distress her. "harry" martinworth was essentially practical, and if only she had been able to indulge in some amusement more or less congenial to her tastes to occupy her spare time, she would certainly never have troubled herself about what, by bitter experience, she knew to be the inevitable. but here she was, planted down in a tokyo hotel, with scarcely an acquaintance in the whole of japan save sir ralph and the members of the english legation. art of any kind had no interest for her, the collecting of curios held out no inducement, and such scenery as had come under her notice she loudly declared was absurdly overrated. later on, it was her ambition to climb fuji-yama, nantaisan, asama-yama or any other mountain that might happen to come in her way, but as yet it was far too early in the year to think of such strenuous expeditions. meanwhile, there were two or three sights which lady martinworth concluded were really worth her consideration--the game of polo, as it is played in japan, the fencing, and the wrestling matches. over the description of the latter she grew quite enthusiastic. the fact that these matches are not greatly patronised by the presence of ladies was alone sufficient to encourage lady martinworth in witnessing the performance as often as she could get a chance. she felt no disgust. on the contrary, she experienced intense admiration at the sight of these gigantic naked men, with their rolls of fat, and their huge muscles standing out like cords, and at each fresh feat of strength her enthusiasm increased. if all japanese had been built on the same herculean lines as the wrestlers, lady martinworth's admiration for the race would have been unbounded, but, as it was, for the natives generally her ladyship expressed that contempt which to say the least is to be pitied as the outcome of ignorance, and of an insular and unenquiring mind. she told sir ralph she could not see what there was in japan to make such a fuss about. she launched into politics, and prophesied complete annihilation if the country ever went to war with russia. if the japanese were as enlightened and advanced as was said, why on earth hadn't they made decent golf-links in tokyo? what could one think of a people who actually didn't know the meaning of the word "sport" in its everyday sense. as for their women, it was positively laughable to think of them as never taking any form of exercise, merely contenting themselves by driving in 'rickshas with the hood up, or in carriages that were closed. on very rare occasions they did walk a few steps, she had been told, but then, was it not a dutiful and humble couple of yards behind the husband? again, what possibly could be the charm of the japanese woman for the european man was a mystery altogether beyond her comprehension. a soft, purring kitten of a creature who could only smile, acquiesce in everything, make gentle little phrases, and have pretty manners! ralph ventured to remark that it was probably these very attributes, so unusual and so soothing, that proved their undoubted fascination and their charm. but at this assertion he was met with such a stony stare of amazement that he reddened. on the virtues and attractiveness of the japanese woman, and the courage and perspicacity, the cleverness and far-seeing proclivities of the japanese people generally, on which subjects nicholson held the very strongest opinions, he, in all future discussions with lady martinworth, from henceforth held his peace. as an amusement, therefore, lady martinworth's bicycle proved almost her only resource. even there she was doomed to a certain amount of disappointment, for she had not reckoned on the extreme variableness of the japanese climate. it developed into a rainy spring. on certain days the roads in and around tokyo were practically impassable, and this inconvenience increased her contempt for a nation whose town municipality was certainly at that time, permitted so completely to neglect its duties. a cloudless day, perfect in the brilliancy and clearness of its atmosphere, would however, put a temporary stop to her grumblings, and, seizing these rare opportunities, and commanding sir ralph to accompany her, lady martinworth would promptly don her bloomers, straightway sallying forth on a bicycle ride of many miles. these expeditions, on the whole, suited ralph's particular frame of mind, for they all took place before his engagement to amy mendovy. they would ride long distances without exchanging a word, which gave him plenty of time for reflection and for forming various projects and plans for the future, which, even at this time, he ventured to think, might possibly prove not altogether so absolutely despairing and hopeless. while resting themselves at some _chaya_, or tea house, or while seated beneath the shade of a knoll of pines, or within the shadows of a bamboo grove, in the seclusion of which nestled many a picturesque buddhist or shinto shrine, ralph would lay himself out to be agreeable to his companion. and, indeed, he found her capital company, and if the conversations did invariably turn on the subject of sport in some form or other, he was all the better pleased. for ralph was a keen sportsman, and in "harry" martinworth, whose love for all kinds of out-door avocations was without affectation--and whose proficiency therein was indisputable--he found a genuine kindred spirit. it was during one of these expeditions that he happened to mention the fact of his friend mrs. nugent's illness. he had not forgotten the cherry party, nor the antagonistic and disdainful glances in which the ladies had indulged at the time, and consequently he had so far purposely avoided bringing pearl's name into their conversations. one day, however, when poor pearl was at her very worst, he proved such a dull companion--so pre-occupied, that lady martinworth's curiosity was aroused, and after some difficulty, she succeeded in extracting the reason of his persistent and melancholy silence. to ralph's surprise, his companion, on ascertaining the state of affairs, promptly turned her bicycle round, the only explanation she deigned to offer for this spasmodic movement being her intention of going forthwith to mrs. nugent's house to see what could be done for her. "but i was not aware that you were acquainted with her," was ralph's remark, as they raced along homewards. "of course i know her. she is a dear friend of mine. you don't suppose that i'm going to let her die, do you, when i'm here on the spot and able to nurse her?" considering what he knew of the circumstances, it was perhaps not surprising that nicholson should raise his eyebrows, smiling discreetly at what in this statement certainly somewhat savoured of exaggeration. lady martinworth did not, however, vouchsafe any further explanation, but remained silent for the rest of their journey home. true to her word, she bade adieu to sir ralph at the hotel, and cycled straight to pearl's house, where she had considerable difficulty in making the "boy" understand, from her broken japanese, her desire to see the patient, but finally succeeded in gaining admission to the drawing-room. she sent up her card, and after a certain length of time mrs. rawlinson made her appearance. at the first glance the two women proved antagonistic. indeed, in rosina's case it was quite sufficient for a person to bear the detested name of martinworth for her to buckle on her armour, acting at once on the defensive. "i have come to see mrs. nugent," said lady martinworth abruptly. "will you be so good as to take me to her? i could not succeed in making that stupid servant understand that i wished to see her." "the 'boy' was only obeying his orders," replied mrs. rawlinson brusquely, as her eyes travelled over the extraordinary figure before her. lady martinworth was still adorned in her cycling bloomers, and with her cropped head, man's shirt, and motor cap it was more difficult than ever to distinguish her from a member of the sterner sex. "he was told not to allow anyone into the house. my cousin, mrs. nugent, is permitted to see no one." "but she sees you?" "surely, that is a totally different matter," replied rosina coldly. "i am her cousin. my niece, miss mendovy, and i divide the nursing between us." "let me help you to nurse her. you may not know, mrs. rawlinson, but i am a certificated nurse. taking up nursing was a mere whim, but nevertheless i was for some time nurse in the london hospital. do let me undertake her case?" rosina softened. "it is very good of you to propose such a thing, lady martinworth, and i appreciate the kindness of heart that prompts you to make the offer. but we have an excellent trained japanese nurse to help us, and i could not think of taking up your time. besides--besides----" rosina paused, as, in spite of herself, her eyes once more became riveted on the bloomers. "oh, well! of course, i shouldn't dream of nursing her in this rig-out, if that's what you mean by staring at my knickerbockers," exclaimed lady martinworth. "however, surely my garments are a mere matter of detail in such a question of vital importance. let me be of some little use, mrs. rawlinson. do let me assist in nursing your cousin. she has been very kind and good to me, and i have had so little kindness shown to me in my lifetime that i should like to do something to prove that i appreciate it, when it does happen to come in my way." lady martinworth's offer was however, kindly but firmly declined. rosina told amy later, that when she saw the look of disappointment that overshadowed the plain countenance she found herself on the point of relenting. perhaps, being naturally soft-hearted, she might have acceded in the end to lady martinworth's desire and have enlisted her aid. the incongruity of such a proceeding struck her, however, with particular force when she recalled to mind the former state of affairs between mrs. nugent and the lady's husband, and she remained firm in her refusal. the proposal offered so frankly and naturally, though declined, nevertheless won mrs. rawlinson's heart, and during the rest of the visit there was a marked change in her manner. they parted quite good friends. and though lady martinworth was not allowed to undertake the duties of nurse, she showed her desire to be useful and kind in many other ways. every morning a large basket of flowers would arrive from the hotel, "with lady martinworth's kind enquiries," and later on, during pearl's convalescence, she would send every delicacy within the hotel cook's capability, and her visits to the patient became, as time went on, more and more frequent. but at the period of lady martinworth's invasion there was no question of convalescence, and for many days both pearl's life and her reason hung in the balance. but at length she took a slight turn for the better, her malady yielded to treatment, and her naturally strong constitution, conquering in the end, one day, shortly after amy's engagement to sir ralph, she was pronounced by the physicians to be out of danger. it was, nevertheless, many, many weeks before mrs. nugent was allowed to be moved from her room. when at length she was lifted downstairs, absolute quiet and freedom from excitement were still prescribed. indeed, the tranquillity insisted on appeared to be the culmination of pearl's desires. she would lie on her sofa on the verandah silent for hours, her eyes fixed on the beds of purple and snow-white irises bending their graceful heads in the gentle breeze, or on the distant view of fujiyama, shadowy and dim in the hot june sun. it was only after many days that rosina ventured to bring up lady martinworth's name, and the eagerness of that lady to see her. at the mention of that name, which recalled so much that she would fain forget, pearl half rose on her sofa, and the cheeks, now so thin and pale, flushed. "is she alone?" she asked in a low voice. "yes. lord martinworth is still away. he has been away over two months now, since the day that you were taken ill." there was a pause as pearl threw herself back wearily on to her cushions. "i cannot see her," she said at length, "i am too weak. she--she is so jerky--so abrupt. she--she would fatigue me." mrs. rawlinson did not press the point. but she was not greatly surprised when some days later pearl after a long silence, quietly suggested that if lady martinworth called again, she would receive her. henceforth commenced a series of visits which eventually proved of great pleasure and of a certain amount of profit to both women. lord martinworth's name was by tacit consent never mentioned, and when pearl realised that no danger from that quarter was to be feared, she allowed herself to show genuine satisfaction at his wife's presence in her house. it must be confessed lady martinworth deserved considerable credit for the tact and cleverness she exhibited in amusing the invalid. greatly as both rosina and amy might wonder at this strange and unexpected friendship, they could not but feel grateful for each smile which the visitor, with her quaint and caustic remarks, would succeed in conjuring up on the pale, sad face. but lady martinworth was not the only person admitted to pearl's presence during this period of convalescence. de güldenfeldt had returned from his travels at the very moment mrs. nugent's condition was considered the most critical, and he had hardly put foot in tokyo before he was met with the news of her almost hopeless condition. this distressing information accomplished at one stroke what months of absence, of distraction, and of meditation had failed to do. stanislas straightway forgot the fact that for long he had borne a bitter grudge against this woman, who had treated both him and his proposal with such calm and complete indifference. not only all his love, but all his sympathies, all his fears for her safety, were aroused at this crushing news, and in spite of the accumulation of work awaiting him on his return, he found he could put his mind to nothing while mrs. nugent's fate hung in the balance. he haunted the house, sitting for hours in the drawing-room alone, or pacing the garden, till amy or rosina taking pity on him, would steal a minute from their duties to inform him how the patient was progressing, or to give him the doctor's latest report. it was during this miserable period that rosina guessed his secret. indeed, a child could have read it, for it was easy enough to divine, and de güldenfeldt himself made next to no attempt to disguise his feelings. one day, in a specially despairing mood, he went so far as to hint to mrs. rawlinson what had passed between him and pearl. he found a sympathetic listener, and consequently ended by confiding all those cherished hopes which had met with so unexpected and so disastrous a termination. like all large-hearted women, rosina was somewhat of a matchmaker. at a glance she saw the many advantages that pearl had thrown away in this refusal of stanislas de güldenfeldt's love and protection. promptly she decided in her own mind that if her cousin should be spared, it would certainly not be her--rosina rawlinson's--fault if matters were not one day brought to an entirely satisfactory conclusion. but now was not the time to think of such things. it was only later on, when pearl was passing so many hours of enforced idleness on her sofa, that somehow it became a matter of course that stanislas de güldenfeldt should be found seated by her side, reading to her in his pleasant voice the latest books from europe, or talking to her as only he could talk. that pearl found pleasure in his society was evident. she seemed to forget that anything of a painful nature had ever passed between them. her face would brighten as his form appeared on the verandah, and she would greet him gladly with her soft voice. de güldenfeldt would often wonder whether in the very smallest degree she understood, not only how blessed for him were those many hours spent thus by the side of her sofa, but likewise how intensely he dreaded the fatal moment when she would once more take up her everyday life, and when he consequently would necessarily be shifted to the conventional rank of the occasional afternoon visitor. but those dreaded days still seemed a long way off. meanwhile, stanislas de güldenfeldt sat during the whole of those sweet, summer afternoons in the presence of the woman he loved, drinking in the poison of her returning beauty, and dreaming dreams of untold happiness and content. chapter x. in the shadow of a tomb. it was an early summer, and as pearl's health was sufficiently restored to render her fit for travel, she was ordered by the doctors to leave tokyo. by the end of june the heat became intense, and early in july she and the rawlinson ladies departed for nikko, _en route_ for chuzenji. on the borders of the beautiful lake of chuzenji, pearl, following her cousin's example, had built herself, during the first year of her arrival, a small and picturesque japanese house. she loved this charming spot, as all must learn to love it who have passed the summer months by the borders of its blue, rippling water, and beneath the shadows of its wooded mountains. pearl was peculiarly susceptible to the influences of nature, and the summers already spent by her at chuzenji had been principally employed in sailing her little boat on the lake, watching with keen delight the changing scenery, sometimes so dazzling in its sunlit verdure, at others, beneath its sudden storms, so sombre, terrible, and forbidding. pearl knew the lake under all its aspects, and from constant watching could foretell almost as well as a japanese _sendo_,[11] the rapid transformations that metamorphosed in a few minutes the whole face of nature. for it is a lake not only to be loved, but with its sudden rages, sweeping mists, and boundless, unknown depths, equally to be feared. [11] boatman. during a happy summer on the thames many years before martinworth had taught her how to manage and to sail a boat, and the knowledge of this art had proved one of pearl's greatest pleasures during those calm, peaceful months, spent high in the japanese hills. she would sail for hours in her little skiff, gazing with eyes full of mystery into the glittering blue expanse of sky and waters, while the perpendicular sides of the sacred mountain nantai-san, black with the shadows of its impenetrable forests, stood like a giant sentinel among its lesser brethren, overshadowing, in its gloomy, threatening darkness, the glowing outer world. but this year, before attempting the ascent to chuzenji, it was thought advisable, on account of pearl's health, to pause half way for some days at nikko. the nights of this lovely mountain village were refreshingly cool and invigorating after the suffocating airlessness of the city, whilst during the lovely summer days pearl and her cousins would wander through the romantic grounds of the nikko temples, or seat themselves for hours by the borders of the river, watching its hurried rush over rocks and colossal boulders, which year after year, to the destruction of roads and bridges, are borne by resistless floods from the mountains above. the trio of ladies had been but a few days at nikko when they were joined by the swedish minister and nicholson, tokyo being found unbearably dull after the departure of their friends. nikko, with its sparkling, verdure-bordered streams and cloudless sky, its fairylike and wooded glens, its avenues of great pine trees dusky in the gathering shadows of the night,--is an ideal spot for lovers. this fact amy and ralph were not long in discovering for themselves, and from the day that the latter joined them, mrs. rawlinson was permitted to see but next to nothing of her pretty niece, and with her usual good-temper, accepted the inevitable. as for pearl nugent, she was at this moment passing through a period of transition, difficult to imagine and still more difficult to endure. she who for so long had devoted first her existence, and later on her thoughts to one sole object, awoke one day to find that all was transformed--that the dream was over, and that she loved no longer. needless to say, the awakening was a cruel one. to her dismay, not only did she discover that this passion of her life, which till now had never even flickered, but had burned with an ever-steady glow, not only was this passion extinguished for ever,--but slowly and positively the fact dawned upon pearl that the mere mention of the name of martinworth was alone sufficient to give rise to a sentiment of shrinking terror, of breathless dismay, of overwhelming consternation and regret. she could not think of that fatal letter of summons, of his passionate reply to that letter, already expressive of immediate possession, of that conquering look of triumph on his face when he entered her room that eventful night,--without turning white with consuming shame, with misery and reproach. she hated herself as she recalled those moments. and in hating herself she realised that slowly developing was an incipient feeling of dislike against the man who, however unwittingly, had given rise to these sentiments of humiliation and disgrace. she did not for one moment attempt to disguise from herself the cruel injustice of this feeling. she knew well enough that martinworth had conducted himself with unselfish and most unusual abnegation in withdrawing all claim to one who had said, "i am yours--take me!" she knew that nine men out of ten would have unflinchingly held her to her word, allowing no temporary stumbling block of shrinking feminine vacillation to intercept the realization of their strivings, the unfaltering desire of years. she knew that it was his deep and absorbing love that was the cause--the unconscious cause--of that prompt decision of renouncing her for ever. and yet, knowing all this, it was in her eyes sufficient that he should have witnessed her in that period of humiliation, that he should have divined, if only partially, her agony of mind during those days of weakness and of degradation, for her to shrink, not only with fear and distaste, but what was more--with horror and dismay from the man she had once so passionately loved, so ardently admired and believed in. she had fallen so low--so bitterly low in her own eyes. true, at the supreme moment of the crisis she had fled from the consequences of her final undoing. but pearl's natural candour of disposition, her innate honesty, did not permit her to cloak over with weak sophistries and self-excuses what she knew at one time had been not only her firm intention, but in those days of frenzy, her sole desire and earnest aspiration. during many hours of necessary idleness she would lie on her _chaise longue_, brooding over every incident since martinworth had once more come into her life. this process of self-examination became almost morbid in its intensity and repetition. but all her thought, her constant restless brooding, did not satisfactorily explain to her the reason of that hasty, that impetuous appeal at the eleventh hour to amy mendovy. why had joyful anticipation so suddenly given place to terror? and what was the impulse that had prompted her at the last moment to indite that desperate, that frantic note for aid? pearl believed in a god, and at times she found herself asking if this sudden saving act, this possible loophole of escape, had not indeed been inspired by an unheard voice, by divine and holy intermediation? this question, however, like so many that she asked herself during these weeks, remained unanswered, and the only feeling that stood out clear in pearl's confused and weary mind was the prayerful hope that never again would it be her misfortune to come across the man who had given rise to such relentless feelings of shame and self-humiliation. meanwhile stanislas de güldenfeldt was there, haunting her presence like a shadow, and pearl did not disguise from herself that she found a great security and peace, a certain happiness, in the proximity of one who made it his pleasure and his duty to anticipate her slightest wish, to sympathise with her every thought and feeling. stanislas from the first moment of pearl's convalescence had shown himself as gentle and as tender as a woman. with peculiar tact, without the slightest shade of fussiness, he was always on the spot, shielding her from every physical pain, from every mental worry. for the first time in her life pearl appreciated the delight of being thoroughly spoiled and petted. what wonder if she learned to consider stanislas as her own special property, and most certainly necessary to her comfort and well-being? amy would stand aloof, looking on with surprise and indignation at the sight of this big man with the strong face and commanding eyes being ordered about, the object of every capricious whim, every sudden fancy, and frequently scolded like a child for his pains. it seemed to her that there was something rather ridiculous and certainly slightly pathetic in the spectacle. "ralph," she said one day, when for the third time stanislas had hurried off in the burning sun to the hotel, to fetch an extra rug or cushion for his lady-love, and pearl, as a matter of course, had allowed him to go, "ralph, will you promise me one thing? if you ever perceive incipient signs of an inclination on my part to treat you like a slave, will you please jilt me without hesitation? i might lose you, but at any rate i should retain my respect for you." "well, then, let us hurry up and break it off at once," laughed nicholson. "could anyone see a more patient beast of burden than i am at the present moment? a sketch book, a paint box, a camp stool, a cushion, a parasol, and soon, when the sun gets cooler, i foresee--a coat. perhaps you would kindly inform me of the difference of my fate to that of the man you pity." "don't talk nonsense, ralph. you know perfectly well what i mean. pray, do i keep you constantly on the trot? why, the poor man is never allowed a second's leisure or repose. he's a slave, a perfectly abject slave. pearl looks upon his devotion, upon the sacrifice of his time, not only as a matter of course, but as her right. and they're not even engaged yet." "well, one thing is they are bound to be before long," replied ralph. "bless you, my dear girl, he likes it, he glories in it. that rather stern 'phiz' of his has borne of late quite a seraphic expression. leave the poor fellow alone, amy, and let him be happy in his own way." "all i can say is," replied amy severely, "it is quite the last way i should have expected stanislas de güldenfeldt, of all people, to choose to be happy. it makes me quite ill to see a splendid big fellow like that reduced to the rank of the tamest of tame cats, and what is more, appearing to delight in that extremely humiliating position." "don't distress yourself, my child," laughed ralph, as they wandered off to their favourite seat beside the river. "it is a ridiculous phase through which we men pass, one and all, each as our turn comes. and though you pretend not to see it, amy, i at this present time am in a precisely similar idiotic stage. bless you, i know it, and do i complain? on the contrary, i survive the ordeal extremely well, while to the general outsider i appear, i am sure, as beaming and as blissfully foolish as de güldenfeldt. we both have every intention of getting our _quid pro quo_ later on, you know." the person discussed was, as nicholson announced, entirely satisfied with the existing state of affairs. monsieur de güldenfeldt would indeed have been willing to allow matters to proceed in the same easy fashion for ever, had he not one day received a warning that it was time for him to speak again. mrs. rawlinson had been watching the progress of events with characteristic shrewdness. her observations caused her after a time to conclude that de güldenfeldt and pearl had both reached a stage which, however delightful in its dreamy uncertainty, certainly as far as the future of her cousin was concerned, was a long way from being either practical or desirable. she therefore made up her mind that matters should be brought to a climax. a prompt and decisive action appeared still more necessary on the receipt one morning of a letter from lady martinworth, announcing the fact of the couple's premeditated visit to chuzenji, and begging mrs. rawlinson to telephone for rooms at the hotel. rosina's heart sank at this news, for though pearl had never taken her cousin into her confidence, her ravings during her delirium, independently of her subsequent melancholy, were facts sufficient to explain the unfortunate influence lord martinworth still exercised over the younger woman's impressible and sensitive nature. she saw how absolutely necessary it was before his appearance once more upon the scene that matters between pearl and de güldenfeldt should be brought to a satisfactory conclusion. rosina was never long in making up her mind, and having once determined on a little judicious meddling, she captured the would-be lover one day as he was lounging off to join pearl, and in a manner thoroughly typical, straightway went to the point. "monsieur de güldenfeldt," she said, as she took his arm and led him over the stony road through the straggling japanese village, "i want to speak to you about pearl. you remember your conversation with me some weeks ago, do you not?" "certainly," replied the swedish minister, whose cheeks flushed like a boy's at this abrupt mention of mrs. nugent's name, "certainly, i remember it, and your kindness to me during her illness. what is it you want to say, mrs. rawlinson?" "of course," resumed rosina, "i should not venture to broach the subject if you had not yourself first mentioned your hopes to me. monsieur de güldenfeldt----" and rosina stopped in her walk and gazed at him straight with her shrewd brown eyes, "i think, if you wish to make certain of pearl, you ought to ask her again without further delay." de güldenfeldt kicked a stone in the pathway. "why," he said, "why this hurry?" he laughed uneasily. "to tell you the truth," he added, "i acknowledge to you--i am afraid! that's a nice confession to make, is it not? for a man of my age and experience, and one who is half an englishman to boot? i'm afraid--downright afraid to again ask mrs. nugent to be my wife." he paused, and then continued nervously: "it would be more than i could bear if she refused me a second time, you know. why not leave well alone? matters are pleasant enough as they are." "very well, of course you know your own business best," replied rosina calmly. "i certainly don't venture to prophesy the result of your proposal. i mistrust my own sex too well to answer for their vagaries. nevertheless, my dear friend, i think pearl is beginning to learn your value, and--and--by the bye," she added, glancing quickly up into his face, "the martinworths are going to chuzenji. we are to engage rooms for them, as they wish to escape the heat of tokyo as soon as possible." monsieur de güldenfeldt made no reply. but with considerable satisfaction rosina observed, through the corners of her eyes, the change in his expression at her communication. "if that won't bring him to his senses, nothing will," she thought. and as usual, rosina was right. all during this happy time of inaction de güldenfeldt had not once thought of martinworth's existence. lord and lady martinworth had arrived in japan during his absence from the capital. on his return he had more than once met the latter at pearl's house. he had inquired after the husband, been told he was travelling, and since then had never given him another thought. naturally, he knew nothing of what had occurred in tokyo. mrs. rawlinson's tone and expression of countenance had however, been more than significant. stanislas awoke suddenly to the fact that, with the re-arrival on the scene of operations of the man who had formerly played so important a part in pearl's life, there arose an obstacle, a threatening danger, on which he had but little reckoned, and for which he found himself totally unprepared. in spite, therefore, of the timidity of which he had made so _naïve_ a confession, he resolved to take mrs. rawlinson's friendly hint, and to speak again without delay. the opportunity was not long in occurring. that afternoon pearl announced her intention of attempting the ascent to ieyasu's tomb.[12] so far, she had not ventured to climb the numberless steps that lead to the shogun's last resting place, but it was a spot she dearly loved, and she never left nikko without paying this hallowed ground at least one visit. [12] ieyasu was the first shogun of the tokugawa dynasty. his remains were removed to their present resting place at nikko in 1617. it was somewhat late in the afternoon when she and de güldenfeldt left the hotel. as they walked through the temple grounds and arrived at the steps the sun was still hot, and glistened like a stream of fire through the forests and belts of brilliant maple trees beyond, lighting up their sheeny green with a glory of colour, golden, dazzling and intense. both were silent as they slowly mounted the steps, bordered by the moss-grown balustrade of stone. beyond was the glowing outer world, but here around them, centuries old, were the black and threatening cryptomeria pines, towering on either side like great angels of darkness spreading wide their gloomy wings, while away in the distance through the vast dreamy forest, the wind rose and fell with mystical and harmonious cadence. up and up they climbed, and as she paused for breath pearl felt a delightful feeling of exaltation at the sight of these lofty trees, these grand and ancient pines, guarding like giant sentinels the balustrade of stone, and the wide and numberless steps, green with moss and age. she knew so well that this solemn approach led,--not to some magnificent palace, not to some temple, gorgeous with colouring, and wonderful with intricate carvings, but--buried within the heart of the forest--to a little lonely tomb of bronze, shaped like an urn, and guarded on either side by the sacred stork, the symbolic and gigantic lotus leaves. what more noble--what more awe-inspiring than this towering, upward, and impressive approach to all that is most pathetically simple, most modestly unadorned of funeral monuments to the honoured and beloved dead? only an artist mind of an artist country could have planned, created, and carried out this beautiful and poetical thought, and only artist minds, such as pearl's and de güldenfeldt's, could know how to appreciate,--how to adore,--the nobility and grandeur of the conception. pearl was still silent as she sat down on the stone coping surrounding the bronze urn, listening to the wind as it musically and eternally sighed through the banks of trees beyond. just before starting for her walk rosina had told her of lady martinworth's letter, and she was still under the influence of dismay aroused by the unwelcome news. a feeling not only of complete helplessness, but of approaching evil, overshadowed her. she felt stupefied, paralysed by what she had heard. the news was totally unexpected, for only the day before pearl left tokyo lady martinworth had volunteered the information of her approaching departure from japan. pearl found herself wondering what unforeseen circumstances could have caused her to change this determination. was it that lady martinworth had made her arrangements without consulting her husband? and was it possible that he himself had other plans in view? in spite of his assurances and promises in her house that night, was it--could it be--that he wished to see her again, that he still had hopes, was still unwearied in his pursuit? pearl's growing dislike awakened her suspicions, and made her foresee and fear every probable, every improbable design on martinworth's part, all sense of justice being swamped in this newborn dread of a man she had been willing not so long since to follow to the end of the world. she was aroused from these anxious forebodings, these problematical and gloomy prognostications, by the sound of her companion's voice. he had seated himself by her side on the coping, and on glancing up into his face, pearl was struck by its gravity and unusual pallor. "mrs. nugent," he said slowly, looking at her very intently, "will you be so kind as to give me your attention for a few moments? i wish to ask you something." pearl, who understood instinctively the meaning of these preliminary words, flushed--merely bowing her assent. "some months ago," continued de güldenfeldt gravely, "i ventured to ask you for your hand. you refused me. and i confess i took your refusal very much, very deeply to heart. i felt then that, however much i might desire you for my wife, i could never bring myself to repeat the request. but i love you dearly, pearl,"--here his eyes grew large and soft as they rested on her face--"you are everything in the wide world to me. i feel i cannot live without you, and before this one absorbing passion of my life, all my surprise, my anger, my pride have fallen away from me, and now once more i beg you to listen to me, and to grant me the great gift of your most precious self." as he said the last words, stanislas rose from his seat, and standing before pearl, held out his two hands towards her. pearl said nothing in reply, but with a smile of great sweetness simply placed her hands in his. he drew her up beside himself, and bending down, kissed her on the forehead. and thus they silently stood lit up by the slanting sun, while the wind sang in the trees its eternal song of peace. stanislas held her in his arms, a great joy filling his heart as he gazed down into the beautiful pale face of this woman whom he had gained at last, and whom he vowed to himself should one day love him as he loved her. at length pearl broke the long and expressive silence, until now only disturbed by the throbbing of their hearts. "monsieur de güldenfeldt," she said quietly, as she drew herself slightly away from him, "you have asked me to be your wife, and i accept, for i know now that though i cannot yet give you my love, i like you much, yes, very, very much. perhaps, however, when you hear what i have to say, you will regret what you have done. better however, a thousand times that you should know now, and part from me while your love is still young, than that in the years to come you should discover my weakness, learn in consequence to despise me, and leave me to die of grief. will you listen a moment to me, stanislas, while i tell you what happened after you left tokyo?" de güldenfeldt's face clouded, but he answered gently as he once more put his arms around her and drew her to him. "no, pearl," he said, "i will not listen to you. it is better not, dear. i wish to know nothing. i believe in you and trust you, darling. have i not known your life for years? has it not been as an open book to me?" "yes, and for that very reason," replied pearl firmly, "there must be no closed chapters in it. if you do not let me speak now, i cannot be your wife. for i have sworn,--my friend,--there must be no secrets between you and me." "speak, then," replied de güldenfeldt, somewhat sadly, "if you will it so." but pearl did not seem in a hurry to take advantage of the permission thus reluctantly given. with a sigh she sat down again on the stone coping, half shielding her face with her hand. at length she opened her lips to speak. her voice was low, but there was a clearness, an incisiveness in the tones that impressed her listener. she gazed straight before her and spoke unhesitatingly, as if relating an oft-repeated tale. "shortly after you left," she said, "the martinworths arrived in tokyo. i had been warned of their approaching arrival. nevertheless, i eventually met them unexpectedly at the imperial garden-party. it was a shock to me to see them--to see him--there, and on my return home i was still thinking over this meeting, when lady martinworth called on me. before her departure from my house she confided to me her attachment to her husband, and she told me that she was a very unhappy woman. she made also a strange request. she asked me to be her friend. she appeared very much moved, very much upset. finally i took her in my arms and comforted her, and, feeling very, very sorry for her, i promised her my friendship." here pearl paused, and looked up at monsieur de güldenfeldt with a slight flush on her cheeks. "she had hardly left me," she continued, "when lord martinworth was announced. i perceived at once the change--a change for the worse--in him. but i was hardly prepared for his accusations against me, as the cause of that change. he blamed me for many things, and seemed to think my leaving him after obtaining my divorce--when i might have been his wife--was prompted by interested motives. my anger rose at the injustice of his accusations, and i replied very strongly, very bitterly, begging him to leave me and to return to his wife. i held out my hand to him as a token of farewell, and as he took it between his own and kept it there, i felt the revival of all my love for him. he pleaded with me"--here pearl grew pale once more--"and i--and i--listened, stanislas--at last--to his pleading. i was on the point of yielding to his prayers, for i felt i had loved him so deeply, and for so very long--i was yielding, i say--when i remembered my recent promise to his wife. it was that remembrance, i think, that made me pause. i bade him go. and he left me." at this juncture pearl remained silent a long time. so long, indeed, that de güldenfeldt thought she had completed what she wished to say, and he was himself about to speak when--holding up her hand to silence him--she continued:-"and now, stanislas, comes the worst part of what i have to say. it is death to me to tell you what followed, but even at the risk of losing you for ever i feel you must, before calling me your wife, know the truth about me. martinworth was hardly out of the house before i repented of what i had done. i longed for him so. and i was so very, very lonely. that night, however, and for many days and nights, i prayed god to keep him from me. i prayed with all my heart, with all my strength, and yet were my prayers truly sincere? i know not. i thought they were. but one day, when i saw that he kept away, that he did not come, i wrote to him and told him--and told him--that--" here pearl paused again, hiding her face in her hands. "yes," said de güldenfeldt gravely, as he laid his hand gently on her arm, "i understand, dear. don't enter into particulars. don't pain yourself by unnecessary explanations." "i expected him that evening," continued mrs. nugent in a muffled voice, "and stanislas--i was happy, quite happy in the thought that he would come to me. but even now, i cannot tell how or why it was, but as the hour drew near i began to feel--to realise the enormity of my sin. it came upon me with a sudden flash that i--i who had fought and resisted and striven so long, that i, pearl nugent--so proud of my virtue, so scornful of the want of it in others--was falling from the height of my pride and self-content, falling, falling--to utter destruction, to utter perdition of body and of soul. "the horror of that moment--of that awakening--i can never express. the iron has entered into my soul, and will leave its mark for ever. at first, i believed it was too late to retract. i did not know what to do--where to fly from the misery and dishonour that i knew were overtaking me. then i thought of amy. and though she had told me she was going to a ball that night, a ball that would settle her future one way or the other, i wrote begging her to give it up, imploring her to come to me at once. she came. and her presence in my house that evening saved me." "and martinworth?" inquired de güldenfeldt, fixing his piercing eyes on pearl's face. "lord martinworth came at the hour appointed. he stayed a short time, a very short time. i can hardly tell you what passed--for i know that i--i--was partially unconscious most of the time that he remained. i remember however, his leave-taking. it was, stanislas, an eternal farewell. he acted generously--nobly, as only he could act. but i hardly knew what he said. i longed so for him to leave me--for him to go. and it was only when the door closed behind him that i breathed and lived once more. "and now, my friend, you have heard all i have to tell you. it is, i know, a shameful story. a story of weakness and of humiliation. since that awful night, my one hope, my one prayer, has been never more to set eyes on this man, who until that evening had for so many years engrossed my affections and my thoughts. my prayer, it appears, is not to be answered. he is going to chuzenji. the knowledge of this move of his i thought at first would kill me. but now i know that you love me, that you are near me and--and----" "yes! you know all, and, stanislas, perhaps now you will retract your words, and cast me off--and say you do not care for me. for indeed, i am not worthy--unstable, foolish, weak woman that i am--to be the wife of such a man as you." pearl ceased. and for a moment there was silence. mrs. nugent felt herself trembling, as with averted eyes she gazed out at the waving pine trees far before her. de güldenfeldt's face, which had been grave and rather stern while pearl was speaking, remained pensive for some seconds longer. he looked at her and his expression changed, while a gleam like a ray of sun lit up his blue eyes. he smiled very sweetly as he took pearl in his arms, and pushing back the little auburn curls, kissed her again on the forehead. "my poor child--my poor child," he murmured, "to think that once you should have told me that bitter experience had taught you a lesson--the lesson how to protect yourself. ah, pearl, you may be beautiful--you may be sweet--you may be the angel of goodness that i think you, in spite of the many hard names you call yourself,--you may be all these things and much, much more, but of one fact i am certain--you are sadly in need of someone to help you, to take charge of you, to guide you, darling. that task, with your permission, i, stanislas de güldenfeldt, mean for the future to undertake." thus, in perfect peace and contentment, they sat together until the evening fell and the stars came out. it was only as they slowly wended homewards that pearl, on looking back into the gloaming, realised with dread and a sad foreboding, that their mutual vows had been interchanged beneath the shadow of a tomb. chapter xi. the price of a kiss. pearl's engagement to stanislas de güldenfeldt was not generally announced. they both had their reasons for keeping the fact to themselves, and it was only mrs. nugent's immediate family, and sir ralph nicholson, as so soon to form one of that family, who were initiated into the secret. rosina was radiant, as indeed she well might be, for, after months of feminine vacillation, were not both her beautiful charges at last satisfactorily disposed of? naturally, perhaps, she took the credit of pearl's engagement entirely to herself. she told her husband it would never have come off if it had not been for that necessary progging, given so judiciously to the devoted and constant, yet hesitating lover. at this information mr. rawlinson growled forth the remark that she would far better have left matters alone. that people who mixed themselves up in such affairs generally ended by burning their own fingers, and that if de güldenfeldt, at his age, didn't know his own mind, well, all that he could say was he was a far greater fool than he had given him credit for being. he further remarked--for when once wound up tom rawlinson was not devoid of conversation,--that it was perfect bosh, in his opinion, this ridiculous effusion and fuss over a simple and every-day engagement of marriage. no doubt all the world gushed in the same absurd manner over pearl's first marriage. and pray, how had that turned out? certainly he, for one, didn't see that de güldenfeldt was doing such a very good thing for himself. true, pearl was a pretty woman, pleasant too, and had an uncommonly good fortune of her own. but then, look at that business with her first husband, to say nothing of that uncomfortable scandal with that fellow martinworth, who, in his opinion, would far better have kept in england, instead of coming to japan and getting into further mischief. for his own part, he liked de güldenfeldt. he was a capital chap, and he thought it was a pity he was wasting himself on a woman who, in spite of certain attractions, never succeeded in being of the same mind two days running. in fact, in his humble opinion, he was far too good for pearl. thus, having reduced his wife almost to the verge of tears, tom rawlinson took his hat and went for a tramp across the hills. nevertheless, shortly after he had relieved his mind in this downright fashion, mr. rawlinson informed pearl that it was his express wish that she should be married from his house. he likewise announced his intention of bearing all the expenses of the _trousseau_ and the wedding. in fact he begged that she would understand that she was to look upon herself, for that occasion at least, as a daughter of the house. further, he requested her acceptance of a trifling cheque with which to buy herself a jewel, which, he need not add, he would feel greatly flattered by her wearing on her wedding day. the cheque was a substantial one, representing the sum of a hundred guineas. by this time all the party had moved up to chuzenji. pearl was supremely happy in her japanese wooden house on the borders of the lake. she loved her picturesque, bright little abode, with its fresh, clean _tatami_,[13] its beautifully engrained wood, its white walls and ceilings, and its sliding paper doors and cupboards. but above all, she loved the broad, cool verandah, on which was passed the hot period of the day, and from which was visible the most extensive, the most lovely view of lake and mountains in all chuzenji. she would rest her arms on the balustrade of this verandah, which hung completely over the water, and there she would remain, idle and happy for hours, watching the limpid, laughing lake with its frame of wooded mountains and its ever changing banks of clouds. [13] japanese matting. but it was in the early morning that pearl found chuzenji the most seductive, that she loved it best. after the opening of the _amado_[14]--without which protection against storm and rain and thieves no japanese house would be complete--she would lie in bed, and with her face turned towards the lake would watch with a dreamy fascination the scene before her. [14] outside wooden shutters. and indeed, the picture upon which she gazed with enchanted eyes was an ideal one. the sapphire blueness of the water, on which at that hour seldom a ripple was to be seen--the chain of wooded mountains rising up large and indistinct, and garlanded by vast pearly belts of caressing, fleecy clouds,--the little village on the opposite side, with its sparkling beach and tiny wooden houses, glistening like snow in the brilliant sun--the japanese fishing boat, with one great, white wing faintly fluttering in the soft and wavering breeze--pearl would gaze entranced at all this bewitching beauty of the mysterious silent morn, enveloped in a hazy mantle of perfect peace and calm--and, gazing, she would thank god that she lived. monsieur de güldenfeldt was as enthusiastic as his _fiancée_ over the varied charms of chuzenji. they would pass together the greater part of those sweet, sunny days, either sailing or rowing on the lake, or when they wished to vary their form of exercise, taking long tramps across the mountains to the plains where the myriads of wild flowers and the great white tiger lilies grow. as pearl became stronger, they would sometimes walk to the neighbouring village of yumoto, most beautiful and secluded, with its forest of giant pines and maples that overhang the miniature lake. curious and unique, too, is this lovely mountain spot, its chief characteristic being its open-air sulphur baths, among the suffocating fumes of which the lower-class japanese of both sexes are seen disporting themselves, sometimes for hours at a time, their sole array being nature's garb of innocent simplicity. meanwhile, pearl was far from feeling that happiness and contentment of mind she certainly counted upon when she bound herself by promise to marry monsieur de güldenfeldt. as the days passed she knew, without analysing her feelings very deeply, that it was impossible for her to give that love that he in time would without doubt claim as his due. in spite of his many delightful qualities which called forth her sincere admiration, in spite of his more than ordinary share of intelligence and good looks, of the seductive tones and subtle charm of manner, and above all,--in spite of his great and absorbing devotion to herself, pearl nugent's heart did not beat one iota the faster at the sound of his voice, at the touch of his hand, or at his presence by her side. and the day when she discovered to her dismay the fact that not only did she not care for him, but that, above all, de güldenfeldt's great affection for herself was acting as an irritant upon her nerves, mrs. nugent was indeed a woman to be pitied. before her engagement she had thoroughly appreciated the hundred little attentions with which he had surrounded her, and what is more, had almost looked upon them as her right. now however, that she was bound to him by promise, she found her feelings undergoing an unexpected and most lamentable transformation. she made every effort to disguise this change of front from her lover, and she flattered herself that she succeeded fairly well. her surprise, therefore, would have been profound, and would have equalled her dismay, if she had divined that stanislas de güldenfeldt was, to a very great extent, aware of the constant and bitter struggle that was being fought within her heart. de güldenfeldt was, however, a patient man. his chief object had been gained, namely, pearl's promise of herself. he was, therefore, content to bide his time for what he flattered himself must necessarily follow ere long--the promise of her love. but though generally right in his calculations, on this occasion the swedish minister was entirely at fault. indeed, it was not surprising that in this instance he should make a mistake. de güldenfeldt's knowledge of the intricate workings of the female mind was unusually vague and superficial for one who so prominently and for so many years had mixed in the world. his immersion hitherto in the political and the more serious side of his profession, and the life led--as a recreation to those duties--of scientific thought and study, was the worst school for attaining a knowledge of womankind. stanislas at this period of his existence, though he was the last to acknowledge this deficiency, was more ignorant than many a modern youth of twenty of those inexplicable feminine contradictions that contribute not only towards the frenzy and the despair, but likewise to the frequent destruction of too confiding man. if his experience of women had been a trifle greater, de güldenfeldt's eyes would have opened to the fact that this very indifference to his presence, this very shrinking from his words and acts of affection, which pearl tried so vainly to disguise, was the sure and certain proof that no amount of persuasion, of patience, or of tact would succeed in securing him that love on which he relied for his future happiness. if he could but have known it, pearl was simply incapable of again feeling a throb of passion. her devotion for martinworth had lasted too long--had burnt too deeply into her soul--to be capable of being rekindled, or of blazing afresh, lighted by another hand. pearl knew it now. and as the days went on, and she was more and more in de güldenfeldt's society, and as more and more he treated her as his own especial property, she gradually realized that of the many mistakes she had made of late, this last was the most disastrous, the most fatal of her life. it was about this time that mrs. nugent received an answer to her letter to mr. hall. enclosed with the letter was a copy of her will drawn up from the rough draft she had sent her lawyer, and which only required to be signed and witnessed to make it legal. pearl put the private letter aside to be perused at leisure, and witnessed by count carlitti and tom rawlinson, she signed the document, with the intention of despatching it by the mail that was leaving the same day. mr. rawlinson was nothing if not business-like. and whereas carlitti had signed the will in a blissful state of ignorance as to its purport or contents, and at the sight of a favourite lady-friend sweeping past pearl's door had immediately hurried in pursuit,--the former, before venturing to put his name to paper, had ponderously read and weighed every clause of the document. "you will excuse me, pearl," he said, as after a very firm and upright 'thomas rawlinson,' he deposited the parchment on the table, and leaning against the frail wood-work of the japanese _shoji_[15] he lit a cigar, "you will excuse me if i venture, as a member of the family, to make a remark. in my opinion this is an uncommonly rum sort of will of yours. deuced pleasant for amy mendovy, i allow, and it is nice of you to have remembered rosina so extremely handsomely. but may i be allowed to inquire where your future husband, de güldenfeldt, has a look in? it seems to me that you have ignored his existence altogether." [15] sliding window. pearl flushed. "i am not yet married to monsieur de güldenfeldt," she murmured, "and as his _fiancée_ i have certainly never for a moment thought of leaving him my money. he does not need it. he has plenty of his own." "doubtless," and pearl blushed a deeper crimson under the scrutiny of the keen eyes, "but you will, i suppose, in the natural course of events, be married to him before many months have passed. it is, i should have thought, hardly seemly to cut him out entirely. don't you agree with me?" "the date of our marriage is not yet fixed. i am not married to him yet," she repeated, rather helplessly. "when--when we are married--nothing will be easier, i suppose, than to make a new will. in fact the old will does not hold good in those circumstances. besides, there will be the settlements. i am perfectly aware that you mean well, tom. but don't distress yourself. i know what i am about." "well, then, i'm blest if i do, and that's flat!" exclaimed rawlinson. "no shilly shallying, i hope, my fair cousin. let me tell you, once for all, de güldenfeldt is not the sort of fellow to stand any confounded feminine nonsense. pay attention to what i say, my dear, and don't for heaven's sake, behave like a fool." pearl drew herself up, and her eyes flashed ominously. "really, tom," she said, "i think you--you--go a little too far. you presume somewhat on our relationship. i do not wish to believe that you have any real intention of being rude or disagreeable, but--well--to begin with, i never asked you to read my will. and i don't believe for a moment that it is usual for a witness to read through a will before signing it." "don't you, indeed! well! i tell you it is usual for tom rawlinson to do so. you needn't have done me the honour of asking me to witness it if you didn't like the habit. but," he added, seeing she still looked angry, "don't let us wrangle about such a trifle. you mustn't be vexed at my plain speaking, pearl. remember, i stand _in loco parentis_ to you, and if that position doesn't give me the right to offer advice and to speak my mind, i don't know what should. but when, i should like to know, did a woman ever take advice? nevertheless, i repeat i am puzzled with regard to your treatment of de güldenfeldt. he is a first-rate chap, pearl." "oh! you dear old tom, as if i didn't know that. am i likely to forget it, when the fact is being everlastingly dinned into my poor ears? how often have i not been told by you, and rosina, and amy, that i am the luckiest woman on the face of the earth to have succeeded in securing such a treasure? it is not necessary to impress this information so often, so very often, upon me, i assure you, tom. i am perfectly aware of my good luck, and you may rest satisfied that i have no intention whatsoever of forfeiting such a prize. nevertheless, in spite of your objections, and of anything that you may consider it your duty to say, my money, certainly for the present, goes to amy, and not to stanislas. why! it was chiefly for that purpose and for the pleasure of being able to leave it to her, that i decided to accept that horrid fortune." "indeed! well, i suppose you know your own wishes best. she's a lucky girl. not that she is ever likely to get it. your life is as good as hers, any day," with which farewell shaft tom rawlinson took his departure. "a queer woman, that pearl," he remarked to his wife that evening over his second glass of port. "hysterical, and nervous and uncertain. i wouldn't be in that poor fellow de güldenfeldt's shoes for all i'm worth. not that she'll ever marry him, that's one blessing." "what?" shrieked rosina and amy in chorus. "oh, tom, what do you mean?" added his wife tremulously. "i mean what i say. at the last moment--she'll wait till then, of course--but at the last moment, pearl nugent will throw de güldenfeldt over. i warn you she has not the slightest intention of marrying him. she finds it very convenient to have a devoted idiot eternally dangling after her. but she'll never come up to the scratch. she's as shifty and as vacillating as you make 'em. a most untrustworthy woman, i call her, in spite of her prettiness, her money, and all the rest of it." "you've disliked pearl from the commencement, tom," replied rosina as she rose from the table, "and of course nothing i may say will be likely to change your opinion. but i really think, before making these rash assertions, you should have some grounds to go upon." "i by no means dislike your pearl. in fact i rather like her. but with regard to her heart affairs, she--as a weak, vacillating member of your sex,--in my opinion, takes the cake. mark my words, rosina, my fair and fascinating cousin pearl will never be the wife of stanislas de güldenfeldt." "as he gets older your poor uncle's habit of constantly repeating himself increases," remarked rosina, as she and amy settled themselves in the little rowing boat. "he really is a most tiresome man. this engagement of pearl's is so very satisfactory in every way. i was so enchanted about it. and now he makes me wretched with those horrid prognostications of his. i wonder what can have induced him to take such an annoying idea into his head. so shortly after everything has all been comfortably settled, too. you don't think that there is any ground for his fears, do you, amy?" amy was silent, while her eyes grew thoughtful. "yes," she said after a minute, "i think that perhaps uncle is right. i am sure pearl is not happy, auntie. she tries her utmost to like stanislas, but nothing she can do will ever succeed in making her really care for him. he has got on her nerves. i can see that." "and he's such a dear, charming fellow, and so absolutely devoted to her." "whereas, if he were a worthless but fascinating scoundrel, who merely desired to marry her for her money, she would probably adore him, and be grovelling at his feet for a kind word. we women are made like that," replied amy, with a worldly wisdom beyond her years. "well, at any rate, your affairs and ralph's are all right. that's one comfort." "i'm not so sure of that. i've discovered lately that ralph is by no means perfection, and as life is far too short to devote time to the correction of settled bad habits, i'm not at all certain, auntie, but that in the end i may be reduced to the unpleasant necessity of throwing him over," and amy's eyes gleamed with mischief as she glanced up at her aunt and gave an extra strong pull at the sculls. mrs. rawlinson's face for the space of a moment was indicative of the deepest despair. but bitter experience had taught her wisdom, and she made no reply. she had long ago given up attempting to fathom the intricate traits of her young niece's character, or of trying to decide in her own mind those moments when amy meant seriously or the reverse. thus on the present occasion she held her peace, and with a sigh of resignation placidly folded her plump hands upon her lap. trusting that a merciful providence would take the matter up, she offered a secret prayer that in spite of the perversity of a troublesome niece, all might ultimately come right in the end. the martinworths had taken possession of their rooms in the hotel. circumstances, however, had so far arranged themselves that the inevitable meeting between pearl and lord martinworth had not so far taken place. pearl had on the contrary been constantly thrown in contact with his wife, the latter having contracted the habit of running in and out of mrs. nugent's house whenever an opportunity occurred. pearl found her looking both unhappy and ill, but though she more than half divined the cause, lady martinworth volunteered no information, rarely indeed mentioning her husband's name. it was purely incidentally that, in the course of conversation one day, pearl learnt that lord martinworth's health was, in his wife's opinion by no means satisfactory, and consequently, the cause of considerable anxiety. with that vague fear and dismay felt by pearl whenever she now thought or spoke of martinworth, she nevertheless nerved herself, on receiving this intimation, to make one or two necessary and polite inquiries. "i hope," she said rather formally, "that you are not seriously uneasy as to lord martinworth's health? if so, this is the last place to bring him to. we have no doctor up here, you know." "life is too short to fuss over people who decline to be fussed over," replied lady martinworth philosophically. "dick bites off my head if i suggest he is out of sorts. so now i hold my tongue. but the fact remains, his nerves are completely unstrung, and he's jumpy to a degree. his temper, too, has been unbearable ever since he returned from that trip. i think it must be the japanese food that disagreed with him. he lived on it for two months. and we all know the digestion acts to a great extent on the temper and the nerves." pearl smiled. "i should say it is much more likely to be the climate than the food. nervous people always come to grief in japan. i should get him away if i were you." lady martinworth glanced sharply at mrs. nugent. "that is most excellent advice, my dear," she said dryly, "and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to follow it. but unfortunately martinworth possesses a will before which--from my experience--everything and everybody give way in the end." pearl changed colour, and turned the conversation. it was some days after the above remarks that mrs. nugent and de güldenfeldt decided to row half way down the lake to shogonohama. they beached their boat, wandering under the shade of the maples, till they found themselves in the little hut overlooking the waterfall. the rain had poured in torrents for the whole of the day and night before. the cascade, always beautiful, was that day simply magnificent, and the sheets of water crowned with their wreaths of snowy foam, were tearing over the smooth surface of the rocks, and across the fallen trunks of trees, in unbridled and uncontrollable fury. the sight was a glorious one, if somewhat appalling, and the noise was deafening. pearl and de güldenfeldt sat close to each other, silent and impressed, he half supporting her with his arm, for the barrier against which they leant--a frail and rotten bamboo--was their only protection from sure and summary destruction. the sight of rushing, roaring waters invariably worked upon pearl's emotions. the present moment, with its many lovely accessories, a brilliant blue sky, massive, fern-grown rocks, and surrounding woods of every shade of green--stirred her greatly, and combined in awakening feelings that had long lain dormant in her heart. with unusual demonstrativeness she turned towards stanislas, her lips parted, and her eyes shining like stars, and taking his hand between her own, she laid it gently against her cheek. since their engagement, pearl had volunteered but few proofs of tenderness, and the present action on her part was so spontaneous, so unexpected, that stanislas felt the blood surging up into his head, and his heart throbbing, as in reply he leant forward, and pressing her to him, he kissed her passionately on the lips. a moment later they both instinctively knew--for they could hear nothing owing to the deafening roar of the waters,--that someone was watching them from behind. they turned simultaneously, their eyes meeting those of lord martinworth fixed upon them--while amy mendovy--apparently extremely wretched and uncomfortable--was standing by his side. arriving from an opposite direction and at that unfortunate moment sharply turning a corner, martinworth and amy had fallen thus upon the unconscious pair, necessarily witnessing the whole tender and silently acted scene. at such a sacred moment, the last thing one would ask is to be disturbed, and however true and deep and absorbing may be a man's feelings at the time, it is hardly a pleasant sentiment to know that to the ordinary outside and amused observer one must necessarily be looking somewhat like a fool. and yet, to his intense annoyance, it was in this undignified and unusual position that de güldenfeldt now found himself. perhaps it was only human nature that, being the sole person at fault, his rage should straightway centre itself upon one who so far had proved himself, except by his uncalled-for and unfortunate arrival, entirely inoffensive. he took two steps forward in lord martinworth's direction, and was about to pour forth a flow of angry words and enquiries, when his eloquence was abruptly nipped in the bud by the expression on his would-be victim's face. and, indeed, the transformation visible on that countenance, which de güldenfeldt had known so well in former days, was enough not only to astonish, but to paralyze the bravest man. for the face was no longer human. it was almost that of a fiend. lord martinworth was looking straight at pearl. his blue eyes, which she had always known so soft and tender, so gentle and so kind, gleamed wildly, seeming to be charged with lightning under the contracting eyebrows. his mouth was slightly open, and through the sneering lips shone the white teeth, while the nostrils of the delicate nose were quivering with excitement and with rage. features so transformed were sufficient in themselves to terrify the most courageous. but an expression of bitter, overwhelming hate and fury, resting like a veil upon the livid face, completed the appalling picture. he did not say a word. he hardly seemed to breathe. but he stood--for what seemed to the spectators an endless period--staring at pearl nugent with those frenzied eyes. with one hand half-lifted before her, as if to shut off the sight, and with the other clutching de güldenfeldt's arm, she looked back, white and trembling with fear, yet as if half-hypnotised, into martinworth's face. at last the tension proving more than she could bear, pearl gave one little piteous moan, and sank unconscious upon the earthern floor of the shed. this alarming occurrence roused all from the spell that had hitherto held them silent and inactive. martinworth, casting one last look of infinite hatred and contempt at the inanimate form, turned and left the hut, while de güldenfeldt and amy, bending over pearl, and engrossed in their attempts to restore her back to consciousness, hardly noticed that he was gone. for long their efforts seemed unavailing. but at last pearl slowly opened her grey eyes, smiling sweetly at de güldenfeldt as he leant over her. then consciousness and memory returning, the terrified expression shadowed once more the pale face. "where is he?" she whispered, starting up. "has he gone?" "yes, my darling, he has gone away," replied amy, taking the still trembling form in her arms. "you have nothing to fear, pearl." "he is gone! and you did not kill him!" exclaimed pearl, tearing herself from amy's arms, and facing de güldenfeldt. "oh god! you let him go? you did not kill him? and you call yourself a man?" stanislas de güldenfeldt's first expression of surprise changed to one of sorrow. at the moment it seemed to him that this most uncalled-for and unexpected attack was a return of pearl's illness and delirium. "hush! dear, hush!" he said soothingly, "why should i kill martinworth? he did nothing." "you say he did nothing?" she cried excitedly. "you saw the horrible way in which he looked at me, and you say he did nothing? oh, coward!--coward!" the blood flew into de güldenfeldt's cheeks, and he bit his lips. "don't excite yourself, pearl," he replied quietly. "of course, if you think martinworth has insulted you, he shall answer to me for it. now come home, for you are ill, dear, and it is getting late." pearl said no more, suffering herself to be led between amy and stanislas, though she was still trembling like a leaf when they placed her in the boat. from the moment that she was seated in the stern, mrs. nugent lapsed into gloomy silence. her former excitement, greatly to the relief of both, appeared to have passed as quickly as it had risen. she sat with her hands clasped on her knees, staring out before her, but taking no notice of passing objects. the silent row home against a high wind seemed endless. but at length they arrived at mrs. nugent's house, and amy, as a matter of course, followed her cousin within its shelter. stanislas knew that with miss mendovy pearl was in safe and tender hands. but he looked very white and drawn, and he heaved a deep sigh as turning back into the boat he sculled himself home. from the moment that he and amy had half lifted her into the boat pearl had completely ignored his presence, nor had she answered, or taken any notice whatsoever, of her lover's farewell salutation. stanislas de güldenfeldt had indeed paid dearly for that one moment's happiness of the touch of pearl's soft hand upon his cheek! chapter xii. danger-signals. pearl was very silent and very pale during dinner. as for amy, she simply waited, for she knew that in time her cousin must speak. she was nevertheless hardly prepared for the manner in which the conversation at length opened. the peaches were being handed round, when pearl, glancing suddenly at the girl opposite to her, asked abruptly:-"amy, how was it that you went with lord--with that man to-day--so far from home?" "i was taking a walk with him," replied amy quietly. "it seems to me that you accompany him very frequently in his walks, amy. ralph said the other day that he saw much less of you now-a-days than formerly, your time being so greatly engrossed by lord martinworth. this sounds very strange to me, considering the circumstances, and i think, dear, if you will forgive my saying so, you are playing rather a dangerous game." amy mendovy did not reply for a minute, while she made little heaps on the table with her bread crumbs. "i think," she said at length, and the colour rose in her cheeks, "if another time ralph finds that he has a grievance, it would be best if he complained to me, instead of confiding in other people." "he didn't complain. he is far too loyal to do that, whatever he may feel," retorted pearl. "but i saw he was looking worried and out of sorts, so i asked him what was wrong. if anyone is to blame, it is i." for a time amy seemed preoccupied. then she said in a low voice: "pearl, surely ralph--surely you--do not think that i--i am amusing myself with lord martinworth--that i am flirting with him?" pearl put her hand on her young cousin's arm, for by this time they had risen from the dinner table. "i don't know what to think, amy," she replied, with her grave, sweet smile. "this friendship seems so unusual, so--so strange." "nevertheless, it is easily explained," retorted amy quickly. "i rather like lord martinworth, but only _rather_, for he is often very peculiar, very odd. i frequently find it difficult to make him out. but of one thing i am sure--i never felt quite so sorry for anyone in my life as i feel for him. pearl, that poor man is so desperately unhappy. he worships you. of course, it is all very wrong, at least--i suppose it is. but i am sure it is natural enough. what is more, i believe, poor fellow, the worry is actually turning his brain. he does and says such strange things, pearl, and is so morose. he has taken a fancy to me simply and purely because i am one of your belongings. and i, out of sheer sympathy--sheer pity--go for walks with him, and have tried as much as i can to cheer him up with my chatter and my nonsense. so now you understand. as for flirting, the idea is absurd. why i never knew such a silent, abstracted man. but he seems grateful to me when i rattle along. and he brightens up a little at times. i thought i was doing some good for once in a way," she added plaintively, "but seem merely to have succeeded in placing myself in a false position." pearl merely sighed impatiently in reply. she wandered aimlessly about the room, then fidgetted with a piece of work, then opened a book, but, almost as quickly closed it. at last she took a lily from a flower vase and began abstractedly pulling it to pieces. finally, she went towards her cousin, and placing her hand upon amy's arm, glanced up into her face. "amy," she said almost inaudibly, "did you--did you see that awful, that terrible look that he--that lord martinworth gave me to-day, when he came upon stanislas and myself in the hut?" "yes," replied amy, without hesitation, "i saw it, dear." "amy, i must tell you what i think. there--was--murder--in that look!" pearl's eyes grew round with fear. she hurt amy's arm as she whispered these words. "i felt it--i knew it," she added, "and it was the suddenness, amy, of this overwhelming, positive knowledge that made me faint away." "hush, dear, hush!" replied amy, putting both arms round her. "you are excited and nervous. your nerves are unstrung. you know they never have been quite normal since your illness. you are apt, darling, to fancy and exaggerate things. you are thoroughly upset, pearl. he simply looked angry and surprised, dear, as well he might, for, of course, he is ignorant of your engagement to stanislas. seeing you together in the hut--and--and--so affectionate--must have been his first inkling of anything out of the common." "amy," exclaimed pearl, unlocking the girl's arms from about her waist, "you are not speaking the truth, and you know it. don't you understand that i, who have known lord martinworth for so many years, have learnt by heart every look of his eyes, every expression of his features. and do you for a moment suppose that i have ever seen that look, or anything like it, on his face before? never! and i pray god i may never see it again. if i do, i know there can be no possible escape for me. for as surely as i am standing in this room, dick martinworth will kill me!" at these tragic words amy gave a little cry and her lips grew pale. both women lapsed into gloomy silence, while amy--once more placing her arms tenderly round her cousin, drew her out on to the verandah. they watched the moon in all her glory, lighting up with mystic glow mountains and woods and silent lake. the soft, mild light seemed to have a soothing effect upon pearl's storm-tossed mind, for after a time she spoke more calmly. "of course," she said, with a long-drawn sigh, "it was very, very wrong of me, just because i was upset--half mad with fear--to behave as i did to poor innocent stanislas. i cannot now understand how i could have called him--stanislas--of all men--a coward. how i could have said those wicked things about his--killing--killing the other one. i did not know, amy, i had it in me to be so hard, so unjust, so--so cruel. but lately i have discovered more than one detestable trait in my character unguessed before. oh, dear, if you only knew how i hate and scorn myself, how cordially sometimes i wish i were dead!" "if," replied amy, alarmed at this fresh outburst, and speaking in her most calm and composed manner, "if you do not intend that monsieur de güldenfeldt should carry out your wish of killing lord martinworth, you had better perhaps, let him know without further delay that you have changed your mind. i believe people even in these enlightened days, still sometimes fight duels." pearl looked startled, then she sighed wearily, but made no reply. as the evening wore on she grew calmer and more collected. but she did not again refer to the subject, and by the time amy left her, all traces of excitement and tears had vanished. stanislas de güldenfeldt had returned home feeling thoroughly upset and distressed. making every allowance that he reasonably could for the temporary excitement of an hysterical woman, he still found it difficult not to feel wounded at pearl's behaviour, so uncalled-for and inconsiderate. of late, he had more than once noticed an irritability and fractiousness of disposition, which before her illness had certainly been unknown to him. but this was the first time he had been treated to such an outburst as that which followed the unfortunate meeting with lord martinworth. even that, considering the circumstances, he would have freely forgiven, for he knew that women suffered from a malady called nerves, and at such times they were apt to do and say strange things. what however, he found it difficult to pardon and indeed to comprehend, was not only her air of chilly reserve, but the persistent ill-temper that pearl had exhibited in the boat and even up to the actual moment of their parting on the shore. stanislas de güldenfeldt had yet to learn that women's moods are incomprehensible in their uncertainty, inexplicable in their variety. from pearl's misdemeanours, de güldenfeldt's thoughts flew to the ominous look witnessed on lord martinworth's face. in recalling it to mind, he was forced to acknowledge that the passion it expressed was simply diabolical. he remembered how this expression had staggered him as it crossed his vision, how his blood had boiled to think that such a glance should, even for one second, fall upon the woman whom he loved. in pondering over that look, and the circumstance that gave rise to it, de güldenfeldt was seized with fury, and at that moment it was perhaps fortunate that martinworth was considerably beyond the reach of the swedish minister's muscular arm. and yet, as stanislas grew calmer, he realised the difficulty of going to the extremity of killing a man in a duel, simply because the expression of his face had been of an unpleasant nature, and had consequently displeased him. he was still debating this question in his mind, wondering, as he puffed thoughtfully at his cigar, what steps could possibly be taken, and gazing in perplexity at the moon, which in its brilliancy seemed to mock at his lugubrious thoughts, when sir ralph nicholson appeared on the verandah. there was a suppressed discomposure and hurry in the latter's manner, and he was paler than usual. "i say, de güldenfeldt," he exclaimed, sinking into a cane chair, "we've had a devilish unpleasant thing occur at the hotel. martinworth has all but cut his throat with his own razor." "_sapristi!_" exclaimed stanislas under his breath, half-rising from his chair. "the fellow for the time being was evidently as mad as a hatter," continued ralph. "fortunately for him, this charming little tragedy was enacted in his wife's presence. i've no notion what called it forth. there was a row between them, i suppose. but i have gathered from her that he suddenly rushed to the dressing table, and the next thing she saw was the gleam of the razor across his throat! she was up in a second, caught hold of the beastly thing as he was in the very act, had a tremendous struggle with him--she's a strong woman, you know--eventually secured it, and promptly pitched it out of the window." "good god! what a terrible business! is the wound serious?" "he was bleeding horribly when i rushed in. their rooms are next to mine, you know, and through those thin partitions i heard the whole affair--the struggle, her screams, etc. i was just dressing for dinner. it appears, however, that the wound is not very deep. his plucky wife prevented that. her hands are awfully cut about, too. but she's kept her wits, and hasn't broken down for a single instant." "but what have you done with martinworth?" "oh! he's calm enough now. and sane enough too, for the matter of that. fortunately, there is an army doctor on leave from hong-kong staying at the hotel. he has bound up the wound, and says that both martinworth and his wife will be all right in a few days. we've tried to hush the affair up as much as possible, but of course the story is bound to get about. the question is, de güldenfeldt, what on earth are we to do with martinworth?" "you think he ought to be put into confinement?" enquired de güldenfeldt with a quick look. "well, you see, a man who attempts his own life is supposed as a rule to be hardly responsible for his actions. besides, i personally look upon the fellow as a dangerous animal. who knows but that the fancy may take him to attack someone else instead of himself? he has been awfully queer ever since he came up here, and i have not at all liked amy being so much with him. she thought he seemed ill and unhappy, and kind-hearted little soul that she is, felt sorry for him. i blame myself now for not having sooner prevented this intimacy. but naturally i felt a certain delicacy at interfering in her friendships. but that's neither here nor there. what on earth are we to do with the poor fellow, de güldenfeldt?" the two men discussed the question until far into the night. eventually what appeared like the right,--indeed the only solution,--was arrived at. they decided between themselves that as soon as the wound was sufficiently healed to allow of his removal, lord martinworth should be conveyed without delay to the general hospital in yokohama, in which place he could be detained in the necessary confinement until it was found possible to transfer him to england. the plan was in every way a practical one. but in forming it, neither de güldenfeldt nor nicholson reckoned on the great opposition likely to be raised by one of the chief persons concerned, namely--the wife of the injured man. the subject was approached by ralph the next morning, who with that purpose in view, begged lady martinworth for a private interview. but after a short time, looking pale and flustered, he rejoined de güldenfeldt, who was smoking his cigar while waiting for him outside the hotel. in emphatic terms he announced that never again would he undertake such a mission, for he had passed through one of the most painful, the most unpleasant half-hours ever spent in his life. it appeared that after considerable hesitation and beating about the bush, ralph came at length to the point. at first--he told de güldenfeldt--lady martinworth did not appear to understand, but that when she finally grasped his meaning her anger was uncontrollable. she turned on ralph, and positively white with rage, asked him how he dared to insult her and her husband--to say nothing of the family of martinworth generally--with such an iniquitous proposition? she affirmed over and over again, in the most angry and positive terms, that lord martinworth was as sane as ralph himself, that in fact, the action of the night before had merely been the result of a temporary mental disturbance caused by an unexpected shock, followed by great distress of mind. "of course," continued ralph, "i have no notion to what she referred. and my belief is she does not know herself what was the cause or the nature of this shock. i ventured mildly to insinuate that such an unfortunate state of affairs might recur, in which case the danger might not a second time be so easily averted. i was bound to point this out to her, but it was an unfortunate remark on my part, for on the strength of it, what the dickens do you think she did?" "go on," replied his listener. "what happened?" "she caught me by the hand, dragged me across the passage, and would you believe it, before i caught on as to where she was going, ushered me straight into martinworth's room! he--poor fellow--was lying on the sofa with his throat bound up, though he really did not look half as bad as one might have expected in the circumstances. i went up to him at once. but lady martinworth did not give me time to open my lips. 'dick,' she cried, 'i have brought sir ralph nicholson into your room for the express purpose of proving to him what he declines to believe from my lips--the fact that you are a sane man. he affirms that you were mad last night when this unfortunate accident took place, that you are still mad, and what's more, that you are likely to become worse as time goes on, and that consequently precautions must be taken. he comes here with a proposition which if not so insulting, would really be downright absurd. i expect you will have something to say in reply to both the accusations and the remedy proposed. of course, you must not talk, but write what you have to say on this,' and pushing some note-paper towards him, she cast a last furious glance at me, and then and there left the room. "well, you can fancy, de güldenfeldt, i felt a bit of a fool standing there. certainly my sentiments for lady martinworth for having deliberately forced me into such an unpleasant position were not of the most amiable description. my reasoning and accusations may have been perfectly correct, still naturally, no fellow likes being called a lunatic to his face, and i was quite prepared for any amount of anger or violence on martinworth's part. "however to my astonishment, he did not seem at all put out. in fact he looked quite agreeable, nodded and smiled, pointed to a chair, and began writing at once. here's his letter. i confess, it doesn't look much like the production of a madman." and ralph extracted from his pocket-book a folded epistle, which he straightway handed to de güldenfeldt. "you are both right and wrong, my dear nicholson," it ran. "last night i was as mad as people who are thoroughly sick of life and are determined to end it--generally are. the mood, the desire for self-extinction, has however, passed. to-day i consider myself perfectly sane, as sane as you are yourself. indeed, i now realise that i have a purpose before me, and until that purpose is accomplished i can assure you i shall make no further attempt on my life. and, even when my object is fulfilled, i really see no particular reason why i should wish to disappear. shall i not then have reached the height of my desires? therefore, why should i wish to die? but that is not the question now. what i wish to explain to you is that there is absolutely no reason whatever why i should be shut up. for i presume it was with that idea in your mind that you called on my wife this morning? i perfectly understand your view of the case. but _i am not mad_. so you can go away, my dear fellow, with the assurance that though doubtless your intentions are excellent, they are somewhat uncalled-for, and slightly premature. your decidedly amused, martinworth. come and give me a look sometimes. i hope to be able to speak in a few days. it will enliven me much to see your cheery face." de güldenfeldt looked serious as he returned the letter. "i cannot agree with you, nicholson," he remarked after a minute or two, "in considering this communication the letter of a sane man. taking his previous acts into consideration, i judge by this letter that he is more dangerously cracked than i even at first imagined him." "in what way?" enquired ralph. "my dear fellow, we all know the deepness and cunning of a madman. and in my eyes that letter is the acme of cunning. what, i should like to know, does he mean by a 'purpose before him?' what, i ask you, is that 'purpose?' mark my words, my dear ralph, it means some fiendish design, which, if the poor fellow were sane, would probably be as far from his thoughts or his intentions, as from yours or mine. of course, nothing can be done without the sanction of his wife. but in my opinion, that man has no right to be at large. let him work out his 'purpose' in an asylum if he likes. not among the peaceful community of chuzenji." "well, i don't see what is to be done," replied ralph with a sigh. "i only hope your suspicions are unfounded, and that there may be no further bother with him. at any rate, perhaps it will be just as well to keep amy away from him for the present." "yes, and above all--pearl," remarked de güldenfeldt darkly. stanislas was particularly thoughtful as after this conversation, he strolled towards mrs. nugent's house. he did not attempt to disguise from himself that he felt extremely anxious on her account. he could not get martinworth's murderous look out of his mind. it haunted him each time with greater vividness and meaning, and the more clearly it imprinted itself on his vision, the firmer was his impression that it was the wild, vindictive, unreasoning look of a madman. he still seemed worried and preoccupied when he appeared on mrs. nugent's verandah. that lady, glancing quickly into his face as he went towards her, naturally misconstrued the cause. there were still moments when pearl felt a certain shyness and dread of her future husband. the present was one of them. she was paler than usual as she gave her cheek to be kissed. "stanislas," she said, still holding his hand, "i have been so ashamed, so unhappy at what occurred yesterday. i am consumed with remorse. will you forgive me, dear?" recent events had obliterated pearl's misconduct. her words, however, recalled not only the annoyance, but the considerable distress of which she had been the cause. de güldenfeldt's glance, as it fell on her, was for once both cold and stern. "if, pearl," he said gravely, "you hope in the future to fill well your position as a diplomatist's wife, the first lesson you must learn is to control not only your speech, but your temper. but let us say no more about it," and his face softened as his eyes rested on her repentant face and he took in all her dainty loveliness. "the man frightened you. you were nervous and unstrung, dear. perhaps i was wrong to attach so much importance to your irritability, or to be hurt at your treatment of me. certainly subsequent events have proved that you were to a certain extent justified in your alarm." "what do you mean?" asked pearl quickly. "put on your hat and i will tell you in the boat. there is a delicious breeze for sailing. it will take us straight to senji." it was only after much thought that de güldenfeldt decided to tell pearl what had occurred at the hotel. he was anxious not to increase her fears. on the other hand, he knew that she must hear the story sooner or later, and he concluded that it were better she should get the true facts from him than to have imparted to her from some outsider a garbled and exaggerated version. also, he was anxious, without frightening her too much, to impress upon her the great necessity for being on her guard, a task which, he knew, required both tact and delicacy. altogether, stanislas felt that he had a difficult business before him. he was very desirous that mrs. nugent should leave chuzenji without delay. he intended to use all his powers of persuasion to convince her of the necessity for such a step, and although he was prepared for many objections, he little reckoned on the total failure of his mission. pearl's steering was erratic, and her startled eyes looked brighter and bigger than ever, while she listened in silence to all de güldenfeldt had to tell her. hearing these distressing details was a truly dreadful ordeal to her. at each word stanislas let drop, pearl felt as if a knife was being thrust into her breast. for, if it were indeed true that dick martinworth were mad, pearl instinctively knew that she alone was the cause of that madness. and as stanislas' grave, calm words fell upon her ears, and the ghastly truth flashed upon her, that she--pearl nugent--had driven a man insane for love of her, she wept silently from very bitterness of soul. so this was the sole result of her strivings, her flight of three years ago, her struggle for respectability and for virtue. so this--the mental collapse of a man, once famous for his brilliant intellect, once noted for his calm impartial judgments--was the climax, to what she in her self-satisfied pride, had been wont to consider a fairly successful victory over manifold temptations, a triumph of entire self-control. it was but now, in obtaining cognizance of his supposed insanity, that pearl fully appreciated the passionate, yet self-sacrificing nature of martinworth's devotion. she realised at that moment, that it was this actual act of self-renunciation that had caused the present state of things, the unhinging of that once powerful mind. her frame shook as this thought was brought home to her. that look of yesterday--everything--seemed to be explained in those three words, "he is mad." he was mad. and she told herself that it was she--pearl nugent--by her self-righteous, cold, calm virtue and superiority, who had driven him insane. she looked out her eyes wide open with dumb misery, at the blue expanse of water before her. her hand was leaning on the tiller, but she did not move it. de güldenfeldt watching her tears, partly read and understood the remorse and agony of mind through which she was passing. he touched her with his hand. "don't take it so hardly, dear," he said. "i daresay he will get all right again. indeed, nicholson thinks him so now, and you must remember, he is the only one of us who has seen him since this awful thing happened. don't you think you had better go away for a little, pearl, until all this has blown over? you will get ill again if you worry so, if you take things so much to heart." "go away? what should i go away for? where would you have me go?" "oh, up north,--anywhere. the rawlinsons and i would of course, accompany you. you must get out of this place. you will get ill again. you badly want a change, pearl." "i want a change, when i have not been here a month? no! i have no intention of moving for the present. i am not ill, stanislas. i am quite well. all i implore is not to be bothered--to be left in peace." in spite of her petulance, de güldenfeldt persisted for some time in his entreaties. till finally pearl, glancing up at him with an expression of bored surprise, informed him quietly but incisively that his arguments were a mere waste of breath, as she certainly had not the slightest intention of leaving chuzenji, where she was so satisfactorily installed, until the hot season was over. "would you mind," she continued, "once more giving me your reasons why you are so particularly anxious for me to exchange my pleasant little abode here, where i am cool and perfectly contented, for the discomforts of hot, stuffy tea-houses?" the reasons were not repeated. at that moment the wind changed, and they had to put about. later, when they were comfortably settled down again, stanislas took a long look at pearl's firm, little chin. not for the first time was it borne upon the swedish minister's diplomatic mind, the utter uselessness, the complete futility, of trying to persuade mrs. nugent against her will. chapter xiii. hidden fires. prophets of misfortune are apt to experience a decided sentiment of humiliation, perhaps a sneaking disappointment and regret, when their evil prognostications remain unfulfilled. monsieur de güldenfeldt was, however, a pleasant exception to the rule. in spite of the catastrophe he had foretold, it was with genuine relief that as time went on, he proved to his own considerable satisfaction that the calm enjoyments of chuzenji were as far as he could see, in no danger of being disturbed by the unmanageable presence of a lunatic at large. after each meeting with lord martinworth--and they were necessarily many, for the invalid was soon about again, and in this charming but restricted mountain resort it is difficult to take a stroll without running across all the world--stanislas confessed he could perceive no signs of the malady that he feared. indeed, as time passed, and they met for at least a few minutes every day, he concluded that not only was martinworth perfectly sane, but that he was certainly in manner and in appearance more intelligent, more brisk and wide-awake than nine men out of ten. he had known dick martinworth for many years. but during the period of his former friendship he failed to recall those signs of vivid intellect and buoyant spirits, undeniable proofs of which were constantly now being brought before his notice. it would seem as if the physical shock and pain of his attempted suicide, instead of injuring had on the contrary, acted as a tonic upon the moral stamina of the man. from the moment that he left his sofa he was to all outward appearances a changed individual. whereas of late months, he had been morose and abstracted, gloomy, surly, and unsociable, he suddenly developed traits of quiet wit, constant good humour, charming affability, and such a desire for the companionship of his fellow creatures that it was not long before he attained the, perhaps scarcely enviable position of the most popular guest in the hotel. he and his wife from this date, were constantly seen in each other's society, a fact in itself enough to strike those who knew him and the circumstances of his marriage with considerable wonder. she, poor soul, was consequently beaming with happiness. there were more than a few who were heard at this period of her existence, to call lady martinworth actually good-looking, which shows what a contented mind can sometimes do for the improvement of homely features. pearl and de güldenfeldt would, in their walks and expeditions, frequently run across the martinworth couple apparently on the most excellent conjugal terms. they would stop and talk for a few minutes, and the meetings would pass off naturally and without unpleasantness. de güldenfeldt would, nevertheless, give a sigh of relief each time these encounters were safely accomplished, for with the appearance in the distance of martinworth and his wife, mrs. nugent would turn white and dismayed, and while clutching nervously at her _fiancé's_ arm, her breath would come and go in short, quick gasps. no sooner, however, was she actually in lord martinworth's presence than these signs of distress would disappear, and pearl would behave with as much _sang froid_ as any other woman of the world placed in similar circumstances. indeed, it was an intense satisfaction to judge with her own eyes that, in spite of de güldenfeldt's dreary prognostications, and indeed, in spite of her own personal fears, there now seemed no ground for their former gloomy apprehensions. lord martinworth's condition was certainly, as far as she could judge, absolutely normal. realising this, it was perhaps hardly a matter for wonder that mrs. nugent felt slightly humiliated that so much wasted sympathy, such heart-rending remorse, had been conferred on one who, from all outward appearances, neither needed nor seemingly expected further consideration than is usually bestowed on a fellow creature temporarily incapacitated or indisposed. she could not but appreciate--though once again she experienced a faint surprise--martinworth's tact and delicacy in making no attempt to thrust himself into her presence. he had not called either before or since what was now generally spoken of as his "accident," and in recalling the dread she experienced when she first heard of his expected arrival at chuzenji, of her fear of constant importunities, frequent visits, vain protestations, pearl could not but smile--rather drearily and cynically, it is true--at these apprehensions, apparently so entirely uncalled-for, and premature. thus were the fears of all repressed and allayed. lord martinworth, as was only right and proper, devoted himself to his wife. monsieur de güldenfeldt was seldom absent from mrs. nugent's side, and sir ralph nicholson, after a laughing remonstrance on amy's part, at what she declared was a far too premature exhibition of masculine appropriation, was happy once more in the undisputed society of the girl he was to marry. the quiet every-day life, the innocent, healthy out-door pleasures of chuzenji, pursued their natural and their agreeable course. everyone seemed contented and at ease. there were no disputes, no excitements, no disturbances, and probably matters would have continued thus satisfactorily till the end of the season had it not been that one member of the little community was obliged to acknowledge that delicious dallying through those long, lovely summer days, and the enjoyment of charming society and the peaceful pleasures of the country were, alas! not the only ingredients that constituted life. stanislas de güldenfeldt's official duties called him to the capital. he parted from pearl with a lingering regret, tempered with an anxiety he did not attempt to conceal. at the moment of his departure, all his former fears of martinworth which had been lying dormant for so many weeks were renewed, and the knowledge that he was leaving his future wife alone and unprotected induced him once more to urge upon her a temporary absence from chuzenji. she, however, definitely refused to contemplate his proposal, and nothing he could say would move her from her decision. de güldenfeldt was offered instead, one sole consolation. on the eve of his departure, he at last succeeded in extracting from pearl a reluctant promise that their marriage should take place shortly after the general return to tokyo. this concession had, to a certain extent, relieved de güldenfeldt's mind, for it was the first time since their engagement that pearl--in spite of his many attempts--had allowed him to touch on the all-important subject of the date of their marriage. mrs. nugent was wise enough to understand that it was necessary to concede something. she could not for ever be refusing her lover's every suggestion, every wish, and she reassured herself with the thought that it was now but the end of august. the middle of october still seemed to her a very long way off. much might happen before then. and so stanislas rode off down the pass, partially consoled. it was only pearl watching his vanishing figure from the tea-house to which she had accompanied him, who once more found herself recalling with a sickening dread that threatening look which for so long had haunted her nights and embittered her days. for even as pearl watched her lover from afar guiding his horse down the zigzag path, she felt again that strange feeling of coming evil that assailed her when de güldenfeldt had proposed to her under the shadow of the shogun's tomb. it attacked her now with renewed force. and some power, which she could not explain, induced her to cry his name aloud. he heard her, and turned in his saddle. her tall figure, clad in a white gown, stood out clearly against a background of dark pines. her arms were stretched towards him, and even at that distance he could distinguish the general fear and unrest enveloping her person. "stanislas," she cried, "come back to me. i want you." he put his horse to a canter, and was soon by her side. "what is it, my darling?" he said dismounting, and going up to her he took her two hands in his, and gazed steadily into her face. "stanislas," she whispered,--and she put her arms round his neck, hiding her head on his breast,--"forgive me, dear, for calling you back. but i felt so sad, so lonely, so frightened, and i wanted to tell you before you left how much--how very, very grateful i am, for all your goodness to me. i have never told you this before, stanislas. but i felt i could not let you go without assuring you that i will try to prove my gratitude by being a good wife to you. i will indeed. no one has ever been so kind to me as you have been. no one has been so gentle, so tender, so forbearing. and yet _i_ know i have often been trying, capricious, unreasonable. i have rewarded you but badly, darling, for all your kindness--your great goodness to me. do you think me very horrid, stanislas?" and she looked up at him, her lovely eyes clouded with tears. it is unnecessary to give monsieur de güldenfeldt's reply to this question. once more he rode down the path, his face aglow and his heart lighter than he had felt it for many weeks past. whilst pearl, sad and sorry, wended her way slowly home, and throwing herself on her knees by the side of her bed, burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. it was in this melancholy condition that rosina found her half-an-hour later. mrs. rawlinson asked no questions. but she took her cousin in her arms, and kissed and soothed her, and stroked the tight little auburn curls that since pearl's illness had taken the place of the magnificent tresses for which she had once been famous. she knew well enough what was troubling pearl, for ever since her husband had opened her eyes, she for weeks had silently watched the struggle which she saw was being fought out within her cousin's breast. she deeply pitied her, but she understood that she could not force her confidence--that she must wait for her to speak. and now at length the moment had come. ere long pearl had unburdened her whole soul to the friend who had never proved her false. she told her cousin everything. nothing was left unconfessed, from the moment that lord martinworth had once more crossed her path, to her parting that day with stanislas de güldenfeldt. and when she had finished a long silence ensued between the two women, for rosina knew not what comfort to hold forth. pearl had shed all her tears, and with hands crossed upon her knees was gazing out with mournful eyes at the distant mountains and the blue, sunlit lake. at last she spoke again in short sharp sentences. "tell me, rosina," she said, "what am i to do? how am i to marry stanislas? i do not love him. i can never love him. i have tried so hard, and at one time when he asked me again i thought it would be so easy. why do i not care for him? he is lovable enough, heaven knows! i dare not tell him that i cannot marry him. i dare not. i dare not. it would, i know, break his heart--that heart which is of pure gold. i had my chance to-day, when he insisted on my fixing the date of our marriage. but coward that i was, i left all that i ought to have said unsaid. now i am in a worse position than ever. we are to be married in the middle of october, oh! rosina, what am i to do? tell me, dearest, what am i to do?" "there is," replied mrs. rawlinson, rising from her seat, and speaking very quietly, "only one thing, pearl, to be done. if you feel like this you must discontinue the engagement." "i cannot, i cannot! i tell you it will break his heart. it will kill him. he is not a boy, and i don't think he has ever cared very much for anyone before. he is sacrificing much, i know, to marry me. oh, rosina! if you only knew how i like him, how i respect--admire him, take pleasure in his society--everything, but--love him. if he would only be satisfied with these things. but once we are married he will, of course, look upon my love as his lawful right, and oh! how shall i be able to endure it? how shall i, in these circumstances--yielding nothing--giving nothing--be able to live with him?" "my dear pearl," replied mrs. rawlinson, taking her cousin's hand between her own, and looking at her steadily with her clear brown eyes, "it is no good going over the same ground time after time. you must realise one thing. you must either make up your mind to marry stanislas de güldenfeldt, or else you must break if off _at once_. now, if you feel that this marriage is impossible for the reasons that you give, you must have the strength of mind to write immediately, and put an end to the matter. he will suffer, but people nowadays do not die of broken hearts. whereas if you marry, not loving him--obliged to live in daily intercourse fulfilling your duty as a wife, your life will be a torture. he, of course, will soon understand what you are going through, and there will be unhappiness and misery on both sides. i repeat, if you feel certain, dear, that you can never give him that love that he will expect as his right, there is only one course to follow. it will, believe me, be kinder to him in the end. stanislas de güldenfeldt is not a man to be trifled with. he is not a man to rest satisfied with half measures. if i remained in your house a week, pearl, i should only repeat the same thing. so good-bye, my darling. be brave. follow my advice, and write to him without further delay." mrs. rawlinson pondered greatly as she wended her way homewards. she wondered much whether pearl would be guided by her advice, and, knowing human nature fairly well, the conclusion at which she ultimately arrived was--that she would not. "she will marry him," she thought, "and they will, i suppose, both be thoroughly wretched for the rest of their days. and i, who was so pleased at this match! really, pearl is very tiresome. why on earth can't she be reasonably and comfortably in love like anybody else? but one can't alter one's disposition, i suppose. as things are, such a marriage for both parties concerned is simply suicidal. dear me! how tom will chuckle when i tell him of this interview." and he certainly did. "this comes," he said, "of your mixing yourself up in such affairs. didn't i tell you you would burn your fingers? didn't i tell you, that though obstinate enough on certain points, on matters connected with her heart pearl never knew her own mind two days running? and didn't i tell you that marriage number two would probably prove as great a _fiasco_ as marriage number one? never mind, my dear, you will meet with your reward, for in less than a couple of years you will probably have the delightful excitement of all the scandal of another divorce, or at least a separation. de güldenfeldt is not a man to stand any damned nonsense, i can tell you." certainly, mr. rawlinson was an extremely annoying, disagreeable sort of husband. such was rosina's decided, and perhaps justifiable opinion at that moment. meanwhile, with regard to the writing of the proposed letter of dismissal, mrs. rawlinson was perfectly correct in her surmises. it was--though often enough commenced--never accomplished. day after day mrs. nugent would make up her mind to put an end to the existing state of things, and day after day matters remained exactly as they were. at last the time approached for the return of her future husband, and still the letter was unwritten. pearl adopted the habit of indulging in long, solitary walks, and dejected rows on the lake, every day finding her more care-worn, paler and thinner, and count carlitti, who paid her many visits at this time, became more and more concerned about her state of health and loss of animation and good looks. "i must tell you, _mon ami_," he said to ralph in a moment of confidence, "i intended a week or two ago to declare myself. because you know she is _une ravissante et charmante femme_. my heart did beat each time i did see her. yes, i would have made her _la comtesse carlitti_. she was worthy of my name and title, and leetle fortune. but now, _que voulez vous?_ her beauty fades. every day it does vanish a leetle more, and perhaps--_qui sait?_ one day she will become only a savage flower--no longer _une rose, la reine des fleurs_. so i have decided now, _mon cher_ nicholson, not to tell her of my honourable intentions. do you not give me right?" "quite right," replied ralph, "but i am sorry for her, poor thing. it will, you know, be a cruel disappointment." monsieur carlitti, who was by no means the fool that some people gave him the credit for being, looked up sharply. "ah! _farceur!_ now you do mock," he said. "i will no longer hesitate, but will ask her to-day. and to-morrow i will announce to you my wedding. _elle est adorable!_" "i do lofe you," he said to pearl that afternoon, having to his great satisfaction found her alone in her little white drawing room. "i do lofe you _excessivement_. i have lofed you from the first day that i met you at _la fête de la légation de france_. it will give me a happiness _immense_ to make you _la comtesse carlitti_. i know that you are _une divorcée_. _mais n'importe, vous êtes si belle et si séduisante._ and i do lofe you. that is enough. we shall make _trés bon ménage_. you will share with me my leetle fortune, and i likewise your fortune will participate with you. _un arrangement bien commode._" pearl never for an instant doubted but that the arrangement would indeed be extremely convenient, especially for the male participator thereof, her fortune being at least ten times larger than that of her admirer. "i will suicide myself," he said mournfully, after she in all gentleness, but with a smile in her eyes which she vainly tried to suppress, had refused the honour of this noble alliance; "i will burn myself the brain. _je suis trop malheureux._ for i had said to myself, '_cette belle madame nugent_ is worthy of the ancient name of carlitti, and of my leetle fortune.' and now you do me decline. you do say 'no.' so i will suicide myself. yes, i will go on the lake, _ce beau lac de_ chuzenji, and you--cruel one--will never, never see me more." not much anxiety was experienced by mrs. nugent at these threats of her volatile and flighty adorer. to no one did she mention the details of this interview, or the melancholy result of count carlitti's matrimonial attempt. as for ralph, he was by far too kind-hearted to think of putting his sanguine friend to the torture of answering painful questions. indeed, the unusual droop of the finely waxed and pointed moustache, the plaintive look in the soft, brown eyes--and the general limpness and depression that for two whole days enveloped the person of the ordinarily vivacious little man, told their own sad tale. chapter xiv. a bird of ill omen. stanislas de güldenfeldt, the subject of so much heart burning, was meanwhile, in the scorching heat of tokyo, striving as speedily as possible to accomplish the business that had called him to the capital. it was a tiresome affair that compelled appointments with ministers and endless interviews with men of business, the latter frequently necessitating the presence of an interpreter--at the best of times a wearisome and tedious performance, and especially so when the thermometer marks, as it frequently did during that torrid summer--97° in the shade. in spite of his somewhat dreary occupations, there were many weary hours of enforced idleness, and the time had to be killed as best it could, a difficult operation with scarcely a creature--much less an acquaintance or a colleague--left in town. stanislas' love of reading and research seemed to be a thing of the past. his own life's drama struck him at this time as being so far more thrilling and absorbing than the perusal of any treatise or romance, or even the study of his favourite scientific authors who--until now--had proved the great resource and stand-by of his lonely hours. he no longer had taste for these former delights, and though a once beloved volume might be taken from the bookshelves adorned by the work of many an ancient and distinguished author, instead of being dipped into, studied, or perused, it would remain for hours unopened on his knees. thoughts of pearl, plans for the future, hopes for the future and--on frequent occasions--fears for the future, engrossed instead his mind. mrs. nugent's recent and fairly constant fits of irritability had by no means escaped the observation of de güldenfeldt. though, so far, he had hardly succeeded in fathoming the true cause of this strange and uncomfortable deviation in a disposition which--he was wont to flatter himself--he had after three years' study thoroughly solved--he, nevertheless, genuinely lamented the existence of these--until now--concealed and undreamt-of traits of character. more than once had he been brought into intimate contact with these uncertain and capricious moods. more than once had he suffered from these fits of nervous excitement, indulged in by one whom he hitherto had considered not only the sweetest and the best, but, above all, an unusually just and reasonable specimen of her sex. he at times consoled himself with the thought that once married, once leading the daily routine of a calm and settled existence--pearl would regain that former buoyancy of spirits, that previous equanimity of temperament which in his eyes, had constituted the greater part of her fascination and her charm. he felt he had indeed achieved much in getting fixed the approximate date of the wedding. he recalled the sweet face which he had kissed so ardently when pearl had summoned him back on the mountain pass, and the delicious words of love and repentance that in the fulness of her heart, with her arms encircling his neck, she then had uttered,--and his pulses beat, and once more his heart throbbed with joyful anticipation at the thought of that happiness which--he flattered himself--must surely one day be his lot. he longed with an indescribable longing to be back to her. and it was with genuine relief that he saw the termination of his business approaching, and knew that those dreary days of enforced absence from her side must soon be reckoned as among the dark chronicles of the past. it was the beginning of september and a most unusual season for the visit of the ubiquitous globe-trotter. stanislas was therefore considerably, but none the less most agreeably, surprised, when one morning, just at the time he was feeling his dullest and forlornest, a note was brought him from the imperial hotel, announcing the arrival--accompanied by a young son and daughter--of a former london friend, and a connection of his english mother's, a certain mrs. millward-fraser. "we arrived in japan by the last 'empress' a fortnight ago" she wrote, "and have since been hard at work doing the sights of this most fascinating city. we called at the legation, but were told that you were ruralising in the hills. now we hear that you have returned to town, so we allow ourselves to hope that you will look in upon us one day soon. it will be so pleasant to meet again, and to talk over family news," etc., etc., etc. stanislas went promptly, that same day, to see his old friend. and an invitation to lunch at the swedish legation for the following morning was the outcome of the visit. mrs. millward-fraser had been reckoned a beauty in her day, and was still a very good looking woman. she was a widow, having lost her husband, an energetic and well-known m.p., a few years previously. stanislas had known the family intimately during the years he was posted in london, and in those days was not only a valued friend of the elders, but an equal favourite with both boy and girl. since those jolly days of romps and fun, alfred, the son, had emerged from eton a cheerful, fairly well mannered, and fairly well educated, though somewhat raw stripling--while the daughter muriel had developed into a bright and extremely pretty young woman, of which beauty she had indeed given full promise in her juvenile days. "you bring it forcibly before my mind into what a regular old buffer i am degenerating," de güldenfeldt remarked to the latter as they strolled into lunch, "and yet it only seems the other day since i nursed you on my knee." "nevertheless, it is ten years ago at the very least," laughed the girl. "i am seventeen now, and i am firmly convinced that i never permitted such a liberty after the age of seven or eight." "and a nice fat lump you must have been even at that age. i pity poor cousin stanny if he often indulged in the amusement of dancing you up and down on his knee," chaffed young millward-fraser, with brotherly politeness and candour. "alfred, it was impressed upon our minds by mamma when we were children that personal remarks were considered particularly odious," retorted his sister. "do you think me so very fat, cousin stanislas? ally is always teasing me, and laughing at me for being what he calls 'rotund.'" stanislas, thus appealed to, looked admiringly at the pretty plump girl beside him and laughed. "you are perfectly enormous," he said; "a female tichborne in fact. fortunately there are, however, many men who, like myself, admire 'a little plump partridge.' wait till you see carlitti. he'll not hesitate long in falling a slave to your charms." "who is carlitti?" enquired mrs. millward-frazer. "count carlitti is a colleague of mine. a dear fellow, and an immense admirer of your sex, and extremely susceptible in consequence. he is bound to lose his heart to muriel, when he meets you all, as he will no doubt do later, at chuzenji." "talking of hearts reminds me, muriel, that we have forgotten the fortune-teller. you know we arranged to go there to-day," exclaimed alfred. "my dear children! such nonsense. he will only cram your head with fables," remonstrated mrs. millward-fraser. "dearest mother, we have come here to study the habits and customs of the country. no one would dream of leaving japan without visiting one of its famous soothsayers. would they, cousin stan?" "i blush to confess, muriel, that during all the years i have lived in the east i have never, so far, penetrated into the sacred precincts of a fortune-teller's house," replied de güldenfeldt as they seated themselves on the verandah, where coffee was served. "but then, you know, it is always the g.t.'s who see and do everything. we poor ignorant residents are very much behind the times, and are unacquainted with half the sights of tokyo." "better late than never," said muriel. "come with us to-day. they are really marvellous people, you know. i have the address of a particularly clever one, much consulted by the japanese." "isn't it rather hot for such exciting interviews?" feebly remonstrated stanislas, knowing all the time that when once miss muriel took it into her pretty head to command, the sole thing was to surrender with a good grace. so, without further discussion, the carriage was promptly ordered. in spite of the heat the young people were in the highest spirits during their drive, seeming greatly to enjoy the brightness and animation of the crowded streets, as the _betto_,[16] with his peculiar warning cry, cleared the way which led to the picturesque suburbs of the city. it was with regret when, after over an hour's transit, the carriage stopped before a black wooden ancient gateway, and they knew that they had arrived at the entrance to the _ninso mi's_[17] domain. [16] running footman. [17] the name given to a class of fortune-teller. "i feel as if i were leaving the occidental, the modern existence behind me. it is all so old-world and weird," whispered muriel to her mother, as they proceeded from under the gateway and entered the quaint, well-kept garden. it was a lovely, poetical little garden, restful and secluded. its many narrow paths were paved with grey pebbles, and in the centre of a plot of bright green turf was a miniature lake or pond edged with divers shrubs of various sizes and shapes. uprising from the lake was a tiny island, on which flourished equally tiny and twisted maple, plum and cherry trees, shrined by one gnarled and quaint shaped pine, many centuries old. floating on the surface of the little pond, and swaying gracefully in the summer breeze, were regal lotus plants, some bearing, amidst their glossy cup-shaped leaves, giant flowers of soft rose-pink, while other plants were crowned with marvellous white blossoms, standing erect on their long stems. august is the month in which the lotus plants are in full and glorious flower, and the travellers were in raptures at the richness of growth, their delicate loveliness, as their eyes rested on this entrancing and, to them, unknown sight. the party lingered long on the large flat stones that forming a natural bridge, traversed the pond, gazing with unbounded admiration at these unrivalled bell-shaped flowers. the colossal leaves of green almost as striking as the lovely blossoms themselves, were full to overflowing of glistening dewdrops, that sparkled like diamonds in the afternoon sun, as the plants swayed gracefully above the water with every breath of the quiet air. the millward-frazer family at length tore themselves away from admiring these lovely blossoms and left the garden. the party passed through the grotesquely carved porch of the old-fashioned building, with its many gabled, peaked chinese roof, and were received by a servant, who, after greeting them kneeling and with her forehead touching the threshold of the doorway, rose, assisted in taking off their shoes, and finally ushered them into a fairly sized japanese room. the _shoji_ were wide open, acting as a simple frame to the picturesque garden without, its gnarled and twisted trees, its ancient stones and lanterns, and its pond of slumbering lotus blooms. in the middle of the matted room, which--with the exception of the little shrine before which the evening and morning prayers are offered up--was almost devoid of furniture, was a square lacquer table that rose about a couple of feet from the floor, and on which was piled a heap of ancient volumes. before the table, with huge horn spectacles perched on his nose, and with a glistening and entirely shaven pate, was squatting on his heels, a wrinkled and solemn looking bonze of benign countenance, holding upright in his hand a partly opened fan. he was adorned in the richest vestments of purple silk, which stuck out in stiff, straight lines around his bending body. as each of the visitors filed in, filling the little room, the old priest from behind his great round spectacles examined them from head to foot with the piercing eye of an eagle. his glance finally fell and rested on the interpreter of the legation, a young man whom stanislas had recently appointed to fill the post left empty by poor suzuki's tragic death. from studying the impassive face of ito, the old man's eyes travelled to de güldenfeldt, on whom they remained, though the latter made vain attempts to keep himself as far as possible in the background. the bonze, never once taking his eyes from stanislas, murmured something to ito in a low and impressive manner. "the _ninsomi-san_ says he wishes to interview you first," ito said, turning to his master. "he has something of the utmost importance to say to you." "nonsense," replied de güldenfeldt impatiently. "he can have absolutely nothing to say. why, it is impossible for him to know even who i am. besides, i pay no attention to such things, and have no intention whatsoever of having my fortune told. miss millward-fraser wishes to hear her fate. he will speak to her." the message was transmitted, and the old man, mournfully nodding his head, said the _danna sama_[18] should be obeyed; but that later he would himself be the first to regret the unnecessary delay. he begged humbly to be allowed to say what he had to say to the _danna sama_ immediately after he had spoken to the _o' fo-sama_.[19] [18] the honourable master. [19] the honourable young lady. muriel thereupon knelt on the floor in front of the table, and the old seer, wrinkling up his face and closing his narrow eyes, devoid of eyelashes, mumbled and muttered incantations between his toothless lips. she held out the palm of her hand. he did not even glance at it, but lifting the divining rods reverentially and solemnly to his forehead, he for a moment leant his forehead in deep thought on-to the table, always muttering and groaning to himself. after this performance he slowly raised his bald old head looking at muriel with a quick and comprehensive glance. he next enquired her age, and reckoning by the japanese signs of the zodiac, he parted the divining rods into two bundles, then taking up the magnifying glass, he examined intently the lines of the face. so intently and so long indeed did he gaze as to considerably embarrass poor muriel, who blushed furiously under this prolonged examination of her features. he seemed apparently satisfied with this inspection, for a grim smile gleamed from his cunning old eyes, and he proceeded to count the number of twigs in each of the already separated packets of divining rods. then once more he took the magnifying glass, and carefully re-examining her face he spoke, pausing every now and then to allow the interpreter to translate his prophecies. "you have," he mumbled in a low monotone, interspersed with various "oh's" and "ah's," and a curious hissing sound between the wrinkled lips, "you have crossed many miles of water"--("i could have told you that," whispered alfred millward-fraser, "without having the honour of being a japanese soothsayer")--"but you will not cross it again for many months, and perhaps years."--("why, we are returning home in three months," continued the irrepressible youth.)--"in a few days you will travel to a country high in the hills, a beautiful fertile country, where there is much water and beautiful vegetation, but a dangerous and difficult journey over rocks and fallen trees and broken bridges. you will meet a male, a stranger, on the road, and before two months have passed and gone, you will have told that man that you will become his wife. the ninth month and the tenth month of this year of meiji will be your most fortunate months. they will bring you much happiness. you will have a long and happy and healthy life, for your pretty face is likewise a lucky face, and much money and many children and good fortune will be your lot. i have spoken." the young girl's eyes were sparkling with excitement and merriment as she rose from her lowly seat. "how wonderful it is," she exclaimed. "i am actually to meet my fate in a few days. do you hear, ally? you, who are always scoffing and telling me i shall never succeed in securing a husband." "bosh! i bet you ten dollars, muriel, it is all humbug," said alfred, boy-like, ashamed to show how much impressed he was. "no doubt. but what delightful humbug, nevertheless. now, cousin stanny, it is your turn. he is looking at you all the time. he evidently finds you by far the most interesting member of the party. i am sure i have suffered by this absorbing interest, and that he has cut my fortune short in consequence." "very well, to please you, muriel," replied de güldenfeldt with a smile. "but pray don't run away with the notion that i for one instant believe in this nonsense. alfred is right. it is all humbug from beginning to end. i sacrifice myself on the sole condition that your mother promises to be the next victim." mrs. millward-fraser smiled rather sadly and shook her head. "i live in the past, not in the future," she said, as de güldenfeldt, folding up his long legs as best he could, squatted down in front of the little table, and prepared himself to be scrutinized. this time, however, the seer employed neither magnifying glass nor divining rods. he looked steadily at stanislas for a few minutes with his penetrating black eyes. then turning to the interpreter he spoke rapidly, in a low sing-song voice, charging his monologue with many ominous shakings of the head, and with dreary groans and sighs. "well, ito, what does he say?" asked de güldenfeldt, when the old man, ceasing to speak, leant his head on the table in a state of breathless exhaustion. the interpreter hesitated. "pardon me, your excellency, but he says many bad, many false things. do you wish me to repeat them?" "certainly," and de güldenfeldt laughed rather uneasily, "let us hear everything. keep nothing from me, false or true, good or bad." "in what he says there is no good, no truth, excellency. it is all bad, all false words. he says that you must hasten away up into the hills. he says the wind is rising, that it is already beginning to sing in the trees, and that there will be a great and terrible storm. the storm in the mountains will be a raging tempest, very, very dreadful and destructive. he says that one whom you love will be in the midst of it, at the mercy of the wind and of the waves, and what is worse, at the mercy of a man who is mad, of a man who hates you with a great and bitter hatred. you must go to her, excellency, he says, if you ever wish to again see the honourable and gracious lady whom you love. every moment is precious. there is not a minute to be lost, you must hasten--hasten. soon it may be too late. for the wind is already beginning to sing drearily in the eaves of the house, and the raindrops are already overflowing from the cups of the lotus leaves." and truly, as ito spoke, a violent gust of wind shook the woodwork of the little house, and huge rain drops splashed into the lake outside. stanislas had turned pallid at ito's interpretation of the old soothsayer's mumbled words. for, in spite of all his former professions of incredulity, it was impossible not to be strangely and alarmingly impressed at the unhappy forebodings contained in this ominous prophecy. the mountains--the woman he loved--the madman, what and who else could they mean but chuzenji--pearl--martinworth? he did not pause to ask himself how the old bonze, living buried in his little wooden house, miles away from any european, could have obtained knowledge of who he was, or of his intimate concerns. there was a mystery, a weirdness in the whole strange proceedings, that baffled investigation, or defied analysis. perhaps at some future time he would try and solve the problem. but for the present he was consumed with an unquestionable and confident belief that the seer's warning permitted of no discussion--that what he foretold was indeed occurring or about to occur, and that pearl, the being whom he loved most on earth, was in some great danger, was helpless and alone, and what was more, was needing him. a merciful providence in the form of a giddy girl had guided his footsteps to this distant neighbourhood and house. by these unforeseen and unexpected means he had been warned of this danger threatening the woman who was to be his wife. and not for one instant did stanislas, the contemptuous sceptic of half an hour ago--the practical product of a practical age--hesitate, or think of ignoring this warning delivered in so unusual a manner, from so unthought-of and so strange a quarter. "ask him," he said to ito, "if the danger is imminent, and if it can by any possible means be averted?" ito put the question. "he says, excellency, that you must hasten, hasten with all possible speed if you wish to see the lady again. but he will not, he says--he cannot, say more." stanislas glanced at his watch. it was past five o'clock. "ito," he said, "is there another train to nikko to-night?" "no excellency, the last one left at three o'clock." "but there is one i know shortly for utsunomiya. i will take that, sleep the night there, and get up to chuzenji early to-morrow. thank god! i am near the station here. ito, you will take these ladies and this gentleman back to the hotel, go to the legation, get me some clothes, and follow me by the first train to-morrow. now call me a _'ricksha_ at once. i have just time to catch the train." the millward-frasers had been silent and inactive, but deeply interested and distressed spectators of this scene. they saw that their friend, restrained and composed though he was in manner, was possessed not only with the very greatest anxiety, but likewise with an overwhelming dread. they longed to be of help to him, but knew not how. he turned to the elder lady, "you will forgive me," he said, "leaving you thus unceremoniously. but i look upon that old man's words as a warning sent from heaven. i feel that not only are they not to be ignored, but that they must be obeyed. and what is more, obeyed without delay. one whom i love, who is to be my wife in a few months time, is--according to this old man--in imminent danger, and i must reach her, and go to her assistance as speedily as lies in my power. listen to the wind and rain! good god! the first part of his prophecy is already coming true." "can we help you, dear friend? do anything for you at the legation? give any message?" asked mrs. millward-fraser with tears of sympathy in her eyes. "you can do nothing, dear mrs. millward-fraser, but pray for me in this the moment of the greatest distress, the greatest agony of my life. stay, i will on second thoughts, take the carriage. it is quicker, and the rain is coming down in torrents. i will send it back to you, and also ito, who will return and see you safely home. adieu!" and he was gone! chapter xv. 'twixt scylla and charybdis. it was two or three days before monsieur de güldenfeldt's proposed return. and pearl knew that if her letter of rupture was to be sent at all it was necessary to write it without further delay. for over an hour she had been sitting at her writing table with the blank paper before her. the atmosphere was heavy and close, signs of a coming storm. her head was aching, and her sight dimmed with the pain. finally, after merely inscribing a few words, she impatiently threw down her pen, and, pushing the writing materials aside, she rose from her seat. "there will be ample time to catch the post when i come in," she thought. "my head is splitting. i shall die if i don't have some air." the sun was covered, but this by no means prevented the heat from being stifling as pearl plodded along the path that overhung the lake. her feet lagged somewhat, but her thoughts on the contrary, followed each other in rapid succession, and as she trudged through the undergrowth she found herself recalling many incidents of her past life. that unaccountable feeling of misery and depression, that so often weighs down the spirits before the coming of a typhoon, possessed mrs. nugent this afternoon. this sentiment of melancholy did not strike her as anything out of the way, for it was indeed many a long day since pearl had known what it was to feel really happy or light-hearted. she found her eyes filling with tears of self-pity as she walked to the border of the lake, and leaning against a tree, gazed down sadly into its depths. after all, she drearily thought, what a long incessant struggle had been her life. what a small, what a very small iota of happiness had fallen to her lot. pearl buried her face in her hands, and wondered if, in any way, she had brought these misfortunes on herself--if, indeed, it had been through any fault of her own that everyone whom she had trusted and loved had proved false in the end, that everything she had believed in had eventually turned to ashes in her hands. she thought of herself at the time of her marriage--bright, and sunny, and single-hearted, believing in everybody who was kind to her and in everything that pleased her. she remembered how this credulity, this innocent faith in all that was best in human nature, had blindly centred itself in the husband whose utter worthlessness, before many months were passed, was the cause of a cruel awakening from this beautiful dream of pure belief, resulting in disillusion, and in a bitter lesson thoroughly learnt. she recalled the wretched years that followed this discovery of mr. norrywood's real disposition. then she thought of martinworth, and how he had come into her life, to transform its misery into an unsatisfied, restless excitement, which, at the time, she blindly deceived herself was happiness. from martinworth her thoughts turned to the sweet widowed mother, who had died before she left school, but whose example and teaching had remained implanted in her mind, and was the means of keeping her honest and pure through many a bitter moment of trial and temptation. pearl loved to think of her mother. for long she let her thoughts linger round this guardian angel of her youth. it was a relief to turn them away from herself, and to recall that tall, stately figure, with the large grey eyes, so like her own, the soft voice, and the grave, sweet smile. she sat down on a moss-grown boulder, and dwelt tenderly on all the past incidents of her merry childhood, and trusting, early girlhood. and when at length she rose, and once more continued her walk, pearl nugent's thoughts had taken a new and a happier turn. she wandered on, lingering here and there, and occasionally plucking some of the many ferns and wild flowers that grew by the path. her eyes travelled upwards and alighted, at some distance above her, upon a plant she had long desired, a magnificent specimen of the _osmunda regina_. pearl paused in her walk, and found herself speculating as to how greatly this giant fern would adorn her rockery, one of the many beauties of her lovely garden. finally, with some difficulty, she succeeded in clambering up the steep upright bank, and regardless of the rising wind and the rain that now began to fall, she attempted to loosen the plant, and, for want of a better instrument, commenced digging with her fingers at the roots. mrs. nugent little knew that she had a solitary but interested spectator of her proceedings. martinworth, in his boat on the lake, had caught the flutter of a white dress through the trees, and, with his keen sight, it did not take him long to distinguish that the owner of the dress was pearl. he shipped his oars, and bending forward watched with absorption the efforts to uproot the fern. he had not long been thus silently employed when, to his astonishment and dismay, he saw her jerk suddenly backwards, and, sliding rapidly down the bank, disappear from view in a cloud of earth and stones. the plant that at one time seemed so firmly and obstinately embedded in the ground had, without warning, become loosened, and pearl, in giving one final pull, found herself thrown with violence and unexpected impetus upon the path. her fall was not from any great height. though dazed for a minute by the suddenness of her collapse, she was preparing to rise from her lowly position when, in attempting to stand, a sharp pain in her right ankle was an unmistakeable and alarming proof that her foot was sprained. with dismay and a smothered cry she fell back again on the ground. to make matters worse, the wind was rising every minute, and the rain, increasing in force, was penetrating the foliage overhead. pearl made a supreme effort to drag herself up by catching at the branches and the brushwood, but the pain of her foot was so intense that, greatly to her annoyance, she found herself forced to desist from her efforts. the path was an unfrequented one. and it was hardly a consoling thought that a night spent in a dripping wood, with a possible typhoon thrown in for company, was likely to prove the result of her adventure. indeed, this anticipation was so little congenial to pearl that she once more made a final effort to rise, the consequence being that, certainly for a minute or two, she lost consciousness from the pain. she was aroused from this partial lethargy by a rustling of the leaves, and the next minute the form of lord martinworth emerged from behind the trees. on any other occasion martinworth's sudden appearance would have filled mrs. nugent with the greatest dread and consternation. her present position was, however, proving so extremely unpleasant that, forgetting all fears and past disagreeableness, she found herself, on the contrary, hailing his unexpected arrival on the scene with intense relief. "thank goodness! you have come," she exclaimed, as her face brightened. "i have been very unfortunate, and in falling have sprained my ankle. i am quite helpless, and unable to move." lord martinworth gazed down at the recumbent form for a few seconds in silence. then he said: "you seem indeed to be in a sorry plight. the only thing i can suggest is that i should carry you to my boat. i have got it moored close by," and, without waiting for a reply, he stooped down and gently lifted her in his arms. "i will row you home," he added. "put your arms round my neck," and pearl found herself obediently following his directions. it was with considerable difficulty, hampered as he was by a burden by no means slight, that martinworth succeeded in threading his way through the undergrowth. the climb down the steep uneven bank was long and most laborious. he was breathless when he at length deposited pearl by the edge of the lake. "i must wait a moment," he panted, "before i attempt to lift you into the boat. the lake is fearfully rough, and my little cockleshell is not made for bad weather. we shall have to keep by the shore. you are not afraid?" and he looked down at her with a strange light in his eyes. pearl hesitated a moment. "no," she said at last, "i don't think i am afraid, at least, not very much. but i want to get home as soon as possible. i have to write a letter that must absolutely go by this evening's post." lord martinworth looked at her fixedly, but said nothing. and once more he stooped down and lifted her in his arms. it was no easy matter to place pearl into the little outrigger which was dancing like a cork on the water, that from a calm and sunny lake had in so short a time become transformed into a raging sea. twice he missed his footing and nearly fell, and twice he recovered himself, while pearl clung tightly to him, and felt his heart beating against her own. the rain had ceased for the moment, but the wind raged in greater fury than ever, and it was already getting dusk. lord martinworth's third effort, however, proved successful. depositing pearl in the stern of the boat, he took off his coat and made a cushion for the injured foot. "it will be an endless, a terrible business getting back," he said, "don't stir. for as it is, it will be all i can do to keep the boat from upsetting. steer as near the shore as you can." pearl silently obeyed his directions, while lord martinworth worked manfully at the sculls. the boat, as he truly said, was not intended for rough weather. pearl soon realised this fact as it danced up and down, backwards and forwards, and the water came dashing over bow and stern. at first the pair were silent, for all martinworth's breath was required for the effort of sculling against the wind. but at last, during a lull in the storm, his eyes wandered to his companion's face and remained fixed there with a steadiness of gaze which pearl found anything but reassuring. "the wind is abating," he finally said. "it is fortunate, as i wish to ask you something, pearl." mrs. nugent did not reply, but her heart sank within her. for some moments lord martinworth still rowed on, while it seemed as if his words were likely to be verified. though the roughness of the water still tossed the helpless little boat, the wind had temporarily almost dropped. "we can drift in safety, now," he said, and shipping his oars, he leant toward pearl. "pearl," he said very gently, "i want you to be true. i want you to frankly answer one or two questions which, considering our former friendship, i consider i have more than a right to ask. first of all," and he paused a moment, "i wish to know, do you still love me, pearl?" the question came abruptly. mrs. nugent was suffering considerable pain, and was feeling very angry and rather frightened. she for a moment forgot the past,--the devoted intercourse of former years--everything but the present trying situation,--and her answer without hesitation was sharp and hard. "you have no right whatsoever to ask me such a question. and you know it. it is an action unworthy of you, to take advantage of my helplessness, to place me in such an extremely unpleasant position. but as you have thought fit to question me, i will not be such a coward as to shirk the answer. no, dick, i certainly do not care for you any longer. all that is passed. my sentiments have--have--changed. i can only thank god that all that folly is over." the words had hardly left pearl's mouth before she bitterly regretted them. she knew they were harsh and cruel, and she was grieved indeed when she saw the change that came over lord martinworth's face that she had let her sharp tongue and irritable temper get the better of her. he winced as if she had struck him, and his cheeks turned white beneath the sunburn. "thank you," he replied with bitterness. "you are certainly carrying out my request to the letter, and are frank enough. so this is the reward for the devotion of years. well! your answer explains many things," he added musingly. "first of all i learn, that not only do you not love me now, but what is more, that you never really cared for me, never loved me as i loved you. i was a blind fool not to have understood that fact many years ago. you gave me proofs enough, god knows." "i beg," retorted pearl, but in a gentler tone, "that you will not discuss this question, dick. did you not promise to bury what has gone? why move these gravestones of the past? will you not continue rowing? the wind is rising again. i have nothing on but this thin, white gown, and i am cold and very anxious to get home." "no," answered martinworth sternly, "i will not go on rowing for the present. when i made that promise the situation was entirely different. you were not then--then----i have another question still to ask. may i request that you will give me as frank a reply to my second question as you did to my first?" mrs. nugent remained silent. she shivered and looked anxiously towards the fast darkening shore. "i am really sorry to inconvenience you," continued her companion, "but it is absolutely necessary for the purpose that i have in view that these questions should be answered clearly, frankly, and without delay. in fact it entirely depends on the nature of the replies i receive whether i carry out that purpose or not." "i don't know what you are talking about," replied pearl petulantly. "i am miserably cold and wet. my foot is paining me very much. only get me home, and i will answer as many questions as you please." "pardon me. one more question at least must be answered now. but i will not delay you long. pearl norrywood"--he unconsciously used her former name--"as you one day expect to stand before the throne, tell me the truth. i must--i will know the truth. are you or are you not engaged to be married to de güldenfeldt?" as martinworth uttered these words he leant further forward, gazing intently at pearl. mrs. nugent did not respond. she flushed, her eyes falling beneath her companion's penetrating glance. fortunate indeed that she averted them for a time. thus for a short period, was she saved the sight of the wildness of expression that slowly crept over the face of her companion, as the question brought forth no immediate reply. mrs. nugent continued silent. it was not from any desire to prevaricate or to avoid telling the necessary truth that she hesitated. but at the moment that the question was asked, so sternly and so impressively, it struck her like a blow how very different might have been the answer if her letter to de güldenfeldt had been written and despatched, instead of being still to write. she began to realise, to dread, that this one act of procrastination--vacillation--weakness of mind--whatever it might be called--was likely to be productive of calamitous results, feared and foreseen for weeks. as this thought passed through her mind she instinctively raised her eyes to martinworth's face. that one glance was sufficient to impress on her the certainty that she was in the presence, not only of a madman, but of one who, with the premeditation, vindictiveness and ferocity of his type, was she was firmly convinced, contemplating her speedy destruction. strange to say, the conviction of this fact caused her no immediate terror. though of a naturally timid and nervous temperament, pearl, at this moment of terrible and full assurance, felt none of those depressing fears that had assailed her of late with such crushing and ceaseless persistency. she knew now, that from the moment she had seen that look in martinworth's eyes weeks ago, she had been preparing herself for that fate which she had then told herself must surely one day overtake her. she was alone on a stormy lake with a man no longer master of himself or of his actions. the wind, which had risen again, was tearing round in circles, the rain was dashing in their faces, and the little boat was helplessly tossing first one side and then the other. she looked up and saw the angry heavens, she looked down and saw the angry waters, she looked before her and saw what was far more terrible than either--the angry eyes, wild and threatening, fixed upon her face. and yet pearl felt no fear. not for one moment did she contemplate the thought of hiding the truth by vain subterfuges, of cloaking it by prevarications. she knew that in time, all in good time, an answer must be given. and she likewise knew that that answer would seal her fate. she only wanted a short moment, a little space to think. not to weep over herself or bemoan her own destiny, for an overwhelming pity for the man before her, a deep compassion, took the place in pearl's breast, for the time being, of all natural feelings of terror and dismay. it was her firm conviction that this man, who had once been her tender and adoring lover, was in a short space of time about to become her assassin, and she asked herself, as she gazed into his terrible face, what must not have been his sufferings of late, that a transformation such as this should have taken place in the once gentle, well-balanced and affectionate nature. as pearl sat there, looking silently and unflinchingly into those eyes, her individuality for the moment seemed merged into martinworth's. now for the first time did she truly realise the misery and the despair that had gripped his soul when, without a murmur, that evening in tokyo he had left her, resigning all claim upon her for ever. the strain caused by this voluntary renunciation of the desire of years had, she knew well, proved too great for the highly-strung, nervous disposition, and the will, once under such calm self-control, the brain, once so superior, had ultimately collapsed under this last final effort of supreme self-denial. this tragic and undoubtable fact was brought vividly before her as she continued to gaze back into those eyes. she had retained her own self-respect, she had acted up to the principles of her youth, she had kept intact the promise she had made--but--but--on the other side, she had broken a heart, she had ruined a happy and a useful life, and above all--she had unwittingly driven a man mad for love of her! and in agony of mind, pearl asked herself the question, had she done right? oh! had she done right? and all this time, while lord martinworth's inquiry remained unanswered, his face was growing more terrible, the steely blue eyes more bloodshot. "answer me," he said, and he leant forward and caught her by the wrist. "are you engaged to de güldenfeldt? do you hear me, pearl? answer me!" at the contact of his hand on her wrist, pearl drew back and shuddered. she at last felt her nerves giving way under the tension. and she was aware that all feelings of self-reproach, regret, and compassion were becoming submerged in a more natural sentiment--that of genuine terror for her own safety. she looked despairingly around her, and saw with horror and dismay that they were drifting towards the river that led to the waterfall. the current was swift and strong at that place, and she well knew that if martinworth did not at once take the oars it would merely be a matter of minutes before they were dashed over the brink into eternity! the knowledge flashed upon her as they sped nearer and nearer to the fatal spot that this was the end that from the moment he had lifted her into his boat he had decided upon. again pearl shuddered, as her eyes fled once more to his face, and she knew that further delay was impossible, and that she must speak. "dick," she replied, "you will kill me. i know it. i read your intention in your face. you loved me once, dick, but now your love has turned to hate. it is clear enough. your hate is so bitter that you will kill me. but i have never told you a lie and i will not die with one on my lips. yes, i--i am engaged to monsieur de güldenfeldt, but i am not----" the sentence remained unfinished. martinworth waited for no more. he started from his seat, and shouting wildly, so that his ringing voice was heard far above the roaring of the wind and the waters: "never, pearl! never! mine at least in death," he stretched his arms towards her, tore her from where she was crouching on her seat, and clasped her to him. for a moment they stood thus, locked in each other's arms, tottering with unsteady feet in the fragile boat, while he gazed with all the frenzy of insanity into her white face. then as his eyes lingered on hers, large with terror and despair, his sinister intentions appeared to soften, for a change, sudden and complete, passed over his face, transforming the wild glare of madness into a look of grief, despairing sorrow and reproof--sad and mournful in the extreme. he stooped down, let his eyes dwell on hers with the adoring look of old, kissed her once tenderly, almost reverentially, on the forehead, and replacing her as gently upon her seat as he had torn her roughly from it, lord martinworth balanced himself for one second on the edge of the boat, then plunged headlong into the seething lake! one stifled cry mingled with the fury of the wind as, with the violence of martinworth's movement, the little craft upset, and pearl nugent, precipitated into the water, was hurled through the rushing current, and carried helplessly towards the waterfall! chapter xvi. "it is best so, amy, dear." and all through that dreadful night raged one of the most terrible and disastrous typhoons that had visited japan for many years. mrs. nugent and lord martinworth, not returning to their respective domiciles, an immediate search was instituted, but as the darkness deepened the wind and rain increased in fury. it was a sheer impossibility to stand up against the raging gale, and eventually the hopeless search had to be temporarily abandoned. in that one night the lake rose six feet, huge landslips descended from nantai-san, and bridges and roads and dwellings were washed away and demolished, as if mere sheets of paper. as dawn approached the torrents ceased, and the wind abated. at length the sun rose in full glory, casting in brilliant irony its penetrating rays over this grievous scene of waste and desolation. and mingling with the foliage of a great tree blown across the still raging stream the auburn tint of pearl nugent's hair shone like red gold among the green. on the upsetting of the boat she had been borne down the torrent. a few seconds more and she would have been dashed over the rocks, hundreds of feet high, which form the cascade. but some hours before, during the fury of the storm, a giant pine tree had fallen with a deafening crash half across the stream. it was that tree that saved pearl from a watery grave, for wedged, as in a vice, between a fork of its branches, her bruised, unconscious form was ultimately discovered. her head and shoulders were out of the water, and the rushing stream, instead of loosening, had apparently been the means of entangling only more securely the rent and dripping garments to the branches of the tree. from the bank could be seen her head, with its ashen face and closed eyes, thrown back and pillowed, as it were, upon a wealth of green foliage, while the torrent tore around her with raging fury, in its onward relentless course battering and bruising the delicate limbs. it was at considerable risk to their own lives that ralph and count carlitti, and other brave men with them, crept cautiously and with the greatest difficulty along the trunk of the tree, over the greater part of which the water was still rushing. by dint of clinging with all their strength to the upstanding branches they at last succeeded after many vain attempts and countless perils, in reaching the tossed, unconscious form. count carlitti clung on to ralph with all his force, while the latter laid himself down flat on the trunk, and set about cutting away, as best he could, the remnants of pearl's clothing from the branches. after a wearisome, and what appeared an endless time, this difficult task was at length successfully accomplished, enabling them to drag the inanimate body gently and tenderly along the trunk of the tree, finally rescuing it from the watery bed in which it had been helplessly tossed by the stormy elements for so many hours. as ralph bent his head, resting it on her breast, his face brightened somewhat. "her heart beats," he murmured. "thank god she still lives." between them they bore her home, and laid her with loving care on the little bed from which pearl nugent was fated never to rise again, for human skill was unavailing. the army doctor from hong-kong, who some weeks before had attended martinworth, was still at chuzenji. he did his utmost to relieve all pain, and indeed on recovering consciousness pearl suffered but little. her spine, independent of other severe internal injuries, was discovered fatally damaged, and pearl and those around her knew that she was dying. she lingered all that day and all the next, sweet and patient to the end. rosina and amy and lady martinworth were there. they never left the bedside, and the latter's medical knowledge and gentle, experienced nursing helped greatly to lighten and relieve those last sad and distressing days. shortly after mrs. nugent had awakened from the deathlike swoon that had lasted so many hours, and when in spite of her diminishing forces she was quite capable of understanding what was wanted of her, she slowly and painfully turned her head on the pillow, and letting her veiled orbs linger on the face bending over her, she read the mute question expressed by lady martinworth's miserable eyes. she put out her hand and gently drew her face to hers. "he is--drowned," she whispered. "we were--together. the boat upset--in the storm." that was all. and surely when her spirit stands in judgment before the throne, pearl nugent will be pardoned for having said no more. she would lie silent and motionless, with her beautiful soft grey eyes, dark with the shadow of death, wide open, while from time to time she would smile with an angelic sweetness at the three women who were watching her. she spoke but little. indeed with these few rare exceptions she hardly noticed her watchers, for her thoughts seemed far away from all earthly things. the next day, however, towards the end, as amy, weeping, was leaning over the bed, she smiled back into her eyes, and whispered very low: "it is--best so, amy, dear. do not weep--for me. i am quite content--more content, more at peace than i have been--for many, many long years. if i had lived--i should not have been happy--nor--should i--have made others--stanislas--dear, good kind stanislas--happy. yes,--it is--best so. i am--quite ready,--quite--willing to--die. no more--difficulties, or--dread, or--terrible indecision,--or--uncertainty now. no more unhappiness--now. all--soon will be made--clear, amy, dear. when--i am gone--be kind--to stanislas,--poor--stanislas, for--he--will grieve, and thank--god--he--will never--know--now, never--know--now. do not--weep for me, darling. i--have--always--loved--you--amy. please--please--do not--weep--so." and then after a minute or two she sighed and asked: "where--is he?" "ralph went to tokyo at once to tell him," answered amy, her voice choked with sobs. "telegraphic communication has been interrupted by the storm, and the road is washed away. no one can go down or come up from nikko. ralph, however, will have got there, pearl, my darling, even if he had to climb twenty mountains. they will soon be here, darling." "yes," whispered pearl softly, "he will be here--before i die. he is--coming. he knows--i want him. but he--will grieve, poor--stanislas,--poor--true--heart, he--will grieve,--but--thank god!--he will--never--know--now." then she turned her head, and for the last time, and in unbroken silence, she gazed out far before her at the mountains and the lake. it was the following morning shortly after dawn that the doctor told them she could not last much longer. and even as he was making this sad announcement stanislas de güldenfeldt, accompanied by ralph, who had met him half way to tokyo, weary and worn and travel stained, appeared outside the house. pearl, who had been lying partially unconscious for many hours, suddenly awoke from her torpor, and raising her head from the pillow, gazed fixedly with shining eyes through the open _shoji_. "stanislas has come! he is near me!" she called in a clear and ringing voice, "bring him to me." rosina exchanged a glance of surprise with amy as she left the room, for from where pearl was lying in bed it was impossible for her to see her lover, and silence reigned,--no word had been spoken. stanislas de güldenfeldt, exhausted by sorrow and fatigue, went alone into the room of his dying love. and when, over an hour later, the others, anxious at the ominous silence, ventured within the death-chamber, they found him kneeling by the bedside--unconscious,--his dark hair mingling on the pillow with pearl's auburn curls, while her dead cheek was pressed against his lips, and her dead arms were clasped around his neck. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * stanislas never completely recovered from the shock and grief of pearl's tragic death. shortly following her loss he left the diplomatic service. he was strongly advised against this step by his many friends, amongst whom, as his truest and his best, he counted not only the rawlinsons and sir ralph and lady nicholson, but his former colleague, count carlitti, who in fair japan, falling a victim to the freshness of muriel millward-fraser, had promptly, within two months of mrs. nugent's death, placed his ancient name and title, to say nothing of his "leetle fortune," in all their completeness at the extremely pretty feet of "_cette belle jeune fille anglaise_." but the counsels of de güldenfeldt's friends fell on deaf ears. he took a hatred for the service, and never for a moment in the future did he regret his former busy and interesting life. he made england the country of his adoption, buying himself a small but beautiful estate in one of the western counties. there, surrounded by his lovely garden and orchid houses, his books, and portraits and souvenirs of pearl, he passed--if not a happy--at any rate a peaceful existence, and when not at home he spent much of his time with the nicholsons, whose lovely place was in the adjoining county. his devotion to his god-daughter, pearl nicholson, was profound. and to her alone was he ever known to mention the name of his dead love. many were the talks that this strange pair, the elderly, saddened man and the innocent child, held on this subject. but to the last, to no other person, not even to rosina or to amy, did stanislas de güldenfeldt ever refer directly to that unforgotten page that influenced every thought and action of his life. this sweet confidence between the man and child had arisen in this way. seven or eight years after pearl's death, while the nicholsons were paying their annual visit to lynlath, stanislas entered one day, somewhat unexpectedly, into his library. there, in front of a full length and most successful portrait of mrs. nugent, painted after her death from photographs and description, was standing, with uplifted head and sorrowful visage--his little god-daughter. the child's hands were clasped behind her back, and the same gleam of sun that lit up the sweet, lovely face of the portrait fell across the golden locks of the little girl, as she turned towards stanislas with tears streaming down her cheeks. "you have, godpapa," she said, "so many pictures of this beautiful lady with the large grey eyes. what lovely hair she has! but what a sad, sad face! i feel i love her so, and often and often i come in here and look at her, and she seems to talk to me. tell me about her, godpapa. did you love her too?" and stanislas de güldenfeldt took pearl's namesake on his knee, and with sad eyes gazing back far into the past he told her of his eternal love. _printed by holland rowbottom, "graphic" office, bournemouth._ transcriber notes: passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_. small caps were replaced with all caps. throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. those words were retained as-is. errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted. on page 2, "excidedly" was replaced with "excitedly". on page 17, "obtaintaining" was replaced with "obtaining". on page 17, "to to" was replaced with "to". on page 59, a quotation mark was added before "by jove!". on page 64, the comma after "ashamed to acknowledge her as his cousin" was replaced with a period. on page 87, "shirne" was replaced with "shrine". on page 118, "cousins,and" was replaced with "cousins, and". one page 132, "mrs" was replaced with "mrs." on page 192, "rivetted" was replaced with "riveted". on page 201, a period was added after "as she recalled those moment". on page 220, a quotation mark was added after "and--and----" on page 225, "with-without" was replaced with "without". on page 264, "pursuade" was replaced with "persuade". [illustration: the head and shoulders of a man rose quickly above the ledge (_page 265_)] the city of masks by george barr mccutcheon author of "mr. bingle," "jane cable," "black is white," etc. [illustration] with frontispiece by may wilson preston a. l. burt company publishers new york published by arrangement with dodd, mead & company copyright, 1918 by dodd, mead and company, inc printed in u. s. a. contents chapter page i lady jane thorne comes to dinner 1 ii out of the four corners of the earth 12 iii the city of masks 24 iv the scion of a new york house 37 v mr. thomas trotter hears something to his advantage 50 vi the unfailing memory 67 vii the foundation of the plot 79 viii lady jane goes about it promptly 94 ix mr. trotter falls into a new position 110 x putting their heads--and hearts--together 121 xi winning by a nose 134 xii in the fog 155 xiii not clouds alone have linings 172 xiv diplomacy 188 xv one night at spangler's 202 xvi scotland yard takes a hand 219 xvii friday for luck 233 xviii friday for bad luck 250 xix from darkness to light 263 xx an exchange of courtesies 279 xxi the bride-elect 294 xxii the beginning 307 the city of masks chapter i lady jane thorne comes to dinner the marchioness carefully draped the dust-cloth over the head of an andiron and, before putting the question to the parlour-maid, consulted, with the intensity of a near-sighted person, the ornate french clock in the centre of the mantelpiece. then she brushed her fingers on the voluminous apron that almost completely enveloped her slight person. "well, who is it, julia?" "it's lord temple, ma'am, and he wants to know if you're too busy to come to the 'phone. if you are, i'm to ask you something." the marchioness hesitated. "how do you know it is lord eric? did he mention his name?" "he did, ma'am. he said 'this is tom trotter speaking, julia, and is your mistress disengaged?' and so i knew it couldn't be any one else but his lordship." "and what are you to ask me?" "he wants to know if he may bring a friend around tonight, ma'am. a gentleman from constantinople, ma'am." "a turk? he knows i do not like turks," said the marchioness, more to herself than to julia. "he didn't say, ma'am. just constantinople." the marchioness removed her apron and handed it to julia. you would have thought she expected to confront lord temple in person, or at least that she would be fully visible to him despite the distance and the intervening buildings that lay between. tucking a few stray locks of her snow-white hair into place, she approached the telephone in the hall. she had never quite gotten over the impression that one could be seen through as well as heard over the telephone. she always smiled or frowned or gesticulated, as occasion demanded; she was never languid, never bored, never listless. a chat was a chat, at long range or short; it didn't matter. "are you there? good evening, mr. trotter. so charmed to hear your voice." she had seated herself at the little old italian table. mr. trotter devoted a full two minutes to explanations. "do bring him with you," cried she. "your word is sufficient. he _must_ be delightful. of course, i shuddered a little when you mentioned constantinople. i always do. one can't help thinking of the armenians. eh? oh, yes,--and the harems." mr. trotter: "by the way, are you expecting lady jane tonight?" the marchioness: "she rarely fails us, mr. trotter." mr. trotter: "right-o! well, good-bye,--and thank you. i'm sure you will like the baron. he is a trifle seedy, as i said before,--sailing vessel, you know, and all that sort of thing. by way of cape town,--pretty well up against it for the past year or two besides,--but a regular fellow, as they say over here." the marchioness: "where did you say he is stopping?" mr. trotter: "can't for the life of me remember whether it's the 'sailors' loft' or the 'sailors' bunk.' he told me too. on the water-front somewhere. i knew him in hong kong. he says he has cut it all out, however." the marchioness: "cut it all out, mr. trotter?" mr. trotter, laughing: "drink, and all that sort of thing, you know. jolly good thing too. i give you my personal guarantee that he--" the marchioness: "say no more about it, mr. trotter. i am sure we shall all be happy to receive any friend of yours. by the way, where are you now--where are you telephoning from?" mr. trotter: "drug store just around the corner." the marchioness: "a booth, i suppose?" mr. trotter: "oh, yes. tight as a sardine box." the marchioness: "good-bye." mr. trotter: "oh--hello? i beg your pardon--are you there? ah, i--er--neglected to mention that the baron may not appear at his best tonight. you see, the poor chap is a shade large for my clothes. naturally, being a sailor-man, he hasn't--er--a very extensive wardrobe. i am fixing him out in a--er--rather abandoned evening suit of my own. that is to say, i abandoned it a couple of seasons ago. rather nobby thing for a waiter, but not--er--what you might call--" the marchioness, chuckling: "quite good enough for a sailor, eh? please assure him that no matter what he wears, or how he looks, he will not be conspicuous." after this somewhat ambiguous remark, the marchioness hung up the receiver and returned to the drawing-room; a prolonged search revealing the dust-cloth on the "nub" of the andiron, just where she had left it, she fell to work once more on the velvety surface of a rare old spanish cabinet that stood in the corner of the room. "don't you want your apron, ma'am?" inquired julia, sitting back on her heels and surveying with considerable pride the leg of an enormous throne seat she had been rubbing with all the strength of her stout arms. her mistress ignored the question. she dabbed into a tiny recess and wriggled her finger vigorously. "i can't imagine where all the dust comes from, julia," she said. "some of it comes from italy, and some of it from spain, and some from france," said julia promptly. "you could rub for a hundred years, ma'am, and there'd still be dust that you couldn't find, not to save your soul. and why not? i'd bet my last penny there's dust on that cabinet this very minute that settled before napoleon was born, whenever that was." "i daresay," said the marchioness absently. more often than otherwise she failed to hear all that julia said to her, or in her presence rather, for julia, wise in association, had come to consider these lapses of inattention as openings for prolonged and rarely coherent soliloquies on topics of the moment. julia, by virtue of long service and a most satisfying avoidance of matrimony, was a privileged servant between the hours of eight in the morning and eight in the evening. after eight, or more strictly speaking, the moment dinner was announced, julia became a perfect servant. she would no more have thought of addressing the marchioness as "ma'am" than she would have called the king of england "mister." she had crossed the atlantic with her mistress eighteen years before; in mid-ocean she celebrated her thirty-fifth birthday, and, as she had been in the family for ten years prior to that event, even a child may solve the problem that here presents a momentary and totally unnecessary break in the continuity of this narrative. julia was english. she spoke no other language. beginning with the soup, or the _hors d'oeuvres_ on occasion, french was spoken in the house of the marchioness. physically unable to speak french and psychologically unwilling to betray her ignorance, julia became a model servant. she lapsed into perfect silence. the marchioness seldom if ever dined alone. she always dined in state. her guests,--english, italian, russian, belgian, french, spanish, hungarian, austrian, german,--conversed solely in french. it was a very agreeable way of symphonizing babel. the room in which she and the temporarily imperfect though treasured servant were employed in the dusk of this stormy day in march was at the top of an old-fashioned building in the busiest section of the city, a building that had, so far, escaped the fate of its immediate neighbours and remained, a squat and insignificant pygmy, elbowing with some arrogance the lofty structures that had shot up on either side of it with incredible swiftness. it was a large room, at least thirty by fifty feet in dimensions, with a vaulted ceiling that encroached upon the space ordinarily devoted to what architects, builders and the board of health describe as an air chamber, next below the roof. there was no elevator in the building. one had to climb four flights of stairs to reach the apartment. from its long, heavily curtained windows one looked down upon a crowded cross-town thoroughfare, or up to the summit of a stupendous hotel on the opposite side of the street. there was a small foyer at the rear of this lofty room, with an entrance from the narrow hall outside. suspended in the wide doorway between the two rooms was a pair of blue velvet italian portières of great antiquity and, to a connoisseur, unrivaled quality. beyond the foyer and extending to the area wall was the rather commodious dining-room, with its long oaken english table, its high-back chairs, its massive sideboard and the chandelier that is said to have hung in the doges' palace when the bridge of sighs was a new and thriving avenue of communication. at least, so stated the dealer's tag tucked carelessly among the crystal prisms, supplying the observer with the information that, in case one was in need of a chandelier, its price was five hundred guineas. the same curious-minded observer would have discovered, if he were not above getting down on his hands and knees and peering under the table, a price tag; and by exerting the strength necessary to pull the sideboard away from the wall, a similar object would have been exposed. in other words, if one really wanted to purchase any article of furniture or decoration in the singularly impressive apartment of the marchioness, all one had to do was to signify the desire, produce a check or its equivalent, and give an address to the competent-looking young woman who would put in an appearance with singular promptness in response to a couple of punches at an electric button just outside the door, any time between nine and five o'clock, sundays included. the drawing-room contained many priceless articles of furniture, wholly antique--(and so guaranteed), besides rugs, draperies, tapestries and stuffs of the rarest quality. bronzes, porcelains, pottery, things of jade and alabaster, sconces, candlesticks and censers, with here and there on the walls lovely little "primitives" of untold value. the most exotic taste had ordered the distribution and arrangement of all these objects. there was no suggestion of crowding, nothing haphazard or bizarre in the exposition of treasure, nothing to indicate that a cheap intelligence revelled in rich possessions. you would have sat down upon the first chair that offered repose and you would have said you had wandered inadvertently into a palace. then, emboldened by an interest that scorned politeness, you would have got up to inspect the riches at close range,--and you would have found price-marks everywhere to overcome the impression that aladdin had been rubbing his lamp all the way up the dingy, tortuous stairs. you are not, however, in the shop of a dealer in antiques, price-marks to the contrary. you are in the home of a marchioness, and she is not a dealer in old furniture, you may be quite sure of that. she does not owe a penny on a single article in the apartment nor does she, on the other hand, own a penny's worth of anything that meets the eye,--unless, of course, one excepts the dust-cloth and the can of polish that follows julia about the room. nor is it a loan exhibit, nor the setting for a bazaar. the apartment being on the top floor of a five-story building, it is necessary to account for the remaining four. in the rear of the fourth floor there was a small kitchen and pantry from which a dumb-waiter ascended and descended with vehement enthusiasm. the remainder of the floor was divided into four rather small chambers, each opening into the outer hall, with two bath-rooms inserted. each of these rooms contained a series of lockers, not unlike those in a club-house. otherwise they were unfurnished except for a few commonplace cane bottom chairs in various stages of decrepitude. the third floor represented a complete apartment of five rooms, daintily furnished. this was where the marchioness really lived. commerce, after a fashion, occupied the two lower floors. it stopped short at the bottom of the second flight of stairs where it encountered an obstacle in the shape of a grill-work gate that bore the laconic word "private," and while commerce may have peeped inquisitively through and beyond the barrier it was never permitted to trespass farther than an occasional sly, surreptitious and unavailing twist of the knob. the entire second floor was devoted to work-rooms in which many sewing machines buzzed during the day and went to rest at six in the evening. tables, chairs, manikins, wall-hooks and hangers thrust forward a bewildering assortment of fabrics in all stages of development, from an original uncut piece to a practically completed garment. in other words, here was the work-shop of the most exclusive, most expensive _modiste_ in all the great city. the ground floor, or rather the floor above the english basement, contained the _salon_ and fitting rooms of an establishment known to every woman in the city as deborah's. to return to the marchioness and julia. "not that a little dust or even a great deal of dirt will make any different to the princess," the former was saying, "but, just the same, i feel better, if i _know_ we've done our best." "thank the lord, she don't come very often," was julia's frank remark. "it's the stairs, i fancy." "and the car-fare," added her mistress. "is it six o'clock, julia?" "yes, ma'am, it is." the marchioness groaned a little as she straightened up and tossed the dust-cloth on the table. "it catches me right across here," she remarked, putting her hand to the small of her back and wrinkling her eyes. "you shouldn't be doing my work," scolded julia. "it's not for the likes of you to be--" "i shall lie down for half an hour," said the marchioness calmly. "come at half-past six, julia." "just lady jane, ma'am? no one else?" "no one else," said the other, and preceded julia down the two flights of stairs to the charming little apartment on the third floor. "she is a dear girl, and i enjoy having her all to myself once in a while." "she is so, ma'am," agreed julia, and added. "the oftener the better." at half-past seven julia ran down the stairs to open the gate at the bottom. she admitted a slender young woman, who said, "thank you," and "good evening, julia," in the softest, loveliest voice imaginable, and hurried up, past the apartment of the marchioness, to the fourth floor. julia, in cap and apron, wore a pleased smile as she went in to put the finishing touches on the coiffure of her mistress. "pity there isn't more like her," she said, at the end of five minutes' reflection. patting the silvery crown of the marchioness, she observed in a less detached manner: "as i always says, the wonderful part is that it's all your own, ma'am." "i am beginning to dread the stairs as much as any one," said the marchioness, as she passed out into the hall and looked up the dimly lighted steps. "that is a bad sign, julia." a mass of coals crackled in the big fireplace on the top floor, and a tall man in the resplendent livery of a footman was engaged in poking them up when the marchioness entered. "bitterly cold, isn't it, moody?" inquired she, approaching with stately tread, her lorgnon lifted. "it is, my lady,--extremely nawsty," replied moody. "the trams are a bit off, or i should 'ave 'ad the coals going 'alf an hour sooner than--ahem! they call it a blizzard, my lady." "i know, thank you, moody." "thank you, my lady," and he moved stiffly off in the direction of the foyer. the marchioness languidly selected a magazine from the litter of periodicals on the table. it was _la figaro_, and of recent date. there were magazines from every capital in europe on that long and time-worn table. a warm, soft light filled the room, shed by antique lanthorns and wall-lamps that gave forth no cruel glare. standing beside the table, the marchioness was a remarkable picture. the slight, drooping figure of the woman with the dust-cloth and creaking knees had been transformed, like cinderella, into a fairly regal creature attired in one of the most fetching costumes ever turned out by the rapacious deborah, of the first floor front! the foyer curtains parted, revealing the plump, venerable figure of a butler who would have done credit to the lordliest house in all england. "lady jane thorne," he announced, and a slim, radiant young person entered the room, and swiftly approached the smiling marchioness. chapter ii out of the four corners of the earth "am i late?" she inquired, a trace of anxiety in her smiling blue eyes. she was clasping the hand of the taut little marchioness, who looked up into the lovely face with the frankest admiration. "i have only this instant finished dressing," said her hostess. "moody informs me we're in for a blizzard. is it so bad as all that?" "what a perfectly heavenly frock!" cried lady jane thorne, standing off to take in the effect. "turn around, do. exquisite! dear me, i wish i could--but there! wishing is a form of envy. we shouldn't wish for anything, marchioness. if we didn't, don't you see how perfectly delighted we should be with what we have? oh, yes,--it is a horrid night. the trolley-cars are blocked, the omnibuses are stalled, and walking is almost impossible. how good the fire looks!" "cheerful, isn't it? now you must let me have my turn at wishing, my dear. if i could have my wish, you would be disporting yourself in the best that deborah can turn out, and you would be worth millions to her as an advertisement. you've got style, figure, class, verve--everything. you carry your clothes as if you were made for them and not the other way round." "this gown is so old i sometimes think i _was_ made for it," said the girl gaily. "i can't remember when it was made for _me_." moody had drawn two chairs up to the fire. "rubbish!" said the marchioness, sitting down. "toast your toes, my dear." lady jane's gown was far from modish. in these days of swift-changing fashions for women, it had become passé long before its usefulness or its beauty had passed. any woman would have told you that it was a "season before last model," which would be so distantly removed from the present that its owner may be forgiven the justifiable invention concerning her memory. but lady jane's figure was not old, nor passé, nor even a thing to be forgotten easily. she was straight, and slim, and sound of body and limb. that is to say, she stood well on her feet and suggested strength rather than fragility. her neck and shoulders were smooth and white and firm; her arms shapely and capable, her hands long and slender and aristocratic. her dark brown hair was abundant and wavy;--it had never experienced the baleful caress of a curling-iron. her firm, red lips were of the smiling kind,--and she must have known that her teeth were white and strong and beautiful, for she smiled more often than not with parted lips. there was character, intelligence and breeding in her face. she wore a simple black velvet gown, close-fitting,--please remember that it was of an antiquity not even surpassed, as things go, by the oldest rug in the apartment,--with a short train. she was fully a head taller than the marchioness, which isn't saying much when you are informed that the latter was at least half-a-head shorter than a woman of medium height. on the little finger of her right hand she wore a heavy seal ring of gold. if you had known her well enough to hold her hand--to the light, i mean,--you would have been able to decipher the markings of a crest, notwithstanding the fact that age had all but obliterated the lines. dinner was formal only in the manner in which it was served. behind the chair of the marchioness, moody posed loftily when not otherwise employed. a critical observer would have taken note of the threadbare condition of his coat, especially at the elbows, and the somewhat snug way in which it adhered to him, fore and aft. indeed, there was an ever-present peril in its snugness. he was painfully deliberate and detached. from time to time, a second footman, addressed as mcfaddan, paused back of lady jane. his chin was not quite so high in the air as moody's; the higher he raised it the less it looked like a chin. mcfaddan, you would remark, carried a great deal of weight above the hips. the ancient butler, cricklewick, decanted the wine, lifted his right eyebrow for the benefit of moody, the left in directing mcfaddan, and cringed slightly with each trip upward of the dumb-waiter. the marchioness and lady jane were in a gay mood despite the studied solemnity of the three servants. as dinner has no connection with this narrative except to introduce an effect of opulence, we will hurry through with it and allow moody and mcfaddan to draw back the chairs on a signal transmitted by cricklewick, and return to the drawing-room with the two ladies. "a quarter of nine," said the marchioness, peering at the french clock through her lorgnon. "i am quite sure the princess will not venture out on such a night as this." "she's really quite an awful pill," said lady jane calmly. "i for one sha'n't be broken-hearted if she doesn't venture." "for heaven's sake, don't let cricklewick hear you say such a thing," said the marchioness in a furtive undertone. "i've heard cricklewick say even worse," retorted the girl. she lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. "no longer ago than yesterday he told me that she made him tired, or something of the sort." "poor cricklewick! i fear he is losing ambition," mused the marchioness. "an ideal butler but a most dreary creature the instant he attempts to be a human being. it isn't possible. mcfaddan is quite human. that's why he is so fat. i am not sure that i ever told you, but he was quite a slim, puny lad when cricklewick took him out of the stables and made a very decent footman out of him. that was a great many years ago, of course. camelford left him a thousand pounds in his will. i have always believed it was hush money. mcfaddan was a very wide-awake chap in those days." the marchioness lowered one eye-lid slowly. "and, by all reports, the marquis of camelford was very well worth watching," said lady jane. "hear the wind!" cried the marchioness, with a little shiver. "how it shrieks!" "we were speaking of the marquis," said lady jane. "but one may always fall back on the weather," said the marchioness drily. "even at its worst it is a pleasanter thing to discuss than camelford. you can't get anything out of me, my dear. i was his next door neighbour for twenty years, and i don't believe in talking about one's neighbour." lady jane stared for a moment. "but--how quaint you are!--you were married to him almost as long as that, were you not?" "my clearest,--i may even say my dearest,--recollection of him is as a neighbour, lady jane. he was most agreeable next door." cricklewick appeared in the door. "count antonio fogazario," he announced. a small, wizened man in black satin knee-breeches entered the room and approached the marchioness. with courtly grace he lifted her fingers to his lips and, in a voice that quavered slightly, declared in french that his joy on seeing her again was only surpassed by the hideous gloom he had experienced during the week that had elapsed since their last meeting. "but now the gloom is dispelled and i am basking in sunshine so rare and soft and--" "my dear count," broke in the marchioness, "you forget that we are enjoying the worst blizzard of the year." "enjoying,--vastly enjoying it!" he cried. "it is the most enchanting blizzard i have ever known. ah, my dear lady jane! this _is_ delightful!" his sharp little face beamed with pleasure. the vast pleated shirt front extended itself to amazing proportions, as if blown up by an invisible though prodigious bellows, and his elbow described an angle of considerable elevation as he clasped the slim hand of the tall young woman. the crown of his sleek black toupee was on a line with her shoulder. "god bless me," he added, in a somewhat astonished manner, "this is most gratifying. i could not have lifted it half that high yesterday without experiencing the most excruciating agony." he worked his arm up and down experimentally. "quite all right, quite all right. i feared i was in for another siege. i cannot tell you how delighted i am. ahem! where was i? oh, yes--this is a pleasure, lady jane, a positive delight. how charming you are look--" "save your compliments, count, for the princess," interrupted the girl, smiling. "she is coming, you know." "i doubt it," he said, fumbling for his snuff-box. "i saw her this afternoon. chilblains. weather like this, you see. quite a distance from her place to the street-cars. frightful going. i doubt it very much. now, what was it she said to me this afternoon? something very important, i remember distinctly,--but it seems to have slipped my mind completely. i am fearfully annoyed with myself. i remember with great distinctness that it was something i was determined to remember, and here i am forgetting--ah, let me see! it comes to me like a flash. i have it! she said she felt as though she had a cold coming on or something like that. yes, i am sure that was it. i remember she blew her nose frequently, and she always makes a dreadful noise when she blows her nose. a really unforgettable noise, you know. now, when i blow my nose, i don't behave like an elephant. i--" "you blow it like a gentleman," interrupted the marchioness, as he paused in some confusion. "indeed i do," he said gratefully. "in the most polished manner possible, my dear lady." lady jane put her handkerchief to her lips. there was a period of silence. the count appeared to be thinking with great intensity. he had a harassed expression about the corners of his nose. it was he who broke the silence. he broke it with a most tremendous sneeze. "the beastly snuff," he said in apology. cricklewick's voice seemed to act as an echo to the remark. "the right-honourable mrs. priestly-duff," he announced, and an angular, middle-aged lady in a rose-coloured gown entered the room. she had a very long nose and prominent teeth; her neck was of amazing length and appeared to be attached to her shoulders by means of vertical, skin-covered ropes, running from torso to points just behind her ears, where they were lost in a matting of faded, straw-coloured hair. on second thought, it may be simpler to remark that her neck was amazingly scrawny. it will save confusion. her voice was a trifle strident and her french execrable. "isn't it awful?" she said as she joined the trio at the fireplace. "i thought i'd never get here. two hours coming, my dear, and i must be starting home at once if i want to get there before midnight." "the princess will be here," said the marchioness. "i'll wait fifteen minutes," said the new-comer crisply, pulling up her gloves. "i've had a trying day, marchioness. everything has gone wrong,--even the drains. they're frozen as tight as a drum and heaven knows when they'll get them thawed out! who ever heard of such weather in march?" "ah, my dear mrs. priestly-duff, you should not forget the beautiful sunshine we had yesterday," said the count cheerily. "precious little good it does today," she retorted, looking down upon him from a lofty height, and as if she had not noticed his presence before. "when did you come in, count?" "it is quite likely the princess will not venture out in such weather," interposed the marchioness, sensing squalls. "well, i'll stop a bit anyway and get my feet warm. i hope she doesn't come. she is a good deal of a wet blanket, you must admit." "wet blankets," began the count argumentatively, and then, catching a glance from the marchioness, cleared his throat, blew his nose, and mumbled something about poor people who had no blankets at all, god help them on such a night as this. lady jane had turned away from the group and was idly turning the leaves of the _illustrated london news_. the smallest intelligence would have grasped the fact that mrs. priestly-duff was not a genial soul. "who else is coming?" she demanded, fixing the little hostess with the stare that had just been removed from the back of lady jane's head. cricklewick answered from the doorway. "lord temple. baron--ahem!--whiskers--eh? baron wissmer. prince waldemar de bosky. count wilhelm frederick von blitzen." four young men advanced upon the marchioness, lord temple in the van. he was a tall, good-looking chap, with light brown hair that curled slightly above the ears, and eyes that danced. "this, my dear marchioness, is my friend, baron wissmer," he said, after bending low over her hand. the baron, whose broad hands were encased in immaculate white gloves that failed by a wide margin to button across his powerful wrists, smiled sheepishly as he enveloped her fingers in his huge palm. "it is good of you to let me come, marchioness," he said awkwardly, a deep flush spreading over his sea-tanned face. "if i manage to deport myself like the bull in the china shop, pray lay it to clumsiness and not to ignorance. it has been a very long time since i touched the hand of a marchioness." "small people, like myself, may well afford to be kind and forgiving to giants," said she, smiling. "dear me, how huge you are." "i was once in the emperor's guard," said he, straightening his figure to its full six feet and a half. "the blue hussars. i may add with pride that i was not so horribly clumsy in regimentals. after all, it is the clothes that makes the man." he smiled as he looked himself over. "i shall not be at all offended or even embarrassed if you say 'goodness, how you have grown!'" "the best tailor in london made that suit of clothes," said lord temple, surveying his friend with an appraising eye. out of the corner of the same eye he explored the region beyond the group that now clustered about the hostess. evidently he discovered what he was looking for. leaving the baron high and dry, he skirted the edge of the group and, with beaming face, came to lady jane. "my family is of vienna," the baron was saying to the marchioness, "but of late years i have called constantinople my home." "i understand," said she gently. she asked no other question, but, favouring him with a kindly smile, turned her attention to the men who lurked insignificantly in the shadow of his vast bulk. the prince was a pale, dreamy young man with flowing black hair that must have been a constant menace to his vision, judging by the frequent and graceful sweep of his long, slender hand in brushing the encroaching forelock from his eyes, over which it spread briefly in the nature of a veil. he had the fingers of a musician, the bearing of a violinist. his head drooped slightly toward his left shoulder, which was always raised a trifle above the level of the right. and there was in his soft brown eyes the faraway look of the detached. the insignia of his house hung suspended by a red ribbon in the centre of his white shirt front, while on the lapel of his coat reposed the emblem of the order of the golden star. he was a pole. count von blitzen, a fair-haired, pink-skinned german, urged himself forward with typical, not-to-be-denied arrogance, and crushed the fingers of the marchioness in his fat hand. his broad face beamed with an all-enveloping smile. "only patriots and lovers venture forth on such nights as this," he said, in a guttural voice that rendered his french almost laughable. "with an occasional thief or varlet," supplemented the marchioness. "ach, dieu," murmured the count. fresh arrivals were announced by cricklewick. for the next ten or fifteen minutes they came thick and fast, men and women of all ages, nationality and condition, and not one of them without a high-sounding title. they disposed themselves about the vast room, and a subdued vocal hubbub ensued. if here and there elderly guests, with gnarled and painfully scrubbed hands, preferred isolation and the pictorial contents of a magazine from the land of their nativity, it was not with snobbish intentions. they were absorbing the news from "home," in the regular weekly doses. the regal, resplendent countess du bara, of the opera, held court in one corner of the room. another was glorified by a petite baroness from the artists' colony far down-town, while a rather dowdy lady with a coronet monopolized the attention of a small group in the centre of the room. lady jane thorne and lord temple sat together in a dim recess beyond the great chair of state, and conversed in low and far from impersonal tones. cricklewick appeared in the doorway and in his most impressive manner announced her royal highness, the princess mariana theresa sebastano michelini celestine di pavesi. and with the entrance of royalty, kind reader, you may consider yourself introduced, after a fashion, to the real aristocracy of the city of new york, united states of america,--the titled riff-raff of the world's cosmopolis. chapter iii the city of masks new york is not merely a melting pot for the poor and the humble of the lands of the earth. in its capacious depths, unknown and unsuspected, float atoms of an entirely different sort: human beings with the blood of the high-born and lofty in their veins, derelicts swept up by the varying winds of adversity, adventure, injustice, lawlessness, fear and independence. lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses, counts and countesses, swarm to the metropolis in the course of the speeding year, heralded by every newspaper in the land, fêted and feasted and glorified by a capricious and easily impressed public; they pass with pomp and panoply and we let them go with reluctance and a vociferous invitation to come again. they come and they go, and we are informed each morning and evening of every move they have made during the day and night. we are told what they eat for breakfast, luncheon and dinner; what they wear and what they do not wear; where they are entertained and by whom; who they are and why; what they think of new york and--but why go on? we deny them privacy, and they think we are a wonderful, considerate and hospitable people. they go back to their homes in far-off lands,--and that is the end of them so far as we are concerned. they merely pause on the lip of the melting pot, briefly peer into its simmering depths, and then,--pass on. it is not with such as they that this narrative has to deal. it is not of the heralded, the glorified and the toasted that we tell, but of those who slip into the pot with the coarser ingredients, and who never, by any chance, become actually absorbed by the processes of integration but remain for ever as they were in the beginning: distinct foreign substances. from all quarters of the globe the drift comes to our shores. new york swallows the good with the bad, and thrives, like the cannibal, on the man-food it gulps down with ravenous disregard for consequences or effect. it rarely disgorges. it eats all flesh, foul or fair, and it drinks good red blood out of the same cup that offers a black and nauseous bile. it conceals its inward revulsion behind a bland, disdainful smile, and holds out its hands for more of the meat and poison that comes up from the sea in ships. it is the city of masks. its men and women hide behind a million masks; no man looks beneath the mask his neighbour wears, for he is interested only in that which he sees with the least possible effort: the surface. he sees his neighbour but he knows him not. he keeps his own mask in place and wanders among the millions, secure in the thought that all other men are as casual as he,--and as charitable. from time to time the newspapers come forward with stories that amaze and interest those of us who remain, and always will remain, romantic and impressionable. they tell of the royal princess living in squalor on the lower east side; of the heir to a baronetcy dying in poverty in a hospital somewhere up-town; of the countess who defies the wolf by dancing in the roof-gardens; of the lost arch-duke who has been recognized in a gang of stevedores; of the earl who lands in jail as an ordinary hobo; of the baroness who supports a shiftless husband and their offspring by giving music-lessons; of the retiring scholar who scorns a life of idleness and a coronet besides; of shifty ne'er-do-wells with titles at homes and aliases elsewhere; of fugitive lords and forgotten ladies; of thieves and bauds and wastrels who stand revealed in their extremity as the sons and daughters of noble houses. in this city of masks there are hundreds of men and women in whose veins the blood of a sound aristocracy flows. by choice or necessity they have donned the mask of obscurity. they tread the paths of oblivion. they toil, beg or steal to keep pace with circumstance. but the blood will not be denied. in the breast of each of these drifters throbs the pride of birth, in the soul of each flickers the unquenchable flame of caste. the mask is for the man outside, not for the man inside. recently there died in one of the municipal hospitals an old flower-woman, familiar for three decades to the thousands who thread their way through the maze of streets in the lower end of manhattan. to them she was known as old peg. to herself she was the princess feododric, born to the purple, daughter of one of the greatest families in russia. she was never anything but the princess to herself, despite the squalor in which she lived. her epitaph was written in the bold, black head-lines of the newspapers; but her history was laid away with her mask in a graveyard far from palaces--and flower-stands. her headstone revealed the uncompromising pride that survived her after death. by her direction it bore the name of feododric, eldest daughter of his highness, prince michael androvodski; born in st. petersburgh, september 12, 1841; died jan. 7, 1912; wife of james lumley, of county cork, ireland. it is of the high-born who dwell in low places that this tale is told. it is of an aristocracy that serves and smiles and rarely sneers behind its mask. when cricklewick announced the princess mariana theresa the hush of deference fell upon the assembled company. in the presence of royalty no one remained seated. she advanced slowly, ponderously into the room, bowing right and left as she crossed to the great chair at the upper end. one by one the others presented themselves and kissed the coarse, unlovely hand she held out to them. it was not "make-believe." it was her due. the blood of a king and a queen coursed through her veins; she had been born a princess royal. she was sixty, but her hair was as black as the coat of the raven. time, tribulation, and a harsh destiny had put each its own stamp upon her dark, almost sinister, face. the black eyes were sharp and calculating, and they did not smile with her thin lips. she wore a great amount of jewellery and a gown of blue velvet, lavishly bespangled and generously embellished with laces of many periods, values and, you could say, nativity. the honourable mrs. priestly-duff having been a militant suffragette before a sudden and enforced departure from england, was the only person there with the hardihood to proclaim, not altogether _sotto voce_, that the "get-up" was a fright. restraint vanished the instant the last kiss of tribute fell upon her knuckles. the princess put her hand to her side, caught her breath sharply, and remarked to the marchioness, who stood near by, that it was dreadful the way she was putting on weight. she was afraid of splitting something if she took a long, natural breath. "i haven't weighed myself lately," she said, "but the last time i had this dress on it felt like a kimono. look at it now! you could not stuff a piece of tissue paper between it and me to save your soul. i shall have to let it out a couple of--what were you about to say, count fogazario?" the little count, at the marchioness's elbow, repeated something he had already said, and added: "and if it continues there will not be a trolley-car running by midnight." the princess eyed him coldly. "that is just like a man," she said. "not the faintest idea of what we were talking about, marchioness." the count bowed. "you were speaking of tissue paper, princess," said he, stiffly. "i understood perfectly." once a week the marchioness held her amazing salon. strictly speaking, it was a co-operative affair. the so-called guests were in reality contributors to and supporters of an enterprise that had been going on for the matter of five years in the heart of unsuspecting new york. according to his or her means, each of these exiles paid the tithe or tax necessary, and became in fact a member of the inner circle. from nearly every walk in life they came to this common, converging point, and sat them down with their equals, for the moment laying aside the mask to take up a long-discarded and perhaps despised reality. they became lords and ladies all over again, and not for a single instant was there the slightest deviation from dignity or form. moral integrity was the only requirement, and that, for obvious reasons, was sometimes overlooked,--as for example in the case of the countess who eloped with the young artist and lived in complacent shame and happiness with him in a three-room flat in east nineteenth street. the artist himself was barred from the salon, not because of his ignoble action, but for the sufficient reason that he was of ignoble birth. outside the charmed conclave he was looked upon as a most engaging chap. and there was also the case of the appallingly amiable baron who had fired four shots at a russian grand-duke and got away with his life in spite of the vaunted secret service. it was of no moment whatsoever that one of his bullets accidentally put an end to the life of a guardsman. that was merely proof of his earnestness and in no way reflected on his standing as a nobleman. nor was it adequate cause for rejection that certain of these men and women were being sought by imperial governments because they were political fugitives, with prices on their heads. the marchioness, more prosperous than any of her associates, assumed the greater part of the burden attending this singular reversion to form. it was she who held the lease on the building, from cellar to roof, and it was she who paid that important item of expense: the rent. the marchioness was no other than the celebrated deborah, whose gowns issuing from the lower floors at prodigious prices, gave her a standing in new york that not even the plutocrats and parvenus could dispute. in private life she may have been a marchioness, but to all new york she was known as the queen of dressmakers. if you desired to consult deborah in person you inquired for mrs. sparflight, or if you happened to be a new customer and ignorant, you were set straight by an attendant (with a slight uplifting of the eyebrows) when you asked for madame "deborah." the ownership of the rare pieces of antique furniture, rugs, tapestries and paintings was vested in two members of the circle, one occupying a position in the centre of the ring, the other on the outer rim: count antonio fogazario and moody, the footman. for be it known that while moody reverted once a week to a remote order of existence he was for the balance of the time an exceedingly prosperous, astute and highly respected dealer in antiques, with a shop in madison avenue and a clientele that considered it the grossest impertinence to dispute the prices he demanded. he always looked forward to these "drawing-rooms," so to speak. it was rather a joy to disregard the aspirates. he dropped enough hs on a single evening to make up for a whole week of deliberate speech. as for count antonio, he was the purveyor of italian antiques and primitive paintings, "authenticity guaranteed," doing business under the name of "juneo & co., ltd. london, paris, rome, new york." he was known in the trade and at his bank as mr. juneo. occasionally the exigencies of commerce necessitated the substitution of an article from stock for one temporarily loaned to the fifth-floor drawing-room. during the seven days in the week, mr. moody and mr. juneo observed a strained but common equality. mr. moody contemptuously referred to mr. juneo as a second-hand dealer, while mr. juneo, with commercial bitterness, informed his patrons that pickett, inc., needed a lot of watching. but on these wednesday nights a vast abyss stretched between them. they were no longer rivals in business. mr. juneo, without the slightest sign of arrogance, put mr. moody in his place, and mr. moody, with perfect equanimity, quite properly stayed there. "a chair over here, moody," the count would say (to pickett, inc.,) and moody, with all the top-lofty obsequiousness of the perfect footman, would place a chair in the designated spot, and say: "h'anythink else, my lord? thank you, sir." on this particular wednesday night two topics of paramount interest engaged the attention of the company. the newspapers of that day had printed the story of the apprehension and seizure of one peter jolinski, wanted in warsaw on the charge of assassination. as count andreas verdray he was known to this exclusive circle of europeans, and to them he was a persecuted, unjustly accused fugitive from the land of his nativity. russian secret service men had run him to earth after five years of relentless pursuit. as a respectable, industrious window-washer he had managed for years to evade arrest for a crime he had not committed, and now he was in jail awaiting extradition and almost certain death at the hands of his intriguing enemies. a cultured scholar, a true gentleman, he was, despite his vocation, one of the most distinguished units in this little world of theirs. the authorities in warsaw charged him with instigating the plot to assassinate a powerful and autocratic officer of the crown. in more or less hushed voices, the assemblage discussed the unhappy event. the other topic was the need of immediate relief for the family of the baroness de flamme, who was on her death-bed in harlem and whose three small children, deprived of the support of a hard-working music-teacher and deserted by an unconscionably plebeian father, were in a pitiable state of destitution. acting on the suggestion of lord temple, who as thomas trotter earned a weekly stipend of thirty dollars as chauffeur for a prominent park avenue gentleman, a collection was taken, each person giving according to his means. the largest contribution was from count fogazario, who headed the list with twenty-five dollars. the marchioness was down for twenty. the smallest donation was from prince waldemar. producing a solitary coin, he made change, and after saving out ten cents for carfare, donated forty cents. cricklewick, moody and mcfaddan were not invited to contribute. no one would have dreamed of asking them to join in such a movement. and yet, of all those present, the three men-servants were in a better position than any one else to give handsomely. they were, in fact, the richest men there. the next morning, however, would certainly bring checks from their offices to the custodian of the fund, the hon. mrs. priestly-duff. they knew their places on wednesday night, however. the countess du bara, from the opera, sang later on in the evening; prince waldemar got out his violin and played; the gay young baroness from the artists' colony played accompaniments very badly on the baby grand piano; cricklewick and the footmen served coffee and sandwiches, and every one smoked in the dining-room. at eleven o'clock the princess departed. she complained a good deal of her feet. "it's the weather," she explained to the marchioness, wincing a little as she made her way to the door. "too bad," said the marchioness. "are we to be honoured on next wednesday night, your highness? you do not often grace our gatherings, you know. i--" "it will depend entirely on circumstances," said the princess, graciously. circumstances, it may be mentioned,--though they never were mentioned on wednesday nights,--had a great deal to do with the princess's actions. she conducted a pawn-shop in baxter street. as the widow and sole legatee of moses jacobs, she was quite a figure in the street. customers came from all corners of the town, and without previous appointment. report had it that mrs. jacobs was rolling in money. people slunk in and out of the front door of her place of business, penniless on entering, affluent on leaving,--if you would call the possession of a dollar or two affluence,--and always with the resolve in their souls to some day get even with the leech who stood behind the counter and doled out nickels where dollars were expected. it was an open secret that more than one of those who kissed the princess's hand in the marchioness's drawing-room carried pawnchecks issued by mrs. jacobs. business was business. sentiment entered the soul of the princess only on such nights as she found it convenient and expedient to present herself at the salon. it vanished the instant she put on her street clothes on the floor below and passed out into the night. avarice stepped in as sentiment stepped out, and one should not expect too much of avarice. for one, the dreamy, half-starved prince waldemar was rarely without pawnchecks from her delectable establishment. indeed it had been impossible for him to entertain the company on this stormy evening except for her grudging consent to substitute his overcoat for the stradivarius he had been obliged to leave the day before. without going too deeply into her history, it is only necessary to say that she was one of those wayward, wilful princesses royal who occasionally violate all tradition and marry good-looking young americans or englishmen, and disappear promptly and automatically from court circles. she ran away when she was nineteen with a young attaché in the british legation. it was the worst thing that could have happened to the poor chap. for years they drifted through many lands, finally ending in new york, where, their resources having been exhausted, she was forced to pawn her jewellery. the pawn-broker was one abraham jacobs, of baxter street. the young english husband, disheartened and thoroughly disillusioned, shot himself one fine day. by a single coincidence, a few weeks afterward, old abraham went to his fathers in the most agreeable fashion known to nature, leaving his business, including the princess's jewels, to his son moses. with rare foresight and acumen, mrs. brinsley (the princess, in other words), after several months of contemplative mourning, redeemed her treasure by marrying moses. and when moses, after begetting solomon, david and hannah, passed on at the age of twoscore years and ten, she continued the business with even greater success than he. she did not alter the name that flourished in large gold letters on the two show windows and above the hospitable doorway. for twenty years it had read: the royal exchange: m. jacobs, proprietor. and now you know all that is necessary to know about mariana, to this day a true princess of the blood. inasmuch as a large share of her business came through customers who preferred to visit her after the fall of night, there is no further need to explain her reply to the marchioness. when midnight came the marchioness was alone in the deserted drawing-room. the company had dispersed to the four corners of the storm-swept city, going by devious means and routes. they fared forth into the night _sans_ ceremony, _sans_ regalia. in the locker-rooms on the floor below each of these noble wights divested himself and herself of the raiment donned for the occasion. with the turning of a key in the locker door, barons became ordinary men, countesses became mere women, and all of them stole regretfully out of the passage at the foot of the first flight of stairs and shivered in the wind that blew through the city of masks. "i've got more money than i know what to do with, miss emsdale," said tom trotter, as they went together out into the bitter wind. "i'll blow you off to a taxi." "i couldn't think of it," said the erstwhile lady jane, drawing her small stole close about her neck. "but it's on my way home," said he. "i'll drop you at your front door. please do." "if i may stand half," she said resolutely. "we'll see," said he. "wait here in the doorway till i fetch a taxi from the hotel over there. oh, i say, herman, would you mind asking one of those drivers over there to pick us up here?" "sure," said herman, one time count wilhelm frederick von blitzen, who had followed them to the side-walk. "fierce night, ain'd it? py chiminy, ain'd it?" "where is your friend, mr. trotter," inquired miss emsdale, as the stalwart figure of one of the most noted head-waiters in new york struggled off against the wind. "he beat it quite a while ago," said he, with an enlightening grin. "oh?" said she, and met his glance in the darkness. a sudden warmth swept over her. chapter iv the scion of a new york house as miss emsdale and thomas trotter got down from the taxi, into a huge unbroken snowdrift in front of a house in one of the cross-town streets just off upper fifth avenue, a second taxi drew up behind them and barked a raucous command to pull up out of the way. but the first taxi was unable to do anything of the sort, being temporarily though explosively stalled in the drift along the curb. whereupon the fare in the second taxi threw open the door and, with an audible imprecation, plunged into the drift, just in time to witness the interesting spectacle of a lady being borne across the snow-piled sidewalk in the arms of a stalwart man; and, as he gazed in amazement, the man and his burden ascended the half-dozen steps leading to the storm-vestibule of the very house to which he himself was bound. his first shock of apprehension was dissipated almost instantly. the man's burden giggled quite audibly as he set her down inside the storm doors. that giggle was proof positive that she was neither dead nor injured. she was very much alive, there could be no doubt about it. but who was she? the newcomer swore softly as he fumbled in his trousers' pocket for a coin for the driver who had run him up from the club. after an exasperating but seemingly necessary delay he hurried up the steps. he met the stalwart burden-bearer coming down. a servant had opened the door and the late burden was passing into the hall. he peered sharply into the face of the man who was leaving, and recognized him. "hello," he said. "some one ill, trotter?" "no, mr. smith-parvis," replied trotter in some confusion. "disagreeable night, isn't it?" "in some respects," said young mr. smith-parvis, and dashed into the vestibule before the footman could close the door. miss emsdale turned at the foot of the broad stairway as she heard the servant greet the young master. a swift flush mounted to her cheeks. her heart beat a little faster, notwithstanding the fact that it had been beating with unusual rapidity ever since thomas trotter disregarded her protests and picked her up in his strong arms. "hello," he said, lowering his voice. there was a light in the library beyond. his father was there, taking advantage, no doubt, of the midnight lull to read the evening newspapers. the social activities of the smith-parvises gave him but little opportunity to read the evening papers prior to the appearance of the morning papers. "what is the bally rush?" went on the young man, slipping out of his fur-lined overcoat and leaving it pendant in the hands of the footman. miss emsdale, after responding to his hushed "hello" in an equally subdued tone, had started up the stairs. "it is very late, mr. smith-parvis. good night." "never too late to mend," he said, and was supremely well-satisfied with what a superior intelligence might have recorded as a cryptic remark but what, to him, was an awfully clever "come-back." he had spent three years at oxford. no beastly american college for him, by jove! overcoming a cultivated antipathy to haste,--which he considered the lowest form of ignorance,--he bounded up the steps, three at a time, and overtook her midway to the top. "i say, miss emsdale, i saw you come in, don't you know. i couldn't believe my eyes. what the deuce were you doing out with that common--er--chauffeur? d'you mean to say that you are running about with a chap of that sort, and letting him--" "if you _please_, mr. smith-parvis!" interrupted miss emsdale coldly. "good night!" "i don't mean to say you haven't the _right_ to go about with any one you please," he persisted, planting himself in front of her at the top of the steps. "but a common chauffeur--well, now, 'pon my word, miss emsdale, really you might just as well be seen with peasley down there." "peasley is out of the question," said she, affecting a wry little smile, as of self-pity. "he is tooken, as you say in america. he walks out with bessie, the parlour-maid." "walks out? good lord, you don't mean to say you'd--but, of course, you're spoofing me. one never knows how to take you english, no matter how long one may have lived in england. but i am serious. you cannot afford to be seen running around nights with fellows of that stripe. rotten bounders, that's what i call 'em. ever been out with him before?" "often, mr. smith-parvis," she replied calmly. "i am sure you would like him if you knew him better. he is really a very--" "nonsense! he is a good chauffeur, i've no doubt,--lawrie carpenter says he's a treasure, but i've no desire to know him any better. and i don't like to think of you knowing him quite as well as you do, miss emsdale. see what i mean?" "perfectly. you mean that you will go to your mother with the report that i am not a fit person to be with the children. isn't that what you mean?" "not at all. i'm not thinking of the kids. i'm thinking of myself. i'm pretty keen about you, and--" "aren't you forgetting yourself, mr. smith-parvis?" she demanded curtly. "oh, i know there'd be a devil of a row if the mater ever dreamed that i--oh, i say! don't rush off in a huff. wait a--" but she had brushed past him and was swiftly ascending the second flight of stairs. he stared after her in astonishment. he couldn't understand such stupidity, not even in a governess. there wasn't another girl in new york city, so far as he knew, who wouldn't have been pleased out of her boots to receive the significant mark of interest he was bestowing upon this lowly governess,--and here was she turning her back upon,--why, what was the matter with her? he passed his hand over his brow and blinked a couple of times. and she only a paid governess! it was incredible. he went slowly downstairs and, still in a sort of daze, found himself a few minutes later pouring out a large drink of whiskey in the dining-room. it was his habit to take a bottle of soda with his whiskey, but on this occasion he overcame it and gulped the liquor "neat." it appeared to be rather uplifting, so he had another. then he went up to his own room and sulked for an hour before even preparing for bed. the more he thought of it, the graver her unseemly affront became. "and to have her insult _me_ like that," he said to himself over and over again, "when not three minutes before she had let that bally bounder carry her up--by gad, i'll give her something to think about in the morning. she sha'n't do that sort of thing to me. she'll find herself out of a job and with a damned poor reference in her pocket if she gets gay with me. she'll come down from her high horse, all right, all right. positions like this one don't grow in the park. she's got to understand that. she can't go running around with chauffeurs and all--my god, to think that he had her in his arms! the one girl in all the world who has ever really made me sit up and take notice! gad, i--i can't stand it--i can't bear to think of her cuddling up to that--the damned bounder!" he sprang to his feet and bolted out into the hall. he was a spoiled young man with an aversion: an aversion to being denied anything that he wanted. in the brief history of the smith-parvis family he occupied many full and far from prosaic pages. smith-parvis, senior, was not a prodigal sort of person, and yet he had squandered a great many thousands of dollars in his time on smith-parvis, junior. it costs money to bring up young men like smith-parvis, junior; and by the same token it costs money to hold them down. the family history, if truthfully written, would contain passages in which the unbridled ambitions of smith-parvis, junior, overwhelmed everything else. there would be the chapters excoriating the two chorus-girls who, in not widely separated instances, consented to release the young man from matrimonial pledges in return for so much cash; and there would be numerous paragraphs pertaining to auction-bridge, and others devoted entirely to tailors; to say nothing of uncompromising café and restaurant keepers who preferred the smith-parvis money to the smith-parvis trade. the young man, having come to the conclusion that he wanted miss emsdale, ruthlessly decided to settle the matter at once. he would not wait till morning. he would go up to her room and tell her that if she knew what was good for her she'd listen to what he had to say. she was too nice a girl to throw herself away on a rotter like trotter. then, as he came to the foot of the steps, he remembered the expression in her eyes as she swept past him an hour earlier. it suddenly occurred to him to pause and reflect. the look she gave him, now that he thought of it, was not that of a timid, frightened menial. far from it! there was something imperious about it; he recalled the subtle, fleeting and hitherto unfamiliar chill it gave him. somewhat to his own amazement, he returned to his room and closed the door with surprising care. he usually slammed it. "dammit all," he said, half aloud, scowling at his reflection in the mirror across the room, "i--i wonder if she thinks she can put on airs with me." later on he regained his self-assurance sufficiently to utter an ultimatum to the invisible offender: "you'll be eating out of my hand before you're two days older, my fine lady, or i'll know the reason why." smith-parvis, junior, wore the mask of a gentleman. as a matter-of-fact, the entire smith-parvis family went about masked by a similar air of gentility. the hyphen had a good deal to do with it. the head of the family, up to the time he came of age, was william philander smith, commonly called bill by the young fellows in yonkers. a maternal uncle, name of parvis, being without wife or child at the age of seventy-eight, indicated a desire to perpetuate his name by hitching it to the sturdiest patronymic in the english language, and forthwith made a will, leaving all that he possessed to his only nephew, on condition that the said nephew and all his descendants should bear, henceforth and for ever, the name of smith-parvis. that is how it all came about. william philander, shortly after the fusion of names, fell heir to a great deal of money and in due time forsook yonkers for manhattan, where he took unto himself a wife in the person of miss angela potts, only child of the late simeon potts, esq., and mrs. potts, neither of whom, it would seem, had the slightest desire to perpetuate the family name. indeed, as angela was getting along pretty well toward thirty, they rather made a point of abolishing it before it was too late. the first-born of william philander and angela was christened stuyvesant van sturdevant smith-parvis, after one of the pottses who came over at a time when the very best families in holland, according to the infant's grandparents, were engaged in establishing an aristocracy at the foot of manhattan island. after stuyvesant,--ten years after, in fact,--came regina angela, who languished a while in the laps of the pottses and the smith-parvis nurses, and died expectedly. when stuyvie was fourteen the twins, lucille and eudora, came, and at that the smith-parvises packed up and went to england to live. stuyvie managed in some way to make his way through eton and part of the way through oxford. he was sent down in his third year. it wasn't so easy to have his own way there. moreover, he did not like oxford because the rest of the boys persisted in calling him an american. he didn't mind being called a new yorker, but they were rather obstinate about it. miss emsdale was the new governess. the redoubtable mrs. sparflight had recommended her to mrs. smith-parvis. since her advent into the home in fifth avenue, some three or four months prior to the opening of this narrative, a marked change had come over stuyvesant van sturdevant. it was principally noticeable in a recently formed habit of getting down to breakfast early. the twins and the governess had breakfast at half-past eight. up to this time he had detested the twins. of late, however, he appeared to have discovered that they were his sisters and rather interesting little beggars at that. they were very much surprised by his altered behaviour. to the new governess they confided the somewhat startling suspicion that stuyvie must be having softening of the brain, just as "grandpa" had when "papa" discovered that he was giving diamond rings to the servants and smiling at strangers in the street. it must be that, said they, for never before had stuyvie kissed them or brought them expensive candies or smiled at them as he was doing in these wonderful days. stranger still, he never had been polite or agreeable to governesses--before. he always had called them frumps, or cats, or freaks, or something like that. surely something must be the matter with him, or he wouldn't be so nice to miss emsdale. up to now he positively had refused to look at her predecessors, much less to sit at the same table with them. he said they took away his appetite. the twins adored miss emsdale. "we love you because you are so awfuly good," they were wont to say. "and so beautiful," they invariably added, as if it were not quite the proper thing to say. it was obvious to miss emsdale that stuyvesant endorsed the supplemental tribute of the twins. he made it very plain to the new governess that he thought more of her beauty than he did of her goodness. he ogled her in a manner which, for want of a better expression, may be described as possessive. instead of being complimented by his surreptitious admiration, she was distinctly annoyed. she disliked him intensely. he was twenty-five. there were bags under his eyes. more than this need not be said in describing him, unless one is interested in the tiny black moustache that looked as though it might have been pasted, with great precision, in the centre of his long upper lip,--directly beneath the spreading nostrils of a broad and far from aristocratic nose. his lips were thick and coarse, his chin a trifle undershot. physically, he was a well set-up fellow, tall and powerful. for reasons best known to himself, and approved by his parents, he affected a distinctly english manner of speech. in that particular, he frequently out-englished the english themselves. as for miss emsdale, she was a long time going to sleep. the encounter with the scion of the house had left her in a disturbed frame of mind. she laid awake for hours wondering what the morrow would produce for her. dismissal, no doubt, and with it a stinging rebuke for what mrs. smith-parvis would consider herself justified in characterizing as unpardonable misconduct in one employed to teach innocent and impressionable young girls. mingled with these dire thoughts were occasional thrills of delight. they were, however, of short duration and had to do with a pair of strong arms and a gentle, laughing voice. in addition to these shifting fears and thrills, there were even more disquieting sensations growing out of the unwelcome attentions of smith-parvis, junior. they were, so to speak, getting on her nerves. and now he had not only expressed himself in words, but had actually threatened her. there could be no mistake about that. her heart was heavy. she did not want to lose her position. the monthly checks she received from mrs. smith-parvis meant a great deal to her. at least half of her pay went to england, and sometimes more than half. a friendly solicitor in london obtained the money on these drafts and forwarded it, without fee, to the sick young brother who would never walk again, the adored young brother who had fallen prey to the most cruel of all enemies: infantile paralysis. jane thorne was the only daughter of the earl of wexham, who shot himself in london when the girl was but twelve years old. he left a penniless widow and two children. wexham manor, with all its fields and forests, had been sacrificed beforehand by the reckless, ill-advised nobleman. the police found a half-crown in his pocket when they took charge of the body. it was the last of a once imposing fortune. the widow and children subsisted on the charity of a niggardly relative. with the death of the former, after ten unhappy years as a dependent, jane resolutely refused to accept help from the obnoxious relative. she set out to earn a living for herself and the crippled boy. we find her, after two years of struggle and privation, installed as miss emsdale in the smith-parvis mansion, earning one hundred dollars a month. it is safe to say that if the smith-parvises had known that she was the daughter of an earl, and that her brother was an earl, there would have been great rejoicing among them; for it isn't everybody who can boast an earl's daughter as governess. one night in each week she was free to do as she pleased. it was, in plain words, her night out. she invariably spent it with the marchioness and the coterie of unmasked spirits from lands across the seas. what was she to say to mrs. smith-parvis if called upon to account for her unconventional return of the night before? how could she explain? her lips were closed by the seal of honour so far as the meetings above "deborah's" were concerned. a law unwritten but steadfastly observed by every member of that remarkable, heterogeneous court, made it impossible for her to divulge her whereabouts or actions on this and other agreeable "nights out." no man or woman in that company would have violated, even under the gravest pressure, the compact under which so many well-preserved secrets were rendered secure from exposure. stuyvesant, in his rancour, would draw an ugly picture of her midnight adventure. he would, no doubt, feel inspired to add a few conclusions of his own. her word, opposed to his, would have no effect on the verdict of the indulgent mother. she would stand accused and convicted of conduct unbecoming a governess! for, after all, thomas trotter was a chauffeur, and she couldn't make anything nobler out of him without saying that he wasn't thomas trotter at all. she arose the next morning with a splitting headache, and the fear of stuyvesant in her soul. he was waiting for her in the hall below. the twins were accorded an unusually affectionate greeting by their big brother. he went so far as to implant a random kiss on the features of each of the "brats," as he called them in secret. then he roughly shoved them ahead into the breakfast-room. fastening his gaze upon the pale, unsmiling face of miss emsdale, he whispered: "don't worry, my dear. mum's the word." he winked significantly. revolted, she drew herself up and hurried after the children, unpleasantly conscious of the leer of admiration that rested upon her from behind. he was very gay at breakfast. "mum's the word," he repeated in an undertone, as he drew back her chair at the conclusion of the meal. his lips were close to her ear, his hot breath on her cheek, as he bent forward to utter this reassuring remark. chapter v mr. thomas trotter hears something to his advantage two days later thomas trotter turned up at the old book shop of j. bramble, in lexington avenue. "well," he said, as he took his pipe out of his pocket and began to stuff tobacco into it, "i've got the sack." "got the sack?" exclaimed mr. bramble, blinking through his horn-rimmed spectacles. "you can't be serious." "it's the gospel truth," affirmed mr. trotter, depositing his long, graceful body in a rocking chair facing the sheet-iron stove at the back of the shop. "got my walking papers last night, bramby." "what's wrong? i thought you were a fixture on the job. what have you been up to?" "i'm blessed if i know," said the young man, shaking his head slowly. "kicked out without notice, that's all i know about it. two weeks' pay handed me; and a simple statement that he was putting some one on in my place today." "not even a reference?" "he offered me a good one," said trotter ironically. "said he would give me the best send-off a chauffeur ever had. i told him i couldn't accept a reference and a discharge from the same employer." "rather foolish, don't you think?" "that's just what he said. i said i'd rather have an explanation than a reference, under the circumstances." "um! what did he say to that?" "said i'd better take what he was willing to give." mr. bramble drew up a chair and sat down. he was a small, sharp-featured man of sixty, bookish from head to foot. "well, well," he mused sympathetically. "too bad, too bad, my boy. still, you ought to thank goodness it comes at a time when the streets are in the shape they're in now. almost impossible to get about with an automobile in all this snow, isn't it? rather a good time to be discharged, i should say." "oh, i say, that _is_ optimism. 'pon my soul, i believe you'd find something cheerful about going to hell," broke in trotter, grinning. "best way i know of to escape blizzards and snow-drifts," said mr. bramble, brightly. the front door opened. a cold wind blew the length of the book-littered room. "this bramble's?" piped a thin voice. "yes. come in and shut the door." an even smaller and older man than himself obeyed the command. he wore the cap of a district messenger boy. "mr. j. bramble here?" he quaked, advancing. "yes. what is it? a telegram?" demanded the owner of the shop, in some excitement. "i should say not. wires down everywheres. gee, that fire looks good. i gotta letter for you, mr. bramble." he drew off his red mittens and produced from the pocket of his thin overcoat, an envelope and receipt book. "sign here," he said, pointing. mr. bramble signed and then studied the handwriting on the envelope, his lips pursed, one eye speculatively cocked. "i've never seen the writing before. must be a new one," he reflected aloud, and sighed. "poor things!" "that establishes the writer as a woman," said trotter, removing his pipe. "otherwise you would have said 'poor devils.' now what do you mean by trifling with the women, you old rogue?" the loss of his position did not appear to have affected the nonchalant disposition of the good-looking mr. trotter. "god bless my soul," said mr. bramble, staring hard at the envelope, "i don't believe it is from one of them, after all. by 'one of them,' my lad, i mean the poor gentlewomen who find themselves obliged to sell their books in order to obtain food and clothing. they always write before they call, you see. saves 'em not only trouble but humiliation. the other kind simply burst in with a parcel of rubbish and ask how much i'll give for the lot. but this,--well, well, i wonder who it can be from? doesn't seem like the sort of writing--" "why don't you open it and see?" suggested his visitor. "a good idea," said mr. bramble; "a very clever thought. there _is_ a way to find out, isn't there?" his gaze fell upon the aged messenger, who warmed his bony hands at the stove. he paused, the tip of his forefinger inserted under the flap. "sit down and warm yourself, my friend," he said. "get your long legs out of the way, tom, and make room for him. that's right! must be pretty rough going outside for an old codger like you." the messenger "boy" sat down. "yes, sir, it sure is. takes 'em forever in this 'ere town to clean the snow off'n the streets. 'twasn't that way in my day." "what do you mean by your 'day'?" "haven't you ever heard about me?" demanded the old man, eyeing mr. bramble with interest. "can't say that i have." "well, can you beat that? there's a big, long street named after me way down town. my name is canal, jotham w. canal." he winked and showed his toothless gums in an amiable grin. "i used to be purty close to old boss tweed; kind of a lieutenant, you might say. things were so hot in the old town in those days that we used to charge a nickel apiece for snowballs. five cents apiece, right off the griddle. that's how hot it was in my day." "my word!" exclaimed mr. bramble. "he's spoofing you," said young mr. trotter. "my god," groaned the messenger, "if i'd only knowed you was english i'd have saved my breath. well, i guess i'll be on my way. is there an answer, mr. bramble?" "um--aw--i quite forgot the--" he tore open the envelope and held the missive to the light. "'pon my soul!" he cried, after reading the first few lines and then jumping ahead to the signature. "this is most extraordinary." he was plainly agitated as he felt in his pocket for a coin. "no answer,--that is to say,--none at present. ahem! that's all, boy. goodbye." mr. canal shuffled out of the shop,--and out of this narrative as well. "this will interest you," said mr. bramble, lowering his voice as he edged his chair closer to the young man. "it is from lady jane thorne--i should say, miss emsdale. bless my soul!" mr. trotter's british complacency was disturbed. he abandoned his careless sprawl in the chair and sat up very abruptly. "what's that? from lady jane? don't tell me it's anything serious. one would think she was on her deathbed, judging by the face you're--" "read it for yourself," said the other, thrusting the letter into trotter's hand. "it explains everything,--the whole blooming business. read it aloud. don't be uneasy," he added, noting the young man's glance toward the door. "no customers on a day like this. some one may drop in to get warm, but--aha, i see you are interested." an angry flush darkened trotter's face as his eyes ran down the page. "'dear mr. bramble: (she wrote) i am sending this to you by special messenger, hoping it may reach you before mr. trotter drops in. he has told me that he spends a good deal of his spare time in your dear old shop, browsing among the books. in the light of what may already have happened, i am quite sure you will see him today. i feel that i may write freely to you, for you are his friend and mine, and you will understand. i am greatly distressed. yesterday i was informed that he is to be summarily dismissed by mr. carpenter. i prefer not to reveal the source of information. all i may say is that i am, in a way, responsible for his misfortune. if the blow has fallen, he is doubtless perplexed and puzzled, and, i fear, very unhappy. influence has been brought to bear upon mr. carpenter, who, you may not be by way of knowing, is a close personal friend of the people in whose home i am employed. indeed, notwithstanding the difference in their ages, i may say that he is especially the friend of young mr. s-p. mr. trotter probably knows something about the nature of this friendship, having been kept out till all hours of the morning in his capacity as chauffeur. my object in writing to you is two-fold: first, to ask you to prevail upon him to act with discretion for the present, at least, as i have reason to believe that there may be an attempt to carry out a threat to "run him out of town"; secondly, to advise him that i shall stop at your place at five o'clock this afternoon in quest of a little book that now is out of print. please explain to him also that my uncertainty as to where a letter would reach him under these new conditions accounts for this message to you. sincerely your friend, "jane emsdale.'" "read it again, slowly," said mr. bramble, blinking harder than ever. "what time is it now?" demanded trotter, thrusting the letter into his own pocket. a quick glance at the watch on his wrist brought a groan of dismay from his lips. "good lord! a few minutes past ten. seven hours! hold on! i can almost see the words on your lips. i'll be discreet, so don't begin prevailing, there's a good chap. there's nothing to be said or done till i see her. but,--seven hours!" "stop here and have a bite of lunch with me," said mr. bramble, soothingly. "nothing could be more discreet than that," said trotter, getting up to pace the floor. he was frowning. "it's quite cosy in our little dining-room upstairs. if you prefer, i'll ask mirabeau to clear out and let us have the place to ourselves while--" "not at all. i'll stop with you, but i will not have poor old mirabeau evicted. we will show the letter to him. he is a frenchman and he can read between the lines far better than either of us." at twelve-thirty, mr. bramble stuck a long-used card in the front door and locked it from the inside. the world was informed, in bold type, that he had gone to lunch and would not return until one-thirty. in the rear of the floor above the book-shop were the meagrely furnished bedrooms and kitchen shared by j. bramble and pierre mirabeau, clock-maker and repairer. the kitchen was more than a kitchen. it was also a dining-room, a sitting-room and a scullery, and it was as clean and as neat as the proverbial pin. at the front was the work-shop of m. mirabeau, filled with clocks of all sizes, shapes and ages. back of this, as a sort of buffer between the quiet bedrooms and the busy resting-place of a hundred sleepless chimes, was located the combination store-room, utilized by both merchants: a musty, dingy place crowded with intellectual rubbish and a lapse of time. mirabeau, in response to a shout from the fat irishwoman who came in by the day to cook, wash and clean up for the tenants, strode briskly into the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. he was a tall, spare old man with uncommonly bright eyes and a long grey beard. his joy on beholding the young guest at their board was surpassed only by the dejection communicated to his sensitive understanding by the dismal expression on the faces of j. bramble and thomas trotter. he broke off in the middle of a sentence, and, still grasping the hand of the guest, allowed his gaze to dart from one to the other. "mon dieu!" he exclaimed, swiftly altering his tone to one of the deepest concern. "what has happened? has some one died? don't tell me it is your grandfather, my boy. don't tell me that the old villain has died at last and you will have to go back and step into his misguided boots. nothing else can--" "worse than that," interrupted trotter, smiling. "i've lost my situation." m. mirabeau heaved a sigh of relief. "ah! my heart beats again. still," with a vastly different sigh, "he cannot go on living for ever. the time is bound to come when you--" an admonitory cough from mr. bramble, and a significant jerk of the head in the direction of the kitchen-range, which was almost completely obscured by the person of mrs. o'leary, caused m. mirabeau to bring his remarks to an abrupt close. when he was twenty-five years younger, monsieur mirabeau, known to every one of consequence in paris by his true and lawful name, count andré drouillard, as handsome and as high-bred a gentleman as there was in all france, shot and killed, with all the necessary ceremony, a prominent though bourgeoise general in the french army, satisfactorily ending a liaison in which the countess and the aforesaid general were the principal characters. notwithstanding the fact that the duel had been fought in the most approved french fashion, which almost invariably (except, in case of accident) provides for a few well-scattered shots and subsequent embraces on the part of the uninjured adversaries, the general fell with a bullet through his heart. so great was the consternation of the republic, and so unpardonable the accuracy of the count, that the authorities deemed it advisable to make an example of the unfortunate nobleman. he was court-martialled by the army and sentenced to be shot. on the eve of the execution he escaped and, with the aid of friends, made his way into switzerland, where he found refuge in the home of a sequestered citizen who made antique clocks for a living. a price was put upon his head, and so relentless were the efforts to apprehend him that for months he did not dare show it outside the house of his protector. he repaid the clockmaker with honest toil. in course of time he became an expert repairer. with the confiscation of his estates in france, he resigned himself to the inevitable. he became a man without a country. one morning the newspapers in paris announced the death, by suicide, of the long-sought pariah. a few days later he was on his way to the united states. his widow promptly re-married and, sad to relate, from all reports lived happily ever afterwards. the bourgeoise general, in his tomb in france, was not more completely dead to the world than count andré drouillard; on the other hand, no livelier, sprightlier person ever lived than pierre mirabeau, repairer of clocks in lexington avenue. and so if you will look at it in quite the proper spirit, there is but one really morbid note in the story of m. mirabeau: the melancholy snuffing-out of the poor general,--and even that was brightened to some extent by the most sumptuous military funeral in years. "what do you make of it?" demanded mr. trotter, half-an-hour later in the crowded work-shop of the clockmaker. m. mirabeau held miss emsdale's letter off at arm's length, and squinted at it with great intensity, as if actually trying to read between the lines. "i have an opinion," said m. mirabeau, frowning. whereupon he rendered his deductions into words, and of his two listeners thomas trotter was the most dumbfounded. "but i don't know the blooming bounder," he exclaimed,--"except by sight and reputation. and i have reason to know that lady jane loathes and detests him." "aha! there we have it! why does she loathe and detest him?" cried m. mirabeau. "because, my stupid friend, he has been annoying her with his attentions. it is not an uncommon thing for rich young men to lose their heads over pretty young maids and nurses, and even governesses." "'gad, if i thought he was annoying her i'd--i'd--" "there you go!" cried mr. bramble, nervously. "just as she feared. she knew what she was about when she asked me to see that you did not do anything--" "hang it all, bramble, i'm not _doing_ anything, am i? i'm only _saying_ things. wait till i begin to do things before you preach." "that's just it!" cried mr. bramble. "you invariably do things when you get that look in your eyes. i knew you long before you knew yourself. you looked like that when you were five years old and wanted to thump bobby morgan, who was thirteen. you--" m. mirabeau interrupted. he had not been following the discussion. leaning forward, he eyed the young man keenly, even disconcertingly. "what is back of all this? admitting that young mr. s.-p. is enamoured of our lovely friend, what cause have you given him for jealousy? have you--" "great scot!" exclaimed trotter, fairly bouncing off the work-bench on which he sat with his long legs dangling. "why,--why, if _that's_ the way he feels toward her he must have had a horrible jolt the other night. good lord!" a low whistle followed the exclamation. "aha! now we are getting at the cause. we already have the effect. out with it," cried m. mirabeau, eager as a boy. his fine eyes danced with excitement. "now that i think of it, he saw me carry her up the steps the other night after we'd all been to the marchioness's. the night of the blizzard, you know. oh, i say! it's worse than i thought." he looked blankly from one to the other of the two old men. "carried her up the steps, eh? in your good strong arms, eh? and you say '_now_ that i think of it.' bless your heart, you scalawag, you've been thinking of nothing else since it happened. ah!" sighed m. mirabeau, "how wonderful it must have been! the feel of her in your arms, and the breath of her on your cheek, and--ah! it is a sad thing not to grow old. i am not growing old despite my seventy years. if i could but grow old, and deaf, and feeble, perhaps i should then be able to command the blood that thrills now with the thought of--but, alas! i shall never be so old as that! you say he witnessed this remarkable--ah--exhibition of strength on your part?" he spoke briskly again. "the snow was a couple of feet deep, you see," explained trotter, who had turned a bright crimson. "dreadful night, wasn't it, bramble?" "i know what kind of a night it was," said the old frenchman, delightedly. "my warmest congratulations, my friend. she is the loveliest, the noblest, the truest--" "i beg your pardon," interrupted trotter, stiffly. "it hasn't gone as far as all that." "it has gone farther than you think," said m. mirabeau shrewdly. "and that is why you were discharged without--" "by gad! the worst of it all is, she will probably get her walking papers too,--if she hasn't already got them," groaned the young man. "don't you see what has happened? the rotter has kicked up a rumpus about that innocent,--and if i do say it,--gallant act of mine the other night. they've had her on the carpet to explain. it looks bad for her. they're the sort of people you can't explain things to. what rotten luck! she needs the money and--" "nothing of the kind has happened," said m. mirabeau with conviction. "it isn't in young mr. s.-p.'s plans to have her dismissed. that would be--ah, what is it you say?--spilling the beans, eh? the instant she relinquishes her place in that household all hope is lost, so far as he is concerned. he is shrewd enough to realize that, my friend. you are the fly in his ointment. it is necessary to the success of his enterprise to be well rid of you. he doesn't want to lose sight of her, however. he--" "run me out of town, eh?" grated trotter, his thoughts leaping back to the passage in lady jane's letter. "easier said than done, he'll find." mr. bramble coughed. "are we not going it rather blindly? all this is pure speculation. the young man may not have a hand in the business at all." "he'll discover he's put his foot in it if he tries any game on me," said mr. trotter. m. mirabeau beamed. "there is always a way to checkmate the villain in the story. you see it exemplified in every melodrama on the stage and in every shilling shocker. the hero,--and you are our hero,--puts him to rout by marrying the heroine and living happily to a hale old age. what could be more beautiful than the marriage of lady jane thorne and lord eric carruthers ethelbert temple? mon dieu! it is--" "rubbish!" exclaimed mr. trotter, suddenly looking down at his foot, which was employed in the laudable but unnecessary act of removing a tiny shaving from a crack in the floor. "besides," he went on an instant later, acknowledging an interval of mental consideration, "she wouldn't have me." "it is my time to say 'rubbish,'" said the old frenchman. "why wouldn't she have you?" "because she doesn't care for me in that way, if you must know," blurted out the young man. "has she said so?" "of course not. she wouldn't be likely to volunteer the information, would she?" with fine irony. "then how do you know she doesn't care for you in that way?" "well, i--i just simply know it, that's all." "i see. you are the smartest man of all time if you know a woman's heart without probing into it, or her mind without tricking it. she permitted you to carry her up the steps, didn't she?" "she had to," said trotter forcibly. "that doesn't prove anything. and what's more, she objected to being carried." "um! what did she say?" "said she didn't in the least mind getting her feet wet. she'd have her boots off as soon as she got into the house." "is that all?" "she said she was awfully heavy, and--oh, there is no use talking to me. i know how to take a hint. she just didn't want me to--er--carry her, that's the long and the short of it." "did she struggle violently?" "what?" "you heard me. did she?" "certainly not. she gave in when i insisted. what else could she do?" he whirled suddenly upon mr. bramble. "what are you grinning about, bramby?" "who's grinning?" demanded mr. bramble indignantly, after the lapse of thirty or forty seconds. "you _were_, confound you. i don't see anything to laugh at in--" "my advice to you," broke in m. mirabeau, still detached, "is to ask her." "ask her? ask her what?" "to marry you. as i was saying--" "my god!" gasped trotter. "that is my advice also," put in mr. bramble, fumbling with his glasses and trying to suppress a smile,--for fear it would be misinterpreted. "i can't think of anything more admirable than the union of the temple and wexham families in--" "but, good lord," cried trotter, "even if she'd have me, how on earth could i take care of her on a chauffeur's pay? and i'm not getting that now. i wish to call your attention to the fact that your little hero has less than fifty pounds,--a good deal less than fifty,--laid by for a rainy day." "i've known a great many people who were married on rainy days," said m. mirabeau brightly, "and nothing unlucky came of it." "moreover, when your grandfather passes away," urged mr. bramble, "you will be a very rich man,--provided, of course, he doesn't remain obstinate and leave his money to some one else. in any event, you would come in for sufficient to--" "you forget," began trotter, gravely and with a dignity that chilled the eager old man, "that i will not go back to england, nor will i claim anything that is _in_ england, until a certain injustice is rectified and i am set straight in the eyes of the unbelievers." mr. bramble cleared his throat. "time will clear up everything, my lad. god knows you never did the--" "god knows it all right enough, but god isn't a member of the brunswick club, and his voice is never heard there in counsel. he may lend a helping hand to those who are trying to clear my name, because they believe in me, but the whole business is beginning to look pretty dark to me." "ahem! what does miss--ah, lady jane think about the--ah, unfortunate affair?" stammered mr. bramble. "she doesn't believe a damn' word of it," exploded trotter, his face lighting up. "good!" cried m. mirabeau. "proof that she pities you, and what more could you ask for a beginning? she believes you were unjustly accused of cheating at cards, that there was a plot to ruin you and to drive you out of the army, and that your grandfather ought to be hung to a lamp post for believing what she doesn't believe. good! now we are on solid, substantial ground. what time is it, bramble?" mr. bramble looked at a half-dozen clocks in succession. "i'm blessed if i know," he said. "they range from ten o'clock to half-past six." "just three hours and twenty-two minutes to wait," said thomas trotter. chapter vi the unfailing memory prince waldemar de bosky, confronted by the prospect of continued cold weather, decided to make an appeal to mrs. moses jacobs, sometime princess mariana di pavesi. she had his overcoat, the precious one with the fur collar and the leather lining,--the one, indeed, that the friendly safe-blower who lodged across the hall from him had left behind at the outset of a journey up-state. "more than likely," said the safe-blower, who was not only surprised but gratified when the "little dago" came to visit him in the tombs, "more than likely i sha'n't be needin' an overcoat for the next twelve or fourteen year, kid, so you ain't robbin' me,--no, sir, not a bit of it. i make you a present of it, with my compliments. winter is comin' on an' i can't seem to think of anybody it would fit better'n it does you. you don't need to mention as havin' received it from me. the feller who owned it before i did might accidentally hear of it and--but i guess it ain't likely, come to think of it. to the best of my recollection, he lives 'way out west somewhere,--toledo, i think, or maybe omaha,--and he's probably got a new one by this time. much obliged fer droppin' in here to see me, kid. so long,--and cut it out. don't try to come any of that thanks guff on me. you might as well be usin' that coat as the moths. besides, i owe you something for storage, don't forget that. i was in such a hurry the last time i left town i didn't have a chance to explain. you didn't know it then,--and i guess if you had knowed it you wouldn't have been so nice about lookin' out for my coat durin' the summer,--but i was makin' a mighty quick getaway. thanks fer stoppin' in to remind me i left the coat in your room that night. i clean forgot it, i was in such a hurry. but lemme tell you one thing, kid, i'll never ferget the way you c'n make that fiddle talk. i don't know as you'd 'a' played fer me as you used to once in awhile if you'd knowed i was what i am, but it makes no difference now. i just loved hearin' you play. i used to have a hard time holdin' in the tears. and say, kid, keep straight. keep on fiddlin'! so long! i may see you along about 1926 or 8. and say, you needn't be ashamed to wear that coat. i didn't steal it. it was a clean case of mistaken identity, if there ever was one. it happened in a restaurant." he winked. and that is how the little violinist came to be the possessor of an overcoat with a sable collar and a soft leather lining. he needed it now, not only when he ventured upon the chilly streets but when he remained indoors. in truth, he found it much warmer walking the streets than sitting in his fireless room, or even in going to bed. it was a far cry from the dapper, dreamy-eyed courtier who kissed the chapped knuckles of the princess mariana on wednesday night to the shrinking, pinched individual who threaded his way on friday through the cramped lanes that led to the rear of the pawn-shop presided over by mrs. jacobs. and an incredibly vast gulf lay between the princess mariana and the female shylock who peered at him over a glass show-case filled with material pledges in the shape of watches, chains, rings, bracelets, and other gaudy tributes left by a shifting constituency. "well?" she demanded, fixing him with a cold, offensive stare. "what do you want?" he turned down the collar of his thin coat, and straightened his slight figure in response to this unfriendly greeting. "i came to see if you would allow me to take my overcoat for a few days,--until this cold spell is over,--with the understanding--" "nothing doing," said she curtly. "six dollars due on it." "but i have not the six dollars, madam. surely you may trust me." "why didn't you bring your fiddle along? you could leave it in place of the coat. go and get it and i'll see what i can do." "i am to play tonight at the house of a mr. carpenter. he has heard of me through our friend mr. trotter, his chauffeur. you know mr. trotter, of course." "sure i know him, and i don't like him. he insulted me once." "ah, but you do not understand him, madam. he is an englishman and he may have tried to be facetious or even pleasant in the way the english--" "say, don't you suppose i know when i'm insulted? when a cheap guy like that comes in here with a customer of mine and tells me i'm so damned mean they won't even let me into hell when i die,--well, if you don't call that an insult, i'd like to know what it is. don't talk to me about that bum!" "is _that_ all he said?" involuntarily fell from the lips of the violinist, as if, to his way of thinking, mr. trotter's remark was an out-and-out compliment. "surely you have no desire to go to hell when you die." "no, i haven't, but i don't want anybody coming in here telling me to my face that there'd be a revolution down there if i _tried_ to get in. i've got as much right there as anybody, i'd have him know. cough up six or get out. that's all i've got to say to you, my little man." "it is freezing cold in my room. i--" "don't blame me for that. i don't make the weather. and say, i'm busy. cough up or--clear out." "you will not let me have it for a few days if i--" "say, do you think i'm in business for my health? i haven't that much use--" she snapped her fingers--"for a fiddler anyhow. it's not a man's job. that's what i think of long-haired guys like--beat it! i'm busy." with head erect the little violinist turned away. he was half way to the door when she called out to him. "hey! come back here! now, see here, you little squirt, you needn't go turning up your nose at me and acting like that. i've got the goods on you and a lot more of those rummies up there. i looked 'em over the other night and i said to myself, says i: 'gee whiz, couldn't i start something if i let out what i know about this gang!' talk about earthquakes! they'd--here! what are you doing? get out from behind this counter! i'll call a cop if you--" the pallid, impassioned face of prince waldemar de bosky was close to hers; his dark eyes were blazing not a foot from her nose. "if i thought you were that kind of a snake i'd kill you," he said quietly, levelly. "are--are you threatening me?" sputtered mrs. jacobs, trying in vain to look away from those compelling eyes. she could not believe her senses. "no. i am merely telling you what i would do if you were that kind of a snake." "see here, don't you get gay! don't you forget who you are addressing, young man. i am--" "i am addressing a second-hand junk dealer, madam. you are at home now, not sitting in the big chair up at--at--you know where. please bear that in mind." "i'll call some one from out front and have you chucked into--" "do you even _think_ of violating the confidence we repose in you?" he demanded. "the thought must have been in your mind or you would not have uttered that remark a moment ago. you are one of us, and we've treated you as a--a queen. i want to know just where you stand, mrs. jacobs." "you can't come in here and bawl me out like this, you little shrimp! i'll--" "keep still! now, listen to me. if i should go to our friends and repeat what you have just said, you would never see the inside of that room again. you would never have the opportunity to exchange a word with a single person you have met there. you would be stripped of the last vestige of glory that clings to you. oh, you may sneer! but down in your heart you love that bit of glory,--and you would curse yourself if you lost it." "it's--it's all poppy-cock, the whole silly business," she blurted out. but it was not anger that caused her voice to tremble. "you know better than that," said he, coldly. "i don't care a rap about all that foolishness up there. it makes me sick," she muttered. "you may lie to me but you cannot lie to yourself, madam. under that filthy, greasy skin of yours runs the blood that will not be denied. pawn-broker, miser,--whatever you may be to the world, to yourself you are a princess royal. god knows we all despise you. you have not a friend among us. but we can no more overlook the fact that you are a princess of the blood than we can ignore the light of day. the blood that is in you demands its tribute. you have no control over the mysterious spark that fires your blood. it burns in spite of all you may do to quench it. it is there to stay. we despise you, even as you would despise us. am i to carry your words to those who exalt you despite your calling, despite your meanness, despite all that is base and sordid in this rotten business of yours? am i to let them know that you are the only--the only--what is the name of the animal i've heard trotter mention?--ah, i have it,--the only skunk in our precious little circle? tell me, madam, are you a skunk?" her face was brick red; she was having difficulty with her breathing. the pale, white face of the little musician dazzled her in a most inexplicable way. never before had she felt just like this. "am i a--what?" she gasped, her eyes popping. "it is an animal that has an odour which--" "good god, you don't have to tell me what it is," she cried, but in suppressed tones. her gaze swept the rear part of the shop. "it's a good thing for you, young fellow, that nobody heard you call me that name. thank the good lord, it isn't a busy day here. if anybody _had_ heard you, i'd have you skinned alive." "a profitless undertaking," he said, smiling without mirth, "but quite in your line, if reports are true. you are an expert at skinning people, alive or dead. but we are digressing. are you going to turn against us?" "i haven't said i was going to, have i?" "not in so many words." "well, then, what's all the fuss about? you come in here and shoot off your mouth as if--and say, who are you, anyhow? tell me that! no, wait a minute. don't tell me. i'll tell myself. when a man is kicked out of his own family because he'd sooner play a fiddle than carry a sword, i don't think he's got any right to come blatting to me about--" "the cruelest monster the world has ever known, madam," he interrupted, stiffening, "fiddled while rome was burning. fiddlers are not always gentle. you may not have heard of one very small and unimportant incident in my own life. it was i who fiddled,--badly, i must confess,--while the opera house in poltna was burning. a panic was averted. not a life was lost. and when it was all over some one remembered the fiddler who remained upon the stage and finished the aria he was playing when the cry of fire went up from the audience. brave men,--far braver men than he,--rushed back through the smoke and found him lying at the footlights, unconscious. but why waste words? good morning, madam. i shall not trouble you again about the overcoat. be good enough to remember that i have kissed your hand only because you are a princess and not because you have lent me five dollars on the wretched thing." the angry light in his brown eyes gave way to the dreamy look once more. he bowed stiffly and edged his way out from behind the counter into the clogged area that lay between him and the distant doorway. towering above him on all sides were heaps of nondescript objects, classified under the generic name of furniture. the proprietress of this sordid, ill-smelling crib stared after him as he strode away, and into her eyes there stole a look of apprehension. she followed him to the front door, overtaking him as his hand was on the latch. "hold on," she said, nervously glancing at the shifty-eyed, cringing assistant who toiled not in vain,--no one ever toiled in vain in the establishment of m. jacobs, inc.,--behind a clump of chairs;--"hold on a second. i don't want you to say a word to--to them about--about all this. you are right, de bosky. i--i have not lost all that once was mine. you understand, don't you?" he smiled. "perfectly. you can never lose it, no matter how low you may sink." "well," she went on, hesitatingly, "suppose we forget it." he eyed her for a moment in silence, shaking his head reflectively. "it is most astonishing," he said at last. "what's astonishing?" she demanded sharply. "i was merely thinking of your perfect, your exquisite french, madam!" "french? are you nutty? i've been talkin' to you in english all the time." he nodded his head slowly. "perhaps that is why your french is so astonishing," he said, and let it go at that. "look at me," she exclaimed, suddenly breaking into french as she spread out her thick arms and surveyed with disgust as much of her ample person as came within range of an obstructed vision, "just look at me. no one on earth would take _me_ for a princess, would he? and yet that is just what i am. i _think_ of myself as a princess, and always will, de bosky. i think of myself,--of my most unlovely, unregal self,--as the superior of every other woman who treads the streets of new york, all of these base born women. i cannot help it. i cannot think of them as equals, not even the richest and the most arrogant of them. you say it is the blood, but you are wrong. some of these women have a strain of royal blood in them--a far-off, remote strain, of course,--but they do not _know_ it. that's the point, my friend. it is the _knowing_ that makes us what we are. it isn't the blood itself. if we were deprived of the power to _think_, we could have the blood of every royal family in europe in our veins, and that is all the good it would do us. we _think_ we are nobler, better than all the rest of creation, and we would keep on thinking it if we slept in the gutter and begged for a crust of bread. and the proof of all this is to be found in the fact that the rest of creation will not allow us to forget. they think as we do, in spite of themselves, and there you have the secret of the supremacy we feel, in spite of everything." her brilliant, black eyes were flashing with something more than excitement. the joy, the realization of power glowed in their depths, welling up from fires that would never die. waldemar de bosky nodded his head in the most matter-of-fact way. he was not enthralled. all this was very simple and quite undebatable to him. "i take it, therefore, that you retract all that you said about its being poppycock," he said, turning up his coat collar and fastening it close to his throat with a long and formidable looking safety pin. "it may be poppycock," she said, "but we can't help liking it--not to save our lives." "and i shall not have to kill you as if you were a snake, eh?" "not on your life," said mrs. moses jacobs in english, opening the door for him. he passed out into the cold and windy street and she went back to her dingy nook at the end of the store, pausing on the way to inform an assistant that she was not to be disturbed, no matter who came in to see her. while she sat behind her glittering show-case and gazed pensively at the ceiling of her ugly storehouse, waldemar de bosky went shivering through the streets to his cold little backroom many blocks away. while she was for the moment living in the dim but unforgotten past, a kindly memory leading her out of the maze of other people's poverty and her own avarice into broad marble halls and vaulted rooms, he was thinking only of the bitter present with its foodless noon and of pockets that were empty. while maudlin tears ran down her oily cheeks and spilled aimlessly upon a greasy sweater with the spur of memory behind them, tears wrought by the sharp winds of the street glistened in his squinting eyes. memory carried him back no farther than the week before and he was distressed only by its exceeding frailty. he could not, for the life of him, remember the address of j. bramble, bookseller,--a most exasperating lapse in view of the fact that j. bramble himself had urged him to come up some evening soon and have dinner with him, and to bring his stradivarius along if he didn't mind. mind? why, he would have played his heart out for a good square meal. the more he tried to remember j. bramble's address, the less he thought of the overcoat with the fur collar and the soft leather lining. he couldn't eat that, you know. in his bleak little room in the hall of the whistling winds, he took from its case with cold-benumbed fingers the cherished violin. presently, as he played, the shivering flesh of him grew warm with the heat of an inward fire; the stiff, red fingers became limp and pliable; the misty eyes grew bright and feverish. fire,--the fires of love and genius and hope combined,--burnt away the chill of despair; he was as warm as toast! and hours after the foodless noon had passed, he put the treasure back into its case and wiped the sweat from his marble brow. something flashed across his mind. he shouted aloud as he caught at what the flash of memory revealed. "lexington avenue! three hundred and something, lexington avenue! j. bramble, bookseller! ha! come! come! let us be off!" he spoke to the violin as if it were a living companion. grabbing up his hat and mittens, he dashed out of the room and went clattering down the hall with the black leather case clasped tightly under his arm. it was a long, long walk to three hundred and something lexington avenue, but in due time he arrived there and read the sign above the door. ah, what a great thing it is to have a good, unfailing memory! and so it came to pass that prince waldemar de bosky and lady jane thorne met at the door of j. bramble, bookseller, at five of the clock, and entered the shop together. chapter vii the foundation of the plot mr. bramble had never been quite able to resign himself to a definitely impersonal attitude toward lord eric temple. he seemed to cling, despite himself, to a privilege long since outlawed by time and circumstance and the inevitable outgrowing of knickerbockers by the aforesaid lord eric. back in the good old days it had been his pleasant,--and sometimes unpleasant,--duty to direct a very small eric in matters not merely educational but of deportment as well. in short, eric, at the age of five, fell into the capable, kindly and more or less resolute hands of a well-recommended tutor, and that tutor was no other than j. bramble. at the age of twelve, the boy went off to school in a little high hat and an eton suit, and j. bramble was at once, you might say, out of the frying pan into the fire. in other words, he was promoted by his lordship, the boy's grandfather, to the honourable though somewhat onerous positions of secretary, librarian and cataloguer, all in one. he had been able to teach eric a great many things he didn't know, but there was nothing he could impart to his lordship. that irascible old gentleman knew everything. after thrice informing his lordship that sir walter scott was the author of _guy mannering_, and being thrice informed that he was nothing of the sort, the desolate mr. bramble realized that he was no longer a tutor,--and that he ought to be rather thankful for it. it exasperated him considerably, however, to have the authorship of _guy mannering_ arbitrarily ascribed to three different writers, on three separate occasions, when any schoolboy could have told the old gentleman that fielding and sterne and addison had no more to do with the book than william shakespeare himself. his lordship maintained that no one could tell _him_ anything about scott; he had him on his shelves and he had read him from a to izzard. and he was rather severe with mr. bramble for accepting a position as librarian when he didn't know any more than that about books. and from this you may be able to derive some sort of an opinion concerning the cantankerous, bull-headed old party (bramble's appellation behind the hand) who ruled fenlew hall, the place where tom trotter was reared and afterwards disowned. also you may be able to account in a measure for mr. j. bramble's attitude toward the tall young man, an attitude brought on no doubt by the revival, or more properly speaking the survival, of an authority exercised with rare futility but great satisfaction at a time when eric was being trained in the way he should go. if at times mr. bramble appears to be mildly dictatorial, or gently critical, or sadly reproachful, you will understand that it is habit with him, and not the captiousness of old age. it was his custom to shake his head reprovingly, or to frown in a pained sort of way, or to purse his lips, or even to verbally take mr. trotter to task when that young man deviated,--not always accidentally,--from certain rules of deportment laid down for him to follow in his earliest efforts to be a "little gentleman." for example, when the two of them, after a rather impatient half-hour, observed miss emsdale step down from the trolley car at the corner above and head for the doorway through which they were peering, mr. bramble peremptorily said to mr. trotter: "go and brush your hair. you will find a brush at the back of the shop. look sharp, now. she will be here in a jiffy." and you will perhaps understand why mr. trotter paid absolutely no attention to him. miss emsdale and the little violinist came in together. the latter's teeth were chattering, his cheeks were blue with the cold. "god bless my soul!" said mr. bramble, blinking at de bosky. here was an unforeseen complication. miss emsdale was resourceful. "i stopped in to inquire, mr. bramble,--this is mr. bramble, isn't it?--if you have a copy of--" "please close the door, trotter, there's a good fellow," interrupted mr. bramble, frowning significantly at the young man. "it is closed," said mr. trotter, tactlessly. he was looking intently, inquiringly into the blue eyes of miss emsdale. "i closed it as i came in," chattered de bosky. "oh, did you?" said mr. bramble. "people always leave it open. i am so in the habit of having people leave the door open that i never notice when they close it. i--ahem! step right this way, please, miss ems--ahem! i think we have just the book you want." "i am not in any haste, mr. bramble," said she, regarding de bosky with pitying eyes. "let us all go back to the stove and--and--" she hesitated, biting her lip. the poor chap undoubtedly was sensitive. they always are. "good!" said mr. bramble eagerly. "and we'll have some tea. bless my soul, how fortunate! i always have it at five o'clock. trotter and i were just on the point of--so glad you happened in just at the right moment, miss emsdale. ahem! and you too, de bosky. most extraordinary. you may leave your pipe on that shelf, trotter. it smells dreadfully. no, no,--i wouldn't even put it in my pocket if i were you. er--ahem! you have met mr. trotter, haven't you, miss emsdale?" "you poor old boob," said trotter, laying his arm over bramble's shoulder in the most affectionate way. "isn't he a boob, miss emsdale?" "not at all," said she severely. "he is a dear." "bless my soul!" murmured mr. bramble, doing as well as could be expected. he blessed it again before he could catch himself up. "sit here by the stove, mr. de bosky," said miss emsdale, a moment later. "just as close as you can get to it." "i have but a moment to stay," said de bosky, a wistful look in his dark eyes. "you'll have tea, de bosky," said mr. bramble firmly. "is the water boiling, trotter?" a few minutes later, warmed by the cup of tea and a second slice of toast, de bosky turned to trotter. "thanks again, my dear fellow, for speaking to your employer about my playing. this little affair tonight may be the beginning of an era of good fortune for me. i shall never forget your interest--" "oh, that's off," said trotter carelessly. "off? you mean?" cried de bosky. "i'm fired, and he has gone to atlantic city for the week-end." "he--he isn't going to have his party in the private dining-room at,--you said it was to be a private dining-room, didn't you, with a few choice spirits--" "he has gone to atlantic city with a few choice spirits," said trotter, and then stared hard at the musician's face. "oh, by jove! i'm sorry," he cried, struck by the look of dismay, almost of desperation, in de bosky's eyes. "i didn't realize it meant so much to--" "it is really of no consequence," said de bosky, lifting his chin once more and straightening his back. the tea-cup rattled ominously in the saucer he was clutching with tense fingers. "never mind," said mr. bramble, anticipating a crash and inspired by the kindliest of motives; "between us we've smashed half a dozen of them, so don't feel the least bit uncomfortable if you _do_ drop--" "what are you talking about, bramby?" demanded trotter, scowling at the unfortunate bookseller. "have some more tea, de bosky. hand up your cup. little hot water, eh?" mr. bramble was perspiring. any one with half an eye could see that it _was_ of consequence to de bosky. the old bookseller's heart was very tender. "don't drink too much of it," he warned, his face suddenly beaming. "you'll spoil your appetite for dinner." to the others: "mr. de bosky honours my humble board with his presence this evening. the finest porterhouse steak in new york--eh, what?" "it is i," came a crisp voice from the bottom of the narrow stairway that led up to the living-quarters above. monsieur mirabeau, his whiskers neatly brushed and twisted to a point, his velvet lounging jacket adorned with a smart little boutonnière, his shoes polished till they glistened, approached the circle and, bending his gaunt frame with gallant disdain for the crick in his back, kissed the hand of the young lady. "i observed your approach, my dear miss emsdale. we have been expecting you for ages. indeed, it has been the longest afternoon that any of us has ever experienced." mr. bramble frowned. "ahem!" he coughed. "i am sorry if i have intruded," began de bosky, starting to arise. "sit still," said thomas trotter. he glanced at miss emsdale. "you're not in the way, old chap." "you mentioned a book, miss emsdale," murmured mr. bramble. "when you came in, you'll remember." she looked searchingly into trotter's eyes, and finding her answer there, remarked: "ample time for that, mr. bramble. mr. de bosky is my good friend. and as for dear m. mirabeau,--ah, what shall i say of him?" she smiled divinely upon the grey old frenchman. "i commend your modesty," said m. mirabeau. "it prevents your saying what every one knows,--that i am your adorer!" tom trotter was pacing the floor. he stopped in front of her, a scowl on his handsome face. "now, tell us just what the infernal dog said to you," he said. she started. "you--you have already heard something?" she cried, wonderingly. "ah, what did i tell you?" cried m. mirabeau triumphantly, glancing first at trotter and then at bramble. "he _is_ in love with her, and this is what comes of it. he resorts to--" "is this magic?" she exclaimed. "not a bit of it," said trotter. "we've been putting two and two together, the three of us. begin at the beginning," he went on, encouragingly. "don't hold back a syllable of it." "you must promise to be governed by my advice," she warned him. "you must be careful,--oh, so very careful." "he will be good at any rate," said mr. bramble, fixing the young man with a look. trotter's face went crimson. "ahem!" came guardedly from m. mirabeau. "proceed, my dear. we are most impatient." the old frenchman's deductions were not far from right. young mr. smith-parvis, unaccustomed to opposition and believing himself to be entitled to everything he set his heart on having, being by nature predatory, sustained an incredible shock when the pretty and desirable governess failed utterly to come up to expectations. not only did she fail to come up to expectations but she took the wind completely out of his sails, leaving him adrift in a void so strange and unusual that it was hours before he got his bearings again. some of the things she said to him got under a skin so thick and unsensitive that nothing had ever been sharp enough to penetrate it before. the smartting of the pain from these surprising jabs at his egotism put him into a state of fury that knew no bounds. he went so far as to accuse her of deliberately trying to be a lady,--a most ridiculous assumption that didn't fool him for an instant. she couldn't come that sort of thing with him! the sooner she got off her high-horse the better off she'd be. it had never entered the head of smith-parvis jr. that a wage-earning woman could be a lady, any more than a wage-earning man could be a gentleman. the spirited encounter took place on the afternoon following her midnight adventure with thomas trotter. stuyvesant lay in wait for her when she went out at five o'clock for her daily walk in the park. overtaking her in one of the narrow, remote little paths, he suggested that they cross over to bustanoby's and have tea and a bite of something sweet. he was quite out of breath. she had given him a long chase, this long-limbed girl with her free english stride. "it's a nice quiet place," he said, "and we won't see a soul we know." primed by assurance, he had the hardihood to grasp her arm with a sort of possessive familiarity. whereupon, according to the narrator, he sustained his first disheartening shock. she jerked her arm away and faced him with blazing eyes. "don't do that!" she said. "what do you mean by following me like this?" "oh, come now," he exclaimed blankly; "don't be so damned uppish. i didn't sleep a wink last night, thinking about you. you--" "nor did i sleep a wink, mr. smith-parvis, thinking about you," she retorted, looking straight into his eyes. "i am afraid you don't know me as well as you think you do. will you be good enough to permit me to continue my walk unmolested?" he laughed in her face. "out here to meet the pretty chauffeur, are you? i thought so. well, i'll stick around and make the crowd. is he likely to pop up out of the bushes and try to bite me, my dear? better give him the signal to lay low, unless you want to see him nicely booted." ("my god!" fell from thomas trotter's compressed lips.) "then i made a grievous mistake," she explained to the quartette. "it is all my fault, mr. trotter. i brought disaster upon you when i only intended to sound your praises. i told him that nothing could suit me better than to have you pop up out of the bushes, just for the pleasure it would give me to see him run for home as fast as he could go. it made him furious." smith-parvis jr. proceeded to give her "what for," to use his own words. in sheer amazement, she listened to his vile insinuations. she was speechless. "and here am i," he had said, toward the end of the indictment, "a gentleman, born and bred, offering you what this scurvy bounder cannot possibly give you, and you pretend to turn up your nose at me. i am gentleman enough to overlook all that has transpired between you and that loafer, and i am gentleman enough to keep my mouth shut at home, where a word from me would pack you off in two seconds. and i'd like to see you get another fat job in new york after that. you ought to be jolly grateful to me." "if i am the sort of person you say i am," she had replied, trembling with fury, "how can you justify your conscience in letting me remain for a second longer in charge of your little sisters?" "what the devil do i care about them? i'm only thinking of you. i'm mad about you, can't you understand? and i'd like to know what conscience has to do with _that_." then he had coolly, deliberately, announced his plan of action to her. "you are to stay on at the house as long as you like, getting your nice little pay check every month, and something from me besides. ah, i'm no piker! leave it all to me. as for this friend of yours, he has to go. he'll be out of a job tomorrow. i know carpenter. he will do anything i ask. he'll have to, confound him. i've got him where he can't even squeak. and what's more, if this trotter is not out of new york inside of three days, i'll land him in jail. oh, don't think i can't do it, my dear. there's a way to get these renegade foreigners,--every one of 'em,--so you'd better keep clear of him if you don't want to be mixed up in the business. i am doing all this for your own good. some day you'll thank me. you are the first girl i've ever really loved, and--i--i just can't stand by and let you go to the devil with my eyes shut. i am going to save you, whether you like it or not. i am going to do the right thing by you, and you will never regret chucking this rotter for me. we will have to be a little careful at home, that's all. it would never do to let the old folks see that i am more than ordinarily interested in you, or you in me. once, when i was a good deal younger and didn't have much sense, i spoiled a--but you wouldn't care to hear about it." she declared to them that she would never forget the significant grin he permitted himself in addition to the wink. "the dog!" grated thomas trotter, his knuckles white. m. mirabeau straightened himself to his full height,--and a fine figure of a man was he! "mr. trotter," he said, with grave dignity, "it will afford me the greatest pleasure and honour to represent you in this crisis. pray command me. no doubt the scoundrel will refuse to meet you, but at any rate a challenge may be--" miss emsdale broke in quickly. "don't,--for heaven's sake, dear m. mirabeau,--don't put such notions into his head! it is bad enough as it is. i beg of you--" "besides," said mr. bramble, "one doesn't fight duels in this country, any more than one does in england. it's quite against the law." "i sha'n't need any one to represent me when it comes to punching his head," said mr. trotter. "it's against the law, strictly speaking, to punch a person's head," began mr. bramble nervously. "but it's not against the law, confound you, bramby, to provide a legal excuse for going to jail, is it? he says he's going to put me there. well, i intend to make it legal and--" "oh, goodness!" cried miss emsdale, in dismay. "--and i'm not going to jail for nothing, you can stake your life on that." "do you think, mr. trotter, that it will add to my happiness if you are lodged in jail on my account?" said she. "haven't i done you sufficient injury--" "now, you are not to talk like that," he interrupted, reddening. "but i _shall_ talk like that," she said firmly. "i have not come here to ask you to take up my battles for me but to warn you of danger. please do not interrupt me. i know you would enjoy it, and all that sort of thing, but it isn't to be considered. hear me out." she went on with her story. young mr. smith-parvis, still contending that he was a gentleman and a friend as well as an abject adorer, made it very plain to her that he would stand no foolishness. he told her precisely what he would do unless she eased up a bit and acted like a good, sensible girl. he would have her dismissed without character and he would see to it that no respectable house would be open to her after she left the service of the smith-parvises. "but couldn't you put the true situation before his parents and tell 'em what sort of a rotten bounder he is?" demanded trotter. "you do not know them, mr. trotter," she said forlornly. "and they'd kick you out without giving you a chance to prove to them that he is a filthy liar and--" "just as mr. carpenter kicked you out," she said. "by gad, i--i wouldn't stay in their house another day if i were you," he exclaimed wrathfully. "i'd quit so quickly they wouldn't have time to--" "and then what?" she asked bitterly. "am i so rich and independent as all that? you forget that i must have a 'character,' mr. trotter. that, you see, would be denied me. i could not obtain employment. even mrs. sparflight would be powerless to help me after the character they would give me." "but, good lord, you--you're not going to stay on in the house with that da--that nasty brute, are you?" he cried, aghast. "i must have time to think, mr. trotter," she said quietly. "now, don't say anything more,--please! i shall take good care of myself, never fear. my woes are small compared to yours, i am afraid. the next morning after our little scene in the park, he came down to breakfast, smiling and triumphant. he said he had news for me. mr. carpenter was to dismiss you that morning, but had agreed not to prefer charges against you,--at least, not for the present." she paused to moisten her lips. there was a harassed look in her eyes. "charges?" said trotter, after a moment. the other men leaned forward, fresh interest in their faces. "did you say charges, miss emsdale?" asked mr. bramble, putting his hand to his ear. "he told me that mr. carpenter was at first determined to turn you over to the police, but that he had begged him to give you a chance. he--he says that mr. carpenter has had a private detective watching you for a fortnight, and--and--oh, i cannot say it!" "go on," said trotter harshly; "say it!" "well, of course, i know and you understand it is simply part of his outrageous plan, but he says your late employer has positive proof that you took--that you took some marked bank notes out of his overcoat pocket a few days ago. he had been missing money and had provided himself with marked--" trotter leaped to his feet with a cry of rage. "sit down!" commanded mr. bramble. "sit down! where are you going?" "great god! do you suppose i can sit still and let him get away with anything like that?" roared trotter. "i'm going to jam those words down carpenter's craven throat. i'm--" "you forget he is in atlantic city," said de bosky, as if suddenly coming out of a dream. "oh, lord!" groaned trotter, very white in the face. there were tears in miss emsdale's eyes. "they--he means to drive you out of town," she murmured brokenly. "fine chance of that!" cried trotter violently. "let us be calm," said m. mirabeau, gently taking the young man's arm and leading him back to the box on which he had been sitting. "you must not play into their hands, and that is what you would be doing if you went to him in a rage. as long as you remain passive, nothing will come of all this. if you show your teeth, they will stop at nothing. take my word for it, trotter, before many hours have passed you will be interviewed by a detective,--a genuine detective, by the way, for some of them can be hired to do anything, my boy,--and you will be given your choice of going to prison or to some far distant city. you--" "but how in thunder is he going to prove that i took any marked bills from him? you've got to prove those things, you know. the courts would not--" "just a moment! did he pay you by check or with bank notes this morning?" "he gave me a check for thirty dollars, and three ten-dollar bills and a five." · "have you them on your person at present?" "not all of them. i have--wait a second! we'll see." he fumbled in his pocket for the bill-folder. "what did you do with the rest?" "paid my landlady for--good lord! i see what you mean! he paid me with marked bills! the--the damned scoundrel!" "he not only did that, my boy, but he put a man on your trail to recover them as fast as you disposed of them," said m. mirabeau calmly. chapter viii lady jane goes about it promptly a few minutes before six o'clock that same afternoon, mr. james cricklewick, senior member of the firm of cricklewick, stackable & co., linen merchants, got up from his desk in the crowded little compartment labelled "private," and peered out of the second-floor window into the busy street below. thousands of people were scurrying along the pavements in the direction of the brilliantly lighted fifth avenue, a few rods away; vague, dusky, unrecognizable forms in the darkness that comes so early and so abruptly to the cross-town streets at the end of a young march day. the middle of the street presented a serried line of snow heaps, piled up by the shovellers the day before,--symmetrical little mountains that formed an impassable range over which no chauffeur had the temerity to bolt in his senseless ambition to pass the car ahead. mr. james cricklewick sighed. he knew from past experience that the rock of ages was but little more enduring than the snow-capped range in front of him. time and a persistent sun inevitably would do the work of man, but in the meantime mr. cricklewick's wagons and trucks were a day and a half behind with deliveries, and that was worth sighing about. as he stood looking down the street, he sighed again. for more than forty years mr. cricklewick had made constant use of the phrase: "it's always something." if there was no one to say it to, he satisfied himself by condensing the lament into a strictly personal sigh. he first resorted to the remark far back in the days when he was in the service of the marquis of camelford. if it wasn't one thing that was going wrong it was another; in any event it was "always something." prosperity and environment had not succeeded in bringing him to the point where he could snap his fingers and lightly say in the face of annoyances: "it's really nothing." the fact that he was, after twenty-five years of ceaseless climbing, at the head of the well-known and thoroughly responsible house of cricklewick, stackable & co., linen merchants and drapers,--(he insisted on attaching the london word, not through sentiment, but for the sake of isolation),--operated not at all in bringing about a becalmed state of mind. habitually he was disturbed by little things, which should not be in the least surprising when one stops to think of the multitudinous annoyances he must have experienced while managing the staff of under-servants in the extensive establishment of the late marquis of camelford. he had never quite outgrown the temperament which makes for a good and dependable butler,--and that, in a way, accounts for the contention that "it is always something," and also for the excellent credit of the house he headed. mr. cricklewick made no effort to deceive himself. he occasionally deceived his wife in a mild and innocuous fashion by secretly reverting to form, but not for an instant did he deceive himself. he was a butler and he always would be a butler, despite the fact that the business and a certain section of the social world looked upon him as a very fine type of english gentleman, with a crest in his shop window and a popularly accepted record of having enjoyed a speaking acquaintance with edward, the late king of england. indeed, the late king appears to have enjoyed the same privilege claimed and exercised by the clerks, stenographers and floorwalkers in his employ, although his majesty had a slight advantage over them in being free to call him "cricky" to his face instead of behind his back. mr. cricklewick, falling into a snug fortune when he was forty-five and at a time when the marquis felt it to be necessary to curtail expenses by not only reducing his staff of servants but also the salaries of those who remained, married very nicely into a draper's family, and soon afterward voyaged to america to open and operate a branch of the concern in new york city. his fortune, including the savings of twenty years, amounted to something like thirty thousand pounds, most of which had been accumulated by a sheep-raising brother who had gone to and died in australia. he put quite a bit of this into the business and became a partner, making himself doubly welcome to a family that had suffered considerably through competition in business and a complete lack of it in respect to the matrimonial possibilities of five fully matured daughters. mr. cricklewick had the further good sense to marry the youngest, prettiest and most ambitious of the quintette, and thereby paved the way for satisfactory though wholly unexpected social achievements in the city of now york. his wife, with the customary british scorn for americans, developed snobbish tendencies that rather alarmed mr. cricklewick at the outset of his business career in new york, but which ultimately produced the most remarkable results. almost before he was safely out of the habit of saying "thank you" when it wasn't at all necessary to say it, his wife had him down at hot springs, virginia, for a month in the fall season, where, because of his exceptionally mellifluous english accent and a stateliness he had never been able to overcome, he was looked upon by certain anglo-maniacs as a real and unmistakable "toff." cricklewick had been brought up in, or on, the very best of society. from his earliest days as third groom in the camelford ménage to the end of his reign as major-domo, he had been in a position to observe and assimilate the manners of the elect. no one knew better than he how to go about being a gentleman. he had had his lessons, not to say examples, from the first gentlemen of england. having been brought up on dukes and earls,--and all that sort of thing,--to say nothing of quite a majority in the house of lords, he was in a fair way of knowing "what's what," to use his own far from original expression. you couldn't fool cricklewick to save your life. the instant he looked upon you he could put you where you belonged, and, so far as he was concerned, that was where you would have to stay. it is doubtful if there was ever a more discerning, more discriminating butler in all england. it was his rather astonishing contention that one could be quite at one's ease with dukes and duchesses and absolutely ill-at-ease with ordinary people. that was his way of making the distinction. it wasn't possible to be on terms of intimacy with the people who didn't belong. they never seemed to know their place. the next thing he knew, after the hot springs visit, his name began to appear in the newspapers in columns next to advertising matter instead of the other way round. up to this time it had been a struggle to get it in next to reading matter on account of the exorbitant rates demanded by the newspapers. he protested to his wife. "oh, i say, my dear, this is cutting it a bit thick, you know. you can't really be in earnest about it. i shouldn't know how to act sitting down at a dinner table like that, you know. i am informed that these people are regarded as real swells over 'ere,--here, i should say. you must sit down and drop 'em a line saying we can't come. say we've suddenly been called out of town, or had bad news from home, or--" "rubbish! it will do them no end of good to see how you act at table. haven't you had the very best of training? all you have to do--" "but i had it standing, my dear." "just the same, i shall accept the invitation. they are very excellent people, and i see no reason why we shouldn't know the best while we're about it." "but they've got millions," he expostulated. "well," said she, "you musn't believe everything you hear about people with millions. i must say that i've not seen anything especially vulgar about them. so don't let that stand in your way, old dear." it was unconscious irony. "it hasn't been a great while since i was a butler, my love; don't forget that. a matter of a little over seven years." "pray do not forget," said she coldly, "that it hasn't been so very long since all these people over here were indians." mr. cricklewick, being more or less hazy concerning overseas history, took heart. they went to the dinner and he, remembering just how certain noblemen of his acquaintance deported themselves, got on famously. and although his wife never had seen a duchess eat, except by proxy in the theatre, she left nothing to be desired,--except, perhaps, in the way of food, of which she was so fond that it was rather a bore to nibble as duchesses do. being a sensible and far-seeing woman, she did not resent it when he mildly protested that lady so-and-so wouldn't have done this, and the duchess of you-know wouldn't have done that. she looked upon him as a master in the school of manners. it was not long before she was able not only to hold her own with the élite, but also to hold her lorgnette with them. if she did not care to see you in a crowd she could overlook you in the very smartest way. and so, after twenty or twenty-five years, we find the cricklewicks,--mother, father and daughter,--substantially settled in the city of masks, occupying an enviable position in society, and seldom, if ever,--even in the bosom of the family,--referring to the days of long ago,--a precaution no doubt inspired by the fear that they might be overheard and misunderstood by their own well-trained and admirable butler, whose respect they could not afford to lose. once a week, on wednesday nights, mr. cricklewick took off his mask. it was, in a sense, his way of going to confession. he told his wife, however, that he was going to the club. he sighed a little more briskly as he turned away from the window and crossed over to the closet in which his fur-lined coat and silk hat were hanging. it had taken time and a great deal of persuasion on the part of his wife to prove to him that it wasn't quite the thing to wear a silk hat with a sack coat in new york; he had grudgingly compromised with the barbaric demands of fashion by dispensing with the sack coat in favour of a cutaway. the silk hat was a fixture. "a lady asking to see you, sir," said his office-boy, after knocking on the door marked "private." "hold my coat for me, thomas," said mr. cricklewick. "yes, sir," said thomas. "but she says you will see her, sir, just as soon as you gets a look at her." "obviously," said mr. cricklewick, shaking himself down into the great coat. "don't rub it the wrong way, you simpleton. you should always brush a silk hat with the nap and not--" "may i have a few words with you, mr. cricklewick?" inquired a sweet, clear voice from the doorway. the head of the house opened his lips to say something sharp to the office-boy, but the words died as he obeyed a magnetic influence and hazarded a glance at the intruder's face. "bless my soul!" said he, staring. an instant later he had recovered himself. "take my coat, thomas. come in, lady--er--miss emsdale. thank you. run along, thomas. this is--ah--a most unexpected pleasure." the door closed behind thomas. "pray have a chair, miss emsdale. still quite cold, isn't it?" "i sha'n't detain you for more than five or ten minutes," said miss emsdale, sinking into a chair. "at your service,--quite at your service," said mr. cricklewick, dissolving in the presence of nobility. he could not have helped himself to save his life. miss emsdale came to the point at once. to save _her_ life she could not think of cricklewick as anything but an upper servant. "please see if we are quite alone, mr. cricklewick," she said, laying aside her little fur neck-piece. mr. cricklewick started. like a flash there shot into his brain the voiceless groan: "it's always something." however, he made haste to assure her that they would not be disturbed. "it is closing time, you see," he concluded, not without hope. "i could not get here any earlier," she explained. "i stopped in to ask a little favour of you, mr. cricklewick." "you have only to mention it," said he, and then abruptly looked at his watch. the thought struck him that perhaps he did not have enough in his bill-folder; if not, it would be necessary to catch the cashier before the safe was closed for the day. "lord temple is in trouble, mr. cricklewick," she said, a queer little catch in her voice. "i--i am sorry to hear that," said he. "and i do not know of any one who is in a better position to help him than you," she went on coolly. "i shall be happy to be of service to lord temple," said mr. cricklewick, but not very heartily. observation had taught him that young noblemen seldom if ever get into trouble half way; they make a practice of going in clean over their heads. "owing to an unpleasant misunderstanding with mr. stuyvesant smith-parvis, he has lost his situation as chauffeur for mr. carpenter," said she. "i hope he has not--ahem!--thumped him," said mr. cricklewick, in such dismay that he allowed the extremely undignified word to slip out. she smiled faintly. "i said unpleasant, mr. cricklewick,--not pleasant." "bless my soul," said mr. cricklewick, blinking. "mr. smith-parvis has prevailed upon mr. carpenter to dismiss him, and i fear, between them, they are planning to drive him out of the city in disgrace." "bless me! this is too bad." without divulging the cause of smith-parvis's animosity, she went briefly into the result thereof. "it is really infamous," she concluded, her eyes flashing. "don't you agree with me?" having it put to him so abruptly as that, mr. cricklewick agreed with her. "well, then, we must put our heads together, mr. cricklewick," she said, with decision. "quite so," said he, a little vaguely. "he is not to be driven out of the city," said she. "nor is he to be unjustly accused of--of wrongdoing. we must see to that." mr. cricklewick cleared his throat. "he can avoid all that sort of thing, lady--er--miss emsdale, by simply announcing that he is lord temple, heir to one of the--" "oh, he wouldn't think of doing such a thing," said she quickly. "people would fall over themselves trying to put laurels on his head," he urged. "and, unless i am greatly mistaken, the first to rush up would be the--er--the smith-parvises, headed by stuyvesant." "no one knows the smith-parvises better than you, mr. cricklewick," she said, and for some reason he turned quite pink. "mrs. cricklewick and i have seen a great deal of them in the past few years," he said, almost apologetically. "and that encourages me to repeat that no one knows them better than you," she said coolly. "we are to dine with mr. and mrs. smith-parvis tonight," said mr. cricklewick. "splendid!" she cried, eagerly. "that works in very nicely with the plan i have in mind. you must manage in some way to remark--quite casually, of course,--that you are very much interested in the affairs of a young fellow-countryman,--omitting the name, if you please,--who has been dismissed from service as a chauffeur, and who has been threatened--" "but my dear miss emsdale, i--" "--threatened with all sorts of things by his late employer. you may also add that you have communicated with our ambassador at washington, and that it is your intention to see your fellow-countryman through if it takes a--may i say leg, mr. cricklewick? young mr. smith-parvis will be there to hear you, so you may bluster as much as you please about great britain protecting her subjects to the very last shot. the entire machinery of the foreign office may be called into action, if necessary, to--but i leave all that to you. you might mention, modestly, that it's pretty ticklish business trying to twist the british lion's tail. do you see what i mean?" mr. cricklewick may have had an inward conviction that this was hardly what you would call asking a favour of a person, but if he had he kept it pretty well to himself. it did not occur to him that his present position in the world, as opposed to hers, justified a rather stiff reluctance on his part to take orders, or even suggestions, from this penniless young person,--especially in his own sacred lair. on the contrary, he was possessed by the instant and enduring realization that it was the last thing he could bring himself to the point of doing. his father, a butler before him, had gone to considerable pains to convince him, at the outset of his career, that insolence is by far the greatest of vices. still, in this emergency, he felt constrained to argue,--another vice sometimes modified by circumstances and the forbearance of one's betters. "but i haven't communicated with our ambassador at washington," he said. "and as for the foreign office taking the matter up--" "but, don't you see, _they_ couldn't possibly know that, mr. cricklewick," she interrupted, frowning slightly. "quite true,--but i should be telling a falsehood if i said anything of the sort." "knowing you to be an absolutely truthful and reliable man, mr. cricklewick," she said mendaciously, "they would not even dream of questioning your veracity. they do not believe you capable of telling a falsehood. can't you see how splendidly it would all work out?" mr. cricklewick couldn't see, and said so. "besides," he went on, "suppose that it should get to the ears of the ambassador." "in that event, you could run over to washington and tell him in private just who thomas trotter is, and then everything would be quite all right. you see," she went on earnestly, "all you have to do is to drop a few words for the benefit of young mr. smith-parvis. he looks upon you as one of the most powerful and influential men in the city, and he wouldn't have you discover that he is in anyway connected with such a vile, underhanded--" "how am i to lead up to the subject of chauffeurs?" broke in mr. cricklewick weakly. "i can hardly begin talking about chauffeurs--er--out of a clear sky, you might say." "don't begin by talking about chauffeurs," she counselled. "lead up to the issue by speaking of the friendly relations that exist between england and america, and proceed with the hope that nothing may ever transpire to sever the bond of blood--and so on. you know what i mean. it is quite simple. and then look a little serious and distressed,--that ought to be easy, mr. cricklewick. you must see how naturally it all leads up to the unfortunate affair of your young countryman, whom you are bound to defend,--and _we_ are bound to defend,--no matter what the consequences may be." two minutes later she arose triumphant, and put on her stole. her eyes were sparkling. "i knew you couldn't stand by and see this outrageous thing done to eric temple. thank you. i--goodness gracious, i quite forgot a most important thing. in the event that our little scheme does not have the desired result, and they persist in persecuting him, we must have something to fall back upon. i know mcfaddan very slightly. (she did not speak of the ex-footman as mr. mcfaddan, nor did cricklewick take account of the omission). he is, i am informed, one of the most influential men in new york,--one of the political bosses, mr. smith-parvis says. he says he is a most unprincipled person. well, don't you see, he is just the sort of person to fall back upon if all honest measures fail?" mr. cricklewick rather blankly murmured something about "honest measures," and then mopped his brow. miss emsdale's enthusiasm, while acutely ingenuous, had him "sweating blood," as he afterwards put it during a calm and lucid period of retrospection. "i--i assure you i have no influence with mcfaddan," he began, looking at his handkerchief,--and being relieved, no doubt, to find no crimson stains,--applied it to his neck with some confidence and vigour. "in fact, we differ vastly in--" "mcfaddan, being in a position to dictate to the police and, if it should come to the worst, to the magistrates, is a most valuable man to have on our side, mr. cricklewick. if you could see him tomorrow morning,--i suppose it is too late to see him this evening,--and tell him just what you want him to do, i'm sure--" "but, miss emsdale, you must allow me to say that mcfaddan will absolutely refuse to take orders from me. he is no longer what you might say--er--in a position to be--er--you see what i mean, i hope." "nonsense!" she said, dismissing his objection with a word. "mcfaddan is an irishman and therefore eternally committed to the under dog, right or wrong. when you explain the circumstances to him, he will come to our assistance like a flash. and don't, overlook the fact, mr. cricklewick, that mcfaddan will never see the day when he can ignore a--a request from you." she had almost said command, but caught the word in time. "by the way, poor trotter is out of a situation, and i may as well confess to you that he can ill afford to be without one. it has just occurred to me that you may know of some one among your wealthy friends, mr. cricklewick, who is in need of a good man. please rack your brain. some one to whom you can recommend him as a safe, skilful and competent chauffeur." "i am glad you mention it," said he, brightening perceptibly in the light of something tangible. "this afternoon i was called up on the telephone by a party--by some one, i mean to say,--asking for information concerning klausen, the man who used to drive for me. i was obliged to say that his habits were bad, and that i could not recommend him. it was mrs. ellicott millidew who inquired." "the young one or the old one?" inquired miss emsdale quickly. "the elder mrs. millidew," said mr. cricklewick, in a tone that implied deference to a lady who was entitled to it, even when she was not within earshot. "not the pretty young widow," he added, risking a smile. "that's all right, then," said miss emsdale briskly. "i am sure it would be a most satisfactory place for him." "but she is a very exacting old lady," said he, "and will require references." "i am sure you can give him the very best of references," said she. "she couldn't ask for anything better than your word that he is a splendid man in every particular. thank you so much, mr. cricklewick. and lord temple will be ever so grateful to you too, i'm sure. oh, you cannot possibly imagine how relieved i am--about everything. we are very great friends, lord temple and i." he watched the faint hint of the rose steal into her cheeks and a velvety softness come into her eyes. "nothing could be more perfect," he said, irrelevantly, but with real feeling, and the glow of the rose deepened. "thank you again,--and good-bye," she said, turning toward the door. it was then that the punctilious cricklewick forgot himself, and in his desire to be courteous, committed a most unpardonable offence. "my motor is waiting, lady jane," he said, the words falling out unwittingly. "may i not drop you at mr. smith-parvis's door?" "no, thank you," she said graciously. "you are very good, but the stages go directly past the door." as the door closed behind her, mr. cricklewick sat down rather suddenly, overcome by his presumption. think of it! he had had the brass to invite lady jane thorne to accept a ride in his automobile! he might just as well have had the effrontery to ask her to dine at his house! chapter ix mr. trotter falls into a new position the sagacity of m. mirabeau went far toward nullifying the hastily laid plans of stuyvesant smith-parvis. it was he who suggested a prompt effort to recover the two marked bills that trotter had handed to his landlady earlier in the day. prince waldemar de bosky, with a brand new twenty-dollar bill in his possession,--(supplied by the excited frenchman)--boarded a lexington avenue car and in due time mounted the steps leading to the front door of the lodging house kept by mrs. dulaney. ostensibly he was in search of a room for a gentleman of refinement and culture; mrs. dulaney's house had been recommended to him as first class in every particular. the landlady herself showed him a room, fourth-floor front, just vacated (she said) by a most refined gentleman engaged in the phonograph business. it was her rule to demand references from prospective lodgers, but as she had been in the business a great many years it was now possible for her to distinguish a gentleman the instant she laid eyes on him, so it would only be necessary for the present applicant to pay the first week's rent in advance. he could then move in at once. with considerable mortification, she declared that she wouldn't insist on the "advance,"--knowing gentlemen as perfectly as she did,--were it not for the fact that her rent was due and she was short exactly that amount,--having recently sent more than she could spare to a sick sister in bridgeport. de bosky was very amiable about it,--and very courteous. he said that, so far as he knew, all gentlemen were prepared to pay five dollars in advance when they engaged lodgings by the week, and would she be so good as to take it out of the twenty-dollar bill? mrs. dulaney was slightly chagrined. the sight of a twenty-dollar bill caused her to regret not having asked for two weeks down instead of one. "if it does not inconvenience you, madam," said de bosky, "i should like the change in new bills. you have no idea how it offends my artistic sense to--" he shuddered a little. "i make a point of never having filthy, germ-disseminating bank notes on my person." "and you are quite right," said she feelingly. "i wish to god i could afford to be as particular. if there's anything i hate it's a dirty old bill. any one could tell that you are a real gentleman, mr.--mr.--i didn't get the name, did i?" "drexel," he said. "excuse me," she said, and moved over a couple of paces in order to place the parlour table between herself and the prospective lodger. using it as a screen, she fished a thin flat purse from her stocking, and opened it. "i wouldn't do this in the presence of any one but a gentleman," she explained, without embarrassment. as she was twice the size of prince waldemar and of a ruggedness that challenged offence, one might have been justified in crediting her with egotism instead of modesty. selecting the brightest and crispest from the layer of bank notes, she laid them on the table. de bosky's eyes glistened. "the city has recently been flooded with counterfeit fives and tens, madam," he said politely. this afforded an excuse for holding the bills to the light for examination. "now, don't tell me they're phoney," said mrs. dulaney, bristling. "i got 'em this morning from the squarest chap i've ever had in my--" "i have every reason to believe they are genuine," said he, concealing his exultation behind a patronizing smile. he had discovered the tell-tale marks on both bills. carefully folding them, he stuck them into his waistcoat pocket. "you may expect me tomorrow, madam,--unless, of course, destiny should shape another end for me in the meantime. one never can tell, you know. i may be dead, or your comfortable house may be burned to the ground. it is--" "for the lord's sake, don't make a crack like that," she cried vehemently. "it's bad luck to talk about fire." "in any event," said he jauntily, "you have my five dollars. au revoir, madam. auf wiedersehn!" he buttoned mr. bramble's ulster close about his throat and gravely bowed himself out into the falling night. in the meantime, mr. bramble had substituted two unmarked bills for those remaining in the possession of thomas trotter, and, with the return of prince waldemar, triumphant, m. mirabeau arbitrarily confiscated the entire thirty dollars. "these bills must be concealed at once," he explained. "temporarily they are out of circulation. do not give them another thought, my dear trotter. and now, monsieur bookseller, we are in a proper frame of mind to discuss the beefsteak you have neglected to order." "god bless my soul," cried mr. bramble in great dismay. his unceremonious departure an instant later was due to panic. mrs. o'leary had to be stopped before the tripe and tunny fish had gone too far. moreover, he had forgotten to tell her that there would be two extra for dinner,--besides the extra sirloin. on the following monday, thomas trotter entered the service of mrs. millidew, and on the same day stuyvesant smith-parvis returned to new york after a hasty and more or less unpremeditated visit to atlantic city, where he experienced a trying half hour with the unreasonable mr. carpenter, who spoke feelingly of a personal loss and most unfeelingly of the british foreign office. every nation in the world, he raged, has a foreign office; foreign offices are as plentiful as birds'-nests. but tom trotters were as scarce as hen's-teeth. he would never find another like him. "and what's more," he interrupted himself to say, glowering at the shocked young man, "he's a gentleman, and that's something you ain't,--not in a million years." "ass!" said mr. smith-parvis, under his breath. "what's that?" roared the aggrieved one. "don't shout like that! people are beginning to stare at--" "thank the lord i had sense enough to engage a private detective and not to call in the police, as you suggested. that would have been the limit. i've a notion to hunt that boy up and tell him the whole rotten story." "go ahead and do it," invited stuyvie, his eyes narrowing, "and i will do a little telling myself. there is one thing in particular your wife would give her ears to hear about you. it will simplify matters tremendously. go ahead and tell him." mr. carpenter appeared to be reflecting. his inflamed sullen eyes assumed a misty, faraway expression. "for two cents i'd tell you to go to hell," he said, after a long silence. "boy!" called mr. smith-parvis loftily, signalling a passing bell-hop. "go and get me some small change for this nickel." mr. carpenter's face relaxed into a sickly grin. "can't you take a joke?" he inquired peevishly. "never mind," said stuyvie to the bell-boy. "i sha'n't need it after all." "what i'd like to know," mused mr. carpenter, later on, "is how in thunder the new york police department got wind of all this." mr. smith-parvis, junior, wiped a fine moisture from his brow, and said: "i forgot to mention that i had to give that plain-clothes man fifty dollars to keep him from going to old man cricklewick with the whole blooming story. it seems that he got it from your bally private detective." "good!" said the other brightly. "you got off cheap," he added quickly, catching the look in stuyvie's eye. "i did it to spare cricklewick a whole lot of embarrassment," said the younger man stiffly. "i don't get you." "he never could look me in the face again if he found out i was the man he was panning so unmercifully the other night at our own dinner table." he wiped his brow again. "'gad, he'd never forgive himself." which goes to prove that stuyvie was more considerate of the feelings of others than one might have credited him with being. * * * * * mrs. millidew was very particular about chauffeurs,--an idiosyncrasy, it may be said, that brought her into contact with a great many of them in the course of a twelvemonth. the last one to leave her without giving the customary week's notice had remained in her employ longer than any of his predecessors. a most astonishing discrepancy appeared in their statements as to the exact length of time he was in her service. mrs. millidew maintained that he was with her for exactly three weeks; the chauffeur swore to high heaven that it was three centuries. she had thomas trotter up before her. "you have been recommended to me by mr. cricklewick," she said, regarding him with a critical eye. "no other reference is necessary, so don't go fumbling in your pockets for a pack of filthy envelopes. what is your name?" she was a fat little old woman with yellow hair and exceedingly black and carefully placed eyebrows. "thomas trotter, madam." "how tall are you?" "six feet." "i am afraid you will not do," she said, taking another look at him. trotter stared. "i am sorry, madam." "you are much too tall. nothing will fit you." "are you speaking of livery, madam?" "i'm speaking of a uniform," she said. "i can't be buying new uniforms every two weeks. i don't mind a cap once in awhile, but uniforms cost money. mr. cricklewick didn't tell me you were so tall. as a matter of fact, i think i neglected to say to him that you would have to be under five feet nine and fairly thin. you couldn't possibly squeeze into the uniform, my man. i am sorry. i have tried everything but an english chauffeur, and--you _are_ english, aren't you?" "yes, madam. permit me to solve the problem for you. i never, under any circumstances, wear livery,--i beg your pardon, i should say a uniform." "you never what?" demanded mrs. millidew, blinking. "wear livery," said he, succinctly. "that settles it," said she. "you'd have to if you worked for me. now, see here, my man, it's possible you'll change your mind after you've seen the uniform i put on my chauffeurs. it's a sort of maroon--" "i beg your pardon, madam," he interrupted politely, favouring her with his never-failing smile. her gaze rested for a moment on his white, even teeth, and then went up to meet his deep grey eyes. "a cap is as far as i go. a sort of blue fatigue cap, you know." "i like your face," said she regretfully. "you are quite a good-looking fellow. the last man i had looked like a street cleaner, even in his maroon coat and white pants. i--don't you think you could be persuaded to put it on if i,--well, if i added five dollars a week to your wages? i like your looks. you look as if you might have been a soldier." trotter swallowed hard. "i shouldn't in the least object to wearing the uniform of a soldier, mrs. millidew. that's quite different, you see." "suppose i take you on trial for a couple of weeks," she ventured, surrendering to his smile and the light in his unservile eyes. considering the matter settled, she went on brusquely: "how old are you, trotter?" "thirty." "are you married? i never employ married men. their wives are always having babies or operations or something disagreeable and unnecessary." "i am not married, mrs. millidew." "who was your last employer in england?" "his majesty king george the fifth," said trotter calmly. her eyes bulged. "what?" she cried. then her eyes narrowed. "and do you mean to tell me you didn't wear a uniform when you worked for him?" "i wore a uniform, madam." "umph! america has spoiled you, i see. that's always the way. independence is a curse. have you ever been arrested? wait! don't answer. i withdraw the question. you would only lie, and that is a bad way to begin." "i lie only when it is absolutely necessary, mrs. millidew. in police courts, for example." "good! now, you are young, good looking and likely to be spoiled. it must be understood in the beginning, trotter, that there is to be no foolishness with women." she regarded him severely. "no foolishness whatsoever," said he humbly, raising his eyes to heaven. "how long were you employed in your last job--ah, situation?" "not quite a twelve-month, madam." "and now," she said, with a graciousness that surprised her, "perhaps you would like to put a few questions to me. the cooks always do." he smiled more engagingly than ever. "as they say in the advertisements of lost jewellery, madam,--'no questions asked,'" he said. "eh? oh, i see. rather good. i hope you know your place, though," she added, narrowly. "i don't approve of freshness." "no more do i," said he, agreeably. "i suppose you are accustomed to driving in--er--in good society, trotter. you know what i mean." "perfectly. i have driven in the very best, madam, if i do say it as shouldn't. beg pardon, i daresay you mean smart society?" he appeared to be very much concerned, even going so far as to send an appraising eye around the room,--doubtless for the purpose of satisfying himself that _she_ was quite up to the standard. "of course," she said hastily. something told her that if she didn't nab him on the spot he would get away from her. "can you start in at once, trotter?" "we have not agreed upon the wages, madam." "i have never paid less than forty a week," she said stiffly. "even for bad ones," she added. he smiled, but said nothing, apparently waiting for her to proceed. "would fifty a week suit you?" she asked, after a long pause. she was a little helpless. "quite," said he. "it's a lot of money," she murmured. "but i like the way you speak english. by the way, let me hear you say: 'it is half after four, madam. are you going on to mrs. brown's.'" trotter laid himself out. he said "hawf-paast," and "fou-ah," and "meddem," and "gehing," in a way that delighted her. "i shall be going out at three o'clock, trotter. be on time. i insist on punctuality." "very good, madam," he said, and retreated in good order. she halted him at the door. "above all things you mustn't let any of these silly women make a fool of you, trotter," she said, a troubled gleam in her eyes. "i will do my best, madam," he assured her. and that very afternoon she appeared in triumph at the home of her daughter-in-law (the _young_ mrs. millidew) and invited that widowed siren to go out for a spin with her "behind the stunningest creature you ever laid your eyes on." "where did you get him?" inquired the beautiful daughter-in-law, later on, in a voice perfectly audible to the man at the wheel. "he's the best looking thing in town. don't be surprised if i steal him inside of a week." she might as well have been at the zoo, discussing impervious captives. "now, don't try anything like that," cried mrs. millidew the elder, glaring fiercely. "i like the way his hair kinks in the back,--and just above his ears," said the other. "and his skin is as smooth and as clear--" "is there any drive in particular you would like to take, madam?" broke in trotter, turning in the seat. "up--up and down fifth avenue," said mrs. millidew promptly. "did you ever see such teeth?" cried mrs. millidew, the younger, delightedly. trotter's ears were noticeable on account of their colour. chapter x putting their heads--and hearts--together "for every caress," philosophized the marchioness, "there is a pinch. somehow they manage to keep on pretty even terms. one receives the caresses fairly early in life, the pinches later on. you shouldn't be complaining at your time of life, my friend." she was speaking to lord temple, who had presented himself a full thirty minutes ahead of other expected guests at the wednesday evening salon. he explained that he came early because he had to leave early. mrs. millidew was at the theatre. she was giving a box party. he had been directed to return to the theatre before the end of the second act. mrs. millidew, it appears, was in the habit of "walking out" on every play she attended, sometimes at the end of an act but more frequently in the middle of it, greatly to the relief of actors and audience. * * * * * ("tell me something good to read," said one of her guests, in the middle of the first act, addressing no one in particular, the audience being a very large one. "is there anything new that's worth while?" "_the three musketeers_ is a corker," said the man next her. "awfully exciting." "write it down for me, dear boy. i will order it sent up tomorrow. one has so little time to read, you know. anything else?" "you _must_ read _trilby_," cried one of the other women, frowning slightly in the direction of the stage, where an actor was doing his best to break into the general conversation. "it's perfectly ripping, i hear. and there is another book called _three men in a yacht_, or something like that. have you had it?" "no. good lord, what a noisy person he is! one can't hear oneself think, the way he's roaring. _three men in a yacht._ put that down, too, bertie. dear me, how do you find the time to keep up with your reading, my dear? it's absolutely impossible for me. i'm always six months or a year behind--" "have you read _brewster's millions_, mrs. corkwright?" timidly inquired a rather up-to-date gentleman. "that isn't a book. it's a play," said mrs. millidew. "i saw it ten years ago. there is a ship in it.") * * * * * "i'm not complaining," remarked lord temple, smiling down upon the marchioness, who was seated in front of the fireplace. "i merely announced that the world is getting to be a dreary old place,--and that's all." "ah, but you made the announcement after a silence of five minutes following my remark that lady jane thorne finds it impossible to be with us tonight." he blushed. "did it seem as long as that?" he said, penitently. "i'm sorry." "how do you like your new situation?" she inquired, changing the subject abruptly. he gave a slight start. it was an unwritten law that one's daily occupation should not be discussed at the weekly drawing-rooms. for example, it is easy to conceive that one could not be forgiven for asking the count pietro poloni how many nickels he had taken in during the day as humpy the organ-grinder. lord temple also stared. was it possible that she was forgetting that thomas trotter, the chauffeur, was hanging over the back of a chair in the locker room down-stairs,--where he had been left by a hurried and somewhat untidy lord temple? "as well as could be expected," he replied, after a moment. "mrs. millidew came in to see me today. she informed me that she had put in her thumb and pulled out a plum. meaning you, of course." "how utterly english you are, my dear marchioness. she mentioned a fruit of some kind, and you missed the point altogether. 'peach' is the word she's been using for the past two days, just plain, ordinary 'peach.' a dozen times a day she sticks a finger almost up against my manly back, and says proudly: 'see my new chauffeur. isn't he a peach?' i can't see how you make plum out of it." the marchioness laughed. "it doesn't matter. she dragged me to the window this afternoon and pointed down at you sitting alone in all your splendour. i am afraid i gasped. i couldn't believe my eyes. you won't last long, dear boy. she's a dreadful woman." "i'm not worrying. i shouldn't be out of a situation long. do you happen to know her daughter-in-law?" "i do," said the marchioness, frowning. "she told me this morning that the instant i felt i couldn't stand the old lady any longer, she'd give me a job on the spot. as a matter-of-fact, she went so far as to say she'd be willing to pay me more money if i felt the slightest inclination to leave my present position at once." the marchioness smiled faintly. "no other recommendation necessary, eh?" "beg pardon?" "in other words, she is willing to accept you at your face value." "i daresay i have a competent face," he acknowledged, his smile broadening into a grin. "designed especially for women," said she. he coloured. "oh, i say, that's a bit rough." "and thoroughly approved by men," she added. "that's better," he said. "i'm not a ladies' man, you know,--thank god." his face clouded. "is lady jane ill?" "apparently not. she merely telephoned to say it would be impossible to come." she eyed him shrewdly. "do you know anything about it, young man?" "have you seen her,--lately?" he parried. "yesterday afternoon," she answered, keeping her eyes upon his half-averted face. "see here, eric temple," she broke out suddenly, "she is unhappy--most unhappy. i am not sure that i ought to tell you--and yet, you are in love with her, so you should know. now, don't say you are not in love with her! save your breath. the trouble is, you are not the only man who is in that peculiar fix." "i know," he said, frowning darkly. "she's being annoyed by that infernal blighter." "oho, so you _do_ know, then?" she cried. "she was very careful to leave you out of the story altogether. well, i'm glad you know. what are you going to do about it?" "i? why,--why, what _can_ i do?" "there is a great deal you can do." "but she has laid down the law, hard and fast. she won't let me," he groaned. the marchioness blinked rapidly. "well, of all the stupid,--say that again, please." "she won't let me. i would in a second, you know,--no matter if it did land me in jail for--" "what are you talking about?" she gasped. "punching his bally head till he wouldn't know it himself in the mirror," he grated, looking at his fist almost tearfully. the marchioness opened her lips to say something, thought better of it, and turned her head to smile. "moreover," he went on, "she's right. might get her into no end of a mess with those people, you see. it breaks my heart to think of her--" "he wants her to run away with him and be married," she broke in. "what!" he almost shouted, glaring at her as if she were the real offender. "you--did she tell you that?" "yes. he rather favours san francisco. he wants her to go out there with him and be married by a chap to whom he promised the distinction while they were still in their teens." "the cur! that's his game, is it? why, that's the foulest trick known to--" "but she isn't going, my friend,--so possess yourself in peace. that's why he is turning off so nasty. he is making things most unpleasant for her." he wondered how far jane had gone in her confidences. had she told the marchioness everything? "why doesn't she leave the place?" he demanded, as a feeler. lady jane had told the marchioness everything, and a great deal more besides, including, it may be said, something touching upon her own feelings toward lord temple. but the marchioness was under imperative orders. not for the world, was thomas trotter to know that miss emsdale, among others, was a perfect fool about him. "she must have her bread and butter, you know," said she severely. "but she can get that elsewhere, can't she?" "certainly. she can get it by marrying some decent, respectable fellow and all that sort of thing, but she can't get another place in new york as governess if the smith-parvis establishment turns her out with a bad name." he swallowed hard, and went a little pale. "of course, she isn't thinking of--of getting married." "yes, she is," said the marchioness flatly. "has--has she told you that in so many words, marchioness?" he asked, his heart going to his boots. "is it fair to ask that question, lord temple?" "no. it isn't fair. i have no right to pry into her affairs. i'm--i'm desperately concerned, that's all. it's my only excuse." "it isn't strange that she should be in love, is it?" "but i--i don't see who the deuce she can have found over here to--to fall in love with," he floundered. "there are millions of good, fine americans, my friend. young smith-parvis is one of the exceptions." "he isn't an american," said lord temple, savagely. "don't insult america by mentioning his name in--" "please, please! be careful not to knock over the lamp, dear boy. it's florentine, and count antonio says it came from some dreadful sixteenth-century woman's bedroom, price two hundred guineas net. she's afraid she's being watched." "she? oh, you mean lady jane?" "certainly. the other woman has been dead for centuries. jane thinks it isn't safe for her to come here for a little while. there's no telling what the wretch may stoop to, you see." lord temple squared his shoulders. "i don't see how you can be so cheerful about it," he said icily. "i fear it isn't worth while to ask the favour i came to--er--to ask of you tonight." "don't be silly. tell me what i can do for you." "it isn't for me. it's for her. i came early tonight so that we could talk it all over before any one else arrived. i've slept precious little the last few nights, marchioness." his brow was furrowed as with pain. "in the first place, you will agree that she cannot remain in that house up there. that's settled." as she did not offer any audible support, he demanded, after a pause: "isn't it?" "i daresay she will have something to say about that," she said, temporizing. "she is her own mistress, you know." "but the poor girl doesn't know where to turn," he protested. "she'd chuck it in a second if something else turned up." "i spoke of marriage, you will remember," she remarked, drily. "i--i know," he gulped. "but we've just got to tide her over the rough going until she's--until she's ready, you see." he could not force the miserable word out of his mouth. "now, i have a plan. are you prepared to back me up in it?" "how can i answer that question?" "well, i'll explain," he went on rapidly, eagerly. "we've got to make a new position for her. i can't do it without your help, of course, so we'll have to combine forces. now, here's the scheme i've worked out. you are to give her a place here,--not downstairs in the shop, mind you,--but upstairs in your own, private apartment. you--" "good heavens, man! what are you saying? would you have lady jane thorne go into service? do you dare suggest that she should put on a cap and apron and--" "not at all," he interrupted. "i want you to engage her as your private secretary, at a salary of one hundred dollars a month. she's receiving that amount from the smith-parvises. i don't see how she can get along on less, so--" "my dear man!" cried the marchioness, in amazement. "what _are_ you talking about? in the first place, i haven't the slightest use for a private secretary. in the second place, i can't afford to pay one hundred--" "you haven't heard all i have to say--" "and in the third place, lady jane wouldn't consider it in the first place. bless my soul, you _do_ need sleep. you are losing your--" "she sends nearly all of her salary over to the boy at home," he went on earnestly. "it will have to be one hundred dollars, at the very lowest. now, here's my proposition. i am getting two hundred a month. it's just twice as much as i'm worth,--or any other chauffeur, for that matter. well, now what's the matter with me taking just what i'm worth and giving her the other half? see what i mean?" he was standing before her, his eyes glowing, his voice full of boyish eagerness. as she looked up into his shining eyes, a tender smile came and played about her lips. "i see," she said softly. "well?" he demanded anxiously, after a moment. "do sit down," she said. "you appear to have grown prodigiously tall in the last few minutes. i shall have a dreadful crick in my neck, i'm afraid." he pulled up a chair and sat down. "i can get along like a breeze on a hundred dollars a month," he pursued. "i've worked it all out,--just how much i can save by moving into cheaper lodgings, and cutting out expensive cigarettes, and going on the water-wagon entirely,--although i rarely take a drink as it is,--and getting my clothes at a department store instead of having them sent out from london,--i'd be easy to fit, you see, even with hand-me-downs,--and in a lot of other ways. besides, it would be a splendid idea for me to practise economy. i've never--" "you dear old goose," broke in the marchioness, delightedly; "do you think for an instant that i will allow you to pay the salary of my private secretary,--if i should conclude to employ one?" "but you say you can't afford to employ one," he protested. "besides, i shouldn't want her to be a real secretary. the work would be too hard and too confining. old bramble was my grandfather's secretary. he worked sixteen hours a day and never had a holiday. she must have plenty of fresh air and outdoor exercise and--and time to read and do all sorts of agreeable things. i couldn't think of allowing her to learn how to use a typing machine, or to write shorthand, or to get pains in her back bending over a desk for hours at a time. that isn't my scheme, at all. she mustn't do any of those stupid things. naturally, if you were to pay her out of your own pocket, you'd be justified in demanding a lot of hard, exacting work--" "just a moment, please. let's be serious," said the marchioness, pursing her lips. "suffering--" he began, staring at her in astonishment. "i mean, let's seriously consider your scheme," she hastened to amend. "you are assuming, of course, that she will accept a position such as you suggest. suppose she says no,--what then?" "i leave that entirely to you," said he, composedly. "you can persuade her, i'm sure." "she is no fool. she is perfectly well aware that i don't require the services of a secretary, that i am quite able to manage my private affairs myself. she would see through me in a second. she is as proud as lucifer. i don't like to think of what she would say to me. and if i were to offer to pay her one hundred dollars a month, she would--well, she would think i was losing my mind. she knows i--" "by jove!" he exclaimed, slapping his knee, his face beaming. "that's the ticket! that simplifies everything. let her think you _are_ losing your mind. from worry and overwork--and all that sort of thing. it's the very thing, marchioness. she would drop everything to help you in a case like that." "well, of all the--" began the marchioness, aghast. "you can put it up to her something like this," he went on, enthusiastically. "tell her you are on the point of having a nervous breakdown,--a sort of collapse, you know. you know how to put it, better than i do. you--" "i certainly do _not_ know how to put it better than you do," she cried, sitting up very straight. "tell her you are dreadfully worried over not being able to remember things,--mental strain, and all that sort of thing. may have to give up business altogether unless you can--is it a laughing matter, marchioness?" he broke off, reddening to the roots of his hair. "you are delicious!" she cried, dabbing her eyes with a bit of a lace handkerchief. "i haven't laughed so heartily in months. bless my soul, you'll have me telling her there is insanity in my family before you're through with it." "not at all," he said severely. "people _never_ admit that sort of thing, you know. but certainly it isn't asking too much of you to act tired and listless, and a _little_ distracted, is it? she'll ask what's the matter, and you simply say you're afraid you're going to have a nervous breakdown or--or--" "or paresis," she supplied. "whatever you like," he said promptly. "now you _will_ do this for me, won't you? you don't know what it will mean to me to feel that she is safe here with you." "i will do my best," she said, for she loved him dearly--and the girl that he loved dearly too. "hurray!" he shouted,--and kissed her! "don't be foolish," she cried out. "you've tumbled my hair, and julia had a terrible time with it tonight." "when will you tackle--see her, i mean?" he asked, sitting down abruptly and drawing his chair a little closer. "the first time she comes in to see me," she replied firmly, "and not before. you must not demand too much of a sick, collapsible old lady, you know. give me time,--and a chance to get my bearings." he drew a long breath. "i seem to be getting my own for the first time in days." she hesitated. "of course, it is all very quixotic,--and most unselfish of you, lord temple. not every man would do as much for a girl who--well, i'll not say a girl who is going to be married before long, because i'd only be speculating,--but for a girl, at any rate, who can never be expected to repay. i take it, of course, that lady jane is never, under any circumstances to know that you are the real paymaster." "she must never know," he gasped, turning a shade paler. "she would hate me, and--well, i couldn't stand that, you know." "and you will not repent when the time comes for her to marry?" "i'll--i'll be miserably unhappy, but--but, you will not hear a whimper out of me," he said, his face very long. "spoken like a hero," she said, and again she laughed, apparently without reason. "some one is coming. will you stay?" "no; i'll be off, marchioness. you don't know how relieved i am. i'll drop in tomorrow some time to see what she says,--and to arrange with you about the money. good night!" he kissed her hand, and turned to mcfaddan, who had entered the room. "call a taxi for me, mcfaddan." "very good, sir." "wait! never mind. i'll walk or take a street car." to the marchioness: "i'm beginning right now," he said, with his gayest smile. in the foyer he encountered cricklewick. "pleasant evening, cricklewick," he said. "it is, your lordship. most agreeable change, sir." "a bit soft under foot." "slushy, sir," said cricklewick, obsequiously. chapter xi winning by a nose mrs. smith-parvis, having received the annual spring announcement from juneo & co., repaired, on an empty thursday, to the show-rooms and galleries of the little italian dealer in antiques. twice a year she disdainfully,--and somewhat hastily,--went through his stock, always proclaiming at the outset that she was merely "looking around"; she'd come in later if she saw anything really worth having. it was her habit to demand the services of mr. juneo himself on these profitless visits to his establishment. she looked holes through the presumptuous underlings who politely adventured to inquire if she was looking for anything in particular. it would seem that the only thing in particular that she was looking for was the head of the house, and if he happened to be out she made it very plain that she didn't see how he ever did any business if he wasn't there to look after it. and if little mr. juneo was in, she swiftly conducted him through the various departments of his own shop, questioning the genuineness of everything, denouncing his prices, and departing at last with the announcement that she could always find what she wanted at pickett's. at pickett's she invariably encountered coldly punctilious gentlemen in "frockaway" coats, who were never quite sure, without inquiring, whether mr. moody was at liberty. would she kindly take a seat and wait, or would she prefer to have a look about the galleries while some one went off to see if he could see her at once or a little later on? she liked all this. and she would wander about the luxurious rooms of the establishment of pickett, inc., content to stare languidly at other and less influential patrons who had to be satisfied with the smug attentions of ordinary salesmen. and moody, being acutely english, laid it on very thick when it came to dealing with persons of the type of mrs. smith-parvis. somehow he had learned that in dealing with snobs one must transcend even in snobbishness. the only way to command the respect of a snob is to go him a little better,--indeed, according to moody, it isn't altogether out of place to go him a great deal better. the loftier the snob, the higher you must shoot to get over his head (to quote moody, whose training as a footman in one of the oldest houses in england had prepared him against almost any emergency). he assumed on occasion a polite, bored indifference that seldom failed to have the desired effect. in fact, he frequently went so far as to pretend to stifle a yawn while face to face with the most exalted of patrons,--a revelation of courage which, being carefully timed, usually put the patron in a corner from which she could escape only by paying a heavy ransom. he sometimes had a way of implying,--by his manner, of course,--that he would rather not sell the treasure at all than to have it go into _your_ mansion, where it would be manifestly alone in its splendour, notwithstanding the priceless articles you had picked up elsewhere in previous efforts to inhabit the place with glory. on the other hand, if you happened to be nobody at all and therefore likely to resent being squelched, he could sell you a ten-dollar candlestick quite as amiably as the humblest clerk in the place. indeed, he was quite capable of giving it to you for nine dollars if he found he had not quite correctly sized you up in the beginning. as he never erred in sizing up people of the smith-parvis ilk, however, his profits were sublime. accident, and nothing less, brought him into contact with the common people looking for bargains: such as the faulty adjustment of his monocle, or a similarity in backs, or the perverseness of the telephone, or a sudden shower. sudden showers always remind pedestrians without umbrellas that they've been meaning for a long time to stop in and price things, and they clutter up the place so. mrs. smith-parvis was bent on discovering something cheap and unusual for the twins, whose joint birthday anniversary was but two days off. it occurred to her that it would be wise to give them another heirloom apiece. something english, of course, in view of the fact that her husband's forebears had come over from england with the twenty or thirty thousand voyagers who stuffed the _mayflower_ from stem to stern on her historic maiden trip across the atlantic. secretly, she had never got over being annoyed with the twins for having come regardless, so to speak. she had prayed for another boy like stuyvesant, and along came the twins--no doubt as a sort of sop in the form of good measure. if there had to be twins, why under heaven couldn't she have been blessed with them on stuyvesant's natal day? she couldn't have had too many stuyvesants. still, she considered it her duty to be as nice as possible to the twins, now that she had them; and besides, they were growing up to be surprisingly pretty girls, with a pleasantly increasing resemblance to stuyvesant. always, a day or two prior to the anniversary, she went surreptitiously into the antique shops and picked out for each of them a piece of jewellery, or a bit of china, or a strip of lace, or anything else that bore evidence of having once been in a very nice sort of family. on the glad morning she delivered her gifts, with sweet impressiveness, into the keeping of these remote little descendants of her beloved ancestors! invariably something english, heirlooms that she had kept under lock and key since the day they came to mr. smith-parvis under the terms of his great-grandmother's will. up to the time stuyvesant was sixteen he had been getting heirlooms from a long-departed great-grandfather, but on reaching that vital age, he declared that he preferred cash. the twins had a rare assortment of family heirlooms in the little glass cabinets upstairs. "you must cherish them for ever," said their mother, without compunction. "they represent a great deal more than mere money, my dears. they are the intrinsic bonds that connect you with a glorious past." when they were ten she gave them a pair of beautiful miniatures,--a most alluring and imperial looking young lady with powdered hair, and a gallant young gentleman with orders pinned all over his bright red coat. it appears that the lady of the miniature was a great personage at court a great many years before the misguided colonists revolted against king george the third, and they--her darling twins--were directly descended from her. the gentleman was her husband. "he was awfully handsome," one of the twins had said, being romantic. "are we descended from him too, mamma?" she inquired innocently. "certainly," said mrs. smith-parvis severely. a predecessor of miss emsdale's got her walking papers for putting nonsense (as well as the truth) into the heads of the children. at least, she told them something that paved the way for a most embarrassing disclosure by one of the twins when a visitor was complimenting them on being such nice, lovely little ladies. "we ought to be," said eudora proudly. "we are descended from madam du barry. we've got her picture upstairs." mrs. smith-parvis took miss emsdale with her on this particular thursday afternoon. this was at the suggestion of stuyvesant, who held forth that an english governess was in every way qualified to pass upon english wares, new or old, and there wasn't any sense in getting "stung" when there was a way to protect oneself, and all that sort of thing. stuyvesant also joined the hunt. "rather a lark, eh, what?" he whispered in miss emsdale's ear as they followed his stately mother into the shop of juneo & co. she jerked her arm away. the proprietor was haled forth. courteous, suave and polished though he was, signor juneo had the misfortune to be a trifle shabby, and sartorially remiss. mrs. smith-parvis eyed him from a peak,--a very lofty peak. ten minutes sufficed to convince her that he had nothing in his place that she could think of buying. "my dear sir," she said haughtily, "i know just what i want, so don't try to palm off any of this jewellery on me. miss emsdale knows the queen anne period quite as well as i do, i've no doubt. queen anne never laid eyes on that wristlet, mr. juneo." "pardon me, mrs. smith-parvis, i fear you misunderstood me," said the little dealer politely. "i think i said that it was of queen anne's period--" "what time is it, stuyvesant?" broke in the lady, turning her back on the merchant. "we must be getting on to pickett's. it is really a waste of time, coming to places like this. one should go to pickett's in the first--" "there are a lot of ripping things here, mater," said stuyvesant, his eyes resting on a comfortable couch in a somewhat secluded corner of the shop. "take a look around. miss emsdale and i will take a back seat, so that you may go about it with an open mind. i daresay we confuse you frightfully, tagging at your heels all the time, what? come along, miss emsdale. you look fagged and--" "thank you, i am quite all right," said miss emsdale, the red spots in her cheeks darkening. "oh, be a sport," he urged, under his voice. "i've just got to have a few words with you. it's been days since we've had a good talk. looks as though you were deliberately avoiding me." "i am," said she succinctly. mrs. smith-parvis had gone on ahead with signor juneo, and was loudly criticizing a beautiful old venetian mirror which he had the temerity to point out to her. "well, i don't like it," stuyvesant said roughly. "that sort of thing doesn't go with me, miss emsdale. and, hang it all, why haven't you had the decency to answer the two notes i stuck under your door last night and the night before?" "i did not read the second one," she said, flushing painfully. "you have no right to assume that i will meet you--oh, _can't_ you be a gentleman?" he gasped. "my god! can you beat _that_!" "it is becoming unbearable, mr. smith-parvis," said she, looking him straight in the eye. "if you persist, i shall be compelled to speak to your mother." "go ahead," he said sarcastically. "i'm ready for exposure if you are." "and i am now prepared to give up my position," she added, white and calm. "good!" he exclaimed promptly. "i'll see that you never regret it," he went on eagerly, his enormous vanity reaching out for but one conclusion. "you beast!" she hissed, and walked away. he looked bewildered. "i'm blowed if i understand what's got into women lately," he muttered, and passed his fingers over his brow. on the way to pickett's, mrs. smith-parvis dilated upon the unspeakable mr. juneo. "you will be struck at once, miss emsdale, by the contrast. the instant you come in contact with mr. moody, at pickett's--he is really the head of the firm,--you will experience the delightful,--and unique, i may say,--sensation of being in the presence of a cultured, high-bred gentleman. they are most uncommon among shop-keepers in these days. this little juneo is as common as dirt. he hasn't a shred of good-breeding. utterly low-class neapolitan person, i should say at a venture,--although i have never been by way of knowing any of the lower class italians. they must be quite dreadful in their native gutters. now, mr. moody,--but you shall see. really, he is so splendid that one can almost imagine him in the house of lords, or being privileged to sit down in the presence of the king, or--my word, stuyvesant, what are you scowling at?" "i'm not scowling," growled stuyvesant, from the little side seat in front of them. "he actually makes me feel sometimes as though i were dirt under his feet," went on mrs. smith-parvis. "oh, come now, mother, you know i never make you feel anything of the--" "i was referring to mr. moody, dear." "oh,--well," said he, slightly crestfallen. miss emsdale suppressed a desire to giggle. moody, a footman without the normal supply of aitches; juneo, a nobleman with countless generations of nobility behind him! the car drew up to the curb on the side street paralleling pickett's. another limousine had the place of vantage ahead of them. "blow your horn, galpin," ordered mrs. smith-parvis. "they have no right to stand there, blocking the way." "it's mrs. millidew's car, madam," said the footman up beside galpin. "never mind, galpin," said mrs. smith-parvis hastily. "we will get out here. it's only a step." miss emsdale started. a warm red suffused her cheeks. she had not seen trotter since that day in bramble's book-shop. her heart began to beat rapidly. trotter was standing on the curb, carrying on a conversation with some one inside the car. he too started perceptibly when his gaze fell upon the third person to emerge from the smith-parvis automobile. almost instantly his face darkened and his tall frame stiffened. he had taken a second look at the first person to emerge. the reply he was in process of making to the occupant of his own car suffered a collapse. it became disjointed, incoherent and finally came to a halt. he was afforded a slight thrill of relief when miss emsdale deliberately ignored the hand that was extended to assist her in alighting. mrs. millidew, the younger, turned her head to glance at the passing trio. her face lighted with a slight smile of recognition. the two smith-parvises bowed and smiled in return. "isn't she beautiful?" said mrs. smith-parvis to her son, without waiting to get out of earshot. "oh, rather," said he, quite as distinctly. "who is that extremely pretty girl?" inquired mrs. millidew, the younger, also quite loudly, addressing no one in particular. trotter cleared his throat. "oh, you wouldn't know, of course," she observed. "go on, trotter. you were telling me about your family in--was it chester? your dear old mother and the little sisters. i am very much interested." trotter looked around cautiously, and again cleared his throat. "it is awfully good of you to be interested in my people," he said, an uneasy note in his voice. for his life, he could not remember just what he had been telling her in response to her inquiries. the whole thing had been knocked out of his head by the sudden appearance of one who knew that he had no dear old mother in chester, nor little sisters anywhere who depended largely on him for support! "chester," he said, rather vaguely. "yes, to be sure,--chester. not far from liverpool, you know,--it's where the cathedral is." "tell me all about them," she persisted, leaning a little closer to the window, an encouraging smile on her carmine lips. in due time the impassive mr. moody issued forth from his private office and bore down upon the two matrons, who, having no especial love for each other, were striving their utmost to be cordial without compromising themselves by being agreeable. mrs. millidew the elder, arrayed in many colours, was telling mrs. smith-parvis about a new masseuse she had discovered, and mrs. smith-parvis was talking freely at the same time about a person named juneo. miss emsdale had drifted over toward the broad show window looking out upon the cross-town street, where thomas trotter was visible,--out of the corner of her eye. also the younger mrs. millidew. stuyvesant, sullenly smoking a cigarette, lolled against a show-case across the room, dropping ashes every minute or two into the mouth of a fragile and, for the time being, priceless vase that happened to be conveniently located near his elbow. mr. moody adjusted his monocle and eyed his matronly visitors in a most unfeeling way. "ah,--good awfternoon, mrs. millidew. good awfternoon, mrs. smith-parvis," he said, and then catching sight of an apparently neglected customer in the offing, beckoned to a smart looking salesman, and said, quite loudly: "see what that young man wants, proctor." the young man, who happened to be young mr. smith-parvis, started violently,--and glared. "stupid blight-ah!" he said, also quite loudly, and disgustedly chucked his cigarette into the vase, whereupon the salesman, in some horror, grabbed it up and dumped the contents upon the floor. "you shouldn't do that, you know," he said, in a moment of righteous forgetfulness. "that's a peach-blow--" "oh, is it?" snapped stuyvesant, and walked away. "that is my son, mr. moody," explained mrs. smith-parvis quickly. "poor dear, he hates so to shop with me." "ah,--ah, i see," drawled mr. moody. "your son? yes, yes." and then, as an afterthought, with a slight elevation of one eyebrow, "bless my soul, mrs. smith-parvis, you amaze me. it's incredible. you cawn't convince me that you have a son as old as--well, now, really it's a bit thick." "i--i'm not spoofing you, mr. moody," cried mrs. smith-parvis delightedly. his face relaxed slightly. one might have detected the faint, suppressed gleam of a smile in his eyes,--but it was so brief, so evanescent that it would be folly to put it down as such. the ensuing five minutes were devoted entirely to manoeuvres on the part of all three. mrs. smith-parvis was trying to shunt mrs. millidew on to an ordinary salesman, and mrs. millidew was standing her ground, resolute in the same direction. the former couldn't possibly inspect heirlooms under the eye of that old busy-body, nor could the latter resort to cajolery in the effort to obtain a certain needle-point chair at bankrupt figures. as for mr. moody, he was splendid. the lordliest duke in all of britain could not have presented a truer exemplification of lordliness than he. he quite outdid himself. the eighth letter in the alphabet behaved in a most gratifying manner; indeed, he even took chances with it, just to see how it would act if he were not watching it,--and not once did it fail him. "but, of course, one never can find anything one wants unless one goes to the really exclusive places, you know," mrs. smith-parvis was saying. "it is a waste of time, don't you think?" "quate--oh, yes, quate," drawled mr. moody, in a roving sort of way. that is to say, his interest seemed to be utterly detached, as if nothing that mrs. smith-parvis said really mattered. "naturally we try to find things in the cheaper places before we come here," went on the lady boldly. "more int'resting," said mr. moody, indulgently eyeing a great brass lanthorn that hung suspended over mrs. millidew's bonnet,--but safely to the left of it, he decided. "i've been looking for something odd and quaint and--and--you know,--of the queen anne period,--trinkets, you might say, mr. moody. what have you in that--" "queen anne? oh, ah, yes, to be sure,--queen anne. yes, yes. i see. 'pon my soul, mrs. smith-parvis, i fear we haven't anything at all. most uncommon dearth of queen anne material nowadays. we cawn't get a thing. snapped up in england, of course. i know of some extremely rare pieces to be had in new york, however, and, while i cannot procure them for you myself, i should be charmed to give you a letter to the dealer who has them." "oh, how kind of you. that is really most gracious of you." "mr. juneo, of juneo & co., has quite a stock," interrupted mr. moody tolerantly,--"quite a remarkable collection, i may say. indeed, nothing finer has been brought to new york in--in--in--" mr. moody faltered. his whole manner underwent a swift and peculiar change. his eyes were riveted upon the approaching figure of a young lady. casually, from time to time, his roving, detached gaze had rested upon her back as she stood near the window. as a back, it did not mean anything to him. but now she was approaching,--and a queer, cold little something ran swiftly down his spine. it was lady jane thorne! smash went his house of cards into a jumbled heap. it collapsed from a lofty height. lady jane thorne! no use trying to lord it over her! she was the real thing! couldn't put on "lugs" with her,--not a bit of it! she knew! his monocle dropped. he tried to catch it. missed! "my word!" he mumbled, as he stooped over to retrieve it from the rug at his feet. the exertion sent a ruddy glow to his neck and ears and brow. "did you break it?" cried mrs. millidew. he stuck it in his waist-coat pocket without examination. "this is miss emsdale, our governess," said mrs. smith-parvis. "she's an english girl, mr. moody." "glad to meet you," stammered mr. moody, desperately. "how do you do, mr. moody," said jane, in the most matter-of-fact way. mr. moody knew that she was a paid governess. he had known it for many months. but that didn't alter the case. she was the "real thing." he couldn't put on any "side" with her. he couldn't bring himself to it, not if his life depended on it. not even if she had been a scullery-maid and appeared before him in greasy ginghams. all very well to "stick it on" with these fashionable new yorkers, but when it came to the daughter of the earl of wexham,--well, it didn't matter _what_ she was as long as he knew _who_ she was. his mask was off. the change in his manner was so abrupt, so complete, that his august customers could not fail to notice it. something was wrong with the poor man! certainly he was not himself. he looked ill,--at any rate, he did not look as well as usual. heart, that's what it was, flashed through mrs. millidew's brain. mrs. smith-parvis took it to be vertigo. sometimes her husband looked like that when-"will you please excuse me, ladies,--just for a moment or two?" he mumbled, in a most extraordinary voice. "i will go at once and write a note to mr. juneo. make yourselves at 'ome. and--and--" he shot an appealing glance at miss emsdale,--"and you too, miss." in a very few minutes a stenographer came out of the office into which mr. moody had disappeared, with a typewritten letter to mr. juneo, and the word that mr. moody had been taken suddenly ill and begged to be excused. he hoped that they would be so gracious as to allow mr. paddock to show them everything they had in stock,--and so on. "it was so sudden," said mrs. millidew. "i never saw such a change in a man in all my life. heart, of course. high living, you may be sure. it gets them every time." "i shall run in tomorrow and tell him about dr. brodax," said mrs. smith-parvis firmly. "he ought to see the best man in the city, of course, and no one--" "for the lord's sake, don't let him get into the clutches of that man brodax," interrupted mrs. millidew. "he is--" "no, thank you, mr. paddock,--i sha'n't wait. another day will do just as well. come, miss emsdale. good-bye, my dear. come and see me." "dr. brown stands at the very top of the profession as a heart specialist. he--" "i've never heard of him," said mrs. smith-parvis icily, and led the way to the sidewalk, her head very high. you could say almost anything you pleased to mrs. smith-parvis about her husband, or her family, or her religion, or even her figure, but you couldn't belittle her doctor. that was lese-majesty. she wouldn't have it. a more or less peaceful expedition came to grief within sixty seconds after its members reached the sidewalk,--and in a most astonishing manner. stuyvesant was in a nasty humour. he had not noticed thomas trotter before. coming upon the tall young man suddenly, after turning the corner of the building, he was startled into an expression of disgust. trotter was holding open the limousine door for mrs. millidew, the elder. young mr. smith-parvis stopped short and stared in a most offensive manner at mrs. millidew's chauffeur. "by gad, you weren't long in getting a job after carpenter fired you, were you? fish!" now, there is no way in the world to recall the word "fish" after it has been uttered in the tone employed by stuyvesant. ordinarily it is a most inoffensive word, and signifies something delectable. in french it is _poisson_, and we who know how to pronounce it say it with pleasure and gusto, quite as we say _pomme de terre_ when we mean potato. if stuyvesant had said _poisson_, the chances are that nothing would have happened. but he didn't. he said fish. no doubt thomas trotter was in a bad humour also. he was a very sensible young man, and there was no reason why he should be jealous of stuyvesant smith-parvis. he had it from miss emsdale herself that she loathed and despised the fellow. and yet he saw red when she passed him a quarter of an hour before with stuyvesant at her side. for some time he had been harassed by the thought that if she had not caught sight of him as she left the car, the young man's offer of assistance might not have been spurned. in any event, there certainly was something queer afoot. why was she driving about with mrs. smith-parvis,--_and_ stuyvesant,--as if she were one of the family and not a paid employé? in the twinkling of an eye, thomas trotter forgot that he was a chauffeur. he remembered only that he was lord eric carruthers ethelbert temple, the grandson of a soldier, the great-grandson of a soldier, and the great-great grandson of a soldier whose father and grandfather had been soldiers before him. thomas trotter would have said,--and quite properly, too, considering his position:--"quite so, sir." lord temple merely put his face a little closer to stuyvesant's and said, very audibly, very distinctly: "you go to hell!" stuyvesant fell back a step. he could not believe his ears. the fellow couldn't have said--and yet, there was no possible way of making anything else out of it. he _had_ said "you go to hell." fortunately he had said it in the presence of ladies. made bold by the continued presence of at least three ladies, stuyvesant, assuming that a chauffeur would not dare go so far as a physical retort, snapped his fingers under trotter's nose and said: "for two cents i'd kick you all over town for that." miss emsdale erred slightly in her agitation. she grasped stuyvesant's arm. trotter also erred. he thought she was trying to keep smith-parvis from carrying out the threat. mrs. millidew, the elder, cried out sharply: "what's all this? trotter, get up on the seat at once. i--" mrs. millidew, the younger, leaned from the window and patted trotter on the shoulder. her eyes were sparkling. "give it to him, trotter. don't mind me!" she cried. stuyvesant turned to miss emsdale. "don't be alarmed, my dear. i sha'n't do it, you know. pray compose yourself. i--" at that juncture lord eric temple reached out and, with remarkable precision, grasped stuyvesant's nose between his thumb and forefinger. one sharp twist brought a surprised grunt from the owner of the nose, a second elicited a pained squeak, and the third,--pressed upward as well as both to the right and left,--resulted in a sharp howl of anguish. the release of his nose was attended by a sudden push that sent stuyvesant backward two or three steps. "oh, my god!" he gasped, and felt for his nose. there were tears in his eyes. there would have been tears in anybody's eyes after those merciless tweaks. finding his nose still attached, he struck out wildly with both fists, a blind fury possessing him. even a coward will strike if you pull his nose severely enough. as trotter remained motionless after the distressing act of lord temple, stuyvesant missed him by a good yard and a half, but managed to connect solidly with the corner of the limousine, barking his knuckles, a circumstance which subsequently provided him with something to substantiate his claim to having planted a "good one" on the blighter's jaw. his hat fell off and rolled still farther away from the redoubtable trotter, luckily in the direction of the smith-parvis car. by the time stuyvesant retrieved it, after making several clutches in his haste, he was, singularly enough, beyond the petrified figure of his mother. "call the police! call the police!" mrs. smith-parvis was whimpering. "where are the police?" mrs. millidew, the elder, cried out sharply: "hush up! don't be idiotic! do you want to attract the police and a crowd and--what do you mean, trotter, by attacking mr. smith-par--" "get out of the way, mother," roared stuyvesant. "let me at him! don't hold me! i'll break his infernal neck--shut up!" his voice sank to a hoarse whisper. "we don't want the police. shut up, i say! my god, don't make a scene!" "splendid!" cried mrs. millidew, the younger, enthusiastically, addressing herself to trotter. "perfectly splendid!" trotter, himself once more, calmly stepped to the back of the car to see what, if any, damage stuyvesant had done to the polished surface! mrs. smith-parvis advanced. her eyes were blazing. "you filthy brute!" she exclaimed. up to this instant, miss emsdale had not moved. she was very white and breathless. now her eyes flashed ominously. "don't you dare call him a brute," she cried out. mrs. smith-parvis gasped, but was speechless in the face of this amazing defection. stuyvesant opened his lips to speak, but observing that the traffic policeman at the fifth avenue corner was looking with some intensity at the little group, changed his mind and got into the automobile. "come on!" he called out. "get in here, both of you. i'll attend to this fellow later on. come on, i say!" "how dare you speak to me in that manner?" flared mrs. smith-parvis, turning from trotter to the girl. "what do you mean, miss emsdale? are you defending this--" "yes, i am defending him," cried jane, passionately. "he--he didn't do half enough to him." "good girl!" murmured trotter, radiant. "that will do!" said mrs. smith-parvis imperiously. "i shall not require your services after today, miss emsdale." "oh, good lord, mother,--don't be a fool," cried stuyvesant. "let me straighten this thing out. i--" "as you please, madam," said jane, drawing herself up to her full height. "drive to dr. brodax's, galpin, as quickly as possible," directed stuyvesant's mother, and entered the car beside her son. the footman closed the door and hopped up beside the chauffeur. he was very pink with excitement. "oh, for heaven's sake--" began her son furiously, but the closing of the door smothered the rest of the complaint. "you may also take your notice, trotter," said mrs. millidew the elder. "i can't put up with such behaviour as this." "very good, madam. i'm sorry. i--" miss emsdale was walking away. he did not finish the sentence. his eyes were following her and they were full of concern. "you may come to me tomorrow, trotter," said mrs. millidew, the younger. "now, don't glare at me, mother-in-law," she added peevishly. "you've dismissed him, so don't, for heaven's sake, croak about me stealing him away from you." trotter's employer closed her jaws with a snap, then opened them instantly to exclaim: "no, you don't, my dear. i withdraw the notice, trotter. you stay on with me. drop mrs. millidew at her place first, and then drive me home. that's all right, dolly. i don't care if it is out of our way. i wouldn't leave you alone with him for anything in the world." trotter sighed. miss emsdale had turned the corner. chapter xii in the fog miss emsdale did not ask mrs. smith-parvis for a "reference." she dreaded the interview that was set for seven o'clock that evening. the butler had informed her on her return to the house shortly after five that mrs. smith-parvis would see her at seven in the library, after all, instead of in her boudoir, and she was to look sharp about being prompt. the young lady smiled. "it's all one to me, rogers,--the library or the boudoir." "first it was the boudoir, miss, and then it was the library, and then the boudoir again,--and now the library. it seems to be quite settled, however. it's been nearly 'arf an hour since the last change was made. shouldn't surprise me if it sticks." "it gives me an hour and a half to get my things together," said she, much more brightly than he thought possible in one about to be "sacked." "will you be good enough to order a taxi for me at half-past seven, rogers?" rogers stiffened. this was not the tone or the manner of a governess. he had a feeling that he ought to resent it, and yet he suddenly found himself powerless to do so. no one had spoken to him in just that way in fifteen years. "very good, miss emsdale. seven-thirty." he went away strangely puzzled, and not a little disgusted with himself. she expected to find that stuyvesant had carried out his threat to vilify her, and was prepared for a bitter ten minutes with the outraged mistress of the house, who would hardly let her escape without a severe lacing. she would be dismissed without a "character." she packed her boxes and the two or three hand-bags that had come over from london with her. a heightened colour was in her cheeks, and there was a repelling gleam in her blue eyes. she was wondering whether she could keep herself in hand during the tirade. her temper was a hot one. a not distant irish ancestor occasionally got loose in her blood and played havoc with the strain inherited from a whole regiment of english forebears. on such occasions, she flared up in a fine celtic rage, and then for days afterwards was in a penitential mood that shamed the poor old irish ghost into complete and grovelling subjection. what she saw in the mirror over her dressing-table warned her that if she did not keep a pretty firm grip tonight on the throat of that wild irishman who had got into the family-tree ages before the twig represented by herself appeared, mrs. smith-parvis was reasonably certain to hear from him. a less captious observer, leaning over her shoulder, would have taken an entirely different view of the reflection. he (obviously he) would have pronounced it ravishing. promptly at seven she entered the library. to her dismay, mrs. smith-parvis was not alone. her husband was there, and also stuyvesant. if her life had depended on it, she could not have conquered the impulse to favour the latter's nose with a rather penetrating stare. a slight thrill of satisfaction shot through her. it _did_ seem to be a trifle red and enlarged. mr. smith-parvis, senior, was nervous. otherwise he would not have risen from his comfortable chair. "good evening, miss emsdale," he said, in a palliative tone. "have this chair. ahem!" catching a look from his wife, he sat down again, and laughed quite loudly and mirthlessly, no doubt actuated by a desire to put the governess at her ease,--an effort that left him rather flat and wholly non-essential, it may be said. his wife lifted her lorgnon. she seemed a bit surprised and nonplussed on beholding miss emsdale. "oh, i remember. it is you, of course." miss emsdale had the effrontery to smile. "yes, mrs. smith-parvis." stuyvesant felt of his nose. he did it without thinking, and instantly muttered something under his breath. "we owe you, according to my calculations, fifty-five dollars and eighty-two cents," said mrs. smith-parvis, abruptly consulting a tablet. "seventeen days in this month. will you be good enough to go over it for yourself? i do not wish to take advantage of you." "i sha'n't be exacting," said miss emsdale, a wave of red rushing to her brow. "i am content to accept your--" "be good enough to figure it up, miss emsdale," insisted the other coldly. "we must have no future recriminations. thirty-one days in this month. thirty-one into one hundred goes how many times?" "i beg pardon," said the girl, puzzled. "thirty-one into one hundred?" "can't you do sums? it's perfectly simple. any school child could do it in a--in a jiffy." "quite simple," murmured her husband. "i worked it out for mrs. smith-parvis in no time at all. three dollars and twenty-two and a half cents a day. perfectly easy, if you--" "i am sure it is quite satisfactory," said miss emsdale coldly. "very well. here is a check for the amount," said mrs. smith-parvis, laying the slip of paper on the end of the library table. "and now, miss emsdale, i feel constrained to tell you how gravely disappointed i am in you. for half-a-year i have laboured under the delusion that you were a lady, and qualified to have charge of two young and innocent--" "oh, lord," groaned stuyvesant, fidgeting in his chair. "--young and innocent girls. i find, however, that you haven't the first instincts of a lady. i daresay it is too much to expect." she sighed profoundly. "i know something about the lower classes in london, having been at one time interested in settlement work there in connection with lady bannistell's committee, and i am aware that too much should not be expected of them. that is to say, too much in the way of--er--delicacy. still, i thought you might prove to be an exception. i have learned my lesson. i shall in the future engage only german governesses. from time to time i have observed little things in you that disquieted me, but i overlooked them because you appeared to be earnestly striving to overcome the handicap placed upon you at birth. for example, i have found cigarette stubs in your room when i--" "oh, i say, mother," broke in stuyvesant; "cut it out." "my dear!" "you'd smoke 'em yourself if father didn't put up such a roar about it. lot of guff about your grandmothers turning over in their graves. i don't see anything wrong in a woman smoking cigarettes. besides, you may be accusing miss emsdale unjustly. what proof have you that the stubs were hers?" "i distinctly said that i found them in her room," said mrs. smith-parvis icily. "i don't know how they got there." "circumstantial evidence," retorted stuyvie, an evil twist at one corner of his mouth. "doesn't prove that she smoked 'em, does it?" he met miss emsdale's burning gaze for an instant, and then looked away. "might have been the housekeeper. she smokes." "it was not the housekeeper," said jane quietly. "i smoke." "we are digressing," said mrs. smith-parvis sternly. "there are other instances of your lack of refinement, miss emsdale, but i shall not recite them. suffice to say, i deeply deplore the fact that my children have been subject to contamination for so long. i am afraid they have acquired--" jane had drawn herself up haughtily. she interrupted her employer. "be good enough, mrs. smith-parvis, to come to the point," she said. "have you nothing more serious to charge me with than smoking? out with it! let's have the worst." "how dare you speak to me in that--my goodness!" she half started up from her chair. "what _have_ you been up to? drinking? or some low affair with the butler? good heavens, have i been harbouring a--" "don't get so excited, momsey," broke in stuyvesant, trying to transmit a message of encouragement to miss emsdale by means of sundry winks and frowns and cautious head-shakings. "keep your hair on." "my--my hair?" gasped his mother. mr. smith-parvis got up. "stuyvesant, you'd better retire," he said, noisily. "remember, sir, that you are speaking to your mother. it came out at the time of her illness,--when we were so near to losing her,--and you--" "keep still, philander," snapped mrs. smith-parvis, very red in the face. "it came in again, thicker than before," she could not help explaining. "and don't be absurd, stuyvesant. this is my affair. please do not interfere again. i--what was i saying?" "something about drinking and the butler, mrs. smith-parvis," said jane, drily. it was evident that stuyvesant had not carried tales to his mother. she would not have to defend herself against a threatened charge. her sense of humour was at once restored. "naturally i cannot descend to the discussion of anything so perfectly vile. your conduct this afternoon is sufficient--ah,--sufficient unto the day. i am forced to dismiss you without a reference. furthermore, i consider it my duty to protect other women as unsuspecting as i have been. you are in no way qualified to have charge of young and well-bred girls. no apology is desired," she hastily declared, observing symptoms of protest in the face of the delinquent; "so please restrain yourself. i do not care to hear a single word of apology, or any appeal to be retained. you may go now, my girl. spare us the tears. i am not turning you out into the streets tonight. you may remain until tomorrow morning." "i am going tonight," said jane, quite white,--with suppressed anger. "it isn't necessary," said the other, loftily. "where are you going?" inquired mr. smith-parvis, senior, fumbling with his nose-glasses. "have you any friends in the city?" miss emsdale ignored the question. she picked up the check and folded it carefully. "i should like to say good-bye to the--to eudora and lucille," she said, with an effort. "that is out of the question," said mrs. smith-parvis. jane deliberately turned her back upon mrs. smith-parvis and moved toward the door. it was an eloquent back. mrs. smith-parvis considered it positively insulting. "stop!" she cried out. "is that the way to leave a room, miss emsdale? please remember who and what you are. i can not permit a servant to be insolent to me." "oh, come now, angela, dear," began mr. smith-parvis, uncomfortably. "seems to me she walks properly enough. what's the matter with her--there, she's gone! i can't see what--" "you would think the hussy imagines herself to be the queen of england," sputtered mrs. smith-parvis angrily. "i've never seen such airs." the object of her derision mounted the stairs and entered her bed-chamber on the fourth floor. her steamer-trunk and her bags were nowhere in sight. a wry little smile trembled on her lips. "must you be going?" she said to herself, whimsically, as she adjusted her hat in front of the mirror. there was no one to say good-bye to her, except peasley, the footman. he opened the big front door for her, and she passed out into the foggy march night. a fine mist blew upon her hot face. "good-bye, miss," said peasley, following her to the top of the steps. "good-bye, peasley. thank you for taking down my things." "you'll find 'em in the taxi," said he. he peered hard ahead and sniffed. "a bit thick, ain't it? reminds one of london, miss." he referred to the fog. at the bottom of the steps she encountered the irrepressible and somewhat jubilant scion of the house. his soft hat was pulled well down over his eyes, and the collar of his overcoat was turned up about his ears. he promptly accosted her, his voice lowered to an eager, confident undertone. "don't cry, little girl," he said. "it isn't going to be bad at all. i--oh, i say, now, listen to me!" she tried to pass, but he placed himself directly in her path. the taxi-cab loomed up vaguely through the screen of fog. at the corner below an electric street lamp produced the effect of a huge, circular vignette in the white mist. the raucous barking of automobile horns, and the whir of engines came out of the street, and shadowy will-o'-the-wisp lights scuttled through the yielding, opaque wall. "be good enough to let me pass," she cried, suddenly possessed of a strange fear. "everything is all right," he said. "i'm not going to see you turned out like this without a place to go--" "will you compel me to call for help?" she said, backing away from him. "help? why, hang it all, can't you see that i'm trying to help you? it was a rotten thing for mother to do. poor little girl, you sha'n't go wandering around the streets looking for--why, i'd never forgive myself if i didn't do something to offset the cruel thing she's done to you tonight. haven't i told you all along you could depend on me? trust me, little girl. i'll--" suddenly she blazed out at him. "i see it all! that is _your_ taxi, not mine! so that is your game, is it? you beast!" "don't be a damn' fool," he grated. "i ought to be sore as a crab at you, but i'm not. you need me now, and i'm going to stand by you. i'll forgive all that happened today, but you've got to--" she struck his hand from her arm, and dashed out to the curb. "driver!" she cried out. "if you are a man you will protect me from this--" "hop in, miss," interrupted the driver from his seat. "i've got all your bags and things up but,--what's that you're saying?" "i shall not enter this cab," she said resolutely. "if you are in the pay of this man--" "i was sent here in answer to a telephone call half an hour ago. that's all i know about it. what's the row?" "there is no row," said stuyvesant, coming up. "get in, miss emsdale. i'm through. i've done my best to help you." but she was now thoroughly alarmed. she sensed abduction. "no! stay on your box, my man! don't get down. i shall walk to my--" "go ahead, driver. take those things to the address i just gave you," said stuyvesant. "we'll be along later." "i knew! i knew!" she cried out. in a flash she was running down the sidewalk toward the corner. he followed her a few paces and then stopped, cursing softly. "hey!" called out the driver, springing to the sidewalk. "what's all this? getting me in wrong, huh? that's what the little roll of bills was for, eh? well, guess again! get out of the way, you, or i'll bat you one over the bean." in less time than it takes to tell it, he had whisked the trunk from the platform of the taxi and the three bags from the interior. "i ought to beat you up anyhow," he grunted. "the parkingham hotel, eh? fine little place, that! how much did you say was in this roll?" "never mind. give it back to me at once or i'll--i'll call the police." "go ahead! call your head off. good _night_!" ten seconds later, stuyvesant alone stood guard over the scattered effects on the curb. a tail-light winked blearily at him for an additional second or two, the taxi chortled disdainfully, and seemed to grind its teeth as it joined the down-town ghosts. "blighter!" shouted stuyvesant, and urged by a sudden sense of alarm, strode rapidly away,--not in the wake of miss emsdale nor toward the house from which she had been banished, but diagonally across the street. a glance in the direction she had taken revealed no sign of her, but the sound of excited voices reached his ear. on the opposite sidewalk he slowed down to a walk, and peering intently into the fog, listened with all his ears for the return of the incomprehensible governess, accompanied by a patrolman! a most amazing thing had happened to lady jane. at the corner below she bumped squarely into a pedestrian hurrying northward. "i'm sorry," exclaimed the pedestrian. he did not say "excuse me" or "i beg pardon." jane gasped. "tom--mr. trotter!" "jane!" cried the man in surprise. "i say, what's up? 'gad, you're trembling like a leaf." she tried to tell him. "take a long breath," he suggested gently, as the words came swiftly and disjointedly from her lips. she did so, and started all over again. this time he was able to understand her. "wait! tell me the rest later on," he interrupted. "come along! this looks pretty ugly to me. by gad, i--i believe he was planning to abduct you or something as--" "i must have a policeman," she protested, holding back. "i was looking for one when you came up." "nonsense! we don't need a bobby. i can take care of--" "but that man will make off with my bags." "we'll see," he cried, and she was swept along up the street, running to keep pace with his prodigious strides. he had linked his arm through hers. they found her effects scattered along the edge of the sidewalk. trotter laughed, but it was not a good-humoured laugh. "skipped!" he grated. "i might have known it. now, let me think. what is the next, the best thing to do? go up there and ring that doorbell and--" "no! you are not to do that. sit down here beside me. my--my knees are frightfully shaky. so silly of them. but i--i--really it was quite a shock i had, mr. trotter." "better call me tom,--for the present at least," he suggested, sitting down beside her on the trunk. "what a strange coincidence," she murmured. there was not much room on the trunk for two. he sat quite on one end of it. "you mean,--sitting there?" he inquired, blankly. "no. your turning up as you did,--out of a clear sky." "i shouldn't call it clear," said he, suddenly diffident. "thick as a blanket." "it was queer, though, wasn't it?" "not a bit. i've been walking up and down past this house for twenty minutes at least. we were bound to meet. sit still. i'll keep an eye out for an empty taxi. the first thing to do is to see that you get safely down to mrs. sparflight's." "how did you know i was to go there?" she demanded. "she told me," said he bluntly. "she wasn't to tell any one--at present." she peered closely,--at the side of his face. he abruptly changed the subject. "and then i'll come back here and wait till he ventures out. i'm off till nine o'clock. i sha'n't pull his nose this time." "please explain," she insisted, clutching at his arm as he started to arise. "did she send you up here, mr. trotter?" "no, she didn't," said he, almost gruffly, and stood up to hail an approaching automobile. "can't see a thing," he went on. "we'll just have to stop 'em till we catch one that isn't engaged. taxi?" he shouted. "no!" roared a voice from the shroud of mist. "the butler telephoned for one, i am sure," said she. "he must have been sent away before i came downstairs." "don't think about it. you'll get yourself all wrought up and--and--everything's all right, now, lady jane,--i should say miss--" "call me jane," said she softly. "you--you don't mind?" he cried, and sat down beside her again. the trunk seemed to have increased in size. at any rate there was room to spare at the end. "not--not in the least," she murmured. he was silent for a long time. "would you mind calling me eric,--just once?" he said at last, wistfully. his voice was very low. "i--i'm rather homesick for the sound of my own name, uttered by one of my own people." "oh, you poor dear boy!" "say 'eric,'" he pleaded. "eric," she half-whispered, suddenly shy. he drew a long, deep breath, and again was silent for a long time. both of them appeared to have completely forgotten her plight. "we're both a long, long way from home, jane," he said. "yes, eric." "odd that we should be sitting here like this, on a trunk, on the sidewalk,--in a fog." "the 'two orphans,'" she said, with feeble attempt at sprightliness. "people passing by within a few yards of us and yet we--we're quite invisible." there was a thrill in his voice. "almost as if we were in london, eric,--lovely black old london." footsteps went by in the fog in front of them, automobiles slid by behind them, tooting their unheard horns. "oh, jane, i--i can't help it," he whispered in her ear, and his arm went round her shoulders. "i--i love you so." she put her hand up to his cheek and held it there. "i--i know it, eric," she said, ever so softly. it may have been five minutes, or ten minutes--even so long as half an hour. there is no way to determine the actual lapse of time, or consciousness, that followed her declaration. the patrolman who came up and stopped in front of them, peering hard at the dense, immobile mass that had attracted his attention for the simple reason that it wasn't there when he passed on his uptown round, couldn't have thrown any light on the question. he had no means of knowing just when it began. "well, what's all this?" he demanded suspiciously. jane sighed, and disengaged herself. trotter stood up, confronting the questioner. "we're waiting for a taxi," he said. "what's this? a trunk?" inquired the officer, tapping the object with his night-stick. "it is," said trotter. "out of one of these houses along here?" he described a half-circle with his night-stick. "right in front of you." "that's the smith-parvis house. they've got a couple of cars, my bucko. what you givin' me? whadda you mean taxi?" "she happens not to be one of the family. the courtesy of the port is not extended to her, you see." "hired girl?" "in a way. i say, officer, be a good fellow. keep your eye peeled for a taxi as you go along and send it up for us. she had one ordered, but--well, you can see for yourself. it isn't here." "that's as plain as the nose on your face. i guess i'll just step up to the door and see if it's all right. stay where you are. looks queer to me." "oh, it isn't necessary to inquire, officer," broke in jane nervously. "you have my word for it that it's all right." "oh, i have, have i? fine! and what if them bags and things is filled with silver and god knows what? you don't--" "go ahead and inquire," said trotter, pressing her arm encouragingly. "ask the butler if he didn't call a cab for miss emsdale,--and also ask him why in thunder it isn't here." the patrolman hesitated. "who are you," he asked, stepping a little closer to trotter. "i am this young lady's fiancé," said trotter, with dignity. "her what?" "her steady," said trotter. the policeman laughed,--good-naturedly, to their relief. "oh, well, _that_ being the case," said he, and started away. "excuse me for buttin' in." "sure," said trotter amiably. "if you see a taxi, old man." "leave it to me," came back from the fog. jane nestled close to her tall young man. his arm was about her. "wasn't he perfectly lovely?" she murmured. "everything is perfectly lovely," said he, vastly reassured. he had taken considerable risk with the word "fiancé." chapter xiii not clouds alone have linings the weather turned off warm. the rise in the temperature may have been responsible for the melting of princess mariana theresa sebastano michelini celestine di pavesi's heart, or it may have sharply revealed to her calculating mind the prospect of a long and profitless season in cold storage for prince de bosky's fur-lined coat. in any event, she notified him by post to call for his coat and take it away with him. the same post brought a letter from the countess du bara advising him that her brother-in-law, who conducted an all-night café just off broadway in the very heart of the thriftless district, had been compelled to dismiss the leader of his far-famed czech orchestra, and that she had recommended him for the vacancy. he would have to hurry, however. in a postscript, she hoped he wouldn't mind wearing a red coat. the countess du bara was of the opera, where she was known as mademoiselle belfort and occupied a fairly prominent position in the front row of chorus sopranos. some day she was to make her début as a principal. the director of the opera had promised her that, and while she regarded his promise as being as good as gold, it was, unfortunately, far more elastic, as may be gathered from the fact that it already had stretched over three full seasons and looked capable of still further extension without being broken. but that is neither here nor there. it is only necessary to state that the countess, being young and vigorous and satisfactorily endowed with good looks, was not without faith in the promises of man. in return for the director's faith in her, she was one day going to make him famous as the discoverer of corinne belfort. for the moment, her importance, so far as this narrative is concerned, rests on the fact that her brother-in-law conducts a café and had named his youngest daughter corinne, a doubtful compliment in view of his profane preference for john or even george. he was an american and had five daughters. de bosky was ecstatic. luck had turned. he was confident, even before he ventured to peer out of his single little window, that the sun was shining brightly and that birds were singing somewhere, if not in the heart of the congested east side. and sure enough the sun was shining, and hurdy-gurdies were substituting for bobolinks, and the air was reeking of spring. a little wistfully he regretted that the change had not come when he needed the overcoat to shield his shivering body, and when the "opportunity" would have insured an abundance of meat and drink, to say nothing of a couple of extra blankets,--but why lament? there was a sprightliness in his gait, a gleam in his eyes, and a cheery word on his lips as he forged his way through the suddenly alive streets, and made his way to the subway station. this morning he would not walk. there was something left of the four dollars he had earned the week before shovelling snow into the city's wagons. true, his hands were stiff and blistered, but all that would respond to the oil of affluence. there was no time to lose. she had said in the postscript that he would have to hurry. two hours later he burst excitedly into the bookshop of j. bramble and exclaimed: "and now, my dear, good friend, i shall soon be able to return to you the various amounts you have advanced me from time to time, out of the goodness of your heart, and i shall--what do i say?--blow you off to a banquet that even now, in contemplation, makes my own mouth water,--and i shall--" "bless my soul," gasped mr. bramble. "would you mind saying _all_ of it in english? what is the excitement? just a moment, please." the latter to a mild-looking gentleman who was poising a book in one hand and inquiring the price with the uplifting of his eyebrows. de bosky rapped three or four times on the violin case tucked under his arm. "after all the years and all the money i spent in mastering this--but, you are busy, my good friend. pray forgive the interruption--" "what has happened?" demanded mr. bramble, uneasily. "i have fallen into a fortune. twenty-five dollars a week,--so!" he said whimsically. "also i shall restore the five dollars that trotter forced me to take,--and the odd amounts m. mirabeau has--yes, yes, my friend, i am radiant. i am to lead the new orchestra at spangler's café. i have concluded negotiations with--ah, how quickly it was done! and i approached him with fear and trembling. i would have played for him, so that he might judge,--but no! he said 'no, no!' it was not necessary. corinne's word was enough for him. you do not know corinne. she is beautiful. she is an artiste! one day she will be on the lips of every one. go! be quick! the gentleman is departing. you will have lost a--a sale, and all through the fault of me. i beseech you,--catch him quick. do not permit me to bring you bad luck. au revoir! i go at once to acquaint m. mirabeau with--au revoir!" he dashed up the back stairway, leaving mr. bramble agape. "it was only a ten-cent book," he muttered to the back of the departing customer. "and, besides, you do not belong to the union," he shouted loudly, addressing himself to de bosky, who stopped short on the stairs. "the union?" "the union will not permit you to play," said the bookseller, mounting the steps. "it will permit you to starve but not to play." "but the man--the man he said it was because i do not belong to the union that he engages me. he says the union holds him, up, what? so! he discharge the union--all of them. we form a new orchestra. then we don't give a damn, he say. not a tinkle damn! and corinne say also not a tinkle damn! and i say not a tinkle damn! _voila!_" "god bless my soul," said mr. bramble, shaking his head. m. mirabeau rejoiced. he embraced the little musician, he pooh-hooed mr. bramble's calamitous regard for the union, and he wound up by inviting de bosky to stop for lunch with him. "no, no,--impossible," exclaimed de bosky, feeling in his waistcoat pocket absent-mindedly, and then glancing at a number of m. mirabeau's clocks in rotation; "no, i have not the time. your admirable clocks urge me to be off. see! i am to recover the overcoat of my excellent friend, the safe-blower. this letter,--see! mrs. moses jacobs. she tells me to come and take it away with me. am i not the lucky dog,--no, no! i mean am i not the lucky star? i must be off. she may change her mind. she--" "mon dieu! i'd let her change it if i were you," cried m. mirabeau. "i call it the height of misfortune to possess a fur coat on a day like this. one might as well rejoice over a linen coat in mid-winter. you are excited! calm yourself. a bit of cold tongue, and a salad, and--" "au revoir!" sang out de bosky from the top of the steps. "and remember! i shall repay you within the fortnight, monsieur. i promise! ah, it is a beautiful, a glorious day!" the old frenchman dashed to the landing and called down after his speeding guest: "fetch the coat with you to luncheon. i shall order some moth-balls, and after we've stuffed it full of them, we'll put the poor thing away for a long, long siesta. it shall be like the anaconda. i have a fine cedar chest--" but mr. bramble was speaking from the bottom of the steps. "and the unfeeling brutes may resort to violence. they often do. they have been known to inflict serious injury upon--" "tonight i shall play at spangler's," cried de bosky, slapping his chest. "in a red coat,--and i shall not speak the english language. i am the recent importation from budapesth. so! i am come especially to direct the orchestra--at great expense! in big letters on the menu card it shall be printed that i am late of the royal hungarian orchestra, and at the greatest expense have i been secured. the newspapers shall say that i came across the ocean in a special steamer, all at monsieur spangler's expense. i and my red coat! so! come tonight, my friend. come and hear the great de bosky in his little red coat,--and--" "do not forget that you are to return for luncheon," sang out m. mirabeau from the top of the stairs. there were tears in de bosky's eyes. "god bless you both," he cried. "but for you i should have starved to death,--as long ago as last week. god bless you!" his frail body swayed a little as he made his way down the length of the shop. commanding all his strength of will, he squared his shoulders and stiffened his trembling knees, but not soon enough to delude the observing mr. bramble, who hurried after him, peering anxiously through his horn-rimmed spectacles. "it is just like you foreigners," he said, overtaking the violinist near the door, and speaking with some energy. "just like you, i say, to forget to eat breakfast when you are excited. you did not have a bite of breakfast, now did you? up and out, all excited and eager, forgetting everything but--i say, mirabeau, lend a hand! he is ready to drop. god bless my soul! brace up, your highness,--i should say old chap--brace up! damme, sir, what possessed you to refuse our invitation to dine with us last night? and it was the third time within the week. answer me that, sir!" de bosky sat weakly, limply, pathetically, before the two old men. they had led him to a chair at the back of the shop. both were regarding him with justifiable severity. he smiled wanly as he passed his hand over his moist, pallid brow. "you are poor men. why,--why should i become a charge upon you?" "mon dieu!" sputtered m. mirabeau, lifting his arms on high and shaking his head in absolute despair,--despair, you may be sure, over a most unaccountable and never-to-be-forgotten moment in which he found himself utterly and hopelessly without words. mr. bramble suddenly rammed a hand down into the pocket of his ancient smoking-coat, and fished out a huge, red, glistening apple. "here! eat this!" de bosky shook his head. his smile broadened. "no, thank you. i--i do not like apples." the bookseller was aghast. moreover, pity and alarm rendered him singularly inept in the choice of a reply to this definite statement. "take it home to the children," he pleaded, with the best intention in the world. by this time, m. mirabeau had found his tongue. he took the situation in hand. with tact and an infinite understanding, he astonished the matter-of-fact mr. bramble by appearing to find something amusing in the plight of their friend. he made light of the whole affair. mr. bramble, who could see no farther than the fact that the poor fellow was starving, was shocked. it certainly wasn't a thing one should treat as a joke,--and here was the old simpleton chuckling and grinning like a lunatic when he should be-lunatic! mr. bramble suddenly went cold to the soles of his feet. a horrified look came into his eyes. could it be possible that something had snapped in the old frenchman's--but m. mirabeau was now addressing him instead of the smiling de bosky. "come, come!" he was shouting merrily. "we're not following de bosky to the grave. he is not even having a funeral. cheer up! mon dieu, such a face!" mr. bramble grew rosy. "blooming rubbish," he snorted, still a trifle apprehensive. the clock-maker turned again to de bosky. "come upstairs at once. i shall myself fry eggs for you, and bacon,--nice and crisp,--and my coffee is not the worst in the world, my friend. _his_ is abominable. and toast, hot and buttery,--ah, i am not surprised that your mouth waters!" "it isn't my mouth that is watering," said de bosky, wiping his eyes. "any fool could see that," said mr. bramble, scowling at the maladroit mirabeau. it was two o'clock when prince waldemar de bosky took his departure from the hospitable home of the two old men, and, well-fortified in body as well as in spirit, moved upon the stronghold of mrs. moses jacobs. the chatelaine of "the royal exchange. m. jacobs, proprietor," received him with surprising cordiality. "well, well!" she called out cheerily as he approached the "desk." "i thought you'd never get here. i been waitin' since nine o'clock." her dark, heavy face bore signs of a struggle to overcome the set, implacable expression that avarice and suspicion had stamped upon it in the course of a long and resolute abstinence from what we are prone to call the milk of human kindness. she was actually trying to beam as she leaned across the gem-laden showcase and extended her coarse, unlovely hand to the visitor. "i am sorry," said he, shaking hands with her. "i have been extremely busy. besides, on a hot day like this, i could get along very nicely without a fur coat, mrs. jacobs." "sure!" said she. "it sure is hot today. you ought to thank god you ain't as fat as i am. it's awful on fat people. well, wasn't you surprised?" "it was most gracious of you, mrs. jacobs," he said with dignity. "i should have come in at once to express my appreciation of your--" "oh, that's all right. don't mention it. you're a decent little feller, de bosky, and i've got a heart,--although most of these mutts around here don't think so. yes, sir, i meant it when i said you could tear up the pawn ticket and take the coat--with the best wishes of yours truly." "spoken like a lady," said he promptly. he was fanning himself with his hat. "mind you, i don't ask you for a penny. the slate is clean. there's the coat, layin' over there on that counter. take it along. no one can ever say that i'd let a fellow-creature freeze to death for the sake of a five-dollar bill. no, sir! with the compliments of 'the royal exchange,'--if you care to put it that way." "but i cannot permit you to cancel my obligation, mrs. jacobs. i shall hand you the money inside of a fortnight. i thank you, however, for the generous impulse--" "cut it out," she interrupted genially. "nix on the sentiment stuff. i'm in a good humour. don't spoil it by tryin' to be polite. and don't talk about handin' me anything. i won't take it." "in that case, mrs. jacobs, i shall be obliged to leave the coat with you," he said stiffly. she stared. "you mean,--you won't accept it from me?" "i borrowed money on it. i can say no more, madam." "well, i'll be--" she extended her hand again, a look of genuine pleasure in her black eyes. "shake hands again, prince de bosky. i--i understand." "and i--i think i understand, princess," said he, grasping the woman's hand. "i hope you do," said she huskily. "i--i just didn't know how to go about it, that's all. ever since that day you were in here to see me,--that bitterly cold day,--i've been trying to think of a way to--and so i waited till it turned so hot that you'd know i wasn't trying to do it out of charity--you _do_ understand, don't you, prince?" "perfectly," said he, very soberly. "i feel better than i've felt in a good long time," she said, drawing a long breath. "that's the way we all feel sometimes," said he, smiling. "no doubt it's the sun," he added. "we haven't seen much of it lately." "quit your kiddin'," she cried, donning her mask again and relapsing into the vernacular of the district. he bore the coat in triumph to the work-shop of m. mirabeau, and loudly called for moth-balls as he mounted the steps. "i jest, good friend," he explained, as the old frenchman laid aside his tools and started for the shelves containing a vast assortment of boxes and packages. "time enough for all that. at four o'clock i am due at spangler's for a rehearsal of the celebrated royal hungarian orchestra, imported at great expense from budapesth. i leave the treasure in your custody. au revoir!" he had thrown the coat on the end of the work bench. "you will return for dinner," was m. mirabeau's stern reminder. "a pot roast tonight, bramble has announced. we will dine at six, since you must report at seven." "in my little red coat," sang out de bosky blithely. "mon dieu!" exclaimed the frenchman, in dismay, running his fingers over the lining of the coat. "they are already at work. the moths! see! ah, _le diable!_ they have devoured--" "what!" cried de bosky, snatching up the coat. "the arm pits and--ah, the seams fall apart! one could thrust his hand into the hole they have made. too late!" he groaned. "they have ruined it, my friend." de bosky leaned against the bench, the picture of distress. "what will my friend, the safe-blower, say to this? what will he think of me for--" "now we know how the estimable mrs. jacobs came to have softening of the heart," exploded m. mirabeau, pulling at his long whiskers. mr. bramble, abandoning the shop downstairs, shuffled into the room. "did i hear you say 'moths'?" he demanded, consternation written all over his face. "for god's sake, don't turn them loose in the house. they'll be into everything--" "what is this?" cried de bosky, peering intently between the crumbling edges of the rent, which widened hopelessly as he picked at it with nervous fingers. stitched securely inside the fur at the point of the shoulder was a thin packet made of what at one time must have been part of a rubber rain-coat. the three men stared at it with interest. "padding," said mr. bramble. "rubbish," said m. mirabeau, referring to mr. bramble's declaration. he was becoming excited. thrusting a keen-edged knife into de bosky's hand, he said: "remove it--but with care, with care!" a moment later de bosky held the odd little packet in his hand. "cut the threads," said mr. bramble, readjusting his big spectacles. "it is sewed at the ends." the old bookseller was the first of the stupefied men to speak after the contents of the rubber bag were revealed to view. "god bless my soul!" he gasped. bank notes,--many of them,--lay in de bosky's palm. almost mechanically he began to count them. they were of various denominations, none smaller than twenty dollars. the eyes of the men popped as he ran off in succession two five-hundred-dollar bills. downstairs in the shop of j. bramble, some one was pounding violently on a counter, but without results. he could produce no one to wait on him. he might as well have tried to rouse the dead. "clever rascal," said m. mirabeau at last. "the last place in the world one would think of looking for plunder." "what do you mean?" asked de bosky, still dazed. "it is quite simple," said the frenchman. "who but your enterprising friend, the cracksman, could have thought of anything so original as hiding money in the lining of a fur overcoat? he leaves the coat in your custody, knowing you to be an honest man. at the expiration of his term, he will reclaim--" "ah, but he has still a matter of ten or eleven years to serve," agreed de bosky. "a great deal could happen in ten or eleven years. he would not have taken so great a risk. he--" "um!" mused m. mirabeau, frowning. "that is so." "what am i to do with it?" cried de bosky. "nearly three thousand dollars! am i awake, mr. bramble?" "we can't all be dreaming the same thing," said the bookseller, his fascinated gaze fixed on the bank notes. "ah-h!" exclaimed m. mirabeau suddenly. "try the other shoulder! there will be more. he would not have been so clumsy as to put it all on one side. he would have padded both shoulders alike." and to the increased amazement of all of them, a similar packet was found in the left shoulder of the coat. "what did i tell you!" cried the old frenchman, triumphantly. included among the contents of the second bag, was a neatly folded sheet of writing-paper. de bosky, with trembling fingers, spread it out, and holding it to the light, read in a low, halting manner: "'finder is keeper. this coat dont belong to me, and the money neither. it is nobodies buisness who they belonged to before. i put the money inside here becaus it is a place no one would ever look and i am taken a gamblers chanse on geting it back some day. stranger things have happened. something tells me that they are going to get me soon, and i dont want them to cop this stuff. it was hard earned. mighty hard. i am hereby trusting to luck. i leave this coat with my neighbor, mr. debosky, so in case they get me, they wont get it when they search my room. my neighber is an honest man. he dont know what i am and he dont know about this money. if anybody has to find it i hope it will be him. maybe they wont get me after all so all this writing is in vain. but im taken no chance on that, and im willing to take a chance on this stuff getting back to me somehow. i will say this before closing. the money belonged to people in various parts of the country and they could all afford to lose it, espeshilly the doctor. he is a bigger robber than i am, only he lets people see him get away with it. if this should fall into the hands of the police i want them to believe me when i say my neighber, a little forreigner who plays the violin till it brings tears to my eyes, has no hand in this business. i am simply asking him to take care of my coat and wear it till i call for it, whenever that may be. and the following remarks is for him. if he finds this dough, he can keep it and use as much of it as he sees fit. i would sooner he had it than anybody, because he is poorer than anybody. and what he dont know wont hurt him. i mean what he dont know about who the stuff belonged to in the beginning. being of sound mind and so fourth i hereby subscribe myself, in the year of our lord, september 26, 1912. "henry loveless." "how very extraordinary," said mr. bramble after a long silence. "nearly five thousand dollars," said m. mirabeau. "what will you do with it, de bosky?" the little violinist passed his hand over his brow, as if to clear away the last vestige of perplexity. "there is but one thing to do, my friends," he said slowly, straightening up and facing them. "you will understand, of course, that i cannot under any circumstances possess myself of this stolen property." another silence ensued. "certainly not," said mr. bramble at last. "it would be impossible," said m. mirabeau, sighing. "i shall, therefore, address a letter to my friend, acquainting him with the mishap to his coat. i shall inform him that the insects have destroyed the fur in the shoulders, laying bare the padding, and that while i have been negligent in my care of his property up to this time, i shall not be so in the future. without betraying the secret, i shall in some way let him know that the money is safe and that he may expect to regain all of it when he--when he comes out." "good!" exclaimed mr. bramble warmly. m. mirabeau suddenly broke into uproarious laughter. "mon dieu!" he gasped, when he could catch his breath. the others were staring at him in alarm. "it is rare! it is exquisite! the refinement of justice! that _this_ should have happened to the blood-sucking mrs. jacobs! oho--ho--ho!" chapter xiv diplomacy mr. smith-parvis, senior, entertained one old-fashioned, back-number idea,--relict of a throttled past; it was a pestiferous idea that always kept bobbing up in an insistent, aggravating way the instant he realized that he had a few minutes to himself. psychologists might go so far as to claim that he had been born with it; that it was, after a fashion, hereditary. he had come of honest, hard-working smiths; the men and women before him had cultivated the idea with such unwavering assiduity that, despite all that had conspired to stifle it, the thing still clung to him and would not be shaken off. in short, mr. smith-parvis had an idea that a man should work. especially a young man. in secret he squirmed over the fact that his son stuyvesant had never been known to do a day's work in his life. not that it was actually necessary for the young man to descend to anything so common and inelegant as earning his daily bread, or that there was even a remote prospect of the wolf sniffing around a future doorway. not at all. he knew that stuyvie didn't have to work. still, it grieved him to see so much youthful energy going to waste. he had never quite gotten over the feeling that a man could make something besides a mere gentleman of himself, and do it without seriously impairing the family honour. he had once suggested to his wife that stuyvesant ought to go to work. he didn't care what he took up, just so he took up something. mrs. smith-parvis was horrified. she would not listen to his reiterations that he didn't mean clerking in a drygoods shop, or collecting fares on a street car, or repairing electric doorbells, or anything of the kind, and she wouldn't allow him to say just what sort of work he did mean. the subject was not mentioned again for years. stuyvesant was allowed to go on being a gentleman in his own sweet way. one day mrs. smith-parvis, to his surprise and joy, announced that she thought stuyvesant ought to have a real chance to make something of himself,--a vocation or an avocation, she wasn't sure which,--and she couldn't see why the father of such a bright, capable boy had been so blind to the possibilities that lay before him. she actually blamed him for holding the young man back. "i suggested some time ago, my dear," he began, in self-defence, "that the boy ought to get a job and settle down to--" "job? how i loathe that word. it is almost as bad as situation." "well, then, position," he amended. "you wouldn't hear to it." "i have no recollection of any such conversation," said she firmly. "i have been giving the subject a great deal of thought lately. the dear boy is entitled to his opportunity. he must make a name for himself. i have decided, philander, that he ought to go into the diplomatic service." "oh, lord!" "i don't blame you for saying 'oh, lord,' if you think i mean the american diplomatic service," she said, smiling. "that, of course, is not even to be considered. he must aim higher than that. i know it is a vulgar expression, but there is no class to the american embassies abroad. compare our embassies with any of the other--" "but, my dear, you forget that--" "they are made up largely of men who have sprung from the most ordinary walks in life,--men totally unfitted for the social position that-please do not argue, philander. you know perfectly well that what i say is true. i shouldn't think of letting stuyvesant enter the american diplomatic service. do you remember that dreadful person who came to see us in berlin,--about the trunks we sent up from paris by _grande vitesse_? well, just think of stuyvesant--" "he was a clerk from the u. s. consul's office," he interrupted doggedly. "nothing whatever to do with the embassy. besides, we can't--" "it doesn't matter. i have been giving it a great deal of thought lately, trying to decide which is the best service for stuyvesant to enter. the english diplomatic corps in this country is perfectly stunning, and so is the french,--and the russian, for that matter. he doesn't speak the russian language, however, so i suppose we will have to--" "see here, my dear,--listen to me," he broke in resolutely. "stuyvesant can't get into the service of any of these countries. he--" "i'd like to know why not!" she cried sharply. "he is a gentleman, he has manner, he is--well, isn't he as good as any of the young men one sees at the english or the french legations in washington?" "i grant you all that, but he is an american just the same. he can't be born all over again, you know, with a new pair of parents. he's got to be in the american diplomatic corps, or in no corps at all. now, get that through your head, my dear." she finally got it through her head, and resigned herself to the american service, deciding that the court of st. james offered the most desirable prospects in view of its close proximity to the other great capitals of europe. "stuyvesant likes london next to paris, and he could cross over to france whenever he felt the need of change." mr. smith-parvis looked harassed. "easier said than done," he ventured. "these chaps in the legations have to stick pretty close to their posts. he can't be running about, all over the place, you know. it isn't expected. you might as well understand in the beginning that he'll have to work like a nailer for a good many years before he gets anywhere in the diplomatic service." "nonsense. doesn't the president appoint men to act as ambassadors who never had an hour's experience in diplomacy? it's all a matter of politics. i'm sorry to say, philander, the right men are never appointed. it seems to be the practice in this country to appoint men who, so far as i know, have absolutely no social standing. mr. choate was an exception, of course. i am sure that stuyvesant will go to the top rapidly if he is given a chance. now, how shall we go about it, philander?" she considered the matter settled. her husband shook his head. "have you spoken to stuyvie about it?" he inquired. "oh, dear me, no. i want to surprise him." "i see," said he, rather grimly for him. "i see. we simply say: 'here is a nice soft berth in the diplomatic corps, stuyvie. you may sail tomorrow if you like.'" "don't be silly. and please do not call him stuyvie. i've spoken to you about that a thousand times, philander. now, don't you think you ought to run down to washington and see the president? it may--" "no, i don't," said he flatly. "i'm not a dee fool." "don't--don't you care to see your son make something of himself?" she cried in dismay. "certainly. i'd like nothing better than--" "then, try to take a little interest in him," she said coldly. "in the first place," said he resignedly, "what are his politics?" "the same as yours. he is a republican. all the people we know are republicans. the democrats are too common for words." "well, his first attempt at diplomacy will be to change his politics," he said, waxing a little sarcastic as he gained courage. "and i'd advise you not to say nasty things about the democrats. they are in the saddle now, you know. i suppose you've heard that the president is a democrat?" "i can't help that," she replied stubbornly. "and he appoints nothing but democrats." "is there likely to be a republican president soon?" she inquired, knitting her brows. "that's difficult to say." "i suppose stuyvesant could, in a diplomatic sort of way, pretend to be a democrat, couldn't he, dear?" "he lost nearly ten thousand dollars at the last election betting on what he said was a sure thing," said he, compressing his lips. "the poor dear!" "i can't see very much in this diplomatic game, anyhow," said mr. smith-parvis determinedly. "i asked you a direct question, philander," she said stiffly. "i--i seem to have forgotten just what--" "i asked you how we are to go about securing an appointment for him." "oh," said he, wilting a little. "so you did. well,--um--aw--let me think. there's only one way. he's got to have a pull. does he know any one high up in the democratic ranks? any one who possesses great influence?" there was a twinkle in his eye. "i--i don't know," she replied, helplessly. "he is quite young, philander. he can't be expected to know everybody. but you! now that i think of it, you must know any number of influential democrats. there must be some one to whom you could go. you would simply say to him that stuyvesant agrees to enter the service, and that he will do everything in his power to raise it to the social standard--" "the man would die laughing," said he unfeelingly. "i was just thinking. suppose i were to go to the only influential democratic politician i know,--cornelius mcfaddan,--and tell him that stuyvesant advocates the reconstruction of our diplomatic service along english lines, he would undoubtedly say things to me that i could neither forget nor forgive. i can almost hear him now." "you refuse to make any effort at all, then?" "not at all," he broke in quickly. "i will see him. as a matter of fact, mcfaddan is a very decent sort of chap, and he is keen to join the oxford country club. he knows i am on the board of governors. in fact, he asked me not long ago what golf club i'd advise him to join. he thinks he's getting too fat. wants to take up golf." "but you _couldn't_ propose him for membership in the oxford, philander," she said flatly. "only the smartest people in town--" "leave it to me," he interrupted, a flash of enthusiasm in his eyes. "by gad, i shouldn't be surprised if i could do something through him. he carries a good deal of weight." "would it be wise to let him reduce it by playing golf?" she inquired doubtfully. he stared. "i mean politically. figure of speech, my dear." "oh, i see." "a little coddling on my part, and that sort of thing. they all want to break into society,--every last one of them. you never can tell. a little soft soap goes a long way sometimes. i could ask him to have luncheon with me at bombay house. um-m-m!" he fell into a reflective mood. mrs. smith-parvis also was thoughtful. an amazing idea had sprouted in her head. "has he a wife?" she inquired, after many minutes. "they always have, those chaps," said he. "and a lot of children." "i was just wondering if it wouldn't be good policy to have them to dinner some night, philander," she said. "oh, my god!" he exclaimed, sitting up suddenly and staring at her in astonishment. "every little helps," she said argumentatively. "it would be like opening the seventh heaven to her if i were to invite her here to dine. just think what it would mean to her. she would meet--" "they probably eat with their knives and tuck their napkins under their chins." "i am sure that would be amusing," said she, eagerly. "it is so difficult nowadays to provide amusement for one's guests. really, my dear, i think it is quite an idea. we could explain beforehand to the people we'll have in to meet them,--explain everything, you know. the plan for stuyvesant, and everything." he was still staring. "well, who would you suggest having in with mr. and mrs. con mcfaddan?" "oh, the cricklewicks, and the blodgetts,--and old mrs. millidew,--i've been intending to have her anyway,--and perhaps the van ostrons and cicely braithmere, and i am sure we could get dear old percy tromboy. he would be frightfully amused by the mcfinnegans, and--" "mcfaddan," he edged in. "--and he could get a world of material for those screaming irish imitations he loves to give. now, when will you see mr. mcfaddan?" "you'd have to call on his wife, wouldn't you, before asking her to dinner?" "she probably never has heard of the custom," said mrs. smith-parvis composedly. the next day, mr. smith-parvis strolled into the offices of mr. cornelius mcfaddan, contractor, and casually remarked what a wonderful view of the bay he had from his windows. "i dropped in, mr. mcfaddan," he explained, "to see if you were really in earnest about wanting to join the oxford country club." he had decided that it was best to go straight to the point. mcfaddan regarded him narrowly. "did i ever say i wanted to join the oxford country club?" he demanded. "didn't you?" asked his visitor, slightly disturbed by this ungracious response. "i did not," said mr. mcfaddan promptly. "dear me, i--i was under the impression--ahem! i am sure you spoke of wanting to join a golf club." "that must have been some time ago. i've joined one," said the other, a little more agreeably. mr. smith-parvis punched nervously with his cane at one of his pearl grey spats. the contractor allowed his gaze to shift. he didn't wear "spats" himself. "i am sorry. i daresay i could have rushed you through in the oxford. they are mighty rigid and exclusive up there, but--well, you would have gone in with a rush. men like you are always shoved through ahead of others. it isn't quite--ah--regular, you know, but it's done when a candidate of special prominence comes up. of course, i need not explain that it's--ah--quite sub rosa?" "sure," said mr. mcfaddan promptly; "i know. we do it at the jolly dog club." he was again eyeing his visitor narrowly, speculatively. "it's mighty good of you, mr. smith-parvis. have a cigar?" "no, thank you. i seldom-on second thoughts, i will take one." it occurred to him that it was the diplomatic thing to do, no matter what kind of a cigar it was. besides, he wouldn't feel called upon to terminate his visit at once if he lighted the man's cigar. he could at least smoke an inch or even an inch and a half of it before announcing that he would have to be going. and a great deal can happen during the consumption of an inch or so of tobacco. "that's a good cigar," he commented, after a couple of puffs. he took it from his lips and inspected it critically. mr. mcfaddan was pleased. "it ought to be," he said. "fifty cents straight." the visitor looked at it with sudden respect. "a little better than i'm in the habit of smoking," he said ingratiatingly. "what does it cost to join the oxford club?" inquired the contractor. "twelve hundred dollars admission, and two hundred a year dues," said mr. smith-parvis, pricking up his ears. "really quite reasonable." "my wife don't like the golf club i belong to," said the other, squinting at his own cigar. "rough-neck crowd, she says." mr. smith-parvis looked politely concerned. "that's too bad," he said. the contractor appeared to be weighing something in his mind. "how long does it take to get into your club?" he asked. "usually about five years," said mr. smith-parvis, blandly. "long waiting list, you know. some of the best people in the city are on it, by the way. i daresay it wouldn't be more than two or three months in your case, however," he concluded. "i'll speak to the wife about it," said mr. mcfaddan. "she may put her foot down hard. too swell for us, maybe. we're plain people." "not a bit of it," said mr. smith-parvis readily. "extremely democratic club, my dear mcfaddan. exclusive and all that, but quite--ah--unconventional. ha-ha!" finding himself on the high-road to success, he adventured a little farther. glancing up at the clock on the wall, he got to his feet with an exclamation of well-feigned dismay. "my dear fellow, i had no idea it was so near the luncheon hour. stupid of me. why didn't you kick me out? ha-ha! let me know what you decide to do, and i will be delighted to--but better still, can't you have lunch with me? i could tell you something about the club and--what do you say to going around to bombay house with me?" "i'd like nothing better," said the thoroughly perplexed politician. "excuse me while i wash me hands." and peering earnestly into the mirror above the washstand in the corner of the office, mr. mcfaddan said to himself: "i must look easier to him than i do to meself. if i'm any kind of a guesser at all he's after one of two things. he either wants his tax assessment rejuced or wants to run for mayor of the city. the poor boob!" that evening mr. smith-parvis announced, in a bland and casual manner, that things were shaping themselves beautifully. "i had mcfaddan to lunch with me," he explained. "he was tremendously impressed." his wife was slightly perturbed. "and i suppose you were so stupid as to introduce him to a lot of men in the club who--" "i didn't have to," interrupted mr. smith-parvis, a trifle crossly. "it was amazing how many of the members knew him. i daresay four out of every five men in the club shook hands with him and called him mr. mcfaddan. two bank presidents called him con, and, by gad, angela, he actually introduced me to several really big bugs i've been wanting to meet for ten years or more. most extraordinary, 'pon my word." "did you--did you put out any feelers?" "about stuyvie--sant? certainly not. that would have been fatal. i did advance a few tactful and pertinent criticisms of our present diplomatic service, however. i was relieved to discover that he thinks it can be improved. he agreed with me when i advanced the opinion that we, as sovereign citizens of this great republic, ought to see to it that a better, a higher class of men represent us abroad. he said,--in his rough, slangy way: 'you're dead right. what good are them authors and poets we're sendin' over there now? what we need is good, live hustlers,--men with ginger instead of ink in their veins.' i remember the words perfectly. 'ginger instead of ink!' ha-ha,--rather good, eh?" "you must dress at once, philander," said his wife. "we are dining with the hatchers." "that reminds me," he said, wrinkling his brow. "i dropped in to see cricklewick on the way up. he didn't appear to be very enthusiastic about dining here with the mcfaddans." "for heaven's sake, you don't mean to say you've already asked the man to dine with us!" cried his wife. "not in so many words," he made haste to explain. "he spoke several times about his wife. seemed to want me to know that she was a snappy old girl,--his words, not mine. the salt of the earth, and so on. of course, i had to say something agreeable. so i said i'd like very much to have the pleasure of meeting her." "oh, you did, did you?" witheringly. "he seemed really quite affected, my dear. it was several minutes before he could find the words to reply. got very red in the face and managed to say finally that it was very kind of me. i think it rather made a hit with him. i merely mentioned the possibility of dining together some time,--_en famille_,--and that i'd like him to meet you. nothing more,--not a thing more than that!" he cried, quailing a little under his wife's eye. "and what did he say to that?" she inquired. the rising inflection was ominous. "he was polite enough to say he'd be pleased to meet you," said he, with justifiable exasperation. chapter xv one night at spangler's a few mornings after de bosky's _premier_ as director of the royal hungarian orchestra, mrs. sparflight called jane emsdale's attention to a news "story" in the _times_. the headline was as follows: a royal violinist _prince de bosky leads the orchestra at spangler's_ three-quarters of a column were devoted to the first appearance in america of the royal musician; his remarkable talent; his glorious ancestry; his singular independence; and (through an interpreter) his impressions of new york. "oh, i am so glad," cried jane, after she had read the story. "the poor fellow was so dreadfully up against it." "we must go and hear him soon," said the other. they were at the breakfast-table. jane had been with the elder woman for nearly a week. she was happy, radiant, contented. not so much as an inkling of the truth arose to disturb her serenity. she believed herself to be actually in the pay of "deborah." from morning till night she went cheerfully about the tasks set for her by her sorely tried employer, who, as time went on, found herself hard put to invent duties for a conscientious private secretary. jane was much too active, much too eager; such indefatigable energy harassed rather than comforted her employer. and, not for the world, would the latter have called upon her to take over any of the work downstairs. the poor lady lay awake nights trying to think of something that she could set the girl to doing in the morning! a curt, pointed epistle had come to mrs. sparflight from mrs. smith-parvis. that lady announced briefly that she had been obliged to discharge miss emsdale, and that she considered it her duty to warn mrs. sparflight against recommending her late governess to any one else. "you may answer the note, my dear," the marchioness had said, her eyes twinkling as she watched jane's face. "thank her for the warning and say that i regret having sent miss emsdale to her. say that i shall be exceedingly careful in the future. sign it, and append your initials. it isn't a bad idea to let her know that i do not regard her communication as strictly confidential,--between friends, you might say. and now you must get out for a long walk today. a strong, healthy english girl like you shouldn't go without stretching her legs. you'll be losing the bloom in your cheek if you stay indoors as you've been doing the past week." jane's dread of meeting her tormentor had kept her close to the apartment since the night of her rather unconventional arrival. twice the eager trotter, thrilled and exalted by his new-found happiness, had dashed in to see her, but only for a few minutes' stay on each occasion. "how do you like your new position?" he had asked in the dimness at the head of the stairway. she could not see his face, but it was because he kept her head rather closely pressed into the hollow of his shoulder. otherwise she might have detected the guilty flicker in his eyes. "i love it. she is such a dear. but, really, eric, i don't think i'm worth half what she pays me." he chuckled softly. "oh, yes, you are. you are certainly worth half what my boss pays me." "but i do not earn it," she insisted. "neither do i," said he. to return to the marchioness and the newspaper: "we will go off on a little spree before long, my dear. a good dinner at spangler's, a little music, and a chat with the sensation of the hour. get mrs. hendricks on the telephone, please. i will ask her to join us there some night soon with her husband. he is the man who wrote that delightful novel with the name i never can remember. you will like him, i know. he is so dreadfully deaf that all one has to do to include him in the conversation is to return his smiles occasionally." and so, on a certain night in mid-april, it came to pass that spangler's café, gay and full of the din that sustains the _genus_ new yorker in his contention that there is no other place in the world fit to live in, had among its patrons a number of the persons connected with this story of the city of masks. first of all, there was the new leader of the orchestra, a dapper, romantic-looking young man in a flaming red coat. ah, but you should have seen him! the admirable mirabeau, true frenchman that he was, had performed wonders with pomades and oils and the glossy brilliantine. the sleek black hair of the little prince shone like the raven's wing; his dark, gipsy eyes, rendered more vivid by the skilful application of "lampblack," gleamed with an ardent excitement; there was colour in his cheeks, and a smile on his lips. at a table near the platform on which the orchestra was stationed, sat the honourable cornelius mcfaddan, his wife, and a congenial party of friends. in a far-off corner, remote from the music, you would have discovered the marchioness and her companions; the bland, perpetually smiling mr. hendricks who wrote the book, his wife, and the lovely, blue-eyed jane. by a strange order of coincidence, young mr. stuyvesant smith-parvis, quite mellow and bereft of the power to focus steadily with eye or intellect, occupied a seat,--and frequently a seat and a half,--at a table made up of shrill-voiced young women and bald-headed gentlemen of uncertain age who had a whispering acquaintance with the head waiter and his assistants. the countess du bara, otherwise corinne, entertained a few of the lesser lights of the opera and two lean, hungry-looking critics she was cultivating against an hour of need. at a small, mean table alongside the swinging door through which a procession of waiters constantly streamed on their way from the kitchen, balancing trays at hazardous heights, sat two men who up to this moment have not been mentioned in these revelations. very ordinary looking persons they were, in business clothes. one of them, a sallow, liverish individual, divided his interest between two widely separated tables. his companion was interested in nothing except his food, which being wholly unsatisfactory to him, relieved him of the necessity of talking about anything else. he spoke of it from time to time, however, usually to the waiter, who could only say that he was sorry. this man was a red-faced, sharp-nosed person with an unmistakable cockney accent. he seemed to find a great deal of comfort in verbally longing for the day when he could get back to simpson's in the strand for a bit of "roast that is a roast." the crowd began to thin out shortly after the time set for the lifting of curtains in all of the theatres. it was then that the sallow-faced man arose from his seat and, after asking his companion to excuse him for a minute, approached stuyvesant smith-parvis. that gentleman had been dizzily ogling a dashing, spirited young woman at the table presided over by mr. mcfaddan, a circumstance which not only annoyed the lady but also one closer at hand. the latter was wanting to know, in some heat, what he took her for. if he thought she'd stand for anything like that, he had another guess coming. "may i have a word with you?" asked the sallow man, inserting his head between stuyvesant and the protesting young woman. "the bouncer," cried the young woman, looking up. "good work. that's what you get for making eyes at strange--" "shut up," said stuyvie, who had, after a moment's concentration, recognized the man. "what do you want?" "a word in private," said the other. stuyvesant got up and followed him to a vacant table in the rear. "she is here," said the stranger. "here in this restaurant. not more than fifty feet from where we're sitting." the listener blinked. his brain was foggy. "what's that?" he mumbled, thickly. "the girl you're lookin' for," said the man. stuyvesant sat up abruptly. his brain seemed to clear. "you mean--miss emsdale?" he demanded, rather distinctly. the little man in the red coat, sitting just above them on the edge of the platform, where he was resting after a particularly long and arduous number, pricked up his ears. he, too, had seen the radiant, friendly face of the english girl at the far end of the room, and had favoured her with more than one smile of appreciation. "yes. stand up and take a look. keep back of this palm, so's she won't lamp you. 'way over there with the white-haired old lady. am i right? she's the one, ain't she?" smith-parvis became visibly excited. "yes,--there's not the slightest doubt. how--how long has she been here? why the devil didn't you tell me sooner?" "don't get excited. better not let her see you in this condition. she looks like a nice, refined girl. she--" "what do you mean 'condition'? i'm all right," retorted the young man, bellicose at once. "i know you are," said the other soothingly. "darn the luck," growled stuyvie, following a heroic effort to restore his physical equilibrium. "i wouldn't have had her see me here with this crowd for half the money in new york. she'll get a bad impression of me. look at 'em! my lord, they're all stewed. i say, you go over and tell that man with the big nose at the head of my table that i've been suddenly called away, and--" "take my advice, and sit tight." stuyvie's mind wandered. "say, do you know who that rippin' creature is over there with the fat irishman? she's a dream." the sallow man did not deign to look. he bent a little closer to mr. smith-parvis. "now, what is the next move, mr. smith-parvis? i've located her right enough. is this the end of the trail?" "sh!" cautioned stuyvie, loudly. then even more loudly: "don't you know any better than to roar like that? there's a man sitting up there--" "he can't understand a word of english. wop. just landed. that's the guy the papers have been--" "i am not in the least interested in your conversation," said stuyvie haughtily. "what were you saying?" "am i through? that's what i want to know." "you have found out where she's stopping?" "yep. stayin' with the white-haired old lady. dressmaking establishment. the office will make a full report to you tomorrow." "wait a minute. let me think." the sallow man waited for some time. then he said: "excuse me, mr. smith-parvis, but i've got a friend over here. stranger in new york. i'm detailed to entertain him." "you've got to shake him," said stuyvie, arrogantly. "i want you to follow her home, and i'm going with you. as soon as i know positively where she lives, i'll decide on the next step we're to take. we'll have to work out some plan to get her away from that dressmakin' 'stablishment." the other gave him a hard look. "don't count our people in on any rough stuff," he said levelly. "we don't go in for that sort of thing." stuyvie winked. "we'll talk about that when the time comes." "well, what i said goes. we're the oldest and most reliable agency in--" "i know all that," said stuyvie, peevishly. "it is immaterial to me whether your agency or some other one does the job. remember that, will you? i want that girl, and i don't give a--" "good night, mr. smith-parvis." "wait a minute,--_wait_ a minute. now, listen. when you see her getting ready to leave this place, rush out and get a taxi. i'll join you outside, and we'll--" "very well. that's part of my job, i suppose. i will have to explain to my friend. he will understand." he lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "he's in the same business. special from scotland yard. my god, what bulldogs these britishers are. he's been clear around the world, lookin' for a young english swell who lit out a couple of years ago. we've been taken in on the case,--and i'm on the job with him from now--" "and say," broke in stuyvie, irrelevantly, "before you leave find out who that girl is over there with the fat irishman. understand?" prince waldemar de bosky's thoughts and reflections, up to the beginning of this duologue, were of the rosiest and most cheerful nature. he was not proud to be playing the violin in spangler's, but he was human. he was not above being gratified by the applause and enthusiasm of the people who came to see if not to hear a prince of the blood perform. his friends were out there in front, and it was to them that he played. he was very happy. and the five thousand dollars in the old steel safe at the shop of mirabeau the clockmaker! he had been thinking of them and of the letter he had posted to the man "up the river,"--and of the interest he would take in the reply when it came. abruptly, in the midst of these agreeable thoughts, came the unlovely interruption. at first he was bewildered, uncertain as to the course he should pursue. he never had seen young smith-parvis before, but he had no difficulty in identifying him as the disturber of trotter's peace of mind. that there was something dark and sinister behind the plans and motives of the young man and his spy was not a matter for doubt. how was he to warn lady jane? he was in a fearful state of perturbation as he stepped to the front of the platform for the next number on the program. as he played, he saw smith-parvis rejoin his party. he watched the sallow man weave his way among the diners to his own table. his anxious gaze sought out the marchioness and jane, and he was relieved to find that they were not preparing to depart. also, he looked again at mcfaddan and the dashing young woman at the foot of his table. he had recognized the man who once a week came under his critical observation as a proper footman. as a matter of fact, he had been a trifle flabbergasted by the intense stare with which mcfaddan favoured him. up to this hour he had not associated mcfaddan with opulence or a tailor-made dress suit. after the encore, he descended from the platform and made his way, bowing right and left to the friendly throng, until he brought up at the marchioness's table. there he paused and executed a profound bow. the marchioness proffered her hand, which he was careful not to see, and said something to him in english. he shook his head, expressive of despair, and replied in the hungarian tongue. "he does not understand english," said jane, her eyes sparkling. then she complimented him in french. de bosky affected a faint expression of hope. he managed a few halting words in french. jane was delighted. this was rare good fun. the musician turned to the others at the table and gave utterance to the customary "parle vouz francais, madame--m'sieu?" "not a word," said mrs. hendricks. "_he_ understands it but he can't hear it," she went on, and suddenly turned a fiery red. "how silly of me," she said to the marchioness, giggling hysterically. de bosky's face cleared. he addressed himself to jane; it was quite safe to speak to her in french. he forgot himself in his eagerness, however, and spoke with amazing fluency for one who but a moment before had been so at a loss. in a few quick, concise sentences he told her of stuyvesant's presence, his condition and his immediate designs. both jane and the marchioness were equal to the occasion. although filled with consternation, they succeeded admirably in concealing their dismay behind a mask of smiles and a gay sort of chatter. de bosky beamed and smirked and gesticulated. one would have thought he was regaling them with an amusing story. "he is capable of making a horrid scene," lamented jane, through smiling lips. "he may come over to this table and--" "compose yourself," broke in de bosky, a smile on his lips but not in his eyes. "if he should attempt to annoy you here, i--i myself will take him in hand. have no fear. you may depend on me." he was interrupted at this juncture by a brass-buttoned page who passed the table, murmuring the name of mrs. sparflight. spangler's is an exceptional place. pages do not bawl out one's name as if calling an "extra." on the contrary, in quiet, repressed tones they politely inquire at each table for the person wanted. mr. spangler was very particular about this. he came near to losing his license years before simply because a page had meandered through the restaurant bellowing the name of a gentleman whose influence was greater at city hall than it was at his own fireside,--from which, by the way, he appears to have strayed on the night in question. "dear me," cried the marchioness, her agitation increasing. "no one knows i am here. how on earth--here, boy!" a note was delivered to her. it was from thomas trotter. her face brightened as she glanced swiftly through the scrawl. "splendid!" she exclaimed. "it is from mr. trotter. he is waiting outside with his automobile." she passed the note to jane, whose colour deepened. de bosky drew a deep breath of relief, and, cheered beyond measure by her reassuring words, strode off, his head erect, his white teeth showing in a broad smile. trotter wrote: "it is raining cats and dogs. i have the car outside. the family is at the theatre. don't hurry. i can wait until 10:15. if you are not ready to come away by that time, you will find my friend joe glimm hanging about in front of the café,--drenched to the skin, i'll wager. you will recall him as the huge person i introduced to you recently as from constantinople. just put yourselves under his wing if anything happens. he is jolly well able to protect you. i know who's in there, but don't be uneasy. he will not dare molest you." "shall i keep it for you?" asked jane, her eyes shining. "i fancy it was intended for you, my dear," said the other drily. "how very interesting," observed mr. hendricks, who occasionally offered some such remark as his contribution to the gaiety of the evening. he had found it to be a perfectly safe shot, even when fired at random. in the meantime, mr. mcfaddan had come to the conclusion that the young man at the next table but one was obnoxious. it isn't exactly the way mr. mcfaddan would have put it, but as he would have put it less elegantly, it is better to supply him with a word out of stock. the dashing young woman upon whom stuyvesant lavished his bold and significant glances happened to be mrs. mcfaddan, whose scant twelve months as a wife gave her certain privileges and a distinction that properly would have been denied her hearth-loving predecessor who came over from ireland to marry con mcfaddan when he was promoted to the position of foreman in the works,--and who, true to her estate of muliebrity, produced four of the most exemplary step-children that any second wife could have discovered if she had gone storking over the entire city. cornelius had married his stenographer. it was not his fault that she happened to be a very pretty young woman, nor could he be held responsible for the fact that he was approximately thirty years of age on the day she was born. any way you look at it, she was his wife and dependent on him for some measure of protection. and mr. mcfaddan, being an influence, sent for the proprietor of the café himself, and whispered to him. whereupon, mr. spangler, considering the side on which his bread was buttered, whispered back that it should be attended to at once. "and," pursued mr. mcfaddan, purple with suppressed rage, "if you don't, i will." a minute or two later, one of the waiters approached young mr. smith-parvis and informed him that he was wanted outside at once. stuyvesant's heart leaped. he at once surmised that miss emsdale, repentant and envious, had come off her high horse and was eager to get away from the dull, prosaic and stupidly respectable old "parties" over in the corner. conceivably she had taken a little more champagne than was good for her. he got up immediately, and without so much as a word of apology to his host, made his way eagerly, though unsteadily, to the entrance-hall. he expected miss emsdale to follow; he was already framing in his beaddled brain the jolly little lecture he would give her when-a red-faced person jostled him in a most annoying manner. "look sharp there," said stuyvie thickly. "watch where you're going." "steady, sir,--steady!" came in a hushed, agitated voice from mr. spangler, who appeared to be addressing himself exclusively to the red-faced person. "let me manage it,--please." "who the devil is this bally old blighter?" demanded stuyvie loudly. "leave him to me, spangler," said the red-faced man. "i have a few choice words i--" "here! confound you! keep off of my toes, you fool! i say, spangler, what's the matter with you? throw him out! he's--" "gentlemen! gentlemen!" "i ought to knock your block off," said mr. mcfaddan, without raising his voice. as his face was within six inches of stuyvesant's nose, the young man had no difficulty whatever in hearing what he said, and yet it should not be considered strange that he failed to understand. in all fairness, it must be said that he was bewildered. under the circumstances any one would have been bewildered. being spoken to in that fashion by a man you've never seen before in your life is, to say the least, surprising. "i'll give you ten seconds to apologize." "ap--apologize? confound you, what do you mean? you're drunk." "i said ten seconds," growled cornelius. "and then what?" gulped stuyvie. "a swat on the nose," said mr. mcfaddan. at no point in the course of this narrative has there been either proof or assertion that smith-parvis, junior, possessed the back-bone of a caterpillar. it has been stated, however, that he was a young man of considerable bulk. we have assumed, correctly, that this rather impressive physique masked a craven spirit. as a matter of fact, he was such a prodigious coward that he practised all manner of "exercises" in order to develop something to inspire in his fellow-men the belief that he would be a pretty tough customer to tackle. something is to be said for his method. it has been successfully practised by man ever since the day that solomon, in all his glory, arrayed himself so sumptuously that the whole world hailed him as the wisest man extant. stuyvie took great pride in revealing his well-developed arms; it was not an uncommon thing for him to ask you to feel his biceps, or his back muscles, or the cords in his thigh; he did a great deal of strutting in his bathing suit at such places as atlantic city, southampton and newport. in a way, it paid to advertise. now when mr. mcfaddan, a formidable-looking person, made that emphatic remark, stuyvesant realized that there was no escape. he was trapped. panic seized him. in sheer terror he struck blindly at the awful, reddish thing that filled his vision. he talked a good deal about it afterwards, explaining in a casual sort of way just how he had measured the distance and had picked out the point of the fat man's jaw. he even went so far as to say that he felt sorry for the poor devil even before he delivered the blow. the fact of the matter is, stuyvie's wild, terrified swing,--delivered with the eyes not only closed but covered by the left arm,--landed squarely on mr. mcfaddan's jaw. and when the aggressor, after a moment or two of suspense, opened his eyes and lowered his arm, expecting to find his adversary's fist on its irresistible approach toward his nose, there was no mr. mcfaddan in sight;--at least, he was not where he had been the moment before. mr. mcfaddan lay in a crumpled heap against a chair, ten feet away. stuyvie was suddenly aware that some one was assisting him into his coat, and that several men were hustling him toward the door. "get out,--quick!" said one, who turned out to be the agitated mr. spangler. "before he gets up. he is a terrible man." by this time they were in the vestibule. "i will not tell him who you are," mr. spangler was saying. "i will give you another name,--jones or anything. he must never know who you are." "what's the difference?" chattered stuyvie. "he's--he's dead, isn't he?" chapter xvi scotland yard takes a hand it was raining hard. stuyvesant, thoroughly alarmed and not at all elated by his astonishing conquest, halted in dismay. the pelting torrent swept up against the side of the canvas awning that extended to the street; the thick matting on the sidewalk was almost afloat. headlights of automobiles drawn up to the curb blazed dimly through the screen of water. he peered out beyond the narrow opening left for pedestrians and groaned. "taxi!" he frantically shouted to the doorman. some one tapped him on the shoulder. he started as if a gun had gone off at his back. it was all up! for once the police were on the spot when--a voice was shouting: "by thunder, i didn't think it was in you!" he whirled to face, not the expected bluecoat, but the sallow detective. "my god, how you startled me!" "i'd have bet my last dollar you hadn't the nerve to--ahem! i--i--say, take a tip from me. beat it! don't hang around here waitin' for that girl. that guy in there is beginning to see straight again, and if he was to bust out here and find you--well, it would be something awful!" "get me a taxi, you infernal idiot!" roared the conqueror in flight, addressing the starter. "have one here in five minutes, sir," began the taxi starter, grabbing up the telephone. "five minutes?" gasped stuyvie, with a quick glance over his shoulder. "oh, lord! tell one of those chauffeurs out there i'll give him ten dollars to run me to the grand central station. hurry up!" "the grand central?" exclaimed the detective. "great scott, man, you don't have to beat it clear out of town, you know. what are you going to the station for?" "for a taxi, you damn' fool," shouted stuyvie. "say, who was that man in there?" "didn't you know him?" "never saw him in my life before,--the blighter. who is he?" the detective stared. he opened his mouth to reply, and as suddenly closed it. he, too, knew on which side his bread was precariously buttered. "i don't know," he said. "well, the papers will give his name in the morning,--and mine, too, curse them," chattered stuyvie. "don't you think it," said the other promptly. "there won't be a word about it, take it from me. that guy,--whoever he is,--ain't going to have the newspapers say he was knocked down by a pinhead like you." the insult passed unnoticed. stuyvie was gazing, pop-eyed, at a man who suddenly appeared at the mouth of the canopy, a tall fellow in a dripping raincoat. the newcomer's eyes were upon him. they were steady, unfriendly eyes. he advanced slowly. "i sha'n't wait," said stuyvie, and swiftly passed out into the deluge. no other course was open to him. there was trouble ahead and trouble behind. thomas trotter laughed. the sallow-faced man made a trumpet of his hands and shouted after the departing one: "beat it! he's coming!" the retreating footsteps quickened into a lively clatter. trotter distinctly heard the sallow-faced man chuckle. the marchioness and jane went home in the big millidew limousine instead of in a taxi. they left the restaurant soon after the departure of stuyvesant smith-parvis. the pensive-looking stranger from scotland yard came out close upon their heels. he was looking for his american guide. trotter brought his car up to the awning and grinned broadly as he leaned forward for "orders." "home, james," said lady jane, loftily. "very good, my lady," said trotter. the man from scotland yard squinted narrowly at the chauffeur's face. he moved a few paces nearer and stared harder. for a long time after the car had rolled away, he stood in the middle of the sidewalk, frowning perplexedly. then he shook his head and apparently gave it up. he went inside to look for his friend. the next day, the sallow-faced detective received instructions over the telephone from one who refused to give his name to the operator. he was commanded to keep close watch on the movements of a certain party, and to await further orders. "i shall be out of town for a week or ten days," explained young mr. smith-parvis. "i see," said the sallow-faced man. "good idea. that guy--" but the receiver at the other end clicked rudely and without ceremony. stuyvesant took an afternoon train for virginia hot springs. at the pennsylvania station he bought all of the newspapers,--morning, noon and night. there wasn't a line in any one of them about the fracas. he was rather hurt about it. he was beginning to feel proud of his achievement. by the time the train reached philadelphia he had worked himself into quite a fury over the way the new york papers suppress things that really ought to be printed. subsidized, that's what they were. jolly well bribed. he had given the fellow,--whoever he was,--a well-deserved drubbing, and the world would never hear of it! miss emsdale would not hear of it. he very much wished her to hear of it, too. the farther away he got from new york the more active became the conviction that he owed it to himself to go back there and thrash the fellow all over again, as publicly as possible,--in front of the public library at four o'clock in the afternoon, while he was about it. he had been at hot springs no longer than forty-eight hours when a long letter came from his mother. she urged him to return to new york as soon as possible. it was imperative that he should be present at a very important dinner she was giving on friday night. one of the most influential politicians in new york was to be there,--a man whose name was a household word,--and she was sure something splendid would come of it. "you must not fail me, dear boy," she wrote. "i would not have him miss seeing you for anything in the world. don't ask me any questions. i can't tell you anything now, but i will say that a great surprise is in store for my darling boy." meanwhile the nosy individual from scotland yard had not been idle. the fleeting, all too brief glimpse he had had of the good-looking chauffeur in front of spangler's spurred him to sudden energy in pursuit of what had long since shaped itself as a rather forlorn hope. he got out the photograph of the youngster in the smart uniform of the guard, and studied it with renewed intensity. mentally he removed the cocky little moustache so prevalent in the army, and with equal arrogance tried to put one on the smooth-faced chauffeur. he allowed for elapsed time, and the wear and tear of three years knocking about the world, and altered circumstances, and still the resemblance persisted. for a matter of ten months he had been seeking the young gentleman who bore such a startling resemblance to the smiling chauffeur. he had traced him to turkey, into egypt, down the east coast of africa, over to australia, up to siam and china and japan, across the pacific to british columbia, thence to the united states, where the trail was completely lost. his quarry had a good year and a half to two years the start of him. still, a chap he knew quite well in the yard, after chasing a man twice around the world, had nabbed him at the end of six years. so much for british perseverance. inquiry had failed to produce the slightest enlightenment from the doorman or the starter at spangler's. he always remembered them as the stupidest asses he had ever encountered. they didn't recognize the chauffeur, nor the car, nor the ladies; not only were they unable to tell him the number of the car, but they couldn't, for the life of them, approximate the number of ladies. all they seemed to know was that some one had been knocked down by a "swell" who was "hot-footing it" up the street. his sallow-faced friend, however, had provided him with an encouraging lead. that worthy knew the ladies, but somewhat peevishly explained that it was hardly to be expected that he should know all of the taxi-cab drivers in new york,--and as he had seen them arrive in a taxi-cab it was reasonable to assume that they had departed in one. "but it wasn't a taxi-cab," the scotland yard man protested. "it was a blinking limousine." "then, all i got to say is that they're not the women i mean. if i'd been out here when they left i probably could have put you wise. but i was in there listenin' to what con mcfaddan was sayin' to poor old spangler. the woman i mean is a dressmaker. she ain't got any more of a limo than i have. did you notice what they looked like?" the scotland yard man, staring gloomily up the rain-swept street, confessed that he hadn't noticed anything but the chauffeur's face. "well, there you are," remarked the sallow-faced man, shrugging his shoulders in a patronizing, almost pitying way. the londoner winced. "i distinctly heard the chauffeur say 'very good, my lady,'" he said, after a moment. "that was a bit odd, wasn't it, now? you don't have any such things as titles over 'ere, do you?" "sure. every steamer brings one or two of 'em to our little city." the englishman scratched his head. suddenly his face brightened. "i remember, after all,--in a vague sort of way, don't you know,--that one of the ladies had white hair. i recall an instant's speculation on my part. i remember looking twice to be sure that it was hair and not a bit of lace thrown--" "that's the party," exclaimed the sallow-faced man. "now we're getting somewhere." the next afternoon, the man from scotland yard paid a visit to deborah's. not at all abashed at finding himself in a place where all save angels fear to tread, he calmly asked to be conducted into the presence of mrs. sparflight. he tactfully refrained from adding "alias deborah, limited. london, paris and new york." he declined to state his business. "madam," said he, coming straight to the point the instant he was ushered into the presence of the white-haired proprietress, "i sha'n't waste your time,--and mine, i may add,--by beating about the bush, as you americans would say. i represent--" "if you are an insurance agent or a book agent, you need not waste any time at all," began mrs. sparflight. he held up his hand deprecatingly. "--scotland yard," he concluded, fixing his eyes upon her. the start she gave was helpful. he went on briskly. "last night you were at a certain restaurant. you departed during the thunder-storm in a limousine driven by a young man whose face is familiar to me. in short, i am looking for a man who bears a most startling resemblance to him. may i prevail upon you to volunteer a bit of information?" mrs. sparflight betrayed agitation. a hunted, troubled look came into her eyes. "i--i don't quite understand," she stammered. "who--who did you say you were?" "my name is chambers, alfred chambers, scotland yard. in the event that you are ignorant of the character of the place called scotland yard, i may explain that--" "i know what it is," she interrupted hastily. "what is it that you want of me, mr. chambers?" she was rapidly gaining control of her wits. "very little, madam. i should very much like to know whose car took you away from sprinkler's last night." she looked him straight in the eye. "i haven't the remotest idea," she said. he nodded his head gently. "would you, on the other hand, object to telling me how long james has been driving for her ladyship?" this was a facer. mrs. sparflight's gaze wavered. "her ladyship?" she murmured weakly. "yes, madam,--unless my hearing was temporarily defective," he said. "i don't know what you mean." "your companion was a young lady of--" "my good man," interrupted the lady sharply, "my companion last night was my own private secretary." "a miss emsdale, i believe," said he. she gulped. "precisely." "um!" he mused. "and you do not know whose car you went off in,--is that right?" "i have no hesitancy in stating, mr. chambers, that the car does not belong to me or to my secretary," she said, smiling. "i trust you will pardon a seemingly rude question, mrs. sparflight. is it the custom in new york for people to take possession of private automobiles--" "it is the custom for new york chauffeurs to pick up an extra dollar or two when their employers are not looking," she interrupted, with a shrug of her shoulders. she was instantly ashamed of her mendacity. she looked over her shoulder to see if mr. thomas trotter's sweetheart was anywhere within hearing, and was relieved to find that she was not. "and now, sir, if it is a fair question, may i inquire just what this chauffeur's double has been doing that scotland yard should be seeking him so assiduously?" "he has been giving us a deuce of a chase, madam," said mr. chambers, as if that were the gravest crime a british subject could possibly commit. "by the way, did you by any chance obtain a fair look at the man who drove you home last night?" "yes. he seemed quite a good-looking fellow." "will you glance at this photograph, mrs. sparflight, and tell me whether you detect a resemblance?" he took a small picture from his coat pocket and held it out to her. she looked at it closely, holding it at various angles and distances, and nodded her head in doubtful acquiescence. "i think i do, mr. chambers. i am not surprised that you should have been struck by the resemblance. this man was a soldier, i perceive." mr. chambers restored the photograph to his pocket. "the king's own," he replied succinctly. "perhaps your secretary may be able to throw a little more light on the matter, madam. may i have the privilege of interrogating her?" "not today," said mrs. sparflight, who had anticipated the request. "she is very busy." "of course i am in no position to insist," said he pleasantly. "i trust you will forgive my intrusion, madam. i am here only in the interests of justice, and i have no desire to cause you the slightest annoyance. permit me to bid you good day, mrs. sparflight. thank you for your kindness in receiving me. tomorrow, if it is quite agreeable to you, i shall call to see miss emsdale." at that moment, the door opened and miss emsdale came into the little office. "you rang for me, mrs. sparflight?" she inquired, with a quick glance at the stranger. mrs. sparflight blinked rapidly. "not at all,--not at all. i did not ring." miss emsdale looked puzzled. "i am sure the buzzer--" "pardon me," said mr. chambers, easily. "i fancy i can solve the mystery. accidentally,--quite accidentally, i assure you,--i put my hand on the button on your desk, mrs. sparflight,--while you were glancing at the photograph. like this,--do you see?" he put his hand on the top of the desk and leaned forward, just as he had done when he joined her in studying the picture a few moments before. a hot flush mounted to mrs. sparflight's face, and her eyes flashed. the next instant she smiled. "you are most resourceful, mr. chambers," she said. "it happens, however, that your cleverness gains you nothing. this young lady is one of our stenographers. i think i said that miss emsdale is my private secretary. she has no connection whatever with the business office. the button you inadvertently pressed simply disturbed one of the girls in the next room. you may return to your work, miss henry." she carried it off very well. jane, sensing danger, was on the point of retiring,--somewhat hurriedly, it must be confessed,--when mr. chambers, in his most apologetic manner, remarked: "may i have a word with you, your ladyship?" it was a bold guess, encouraged by his discovery that the young lady was not only english but of a class distinctly remote from shops and stenography. under the circumstances, jane may be forgiven for dissembling, even at the cost of her employer's honour. she stopped short, whirled, and confronted the stranger with a look in her eyes that convicted her immediately. her hand flew to her heart, and a little gasp broke from her parted lips. mr. chambers was smiling blandly. she looked from him to mrs. sparflight, utter bewilderment in her eyes. "oh, lord!" muttered that lady in great dismay. the man from scotland yard hazarded another and even more potential stroke while the iron was hot. "i am from scotland yard," he said. "we make some mistakes there, i admit, but not many." he proceeded to lie boldly. "i know who you are, my lady, and--but it is not necessary to go into that at present. do not be alarmed. you have nothing to fear from me,--or from scotland yard. i--" "well, i should hope _not_!" burst out mrs. sparflight indignantly. "what does he want?" cried jane, in trepidation. she addressed her friend, but it was mr. chambers who answered. "i want you to supply me with a little information concerning lord eric temple,--whom you addressed last evening as james." jane began to tremble. scotland yard! "the man is crazy," said mrs. sparflight, leaping into the breach. "by what right, sir, do you come here to impose your--" "no offence is intended, ma'am," broke in mr. chambers. "absolutely no offence. it is merely in the line of duty that i come. in plain words, i have been instructed to apprehend lord eric temple and fetch him to london. you see, i am quite frank about it. you can aid me by being as frank in return, ladies." by this time jane had regained command of herself. drawing herself up, she faced the detective, and, casting discretion to the winds, took a most positive and determined stand. "i must decline,--no matter what the cost may be to myself,--to give you the slightest assistance concerning lord temple." to their infinite amazement, the man bowed very courteously and said: "i shall not insist. pardon my methods and my intrusion. i shall trouble you no further. good day, madam. good day, your ladyship." he took his leave at once, leaving them staring blankly at the closed door. he was satisfied. he had found out just what he wanted to know, and he was naturally in some haste to get out before they began putting embarrassing questions to him. "oh, dear," murmured jane, distractedly. "what _are_ we to do? scotland yard! that can mean but one thing. his enemies at home have brought some vile, horrible charge against--" "we must warn him at once, jane. there is no time to be lost. telephone to the garage where mrs. millidew--" "but the man doesn't know that eric is driving for mrs. millidew," broke in jane, hopefully. "he _will_ know, and in very short order," said the other, sententiously. "those fellows are positively uncanny. go at once and telephone." she hesitated a moment, looking a little confused and guilty. "lay aside your work, dear, for the time being. there is nothing very urgent about it, you know." in sheer desperation she had that very morning set her restless charge to work copying names out of the _social register_,--names she had checked off at random between the hours of ten and two the previous night. jane's distress increased to a state bordering on anguish. "oh, dear! he--he is out of town for two or three days." "out of town?" "he told me last night he was to be off early this morning for mrs. millidew's country place somewhere on long island. mrs. millidew had to go down to see about improvements or repairs or something before the house is opened for the season." "mrs. millidew was in the shop this morning for a 'try-on,'" said the other. "she has changed her plans, no doubt." jane's honest blue eyes wavered slightly as she met her friend's questioning gaze. "i think he said that young mrs. millidew was going down to look after the work for her mother-in-law." chapter xvii friday for luck the "drawing-room" that evening lacked not only distinction but animation as well. to begin with, the attendance was small. the marchioness, after the usual collaboration with julia in advance of the gathering, received a paltry half-dozen during the course of the evening. the princess was there, and count antonio,--(he rarely missed coming), and the hon. mrs. priestley-duff. lord eric temple and lady jane thorne were missing, as were prince waldemar de bosky, count wilhelm von blitzen and the countess du bara. extreme dulness prevailed. the princess fell asleep, and, on being roused at a seasonable hour, declared that her eyes had been troubling her of late, so she kept them closed as much as possible on account of the lights. mrs. priestley-duff, being greatly out-of-sorts, caustically remarked that the proper way to treat bothersome eyes is to put them to bed in a sound-proof room. cricklewick yawned in the foyer, moody yawned in the outer hall, and mcfaddan in the pantry. the latter did not yawn luxuriously. there was something half-way about it. "why don't you 'ave it out?" inquired moody, sympathetically, after solicitous inquiry. "they say the bloomin' things are the cause of all the rheumatism we're 'aving nowadays. is it a wisdom tooth?" "no," said mcfaddan, with a suddenness that startled moody; "it ain't. it's a whole jaw. it's a dam' fool jaw at that." "now that i look at you closer," said moody critically, "it seems to be a bit discoloured. looks as though mortification had set in." "ye never said a truer thing," said mcfaddan. "it set in last night." the man from scotland yard waited across the street until he saw the lights in the windows of the third, fourth and fifth floors go out, and then strolled patiently away. queer looking men and women came under his observation during the long and lonely vigil, entering and emerging from the darkened doorway across the street, but none of them, by any chance, bore the slightest resemblance to the elusive lord temple, or "her ladyship," the secretary. he made the quite natural error of putting the queer looking folk down as tailors and seamstresses who worked far into the night for the prosperous deborah. two days went by. he sat at a window in the hotel opposite and waited for the young lady to appear. on three separate occasions he followed her to central park and back. she was a brisk walker. she had the free stride of the healthy english girl. he experienced some difficulty in keeping her in sight, but even as he puffed laboriously behind, he was conscious of a sort of elation. it was good to see some one who walked as if she were in hyde park. for obvious reasons, his trailing was in vain. jane did not meet lord temple for the excellent reason that thomas trotter was down on long island with the beautiful mrs. millidew. and while both jane and mrs. sparflight kept a sharp lookout for mr. chambers, they failed to discover any sign of him. he seemed to have abandoned the quest. they were not lured into security, however. he would bob up, like jack-in-the-box, when least expected. if they could only get word to trotter! if they could only warn him of the peril that stalked him! jane was in the depths. she had tumbled swiftly from the great height to which joy had wafted her; her hopes and dreams, and the castles they had built so deftly, shrunk up and vanished in the cloud that hung like a pall about her. her faith in the man she loved was stronger than ever; nothing could shatter that. no matter what scotland yard might say or do, actuated by enemy injustice, she would never believe evil of him. and she would not give him up! "marchioness," she said at the close of the second day, her blue eyes clouded with the agony of suspense, "is there not some way to resist extradition? can't we fight it? surely it isn't possible to take an innocent man out of this great, generous country--" "my dear child," said the marchioness, putting down her coffee cup with so little precision that it clattered in the saucer, "there isn't _anything_ that scotland yard cannot do." she spoke with an air of finality. "i have been thinking," began jane, haltingly. she paused for a moment. an appealing, wistful note was in her voice when she resumed, and her eyes were tenderly resolute. "he hasn't very much money, you know, poor boy. i have been thinking,--oh, i've been thinking of so many things," she broke off confusedly. "well, what have you been thinking?" inquired the other, helpfully. "it has occurred to me that i can get along very nicely on half of what you are paying me,--or even less. if it were not for the fact that my poor brother depends solely upon me for support, i could spare practically all of my salary to--for--" "go on," said the marchioness gently. "in any case, i can give eric half of my salary if it will be of any assistance to him,--yes, a little more than half," said jane, a warm, lovely flush in her cheeks. the marchioness hastily pressed the serviette to her lips. she seemed to be choking. it was some time before she could trust herself to say: "bless your heart, my dear, he wouldn't take it. of course," she went on, after a moment, "it would please him beyond words if you were to suggest it to him." "i shall do more," said jane, resolutely. "i shall insist." "it will tickle him almost to death," said the marchioness, again raising the napkin to her lips. at twelve o'clock the next day, trotter's voice came blithely over the telephone. "are you there, darling? lord, it seems like a century since i--" "listen, eric," she broke in. "i have something very important to tell you. now, _do_ listen--are you there?" "right-o! whisper it, dear. the telephone has a million ears. i want to hear you say it,--oh, i've been wanting--" "it isn't that," she said. "you know i do, eric. but this is something perfectly terrible." "oh, i say, jane, you haven't changed your mind about--about--" "as if i _could_," she cried. "i love you more than ever, eric. oh, what a silly thing to say over the telephone. i am blushing,--i hope no one heard--" "listen!" said he promptly, music in his voice. "i'm just in from the country. i'll be down to see you about five this afternoon. tell you all about the trip. lived like a lord,--homelike sort of feeling, eh?--and--" "i don't care to hear about it," said jane stiffly. "besides, you must not come here today, eric. it is the very worst thing you could do. he would be sure to see you." "he? what he?" he demanded quickly. "i can't explain. listen, dear. mrs. sparflight and i have talked it all over and we've decided on the best thing to do." and she poured into the puzzled young man's ear the result of prolonged deliberations. he was to go to bramble's bookshop at half-past four, and proceed at once to the workshop of m. mirabeau upstairs. she had explained the situation to mr. bramble in a letter. at five o'clock she would join him there. in the meantime, he was to keep off of the downtown streets as much as possible. "in the name of heaven, what's up?" he cried for the third time,--with variations. "a--a detective from scotland yard," she replied in a voice so low and cautious that he barely caught the words. "i--i can't say anything more now," she went on rapidly. "something tells me he is just outside the door, listening to every word i utter." "wait!" he ordered. "a detective? has that beastly smith-parvis crowd dared to insinuate that you--that you--oh, lord, i can't even say it!" "i said 'scotland yard,' eric," she said. "don't you understand?" "no, i'm hanged if i do. but don't worry, dear. i'll be at bramble's and, by the lord harry, if they're trying to put up any sort of a--hello! are you there?" there was no answer. needless to say, he was at bramble's bookshop on the minute, vastly perturbed and eager for enlightenment. "don't stop down here an instant," commanded mr. bramble, glancing warily at the front door. "do as i tell you. don't ask questions. go upstairs and wait,--and don't show yourself under any circumstance. did you happen to catch a glimpse of him anywhere outside?" "the street is full of 'hims,'" retorted mr. trotter in exasperation. "what the devil is all this about, bramby?" "she will be here at five. there's nothing suspicious in her coming in to buy a book. it's all been thought out. most natural thing in the world that she should buy a book, don't you see? only you must not be buying one at the same time. now, run along,--lively. prince de bosky is with mirabeau. and don't come down till i give you the word." "see here, bramble, if you let anything happen to her i'll--" mr. bramble relentlessly urged him up the steps. long before jane arrived, trotter was in possession of the details. he was vastly perplexed. "i daresay one of those beastly cousins of mine has trumped up some charge that he figures will put me out of the running for ever," he said gloomily. he sat, slack and dejected, in a corner of the shop farthest removed from the windows. "i shouldn't mind so much if it weren't for lady jane. she--you see, m'sieur, she has promised to be my wife. this will hurt her terribly. the beastly curs!" "sit down!" commanded m. mirabeau. "you must not go raging up and down past those windows." "confound you, mirabeau, he doesn't know this place exists. he never will know unless he follows lady jane. i'll do as i jolly well please." de bosky, inspired, produced a letter he had just received from his friend, the cracksman. he had read it to the bookseller and clockmaker, and now re-read it, with soulful fervour, for the benefit of the new arrival. he interrupted himself to beg m. mirabeau to unlock the safe and bring forth the treasure. "you see what he says?" cried he, shaking the letter in front of trotter's eyes. "and here is the money! see! touch it, my friend. it is real. i thought i was also dreaming. count them. begin with this one. now,--one hundred, two hundred--" "i haven't the remotest idea what you're talking about," said trotter, staring blankly at the money. "what a fool i am!" cried de bosky. "i begin at the back-end of the story. how could you know? have you ever known such a fool as i, mirabeau?" "never," said m. mirabeau, who had his ear cocked for sounds on the stairway. "and so," said the prince, at the end of the hastily told story of the banknotes and the man up the river, "you see how it is. he replies to my carefully worded letter. shall i read it again? no? but, i ask you, my dear trotter, how am i to carry out his instructions? naturally he is vague. all letters are read at the prison, i am informed. he says: 'and anything you may have come acrosst among my effects is so piffling that i hereby instructs you to burn it up, sos i won't have to be bothered with it when i come out, which ain't fer some time yet, and when i do get out i certainly am not coming to new york, anyhow. i am going west and start all over again. a feller has got a better chance out there.' that is all he has to say about this money, trotter. i cannot burn it. what am i to do?" trotter had an inspiration. "put it into american tobacco," he said. de bosky stared. "tobacco?" "simplest way in the world to obey instructions. the easiest way to burn money is to convert it into tobacco. slip down to wall street tomorrow and invest every cent of this money in american tobacco, register the stock in the name of henry loveless and put it away for him. save out enough for a round-trip ticket to sing sing, and run up there some day and tell him what you've done." "by jove!" exclaimed de bosky, his eyes dancing. "but," he added, doubtfully, "what am i to do if he doesn't approve?" "tell him put it in his pipe and smoke it," said the resourceful mr. trotter. "you know," said the other admiringly, "i have never been one of those misguided persons who claim that the english have no sense of humour. i--" "sh!" warned m. mirabeau from the top of the steps. and then, like a true frenchman, he bustled de bosky out of the shop ahead of him and closed the door, leaving trotter alone among the ticking clocks. jane came swiftly up the steps, hurrying as if pursued. mr. bramble was pledging something, in a squeaky undertone, from the store below. "he may not have followed me," jane called back in guarded tones, "but if he has, mr. bramble, you must be sure to throw him off the trail." "trust me,--trust me implicitly," came in a strangled sort of voice from the faithful ex-tutor. "oh,--eric, dearest! how you startled me!" cried lady jane a moment later. she gasped the words, for she was almost smothered in the arms of her lover. "forgive me," he murmured, without releasing her,--an oversight which she apparently had no immediate intention of resenting. a little later on, she suddenly drew away from him, with a quick, embarrassed glance around the noisy little shop. he laughed. "we are quite alone, jane dear,--unless you count the clocks. they're all looking at us, but they never tell anything more than the time of day. and now, dear, what is this beastly business?" she closed the door to the stairway, very cautiously, and then came back to him. the frown deepened in his eyes as he listened to the story she told. "but why should i go into hiding?" he exclaimed, as she stopped to get her breath. "i haven't done anything wrong. what if they have trumped up some rotten charge against me? all the more reason why i should stand out and defend--" "but, dear, scotland yard is such a dreadful place," she cried, blanching. "they--" "rubbish! i'm not afraid of scotland yard." "you--you're not?" she gasped, blankly. "but, eric dear, you _must_ be afraid of scotland yard. you don't know what you are saying." "oh, yes, i do. and as for this chap they've sent after me,--where is he? in two seconds i can tell him what's what. he'll go humping back to london--" "i knew you would say something like that," she declared, greatly perturbed. "but i sha'n't let you. do you hear, eric? i sha'n't let you. you _must_ hide. you must go away from new york,--tonight." "and leave you?" he scoffed. "what can you be thinking of, darling? am i--sit down, dear,--here beside me. you are frightened. that infernal brute has scared you almost out of--" "i _am_ frightened,--terribly frightened. so is the marchioness,--and mr. bramble." she sat beside him on the bench. he took her cold hands in his own and pressed them gently, encouragingly. his eyes were very soft and tender. "poor little girl!" for a long time he sat there looking at her white, averted face. a slow smile slowly struggled to the corners of his mouth. "i can't afford to run away," he said at last. "i've just got to stick by my job. it means a lot to me now, jane dear." she looked up quickly, her face clearing. "i love you, eric. i know you are innocent of anything they may charge you with. i _know_ it. and i would give all i have in the world to help you in your hour of trouble. listen, dear. i want you to accept this in the right spirit. don't let pride stand in the way. it is really something i want to do,--something that will make me--oh, so happy, if you will just let me do it. i am earning five guineas a week. it is more than i need. now, dear, just for a little while,--until you have found another place in some city far away from new york,--you must let me share my--what is there to laugh at, eric?" she cried in a hurt voice. he grew sober at once. "i'm--i'm sorry," he said. "thank you,--and god bless you, jane. it's fine. you're a brick. but,--but i can't accept it. please don't say anything more about it, dear. i just _can't_,--that's all." "oh, dear," she sighed. "and--and you refuse to go away? you will not escape while there is yet--" "see here, dear," he began, his jaw setting, "i am not underrating the seriousness of this affair. they may have put up a beast of a job on me. they fixed it so that i hadn't a chance three years ago. perhaps they've decided to finish the job and have done with me for ever. i don't put it above them, curse them. here's the story in a nutshell. i have two cousins in the army, sons of my mother's sisters. they're a pair of rotters. it was they who hatched up the scheme to disgrace me in the service,--and, by gad, they did it to the queen's taste. i had to get out. there wasn't a chance for me to square myself. i--i sha'n't go into that, dear. you'll understand why. it--it hurts. cheating at cards. that's enough, isn't it? well, they got me. my grandfather and i--he is theirs as well as mine,--we never hit it off very well at best. my mother married lord temple. grandfather was opposed to the match. her sisters did everything in their power to widen the breach that followed the marriage. it may make it easier for you to understand when i remind you that my grandfather is one of the wealthiest peers in england. "odd things happen in life. when my father died, i went to fenlew hall with my mother to live. grandfather's heart had softened a little, you see. i was lord eric temple before i was six years old. my mother died when i was ten. for fifteen years i lived on with lord fenlew, and, while we rowed a good deal,--he is a crotchety old tyrant, bless him!--he undoubtedly preferred me to either of my cousins. god bless him for that! he showed his good sense, if i do say it who shouldn't. "so they set to work. that's why i am here,--without going into details. that's why i am out of the army. and i loved the army, jane,--god bless it! i used to pray for another war, horrible as it may sound, so that i could go out and fight for england as those lads did who went down to the bottom of africa. i would cry myself to sleep because i was so young then, and so useless. i am not ashamed of the tears you see in my eyes now. you can't understand what it means to me, jane." he drew a deep breath, cleared his throat, and then went on. "lord fenlew turned me out,--disowned me. don't blame the old boy. they made out a good enough case against me. i was given the choice of resigning from the regiment or--well, the other thing. my father was practically penniless when he died. i had nothing of my own. it was up to me to earn an honest living,--or go to the devil. i thought i'd try out the former first. one can always go to the devil, you know. so off into the far places of the earth i wandered,--and i've steered pretty clear of the devil up to date. "it's easy to earn a living, dear, if you just half try. "and now for this new complication. for the three years that i have been away from england, not a single word have i sent home. i daresay they know that i am alive, and that i'll turn up some day like the bad penny. i was named in my grandfather's will. he once told me he intended to leave the bulk of the unentailed property to me,--not because he loved me well but because he loved my two cousins not at all. for all i know, he may never have altered his will. in that case, i still remain the chief legatee and a source of tremendous uneasiness to my precious aunts and their blackguard sons. it is possible, even probable, that they have decided the safest place to have me is behind the bars,--at least until lord fenlew has changed his will for the last time and lies securely in the family vault. i can think of no other explanation for the action of scotland yard. but, don't worry, dear. i haven't done anything wrong, and they can't stow me away in--" "the beasts!" cried jane, furiously. he stroked her clenched fingers. "i wouldn't call 'em names, dear," he protested. "they're honest fellows, and simply doing--" "they are the most despicable wretches on earth." "you must be referring to my cousins. i thought--" "now, eric," she broke in firmly, "i sha'n't let you give yourself up. you owe something to me. i love you with all my soul. if they were to take you back to london and--and put you in prison,--i'd--i'd die. i could not endure--" she suddenly broke down and, burying her face on his shoulder, sobbed chokingly. he was deeply distressed. "oh, i say, dearest, don't--don't go under like this. i--i can't stand it. don't cry, darling. it breaks my heart to see you--" "i--i can't help it," she sobbed. "give--give me a little--time. i'll be all right in a--minute." he whispered consolingly: "that's right. take your time, dear. i never dreamed you cared so much." she looked up quickly, her eyes flashing through the tears. "and do you care less for me, now that you see what a weak, silly--" "good lord, no! i adore you more than ever. i-who's there?" m. mirabeau, coughing considerately, was rattling the latch of the door that separated the shop from the store-room beyond. a moment later he opened the door slowly and stuck his head through the aperture. then, satisfied that his warning cough had been properly received, he entered the shop. the lovers were sitting bolt upright and some distance apart. lady jane was arranging a hat that had been somehow forgotten up to that instant. "a thousand pardons," said the old frenchman, his voice lowered. "we must act at once. follow me,--quickly, but as quietly as possible. he is downstairs. i have listened from the top of the steps. poor old bramble is doing his best to divert him. i have just this instant heard the villain announce that his watch needs looking into, and from that i draw a conclusion. he will come to my shop in spite of all that bramble can do. come! i know the way to safety." "but i'm not going to hide," began trotter. jane seized his arm and dragged him toward the door. "yes, you are," she whispered fiercely. "you belong to me, eric temple. i shall do what i like with you. don't be mulish, dear. i sha'n't leave you,--not for anything in the world." "bravo!" whispered m. mirabeau. swiftly they stole through the door and past the landing. scraps of conversation from below reached their ears. jane's clutch tightened on her lover's arm. she recognized the voice of mr. alfred chambers. "de bosky will do the rest," whispered the clockmaker, as they were joined by the musician at the far end of the stock-room. "i must return to the shop. he will suspect at once if i am not at work when he appears,--for appear he will, you may be sure." he was gone in a second. de bosky led them into the adjoining room and pointed to a tall step-ladder over in the corner. a trap-door in the ceiling was open, and blackness loomed beyond. "go up!" commanded the agitated musician, addressing trotter. "it is an air-chamber. don't break your head on the rafters. follow close behind, lady jane. i will hold the ladder. close the trap after you,--and do not make a sound after you are once up there. this is the jolliest moment of my life! i was never so thrilled. it is beautiful! it is ravishing! sh! don't utter a word, i command you! we will foil him,--we will foil old scotland yard. be quick! splendid! you are wonderful, mademoiselle. such courage,--such grace,--such--sh! i take the ladder away! ha, he will never suspect. he--" "but how the deuce are we to get down from here?" groaned trotter in a penetrating whisper from aloft. "you can't get down,--but as he can't get up, why bother your head about that? close the trap!" "oh-h!" shuddered jane, in an ecstasy of excitement. she was kneeling behind her companion, peering down through the square little opening into which he had drawn her a moment before. trotter cautiously lowered the trap-door,--and they were in stygian darkness. she repeated the exclamation, but this time it was a sharp, quick gasp of dismay. for a long time they were silent, listening for sounds from below. at last he arose to his feet. his head came in contact with something solid. a smothered groan escaped his lips. "good lord!-be careful, dear! there's not more than four feet head-room. sit still till i find a match." "are you hurt? what a dreadful bump it was. i wonder if he could have heard?" "they heard it in heaven," he replied, feeling his head. "how dark it is," she shuddered. "don't you dare move an inch from my side, eric. i'll scream." he laughed softly. "by jove, it's rather a jolly lark, after all. a wonderful place this is for sweethearts." he dropped down beside her. after a time, she whispered: "you mentioned a match, eric." "so i did," said he, and proceeded to go through the pocket in which he was accustomed to carry matches. "thunderation! the box is empty." she was silent for a moment. "i really don't mind, dear." "i remember saying this morning that i never have any luck on friday," said he resignedly. "but," he added, a happy note in his voice, "i never dreamed there was such luck as this in store for me." chapter xviii friday for bad luck speaking of friday and the mystery of luck. luck is supposed to shift in one direction or another on the sixth day of every week in the year. it is supposed to shift for everybody. a great many people are either too ignorant or too supercilious to acknowledge this vast and oppressive truth, however. they regard friday as a plain, ordinary day, and go on being fatuously optimistic. on the other hand, when it comes friday, the capable and the far-seeing are prone to accept it as it was intended by the creator, who, from confidential reports, paused on the sixth day (as we reckon it) of his labours and looked back on what already had been accomplished. he was dissatisfied. he set to work again. right then and there friday became an unlucky day, according to a great many philosophers. if the creator had stopped then and let well-enough alone, there wouldn't have been any cause for complaint. he would have failed to create adam (an afterthought), and the human race, lacking existence, would not have been compelled to put up with life,--which is a mess, after all. if more people would pause to consider the futility of living between thursday and saturday, a great deal of woe and misfortune might be avoided. for example, when mrs. smith-parvis called on mrs. mcfaddan on the monday of the week that is now making history through these pages, she completely overlooked the fact that there was a friday still to be reckoned with. true, she had in mind a day somewhat more remote when, after coming face to face with the blooming mrs. mcfaddan who happened to open her own front door,--it being maggie's day out,--she had been compelled to substitute herself in person for the cards she meant to leave. mrs. mcfaddan had cordially sung out to her from the front stoop, over the head of the shocked footman, that she was at home and would mrs. smith-parvis please step in. thursday, two weeks hence, was the day mrs. smith-parvis had in mind. she had not been in the mcfaddan parlour longer than a minute and a half before she realized that an invitation by word of mouth would do quite as well as an expensively engraved card by post. there was nothing formal about mrs. mcfaddan. she was sorry that con wasn't home; he would hate like poison to have missed seeing mrs. smith-parvis when she did them the honour to call. but con was not likely to be in before seven,--he was that busy, poor man,--and it would be asking too much of mrs. smith-parvis to wait till then. so, the lady from the upper east side had no hesitancy in asking the lady from the lower west side to dine with her on thursday the nineteenth. "i am giving a series of informal dinners, mrs. mcfad-_dan_," she explained graciously. "they're the nicest kind," returned mrs. mcfaddan, somewhat startled by the pronunciation of her husband's good old irish name. she knew little or nothing of french, but somehow she rather liked the emphasis, crisply nasal, her visitor put upon the final syllable. before the visit came to an end, she was mentally repeating her own name after mrs. smith-parvis, and wondering whether con would stand for it. "what date did you say?" she inquired, abruptly breaking in on a further explanation. the reply brought a look of disappointment to her face. "we can't come," she said flatly. "we're leaving on saturday this week for washington to be gone till the thirtieth. important business, con says." mrs. smith-parvis thought quickly. washington, eh? "could you come on friday night of this week, mrs. mcfad-_dan_?" "we could," said the other. "don't you worry about con cooking up an excuse for not coming, either. he does just about what i tell him." "splendid!" said mrs. smith-parvis, arising. "friday at 8:30." "have plenty of fish," said mrs. mcfaddan gaily. "fish?" faltered the visitor. "it's friday, you know." greatly to mrs. smith-parvis's surprise,--and in two or three cases, irritation,--every one she asked to meet the mcfaddans on friday accepted with alacrity. she asked the dodges, feeling confident that they couldn't possibly be had on such short notice,--and the same with the bittinger-stuarts. they _did_ have previous engagements, but they promptly cancelled them. it struck her as odd,--and later on significant,--that, without exception, every woman she asked said she was just dying for a chance to have a little private "talk" with the notorious mr. mcfaddan. people who had never arrived at a dinner-party on time in their lives, appeared on friday at the smith-parvis home all the way from five to fifteen minutes early. the cricklewicks were not asked. mr. smith-parvis remembered in time that the irish hate the english, and it wouldn't do at all. mr. mcfaddan and his wife were the last to arrive. they were so late that not only the hostess but most of her guests experienced a sharp fear that they wouldn't turn up at all. there were side glances at the clock on the mantel, surreptitious squints at wrist-watches, and a queer, unnatural silence while the big clock in the upper hall chimed a quarter to nine. "really, my dear," said mrs. dodge, who had the new york record for tardiness,--an hour and three-quarters, she claimed,--"i can't understand people being late for a dinner,--unless, of course, they mean to be intentionally rude." "i can't imagine what can have happened to them," said mrs. smith-parvis nervously. "accident on the subway, no doubt," drawled mr. bittinger-stuart, and instantly looked around in a startled sort of way to see if there was any cause for repenting the sarcasm. "where is stuyvesant?" inquired mrs. millidew the elder, who had arrived a little late. she had been obliged to call a taxi-cab at the last moment on account of the singular defection of her new chauffeur,--who, she proclaimed on entering, was to have his walking papers in the morning. especially as it was raining pitchforks. "he is dressing, my dear," explained stuyvesant's mother, with a maternal smile of apology. "i should have known better," pursued mrs. millidew, still chafing, "than to let him go gallivanting off to long island with dolly." "i said he was dressing, mrs. millidew," said mrs. smith-parvis stiffly. "if i could have five minutes alone with mr. mcfaddan," one of the ladies was saying to the host, "i know i could interest him in our plan to make van cortlandt park the most attractive and the most exclusive country club in--" "my dear," interrupted another of her sex, "if you get him off in a corner and talk to him all evening about that ridiculous scheme of yours, i'll murder you. you know how long jim has been working to get his brother appointed judge in the united states district court,--his brother charlie, you know,--the one who doesn't amount to much,--and i'll bet my last penny i can fix it if--" "it's an infernal outrage," boomed mr. dodge, addressing no one in particular. "yes, sir, a pernicious outrage." "as i said before, the more you do for them the worse they treat you in return," agreed mrs. millidew. "it doesn't pay. treat them like dogs and they'll be decent. if you try to be kind and--" mr. dodge expanded. "you see, it will cut straight through the centre of the most valuable piece of unimproved property in new york city. it isn't because i happen to be the owner of that property that i'm complaining. it's the high-handed way--now, look! this is the grand concourse, and here is bunker avenue." he produced an invisible diagram with his foot, jostling mr. smith-parvis off of the rug in order to extend the line beyond the intersection to a point where the proposed street was to be opened. "right smack through this section of--" at that instant mr. and mrs. mcfaddan were announced. "where the deuce is stuyvie?" mr. smith-parvis whispered nervously into the ear of his wife as the new arrivals approached. "diplomacy," whispered she succinctly. "all for effect. last but not least. he--good evening, dear mrs. mcfad-dán!" in the main hall, a moment before, mr. mcfaddan had whispered in _his_ wife's ear. he transmitted an opinion of peasley the footman. "he's a mutt." he had surveyed peasley with a discriminating and intensely critical eye, taking him in from head to foot. "under-gardener or vicar's man-of-all-work. trained in a sixth avenue intelligence office. never saw livery till he--" "hush, con! the man will hear you." "and if he should, he can't accuse me of betrayin' a secret." to digress for a moment, it is pertinent to refer to the strange cloud of preoccupation that descended upon mr. mcfaddan during the ride uptown,--not in the subway, but in his own packard limousine. something back in his mind kept nagging at him,--something elusive yet strangely fresh, something that had to do with recent events. he could not rid himself of the impression that the smith-parvises were in some way involved. suddenly, as they neared their destination, the fog lifted and his mind was as clear as day. his wife's unctuous reflections were shattered by the force of the explosion that burst from his lips. he remembered everything. this was the house in which lady jane thorne was employed, and it was the scion thereof who had put up the job on young trotter. old cricklewick had come to see him about it and had told him a story that made his blood boil. it was all painfully clear to him now. their delay in arriving was due to the protracted argument that took place within a stone's throw of the smith-parvis home. mr. mcfaddan stopped the car and flatly refused to go an inch farther. he would be hanged if he'd have anything to do with a gang like that! his wife began by calling him a goose. later on she called him a mule, and still later, in sheer exasperation, a beast. he capitulated. he was still mumbling incoherently as they mounted the steps and were admitted by the deficient peasley. "what shall i say to the dirty spalpeen if he tries to shake hands with me?" mr. mcfaddan growled, three steps from the top. "say anything you like," said she, "but, for god's sake, say it under your breath." however: the party was now complete with one notable exception. stuyvie was sound asleep in his room. he had reached home late that afternoon and was in an irascible frame of mind. he didn't know the mcfad-dáns, and he didn't care to know them. dragging him home from hot springs to meet a cheap bounder,--what the deuce did she mean anyhow, entertaining that sort of people? and so on and so forth until his mother lost her temper and took it out on the maid who was dressing her hair. peasley was sent upstairs to inform mr. stuyvesant that they were waiting for him. mrs. smith-parvis met her son at the foot of the stairs when he came lounging down. he was yawning and making futile efforts to smooth out the wrinkles in his coat, having reposed soundly in it for the better part of an hour. "you must be nice to mr. mcfad-dán," said she anxiously. "he has a great deal of influence with the powers that be." he stopped short, instantly alert. "has a--a warrant been issued?" he demanded, leaping to a very natural and sickening conclusion as to the identity of the "powers." "not yet, of course," she said, benignly. "it is a little too soon for that. but it will come, dear boy, if we can get mr. mcfad-dán on our side. that is to be the lovely surprise i spoke about in my--" "you--you call _that_ lovely?" he snapped. "if everything goes well, you will soon be at the court of st. james. wouldn't you call that lovely?" he was perspiring freely. "my god, that's just the thing i'm trying to avoid. if they get me into court, they'll--" "you do not understand. the diplomatic court,--corps, i mean. you are to go to london,--into the legation. the rarest opportunity--" "oh, lord!" gasped stuyvesant, passing his hand over his wet brow. a wave of relief surged over him. he leaned against the banister, weakly. "why didn't you say that in the first place?" "you must be very nice to mr. mcfad-dán," she said, taking his arm. "and to mrs. mcfad-dán also. she is rather stunning--and quite young." "that's nice," said stuyvie, regaining a measure of his tolerant, blasé air. now, while the intelligence of the reader has long since grasped the fact that the expected is about to happen, it is only fair to state that the swiftly moving events of the next few minutes were totally unexpected by any one of the persons congregated in mrs. smith-parvis's drawing-room. stuyvesant entered the room, a forced, unamiable smile on his lips. he nodded in the most casual, indifferent manner to those nearest the door. it was going to be a dull, deadly evening. the worst lot of he-fossils and scrawny-necked-"for the love o' mike!" up to that instant, one could have dropped a ten-pound weight on the floor without attracting the slightest attention. for a second or two following the shrill ejaculation, the crash of the axiomatic pin could have been heard from one end of the room to the other. every eye, including stuyvie's, was fixed upon the shocked, surprised face of the lady who uttered the involuntary exclamation. mrs. mcfaddan was staring wildly at the newcomer. stuyvesant recognized her at once. the dashing, vivid face was only too familiar. in a flash the whole appalling truth was revealed to him. an involuntary "oh, lord!" oozed from his lips. cornelius mcfaddan suddenly clapped his hand to his mouth, smothering the words that surged up from the depths of his injured soul. he became quite purple in the face. "this is my son stuyvesant, mr. mcfaddan," said mrs. smith-parvis, in a voice strangely faint and faltering. and then, sensing catastrophe, she went on hurriedly: "shall we go in to dinner? has it been announced, rogers?" mr. mcfaddan removed his hand. the hopes and ambitions, the desires and schemes of every one present went hurtling away on the hurricane of wrath that was liberated by that unfortunate action of cornelius mcfaddan. an unprejudiced observer would have explained, in justice to poor cornelius, that the force of the storm blew his hand away, willy-nilly, despite his heroic efforts to check the resistless torrent. i may be forgiven for a confessed inadequacy to cope with a really great situation. my scope of delivery is limited. in a sense, however, short-comings of this nature are not infrequently blessings. it would be a pity for me or any other upstart to spoil, through sheer feebleness of expression, a situation demanding the incomparable virility of a cornelius mcfaddan. suffice to say, mr. mcfaddan left nothing to the imagination. he had the stage to himself, and he stood squarely in the centre of it for what seemed like an age to the petrified audience. as a matter of fact, it was all over in three minutes. he was not profane. at no time did he forget there were ladies present. but from the things he said, no one doubted, then or afterwards, that the presence of ladies was the only thing that stood between stuyvesant smith-parvis and an unhallowed grave. it may be enlightening to repeat his concluding remark to stuyvie. "and if i thought ye'd even dream of settin' foot outside this house i'd gladly stand on the sidewalk in the rain, without food or drink, for forty-eight hours, waitin' for ye." and as that was the mildest thing he said to stuyvie, it is only fair to state that peasley, who was listening in the hall, hastily opened the front door and looked up and down the street for a policeman. with commendable foresight, he left it ajar and retired to the foot of the stairs, hoping, perhaps, that stuyvesant might undertake to throw the obnoxious guest into the street,--in which case it would be possible for him to witness the whirlwind without being in the path of it. to smith-parvis, senior, the eloquent mcfaddan addressed these parting words: "i don't know what you had in mind when you invited me here, mr. smith-parvis, but whatever it was you needn't worry about it,--not for a minute. put it out of your mind altogether, my good man. and if i've told you anything at all about this pie-faced son of yours that ye didn't already know or suspect, you're welcome to the information. he's a bad egg,--and if ye don't believe me, ask lady jane thorne,--if she happens to be about." he spoke without thinking, but he did no harm. no one there had the remotest idea who he meant when he referred to lady jane thorne. "come, peggy, we'd better be going," he said to his wife. "if we want a bite o' dinner, i guess we'll have to go over to healy's and get it." far in the night, mrs. smith-parvis groaned. her husband, who sat beside her bed and held her hand with somnolent devotion, roused himself and inquired if the pain was just as bad as ever. she groaned again. he patted her hand soothingly. "there, there, now,--go to sleep again. you'll be all right--" "again?" she cried plaintively. "how can you say such a thing? i haven't closed my eyes." "oh, my dear," he expostulated. "you've been sound asleep for--" "i have not!" she exclaimed. "my poor head is splitting. you know i haven't been asleep, so why will you persist in saying that i have?" "at any rate," said he, taking up a train of thought that had become somewhat confused and unstable by passing through so many cat-naps, "we ought to be thankful it isn't worse. the dear boy might have gone to the electric chair if we had permitted him to follow the scoundrel to the sidewalk." mrs. smith-parvis turned her face toward him. a spark of enthusiasm flashed for an instant in her tired eyes. "how many times did he knock him down at spangler's?" she inquired. "four," said mr. smith-parvis, proudly. "and that dreadful woman was the cause of it all, writing notes to stuyvesant and asking him to meet her--what was it stuyvesant called them?" "crush-notes, angie. now, try to go to sleep, dearie." chapter xix from darkness to light "goodness! what's that?" whispered lady jane, starting violently. for what seemed to them many hours, she and thomas trotter had sat, quite snugly comfortable, in the dark air-chamber. comfortable, i say, but i fear that the bewildering joy of having her in his arms rendered him impervious to what under other conditions would most certainly have been a severe strain upon his physical endurance. in other words, she rested very comfortably and cosily in the crook of his arm, her head against his shoulder, while he, sitting bolt upright with no support whatsoever--but why try to provide him with cause for complaint when he was so obviously contented? her suppressed exclamation followed close upon the roar and crash of an ear-splitting explosion. the reverberation rolled and rumbled and dwindled away into the queerest silence. almost immediately the clatter of falling debris assailed their ears. she straightened up and clutched his arm convulsively. "rain," he said, with a short laugh. for an instant his heart had stood still. so appalling was the crash that he involuntarily raised an arm to shield his beloved companion from the shattered walls that were so soon to tumble about their ears. "beating on the tin roof," he went on, jerkily. "oh,--wasn't it awful?" she gasped, in smothered tones. "are you sure?" "i am now," he replied, "but, by jove, i wasn't a second or two ago. lord, i thought it was all over." "if we could only see!" she cried nervously. "any how," he said, with a reassuring chuckle, "we sha'n't get wet." by this time the roar of rain on the roof so close to their heads was deafening. "goodness, eric,--it's--it's leaking here," she cried out suddenly, after a long silence. "that's the trouble with these ramshackle old--oh, i say, jane, your frock! it will be ruined. my word! the confounded roof's like a sieve." he set out,--on all fours,--cautiously to explore. "i--i am frightfully afraid of thunder," she cried out after him, a quaver in her voice. "and, eric, wouldn't it be dreadful if the building were to be struck by lightning and we should be found up here in this--this unexplainable loft? what _could_ we say?" "nothing, dearest," he replied, consolingly. "that is, provided the lightning did its work properly. ouch! it's all right! don't bother, dear. nothing but a wall. seems dry over here. don't move. i'll come back for you." "it's--it's rather jolly, isn't it?" she cried nervously as his hand touched her shoulder. she grasped it eagerly. "much jollier than if we could see." a few moments later: "isn't it nice and dry over here. how clever of you, eric, to find it in the dark." on their hands and knees they had crept to the place of shelter, and were seated on a broad, substantial beam with their backs against a thin, hollow-sounding partition. the journey was not without incident. as they felt their way over the loose and sometimes widely separated boards laid down to protect the laths and plaster of the ceiling below, his knee slipped off and before he could prevent it, his foot struck the lathing with considerable force. "clumsy ass!" he muttered. after a long time, she said to him,--a little pathetically: "i hope m. mirabeau doesn't forget we are up here." "i should hope not," he said fervently. "mrs. millidew is going out to dinner this evening. i'd--" "oh-h!" she whispered tensely. "look!" a thin streak of light appeared in front of them. fascinated, they watched it widen, slowly,--relentlessly. the trap-door was being raised from below. a hand and arm came into view,--the propelling power. "is that you, de bosky?" called out trotter, in a penetrating whisper. abruptly the trap flew wide open and dropped back on the scantlings with a bang. the head and shoulders of a man,--a bald-headed man, at that,--rose quickly above the ledge, and an instant later a lighted lantern followed. "oh, dear!" murmured lady jane, aghast. "it--it isn't mr. de bosky, eric. it's that man." "i beg your pardon, lord temple," said mr. alfred chambers, setting the lantern down in order to brush the dust off of his hands. "are you there?" "what is the meaning of this, sir?" demanded the young man on the beam, blinking rapidly in the unaccustomed glare. mr. chambers rested his elbows on the ledge. the light of the lantern shone full on his face, revealing the slow but sure growth of a joyous grin. "permit me to introduce myself, your lordship. mr. alfred chambers, of--" "i know,--i know!" broke in the other impatiently. "what the devil do you want?" "good evening, miss emsdale," said mr. chambers, remembering his manners. "that is to say,--your ladyship. 'pon my word, you can't possibly be more surprised than i am,--either of you. i shouldn't have dreamed of looking in this--this stuffy hole for--for anything except bats." he chortled. "i can't understand why some one below there doesn't knock that ladder from under you," said mr. trotter rudely. "i was on the point of giving up in despair," went on mr. chambers, unoffended. "you know, i shouldn't have thought of looking up here for you." his quarry bethought himself of the loyal, conspiring friends below. "see here, mr. chambers," he began earnestly, "i want you to understand that those gentlemen downstairs are absolutely innocent of any criminal complicity in--" "i understand perfectly," interrupted the man from scotland yard. "perfectly. and the same applies to her ladyship. everything's as right as rain, your lordship. will you be so good, sir, as to come down at once?" "certainly," cried the other. "with the greatest pleasure. come, jane,--" "wait!" protested jane. "i sha'n't move an inch until he promises to--to listen to reason. in the first place, this gentleman is a mr. trotter," she went on rapidly, addressing the head and shoulders behind the lantern. "you will get yourself into a jolly lot of trouble if you--" "thanks, jane dear," interrupted her lover gently. "it's no use. he knows i am eric temple,--so we'll just have to make the best of it." "he doesn't know anything of the kind," said she. "he noticed a resemblance, that's all." mr. chambers beamed. "quite so, your ladyship. i noticed it at once. if i do say it myself, there isn't a man in the department who has anything on me when it comes to that sort of thing. the inspector has frequently mentioned--" "by the way, mr. snooper, will you be kind enough to--" "chambers, your lordship," interrupted the detective. "kind enough to explain how you discovered that we were up here?" "well, you see we were having our coffee,--after a most excellent dinner, your lordship, prepared, i am bound to say, for your discussion by the estimable mr. bramble,--" "dinner? by george, you remind me that i am ravenously hungry. it must be quite late." "half-past eight, sir,--approximately. as i was saying, we were enjoying our coffee,--the three of us only,--" trotter made a wry face. "in that case, mrs. millidew will sack me in the morning, jane. i had orders for eight sharp." "it really shouldn't matter, your lordship," said mr. chambers cheerfully. "not in the least, if i may be so bold as to say so. however, to continue, sir. or rather, to go back a little if i may. you see, i was rather certain you were hiding somewhere about the place. at least, i was certain her ladyship was. she came in and she didn't go out, if you see what i mean. i insisted on my right to search the premises. do you follow me, sir?" "reluctantly." "in due time, i came to the little dining-room, where i discovered the cook preparing dinner. you were not in evidence, your ladyship. i do not mind in the least confessing that i was ordered out by the cook. i retired to the clock-shop of m. mirabeau and sat down to wait. the polish young gentleman was there. as time went on, mr. bramble joined us. they were extremely ill-at-ease, your lordship, although they tried very hard to appear amused and unconcerned. the slightest noise caused them to fidget. once, to test them, i stealthily dropped my pocket knife on the floor. now, you would say, wouldn't you, that so small an object as a pen-knife--but that's neither here nor there. they jumped,--every blessed one of them. presently the young polish gentleman, whose face is strangely familiar to me,--i must have seen him in london,--announced that he was obliged to depart. a little later on,--you see, it was quite dark by this time,--the clockmaker prepared to close up for the night. mr. bramble looked at his watch two or three times in rapid succession, notwithstanding the fact that he was literally surrounded by clocks. he said he feared he would have to go and see about the dinner,--and would i kindly get out. i--" "they should have called in the police," interrupted his male listener indignantly. "that's what i should have done, confound your impudence." "ah, now _there_ is a point i should have touched upon before," explained mr. chambers, casting an uneasy glance down into the room below. "i may as well confess to you,--quite privately and confidentially, of course, your lordship,--that i--er--rather deceived the old gentlemen. do not be alarmed. i am quite sure they can't hear what i am saying. you see. i told them in the beginning that i had surrounded the place with policemen and plain-clothes men. they--" "and hadn't you?" demanded mr. trotter quickly, a reckless light appearing in his eyes. "not at all, sir,--not at all. why should i? i am quite capable of handling the case single-handed. the less the police had to do with it the better for all parties concerned. still, it was necessary to frighten them a little. otherwise, they _might_ have ejected me--er--bodily, if you know what i mean. or, for that matter, they might have called in the police, as you suggest. so i kept them from doing either by giving them to understand that if there was to be any calling of the police it would be i who would do it with my little whistle." he paused to chuckle. "you are making a long story of it," growled mr. trotter. "i beg your pardon, sir. the interruptions, you see,--ahem! i followed mr. bramble to the dining-room. he was very nervous. he coughed a great deal, and very loudly. i was quite convinced that you were secreted somewhere about the place, but, for the life of me, i couldn't imagine where." "i suppose it hadn't occurred to you that we might have gone down the back stairway and escaped into the side-street," said mr. trotter sarcastically. mr. chambers cleared his throat and seemed curiously embarrassed. "perhaps i should have stated before that a--er--a chap from a local agency was posted at the bottom of the kitchen stairway,--as a favour to me, so to speak. a chap who had been detailed to assist me,--but i shall explain all that in my report. so, you see, you couldn't have gone out that way without--yes, yes,--as i was saying, i accompanied mr. bramble to the dining-room. the cook was in a very bad temper. the dinner was getting cold. i observed that three places had been laid. fixing my eye upon mr. bramble i inquired who the third place was for. i shall never forget his expression, nor the admirable way in which he recovered himself. he was quite wonderful. he said it was for _me_. rather neat of him, wasn't it?" "you don't mean to say you had the brass to--well, 'pon my soul, chambers, that _was_ going it a bit strong." "under the circumstances, your lordship, i couldn't very well decline," said mr. chambers apologetically. "he is such a decent, loyal old chap, sir, that it would have been cruel to let him see that i knew he was lying." "but, confound you, that was _my_ dinner," exclaimed trotter wrathfully. "so i suspected, your lordship. i knew it _couldn't_ be her ladyship's. well, we had got on to the coffee, and i was just on the point of asking mr. bramble for the loan of an umbrella, when there was a loud thump on the ceiling overhead. an instant later a large piece of plaster fell to the floor, not three feet behind my chair. i--" "by jove! what a pity it didn't fall three feet nearer," exclaimed trotter, a note of regret in his voice. mr. chambers generously overlooked the remark. "after that it was plain sailing," said he, quite pleasantly. "now you know how i came to discover you, and how i happen to be here." "and those poor old dears," cried lady jane in distress; "where are they? what have you done to them?" "they are--" he looked downward again before answering--"yes, they are holding the ladder for me. coming, gentlemen!" he called out. "we'll all be down in a jiffy." "before we go any farther," said trotter seriously, "i should like to know just what the charge is against me." "beg pardon?" "the charge. what are you going to chuck me into prison for?" "prison? my god, sir! who said anything about prison?" gasped mr. chambers, staring wide-eyed at the young man. trotter leaned forward, his face a study in emotions. lady jane uttered a soft little cry. "then,--then they haven't trumped up some rotten charge against me?" "they? charge? i say!" he bellowed the last to the supporters below. "hold this bally thing steady, will you? do you want me to break my neck?" "well, don't jiggle it like that," came the voice of mr. bramble from below. "we can't hold it steady if you're going to _dance_ on it." mr. chambers once more directed his remarks to mr. trotter. "so far as i am aware, lord temple, there is no--er--charge against you. the only complaint i know of is that you haven't kept your grandfather informed as to your whereabouts. naturally he is a bit annoyed about it. you see, if you had dropped him a line occasionally--" "get on, man,--get on," urged trotter excitedly. "he wouldn't have been put to the expense of having a man detached from scotland yard to look the world over for you. personal influence did it, of course. he went direct to the chief and asked for the best man in the service. i happened to be on another case at the time," explained mr. chambers modestly, "but they took me off at once and started me out. i--" "in a nutshell, you represent my grandfather and not the king of england," interrupted trotter. "on detached duty," said mr. chambers. "and you do not intend to arrest him?" cried lady jane. "bless me, no!" exclaimed mr. chambers. "then, what the deuce do you mean by frightening miss emsdale and my friends downstairs?" demanded lord fenlew's grandson. "couldn't you have said in the beginning that there was no criminal charge against me?" "i hadn't the remotest idea, your lordship, that any one suspected you of crime," said mr. chambers, with dignity. "but, confound you, why didn't you explain the situation to bramble? that was the sensible,--yes, the intelligent thing to do, mr. chambers." "that is precisely what i did, your lordship, while we were at dinner,--we had a bottle of the wine mr. bramble says you are especially partial to,--but it wasn't until your heel came through the ceiling that they believed _anything_ at all. subsequently i discovered that her ladyship had prepared them for all sorts of trickery on my part. she had made them promise to die rather than give you up. now that i see things as they are in a clear light, it occurs to me that your ladyship must have pretty thoroughly convinced the old gentlemen that lord temple is a fit subject for the gallows,--or at the very least, newgate prison. i fancy--" lady jane laughed aloud, gaily, unrestrainedly. "oh, dear! what a mess i've made of things!" she cried. "can you ever forgive me, eric?" "never!" he cried, and mr. chambers took that very instant to stoop over for a word with the men at the foot of the ladder. he went farther and had several words with them. indeed, it is not unlikely that he, in his eagerness to please, would have stretched it into a real chat if the object of his consideration had not cried out: "and now let us get down from this stuffy place, eric. i am sure there must be rats and all sorts of things up here. and it was such a jolly place before the lantern came." "can you manage it, sir?" inquired mr. chambers anxiously, as eric prepared to lower her through the trap-door. "perfectly, thank you," said the young man. "if you will be good enough to stand aside and make room at the top of the ladder," he added, with a grin. mr. chambers also grinned. "there's a difference between walking on air and standing on it," said he, and hurriedly went down the steps. presently they were all grouped at the foot of the ladder. mr. bramble was busily engaged in brushing the dust and cobwebs from the excited young lady's gown. m. mirabeau rattled on at a prodigious rate. he clapped trotter on the back at least half-a-dozen times, and, forgetting most of his excellent english, waxed eloquent over the amazing turn of affairs. the literal, matter-of-fact mr. bramble after a time succeeded in stemming the flow of exuberance. "if you don't mind, mirabeau, i have a word i'd like to get in edgewise," he put in loudly, seizing an opportunity when the old frenchman was momentarily out of breath. m. mirabeau threw up his hands. "at a time like this?" he gasped incredulously. "and why not?" said mr. bramble stoutly. "it's time we opened that last bottle of chianti and drank to the health of lord eric temple,--and the beautiful lady jane." "the most sensible thing that has been uttered this evening," cried m. mirabeau, with enthusiasm. lord temple took this occasion to remind them,--and himself as well,--that he was still thomas trotter and that the deuce would be to pay with mrs. millidew. "by george, she'll skin me alive if i've been the cause of her missing a good dinner," he said ruefully. "that reminds me,--" began mr. bramble, m. mirabeau and mr. chambers in unison. then they all laughed uproariously and trooped into the dining-room, where the visible signs of destruction were not confined to the floor three feet back of the chair lately occupied by the man from scotland yard. a very good dinner had been completely wrecked. mrs. o'leary, most competent of cooks, was already busily engaged in preparing another! "now, mr. chambers," cried jane, as she set her wine glass down on the table and touched her handkerchief to her lips, "tell us everything, you dear good man." mr. chambers, finding himself suddenly out of employment and with an unlimited amount of spare time on his hands, spent the better part of the first care-free hour he had known in months in the telling of his story. in a ruthlessly condensed and deleted form it was as follows: lord fenlew, quietly, almost surreptitiously, had set about to ascertain just how much of truth and how much of fiction there was in the unpublished charges that had caused his favourite grandson to abandon the army and to seek obscurity that inevitably follows real or implied disgrace for one too proud to fight. his efforts were rewarded in a most distressing yet most satisfactory manner. one frightened and half-decent member of the little clique responsible for the ugly stories, confessed that the "whole bally business" was a put-up job. lord fenlew lost no time in putting his grandsons on the grill. he grilled them properly; when they left his presence they were scorched to a crisp, unsavoury mess. indeed, his lordship went so far as to complain of the stench, and had the windows of fenlew hall opened to give the place a thorough airing after they had gone forth forevermore. with characteristic energy and promptness, he went to the head of the war office, and laid bare the situation. with equal forethought and acumen he objected to the slightest publicity being given the vindication of eric temple. he insisted that nothing be said about the matter until the maligned officer returned to england and to the corps from which he had resigned. he refused to have his grandson's innocence publicly advertised! that, he maintained, would be to start more tongues to wagging, and unless the young man himself were on the ground to make the wagging useless, speculation would have a chance to thrive on winks and head-shakings, and the "bally business" would be in a worse shape than before. moreover, he argued, it wasn't eric's place to humiliate himself by _admitting_ his innocence. he wouldn't have that at all. instead of beginning his search for the young man through the "lost," "wanted" or "personal" columns of an international press, he went to scotland yard. he abhorred the idea of such printed insults as these: "if lord eric temple will communicate with his grandfather he will learn something to his advantage" or "will the young english nobleman who left london under a cloud in 1911 please address so-and-so"; or "eric: all is well. return at once and be forgiving"; or "£5,000 reward will be paid for information concerning the present whereabouts of one eric temple, grandson of lord fenlew, of fenlew hall"; etc., etc. "and now, lord temple," said mr. alfred chambers, after a minute and unsparing account of his own travels and adventures, "your grandfather is a very old man. i trust that you can start for england at once. i am authorized to draw upon him for all the money necessary to--" lord temple held up his hand. his eyes were glistening, his breast was heaving mightily, and his voice shook with suppressed emotion as he said, scarcely above a whisper: "first of all, i shall cable him tonight. he'd like that, you know. better than anything." "a word direct from you, dear," said jane softly, happily. "it will mean more to him than anything else in the world." "as you please, sir," said mr. chambers. "the matter is now entirely in your hands. i am, you understand, under orders not to return to england without you,--but, i leave everything to you, sir. i was only hoping that it would be possible for me to get back to my wife and babies before,--er,--well, i was about to say before they forget what i look like, but that would have been a stupid thing to say. they're not likely to forget a mug like mine." "i am sorry to say, mr. chambers, that you and i will have to be content to leave the matter of our departure entirely to the discretion of a third party," said eric, and blushed. a shy, diffident smile played about his lips as he turned his wistful eyes upon lady jane thorne. "leave that to me, sir," said the man from scotland yard promptly and with decision, but with absolutely no understanding. "i shall be happy to attend to any little--ow! eh, what?" m. mirabeau's boot had come violently in contact with his ankle. by a singular coincidence, mr. bramble, at precisely the same instant, effected a sly but emphatic prod in the ribs. "ignoramus!" whispered the latter fiercely. "imbecile!" hissed the former, and then, noting the bewildered look in the eyes of mr. chambers, went on to say in his most suave manner: "can't you see that you are standing in the presence of the third party?" "any fool could see that," said mr. chambers promptly, and bowed to lady jane. later on he wanted to know what the deuce m. mirabeau meant by kicking him on the shin. "how soon can _you_ be ready to start home, dear?" inquired eric, ignoring the witnesses. jane's cheeks were rosy. her blue eyes danced. "it depends entirely on mrs. sparflight," said she. "what has mrs. sparflight to do with it?" "you dear silly, i can't go to fenlew hall with absolutely nothing to wear, can i?" chapter xx an exchange of courtesies later in the evening, mr. thomas trotter--(so far as he knew he was still in the service of mrs. millidew, operating under chauffeur's license no. so-and-so, thomas trotter, alien)--strode briskly into a western union office and sent off the following cablegram, directed to lord fenlew, fenlew hall, old-marsh, blightwind banks, surrey: "god bless you. returning earliest possible date. will wire soon as wedding day is set. eric." it was a plain, matter-of-fact britannical way of covering the situation. he felt there was nothing more that could be said at the moment, and his interest being centred upon two absorbing subjects he touched firmly upon both of them and let it go at that. quite as direct and characteristic was the reply that came early the next day. "do nothing rash. who and what is she? fenlew." this was the beginning of a sharp, incisive conversation between two english noblemen separated by three thousand miles of water. "loveliest girl in the world. you will be daffy over her. take my word for it. eric." (while we are about it, it is just as well to set forth the brisk dialogue now and get over with it. something like forty-eight hours actually were required to complete the transoceanic conversation. we save time and avoid confusion, to say nothing of interrupted activities, by telling it all in a breath, so to speak, disregarding everything except sequence.) lord fenlew to lord temple: "i repeat, who and what is she?" lord temple to lord fenlew: "forgive oversight. she is daughter of late earl of wexham. i told you what she is." lord fenlew to lord temple: "what is date of wedding? must know at once." lord temple to lord fenlew: "i will ask her and let you know." lord temple to lord fenlew--(the next day): "still undecided. something to do with gowns." lord fenlew to lord temple: "nonsense. i cannot wait." lord temple to lord fenlew: "gave her your message. she says you'll have to." lord fenlew to lord temple: "tell her i can't. i am a very old man." lord temple to lord fenlew: "thanks. that brought her round. may fifteenth in this city." lord fenlew to lord temple: "my blessings. draw on me for any amount up to ten thousand pounds. wedding present on the way." lord temple to lord fenlew: "happiness complete." an ordinary telegram signed "eric temple" was delivered on board one of the huge american cruisers at hampton roads during this exchange of cablegrams. it was directed to lieut. samuel pickering aylesworth, who promptly replied: "heartiest congratulations. count on me for anything. nothing could give me greater happiness than to stand up with you on the momentous occasion. it is great to know that you are not only still in the land of the living but that you are living in the land that i love best. my warmest felicitations to the future lady temple." now, to go back to the morning on which the first cablegram was received from lord fenlew. at precisely ten minutes past nine o'clock we take up the thread of this narrative once more and find thomas trotter standing in the lower hall of mrs. millidew's home, awaiting the return of a parlour-maid who had gone to inform her mistress that the chauffeur was downstairs and wanted to see her when it was convenient. the chauffeur did not fail to observe the anxious, concerned look in the maid's eyes, nor the glance of sympathy she sent over her shoulder as she made the turn at the top of the stairs. presently she came back. she looked positively distressed. "my goodness, tommie," she said, "i'd hate to be you." he smiled, quite composedly. "think i'd better beat it?" he inquired. "she's in an awful state," said the parlour-maid, twisting the hem of her apron. "i don't blame her," said trotter coolly. "what was you up to?" asked she, with some severity. he thought for a second or two and then puzzled her vastly by replying: "up to my ears." "pickled?" "permanently intoxicated," he assured her. "well, all i got to say is you'll be sober when she gets through with you. i've been up against it myself, and i _know_. i've been on the point of quittin' half a dozen times." "a very sensible idea, katie," said he, solemnly. she stiffened. "i guess you don't get me. i mean quittin' my job, mr. fresh." "i daresay i'll be quitting mine," said he and smiled so engagingly that katie's rancour gave way at once to sympathy. "you poor kid! but listen. i'll give you a tip. you needn't be out of a job ten minutes. young mrs. millidew is up there with the old girl now. they've been havin' it hot and heavy for fifteen minutes. the old one called the young one up on the 'phone at seven o'clock this morning and gave her the swellest tongue-lashin' you ever heard. said she'd been stealin' her chauffeur, and--a lot of other things i'm ashamed to tell you. over comes the young one, hotter'n fire, and they're havin' it out upstairs. i happened to be passin' the door a little while ago and i heard young mrs. millidew tell the missus that if she fired you she'd take you on in two seconds. so, if you--" "thanks, katie," interrupted trotter. "did mrs. millidew say when she would see me?" "soon as she gets something on," said katie. at that moment, a door slammed violently on the floor above. there was a swift swish of skirts, and then the vivid, angry face of mrs. millidew, the younger, came suddenly into view. she leaned far out over the banister rail and searched the hallway below with quick, roving eyes. "are you there, trotter?" she called out in a voice that trembled perceptibly. he advanced a few paces, stopping beside the newel post. he looked straight up into her eyes. "yes, mrs. millidew." "you begin driving for me today," she said hurriedly. "do you understand?" "but, madam, i am not open to--" "yes, you are," she interrupted. "you don't know it, but you are out of a job, trotter." "i am not surprised," he said. "i don't care what you were doing last night,--that is your affair, not mine. you come to me at once at the same wages--" "i beg your pardon," he broke in. "i mean to say i am not seeking another situation." "if it is a question of pay, i will give you ten dollars a week more than you were receiving here. now, don't haggle. that is sixty dollars a week. hurry up! decide! she will be out here in a minute. oh, thunder!" the same door banged open and the voice of mrs. millidew, the elder, preceded its owner by some seconds in the race to the front. "you are not fired, trotter," she squealed. her head, considerably dishevelled, appeared alongside the gay spring bonnet that bedecked her daughter-in-law. "you ought to be fired for what you did last night, but you are not. do you understand? now, shut up, dolly! it doesn't matter if i _did_ say i was going to fire him. i've changed my mind." "you are too late," said the younger mrs. millidew coolly. "i've just engaged him. he comes to me at--" "you little snake!" "ladies, i beg of you--" "the next time i let him go gallivanting off with you for a couple of days--and _nights_,--you'll know it," cried the elder mrs. millidew, furiously. "i can see what you've been up to. you've been doing everything in your power to get him away from me--" "just what do you mean to insinuate, mother millidew?" demanded the other, her voice rising. "my god!" cried trotter's employer, straightening her figure and facing the other. something like horror sounded in her cracked old voice. "could--my god!--could it be possible?" "speak plainly! what do you mean?" mrs. millidew, the elder, advanced her mottled face until it was but a few inches from that of her daughter-in-law. "where were _you_ last night?" she demanded harshly. there was a moment of utter silence. trotter, down below, caught his breath. then, to his amazement, mrs. millidew the younger, instead of flying into a rage, laughed softly, musically. "oh, you are too rich for words," she gurgled. "i wish,--heavens, how i wish you could see what a fool you look. go back, quick, and look in the mirror before it wears off. you'll have the heartiest laugh you've had in years." she leaned against the railing and continued to laugh. not a sound from mrs. millidew, the elder. "do come up a few steps, trotter," went on the younger gaily,--"and have a peep. you will--" the other found her voice. there was now an agitated note, as of alarm, in it. "don't you dare come up those steps, trotter;--i forbid you, do you hear!" trotter replied with considerable dignity. he had been shocked by the scene. "i have no intention of moving in any direction except toward the front door," he said. "don't go away," called out his employer. "you are not dismissed." "i came to explain my unavoidable absence last--" "some other time,--some other time. i want the car at half-past ten." young mrs. millidew was descending the stairs. her smiling eyes were upon the distressed young man at the bottom. there was no response in his. "i beg your pardon, mrs. millidew," he said, raising his voice slightly. "i came not only to explain, but to notify you that i am giving up my place almost immediately." "what!" squeaked the old lady, coming to the top of the steps. "it is imperative. i shall, of course, stay on for a day or two while you are finding--" "do you mean to say you are quitting of your own accord?" she gasped. "yes, madam." "don't call me 'madam'! i've told you that before. so--so, you are going to work for her in spite of me, are you? it's all been arranged, has it? you two have--" "he is coming to me today," said young mrs. millidew sweetly. "aren't you, trotter?" "no, i am not!" he exploded. she stopped short on the stairs, and gave him a startled, incredulous look. any one else but trotter would have been struck by her loveliness. "you're not?" cried mrs. millidew from the top step. it was almost a cry of relief. "do you mean that?" "absolutely." his employer fumbled for a pocket lost among the folds of her dressing-gown. "well, you can't resign, my man. don't think for a minute you can resign," she cried out shrilly. he thought she was looking for a handkerchief. "but i insist, mrs. millidew, that i--" "you can't resign for the simple reason that you're already fired," she sputtered. "i never allow any one to give _me_ notice, young man. no one ever left me without being discharged, let me tell you that. where the dev--oh, here it is!" she not only had found the pocket but the crisp slip of paper that it contained. "here is a check for your week's wages. it isn't up till next monday, but take it and get out. i never want to see your ugly face again." she crumpled the bit of paper in her hand and threw the ball in his direction. its flight ended half-way down the steps. "come and get it, if you want it," she said. "good day, madam," he said crisply, and turned on his heel. "how many times must i tell you not to call me--come back here, dolly! i want to see you." but her tall, perplexed daughter-in-law passed out through the door, followed by the erect and lordly mr. trotter. "good-bye, tommie," whispered katie, as he donned his grey fedora. "good-bye, katie," he said, smiling, and held out his hand to her. "you heard what she said. if you should ever think of resigning, i'd suggest you do it in writing and from a long way off." he looked behind the vestibule door and recovered a smart little walking-stick. "something to lean upon in my misfortune," he explained to katie. young mrs. millidew was standing at the top of the steps, evidently waiting for him. her brow wrinkled as she took him in from head to foot. he was wearing spats. his two-button serge coat looked as though it had been made for him,--and his correctly pressed trousers as well. he stood for a moment, his head erect, his heels a little apart, his stick under his arm, while he drew on,--with no inconsiderable effect--a pair of light tan gloves. and the smile with which he favoured her was certainly not that of a punctilious menial. on the contrary, it was the rather bland, casual smile of one who is very well satisfied with his position. in a cheery, off-hand manner he inquired if she was by any chance going in his direction. the metamorphosis was complete. the instant he stepped outside of mrs. millidew's door, the mask was cast aside. he stood now before the world,--and before the puzzled young widow in particular,--as a thoroughbred, cocksure english gentleman. in a moment his whole being seemed to have undergone a change. he carried himself differently; his voice and the manner in which he used it struck her at once as remarkably altered; more than anything else, was she impressed by the calm assurance of his inquiry. she was nonplussed. for a moment she hesitated between resentment and the swift-growing conviction that he was an equal. for the first time within the range of her memory, she felt herself completely rattled and uncertain of herself. she blushed like a fool,--as she afterwards confessed,--and stammered confusedly: "i--yes--that is, i am going home." "come along, then," he said coolly, and she actually gasped. to her own amazement, she took her place beside him and descended the steps, her cheeks crimson. at the bottom, she cast a wild, anxious look up and down the street, and then over her shoulder at the second-story windows of the house they had just left. queer little shivers were running all over her. she couldn't account for them,--any more than she could account for the astonishing performance to which she was now committed: that of walking jauntily through a fashionable cross-town street in the friendliest, most intimate manner with her mother-in-law's discharged chauffeur! fifth avenue but a few steps away, with all its mid-morning activities to be encountered! what on earth possessed her! "come along, then," he had said with all the calmness of an old and privileged acquaintance! and obediently she had "come along"! his chin was up, his eyes were sparkling; his body was bent forward slightly at the waist to co-ordinate with the somewhat pronounced action of his legs; his hat was slightly tilted and placed well back on his head; his gay little walking-stick described graceful revolutions. she was suddenly aware of a new thrill--one of satisfaction. as she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, her face cleared. instinctively she grasped the truth. whatever he may have been yesterday, he was quite another person today,--and it was a pleasure to be seen with him! she lengthened her stride, and held up her head. her red lips parted in a dazzling smile. "i suppose it is useless to ask you to change your mind,--trotter," she said, purposely hesitating over the name. "quite," said he, smiling into her eyes. she was momentarily disconcerted. she found it more difficult than she had thought to look into his eyes. "why do you call yourself trotter?" she asked, after a moment. "i haven't the remotest idea," he said. "it came to me quite unexpectedly." "it isn't a pretty name," she observed. "couldn't you have done better?" "i daresay i might have called myself marjoribanks with perfect propriety," said he. "or plantagenet, or cholmondeley. but it would have been quite a waste of time, don't you think?" "would you mind telling me who you really are?" "you wouldn't believe me." "oh, yes, i would. i could believe anything of you." "well, i am the prince of wales." she flushed. "i believe you," she said. "forgive my impertinence, prince." "forgive mine, mrs. millidew," he said soberly. "my name is temple, eric temple. that does not convey anything to you, of course." "it conveys something vastly more interesting than trotter,--thomas trotter." "and yet i am morally certain that trotter had a great deal more to him than eric temple ever had," said he. "trotter was a rather good sort, if i do say it myself. he was a hard-working, honest, intelligent fellow who found the world a very jolly old thing. i shall miss trotter terribly, mrs. millidew. he used to read me to sleep nearly every night, and if i got a headache or a pain anywhere he did my complaining for me. he was with me night and day for three years and more, and that, let me tell you, is the severest test. i've known him to curse me roundly, to call me nearly everything under the sun,--and yet i let him go on doing it without a word in self-defence. once he saved my life in an indian jungle,--he was a remarkably good shot, you see. and again he pulled me through a pretty stiff illness in tokio. i don't know how i should have got on without trotter." "you are really quite delicious, mr. eric temple. by the way, did you allow the admirable trotter to direct your affairs of the heart?" "i did," said he promptly. "that is rather disappointing," said she, shaking her head. "trotter may not have played the game fairly, you know. with all the best intentions in the world, he may have taken advantage of your--shall i say indifference?" "you may take my word for it, mrs. millidew, good old trotter went to a great deal of pains to arrange a very suitable match for me," said he airily. "he was a most discriminating chap." "how interesting," said she, stiffening slightly. "am i permitted to inquire just what opportunities thomas trotter has had to select a suitable companion for the rather exotic mr. temple?" "fortunately," said he, "the rather exotic mr. temple approves entirely of the choice made by thomas trotter." "i wouldn't trust a chauffeur too far, if i were you," said she, a little maliciously. "just how far _would_ you trust one?" he inquired, lifting his eyebrows. she smiled. "well,--the length of long island," she said, with the utmost composure. "mr. trotter's late employer would not, it appears, share your faith in the rascal," said he. "she is a rather evil-minded old party," said mrs. millidew, the younger, bowing to the occupants of an automobile which was moving slowly in the same direction down the avenue. a lady in the rear seat of the limousine leaned forward to peer at the widow's companion, who raised his hat,--but not in greeting. the man who slumped down in the seat beside her, barely lifted his hat. a second later he sat up somewhat hastily and stared. the occupants of the car were mrs. smith-parvis,--a trifle haggard about the eyes,--and her son stuyvesant. young mrs. millidew laughed. "evidently they recognize you, mr. temple, in spite of your spats and stick." "i thought i was completely disguised," said he, twirling his stick. "good-bye," said she, at the corner. she held out her hand. "it is very nice to have known you, mr. eric temple. our mutual acquaintance, the impeccable trotter, has my address if you should care to avail yourself of it. after the end of june, i shall be on long island." "it is very good of you, mrs. millidew," he said, clasping her hand. his hat was off. the warm spring sun gleamed in his curly brown hair. "i hope to be in england before the end of june." he hesitated a moment, and then said: "lady temple and i will be happy to welcome you at fenlew hall when you next visit england. good-bye." she watched him stride off down the avenue. she was still looking after him with slightly disturbed eyes when the butler opened the door. "any fool should have known," she said, to herself and not to the servant. a queer little light danced in her eyes. "as a matter of fact, i suppose i did know without realizing it. is mrs. hemleigh at home, brooks?" "she is expecting you, mrs. millidew." "by the way, brooks, do you happen to know anything about fenlew hall?" brooks was as good a liar as any one. he had come, highly recommended, from a fifth avenue intelligence office. he did not hesitate an instant. "the duke of aberdeen's county seat, ma'am? i know it quite well. i cawn't tell you 'ow many times i've been in the plice, ma'am, while i was valeting his grice, the duke of manchester." chapter xxi the bride-elect four persons, a woman and three men, assembled in the insignificant hallway at the top of the steps reaching to the fifth floor of the building occupied by deborah, limited. to be precise, they were the butler, the parlour-maid and two austere footmen. cricklewick was speaking. "marriage is a most venturesome undertaking, my dear." he addressed himself to julia, the parlour-maid. "so don't go saying it isn't." "i didn't say it wasn't," said julia stoutly. "what i said was, if ever any two people were made for each other it's him and her." "in my time," said cricklewick, "i've seen what looked to be the most excellent matches turn out to be nothing but fizzles." "well, this one won't," said she. "as i was saying to mcfaddan in the back 'all a minute ago, mr. cricklewick, the larst weddin' of any consequence i can remember hattending was when lady jane's mother was married to the earl of wexham. i sat on the box with old 'oppins and we ran hover a dog drivin' away from st. george's in 'anover square." it was moody who spoke. he seemed to relish the memory. "it was such a pretty little dog, too. i shall never forget it." he winked at julia. "you needn't wink at me, moody," said julia. "i didn't like the little beast any more than you did." "wot i've always wanted to know is how the blinkin' dog got loose in the street that day," mused mcfaddan. "he was the most obstinate dog i ever saw. it was absolutely impossible to coax 'im into the stable-yard when higgins's bull terrier was avisitin' us, and you couldn't get him into the stall with dandy boy,--not to save your life. he seemed to know that hoss would kick his bloomin' gizzard out. i used to throw little hunks of meat into the stall for him, too,--nice little morsels that any other dog in the world would have been proud to risk anything for. but him? not a bit of it. he was the most disappointin', bull-headed animal i ever saw. i've always meant to ask how did it happen, julia?" "i had him out for his stroll," said julia, with a faraway, pleased expression in her eyes. "i thought as how he might be interested in seeing the bride and groom, and all that, when they came out of the church, so i took him around past claridge's, and would you believe it he got away from me right in the thick of the carriages. he was that kind of a dog. he would always have his own way. i was terribly upset, mcfaddan. you must remember how i carried on, crying and moaning and all that till her ladyship had to send for the doctor. it seemed to sort of get her mind off her bereavement, my hysterics did." "you made a puffeck nuisance of yourself," said cricklewick. "i took notice, however, mr. cricklewick, that _you_ didn't shed any tears," said she coldly. "certainly not," said the butler. "i admit i should have cried as much as anybody. you've no idea how fond the little darling was of me. there was hardly a day he didn't take a bite out of me, he liked me so much. he used to go without his regular meals, he had such a preference for my calves. i've got marks on me to this day." "and just to think, it was twenty-six years ago," sighed moody. "'ow times 'ave changed." "not as much as you'd think," said julia, a worried look in her eyes. "my mistress is talking of getting another dog,--after all these years. she swore she'd never have another one to take 'is place." "thank 'eavings," said moody devoutly, "i am in another situation." he winked and chuckled loudly. "as 'andsome a pair as you'll see in a twelve-month," said mcfaddan. "he is a--" "ahem!" coughed the butler. "there is some one on the stairs, julia." silently, swiftly, the group dissolved. cricklewick took his place in the foyer, julia clattered down the stairs to the barred gate, moody went into the big drawing-room where sat the marchioness, resplendent,--the marchioness, who, twenty-six years before, had owned a pet that came to a sad and inglorious end on a happy wedding-day, and she alone of a large and imposing household had been the solitary mourner. she was the marchioness of camelford in those days. the nobility of new york,--or such of it as existed for the purpose of dignifying the salon,--was congregating on the eve of the marriage of lady jane thorne and lord temple. three o'clock the next afternoon was the hour set for the wedding, the place a modest little church, somewhat despised by its lordlier companions because it happened to be off in a somewhat obscure cross-town street and encouraged the unconventional. the bride-elect was not so proud or so self-absorbed that she could desert the marchioness in the preparation of what promised to be the largest, the sprightliest and the most imposing salon of the year. she had put on an old gingham gown, had rolled up the sleeves, and had lent a hand with a will and an energy that distressed, yet pleased the older woman. she dusted and polished and scrubbed, and she laughed joyously and sang little snatches of song as she toiled. and then, when the work was done, she sat down to her last dinner with the delighted marchioness and said she envied all the charwomen in the world if they felt as she did after an honest day's toil. "i daresay i ought to pay you a bit extra for the work you've done today," the marchioness had said, a sly glint in her eyes. "would a shilling be satisfactory, my good girl?" "quite, ma'am," said jane, radiant. "i've always wanted a lucky shillin', ma'am. i haven't one to me name." "you'll be having sovereigns after tomorrow, god bless you," said the other, a little catch in her voice,--and jane got up from the table instantly and kissed her. "i am ashamed of myself for having taken so much from you, dear, and given so little in return," she said. "i haven't earned a tenth of what you've paid me." the marchioness looked up and smiled,--and said nothing. "isn't lieutenant aylesworth perfectly stunning?" lady jane inquired, long afterwards, as she obediently turned this way and that while the critical deborah studied the effect of her latest creation in gowns. "raise your arm, my dear,--so! i believe it is a trifle tight--what were you saying?" "lieutenant aylesworth,--isn't he adorable?" "my dear," said the marchioness, "it hasn't been your good fortune to come in contact with many of the _real_ american men. you have seen the imitations. therefore you are tremendously impressed with the real article when it is set before you. aylesworth is a splendid fellow. he is big and clean and gentle. there isn't a rotten spot in him. but you must not think of him as an exception. there are a million men like him in this wonderful country,--ay, more than a million, my dear. give me an american every time. if i couldn't get along with him and be happy to the end of my days with him, it would be my fault and not his. they know how to treat a woman, and that is more than you can say for our own countrymen as a class. all that a woman has to do to make an american husband happy is to let him think that he isn't doing quite enough for her. if i were twenty-five years younger than i am, i would get me an american husband and keep him on the jump from morning till night doing everything in his power to make himself perfectly happy over me. this lieutenant aylesworth is a fair example of what they turn out over here, my dear jane. you will find his counterpart everywhere, and not always in the uniform of the u. s. navy. they are a new breed of men, and they are full of the joy of living. they represent the revivified strength of a dozen run-down nations, our own empire among them." "he may be all you claim for him," said jane, "but give me an english gentleman every time." "that is because you happen to be very much in love with one, my dear,--and a rare one into the bargain. eric temple has lost nothing by being away from england for the past three years. he is as arrogant and as cocksure of himself as any other englishmen, but he has picked up virtues that most of his countrymen disdain. never fear, my dear,--he will be a good husband to you. but he will not eat out of your hand as these jolly americans do. and when he is sixty he will be running true to form. he will be a lordly old dear and you will have to listen to his criticism of the government, and the navy and the army and all the rest of creation from morning till night and you will have to agree with him or he won't understand what the devil has got into you. but, as that is precisely what all english wives love better than anything else in the world, you will be happy." "i don't believe eric will ever become crotchety or overbearing," said jane stubbornly. "that would be a pity, dear," said the marchioness, rising; "for of such is the kingdom of britain." * * * * * shortly after eleven o'clock, julia came hurrying upstairs in great agitation. she tried vainly for awhile to attract the attention of the pompous cricklewick by a series of sibilant whispers directed from behind the curtains in the foyer. the huge room was crowded. everybody was there, including count andrew drouillard, who rarely attended the functions; the princess mariana di pavesi, young baron osterholz (who had but recently returned to new york after a tour of the west as a chorus-man in "the merry widow"); and prince waldemar de bosky, excused for the night from spangler's on account of a severe attack of ptomaine poisoning. "what do you want?" whispered cricklewick, angrily, passing close to the curtains and cocking his ear without appearing to do so. "come out here," whispered julia. "don't hiss like that! i can't come." "you must. it's something dreadful." "is it mcfaddan's wife?" whispered cricklewick, in sudden dismay. "worse than that. the police." "my gawd!" the butler looked wildly about. he caught mcfaddan's eye, and signalled him to come at once. if it was the police, mcfaddan was the man to handle them. all the princes and lords and counts in new york combined were not worth mcfaddan's little finger in an emergency like this. at the top of the steps julia explained to the perspiring cricklewick and the incredulous mcfaddan. "they're at the gate down there, two of 'em in full uniform,--awful looking things,--and a man in a silk hat and evening dress. he says if we don't let him up he'll have the joint pulled." "we'll see about _that_," said mcfaddan gruffly and not at all in the voice or manner of a well-trained footman. he led the way down the steps, followed by cricklewick and the trembling julia. at the last landing but one, he halted, and in a superlatively respectful whisper restored cricklewick to his natural position as a superior. "you go ahead and see what they want," he said. "what's wrong with your going first?" demanded cricklewick, holding back. "i suddenly remembered that the cops wouldn't know what to think if they saw me in this rig," confessed mcfaddan, ingratiatingly. "they might drop dead, you know." "you can explain that you're attending a fancy dress party," said cricklewick earnestly. "i am a respectable, dignified merchant and i--" "go on, man! if you need me i'll be waitin' at the top of the steps. they don't know you from adam, so what's there to be afraid of?" fortified by mcfaddan's promise, cricklewick descended to the barred and locked grating. "what's goin' on here?" demanded the burliest policeman he had ever seen. the second bluecoat shook the gate till it rattled on its hinges. mr. cricklewick was staring, open-mouthed but speechless, at the figure behind the policemen. "open up," commanded the second officer. "get a move on." "we got to see what kind of a joint this is, uncle. this gentleman says something's been goin' on here for the past month to his certain knowledge,--" "just a moment," broke in cricklewick, hastily covering the lower part of his face with his hand,--that being the nearest he could come, under the circumstances, to emulating the maladroit ostrich. "i will call mr.--" "you'll open the gate right now, me man, or we'll bust it in and jug the whole gang of ye," observed the burlier one, scowling. "go ahead and bust," said cricklewick, surprising himself quite as much as the officers. "hey, mack!" he called out. "come down at once! now, you'll see!" he rasped, turning to the policemen again. the light of victory was in his eye. "what's that!" roared the cop. "break it down," ordered the young man in the rear. "i tell you there's a card game or--even worse--going on upstairs. i've had the place watched. all kinds of hoboes pass in and out of here on regular nights every week,--the rottenest lot of men and women i've--" "hurry up, mack!" shouted mr. cricklewick. he was alone. julia had fled to the top landing. "coming," boomed a voice from above. a gorgeous figure in full livery filled the vision of two policemen. "for the love o' mike," gasped the burly one, and burst into a roar of laughter. "what is it?" "well, of all the--" began the other. mcfaddan interrupted him just in time to avoid additional ignominy. "what the hell do you guys mean by buttin' in here?" he roared, his face brick-red with anger. "cut that out," snarled the burly one. "you'll mighty soon see what we mean by--" "beat it. clear out!" shouted mcfaddan. "smash the door down," shouted the young man in full evening dress. "oh, my god!" gasped mcfaddan, his eyes almost popping from his head. he had recognized the speaker. by singular coincidence all three of the men outside the gate recognized mr. cornelius mcfaddan at the same time. "holy mackerel!" gasped the burly one, grabbing for his cap. "it's--it's mr. mcfaddan or i'm a goat." "you're a goat all right," declared mcfaddan in a voice that shook all the confidence out of both policemen and caused mr. stuyvesant smith-parvis to back sharply toward the steps leading to the street. "where's julia?" roared the district boss, glaring balefully at stuyvie. "get the key, cricklewick,--quick. let me out of here. i'll never have another chance like this. the dirty--" "calm yourself, mcfaddan," pleaded cricklewick. "remember where you are--and who is upstairs. we can't have a row, you know. it--" "what's the game, mr. mcfaddan?" inquired one of the policemen, very politely. "i hope we haven't disturbed a party or anything like that. we were sent over here by the sergeant on the complaint of this gentleman, who says--" "they've got a young girl up there," broke in stuyvesant. "she's been decoyed into a den of crooks and white-slavers headed by the woman who runs the shop downstairs. i've had her watched. i--" "o'flaherty," cried mcfaddan, in a pleading voice, "will ye do me the favour of breaking this damned door down? i'll forgive ye for everything--yes, bedad, i'll get ye a promotion if ye'll only rip this accursed thing off its hinges." "ain't this guy straight?" demanded o'flaherty, turning upon stuyvesant. "if he's been double-crossing us--" "i shall report you to the commissioner of police," cried stuyvesant, retreating a step or two as the gate gave signs of yielding. "he is a friend of mine." "he is a friend of mr. mcfaddan's also," said o'flaherty, scratching his head dubiously. "i guess you'll have to explain, young feller." "ask him to explain," insisted stuyvie. "permit me," interposed cricklewick, in an agitated voice. "this is a private little fancy dress party. we--" "well, i'll be jiggered!" exclaimed stuyvesant, coming closer to a real american being than he had ever been before in all his life. "it's old cricklewick! why, you old roué!" "i--i--let me help you, mcfaddan," cried cricklewick suddenly. "if we all put our strength to the bally thing, it may give way. now! all together!" julia came scuttling down the steps. "be quiet!" she cried, tensely. "whatever are we to do? she's coming down--they're both coming down. they are going over to the ritz for supper. the best man is giving a party. oh, my soul! can't you do anything, mcfaddan?" "not until you unlock the gate," groaned mcfaddan, perspiring freely. "there she is!" cried stuyvesant, pointing up the stairs. "now, will you believe me?" "get out of sight, you!" whispered mcfaddan violently, addressing the bewildered policemen. "get back in the hall and don't breathe,--do you hear me? as for _you_--" cricklewick's spasmodic grip on his arm checked the torrent. lady jane was standing at the top of the steps, peering intently downward. "what is it, cricklewick?" she called out. "nothing, my lady,--nothing at all," the butler managed to say with perfect composure. "merely a couple of newspaper reporters asking for--ahem--an interview. stupid blighters! i--i sent them away in jolly quick order." "isn't that one of them still standing at the top of the steps?" inquired she. "it's--it's only the night-watchman," said mcfaddan. "oh, i see. send him off, please. lord temple and i are leaving at once, cricklewick. julia, will you help me with my wraps?" she disappeared from view. julia ran swiftly up the steps. stuyvesant, apparently alone in the hall outside, put his hand to his head. "did--did she say lord temple?" "beat it!" said mcfaddan. "the chap the papers have been--what the devil has she to do with lord temple?" "i forgot to get the key from julia, damn it!" muttered mcfaddan, suddenly trying the gate again. "i say, jane!" called out a strong, masculine voice from regions above. "are you nearly ready?" rapid footsteps came down the unseen stairway, and a moment later the erstwhile thomas trotter, as fine a figure in evening dress as you'd see in a month of sundays, stopped on the landing. "will you see if there's a taxi waiting, cricklewick?" he said. "moody telephoned for one a few minutes ago. i'll be down in a second, jane dear." he dashed back up the stairs. "officer o'flaherty!" called out mr. mcfaddan, in a cautious undertone, "will you be good enough to step downstairs and see if lord temple's taxi's outside?" "what'll we do with this gazabo, mr. mcfaddan?" "was--is _that_ man--that chauffeur--was that lord temple?" sputtered stuyvesant. "yes, it was," snapped mcfaddan. "and ye'd better be careful how ye speak of your betters. now, clear out. i wouldn't have lady jane thorne know i lied to her for anything in the world." "lied? lied about what?" "when i said ye were a decent night-watchman," said mcfaddan. stuyvesant went down the steps and into the street, puzzled and sick at heart. he paused irresolutely just outside the entrance. if they were really the lord temple and the lady jane thorne whose appearance in the marriage license bureau at city hall had provided a small sensation for the morning newspapers, it wouldn't be a bad idea to let them see that he was ready and willing to forget and forgive-"move on, now! get a move, you!" ordered o'flaherty, giving him a shove. chapter xxii the beginning the brisk, businesslike little clergyman was sorely disappointed. he had looked forward to a rather smart affair, so to speak, on the afternoon of the fifteenth. indeed, he had gone to some pains to prepare himself for an event far out of the ordinary. it isn't every day that one has the opportunity to perform a ceremony wherein a real lord and lady plight the troth; it isn't every parson who can say he has officiated for nobility. such an event certainly calls for a little more than the customary preparations. he got out his newest vestments and did not neglect to brush his hair. his shoes were highly polished for the occasion and his nails shone with a brightness that fascinated him. moreover, he had tuned up his voice; it had gone stale with the monotony of countless marriages in which he rarely took the trouble to notice whether the responses were properly made. by dint of a little extra exertion in the rectory he had brought it to a fine state of unctuous mellowness. moreover, he had given some thought to the prayer. it wasn't going to be a perfunctory, listless thing, this prayer for lord and lady temple. it was to be a profound utterance. the glib, everyday prayer wouldn't do at all on an occasion like this. the church would be filled with the best people in new york. something fine and resonant and perhaps a little personal,--something to do with god, of course, but, in the main, worth listening to. in fact, something from the diaphragm, sonorous. for a little while he would take off the well-worn mask of humility and bask in the fulgent rays of his own light. but, to repeat, he was sorely disappointed. instead of beaming upon an assemblage of the elect, he found himself confronted by a company that caused him to question his own good taste in shaving especially for the occasion and in wearing gold-rimmed nose-glasses instead of the "over the ears" he usually wore when in haste. he saw, with shocked and incredulous eyes, sparsely planted about the dim church as if separated by the order of one who realized that closer contact would result in something worse than passive antagonism, a strange and motley company. for a moment he trembled. had he, by some horrible mischance, set two weddings for the same hour? he cudgelled his brain as he peeped through the vestry door. a sickening blank! he could recall no other ceremony for that particular hour,--and yet as he struggled for a solution the conviction became stronger that he had committed a most egregious error. then and there, in a perspiring panic, he solemnly resolved to give these weddings a little more thought. he had been getting a bit slack,--really quite haphazard in checking off the daily grist. what was he to do when the noble english pair and their friends put in an appearance? despite the fact that the young american sailor-chap who came to see him about the service had casually remarked that it was to be a most informal affair,--with "no trimmings" or something like that,--he knew that so far as these people were concerned, simplicity was merely comparative. doubtless, the young couple, affecting simplicity, would appear without coronets; the guests probably would saunter in and, in a rather dégagé fashion, find seats for themselves without deigning to notice the obsequious verger in attendance. and here was the church partially filled,--certainly the best seats were taken,--by a most unseemly lot of people! what was to be done about it? he looked anxiously about for the sexton. then he glanced at his watch. ten minutes to spare. some one tapped him on the shoulder. he turned to face the stalwart young naval officer. a tall young man was standing at some distance behind the officer, clumsily drawing on a pair of pearl grey gloves. he wore a monocle. the good pastor's look of distress deepened. "good afternoon," said the smiling lieutenant. "you see i got him here on time, sir." "yes, yes," murmured the pastor. "ha-ha! ha-ha!" he laughed in his customary way. not one but a thousand "best men" had spoken those very words to him before. the remark called for a laugh. it had become a habit. "is everybody here?" inquired aylesworth, peeping over his shoulder through the crack in the door. the pastor bethought himself and gently closed the door, whereupon the best man promptly opened it again and resumed his stealthy scrutiny of the dim edifice. "i can't fasten this beastly thing, aylesworth," said the tall young man in the background. "would you mind seeing what you can do with the bally thing?" "i see the countess there," said aylesworth, still gazing. "and the marchioness, and--" "the marchioness?" murmured the pastor, in fresh dismay. "i guess they're all here," went on the best man, turning away from the door and joining his nervous companion. "i'd sooner face a regiment of cavalry than--" began eric temple. "may i have the pleasure and the honour of greeting lord temple?" said the little minister, approaching with outstretched hand. "a--er--a very happy occasion, your lordship. perhaps i would better explain the presence in the church of a--er--rather unusual crowd of--er--shall we say curiosity-seekers? you see, this is an open church. the doors are always open to the public. very queer people sometimes get in, despite the watchfulness of the attendant, usually, i may say, when a wedding of such prominence--ahem!--er--" "i don't in the least mind," said lord temple good-humouredly. "if it's any treat to them, let them stay. sure you've got the ring, aylesworth? i say, i'm sorry now we didn't have a rehearsal. it isn't at all simple. you said it would be, confound you. you--" "all you have to do, old chap, is to give your arm to lady jane and follow the baroness and me to the chancel. say 'i do' and 'i will' to everything, and before you know it you'll come to and find yourself still breathing and walking on air. isn't that so, doctor?" "quite,--quite so, i am sure." "let me take a peep out there, aylesworth. i'd like to get my bearings." "pray do not be dismayed by the--" began the minister. "hullo! there's bramby sitting in the front seat,--my word, i've never known him to look so seraphic. old fogazario, and de bosky, and--yes, there's mirabeau, and the amiable mrs. moses jacobs. 'gad, she's resplendent! du bara and herman and--by jove, they're all here, every one of them. i say, aylesworth, what time is it? i wonder if anything can have happened to jane? run out to the sidewalk, old chap, and have a look, will you? i--" "are all bridegrooms like this?" inquired aylesworth drily, addressing the bewildered minister. "here she is!" sang out the bridegroom, leaping toward the little vestibule. "thank heaven, jane! i thought you'd met with an accident or--my god! how lovely you are, darling! isn't she, aylesworth?" "permit me to present you, doctor, to lady jane thorne," interposed aylesworth. "and to the baroness brangwyng." * * * * * from that moment on, the little divine was in a daze. he didn't know what to make of anything. everything was wrong and yet everything was right! how could it be? how was he to know that his quaint, unpretentious little church was half-full of masked men and women? how was he to know that these queer-looking people out there were counts and countesses, barons and baronesses, princes and princesses? swarthy italians, sallow-faced frenchmen, dark hungarians, bearded russians and pompous teutons! how was he to know that once upon a time all of these had gone without masks in the streets and courts of far-off lands and had worn "purple and fine linen"? and those plainly, poorly dressed women? where,--oh where, were the smart new yorkers for whom he had furbished himself up so neatly? what manner of companions had this lovely bride,--ah, but _she_ had the real atmosphere!--what sort of people had she been thrown with during her stay in the city of new york? she who might have known the best, the most exclusive,--"bless me, what a pity!" here and there in the motley throng, he espied a figure that suggested upper fifth avenue. the little lady with the snow-white hair; the tall brunette with the rather stunning hat; the austere gentleman far in the rear, the ruddy faced old man behind him, and the aggressive-looking individual with the green necktie,--yes, any one of them might have come from uptown and ought to feel somewhat out of place in this singular gathering. the three gentlemen especially. he sized them up as financiers, as plutocrats. and yet they were back where the family servants usually sat. he got through with the service,--indulgently, it is to be feared, after all. he would say, on the whole, that he had never seen a handsomer couple than lord and lady temple. there was compensation in that. any one with half an eye could see that they came of the very best stock. and the little baroness,--he had never seen a baroness before,--was somebody, too. she possessed manner,--that indefinable thing they called manner,--there was no mistake about it. he had no means of knowing, of course, that she was struggling hard to make a living in the "artist colony" down town. well, well, it is a strange world, after all. you never can tell, mused the little pastor as he stood in the entrance of his church with half-a-dozen reporters and watched the strange company disperse,--some in motors, some in hansoms, and others on the soles of their feet. a large lady in many colours ran for a south-bound street car. he wondered who she could be. the cook, perhaps. * * * * * lieutenant aylesworth was saying good-bye to the bride and groom at the grand central station. the train for montreal was leaving shortly before ten o'clock. the wedding journey was to carry them through canada to the pacific and back to new york, leisurely, by way of the panama canal. lord fenlew had not been niggardly. all he demanded of his grandson in return was that they should come to fenlew hall before the first of august. "look us up the instant you set foot in england, sammy," said eric, gripping his friend's hand. "watch the newspapers. you'll see when our ship comes home, and after that you'll find us holding out our arms to you." "when my ship _leaves_ home," said the american, "i hope she'll steer for an english port. good-bye, lady temple. please live to be a hundred, that's all i ask of you." "good-bye, sam," she said, blushing as she uttered the name he had urged her to use. "you won't mind letting the children call me uncle sam, will you?" he said, a droll twist to his lips. "how quaint!" she murmured. "by jove, sammy," cried eric warmly, "you've no idea how much better you look in uncle sam's uniform than you did in that stuffy frock coat this afternoon. thank god, i can get into a uniform myself before long. you wouldn't understand, old chap, how good it feels to be in a british uniform." "i'm afraid we've outgrown the british uniform," said the other drily. "it used to be rather common over here, you know." "you don't know what all this means to me," said temple seriously, his hand still clasping the american's. "i can hold up my head once more. i can fight for england. if she needs me, i can fight and die for her." "you're a queer lot, you britishers," drawled the american. "you want to fight and die for old england. i have a singularly contrary ambition. i want to _live_ and _fight_ for america." * * * * * on the twenty-fourth of july, 1914, lord eric temple and his bride came home to england. the end transcriber notes: passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_. small caps were replaced with all caps. throughout the document, the oe ligature was replaced with "oe". throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. those words were retained as-is. errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted. on page 9, "marchiness" was replaced with "marchioness". on page 18, "unforgetable" was replaced with "unforgettable". on page 22, "respendent" was replaced with "resplendent". on page 26, "idlness" was replaced with "idleness". on page 47, "sacrified" was replaced with "sacrificed". on page 53, "spooffing" was replaced with "spoofing". on page 67, "shan't" was replaced with "sha'n't". on page 69, "constitutency" was replaced with "constituency". on page 78, "assed" was replaced with "passed". on page 80, "acccepting" was replaced with "accepting". on page 81, "lookingly" was replaced with "looking". on page 103, "acccused" was replaced with "accused". on page 107, "afternooon" was replaced with "afternoon". on page 224, "limmo" was replaced with "limo". on page 230, "pressent" was replaced with "present". on page 233, "eor" was replaced with "for". on page 235, a period was placed after "in the depths". on page 240, "tobaccco" was replaced with "tobacco". on page 244, "crochetty" was replaced with "crotchety". on page 247, "properely" was replaced with "properly". on page 259, "expained" was replaced with "explained". 