amabel channice by anne douglas sedgwick author of "the rescue," "paths of judgement," "a fountain sealed," etc. new york the century co. 1908 copyright, 1908, by the century co. _published october, 1908_ the de vinne press amabel channice i lady channice was waiting for her son to come in from the garden. the afternoon was growing late, but she had not sat down to the table, though tea was ready and the kettle sent out a narrow banner of steam. walking up and down the long room she paused now and then to look at the bowls and vases of roses placed about it, now and then to look out of the windows, and finally at the last window she stopped to watch augustine advancing over the lawn towards the house. it was a grey stone house, low and solid, its bareness unalleviated by any grace of ornament or structure, and its two long rows of windows gazed out resignedly at a tame prospect. the stretch of lawn sloped to a sunken stone wall; beyond the wall a stream ran sluggishly in a ditch-like channel; on the left the grounds were shut in by a sycamore wood, and beyond were flat meadows crossed in the distance by lines of tree-bordered roads. it was a peaceful, if not a cheering prospect. lady channice was fond of it. cheerfulness was not a thing she looked for; but she looked for peace, and it was peace she found in the flat green distance, the far, reticent ripple of hill on the horizon, the dark forms of the sycamores. her only regret for the view was that it should miss the sunrise and sunset; in the evenings, beyond the silhouetted woods, one saw the golden sky; but the house faced north, and it was for this that the green of the lawn was so dank, and the grey of the walls so cold, and the light in the drawing-room where lady channice stood so white and so monotonous. she was fond of the drawing-room, also, unbeautiful and grave to sadness though it was. the walls were wainscotted to the ceiling with ancient oak, so that though the north light entered at four high windows the room seemed dark. the furniture was ugly, miscellaneous and inappropriate. the room had been dismantled, and in place of the former drawing-room suite were gathered together incongruous waifs and strays from diningand smoking-room and boudoir. a number of heavy chairs predominated covered in a maroon leather which had cracked in places; and there were three lugubrious sofas to match. by degrees, during her long and lonely years at charlock house, lady channice had, at first tentatively, then with a growing assurance in her limited sphere of action, moved away all the ugliest, most trivial things: tattered brocade and gilt footstools, faded antimacassars, dismal groups of birds and butterflies under glass cases. when she sat alone in the evening, after augustine, as child or boy, had gone to bed, the ghostly glimmer of the birds, the furtive glitter of a glass eye here and there, had seemed to her quite dreadful. the removal of the cases (they were large and heavy, and mrs. bray, the housekeeper, had looked grimly disapproving)--was her crowning act of courage, and ever since their departure she had breathed more freely. it had been easier to dispose of all the little colonies of faded photographs that stood on cabinets and tables; they were photographs of her husband's family and of his family's friends, people most of whom were quite unknown to her, and their continued presence in the abandoned house was due to indifference, not affection: no one had cared enough about them to put them away, far less to look at them. after looking at them for some years,--these girls in court dress of a bygone fashion, huntsmen holding crops, sashed babies and matrons in caps or tiaras,--lady channice had cared enough to put them away. she had not, either, to ask for mrs. bray's assistance or advice for this, a fact which was a relief, for mrs. bray was a rather dismal being and reminded her, indeed, of the stuffed birds in the removed glass cases. with her own hands she incarcerated the photographs in the drawers of a heavily carved bureau and turned the keys upon them. the only ornaments now, were the pale roses, the books, and, above her writing-desk, a little picture that she had brought with her, a water-colour sketch of her old home painted by her mother many years ago. so the room looked very bare. it almost looked like the parlour of a convent; with a little more austerity, whitened walls and a few thick velvet and gilt lives of the saints on the tables, the likeness would have been complete. the house itself was conventual in aspect, and lady channice, as she stood there in the quiet light at the window, looked not unlike a nun, were it not for her crown of pale gold hair that shone in the dark room and seemed, like the roses, to bring into it the brightness of an outer, happier world. she was a tall woman of forty, her ample form, her wide bosom, the falling folds of her black dress, her loosely girdled waist, suggesting, with the cloistral analogies, the mournful benignity of a bereaved madonna. seen as she stood there, leaning her head to watch her son's approach, she was an almost intimidating presence, black, still, and stately. but when the door opened and the young man came in, when, not moving to meet him, she turned her head with a slight smile of welcome, all intimidating impressions passed away. her face, rather, as it turned, under its crown of gold, was the intimidated face. it was curiously young, pure, flawless, as though its youth and innocence had been preserved in some crystal medium of prayer and silence; and if the nun-like analogies failed in their awe-inspiring associations, they remained in the associations of unconscious pathos and unconscious appeal. amabel channice's face, like her form, was long and delicately ample; its pallor that of a flower grown in shadow; the mask a little over-large for the features. her eyes were small, beautifully shaped, slightly slanting upwards, their light grey darkened under golden lashes, the brows definitely though palely marked. her mouth was pale coral-colour, and the small upper lip, lifting when she smiled as she was smiling now, showed teeth of an infantile, milky whiteness. the smile was charming, timid, tentative, ingratiating, like a young girl's, and her eyes were timid, too, and a little wild. "have you had a good read?" she asked her son. he had a book in his hand. "very, thanks. but it is getting chilly, down there in the meadow. and what a lot of frogs there are in the ditch," said augustine smiling, "they were jumping all over the place." "oh, as long as they weren't toads!" said lady channice, her smile lighting in response. "when i came here first to live there were so many toads, in the stone areas, you know, under the gratings in front of the cellar windows. you can't imagine how many! it used quite to terrify me to look at them and i went to the front of the house as seldom as possible. i had them all taken away, finally, in baskets,--not killed, you know, poor things,--but just taken and put down in a field a mile off. i hope they didn't starve;--but toads are very intelligent, aren't they; one always associates them with fairy-tales and princes." she had gone to the tea-table while she spoke and was pouring the boiling water into the teapot. her voice had pretty, flute-like ups and downs in it and a questioning, upward cadence at the end of sentences. her upper lip, her smile, the run of her speech, all would have made one think her humorous, were it not for the strain of nervousness that one felt in her very volubility. her son lent her a kindly but rather vague attention while she talked to him about the toads, and his eye as he stood watching her make the tea was also vague. he sat down presently, as if suddenly remembering why he had come in, and it was only after a little interval of silence, in which he took his cup from his mother's hands, that something else seemed to occur to him as suddenly, a late arriving suggestion from her speech. "what a horribly gloomy place you must have found it." her eyes, turning on him quickly, lost, in an instant, their uncertain gaiety. "gloomy? is it gloomy? do you feel it gloomy here, augustine?" "oh, well, no, not exactly," he answered easily. "you see i've always been used to it. you weren't." as she said nothing to this, seeming at a loss for any reply, he went on presently to talk of other things, of the book he had been reading, a heavy metaphysical tome; of books that he intended to read; of a letter that he had received that morning from the eton friend with whom he was going up to oxford for his first term. his mother listened, showing a careful interest usual with her, but after another little silence she said suddenly: "i think it's a very nice place, charlock house, augustine. your father wouldn't have wanted me to live here if he'd imagined that i could find it gloomy, you know." "oh, of course not," said the young man, in an impassive, pleasant voice. "he has always, in everything, been so thoughtful for my comfort and happiness," said lady channice. augustine did not look at her: his eyes were fixed on the sky outside and he seemed to be reflecting--though not over her words. "so that i couldn't bear him ever to hear anything of that sort," lady channice went on, "that either of us could find it gloomy, i mean. you wouldn't ever say it to him, would you, augustine." there was a note at once of urgency and appeal in her voice. "of course not, since you don't wish it," her son replied. "i ask you just because it happens that your father is coming," lady channice said, "tomorrow;--and, you see, if you had this in your mind, you might have said something. he is coming to spend the afternoon." he looked at her now, steadily, still pleasantly; but his colour rose. "really," he said. "isn't it nice. i do hope that it will be fine; these autumn days are so uncertain; if only the weather holds up we can have a walk perhaps." "oh, i think it will hold up. will there be time for a walk?" "he will be here soon after lunch, and, i think, stay on to tea." "he didn't stay on to tea the last time, did he." "no, not last time; he is so very busy; it's quite three years since we have had that nice walk over the meadows, and he likes that so much." she was trying to speak lightly and easily. "and it must be quite a year since you have seen him." "quite," said augustine. "i never see him, hardly, but here, you know." he was still making his attempt at pleasantness, but something hard and strained had come into his voice, and as, with a sort of helplessness, her resources exhausted, his mother sat silent, he went on, glancing at her, as if with the sudden resolution, he also wanted to make very sure of his way;-"you like seeing him more than anything, don't you; though you are separated." augustine channice talked a great deal to his mother about outside things, such as philosophy; but of personal things, of their relation to the world, to each other, to his father, he never spoke. so that his speaking now was arresting. his mother gazed at him. "separated? we have always been the best of friends." "of course. i mean--that you've never cared to live together.--incompatibility, i suppose. only," augustine did not smile, he looked steadily at his mother, "i should think that since you are so fond of him you'd like seeing him oftener. i should think that since he is the best of friends he would want to come oftener, you know." when he had said these words he flushed violently. it was an echo of his mother's flush. and she sat silent, finding no words. "mother," said augustine, "forgive me. that was impertinent of me. it's no affair of mine." she thought so, too, apparently, for she found no words in which to tell him that it was his affair. her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes downcast, she seemed shrunken together, overcome by his tactless intrusion. "forgive me," augustine repeated. the supplication brought her the resource of words again. "of course, dear. it is only--i can't explain it to you. it is very complicated. but, though it seems so strange to you,--to everybody, i know--it is just that: though we don't live together, and though i see so little of your father, i do care for him very, very much. more than for anybody in the world,--except you, of course, dear augustine." "oh, don't be polite to me," he said, and smiled. "more than for anybody in the world; stick to it." she could but accept the amendment, so kindly and, apparently, so lightly pressed upon her, and she answered him with a faint, a grateful smile, saying, in a low voice:--"you see, dear, he is the noblest person i have ever known." tears were in her eyes. augustine turned away his own. they sat then for a little while in silence, the mother and son. her eyes downcast, her hands folded in an attitude that suggested some inner dedication, amabel channice seemed to stay her thoughts on the vision of that nobility. and though her son was near her, the thoughts were far from him. it was characteristic of augustine channice, when he mused, to gaze straight before him, whatever the object might be that met his unseeing eyes. the object now was the high autumnal sky outside, crossed only here and there by a drifting fleet of clouds. the light fell calmly upon the mother and son and, in their stillness, their contemplation, the two faces were like those on an old canvas, preserved from time and change in the trance-like immutability of art. in colour, the two heads chimed, though augustine's hair was vehemently gold and there were under-tones of brown and amber in his skin. but the oval of lady channice's face grew angular in her son's, broader and more defiant; so that, palely, darkly white and gold, on their deep background, the two heads emphasized each other's character by contrast. augustine's lips were square and scornful; his nose ruggedly bridged; his eyes, under broad eyebrows, ringed round the iris with a line of vivid hazel; and as his lips, though mild in expression, were scornful in form, so these eyes, even in their contemplation, seemed fierce. calm, controlled face as it was, its meaning for the spectator was of something passionate and implacable. in mother and son alike one felt a capacity for endurance almost tragic; but while augustine's would be the endurance of the rock, to be moved only by shattering, his mother's was the endurance of the flower, that bends before the tempest, unresisting, beaten down into the earth, but lying, even there, unbroken. ii the noise and movement of an outer world seemed to break in upon the recorded vision of arrested life. the door opened, a quick, decisive step approached down the hall, and, closely following the announcing maid, mrs. grey, the local squiress, entered the room. in the normal run of rural conventions, lady channice should have held the place; but charlock house no longer stood for what it had used to stand in the days of sir hugh channice's forbears. mrs. grey, of pangley hall, had never held any but the first place and a consciousness of this fact seemed to radiate from her competent personality. she was a vast middle-aged woman clad in tweed and leather, but her abundance of firm, hard flesh could lend itself to the roughest exigences of a sporting outdoor life. her broad face shone like a ripe apple, and her sharp eyes, her tight lips, the cheerful creases of her face, expressed an observant and rather tyrannous good-temper. "tea? no, thanks; no tea for me," she almost shouted; "i've just had tea with mrs. grier. how are you, lady channice? and you, augustine? what a man you are getting to be; a good inch taller than my tom. reading as usual, i see. i can't get my boys to look at a book in vacation time. what's the book? ah, fuddling your brains with that stuff, still, are you? still determined to be a philosopher? do you really want him to be a philosopher, my dear?" "indeed i think it would be very nice if he could be a philosopher," said lady channice, smiling, for though she had often to evade mrs. grey's tyranny she liked her good temper. she seemed in her reply to float, lightly and almost gaily above mrs. grey, and away from her. mrs. grey was accustomed to these tactics and it was characteristic of her not to let people float away if she could possibly help it. this matter of augustine's future was frequently in dispute between them. her feet planted firmly, her rifle at her shoulder, she seemed now to take aim at a bird that flew from her. "and of course you encourage him! you read with him and study with him! and you won't see that you let him drift more and more out of practical life and into moonshine. what does it do for him, that's what i ask? where does it lead him? what's the good of it? why he'll finish as a fusty old don. does it make you a better man, augustine, or a happier one, to spend all your time reading philosophy?" "very much better, very much happier, i find:--but i don't give it all my time, you know," augustine answered, with much his mother's manner of light evasion. he let mrs. grey see that he found her funny; perhaps he wished to let her see that philosophy helped him to. mrs. grey gave up the fantastic bird and turned on her heel. "well, i've not come to dispute, as usual, with you, augustine. i've come to ask you, lady channice, if you won't, for once, break through your rules and come to tea on sunday. i've a surprise for you. an old friend of yours is to be of our party for this week-end. lady elliston; she comes tomorrow, and she writes that she hopes to see something of you." mrs. grey had her eye rather sharply on lady channice; she expected to see her colour rise, and it did rise. "lady elliston?" she repeated, vaguely, or, perhaps, faintly. "yes; you did know her; well, she told me." "it was years ago," said lady channice, looking down; "yes, i knew her quite well. it would be very nice to see her again. but i don't think i will break my rule; thank you so much." mrs. grey looked a little disconcerted and a little displeased. "now that you are growing up, augustine," she said, "you must shake your mother out of her way of life. it's bad for her. she lives here, quite alone, and, when you are away--as you will have to be more and more, for some time now,--she sees nobody but her village girls, mrs. grier and me from one month's end to the other. i can't think what she's made of. i should go mad. and so many of us would be delighted if she would drop in to tea with us now and then." "oh, well, you can drop in to tea with her instead," said augustine. his mother sat silent, with her faint smile. "well, i do. but i'm not enough, though i flatter myself that i'm a good deal. it's unwholesome, such a life, downright morbid and unwholesome. one should mingle with one's kind. i shall wonder at you, augustine, if you allow it, just as, for years, i've wondered at your father." it may have been her own slight confusion, or it may have been something exasperating in lady channice's silence, that had precipitated mrs. grey upon this speech, but, when she had made it, she became very red and wondered whether she had gone too far. mrs. grey was prepared to go far. if people evaded her, and showed an unwillingness to let her be kind to them--on her own terms,--terms which, in regard to lady channice, were very strictly defined;--if people would behave in this unbecoming and ungrateful fashion, they only got, so mrs. grey would have put it, what they jolly well deserved if she gave them a "stinger." but mrs. grey did not like to give lady channice "stingers"; therefore she now became red and wondered at herself. lady channice had lifted her eyes and it was as if mrs. grey saw walls and moats and impenetrable thickets glooming in them. she answered for augustine: "my husband and i have always been in perfect agreement on the matter." mrs. grey tried a cheerful laugh;--"you won him over, too, no doubt." "entirely." "well, augustine," mrs. grey turned to the young man again, "i don't succeed with your mother, but i hope for better luck with you. you're a man, now, and not yet, at all events, a monk. won't you dine with us on saturday night?" now mrs. grey was kind; but she had never asked lady channice to dinner. the line had been drawn, firmly drawn years ago--and by mrs. grey herself--at tea. and it was not until lady channice had lived for several years at charlock house, when it became evident that, in spite of all that was suspicious, not to say sinister, in her situation, she was not exactly cast off and that her husband, so to speak, admitted her to tea if not to dinner,--it was not until then that mrs. grey voiced at once the tolerance and the discretion of the neighbourhood and said: "they are on friendly terms; he comes to see her twice a year. we can call; she need not be asked to anything but tea. there can be no harm in that." there was, indeed, no harm, for though, when they did call in mrs. grey's broad wake, they were received with gentle courtesy, they were made to feel that social contacts would go no further. lady channice had been either too much offended or too much frightened by the years of ostracism, or perhaps it was really by her own choice that she adopted the attitude of a person who saw people when they came to her but who never went to see them. this attitude, accepted by the few, was resented by the many, so that hardly anybody ever called upon lady channice. and so it was that mrs. grey satisfied at once benevolence and curiosity in her staunch visits to the recluse of charlock house, and could feel herself as lady channice's one wholesome link with the world that she had rejected or--here lay all the ambiguity, all the mystery that, for years, had whetted mrs. grey's curiosity to fever-point--that had rejected her. as augustine grew up the situation became more complicated. it was felt that as the future owner of charlock house and inheritor of his mother's fortune augustine was not to be tentatively taken up but decisively seized. people had resented sir hugh's indifference to charlock house, the fact that he had never lived there and had tried, just before his marriage, to sell it. but augustine was yet blameless, and augustine would one day be a wealthy not an impecunious squire, and mrs. grey had said that she would see to it that augustine had his chance. "apparently there's no one to bring him out, unless i do," she said. "his father, it seems, won't, and his mother can't. one doesn't know what to think, or, at all events, one keeps what one thinks to oneself, for she is a good, sweet creature, whatever her faults may have been. but augustine shall be asked to dinner one day." augustine's "chance," in mrs. grey's eye, was her sixth daughter, marjory. so now the first step up the ladder was being given to augustine. he kept his vagueness, his lightness, his coolly pleasant smile, looking at mrs. grey and not at his mother as he answered: "thanks so much, but i'm monastic, too, you know. i don't go to dinners. i'll ride over some afternoon and see you all." mrs. grey compressed her lips. she was hurt and she had, also, some difficulty in restraining her temper before this rebuff. "but you go to dinners in london. you stay with people." "ah, yes; but i'm alone then. when i'm with my mother i share her life." he spoke so lightly, yet so decisively, with a tact and firmness beyond his years, that mrs. grey rose, accepting her defeat. "then lady elliston and i will come over, some day," she said. "i wish we saw more of her. john and i met her while we were staying with the bishop this spring. the bishop has the highest opinion of her. he said that she was a most unusual woman,--in the world, yet not of it. one feels that. her eldest girl married young lord catesby, you know; a very brilliant match; she presents her second girl next spring, when i do marjory. you must come over for a ride with marjory, soon, augustine." "i will, very soon," said augustine. when their visitor at last went, when the tramp of her heavy boots had receded down the hall, lady channice and her son again sat in silence; but it was now another silence from that into which mrs. grey's shots had broken. it was like the stillness of the copse or hedgerow when the sportsmen are gone and a vague stir and rustle in ditch or underbrush tells of broken wings or limbs, of a wounded thing hiding. lady channice spoke at last. "i wish you had accepted for the dinner, augustine. i don't want you to identify yourself with my peculiarities." "i didn't want to dine with mrs. grey, mother." "you hurt her. she is a kind neighbour. you will see her more or less for all of your life, probably. you must take your place, here, augustine." "my place is taken. i like it just as it is. i'll see the greys as i always have seen them; i'll go over to tea now and then and i'll ride and hunt with the children." "but that was when you were a child. you are almost a man now; you are a man, augustine; and your place isn't a child's place." "my place is by you." for the second time that day there was a new note in augustine's voice. it was as if, clearly and definitely, for the first time, he was feeling something and seeing something and as if, though very resolutely keeping from her what he felt, he was, when pushed to it, as resolutely determined to let her see what he saw. "by me, dear," she said faintly. "what do you mean?" "she ought to have asked you to dinner, too." "but i would not have accepted; i don't go out. she knows that. she knows that i am a real recluse." "she ought to have asked knowing that you would not accept." "augustine dear, you are foolish. you know nothing of these little feminine social compacts." "are they only feminine?" "only. mere crystallised conveniences. it would be absurd for mrs. grey, after all these years, to ask me in order to be refused." there was a moment's silence and then augustine said: "did she ever ask you?" the candles had been lighted and the lamp brought in, making the corners of the room look darker. there was only a vague radiance about the chimney piece, the little candle-flames doubled in the mirror, and the bright circle where lady channice and her son sat on either side of the large, round table. the lamp had a green shade, and their faces were in shadow. augustine had turned away his eyes. and now a strange and painful thing happened, stranger and more painful than he could have foreseen; for his mother did not answer him. the silence grew long and she did not speak. augustine looked at her at last and saw that she was gazing at him, and, it seemed to him, with helpless fear. his own eyes did not echo it; anger, rather, rose in them, cold fierceness, against himself, it was apparent, as well as against the world that he suspected. he was not impulsive; he was not demonstrative; but he got up and put his hand on her shoulder. "i don't mean to torment you, like the rest of them," he said. "i don't mean to ask--and be refused. forget what i said. it's only--only--that it infuriates me.--to see them all.--and you!--cut off, wasted, in prison here. i've been seeing it for a long time; i won't speak of it again. i know that there are sad things in your life. all i want to say, all i wanted to say was--that i'm with you, and against them." she sat, her face in shadow beneath him, her hands tightly clasped together and pressed down upon her lap. and, in a faltering voice that strove in vain for firmness, she said: "dear augustine--thank you. i know you wouldn't want to hurt me. you see, when i came here to live, i had parted--from your father, and i wanted to be quite alone; i wanted to see no one. and they felt that: they felt that i wouldn't lead the usual life. so it grew most naturally. don't be angry with people, or with the world. that would warp you, from the beginning. it's a good world, augustine. i've found it so. it is sad, but there is such beauty.--i'm not cut off, or wasted;--i'm not in prison.--how can you say it, dear, of me, who have you--and _him_." augustine's hand rested on her shoulder for some moments more. lifting it he stood looking before him. "i'm not going to quarrel with the world," he then said. "i know what i like in it." "dear--thanks--" she murmured. augustine picked up his book again. "i'll study for a bit, now, in my room," he said. "will you rest before dinner? do; i shall feel more easy in my conscience if i inflict hegel on you afterwards." iii lady channice did not go and rest. she sat on in the shadowy room gazing before her, her hands still clasped, her face wearing still its look of fear. for twenty years she had not known what it was to be without fear. it had become as much a part of her life as the air she breathed and any peace or gladness had blossomed for her only in that air: sometimes she was almost unconscious of it. this afternoon she had become conscious. it was as if the air were heavy and oppressive and as if she breathed with difficulty. and sitting there she asked herself if the time was coming when she must tell augustine. what she might have to tell was a story that seemed strangely disproportionate: it was the story of her life; but all of it that mattered, all of it that made the story, was pressed into one year long ago. before that year was sunny, uneventful girlhood, after it grey, uneventful womanhood; the incident, the drama, was all knotted into one year, and it seemed to belong to herself no longer; she seemed a spectator, looking back in wonder at the disaster of another woman's life. a long flat road stretched out behind her; she had journeyed over it for years; and on the far horizon she saw, if she looked back, the smoke and flames of a burning city--miles and miles away. amabel freer was the daughter of a rural dean, a scholarly, sceptical man. the forms of religion were his without its heart; its heart was her mother's, who was saintly and whose orthodoxy was the vaguest symbolic system. from her father amabel had the scholar's love of beauty in thought, from her mother the love of beauty in life; but her loves had been dreamy: she had thought and lived little. happy compliance, happy confidence, a dawn-like sense of sweetness and purity, had filled her girlhood. when she was sixteen her father had died, and her mother in the following year. amabel and her brother bertram were well dowered. bertram was in the foreign office, neither saintly nor scholarly, like his parents, nor undeveloped like his young sister. he was a capable, conventional man of the world, sure of himself and rather suspicious of others. amabel imagined him a model of all that was good and lovely. the sudden bereavement of her youth bewildered and overwhelmed her; her capacity for dependent, self-devoting love sought for an object and lavished itself upon her brother. she went to live with an aunt, her father's sister, and when she was eighteen her aunt brought her to london, a tall, heavy and rather clumsy country girl, arrested rather than developed by grief. her aunt was a world-worn, harassed woman; she had married off her four daughters with difficulty and felt the need of a change of occupation; but she accepted as a matter of course the duty of marrying off amabel. that task accomplished she would go to bed every night at half past ten and devote her days to collecting coins and enamels. her respite came far more quickly than she could have imagined possible. amabel had promise of great beauty, but two or three years were needed to fulfill it; mrs. compton could but be surprised when sir hugh channice, an older colleague of bertram's, a fashionable and charming man, asked for the hand of her unformed young charge. sir hugh was fourteen years amabel's senior and her very guilelessness no doubt attracted him; then there was the money; he was not well off and he lived a life rather hazardously full. still, mrs. compton could hardly believe in her good-fortune. amabel accepted her own very simply; her compliance and confidence were even deeper than before. sir hugh was the most graceful of lovers. his quizzical tenderness reminded her of her father, his quasi-paternal courtship emphasized her instinctive trust in the beauty and goodness of life. so at eighteen she was married at st. george's hanover square and wore a wonderful long satin train and her mothers lace veil and her mother's pearls around her neck and hair. a bridesmaid had said that pearls were unlucky, but mrs. compton tersely answered:--"not if they are such good ones as these." amabel had bowed her head to the pearls, seeing them, with the train, and the veil, and her own snowy figure, vaguely, still in the dreamlike haze. memories of her father and mother, and of the dear deanery among its meadows, floating fragments of the poetry her father had loved, of the prayers her mother had taught her in childhood, hovered in her mind. she seemed to see the primrose woods where she had wandered, and to hear the sound of brooks and birds in spring. a vague smile was on her lips. she thought of sir hugh as of a radiance lighting all. she was the happiest of girls. shortly after her marriage, all the radiance, all the haze was gone. it had been difficult then to know why. now, as she looked back, she thought that she could understand. she had been curiously young, curiously inexperienced. she had expected life to go on as dawn for ever. everyday light had filled her with bleakness and disillusion. she had had childish fancies; that her husband did not really love her; that she counted for nothing in his life. yet sir hugh had never changed, except that he very seldom made love to her and that she saw less of him than during their engagement. sir hugh was still quizzically tender, still all grace, all deference, when he was there. and what wonder that he was little there; he had a wide life; he was a brilliant man; she was a stupid young girl; in looking back, no longer young, no longer stupid, lady channice thought that she could see it all quite clearly. she had seemed to him a sweet, good girl, and he cared for her and wanted a wife. he had hoped that by degrees she would grow into a wise and capable woman, fit to help and ornament his life. but she had not been wise or capable. she had been lonely and unhappy, and that wide life of his had wearied and confused her; the silence, the watching attitude of the girl were inadequate to her married state, and yet she had nothing else to meet it with. she had never before felt her youth and inexperience as oppressive, but they oppressed her now. she had nothing to ask of the world and nothing to give to it. what she did ask of life was not given to her, what she had to give was not wanted. she was very unhappy. yet people were kind. in especial lady elliston was kind, the loveliest, most sheltering, most understanding of all her guests or hostesses. lady elliston and her cheerful, jocose husband, were sir hugh's nearest friends and they took her in and made much of her. and one day when, in a fit of silly wretchedness, lady elliston found her crying, she had put her arms around her and kissed her and begged to know her grief and to comfort it. even thus taken by surprise, and even to one so kind, amabel could not tell that grief: deep in her was a reticence, a sense of values austere and immaculate: she could not discuss her husband, even with the kindest of friends. and she had nothing to tell, really, but of herself, her own helplessness and deficiency. yet, without her telling, for all her wish that no one should guess, lady elliston did guess. her comfort had such wise meaning in it. she was ten years older than amabel. she knew all about the world; she knew all about girls and their husbands. amabel was only a girl, and that was the trouble, she seemed to say. when she grew older she would see that it would come right; husbands were always so; the wider life reached by marriage would atone in many ways. and lady elliston, all with sweetest discretion, had asked gentle questions. some of them amabel had not understood; some she had. she remembered now that her own silence or dull negation might have seemed very rude and ungrateful; yet lady elliston had taken no offence. all her memories of lady elliston were of this tact and sweetness, this penetrating, tentative tact and sweetness that sought to understand and help and that drew back, unflurried and unprotesting before rebuff, ready to emerge again at any hint of need,--of these, and of her great beauty, the light of her large clear eyes, the whiteness of her throat, the glitter of diamonds about and above: for it was always in her most festal aspect, at night, under chandeliers and in ball-rooms, that she best remembered her. amabel knew, with the deep, instinctive sense of values which was part of her inheritance and hardly, at that time, part of her thought, that her mother would not have liked lady elliston, would have thought her worldly; yet, and this showed that amabel was developing, she had already learned that worldliness was compatible with many things that her mother would have excluded from it; she could see lady elliston with her own and with her mother's eyes, and it was puzzling, part of the pain of growth, to feel that her own was already the wider vision. soon after that the real story came. the city began to burn and smoke and flames to blind and scorch her. it was at lady elliston's country house that amabel first met paul quentin. he was a daring young novelist who was being made much of during those years; for at that still somewhat guileless time to be daring had been to be original. his books had power and beauty, and he had power and beauty, fierce, dreaming eyes and an intuitive, sudden smile. under his aspect of careless artist, his head was a little turned by his worldly success, by great country-houses and flattering great ladies; he did not take the world as indifferently as he seemed to. success edged his self-confidence with a reckless assurance. he was an ardent student of nietzsche, at a time when that, too, was to be original. amabel met this young man constantly at the dances and country parties of a season. and, suddenly, the world changed. it was not dawn and it was not daylight; it was a wild and beautiful illumination like torches at night. she knew herself loved and her own being became precious and enchanting to her. the presence of the man who loved her filled her with rapture and fear. their recognition was swift. he told her things about herself that she had never dreamed of and as he told them she felt them to be true. to other people paul quentin did not speak much of lady channice. he early saw that he would need to be discreet. one day at lady elliston's her beauty was in question and someone said that she was too pale and too impassive; and at that quentin, smiling a little fiercely, remarked that she was as pale as a cowslip and as impassive as a young madonna; the words pictured her; her fresh spring-like quality, and the peace, as of some noble power not yet roused. in looking back, it was strange and terrible to lady channice to see how little she had really known this man. their meetings, their talks together, were like the torchlight that flashed and wavered and only fitfully revealed. from the first she had listened, had assented, to everything he said, hanging upon his words and his looks and living afterward in the memory of them. and in memory their significance seemed so to grow that when they next met they found themselves far nearer than the words had left them. all her young reserves and dignities had been penetrated and dissolved. it was always themselves he talked of, but, from that centre, he waved the torch about a transformed earth and showed her a world of thought and of art that she had never seen before. no murmur of it had reached the deanery; to her husband and the people he lived among it was a mere spectacle; quentin made that bright, ardent world real to her, and serious. he gave her books to read; he took her to hear music; he showed her the pictures, the statues, the gems and porcelains that she had before accepted as part of the background of life hardly seeing them. from being the background of life they became, in a sense, suddenly its object. but not their object--not his and hers,--though they talked of them, looked, listened and understood. to quentin and amabel this beauty was still background, and in the centre, at the core of things, were their two selves and the ecstasy of feeling that exalted and terrified. all else in life became shackles. it was hardly shock, it was more like some immense relief, when, in each other's arms, the words of love, so long implied, were spoken. he said that she must come with him; that she must leave it all and come. she fought against herself and against him in refusing, grasping at pale memories of duty, honour, self-sacrifice; he knew too well the inner treachery that denied her words. but, looking back, trying not to flinch before the scorching memory, she did not know how he had won her. the dreadful jostle of opportune circumstance; her husband's absence, her brother's;--the chance pause in the empty london house between country visits;--paul quentin following, finding her there; the hot, dusty, enervating july day, all seemed to have pushed her to the act of madness and made of it a willess yielding rather than a decision. for she had yielded; she had left her husband's house and gone with him. they went abroad at once, to france, to the forest of fontainebleau. how she hated ever after the sound of the lovely syllables, hated the memory of the rocks and woods, the green shadows and the golden lights where she had walked with him and known horror and despair deepening in her heart with every day. she judged herself, not him, in looking back; even then it had been herself she had judged. though unwilling, she had been as much tempted by herself as by him; he had had to break down barriers, but though they were the barriers of her very soul, her longing heart had pressed, had beaten against them, crying out for deliverance. she did not judge him, but, alone with him in the forest, alone with him in the bland, sunny hotel, alone with him through the long nights when she lay awake and wondered, in a stupor of despair, she saw that he was different. so different; there was the horror. she was the sinner; not he. he belonged to the bright, ardent life, the life without social bond or scruple, the life of sunny, tolerant hotels and pagan forests; but she did not belong to it. the things that had seemed external things, barriers and shackles, were the realest things, were in fact the inner things, were her very self. in yielding to her heart she had destroyed herself, there was no life to be lived henceforth with this man, for there was no self left to live it with. she saw that she had cut herself off from her future as well as from her past. the sacred past judged her and the future was dead. years of experience concentrated themselves into that lawless week. she saw that laws were not outside things; that they were one's very self at its wisest. she saw that if laws were to be broken it could only be by a self wiser than the self that had made the law. and the self that had fled with paul quentin was only a passionate, blinded fragment, a heart without a brain, a fragment judged and rejected by the whole. to both lovers the week was one of bitter disillusion, though for quentin no such despair was possible. for him it was an attempt at joy and beauty that had failed. this dulled, drugged looking girl was not the radiant woman he had hoped to find. vain and sensitive as he was, he felt, almost immediately, that he had lost his charm for her; that she had ceased to love him. that was the ugly, the humiliating side of the truth, the side that so filled amabel channice's soul with sickness as she looked back at it. she had ceased to love him, almost at once. and it was not guilt only, and fear, that had risen between them and separated them; there were other, smaller, subtler reasons, little snakes that hissed in her memory. he was different from her in other ways. she hardly saw that one of the ways was that of breeding; but she felt that he jarred upon her constantly, in their intimacy, their helpless, dreadful intimacy. in contrast, the thought of her husband had been with her, burningly. she did not say to herself, for she did not know it, her experience of life was too narrow to give her the knowledge,--that her husband was a gentleman and her lover, a man of genius though he were, was not; but she compared them, incessantly, when quentin's words and actions, his instinctive judgments of men and things, made her shrink and flush. he was so clever, cleverer far than hugh; but he did not know, as sir hugh would have known, what the slight things were that would make her shrink. he took little liberties when he should have been reticent and he was humble when he should have been assured. for he was often humble; he was, oddly, pathetically--and the pity for him added to the sickness--afraid of her and then, because he was afraid, he grew angry with her. he was clever; but there are some things cleverness cannot reach. what he failed to feel by instinct, he tried to scorn. it was not the patrician scorn, stupid yet not ignoble, for something hardly seen, hardly judged, merely felt as dull and insignificant; it was the corroding plebeian scorn for a suspected superiority. he quarrelled with her, and she sat silent, knowing that her silence, her passivity, was an affront the more, but helpless, having no word to say. what could she say?--i do love you: i am wretched: utterly wretched and utterly destroyed.--that was all there was to say. so she sat, dully listening, as if drugged. and she only winced when he so far forgot himself as to cry out that it was her silly pride of blood, the aristocratic illusion, that had infected her; she belonged to the caste that could not think and that picked up the artist and thinker to amuse and fill its vacancy.--"we may be lovers, or we may be performing poodles, but we are never equals," he had cried. it was for him amabel had winced, knowing, without raising her eyes to see it, how his face would burn with humiliation for having so betrayed his consciousness of difference. nothing that he could say could hurt her for herself. but there was worse to bear: after the violence of his anger came the violence of his love. she had borne at first, dully, like the slave she felt herself; for she had sold herself to him, given herself over bound hand and foot. but now it became intolerable. she could not protest,--what was there to protest against, or to appeal to?--but she could fly. the thought of flight rose in her after the torpor of despair and, with its sense of wings, it felt almost like a joy. she could fly back, back, to be scourged and purified, and then--oh far away she saw it now--was something beyond despair; life once more; life hidden, crippled, but life. a prayer rose like a sob with the thought. so one night in london her brother bertram, coming back late to his rooms, found her sitting there. bertram was hard, but not unkind. the sight of her white, fixed face touched him. he did not upbraid her, though for the past week he had rehearsed the bitterest of upbraidings. he even spoke soothingly to her when, speechless, she broke into wild sobs. "there, amabel, there.--yes, it's a frightful mess you've made of things.--when i think of mother!--well, i'll say nothing now. you have come back; that is something. you _have_ left him, amabel?" she nodded, her face hidden. "the brute, the scoundrel," said bertram, at which she moaned a negation.--"you don't still care about him?--well, i won't question you now.--perhaps it's not so desperate. hugh has been very good about it; he's helped me to keep the thing hushed up until we could make sure. i hope we've succeeded; i hope so indeed. hugh will see you soon, i know; and it can be patched up, no doubt, after a fashion." but at this amabel cried:--"i can't.--i can't.--oh--take me away.--let me hide until he divorces me. i can't see him." "divorces you?" bertram's voice was sharp. "have you disgraced publicly--you and us? it's not you i'm thinking of so much as the family name, father and mother. hugh won't divorce you; he can't; he shan't. after all you're a mere child and he didn't look after you." but this was said rather in threat to hugh than in leniency to amabel. she lay back in the chair, helpless, almost lifeless: let them do with her what they would. bertram said that she should spend the night there and that he would see hugh in the morning. and:--"no; you needn't see him yet, if you feel you can't. it may be arranged without that. hugh will understand." and this was the first ray of the light that was to grow and grow. hugh would understand. she did not see him for two years. all that had happened after her return to bertram was a blur now. there were hasty talks, bertram defining for her her future position, one of dignity it must be--he insisted on that; hugh perfectly understood her wish for the present, quite fell in with it; but, eventually, she must take her place in her husband's home again. even bertram, intent as he was on the family honour, could not force the unwilling wife upon the merely magnanimous husband. her husband's magnanimity was the radiance that grew for amabel during these black days, the days of hasty talks and of her journey down to charlock house. she had never seen charlock house before; sir hugh had spoken of the family seat as "a dismal hole," but, on that hot july evening of her arrival, it looked peaceful to her, a dark haven of refuge, like the promise of sleep after nightmare. mrs. bray stood in the door, a grim but not a hostile warder: amabel felt anyone who was not hostile to be almost kind. the house had been hastily prepared for her, dining-room and drawing-room and the large bedroom upstairs, having the same outlook over the lawn, the sycamores, the flat meadows. she could see herself standing there now, looking about her at the bedroom where gaiety and gauntness were oddly mingled in the faded carnations and birds of paradise on the chintzes and in the vastness of the four-poster, the towering wardrobes, the capacious, creaking chairs and sofas. everything was very clean and old; the dressing-table was stiffly skirted in darned muslins and near the pin-cushion stood a small, tight nosegay, mrs. bray's cautious welcome to this ambiguous mistress. "a comfortable old place, isn't it," bertram had said, looking about, too; "you'll soon get well and strong here, amabel." this, amabel knew, was said for the benefit of mrs. bray who stood, non-committal and observant just inside the door. she knew, too, that bertram was depressed by the gauntness and gaiety of the bedroom and even more depressed by the maroon leather furniture and the cases of stuffed birds below, and that he was at once glad to get away from charlock house and sorry for her that she should have to be left there, alone with mrs. bray. but to amabel it was a dream after a nightmare. a strange, desolate dream, all through those sultry summer days; but a dream shot through with radiance in the thought of the magnanimity that had spared and saved her. and with the coming of the final horror, came the final revelation of this radiance. she had been at charlock house for many weeks, and it was mid-autumn, when that horror came. she knew that she was to have a child and that it could not be her husband's child. with the knowledge her mind seemed unmoored at last; it wavered and swung in a nightmare blackness deeper than any she had known. in her physical prostration and mental disarray the thought of suicide was with her. how face bertram now,--bertram with his tenacious hopes? how face her husband--ever--ever--in the far future? her disgrace lived and she was to see it. but, in the swinging chaos, it was that thought that kept her from frenzy; the thought that it did live; that its life claimed her; that to it she must atone. she did not love this child that was to come; she dreaded it; yet the dread was sacred, a burden that she must bear for its unhappy sake. what did she not owe to it--unfortunate one--of atonement and devotion? she gathered all her courage, armed her physical weakness, her wandering mind, to summon bertram and to tell him. she told him in the long drawing-room on a sultry september day, leaning her arms on the table by which she sat and covering her face. bertram said nothing for a long time. he was still boyish enough to feel any such announcement as embarrassing; and that it should be told him now, in such circumstances, by his sister, by amabel, was nearly incredible. how associate such savage natural facts, lawless and unappeasable, with that young figure, dressed in its trousseau white muslin and with its crown of innocent gold. it made her suddenly seem older than himself and at once more piteous and more sinister. for a moment, after the sheer stupor, he was horribly angry with her; then came dismay at his own cruelty. "this does change things, amabel," he said at last. "yes," she answered from behind her hands. "i don't know how hugh will take it," said bertram. "he must divorce me now," she said. "it can be done very quietly, can't it. and i have money. i can go away, somewhere, out of england--i've thought of america--or new zealand--some distant country where i shall never be heard of; i can bring up the child there." bertram stared at her. she sat at the table, her hands before her face, in the light, girlish dress that hung loosely about her. she was fragile and wasted. her voice seemed dead. and he wondered at the unhappy creature's courage. "divorce!" he then said violently; "no; he can't do that;--and he had forgiven already; i don't know how the law stands; but of course you won't go away. what an idea; you might as well kill yourself outright. it's only--. i don't know how the law stands. i don't know what hugh will say." bertram walked up and down biting his nails. he stopped presently before a window, his back turned to his sister, and, flushing over the words, he said: "you are sure--you are quite sure, amabel, that it isn't hugh's child. you are such a girl. you can know nothing.--i mean--it may be a mistake." "i am quite sure," the unmoved voice answered him. "i do know." bertram again stood silent. "well," he said at last, turning to her though he did not look at her, "all i can do is to see how hugh takes it. you know, amabel, that you can count on me. i'll see after you, and after the child. hugh may, of course, insist on your parting from it; that will probably be the condition he'll make;--naturally. in that case i'll take you abroad soon. it can be got through, i suppose, without anybody knowing; assumed names; some swiss or italian village--" bertram muttered, rather to himself than to her. "good god, what an odious business!--but, as you say, we have money; that simplifies everything. you mustn't worry about the child. i will see that it is put into safe hands and i'll keep an eye on its future--." he stopped, for his sister's hands had fallen. she was gazing at him, still dully--for it seemed that nothing could strike any excitement from her--but with a curious look, a look that again made him feel as if she were much older than he. "never," she said. "never what?" bertram asked. "you mean you won't part from the child?" "never; never," she repeated. "but amabel," with cold patience he urged; "if hugh insists.--my poor girl, you have made your bed and you must lie on it. you can't expect your husband to give this child--this illegitimate child--his name. you can't expect him to accept it as his child." "no; i don't expect it," she said. "well, what then? what's your alternative?" "i must go away with the child." "i tell you, amabel, it's impossible," bertram in his painful anxiety spoke with irritation. "you've got to consider our name--my name, my position, and your husband's. heaven knows i want to be kind to you--do all i can for you; i've not once reproached you, have i? but you must be reasonable. some things you must accept as your punishment. unless hugh is the most fantastically generous of men you'll have to part from the child." she sat silent. "you do consent to that?" bertram insisted. she looked before her with that dull, that stupid look. "no," she replied. bertram's patience gave way, "you are mad," he said. "have you no consideration for me--for us? you behave like this--incredibly, in my mother's daughter--never a girl better brought up; you go off with that--that bounder;--you stay with him for a week--good heavens!--there'd have been more dignity if you'd stuck to him;--you chuck him, in one week, and then you come back and expect us to do as you think fit, to let you disappear and everyone know that you've betrayed your husband and had a child by another man. it's mad, i tell you, and it's impossible, and you've got to submit. do you hear? will you answer me, i say? will you promise that if hugh won't consent to fathering the child--won't consent to giving it his name--won't consent to having it, as his heir, disinherit the lawful children he may have by you--good heavens, i wonder if you realize what you are asking!--will you promise, i say, if he doesn't consent, to part from the child?" she did look rather mad, her brother thought, and he remembered, with discomfort, that women, at such times, did sometimes lose their reason. her eyes with their dead gaze nearly frightened him, when, after all his violence, his entreaty, his abuse of her, she only, in an unchanged voice, said "no." he felt then the uselessness of protestation or threat; she must be treated as if she were mad; humored, cajoled. he was silent for a little while, walking up and down. "well, i'll say no more, then. forgive me for my harshness," he said. "you give me a great deal to bear, amabel; but i'll say nothing now. i have your word, at all events," he looked sharply at her as the sudden suspicion crossed him, "i have your word that you'll stay quietly here--until you hear from me what hugh says? you promise me that?" "yes," his sister answered. he gave a sigh for the sorry relief. that night amabel's mind wandered wildly. she heard herself, in the lonely room where she lay, calling out meaningless things. she tried to control the horror of fear that rose in her and peopled the room with phantoms; but the fear ran curdling in her veins and flowed about her, shaping itself in forms of misery and disaster. "no--no--poor child.--oh--don't--don't.--i will come to you. i am your mother.--they can't take you from me."--this was the most frequent cry. the poor child hovered, wailing, delivered over to vague, unseen sorrow, and, though a tiny infant, it seemed to be paul quentin, too, in some dreadful plight, appealing to her in the name of their dead love to save him. she did not love him; she did not love the child; but her heart seemed broken with impotent pity. in the intervals of nightmare she could look, furtively, fixedly, about the room. the moon was bright outside, and through the curtains a pallid light showed the menacing forms of the two great wardrobes. the four posts of her bed seemed like the pillars of some vast, alien temple, and the canopy, far above her, floated like a threatening cloud. opposite her bed, above the chimney-piece, was a deeply glimmering mirror: if she were to raise herself she would see her own white reflection, rising, ghastly.--she hid her face on her pillows and sank again into the abyss. next morning she could not get up. her pulses were beating at fever speed; but, with the daylight, her mind was clearer. she could summon her quiet look when mrs. bray came in to ask her mournfully how she was. and a little later a telegram came, from bertram. her trembling hands could hardly open it. she read the words. "all is well." mrs. bray stood beside her bed. she meant to keep that quiet look for mrs. bray; but she fainted. mrs. bray, while she lay tumbled among the pillows, and before lifting her, read the message hastily. from the night of torment and the shock of joy, amabel brought an extreme susceptibility to emotion that showed itself through all her life in a trembling of her hands and frame when any stress of feeling was laid upon her. after that torment and that shock she saw bertram once, and only once, again;--ah, strange and sad in her memory that final meeting of their lives, though this miraculous news was the theme of it. she was still in bed when he came, the bed she did not leave for months, and, though so weak and dizzy, she understood all that he told her, knew the one supreme fact of her husband's goodness. he sent her word that she was to be troubled about nothing; she was to take everything easily and naturally. she should always have her child with her and it should bear his name. he would see after it like a father; it should never know that he was not its father. and, as soon as she would let him, he would come and see her--and it. amabel, lying on her pillows, gazed and gazed: her eyes, in their shadowy hollows, were two dark wells of sacred wonder. even bertram felt something of the wonder of them. in his new gladness and relief, he was very kind to her. he came and kissed her. she seemed, once more, a person whom one could kiss. "poor dear," he said, "you have had a lot to bear. you do look dreadfully ill. you must get well and strong, now, amabel, and not worry any more, about anything. everything is all right. we will call the child augustine, if it's a boy, after mother's father you know, and katherine, if it's a girl, after her mother: i feel, don't you, that we have no right to use their own names. but the further away ones seem right, now. hugh is a trump, isn't he? and, i'm sure of it, amabel, when time has passed a little, and you feel you can, he'll have you back; i do really believe it may be managed. this can all be explained. i'm saying that you are ill, a nervous breakdown, and are having a complete rest." she heard him dimly, feeling these words irrelevant. she knew that hugh must never have her back; that she could never go back to hugh; that her life henceforth was dedicated. and yet bertram was kind, she felt that, though dimly feeling, too, that her old image of him had grown tarnished. but her mind was far from bertram and the mitigations he offered. she was fixed on that radiant figure, her husband, her knight, who had stooped to her in her abasement, her agony, and had lifted her from dust and darkness to the air where she could breathe,--and bless him. "tell him--i bless him,"--she said to bertram. she could say nothing more. there were other memories of that day, too, but even more dim, more irrelevant. bertram had brought papers for her to sign, saying: "i know you'll want to be very generous with hugh now," and she had raised herself on her elbow to trace with the fingers that trembled the words he dictated to her. there was sorrow, indeed, to look back on after that. poor bertram died only a month later, struck down by an infectious illness. he was not to see or supervise the rebuilding of his sister's shattered life, and the anguish in her sorrow was the thought of all the pain that she had brought to his last months of life: but this sorrow, after the phantoms, the nightmares, was like the weeping of tears after a dreadful weeping of blood. her tears fell as she lay there, propped on her pillows--for she was very ill--and looking out over the autumn fields; she wept for poor bertram and all the pain; life was sad. but life was good and beautiful. after the flames, the suffocation, it had brought her here, and it showed her that radiant figure, that goodness and beauty embodied in human form. and she had more to help her, for he wrote to her, a few delicately chosen words, hardly touching on their own case, his and hers, but about her brother's death and of how he felt for her in her bereavement, and of what a friend dear bertram had been to himself. "some day, dear amabel, you must let me come and see you" it ended; and "your affectionate husband." it was almost too wonderful to be borne. she had to close her eyes in thinking of it and to lie very still, holding the blessed letter in her hand and smiling faintly while she drew long soft breaths. he was always in her thoughts, her husband; more, far more, than her coming child. it was her husband who had made that coming a thing possible to look forward to with resignation; it was no longer the nightmare of desolate flights and hidings. and even after the child was born, after she had seen its strange little face, even then, though it was all her life, all her future, it held the second place in her heart. it was her life, but it was from her husband that the gift of life had come to her. she was a gentle, a solicitous, a devoted mother. she never looked at her baby without a sense of tears. unfortunate one, was her thought, and the pulse of her life was the yearning to atone. she must be strong and wise for her child and out of her knowledge of sin and weakness in herself must guide and guard it. but in her yearning, in her brooding thought, was none of the mother's rapturous folly and gladness. she never kissed her baby. some dark association made the thought of kisses an unholy thing and when, forgetting, she leaned to it sometimes, thoughtless, and delighting in littleness and sweetness, the dark memory of guilt would rise between its lips and hers, so that she would grow pale and draw back. when first she saw her husband, augustine was over a year old. sir hugh had written and asked if he might not come down one day and spend an hour with her. "and let all the old fogies see that we are friends," he said, in his remembered playful vein. it was in the long dark drawing-room that she had seen him for the first time since her flight into the wilderness. he had come in, grave, yet with something blithe and unperturbed in his bearing that, as she stood waiting for what he might say to her, seemed the very nimbus of chivalry. he was splendid to look at, too, tall and strong with clear kind eyes and clear kind smile. she could not speak, not even when he came and took her hand, and said: "well amabel." and then, seeing how white she was and how she trembled, he had bent his head and kissed her hand. and at that she had broken into tears; but they were tears of joy. he stood beside her while she wept, her hands before her face, just touching her shoulder with a paternal hand, and she heard him saying: "poor little amabel: poor little girl." she took her chair beside the table and for a long time she kept her face hidden: "thank you; thank you;" was all that she could say. "my dear, what for?--there, don't cry.--you have stopped crying? there, poor child. i've been awfully sorry for you." he would not let her try to say how good he was, and this was a relief, for she knew that she could not put it into words and that, without words, he understood. he even laughed a little, with a graceful embarrassment, at her speechless gratitude. and presently, when they talked, she could put down her hand, could look round at him, while she answered that, yes, she was very comfortable at charlock house; yes, no place could suit her more perfectly; yes, mrs. bray was very kind. and he talked a little about business with her, explaining that bertram's death had left him with a great deal of management on his hands; he must have her signature to papers, and all this was done with the easiest tact so that naturalness and simplicity should grow between them; so that, in finding pen and papers in her desk, in asking where she was to sign, in obeying the pointing of his finger here and there, she should recover something of her quiet, and be able to smile, even, a little answering smile, when he said that he should make a business woman of her. and--"rather a shame that i should take your money like this, amabel, but, with all bertram's money, you are quite a bloated capitalist. i'm rather hard up, and you don't grudge it, i know." she flushed all over at the idea, even said in jest:--"all that i have is yours." "ah, well, not all," said sir hugh. "you must remember--other claims." and he, too, flushed a little now in saying, gently, tentatively;--"may i see the little boy?" "i will bring him," said amabel. how she remembered, all her life long, that meeting of her husband and her son. it was the late afternoon of a bright june day and the warm smell of flowers floated in at the open windows of the drawing-room. she did not let the nurse bring augustine, she carried him down herself. he was a large, robust baby with thick, corn-coloured hair and a solemn, beautiful little face. amabel came in with him and stood before her husband holding him and looking down. confusion was in her mind, a mingling of pride and shame. sir hugh and the baby eyed each other, with some intentness. and, as the silence grew a little long, sir hugh touched the child's cheek with his finger and said: "nice little fellow: splendid little fellow. how old is he, amabel? isn't he very big?" "a year and two months. yes, he is very big." "he looks like you, doesn't he?" "does he?" she said faintly. "just your colour," sir hugh assured her. "as grave as a little king, isn't he. how firmly he looks at me." "he is grave, but he never cries; he is very cheerful, too, and well and strong." "he looks it. he does you credit. well, my little man, shall we be friends?" sir hugh held out his hand. augustine continued to gaze at him, unmoving. "he won't shake hands," said sir hugh. amabel took the child's hand and placed it in her husband's; her own fingers shook. but augustine drew back sharply, doubling his arm against his breast, though not wavering in his gaze at the stranger. sir hugh laughed at the decisive rejection. "friendship's on one side, till later," he said. * * * * * when her husband had gone amabel went out into the sycamore wood. it was a pale, cool evening. the sun had set and the sky beyond the sycamores was golden. above, in a sky of liquid green, the evening star shone softly. a joy, sweet, cold, pure, like the evening, was in her heart. she stopped in the midst of the little wood among the trees, and stood still, closing her eyes. something old was coming back to her; something new was being given. the memory of her mother's eyes was in it, of the simple prayers taught her by her mother in childhood, and the few words, rare and simple, of the presence of god in the soul. but her girlish prayer, her girlish thought of god, had been like a thread-like, singing brook. what came to her now grew from the brook-like running of trust and innocence to a widening river, to a sea that filled her, over-flowed her, encompassed her, in whose power she was weak, through whose power her weakness was uplifted and made strong. it was as if a dark curtain of fear and pain lifted from her soul, showing vastness, and deep upon deep of stars. yet, though this that came to her was so vast, it made itself small and tender, too, like the flowers glimmering about her feet, the breeze fanning her hair and garments, the birds asleep in the branches above her. she held out her hands, for it seemed to fall like dew, and she smiled, her face uplifted. * * * * * she did not often see her husband in the quiet years that followed. she did not feel that she needed to see him. it was enough to know that he was there, good and beautiful. she knew that she idealised him, that in ordinary aspects he was a happy, easy man-of-the-world; but that was not the essential; the essential in him was the pity, the tenderness, the comprehension that had responded to her great need. he was very unconscious of aims or ideals; but when the time for greatness came he showed it as naturally and simply as a flower expands to light. the thought of him henceforth was bound up with the thought of her religion; nothing of rapture or ecstasy was in it; it was quiet and grave, a revelation of holiness. it was as if she had been kneeling to pray, alone, in a dark, devastated church, trembling, and fearing the darkness, not daring to approach the unseen altar; and that then her husband's hand had lighted all the high tapers one by one, so that the church was filled with radiance and the divine made manifest to her again. light and quietness were to go with her, but they were not to banish fear. they could only help her to live with fear and to find life beautiful in spite of it. for if her husband stood for the joy of life, her child stood for its sorrow. he was the dark past and the unknown future. what she should find in him was unrevealed; and though she steadied her soul to the acceptance of whatever the future might bring of pain for her, the sense of trembling was with her always in the thought of what it might bring of pain for augustine. iv lady channice woke on the morning after her long retrospect bringing from her dreams a heavy heart. she lay for some moments after the maid had drawn her curtains, looking out at the fields as she had so often looked, and wondering why her heart was heavy. throb by throb, like a leaden shuttle, it seemed to weave together the old and new memories, so that she saw the pattern of yesterday and of today, lady elliston's coming, the pain that augustine had given her in his strange questionings, the meeting of her husband and her son. and the ominous rhythm of the shuttle was like the footfall of the past creeping upon her. it was more difficult than it had been for years, this morning, to quiet the throb, to stay her thoughts on strength. she could not pray, for her thoughts, like her heart, were leaden; the whispered words carried no message as they left her lips; she could not lift her thought to follow them. it was upon a lesser, a merely human strength, that she found herself dwelling. she was too weak, too troubled, to find the swiftness of soul that could soar with its appeal, the stillness of soul where the divine response could enter; and weakness turned to human help. the thought of her husband's coming was like a glow of firelight seen at evening on a misty moor. she could hasten towards it, quelling fear. there she would be safe. by his mere presence he would help and sustain her. he would be kind and tactful with augustine, as he had always been; he would make a shield between her and lady elliston. she could see no sky above, and the misty moor loomed with uncertain shapes; but she could look before her and feel that she went towards security and brightness. augustine and his mother both studied during the day, the same studies, for lady channice, to a great extent, shared her son's scholarly pursuits. from his boyhood--a studious, grave, yet violent little boy he had been, his fits of passionate outbreak quelled, as he grew older, by the mere example of her imperturbability beside him--she had thus shared everything. she had made herself his tutor as well as his guardian angel. she was more tutor, more guardian angel, than mother. their mental comradeship was full of mutual respect. and though augustine was not of the religious temperament, though his mother's instinct told her that in her lighted church he would be a respectful looker-on rather than a fellow-worshipper, though they never spoke of religion, just as they seldom kissed, augustine's growing absorption in metaphysics tinged their friendship with a religious gravity and comprehension. on three mornings in the week lady channice had a class for the older village girls; she sewed, read and talked with them, and was fond of them all. these girls, their placing in life, their marriages and babies, were her most real interest in the outer world. during the rest of the day she gardened, and read whatever books augustine might be reading. it was the mother and son's habit thus to work apart and to discuss work in the evenings. today, when her girls were gone, she found herself very lonely. augustine was out riding and in her room she tried to occupy herself, fearing her own thoughts. it was past twelve when she heard the sound of his horse's hoofs on the gravel before the door and, throwing a scarf over her hair, she ran down to meet him. the hall door at charlock house, under a heavy portico, looked out upon a circular gravel drive bordered by shrubberies and enclosed by high walls; beyond the walls and gates was the high-road. an interval of sunlight had broken into the chill autumn day: augustine had ridden bareheaded and his gold hair shone as the sun fell upon it. he looked, in his stately grace, like an equestrian youth on a greek frieze. and, as was usual with his mother, her appreciation of augustine's nobility and fineness passed at once into a pang: so beautiful; so noble; and so shadowed. she stood, her black scarf about her face and shoulders, and smiled at him while he threw the reins to the old groom and dismounted. "nice to find you waiting for me," he said. "i'm late this morning. too late for any work before lunch. don't you want a little walk? you look pale." "i should like it very much. i may miss my afternoon walk--your father may have business to talk over." they went through the broad stone hall-way that traversed the house and stepped out on the gravel walk at the back. this path, running below the drawing-room and dining-room windows, led down on one side to the woods, on the other to lady channice's garden, and was a favourite place of theirs for quiet saunterings. today the sunlight fell mildly on it. a rift of pale blue showed in the still grey sky. "i met marjory," said augustine, "and we had a gallop over pangley common. she rides well, that child. we jumped the hedge and ditch at the foot of the common, you know--the high hedge--for practice. she goes over like a bird." amabel's mind was dwelling on the thought of shadowed brightness and marjory, fresh, young, deeply rooted in respectability, seemed suddenly more significant than she had ever been before. in no way augustine's equal, of course, except in that impersonal, yet so important matter of roots; amabel had known a little irritation over mrs. grey's open manoeuvreings; but on this morning of rudderless tossing, marjory appeared in a new aspect. how sound; how safe. it was of augustine's insecurity rather than of augustine himself that she was thinking as she said: "she is such a nice girl." "yes, she is," said augustine. "what did you talk about?" "oh, the things we saw; birds and trees and clouds.--i pour information upon her." "she likes that, one can see it." "yes, she is so nice and guileless that she doesn't resent my pedantry. i love giving information, you know," augustine smiled. he looked about him as he spoke, at birds and trees and clouds, happy, humorous, clasping his riding crop behind his back so that his mother heard it make a pleasant little click against his gaiter as he walked. "it's delightful for both of you, such a comradeship." "yes; a comradeship after a fashion; marjory is just like a nice little boy." "ah, well, she is growing up; she is seventeen, you know. she is more than a little boy." "not much; she never will be much more." "she will make a very nice woman." augustine continued to smile, partly at the thought of marjory, and partly at another thought. "you mustn't make plans, for me and marjory, like mrs. grey," he said presently. "it's mothers like mrs. grey who spoil comradeships. you know, i'll never marry marjory. she is a nice little boy, and we are friends; but she doesn't interest me." "she may grow more interesting: she is so young. i don't make plans, dear,--yet i think that it might be a happy thing for you." "she'll never interest me," said augustine. "must you have a very interesting wife?" "of course i must:--she must be as interesting as you are!" he turned his head to smile at her. "you are not exacting, dear!" "yes, i am, though. she must be as interesting as you--and as good; else why should i leave you and go and live with someone else.--though for that matter, i shouldn't leave you. you'd have to live with us, you know, if i ever married." "ah, my dear boy," lady channice murmured. she managed a smile presently and added: "you might fall in love with someone not so interesting. you can't be sure of your feelings and your mind going together." "my feelings will have to submit themselves to my mind. i don't know about 'falling'; i rather dislike the expression: one might 'fall' in love with lots of people one would never dream of marrying. it would have to be real love. i'd have to love a woman very deeply before i wanted her to share my life, to be a part of me; to be the mother of my children." he spoke with his cheerful gravity. "you have an old head on very young shoulders, augustine." "i really believe i have!" he accepted her somewhat sadly humorous statement; "and that's why i don't believe i'll ever make a mistake. i'd rather never marry than make a mistake. i know i sound priggish; but i've thought a good deal about it: i've had to." he paused for a moment, and then, in the tone of quiet, unconfused confidence that always filled her with a sense of mingled pride and humility, he added:--"i have strong passions, and i've already seen what happens to people who allow feeling to govern them." amabel was suddenly afraid. "i know that you would always be--good augustine; i can trust you for that." she spoke faintly. they had now walked down to the little garden with its box borders and were wandering vaguely among the late roses. she paused to look at the roses, stooping to breathe in the fragrance of a tall white cluster: it was an instinctive impulse of hiding: she hoped in another moment to find an escape in some casual gardening remark. but augustine, unsuspecting, was interested in their theme. "good? i don't know," he said. "i don't think it's goodness, exactly. it's that i so loathe the other thing, so loathe the animal i know in myself, so loathe the idea of life at the mercy of emotion." she had to leave the roses and walk on again beside him, steeling herself to bear whatever might be coming. and, feeling that unconscious accusation loomed, she tried, as unconsciously, to mollify and evade it. "it isn't always the animal, exactly, is it?--or emotion only? it is romance and blind love for a person that leads people astray." "isn't that the animal?" augustine inquired. "i don't think the animal base, you know, or shameful, if he is properly harnessed and kept in his place. it's only when i see him dominating that i hate and fear him so. and," he went on after a little pause of reflection, "i especially hate him in that form;--romance and blind love: because what is that, really, but the animal at its craftiest and most dangerous? what is romance--i mean romance of the kind that jeopardizes 'goodness'--what is it but the most subtle self-deception? you don't love the person in the true sense of love; you don't want their good; you don't want to see them put in the right relation to their life as a whole:--what you want is sensation through them; what you want is yourself in them, and their absorption in you. i don't think that wicked, you know--i'm not a monk or even a puritan--if it's the mere result of the right sort of love, a happy glamour that accompanies, the right sort; it's in its place, then, and can endanger nothing. but people are so extraordinarily blind about love; they don't seem able to distinguish between the real and the false. people usually, though they don't know it, mean only desire when they talk of love." there was another pause in which she wondered that he did not hear the heavy throbbing of her heart. but now there was no retreat; she must go on; she must understand her son. "desire must enter in," she said. "in its place, yes; it's all a question of that;" augustine replied, smiling a little at her, aware of the dogmatic flavour of his own utterances, the humorous aspect of their announcement, to her, by him;--"you love a woman enough and respect her enough to wish her to be the mother of your children--assuming, of course, that you consider yourself worthy to carry on the race; and to think of a woman in such a way is to feel a rightful emotion and a rightful desire; anything else makes emotion the end instead of the result and is corrupting, i'm sure of it." "you have thought it all out, haven't you"; lady channice steadied her voice to say. there was panic rising in her, and a strange anger made part of it. "i've had to, as i said," he replied. "i'm anything but self-controlled by nature; already," and augustine looked calmly at his mother, "i'd have let myself go and been very dissolute unless i'd had this ideal of my own honour to help me. i'm of anything but a saintly disposition." "my dear augustine!" his mother had coloured faintly. absurd as it was, when the reality of her own life was there mocking her, the bald words were strange to her. "do i shock you?" he asked. "you know i always feel that you _are_ a saint, who can hear and understand everything." she blushed deeply, painfully, now. "no, you don't shock me;--i am only a little startled." "to hear that i'm sensual? the whole human race is far too sensual in my opinion. they think a great deal too much about their sexual appetites;--only they don't think about them in those terms unfortunately; they think about them veiled and wreathed; that's why we are sunk in such a bog of sentimentality and sin." lady channice was silent for a long time. they had left the garden, and walked along the little path near the sunken wall at the foot of the lawn, and, skirting the wood of sycamores, had come back to the broad gravel terrace. a turmoil was in her mind; a longing to know and see; a terror of what he would show her. "do you call it sin, that blinded love? do you think that the famous lovers of romance were sinners?" she asked at last; "tristan and iseult?--abã©lard and hã©loise?--paolo and francesca?" "of course they were sinners," said augustine cheerfully. "what did they want?--a present joy: purely and simply that: they sacrificed everything to it--their own and other people's futures: what's that but sin? there is so much mawkish rubbish talked and written about such persons. they were pathetic, of course, most sinners are; that particular sin, of course, may be so associated and bound up with beautiful things;--fidelity, and real love may make such a part of it, that people get confused about it." "fidelity and real love?" lady channice repeated: "you think that they atone--if they make part of an illicit passion?" "i don't think that they atone; but they may redeem it, mayn't they? why do you ask me?" augustine smiled;--"you know far more about these things than i do." she could not look at him. his words in their beautiful unconsciousness appalled her. yet she had to go on, to profit by her own trance-like strength. she was walking on the verge of a precipice but she knew that with steady footsteps she could go towards her appointed place. she must see just where augustine put her, just how he judged her. "you seem to know more than i do, augustine," she said: "i've not thought it out as you have. and it seems to me that any great emotion is more of an end in itself than you would grant. but if the illicit passion thinks itself real and thinks itself enduring, and proves neither, what of it then? what do you think of lovers to whom that happens? it so often happens, you know." augustine had his cheerful answer ready. "then they are stupid as well as sinful. of course it is sinful to be stupid. we've learned that from plato and hegel, haven't we?" the parlour-maid came out to announce lunch. lady channice was spared an answer. she went to her room feeling shattered, as if great stones had been hurled upon her. yes, she thought, gazing at herself in the mirror, while she untied her scarf and smoothed her hair, yes, she had never yet, with all her agonies of penitence, seen so clearly what she had been: a sinner: a stupid sinner. augustine's rigorous young theories might set too inhuman an ideal, but that aspect of them stood out clear: he had put, in bald, ugly words, what, in essence, her love for paul quentin had been: he had stripped all the veils and wreaths away. it had been self; self, blind in desire, cruel when blindness left it: there had been no real love and no fidelity to redeem the baseness. a stupid sinner; that, her son had told her, was what she had been. the horror of it smote back upon her from her widened, mirrored eyes, and she sat for a moment thinking that she must faint. then she remembered that augustine was waiting for her downstairs and that in little more than an hour her husband would be with her. and suddenly the agony lightened. a giddiness of relief came over her. he was kind: he did not judge her: he knew all, yet he respected her. augustine was like the bleak, stony moor; she must shut her eyes and stumble on towards the firelight. and as she thought of that nearing brightness, of her husband's eyes, that never judged, never grew hard or fierce or remote from human tolerance, a strange repulsion from her son rose in her. cold, fierce, righteous boy; cold, heartless theories that one throb of human emotion would rightly shatter;--the thought was almost like an echo of paul quentin speaking in her heart to comfort her. she sprang up: that was indeed the last turn of horror. if she was not to faint she must not think. action alone could dispel the whirling mist where she did not know herself. she went down to the dining-room. augustine stood looking out of the window. "do come and see this delightful swallow," he said: "he's skimming over and over the lawn." she felt that she could not look at the swallow. she could only walk to her chair and sink down on it. augustine repelled her with his cheerfulness, his trivial satisfactions. how could he not know that she was in torment and that he had plunged her there. this involuntary injustice to him was, she saw again, veritably crazed. she poured herself out water and said in a voice that surprised herself:--"very delightful, i am sure; but come and have your lunch. i am hungry." "and how pale you are," said augustine, going to his place. "we stayed out too long. you got chilled." he looked at her with the solicitude that was like a brother's--or a doctor's. that jarred upon her racked nerves, too. "yes; i am cold," she said. she took food upon her plate and pretended to eat. augustine, she guessed, must already feel the change in her. he must see that she only pretended. but he said nothing more. his tact was a further turn to the knot of her sudden misery. * * * * * augustine was with her in the drawing-room when she heard the wheels of the station-fly grinding on the gravel drive; they sounded very faintly in the drawing-room, but, from years of listening, her hearing had grown very acute. she could never meet her husband without an emotion that betrayed itself in pallor and trembling and today the emotion was so marked that augustine's presence was at once a safeguard and an anxiety; before augustine she could be sure of not breaking down, not bursting into tears of mingled gladness and wretchedness, but though he would keep her from betraying too much to sir hugh, would she not betray too much to him? he was reading a review and laid it down as the door opened: she could only hope that he noticed nothing. sir hugh came in quickly. at fifty-four he was still a very handsome man of a chivalrous and soldierly bearing. he had long limbs, broad shoulders and a not yet expanded waist. his nose and chin were clearly and strongly cut, his eyes brightly blue; his moustache ran to decisive little points twisted up from the lip and was as decorative as an epaulette upon a martial shoulder. pleasantness radiated from him, and though, with years, this pleasantness was significant rather of his general attitude than of his individual interest, though his movements had become a little indolent and his features a little heavy, these changes, to affectionate eyes, were merely towards a more pronounced geniality and contentedness. today, however, geniality and contentment were less apparent. he looked slightly nipped and hardened, and, seeming pleased to find a fire, he stood before it, after he had shaken hands with his wife and with augustine, and said that it had been awfully cold in the train. "we will have tea at half past four instead of five today, then," said amabel. but no, he replied, he couldn't stop for tea: he must catch the four-four back to town: he had a dinner and should only just make it. his eye wandered a little vaguely about the room, but he brought it back to amabel to say with a smile that the fire made up for the loss of tea. there was then a little silence during which it might have been inferred that sir hugh expected augustine to leave the room. amabel, too, expected it; but augustine had taken up his review and was reading again. she felt her fear of him, her anger against him, grow. very pleasantly, sir hugh at last suggested that he had a little business to talk over. "i think i'll ask augustine to let us have a half hour's talk." "oh, i'll not interfere with business," said augustine, not lifting his eyes. the silence, now, was more than uncomfortable; to amabel it was suffocating. she could guess too well that some latent enmity was expressed in augustine's assumed unconsciousness. that sir hugh was surprised, displeased, was evident; but, when he spoke again, after a little pause, it was still pleasantly:--"not with business, but with talk you will interfere. i'm afraid i must ask you.--i don't often have a chance to talk with your mother.--i'll see you later, eh?" augustine made no reply. he rose and walked out of the room. sir hugh still stood before the fire, lifting first the sole of one boot and then the other to the blaze. "hasn't always quite nice manners, has he, the boy"; he observed. "i didn't want to have to send him out, you know." "he didn't realize that you wanted to talk to me alone." amabel felt herself offering the excuse from a heart turned to stone. "didn't he, do you think? perhaps not. we always do talk alone, you know. he's just a trifle tactless, shows a bit of temper sometimes. i've noticed it. i hope he doesn't bother you with it." "no. i never saw him like that, before," said amabel, looking down as she sat in her chair. "well, that's all that matters," said sir hugh, as if satisfied. his boots were quite hot now and he went to the writing-desk drawing a case of papers from his breast-pocket. "here are some of your securities, amabel," he said: "i want a few more signatures. things haven't been going very well with me lately. i'd be awfully obliged if you'd help me out." "oh--gladly--" she murmured. she rose and came to the desk. she hardly saw the papers through a blur of miserable tears while she wrote her name here and there. she was shut out in the mist and dark; he wasn't thinking of her at all; he was chill, preoccupied; something was displeasing him; decisively, almost sharply, he told her where to write. "you mustn't be worried, you know," he observed as he pointed out the last place; "i'm arranging here, you see, to pass charlock house over to you for good. that is a little return for all you've done. it's not a valueless property. and then bertram tied up a good sum for the child, you know." his speaking of "the child," made her heart stop beating, it brought the past so near.--and was charlock house to be her very own? "oh," she murmured, "that is too good of you.--you mustn't do that.--apart from augustine's share, all that i have is yours; i want no return." "ah, but i want you to have it"; said sir hugh; "it will ease my conscience a little. and you really do care for the grim old place, don't you." "i love it." "well, sign here, and here, and it's yours. there. now you are mistress in your own home. you don't know how good you've been to me, amabel." the voice was the old, kind voice, touched even, it seemed, with an unwonted feeling, and, suddenly, the tears ran down her cheeks as, looking at the papers that gave her her home, she said, faltering:--"you are not displeased with me?--nothing is the matter?" he looked at her, startled, a little confused. "why my dear girl,--displeased with you?--how could i be?--no. it's only these confounded affairs of mine that are in a bit of a mess just now." "and can't i be of even more help--without any returns? i can be so economical for myself, here. i need almost nothing in my quiet life." sir hugh flushed. "oh, you've not much more to give, my dear. i've taken you at your word." "take me completely at my word. take everything." "you dear little saint," he said. he patted her shoulder. the door was wide; the fire shone upon her. she felt herself falling on her knees before it, with happy tears. he, who knew all, could say that to her, with sincerity. the day of lowering fear and bewilderment opened to sudden joy. his hand was on her shoulder; she lifted it and kissed it. "oh! don't!"--said sir hugh. he drew his hand sharply away. there was confusion, irritation, in his little laugh. amabel's tears stood on scarlet cheeks. did he not understand?--did he think?--and was he right in thinking?--shame flooded her. what girlish impulse had mingled incredibly with her gratitude, her devotion? sir hugh had turned away, and as she sat there, amazed with her sudden suspicion, the door opened and augustine came in saying:--"here is lady elliston, mother." v lady elliston helped her. how that, too, brought back the past to amabel as she rose and moved forward, before her husband and her son, to greet the friend of twenty years ago. lady elliston, at difficult moments, had always helped her, and this was one of the most difficult that she had ever known. amabel forgot her tears, forgot her shame, in her intense desire that augustine should guess nothing. "my very dear amabel," said lady elliston. she swept forward and took both lady channice's hands, holding them firmly, looking at her intently, intently smiling, as if, with her own mastery of the situation, to give her old friend strength. "my dear, dear amabel," she repeated: "how good it is to see you again.--and how lovely you are." she was silken, she was scarfed, she was soft and steady; as in the past, sweetness and strength breathed from her. she was competent to deal with most calamitous situations and to make them bearable, to make them even graceful. she could do what she would with situations: amabel felt that of her now as she had felt it years ago. her eyes continued to gaze for a long moment into amabel's eyes before, as softly and as steadily, they passed to sir hugh who was again standing before the fire behind his wife. "how do you do," she then said with a little nod. "how d'ye do," sir hugh replied. his voice was neither soft nor steady; the sharpness, the irritation was in it. "i didn't know you were down here," he said. over amabel's shoulder, while she still held amabel's hands, lady elliston looked at him, all sweetness. "yes: i arrived this morning. i am staying with the greys." "the greys? how in the dickens did you run across them?" sir hugh asked with a slight laugh. "i met them at jack's cousin's--the nice old bishop, you know. they are tiresome people; but kind. and there is a grey _fils_--the oldest--whom peggy took rather a fancy to last winter,--they were hunting together in yorkshire;--and i wanted to look at him--and at the place!--"--lady elliston's smile was all candour. "they are very solid; it's not a bad place. if the young people are really serious jack and i might consider it; with three girls still to marry, one must be very wise and reasonable. but, of course, i came really to see you, amabel." she had released amabel's hands at last with a final soft pressure, and, as amabel took her accustomed chair near the table, she sat down near her and loosened her cloak and unwound her scarf, and threw back her laces. "and i've been making friends with your boy," she went on, looking up at augustine:--"he's been walking me about the garden, saying that you mustn't be disturbed. why haven't i been able to make friends before? why hasn't he been to see me in london?" "i'll bring him someday," said sir hugh. "he is only just grown up, you see." "i see: do bring him soon. he is charming," said lady elliston, smiling at augustine. amabel remembered her pretty, assured manner of saying any pleasantness--or unpleasantness for that matter--that she chose to say; but it struck her, from this remark, that the gift had grown a little mechanical. augustine received it without embarrassment. augustine already seemed to know that this smiling guest was in the habit of saying that young men were charming before their faces when she wanted to be pleasant to them. amabel seemed to see her son from across the wide chasm that had opened between them; but, looking at his figure, suddenly grown strange, she felt that augustine's manners were 'nice.' the fact of their niceness, of his competence--really it matched lady elliston's--made him the more mature; and this moment of motherly appreciation led her back to the stony wilderness where her son judged her, with a man's, not a boy's judgment. there was no uncertainty in augustine; his theories might be young; his character was formed; his judgments would not change. she forced herself not to think; but to look and listen. lady elliston continued to talk: indeed it was she and augustine who did most of the talking. sir hugh only interjected a remark now and then from his place before the fire. amabel was able to feel a further change in him; he was displeased today, and displeased in particular, now, with lady elliston. she thought that she could understand the vexation for him of this irruption of his real life into the sad little corner of kindness and duty that charlock house and its occupants must represent to him. he had seldom spoken to her about lady elliston; he had seldom spoken to her about any of the life that she had abandoned in abandoning him: but she knew that lord and lady elliston were near friends still, and with this knowledge she could imagine how on edge her husband must be when to the near friend of the real life he could allow an even sharper note to alter all his voice. amabel heard it sadly, with a sense of confused values: nothing today was as she had expected it to be: and if she heard she was sure that lady elliston must hear it too, and perhaps the symptom of lady elliston's displeasure was that she talked rather pointedly to augustine and talked hardly at all to sir hugh: her eyes, in speaking, passed sometimes over his figure, rested sometimes, with a bland courtesy, on his face when he spoke; but augustine was their object: on him they dwelt and smiled. the years had wrought few changes in lady elliston. silken, soft, smiling, these were, still, as in the past, the words that described her. she had triumphantly kept her lovely figure: the bright brown hair, too, had been kept, but at some little sacrifice of sincerity: lady elliston must be nearly fifty and her shining locks showed no sign of fading. perhaps, in the perfection of her appearance and manner, there was a hint of some sacrifice everywhere. how much she has kept, was the first thought; but the second came:--how much she has given up. yes; there was the only real change: amabel, gazing at her, somewhat as a nun gazes from behind convent gratings at some bright denizen of the outer world, felt it more and more. she was sweet, but was she not too skilful? she was strong, but was not her strength unscrupulous? as she listened to her, amabel remembered old wonders, old glimpses of motives that stole forth reconnoitring and then retreated at the hint of rebuff, graceful and unconfused. there were motives now, behind that smile, that softness; motives behind the flattery of augustine, the blandness towards sir hugh, the visit to herself. some of the motives were, perhaps, all kindness: lady elliston had always been kind; she had always been a binder of wounds, a dispenser of punctual sunlight; she was one of the world's powerfully benignant great ladies; committees clustered round her; her words of assured wisdom sustained and guided ecclesiastical and political organisations; one must be benignant, in an altruistic modern world, if one wanted to rule. it was not a cynical nun who gazed; lady elliston was kind and lady elliston loved power; simply, without a sense of blame, amabel drew her conclusions. there were now lapses in lady elliston's fluency. her eyes rested contemplatively on amabel; it was evident that she wanted to see amabel alone. this motive was so natural a one that, although sir hugh seemed determined, at the risk of losing his train, to stay till the last minute, he, too, felt, at last, its pressure. his wife saw him go with a sense of closing mists. augustine, now more considerate, followed him. she was left facing her guest. only lady elliston could have kept the moment from being openly painful and even lady elliston could not pretend to find it an easy one; but she did not err on the side of too much tact. it was so sweetly, so gravely that her eyes rested for a long moment of silence on her old friend, so quietly that they turned away from her rising flush, that amabel felt old gratitudes mingling with old distrusts. "what a sad room this is," said lady elliston, looking about it. "is it just as you found it, amabel?" "yes, almost. i have taken away some things." "i wish you would take them all away and put in new ones. it might be made into a very nice room; the panelling is good. what it needs is jacobean furniture, fine old hangings, and some bits of glass and porcelain here and there." "i suppose so." amabel's eyes followed lady elliston's. "i never thought of changing anything." lady elliston's eyes turned on hers again. "no: i suppose not," she said. she seemed to find further meanings in the speech and took it up again with: "i suppose not. it's strange that we should never have met in all these years, isn't it." "is it strange?" "i've often felt it so: if you haven't, that is just part of your acceptance. you have accepted everything. it has often made me indignant to think of it." amabel sat in her high-backed chair near the table. her hands were tightly clasped together in her lap and her face, with the light from the windows falling upon it, was very pale. but she knew that she was calm; that she could meet lady elliston's kindness with an answering kindness; that she was ready, even, to hear lady elliston's questions. this, however, was not a question, and she hesitated for a moment before saying: "i don't understand you." "how well i remember that voice," lady elliston smiled a little sadly: "it's the girl's voice of twenty years ago--holding me away. can't we be frank together, now, amabel, when we are both middle-aged women?--at least i am middle-aged.--how it has kept you young, this strange life you've led." "but, really, i do not understand," amabel murmured, confused; "i didn't understand you then, sometimes." "then i may be frank?" "yes; be frank, of course." "it is only that indignation that i want to express," said lady elliston, tentative no longer and firmly advancing. "why are you here, in this dismal room, this dismal house? why have you let yourself be cloistered like this? why haven't you come out and claimed things?" amabel's grey eyes, even in their serenity always a little wild, widened with astonishment. "claimed?" she repeated. "what do you mean? what could i have claimed? i have been given everything." "my dear amabel, you speak as if you had deserved this imprisonment." there was another and a longer silence in which amabel seemed slowly to find meanings incredible to her before. and her reception of them was expressed in the changed, the hardened voice with which she said: "you know everything. i've always been sure you knew. how can you say such things to me?" "do not be angry with me, dear amabel. i do not mean to offend." "you spoke as though you were sorry for me, as though i had been injured.--it touches him." "but," lady elliston had flushed very slightly, "it does touch him. i blame hugh for this. he ought not to have allowed it. he ought not to have accepted such misplaced penitence. you were a mere child, and hugh neglected you shamefully." "i was not a mere child," said amabel. "i was a sinful woman." lady elliston sat still, as if arrested and spell-bound by the unexpected words. she seemed to find no answer. and as the silence grew long, amabel went on, slowly, with difficulty, yet determinedly opposing and exposing the folly of the implied accusation. "you don't seem to remember the facts. i betrayed my husband. he might have cast me off. he might have disgraced me and my child. and he lifted me up; he sheltered me; he gave his name to the child. he has given me everything i have. you see--you must not speak of him like that to me." lady elliston had gathered herself together though still, it was evident, bewildered. "i don't mean to blame hugh so much. it was your fault, too, i suppose. you asked for the cloister, i know." "no; i didn't ask for it. i asked to be allowed to go away and hide myself. the cloister, too, was a gift,--like my name, my undishonoured child." "dear, dear amabel," said lady elliston, gazing at her, "how beautiful of you to be able to feel like that." "it isn't i who am beautiful"; amabel's lips trembled a little now and her eyes filled suddenly with tears. tears and trembling seemed to bring hardness rather than softening to her face; they were like a chill breeze, like an icy veil, and the face, with its sorrow, was like a winter's landscape. "he is so beautiful that he would never let anyone know or understand what i owe him: he would never know it himself: there is something simple and innocent about such men: they do beautiful things unconsciously. you know him well: you are far nearer him than i am: but you can't know what the beauty is, for you have never been helpless and disgraced and desperate nor needed anyone to lift you up. no one can know as i do the angel in my husband." lady elliston sat silent. she received amabel's statements steadily yet with a little wincing, as though they had been bullets whistling past her head; they would not pierce, if one did not move; yet an involuntary compression of the lips and flutter of the eyelids revealed a rather rigid self-mastery. only after the silence had grown long did she slightly stir, move her hand, turn her head with a deep, careful breath, and then say, almost timidly; "then, he has lifted you up, amabel?--you are happy, really happy, in your strange life?" amabel looked down. the force of her vindicating ardour had passed from her. with the question the hunted, haunted present flooded in. happy? yesterday she might have answered "yes," so far away had the past seemed, so forgotten the fear in which she had learned to breathe. today the past was with her and the fear pressed heavily upon her heart. she answered in a sombre voice: "with my past what woman could be happy. it blights everything." "oh--but amabel--" lady elliston breathed forth. she leaned forward, then moved back, withdrawing the hand impulsively put out.--"why?--why?--" she gently urged. "it is all over: all passed: all forgotten. don't--ah don't let it blight anything." "oh no," said amabel, shaking her head. "it isn't over; it isn't forgotten; it never will be. hugh cannot forget--though he has forgiven. and someday, i feel it, augustine will know. then i shall drink the cup of shame to the last drop." "oh!--" said lady elliston, as if with impatience. she checked herself. "what can i say?--if you will think of yourself in this preposterous way.--as for augustine, he does not know and how should he ever know? how could he, when no one in the world knows but you and i and hugh." she paused at that, looking at amabel's downcast face. "you notice what i say, amabel?" "yes; that isn't it. he will guess." "you are morbid, my poor child.--but do you notice nothing when i say that only we three know?" amabel looked up. lady elliston met her eyes. "i came today to tell you, amabel. i felt sure you did not know. there is no reason at all, now, why you should dread coming out into the world--with augustine. you need fear no meetings. you did not know that he was dead." "he?" "yes. he. paul quentin." amabel, gazing at her, said nothing. "he died in italy, last week. he was married, you know, quite happily; an ordinary sort of person; she had money; he rather let his work go. but they were happy; a large family; a villa on a hill somewhere; pictures, bric-ã -brac and bohemian intellectualism. you knew of his marriage?" "yes; i knew." the tears had risen to lady elliston's eyes before that stricken, ashen face; she looked away, murmuring: "i wanted to tell you, when we were alone. it might have come as such an ugly shock, if you were unprepared. but, now, there is no danger anymore. and you will come out, amabel?" "no;--never.--it was never that." "but what was it then?" amabel had risen and was looking around her blindly. "it was.--i have no place but here.--forgive me--i must go. i can't talk any more." "yes; go; do go and lie down." lady elliston, rising too, put an arm around her shoulders and took her hand. "i'll come again and see you. i am going up to town for a night or so on tuesday, but i bring peggy down here for the next week-end. i'll see you then.--ah, here is augustine, and tea. he will give me my tea and you must sleep off your headache. your poor mother has a very bad headache, augustine. i have tried her. goodbye, dear, go and rest." vi an hour ago augustine had found his mother in tears; now he found her beyond them. he gave her his arm, and, outside in the hall, prepared to mount the stairs with her; but, shaking her head, trying, with miserable unsuccess, to smile, she pointed him back to the drawing-room and to his duties of host. "ah, she is very tired. she does not look well," said lady elliston. "i am glad to see that you take good care of her." "she is usually very well," said augustine, standing over the tea-tray that had been put on the table between him and lady elliston. "let's see: what do you have? sugar? milk?" "no sugar; milk, please. it's such a great pleasure to me to meet your mother again." augustine made no reply to this, handing her her cup and the plate of bread and butter. "she was one of the loveliest girls i have ever seen," lady elliston went on, helping herself. "she looked like a madonna--and a cowslip.--and she looks like that more than ever." she had paused for a moment as an uncomfortable recollection came to her. it was paul quentin who had said that: at her house. "yes," augustine assented, pleased, "she does look like a cowslip; she is so pale and golden and tranquil. it's funny you should say so," he went on, "for i've often thought it; but with me it's an association of ideas, too. those meadows over there, beyond our lawn, are full of cowslips in spring and ever since i can remember we have picked them there together." "how sweet"; lady elliston was still a little confused, by her blunder, and by his words. "what a happy life you and your mother must have had, cloistered here. i've been telling your mother that it's like a cloister. i've been scolding her a little for shutting herself up in it. and now that i have this chance of talking to you i do very much want to say that i hope you will bring her out a little more." "bring her out? where?" augustine inquired. "into the world--the world she is so fitted to adorn. it's ridiculous this--this fad of hers," said lady elliston. "is it a fad?" augustine asked, but with at once a lightness and distance of manner. "of course. and it is bad for anyone to be immured." "i don't think it has been bad for her. perhaps this is more the world than you think." "i only mean bad in the sense of sad." "isn't the world sad?" "what a strange young man you are. do you really mean to say that you like to see your mother--your beautiful, lovely mother--imprisoned in this gloomy place and meeting nobody from one year's end to the other?" "i have said nothing at all about my likes," said augustine, smiling. lady elliston gazed at him. he startled her almost as much as his mother had done. what a strange young man, indeed; what strange echoes of his father and mother in him. but she had to grope for the resemblances to paul quentin; they were there; she felt them; but they were difficult to see; while it was easy to see the resemblances to amabel. his father was like a force, a fierceness in him, controlled and guided by an influence that was his mother. and where had he found, at nineteen, that assurance, an assurance without his father's vanity or his mother's selflessness? paul quentin had been assured because he was so absolutely sure of his own value; amabel was assured because, in her own eyes, she was valueless; this young man seemed to be without self-reference or self-effacement; but he was quite self-assured. had he some mental talisman by which he accurately gauged all values, his own included? he seemed at once so oddly above yet of the world. she pulled herself together to remember that he was, only, nineteen, and that she had had motives in coming, and that if these motives had been good they were now better. "you have said nothing; but i am going to ask you to say something"; she smiled back at him. "i am going to ask you to say that you will take me on trust. i am your friend and your mother's friend." "since when, my mother's?" augustine asked. his amiability of aspect remained constant. "since twenty years." "twenty years in which you have not seen your friend." "i know that that looks strange. but when one shuts oneself away into a cloister one shuts out friends." "does one?" "you won't trust me?" "i don't know anything about you, except that you have made my mother ill and that you want something of me." "my dear young man i, at all events, know one thing about you very clearly, and that is that i trust you." "i want nothing of you," said augustine, but he still smiled, so that his words did not seem discourteous. "nothing? really nothing? i am your mother's friend, and you want nothing of me? i have sought her out; i came today to see and understand; i have not made her ill; she was nearly crying when we came into the room, you and i, a little while ago. what i see and understand makes me sad and angry. and i believe that you, too, see and understand; i believe that you, too, are sad and angry. and i want to help you. i want you, when you come into the world, as you must, to bring your mother. i'll be waiting there for you both. i am a sort of fairy-godmother. i want to see justice done." "i suppose you mean that you are angry with my father and want to see justice done on him," said augustine after a pause. again lady elliston sat suddenly still, as if another, an unexpected bullet, had whizzed past her. "what makes you say that?" she asked after a moment. "what you have said and what you have seen. he had been making her cry," said augustine. he was still calm, but now, under the calm, she heard, like the thunder of the sea in caverns deep beneath a placid headland, the muffled sound of a hidden, a dark indignation. "yes," she said, looking into his eyes; "that made me angry; and that he should take all her money from her, as i am sure he does, and leave her to live like this." augustine's colour rose. he turned away his eyes and seemed to ponder. "i do want something of you, after all; the answer to one question," he said at last. "is it because of him that she is cloistered here?" in a flash lady elliston had risen to her emergency, her opportunity. she was grave, she was ready, and she was very careful. "it was her own choice," she said. augustine pondered again. he, too, was grave and careful she saw how, making use of her proffered help, he yet held her at a distance. "that does not answer my question," he said. "i will put it in another way. is it because of some evil in his life that she is cloistered?" lady elliston sat before him in one of the high-backed chairs; the light was behind her: the delicate oval of her face maintained its steady attitude: in the twilit room augustine could see her eyes fixed very strangely upon him. she, too, was perhaps pondering. when at last she spoke, she rose in speaking, as if her answer must put an end to their encounter, as if he must feel, as well as she, that after her answer there could be no further question. "not altogether, for that," she said; "but, yes, in part it is because of what you would call an evil in his life that she is cloistered." augustine walked with her to the door and down the stone passage outside, where a strip of faded carpet hardly kept one's feet from the cold. he was nearer to her in this curious moment of their parting than he had been at all. he liked lady elliston in her last response; it was not the wish to see justice wreaked that had made it; it was mere truth. when they had reached the hall door, he opened it for her and in the fading light he saw that she was very pale. the grey's dog-cart was going slowly round and round the gravel drive. lady elliston did not look at him. she stood waiting for the groom to see her. "what you asked me was asked in confidence," she said; "and what i have told you is told in confidence." "it wasn't new to me; i had guessed it," said augustine. "but your confirmation of what i guessed is in confidence." "i have been your father's life-long friend," said lady elliston; "he is not an evil man." "i understand. i don't misjudge him." "i don't want to see justice done on him," said lady elliston. the groom had seen her and the dog-cart, with a brisk rattle of wheels, drew up to the door. "it isn't a question of that; i only want to see justice done _for_ her." all through she had been steady; now she was sweet again. "i want to free her. i want you to free her. and--whenever you do--i shall be waiting to give her to the world again." they looked at each other now and augustine could answer, with another smile; "you are the world, i suppose." "yes; i am the world," she accepted. "the actual fairy-godmother, with a magic wand that can turn pumpkins into coaches and put cinderellas into their proper places." augustine had handed her up to her seat beside the groom. he tucked her rug about her. if he had laid aside anything to meet her on her own ground, he, too, had regained it now. "but does the world always know what _is_ the proper place?" was his final remark as she drove off. she did not know that she could have found an answer to it. vii amabel was sitting beside her window when her son came in and the face she turned on him was white and rigid. "my dear mother," said augustine, coming up to her, "how pale you are." she had been sitting there for all that time, tearless, in a stupor of misery. yes, she answered him, she was very tired. augustine stood over her looking out of the window. "a little walk wouldn't do you good?" he asked. no, she answered, her head ached too badly. she could find nothing to say to him: the truth that lay so icily upon her heart was all that she could have said: "i am your guilty mother. i robbed you of your father. and your father is dead, unmourned, unloved, almost forgotten by me." for that was the poison in her misery, to know that for paul quentin she felt almost nothing. to hear that he had died was to hear that a ghost had died. what would augustine say to her if the truth were spoken? it was now a looming horror between them. it shut her from him and it shut him away. "oh, do come out," said augustine after a moment: "the evening's so fine: it will do you good; and there's still a bit of sunset to be seen." she shook her head, looking away from him. "is it really so bad as that?" "yes; very bad." "can't i do anything? get you anything?" "no, thank you." "i'm so sorry," said augustine, and, suddenly, but gravely, deliberately, he stooped and kissed her. "oh--don't!--don't!" she gasped. she thrust him away, turning her face against the chair. "don't: you must leave me.--i am so unhappy." the words sprang forth: she could not repress them, nor the gush of miserable tears. if augustine was horrified he was silent. he stood leaning over her for a moment and then went out of the room. she lay fallen in her chair, weeping convulsively. the past was with her; it had seized her and, in her panic-stricken words, it had thrust her child away. what would happen now? what would augustine say? what would he ask? if he said nothing and asked nothing, what would he think? she tried to gather her thoughts together, to pray for light and guidance; but, like a mob of blind men locked out from sanctuary, the poor, wild thoughts only fled about outside the church and fumbled at the church door. her very soul seemed shut against her. she roused herself at last, mechanically telling herself that she must go through with it; she must dress and go down to dinner and she must find something to say to augustine, something that would make what had happened to them less sinister and inexplicable. --unless--it seemed like a mad cry raised by one of the blind men in the dark,--unless she told him all, confessed all; her guilt, her shame, the truths of her blighted life. she shuddered; she cowered as the cry came to her, covering her ears and shutting it out. it was mad, mad. she had not strength for such a task, and if that were weakness--oh, with a long breath she drew in the mitigation--if it were weakness, would it not be a cruel, a heartless strength that could blight her child's life too, in the name of truth. she must not listen to the cry. yet strangely it had echoed in her, almost as if from within, not from without, the dark, deserted church; almost as if her soul, shut in there in the darkness, were crying out to her. she turned her mind from the sick fancy. augustine met her at dinner. he was pale but he seemed composed. they spoke little. he said, in answer to her questioning, that he had quite liked lady elliston; yes, they had had a nice talk; she seemed very friendly; he should go and see her when he next went up to london. amabel felt the crispness in his voice but, centered as she was in her own self-mastery, she could not guess at the degree of his. after dinner they went into the drawing-room, where the old, ugly lamp added its light to the candles on the mantel-piece. augustine took his book and sat down at one side of the table. amabel sat at the other. she, too, took a book and tried to read; a little time passed and then she found that her hands were trembling so much that she could not. she slid the book softly back upon the table, reaching out for her work-bag. she hoped augustine had not seen, but, glancing up at him, she saw his eyes upon her. augustine's eyes looked strange tonight. the dark rims around the iris seemed to have expanded. suddenly she felt horribly afraid of him. they gazed at each other, and she forced herself to a trembling, meaningless smile. and when she smiled at him he sprang up and came to her. he leaned over her, and she shrank back into her chair, shutting her eyes. "you must tell me the truth," said augustine. "i can't bear this. _he_ has made you unhappy.--_he_ comes between us." she lay back in the darkness, hearing the incredible words. "he?--what do you mean?" "he is a bad man. and he makes you miserable. and you love him." she heard the nightmare: she could not look at it. "my husband bad? he is good, more good than you can guess. what do you mean by speaking so?" with closed eyes, shutting him out, she spoke, anger and terror in her voice. augustine lifted himself and stood with his hands clenched looking at her. "you say that because you love him. you love him more than anything or anyone in the world." "i do. i love him more than anyone or anything in the world. how have you dared--in silence--in secret--to nourish these thoughts against the man who has given you all you have." "he hasn't given me all i have. you are everything in my life and he is nothing. he is selfish. he is sensual. he is stupid. he doesn't know what beauty or goodness is. i hate him," said augustine. her eyes at last opened on him. she grasped her chair and raised herself. whose hands were these, desecrating her holy of holies. her son's? was it her son who spoke these words? an enemy stood before her. "then you do not love me. if you hate him you do not love me,"--her anger had blotted out her fear, but she could find no other than these childish words and the tears ran down her face. "and if you love him you cannot love me," augustine answered. his self-mastery was gone. it was a fierce, wild anger that stared back at her. his young face was convulsed and livid. "it is you who are bad to have such false, base thoughts!" his mother cried, and her eyes in their indignation, their horror, struck at him, accused him, thrust him forth. "you are cruel--and hard--and self-righteous.--you do not love me.--there is no tenderness in your heart!"-augustine burst into tears. "there is no room in your heart for me!--" he gasped. he turned from her and rushed out of the room. * * * * * a long time passed before she leaned forward in the chair where she had sat rigidly, rested her elbows on her knees, buried her face in her hands. her heart ached and her mind was empty: that was all she knew. it had been too much. this torpor of sudden weakness was merciful. now she would go to bed and sleep. it took her a long time to go upstairs; her head whirled, and if she had not clung to the baluster she would have fallen. in the passage above she paused outside augustine's door and listened. she heard him move inside, walking to his window, to lean out into the night, probably, as was his wont. that was well. he, too, would sleep presently. in her room she said to her maid that she did not need her. it took her but a few minutes tonight to prepare for bed. she could not even braid her uncoiled hair. she tossed it, all loosened, above her head as she fell upon the pillow. she heard, for a little while, the dull thumping of her heart. her breath was warm in a mesh of hair beneath her cheek; she was too sleepy to put it away. she was wakened next morning by the maid. her curtains were drawn and a dull light from a rain-blotted world was in the room. the maid brought a note to her bedside. from mr. augustine, she said. amabel raised herself to hold the sheet to the light and read:-"dear mother," it said. "i think that i shall go and stay with wallace for a week or so. i shall see you before i go up to oxford. try to forgive me for my violence last night. i am sorry to have added to your unhappiness. your affectionate son--augustine." her mind was still empty. "has mr. augustine gone?" she asked the maid. "yes, ma'am; he left quite early, to catch the eight-forty train." "ah, yes," said amabel. she sank back on her pillow. "i will have my breakfast in bed. tea, please, only, and toast."--then, the long habit of self-discipline asserting itself, the necessity for keeping strength, if it were only to be spent in suffering:--"no, coffee, and an egg, too." she found, indeed, that she was very hungry; she had eaten nothing yesterday. after her bath and the brushing and braiding of her hair, it was pleasant to lie propped high on her pillows and to drink her hot coffee. the morning papers, too, were nice to look at, folded on her tray. she did not wish to read them; but they spoke of a firmly established order, sustaining her life and assuring her of ample pillows to lie on and hot coffee to drink, assuring her that bodily comforts were pleasant whatever else was painful. it was a childish, a still stupefied mood, she knew, but it supported her; an oasis of the familiar, the safe, in the midst of whirling, engulfing storms. it supported her through the hours when she lay, with closed eyes, listening to the pour and drip of the rain, when, finally deciding to get up, she rose and dressed very carefully, taking all her time. below, in the drawing-room, when she entered, it was very dark. the fire was unlit, the bowls of roses were faded; and sudden, childish tears filled her eyes at the desolateness. on such a day as this augustine would have seen that the fire was burning, awaiting her. she found matches and lighted it herself and the reluctantly creeping brightness made the day feel the drearier; it took a long time even to warm her foot as she stood before it, leaning her arm on the mantel-piece. it was saturday; she should not see her girls today; there was relief in that, for she did not think that she could have found anything to say to them this morning. looking at the roses again, she felt vexed with the maid for having left them there in their melancholy. she rang and spoke to her almost sharply telling her to take them away, and when she had gone felt the tears rise with surprise and compunction for the sharpness. there would be no fresh flowers in the room today, it was raining too hard. if augustine had been here he would have gone out and found her some wet branches of beech or sycamore to put in the vases: he knew how she disliked a flowerless, leafless room, a dislike he shared. how the rain beat down. she stood looking out of the window at the sodden earth, the blotted shapes of the trees. beyond the nearest meadows it was like a grey sheet drawn down, confusing earth and sky and shutting vision into an islet. she hoped that augustine had taken his mackintosh. he was very forgetful about such things. she went out to look into the bleak, stone hall hung with old hunting prints that were dimmed and spotted with age and damp. yes, it was gone from its place, and his ulster, too. it had been a considered, not a hasty departure. a tweed cloak that he often wore on their walks hung there still and, vaguely, as though she sought something, she turned it, looked at it, put her hands into the worn, capacious pockets. all were empty except one where she found some withered gorse flowers. augustine was fond of stripping off the golden blossoms as they passed a bush, of putting his nose into the handful of fragrance, and then holding it out for her to smell it, too:--"is it apricots, or is it peaches?" she could hear him say. she went back into the drawing-room holding the withered flowers. their fragrance was all gone, but she did not like to burn them. she held them and bent her face to them as she stood again looking out. he would by now have reached his destination. wallace was an eton friend, a nice boy, who had sometimes stayed at charlock house. he and augustine were perhaps already arguing about nietzsche. strange that her numbed thoughts should creep along this path of custom, of maternal associations and solicitudes, forgetful of fear and sorrow. the recognition came with a sinking pang. reluctantly, unwillingly, her mind was forced back to contemplate the catastrophe that had befallen her. he was her judge, her enemy: yet, on this dismal day, how she missed him. she leaned her head against the window-frame and the tears fell and fell. if he were there, could she not go to him and take his hand and say that, whatever the deep wounds they had dealt each other, they needed each other too much to be apart. could she not ask him to take her back, to forgive her, to love her? ah--there full memory rushed in. her heart seemed to pant and gasp in the sudden coil. take him back? when it was her steady fear as well as her sudden anger that had banished him, he thought he loved her, but that was because he did not know and it was the anger rather than the love of augustine's last words that came to her. he loved her because he believed her good, and that imaginary goodness cast a shadow on her husband. to believe her good augustine had been forced to believe evil of the man she loved and to whom they both owed everything. he had said that he was shut out from her heart, and it was true, and her heart broke in seeing it. but it was by more than the sacred love for her husband that her child was shut out. her past, her guilt, was with her and stood as a barrier between them. she was separated from him for ever. and, looking round the room, suddenly terrified, it seemed to her that augustine was dead and that she was utterly alone. viii she did not write to augustine for some days. there seemed nothing that she could say. to say that she forgave him might seem to put aside too easily the deep wrong he had done her and her husband; to say that she longed to see him and that, in spite of all, her heart was his, seemed to make deeper the chasm of falseness between them. the rain fell during all these days. sometimes a pale evening sunset would light the western horizon under lifted clouds and she could walk out and up and down the paths, among her sodden rose-trees, or down into the wet, dark woods. sometimes at night she saw a melancholy star shining here and there in the vaporous sky. but in the morning the grey sheet dropped once more between her and the outer world, and the sound of the steady drip and beat was like an outer echo to her inner wretchedness. it was on the fourth day that wretchedness turned to bitter restlessness, and that to a sudden resolve. not to write, not even to say she forgave, might make him think that her heart was still hardened against him. her fear had blunted her imagination. clearly now she saw, and with an anguish in the vision, that augustine must be suffering too. clearly she heard the love in his parting words. and she longed so to see, to hear that love again, that the longing, as if with sudden impatience of the hampering sense of sin, rushed into words that might bring him. she wrote:--"my dear augustine. i miss you very much. isn't this dismal weather. i am feeling better. i need not tell you that i do forgive you for the mistake that hurts us both." then she paused, for her heart cried out "oh--come back soon"; but she did not dare yield to that cry. she hardly knew that, with uncertain fingers, she only repeated again:--"i miss you very much. your affectionate mother." this was on the fourth day. on the afternoon of the fifth she stood, as she so often stood, looking out at the drawing-room window. she was looking and listening, detached from what she saw, yet absorbed, too, for, as with her son, this watchfulness of natural things was habitual to her. it was still raining, but more fitfully: a wind had risen and against a scudding sky the sycamores tossed their foliage, dark or pale by turns as the wind passed over them. a broad pool of water, dappling incessantly with rain-drops, had formed along the farther edge of the walk where it slanted to the lawn: it was this pool that amabel was watching and the bobbin-like dance of drops that looked like little glass thimbles. the old leaden pipes, curiously moulded, that ran down the house beside the windows, splashed and gurgled loudly. the noise of the rushing, falling water shut out other sounds. gazing at the dancing thimbles she was unaware that someone had entered the room behind her. suddenly two hands were laid upon her shoulders. the shock, going through her, was like a violent electric discharge. she tingled from head to foot, and almost with terror. "augustine!" she gasped. but the shock was to change, yet grow, as if some alien force had penetrated her and were disintegrating every atom of her blood. "no, not augustine," said her husband's voice: "but you can be glad to see me, can't you, amabel?" he had taken off his hands now and she could turn to him, could see his bright, smiling face looking at her, could feel him as something wonderful and radiant filling the dismal day, filling her dismal heart, with its presence. but the shock still so trembled in her that she did not move from her place or speak, leaning back upon the window as she looked at him,--for he was very near,--and putting her hands upon the window-sill on either side. "you didn't expect to see me, did you," sir hugh said. she shook her head. never, never, in all these years, had he come again, so soon. months, always, sometimes years, had elapsed between his visits. "the last time didn't count, did it," he went on, in speech vague and desultory yet, at the same time, intent and bright in look. "i was so bothered; i behaved like a selfish brute; i'm sure you felt it. and you were so particularly kind and good--and dear to me, amabel." she felt herself flushing. he stood so near that she could not move forward and he must read the face, amazed, perplexed, incredulous of its joy, yet all lighted from his presence, that she kept fixed on him. for ah, what joy to see him, to feel that here, here alone of all the world, was she safe, consoled, known yet cared for. he who understood all as no one else in the world understood, could stand and smile at her like that. "you look thin, and pale, and tired," were his next words. "what have you been doing to yourself? isn't augustine here? you're not alone?" "yes; i am alone. augustine is staying with the wallace boy." with the mention of augustine the dark memory came, but it was now of something dangerous and hostile shut away, yes, safely shut away, by this encompassing brightness, this sweetness of intent solicitude. she no longer yearned to see augustine. sir hugh looked at her for some moments, when, she said that she was alone, without speaking. "that is nice for me," he then said. "but how miserable,--for you,--it must have been. what a shame that you should have been left alone in this dull place,--and this wretched weather, too!--did you ever see such weather." he looked past her at the rain. "it has been wretched," said amabel; but she spoke, as she felt, in the past: nothing seemed wretched now. "and you were staring out so hard, that you never heard me," he came beside her now, as if to look out, too, and, making room for him, she also turned and they looked out at the rain together. "a filthy day," said sir hugh, "i can't bear to think that this is what you have been doing, all alone." "i don't mind it, i have the girls, on three mornings, you know." "you mean that you don't mind it because you are so used to it?" she had regained some of her composure:--for one thing he was beside her, no longer blocking her way back into the room. "i like solitude, you know," she was able to smile. "really like it?" "sometimes." "better than the company of some people, you mean?" "yes." "but not better than mine," he smiled back. "come, do encourage me, and say that you are glad to see me." in her joy the bewilderment was growing, but she said that, of course, she was glad to see him. "i've been so bored, so badgered," said sir hugh, stretching himself a little as though to throw off the incubus of tiresome memories; "and this morning when i left a dull country house, i said to myself: why not go down and see amabel?--i don't believe she will mind.--i believe that, perhaps, she'll be pleased.--i know that i want to go very much.--so here i am:--very glad to be here--with dear amabel." she looked out, silent, blissful, and perplexed. he was not hard; he was not irritated; all trace of vexed preoccupation was gone; but he was not the sir hugh that she had seen for all these twenty years. he was new, and yet he reminded her of something, and the memory moved towards her through a thick mist of years, moved like a light through mist. far, sweet, early things came to her as its heralds; the sound of brooks running; the primrose woods where she had wandered as a girl; the singing of prophetic birds in spring. the past had never come so near as now when sir hugh--yes, there it was, the fair, far light--was making her remember their long past courtship. and a shudder of sweetness went through her as she remembered, of sweetness yet of unutterable sadness, as though something beautiful and dead had been shown to her. she seemed to lean, trembling, to kiss the lips of a beautiful dead face, before drawing over it the shroud that must cover it for ever. sir hugh was silent also. her silence, perhaps, made him conscious of memories. presently, looking behind them, he said:--"i'm keeping you standing. shall we go to the fire?" she followed him, bending a little to the fire, her arm on the mantel-shelf, a hand held out to the blaze. sir hugh stood on the other side. she was not thinking of herself, hardly of him. suddenly he took the dreaming hand, stooped to it, and kissed it. he had released it before she had time to know her own astonishment. "you did kiss mine, you know," he smiled, leaning his arm, too, on the mantel-shelf and looking at her with gaily supplicating eyes. "don't be angry." the shroud had dropped: the past was gone: she was once more in the present of oppressive, of painful joy. she would have liked to move away and take her chair at some distance; but that would have looked like flight; foolish indeed. she summoned her common-sense, her maturity, her sorrow, to smile back, to say in a voice she strove to make merely light: "unusual circumstances excused me." "unusual circumstances?" "you had been very kind. i was very grateful." sir hugh for a moment was silent, looking at her with his intent, interrogatory gaze. "you are always kind to me," he then said. "i am always grateful. so may i always kiss your hand?" her eyes fell before his. "if you wish to," she answered gravely. "you frighten me a little, do you know," said sir hugh. "please don't frighten me.--are you really angry?--_i_ don't frighten you?" "you bewilder me a little," amabel murmured. she looked into the fire, near tears, indeed, in her bewilderment; and sir hugh looked at her, looked hard and carefully, at her noble figure, her white hands, the gold and white of her leaning head. he looked, as if measuring the degree of his own good fortune. "you are so lovely," he then said quietly. she blushed like a girl. "you are the most beautiful woman i know," said sir hugh. "there is no one like you," he put his hand out to hers, and, helplessly, she yielded it. "amabel, do you know, i have fallen in love with you." she stood looking at him, stupefied; her eyes ecstatic and appalled. "do i displease you?" asked sir hugh. she did not answer. "do i please you?" still she gazed at him, speechless. "do you care at all for me?" he asked, and, though grave, he smiled a little at her in asking the question. how could he not know that, for years, she had cared for him more than for anything, anyone? and when he asked her this last question, the oppression was too great. she drew her hand from his, and laid her arms upon the mantel-shelf and hid her face upon them. it was a helpless confession. it was a helpless appeal. but the appeal was not understood, or was disregarded. in a moment her husband's arms were about her. this was new. this was not like their courtship.--yet, it reminded her,--of what did it remind her as he murmured words of victory, clasped her and kissed her? it reminded her of paul quentin. in the midst of the amazing joy she knew that the horror was as great. "ah don't!--how can you!--how can you!" she said. she drew away from him but he would not let her go. "how can i? how can i do anything else?" he laughed, in easy yet excited triumph. "you do love me--you darling nun!" she had freed her hands and covered her face: "i beg of you," she prayed. the agony of her sincerity was too apparent. sir hugh unclasped his arms. she went to her chair, sat down, leaned on the table, still covering her eyes. so she had leaned, years ago, with hidden face, in telling bertram of the coming of the child. it seemed to her now that her shame was more complete, more overwhelming. and, though it overwhelmed her, her bliss was there; the golden and the black streams ran together. "dearest,--should i have been less sudden?" sir hugh was beside her, leaning over her, reasoning, questioning, only just not caressing her. "it's not as if we didn't know each other, amabel: we have been strangers, in a sense;--yet, through it all--all these years--haven't we felt near?--ah darling, you can't deny it;--you can't deny you love me." his arm was pressing her. "please--" she prayed again, and he moved his hand further away, beyond her crouching shoulder. "you are such a little nun that you can't bear to be loved?--is that it? but you'll have to learn again. you are more than a nun: you are a beautiful woman: young; wonderfully young. it's astonishing how like a girl you are."--sir hugh seemed to muse over a fact that allured. "and however like a nun you've lived--you can't deny that you love me." "you haven't loved me," amabel at last could say. he paused, but only for a moment. "perhaps not: but," his voice had now the delicate aptness that she remembered, "how could i believe that there was a chance for me? how could i think you could ever come to care, like this, when you had left me--you know--amabel." she was silent, her mind whirling. and his nearness, as he leaned over her, was less ecstasy than terror. it was as if she only knew her love, her sacred love again, when he was not near. "it's quite of late that i've begun to wonder," said sir hugh. "stupid ass of course, not to have seen the jewel i held in my hand. but you've only showed me the nun, you darling. i knew you cared, but i never knew how much.--i ought to have had more self-conceit, oughtn't i?" "i have cared. you have been all that is beautiful.--i have cared more than for anything.--but--oh, it could not have been this.--this would have killed me with shame," said amabel. "with shame? why, you strange angel?" "can you ask?" she said in a trembling voice. his hand caressed her hair, slipped around her neck. "you nun; you saint.--does that girlish peccadillo still haunt you?" "don't--oh don't--call it that--call me that!--" "call you a saint? but what else are you?--a beautiful saint. what other woman could have lived the life you've lived? it's wonderful." "don't. i cannot bear it." "can't bear to be called a saint? ah, but, you see, that's just why you are one." she could not speak. she could not even say the only answering word: a sinner. her hands were like leaden weights upon her brows. in the darkness she heard her heart beating heavily, and tried and tried to catch some fragment of meaning from her whirling thoughts. and as if her self-condemnation were a further enchantment, her husband murmured: "it makes you all the lovelier that you should feel like that. it makes me more in love with you than ever: but forget it now. let me make you forget it. i can.--darling, your beautiful hair. i remember it;--it is as beautiful as ever.--i remember it;--it fell to your knees.--let me see your face, amabel." she was shuddering, shrinking from him.--"oh--no--no.--do you not see--not feel--that it is impossible--" "impossible! why?--my darling, you are my wife;--and if you love me?--" they were whirling impossibilities; she could see none clearly but one that flashed out for her now in her extremity of need, bright, ominous, accusing. she seized it:--"augustine." "augustine? what of him?" sir hugh's voice had an edge to it. "he could not bear it. it would break his heart." "what has he to do with it? he isn't all your life:--you've given him most of it already." "he is, he must be, all my life, except that beautiful part that you were:--that you are:--oh you will stay my friend!"-"i'll stay your lover, your determined lover and husband, amabel. darling, you are ridiculous, enchanting--with your barriers, your scruples." the fear, the austerity, he felt in her fanned his ardour to flame. his arms once more went round her; he murmured words of lover-like pleading, rapturous, wild and foolish. and, though her love, her sacred love for him was there, his love for her was a nightmare to her now. she had lost herself, and it was as though she lost him, while he pleaded thus. and again and again she answered, resolute and tormented:--"no: no: never--never. do not speak so to me.--do not--i beg of you." suddenly he released her. he straightened himself, and moved away from her a little. someone had entered. amabel dropped her hands and raised her eyes at last. augustine stood before them. augustine had on still his long travelling coat; his cap, beaded with raindrops, was in his hand; his yellow hair was ruffled. he had entered hastily. he stood there looking at them, transfixed, yet not astonished. he was very pale. for some moments no one of them spoke. sir hugh did not move further from his wife's side: he was neither anxious nor confused; but his face wore an involuntary scowl. the deep confusion was amabel's. but her husband had released her; no longer pleaded; and with the lifting of that dire oppression the realities of her life flooded her almost with relief. it was impossible, this gay, this facile, this unseemly love, but, as she rejected and put it from her, the old love was the stronger, cherished the more closely, in atonement and solicitude, the man shrunk from and repulsed. and in all the deep confusion, before her son,--that he should find her so, almost in her husband's arms,--a flash of clarity went through her mind as she saw them thus confronted. deeper than ever between her and augustine was the challenge of her love and his hatred; but it was that sacred love that now needed safeguards; she could not feel it when her husband was near and pleading; augustine was her refuge from oppression. she rose and went to him and timidly clasped his arm. "dear augustine, i am so glad you have come back. i have missed you so." he stood still, not responding to her touch: but, as she held him, he looked across the room at sir hugh. "you wrote you missed me. that's why i came." sir hugh now strolled to the fire and stood before it, turning to face augustine's gaze; unperturbed; quite at ease. "how wet you are dear," said amabel. "take off this coat." augustine stripped it off and flung it on a chair. she could hear his quick breathing: he did not look at her. and still it seemed to her that it was his anger rather than his love that protected her. "he will want to change, dearest," said sir hugh from before the fire. "and,--i want to finish my talk with you." augustine now looked at his mother, at the blush that overwhelmed her as that possessive word was spoken. "do you want me to go?" "no, dear, no.--it is only the coat that is wet, isn't it. don't go: i want to see you, of course, after your absence.--hugh, you will excuse us; it seems such a long time since i saw him. you and i will finish our talk on another day.--or i will write to you." she knew what it must look like to her husband, this weak recourse to the protection of augustine's presence; it looked like bashfulness, a further feminine wile, made up of self-deception and allurement, a putting off of final surrender for the greater sweetness of delay. and as the reading of him flashed through her it brought a strange pang of shame, for him; of regret, for something spoiled. sir hugh took out his watch and looked at it. "five o'clock. i told the station fly to come back for me at five fifteen. you'll give me some tea, dearest?" "of course;--it is time now.--augustine, will you ring?" the miserable blush covered her again. the tea came and they were silent while the maid set it out. augustine had thrown himself into a chair and stared before him. sir hugh, very much in possession, kept his place before the fire. catching amabel's eye he smiled at her. he was completely assured. how should he not be? what, for his seeing, could stand between them now? when the maid was gone and amabel was making tea, he came and stood over her, his hands in his pockets, his handsome head bent to her, talking lightly, slightly jesting, his voice pitched intimately for her ear, yet not so intimately that any unkindness of exclusion should appear. augustine could hear all he said and gauge how deep was an intimacy that could wear such lightness, such slightness, as its mask. augustine, meanwhile, looked at neither his mother nor sir hugh. turned from them in his chair he put out his hand for his tea and stared before him, as if unseeing and unhearing, while he drank it. it was for her sake, amabel knew, that sir hugh, raising his voice presently, as though aware of the sullen presence, made a little effort to lift the gloom. "what sort of a time have you had, augustine?" he asked. "was the weather at haversham as bad as everywhere else?" augustine did not turn his head in replying:--"quite as bad, i fancy." "you and young wallace hammered at metaphysics, i suppose." "we did." "nice lad." to this augustine said nothing. "they're such a solemn lot, the youths of this generation," said sir hugh, addressing amabel as well as augustine: "in my day we never bothered ourselves much about things: at least the ones i knew didn't. awfully empty and frivolous. augustine and his friends would have thought us. where we used to talk about race horses they talk about the absolute,--eh, augustine? we used to go and hear comic-operas and they go and hear brahms. i suppose you do go and hear brahms, augustine?" augustine maintained his silence as though not conceiving that the sportive question required an answer and amabel said for him that he was very fond of brahms. "well, i must be off," said sir hugh. "i hope your heart will ache ever so little for me, amabel, when you think of the night you've turned me out into." "oh--but--i don't turn, you out,"--she stammered, rising, as, in a gay farewell, he looked at her. "no? well, i'm only teasing. i could hardly have managed to stay this time--though,--i might have managed, amabel--. i'll come again soon, very soon," said sir hugh. "no," her hand was in his and she knew that augustine had turned his head and was looking at them:--"no, dear hugh. not soon, please. i will write." sir hugh looked at her smiling. he glanced at augustine; then back at her, rallying her, affectionately, threateningly, determinedly, for her foolish feints. he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "write, if you want to; but i'm coming," he said. he nodded to augustine and left the room. ix it was, curiously enough, a crippling awkwardness and embarrassment that amabel felt rather than fear or antagonism, during that evening and the morning that followed. augustine had left the room directly after sir hugh's departure. when she saw him again he showed her a face resolutely mute. it was impossible to speak to him; to explain. the main facts he must see; that her husband was making love to her and that, however deep her love for him, she rejected him. augustine might believe that rejection to be for his own sake, might believe that she renounced love and sacrificed herself from a maternal sense of duty; and, indeed, the impossibility of bringing that love into her life with augustine had been the clear impossibility that had flashed for her in her need; she had seized upon it and it had armed her in her reiterated refusal. but how tell augustine that there had been more than the clear impossibility; how tell him that deeper than renouncement was recoil? to tell that would be a disloyalty to her husband; it would be almost to accuse him; it would be to show augustine that something in her life was spoiled and that her husband had spoiled it. so perplexed, so jaded, was she, so tossed by the conflicting currents of her lesser plight, that the deeper fears were forgotten: she was not conscious of being afraid of augustine. the rain had ceased next morning. the sky was crystalline; the wet earth glittered in autumnal sunshine. augustine went out for his ride and amabel had her girls to read with. there was a sense of peace for her in finding these threads of her life unknotted, smooth and simple, lying ready to her hand. when she saw augustine at lunch he said that he had met lady elliston. "she was riding with marjory and her girl." "oh, she is back, then." amabel was grateful to him for his everyday tone. "what is lady elliston's girl like?" "pretty; very; foolish manners i thought; marjory looked bewildered by her." "the manners of girls have changed, i fancy, since my day; and she isn't a boy-girl, like our nice marjory, either?" "no; she is a girl-girl; a pretty, forward, conceited girl-girl," said the ruthless augustine. "lady elliston is coming to see you this afternoon; she asked me to tell you; she says she wants a long talk." amabel's weary heart sank at the news. "she is coming soon after lunch," said augustine. "oh--dear--"--. she could not conceal her dismay. "but you knew that you were to see her again;--do you mind so much?" said augustine. "i don't mind.--it is only;--i have got so out of the way of seeing people that it is something of a strain." "would you like me to come in and interrupt your talk?" asked augustine after a moment. she looked across the table at him. still, in her memory, preoccupied with the cruelty of his accusation, it was the anger rather than the love of his parting words the other day that was the more real. he had been hard in kindness, relentless in judgment, only not accusing her, not condemning her, because his condemnation had fixed on the innocent and not on the guilty--the horror of that, as well as the other horror, was between them now, and her guilt was deepened by it. but, as she looked, his eyes reminded her of something; was it of that fancied cry within the church, imprisoned and supplicating? they were like that cry of pain, those eyes, the dark rims of the iris strangely expanding, and her heart answered them, ignorant of what they said. "you are thoughtful for me, dear; but no," she replied, "it isn't necessary for you to interrupt." he looked away from her: "i don't know that it's not necessary," he said. after lunch they went into the garden and walked for a little in the sunlight, in almost perfect silence. once or twice, as though from the very pressure of his absorption in her he created some intention of speech and fancied that her lips had parted with the words, augustine turned his head quickly towards her, and at this, their eyes meeting, as it were over emptiness, both he and she would flush and look away again. the stress between them was painful. she was glad when he said that he had work to do and left her alone. amabel went to the drawing-room and took her chair near the table. a sense of solitude deeper than she had known for years pressed upon her. she closed her eyes and leaned back her head, thinking, dimly, that now, in such solitude as this, she must find her way to prayer again. but still the door was closed. it was as if she could not enter without a human hand in hers. augustine's hand had never led her in; and she could not take her husband's now. but her longing itself became almost a prayer as she sat with closed eyes. this would pass, this cloud of her husband's lesser love. when he knew her so unalterably firm, when he saw how inflexibly the old love shut out the new, he would, once more, be her friend. then, feeling him near again, she might find peace. the thought of it was almost peace. even in the midst of yesterday's bewildered pain she had caught glimpses of the old beauty; his kindly speech to augustine, his making of ease for her; gratitude welled up in her and she sighed with the relief of her deep hope. to feel this gratitude was to see still further beyond the cloud. it was even beautiful for him to be able to "fall in love" with her--as he had put it: that the manifestations of his love should have made her shrink was not his fault but hers; she was a nun; because she had been a sinner. she almost smiled now, in seeing so clearly that it was on her the shadow rested. she could not be at peace, she could not pray, she could not live, it seemed to her, if he were really shadowed. and after the smile it was almost with the sense of dew falling upon her soul that she remembered the kindness, the chivalrous protection that had encompassed her through the long years. he was her friend, her knight; she would forget, and he, too, would forget that he had thought himself her lover. she did not know how tired she was, but her exhaustion must have been great, for the thoughts faded into a vague sweetness, then were gone, and, suddenly opening her eyes, she knew that she had fallen asleep, sitting straightly in her chair, and that lady elliston was looking at her. she started up, smiling and confused. "how absurd of me:--i have been sleeping.--have you just come?" lady elliston did not smile and was silent. she took amabel's hand and looked at her; she had to recover herself from something; it may have been the sleeping face, wasted and innocent, that had touched her too deeply. and her gravity, as of repressed tears, frightened amabel. she had never seen lady elliston look so grave. "is anything the matter?" she asked. for a moment longer lady elliston was silent, as though reflecting. then releasing amabel's hand, she said: "yes: i think something is the matter." "you have come to tell me?" "i didn't come for that. sit down, amabel. you are very tired, more tired than the other day. i have been looking at you for a long time.--i didn't come to tell you anything; but now, perhaps, i shall have something to tell. i must think." she took a chair beside the table and leaned her head on her hand shading her eyes. amabel had obeyed her and sat looking at her guest. "tell me," lady elliston said abruptly, and amabel today, more than of sweetness and softness, was conscious of her strength, "have you been having a bad time since i saw you? has anything happened? has anything come between you and augustine? i saw him this morning, and he's been suffering, too: i guessed it. you must be frank with me, amabel; you must trust me: perhaps i am going to be franker with you, to trust you more, than you can dream." she inspired the confidence her words laid claim to; for the first time in their lives amabel trusted her unreservedly. "i have had a very bad time," she said: "and augustine has had a bad time. yes; something has come between augustine and me,--many things." "he hates hugh," said lady elliston. "how can you know that?" "i guessed it. he is a clever boy: he sees you absorbed; he sees your devotion robbing him; perhaps he sees even more, amabel; i heard this morning, from mrs. grey, that hugh had been with you, again, yesterday. amabel, is it possible; has hugh been making love to you?" amabel had become very pale. looking down, she said in a hardly audible voice; "it is a mistake.--he will see that it is impossible." lady elliston for a moment was silent: the confirming of her own suspicion seemed to have stupefied her. "is it impossible?" she then asked. "quite, quite impossible." "does hugh know that it is impossible?" "he will.--yesterday, augustine came in while he was here;--i could not say any more." "i see: i see"; said lady elliston. her hand fell to the table now and she slightly tapped her finger-tips upon it. there was an ominous rhythm in the little raps. "and this adds to augustine's hatred," she said. "i am afraid it is true. i am afraid he does hate him, and how terrible that is," said amabel, "for he believes him to be his father." "by instinct he must feel the tie unreal." "yet he has had a father's kindness, almost, from hugh." "almost. it isn't enough you know. he suspects nothing, you think?" "it is that that is so terrible. he doesn't suspect me: he suspects him. he couldn't suspect evil of me. it is my guilt, and his ignorant hatred that is parting us." amabel was trembling; she leaned forward and covered her face with her hands. the very air about her seemed to tremble; so strange, so incredibly strange was it to hear her own words of helpless avowal; so strange to feel that she must tell lady elliston all she wished to know. "parting you? what do you mean? what folly!--what impossible folly! a mother and a son, loving each other as you and augustine love, parted for that. oh, no," said lady elliston, and her own voice shook a little: "that can't be. i won't have that." "he would not love me, if he knew." "knew? what is there for him to know? and how should he know? you won't be so mad as to tell him?" "it's my punishment not to dare to tell him--and to see my cowardice cast a shadow on hugh." "punishment? haven't you been punished enough, good heavens! cowardice? it is reason, maturity; the child has no right to your secret--it is yours and only yours, amabel. and if he did know all, he could not judge you as you judge yourself." "ah, you don't understand," amabel murmured: "i had forgotten to judge myself; i had forgotten my sin; it was augustine who made me remember; i know now what he feels about people like me." again lady elliston controlled herself to a momentary silence and again her fingers sharply beat out her uncontrollable impatience. "i live in a world, amabel," she said at last, "where people when they use the word 'sin,' in that connection, know that it's obsolete, a mere decorative symbol for unconventionality. in my world we don't have your cloistered black and white view of life nor see sin where only youth and trust and impulse were. if one takes risks, one may have to pay for them, of course; one plays the game, if one is in the ring, and, of course, you may be put out of the ring if you break the rules; but the rules are those of wisdom, not of morality, and the rule that heads the list is: don't be found out. to imagine that the rules are anything more than matters of social convenience is to dignify the foolish game. it is a foolish game, amabel, this of life: but one or two things in it are worth having; power to direct the game; freedom to break its rules; and love, passionate love, between a man and woman: and if one is strong enough one can have them all." lady elliston had again put her hand to her brow, shielding her eyes and leaning her elbow on the table, and amabel had raised her head and sat still, gazing at her. "you weren't strong enough," lady elliston went on after a little pause: "you made frightful mistakes: the greatest, of course, was in running away with paul quentin: that was foolish, and it was, if you like to call foolishness by its obsolete name, a sin. you shouldn't have gone: you should have stayed: you should have kept your lover--as long as you wanted to." again she paused. "do i horrify you?" "no: you don't horrify me," amabel replied. her voice was gentle, almost musing; she was absorbed in her contemplation. "you see," said lady elliston, "you didn't play the game: you made a mess of things and put the other players out. if you had stayed, and kept your lover, you would have been, in my eyes, a less loveable but a wiser woman. i believe in the game being kept up; i believe in the social structure: i am one of its accredited upholders"; in the shadow of her hand, lady elliston slightly smiled. "i believe in the family, the group of shared interests, shared responsibilities, shared opportunities it means: i don't care how many lovers a woman has if she doesn't break up the family, if she plays the game. marriage is a social compact and it's the woman's part to keep the home together. if she seeks love outside marriage she must play fair, she mustn't be an embezzling partner; she mustn't give her husband another man's children to support and so take away from his own children;--that's thieving. the social structure, the family, are unharmed, if one is brave and wise. love and marriage can rarely be combined and to renounce love is to cripple one's life, to miss the best thing it has to give. you, at all events, amabel, may be glad that you haven't missed it. what, after all, does our life mean but just that,--the power and feeling that one gets into it. be glad that you've had something." amabel, answering nothing, contemplated her guest. "so, as these are my views, imagine what i feel when i find you here, like this"; lady elliston dropped her hand at last and looked about her, not at amabel: "when i find you, in prison, locked up for life, by yourself, because you were lovably unwise. it's abominable, it's shameful, your position, isolated here, and tolerated, looked askance at by these nobodies.--ah--i don't say that other women haven't paid even more heavily than you've done; i own that, to a certain extent, you've escaped the rigours that the game exacts from its victims. but there was no reason why you should pay anything: it wasn't known, never really known--your brother and hugh saw to that;--you could have escaped scot-free." amabel spoke at last: "how, scot-free?" she asked. lady elliston looked hard at her: "your husband would have taken you back, had you insisted.--you shouldn't have fallen in with his plans." "his plans? they were mine; my brother's." "and his. hugh was glad to be rid of the young wife he didn't love." again amabel was trembling. "he might have been rid of her, altogether rid of her, if he had cared more for power and freedom than for pity." "power? with not nearly enough money? he was glad to keep her money and be rid of her. if you had pulled the purse-strings tight you might have made your own conditions." "i do not believe you," said amabel; "what you say is not true. my husband is noble." lady elliston looked at her steadily and unflinchingly. "he is not noble," she said. "what have you meant by coming here today? you have meant something! i will not listen to you! you are my husband's enemy;"--amabel half started from her chair, but lady elliston laid her hand on her arm, looking at her so fixedly that she sank down again, panic-stricken. "he is not noble," lady elliston repeated. "i will not have you waste your love as you have wasted your life. i will not have this illusion of his nobility come between you and your son. i will not have him come near you with his love. he is not noble, he is not generous, he is not beautiful. he could not have got rid of you. and he came to you with his love yesterday because his last mistress has thrown him over--and he must have a mistress. i know him: i know all about him: and you don't know him at all. your husband was my lover for over twenty years." a long silence followed her words. it was again a strange picture of arrested life in the dark room. the light fell quietly upon the two faces, their stillness, their contemplation--it seemed hardly more intent than contemplation, that drinking gaze of amabel's; the draught of wonder was too deep for pain or passion, and lady elliston's eyes yielded, offered, held firm the cup the other drank. and the silence grew so long that it was as if the twenty years flowed by while they gazed upon each other. it was lady elliston's face that first showed change. she might have been the cup-bearer tossing aside the emptied cup, seeing in the slow dilation of the victim's eyes, the constriction of lips and nostrils, that it had held poison. all--all had been drunk to the last drop. death seemed to gaze from the dilated eyes. "oh--my poor amabel--" lady elliston murmured; her face was stricken with pity. amabel spoke in the cramped voice of mortal anguish.--"before he married me." "yes," lady elliston nodded, pitiful, but unflinching. "he married you for your money, and because you were a sweet, good, simple child who would not interfere." "and he could not have divorced me, because of you." "because of me. you know the law; one guilty person can't divorce another. no one knew: no one has ever known: he and jack have remained the best of friends:--but, of course, with all our care, it's been suspected, whispered. if i'd been less powerful the whispers might have blighted me: as it was, we thought that bertram wasn't altogether unsuspecting. hugh knew that it would be fatal to bring the matter into court;--i will say for hugh that, in spite of the money, he wanted to. he could have married money again. he has always been extremely captivating. when he found that he would have to keep you, the money, of course, did atone. i suppose he has had most of your money by now," said lady elliston. amabel shut her eyes. "wasn't he even sorry for me?" she asked. lady elliston reflected and a glitter was in her eye; vengeance as well as justice armed her. "he is not unkind," she conceded: "and he was sorry after a fashion: 'poor little girl,' i remember he said. yes, he was very tolerant. but he didn't think of you at all, unless he wanted money. he is always graceful in his direct relations with people; he is tactful and sympathetic and likes things to be pleasant. but he doesn't mind breaking your heart if he doesn't have to see you while he is doing it. he is kind, but he is as hard as steel," said lady elliston. "then you do not love him any longer," said amabel. it was not a question, only a farther acceptance. and now, after only the slightest pause, lady elliston proved how deep, how unflinching was her courage. she had guarded her illicit passion all her life; she revealed it now. "i do love him," she said. "i have never loved another man. it is he who doesn't love me." from the black depths where she seemed to swoon and float, like a drowsy, drowning thing, the hard note of misery struck on amabel's ear. she opened her eyes and looked at lady elliston. power, freedom, passion: it was not these that looked back at her from the bereft and haggard eyes. "after twenty years he has grown tired," lady elliston said; and her candour seemed as inevitable as amabel's had been: each must tell the other everything; a common bond of suffering was between them and a common bond of love, though love so differing. "i knew, of course, that he was often unfaithful to me; he is a libertine; but i was the centre; he always came back to me.--i saw the end approaching about five years ago. i fought--oh how warily--so that he shouldn't dream i was afraid;--it is fatal for a woman to let a man know she is afraid,--the brutes, the cruel brutes,"--said lady elliston;--"how we love them for their fear and pleading; how our fear and pleading hardens them against us." her lips trembled and the tears ran down her cheeks. "i never pleaded; i never showed that i saw the change. i kept him, for years, by my skill. but the odds were too great at last. it was a year ago that he told me he didn't care any more. he was troubled, a little embarrassed, but quite determined that i shouldn't bother him. since then it has been another woman. i know her; i meet her everywhere; very beautiful; very young; only married for three years; a heartless, rapacious creature. hugh has nearly ruined himself in paying her jeweller's bills and her debts at bridge. and already she has thrown him over. it happened only the other day. i knew it was happening when i saw him here. i was glad, amabel; i longed for him to suffer; and he will. he is a libertine of most fastidious tastes and he will not find many more young and beautiful women, of his world, to run risks for him. he, too, is getting old. and he has gone through nearly all his own money--and yours. things will soon be over for him.--oh--but--i love him--i love him--and everything is over for me.--how can i bear it!" she bent forward on her knees and convulsive sobs shook her. her words seemed to amabel to come to her from a far distance; they echoed in her, yet they were not the words she could have used. how dim was her own love-dream beside this torment of dispossession. what--who--had she loved for all these years? she could not touch or see her own grief; but lady elliston's grief pierced through her. she leaned towards her and softly touched her shoulder, her arm, her hand; she held the hand in hers. the sight of this loss of strength and dignity was an actual pain; her own pain was something elusive and unsubstantial; it wandered like a ghost vainly seeking an embodiment. "oh, you angel--you poor angel!" moaned lady elliston. "there: that's enough of crying; it can't bring back my youth.--what a fool i am. if only i could learn to think of myself as free instead of maimed and left by the wayside. it is hard to live without love if one has always had it.--but i have freed you, amabel. i am glad of that. it has been a cruel, but a right thing to do. he shall not come to you with his shameless love; he shall not come between you and your boy. you shan't misplace your worship so. it is augustine who is beautiful and noble; it is augustine who loves you. you aren't maimed and forsaken; thank heaven for that, dear." lady elliston had risen. strong again, she faced her life, took up the reins, not a trace of scruple or of shame about her. it did not enter her mind to ask amabel for forgiveness, to ask if she were despised or shrunk from: it did not enter amabel's mind to wonder at the omission. she looked up at her guest and her lifted face seemed that of the drowned creature floating to the surface of the water. "tell me, amabel," lady elliston suddenly pleaded, "this is not going to blacken things for you; you won't let it blacken things. you will live; you will leave your prison and come out into the world, with your splendid boy, and live." amabel slightly shook her head. "oh, why do you say that? has it hurt so horribly?" amabel seemed to make the effort to think what it had done. she did not know. the ghost wailed; but she could not see its form. "did you care--so tremendously--about him?"--lady elliston asked, and her voice trembled. and, for answer, the drowned eyes looked up at her through strange, cold tears. "oh, my dear, my dear," lady elliston murmured. her hand was still in amabel's and she stood there beside her, her hand so held, for a long, silent moment. they had looked away from each other. and in the silence each knew that it was the end and that they would see each other no more. they lived in different planets, under different laws; they could understand, they could trust; but a deep, transparent chasm, like that of the ether flowing between two divided worlds, made them immeasurably apart. yet, when she at last gently released amabel's hand, drawing her own away. lady elliston said: "but,--won't you come out now?" "out? where?" amabel asked, in the voice of that far distance. "into the world, the great, splendid world." "splendid?" "splendid, if you choose to seize it and take what it has to give." after a moment amabel asked: "has it given you so much?" lady elliston looked at her from across the chasm; it was not dark, it held no precipices; it was made up only of distance. lady elliston saw; but she was loyal to her own world. "yes, it has," she said. "i've lived; you have dreamed your life away. you haven't even a reality to mourn the loss of." "no," amabel said; she closed her eyes and turned her head away against the chair; "no; i have lived too. don't pity me." x it was past five when augustine came into the empty drawing-room. tea was standing waiting, and had been there, he saw, for some time. he rang and asked the maid to tell lady channice. lady channice, he heard, was lying down and wanted no tea. lady elliston had gone half an hour before. after a moment or two of deliberation, augustine sat down and made tea for himself. that was soon over. he ate nothing, looking with a vague gaze of repudiation at the plate of bread and butter and the cooling scones. when tea had been taken away he walked up and down the room quickly, pausing now and then for further deliberation. but he decided that he would not go up to his mother. he went on walking for a long time. then he took a book and read until the dressing-bell for dinner rang. when he went upstairs to dress he paused outside his mother's door, as she had paused outside his, and listened. he heard no sound. he stood still there for some moments before lightly rapping on the door. "who is it?" came his mother's voice. "i; augustine. how are you? you are coming down?" "not tonight," she answered; "i have a very bad headache." "but let me have something sent up." after a moment his mother's voice said very sweetly; "of course, dear." and she added "i shall be all right tomorrow." the voice sounded natural--yet not quite natural; too natural, perhaps, augustine reflected. its tone remained with him as something disturbing and prolonged itself in memory like a familiar note strung to a queer, forced pitch, that vibrated on and on until it hurt. after his solitary meal he took up his book again in the drawing-room. he read with effort and concentration, his brows knotted; his young face, thus controlled to stern attention, was at once vigilant for outer impressions and absorbed in the inner interest. once or twice he looked up, as a coal fell with a soft crash from the fire, as a thin creeper tapped sharply on the window pane. his mother's room was above the drawing-room and while he read he was listening; but he heard no footsteps. suddenly, dim, yet clear, came another sound, a sound familiar, though so rare; wheels grinding on the gravel drive at the other side of the house. then, loud and startling at that unaccustomed hour, the old hall bell clanged through the house. augustine found himself leaning forward, breathing quickly, his book half-closed. at first he did not know what he was listening for or why his body should be tingling with excitement and anger. he knew a moment later. there was a step in the hall, a voice. all his life augustine had known them, had waited for them, had hated them. sir hugh was back again. of course he was back again, soon,--as he had promised in the tone of mastery. but his mother had told him not to come; she had told him not to come, and in a tone that meant more than his. did he not know?--did he not understand? "no, dear hugh, not soon.--i will write."--augustine sprang to his feet as he entered the room. sir hugh had been told that he would not find his wife. his face wore its usual look of good-temper, but it wore more than its usual look of indifference for his wife's son. "ah, tell lady channice, will you," he said over his shoulder to the maid. "how d'ye do, augustine:" and, as usual, he strolled up to the fire. augustine watched him as he crossed the room and said nothing. the maid had closed the door. from his wonted place sir hugh surveyed the young man and augustine surveyed him. "you know, my dear fellow," said sir hugh presently, lifting the sole of his boot to the fire, "you've got devilish bad manners. you are devilishly impertinent, i may tell you." augustine received the reproof without comment. "you seem to imagine," sir hugh went on, "that you have some particular right to bad manners and impertinence here, in this house; but you're mistaken; i belong here as well as you do; and you'll have to accept the fact." a convulsive trembling, like his mother's, passed over the young man's face; but whereas only amabel's hands and body trembled, it was the muscles of augustine's lips, nostrils and brows that were affected, and to see the strength of his face so shaken was disconcerting, painful. "you don't belong here while i'm here," he said, jerking the words out suddenly. "this is my mother's home--and mine;--but as soon as you make it insufferable for us we can leave it." "_you_ can; that's quite true," sir hugh nodded. augustine stood clenching his hands on his book. now, unconscious of what he did, he grasped the leaves and wrenched them back and forth as he stood silent, helpless, desperate, before the other's intimation. sir hugh watched the unconscious violence with interest. "yes," he went on presently, and still with good temper; "if you make yourself insufferable--to your mother and me--you can go. not that i want to turn you out. it rests with you. only, you must see that you behave. i won't have you making her wretched." augustine glanced dangerously at him. "your mother and i have come to an understanding--after a great many years of misunderstanding," said sir hugh, putting up the other sole. "i'm--very fond of your mother,--and she is,--very fond of me." "she doesn't know you," said augustine, who had become livid while the other made his gracefully hesitant statement. "doesn't know me?" sir hugh lifted his brows in amused inquiry; "my dear boy, what do you know about that, pray? you are not in all your mother's secrets." augustine was again silent for a moment, and he strove for self-mastery. "if i am not in my mother's secrets," he said, "she is not in yours. she does not know you. she doesn't know what sort of a man you are. you have deceived her. you have made her think that you are reformed and that the things in your life that made her leave you won't come again. but whether you are reformed or not a man like you has no right to come near a woman like my mother. i know that you are an evil man," said augustine, his face trembling more and more uncontrollably; "and my mother is a saint." sir hugh stared at him. then he burst into a shout of laughter. "you young fool!" he said. augustine's eyes were lightnings in a storm-swept sky. "you young fool," sir hugh repeated, not laughing, a heavier stress weighting each repeated word. "can you deny," said augustine, "that you have always led a dissolute life? if you do deny it it won't help you. i know it: and i've not needed the echoes to tell me. i've always felt it in you. i've always known you were evil." "what if i don't deny it?" sir hugh inquired. augustine was silent, biting his quivering lips. "what if i don't deny it?" sir hugh repeated. his assumption of good-humour was gone. he, too, was scowling now. "what have you to say then?" "by heaven,--i say that you shall not come near my mother." "and what if it was not because of my dissolute life she left me? what if you've built up a cock-and-bull romance that has no relation to reality in your empty young head? what then? ask your mother if she left me because of my dissolute life," said sir hugh. the book in augustine's wrenching hands had come apart with a crack and crash. he looked down at it stupidly. "you really should learn to control yourself--in every direction, my dear boy," sir hugh remarked. "now, unless you would like to wreak your temper on the furniture, i think you had better sit down and be still. i should advise you to think over the fact that saints have been known before now to forgive sinners. and sinners may not be so bad as your innocence imagines. goodbye. i am going up to see your mother. i am going to spend the night here." augustine stood holding the shattered book. he gazed as stupidly at sir hugh as he had gazed at it. he gazed while sir hugh, who kept a rather wary eye fixed on him, left the fire and proceeded with a leisurely pace to cross the room: the door was reached and the handle turned, before the stupor broke. sir hugh, his eyes still fixed on his antagonist, saw the blanched fury, the start, as if the dazed body were awakening to some insufferable torture, saw the gathering together, the leap:--"you fool--you young fool!" he ground between his teeth as, with a clash of the half-opened door, augustine pinned him upon it. "let me go. do you hear. let me go." his voice was the voice of the lion-tamer, hushed before danger to a quelling depth of quiet. and like the young lion, drawing long breaths through dilated-nostrils, augustine growled back:--"i will not--i will not.--you shall not go to her. i would rather kill you." "kill me?" sir hugh smiled. "it would be a fight first, you know." "then let it be a fight. you shall not go to her." "and what if she wants me to go to her.--will you kill her first, too--"--the words broke. augustine's hand was on his throat. sir hugh seized him. they writhed together against the door. "you mad-man!--you damned mad-man!--your mother is in love with me.--i'll put you out of her life--"--sir hugh grated forth from the strangling clutch. suddenly, as they writhed, panting, glaring their hatred at each other, the door they leaned on pushed against them. someone outside was turning the handle, was forcing it open. and, as if through the shocks and flashes of a blinding, deafening tempest, augustine heard his mother's voice, very still, saying: "let me come in." xi they fell apart and moved back into the room. amabel entered. she wore a long white dressing-gown that, to her son's eyes, made her more than ever look her sainted self; she had dressed hastily, and, on hearing the crash below, she had wrapped a white scarf about her head and shoulders, covering her unbound hair. so framed and narrowed her face was that of a shrouded corpse: the same strange patience stamped it; her eyes, only, seemed to live, and they, too, were patient and ready for any doom. quietly she had closed the door, and standing near it now she looked at them; her eyes fell for a moment upon sir hugh; then they rested on augustine and did not leave him. sir hugh spoke first. he laughed a little, adjusting his collar and tie. "my dear,--you've saved my life. augustine was going to batter my brains out on the door, i fancy." she did not look at him, but at augustine. "he's really dangerous, your son, you know. please don't leave me alone with him again," sir hugh smiled and pleaded; it was with almost his own lightness, but his face still twitched with anger. "what have you said to him?" amabel asked. augustine's eyes were drawing her down into their torment.--unfortunate one.--that presage of her maternity echoed in her now. his stern young face seemed to have been framed, destined from the first for this foreseen misery. sir hugh had pulled himself together. he looked at the mother and son. and he understood her fear. he went to her, leaned over her, a hand above her shoulder on the door. he reassured and protected her; and, truly, in all their story, it had never been with such sincerity and grace. "dearest, it's nothing. i've merely had to defend my rights. will you assure this young firebrand that my misdemeanours didn't force you to leave me. that there were misdemeanours i don't deny; and of course you are too good for the likes of me; but your coming away wasn't my fault, was it.--that's what i've said.--and that saints forgive sinners, sometimes.--that's all i want you to tell him." amabel still gazed into her son's eyes. it seemed to her, now that she must shut herself out from it for ever, that for the first time in all her life she saw his love. it broke over her; it threatened and commanded her; it implored and supplicated--ah the supplication beyond words or tears!--selflessness made it stern. it was for her it threatened; for her it prayed. all these years the true treasure had been there beside her, while she worshipped at the spurious shrine. only her sorrow, her solicitude had gone out to her son; the answering love that should have cherished and encompassed him flowed towards its true goal only when it was too late. he could not love her when he knew. and he was to know. that had come to her clearly and unalterably while she had leaned, half fallen, half kneeling, against her bed, dying, it seemed to her, to all that she had known of life or hope. but all was not death within her. in the long, the deadly stupor, her power to love still lived. it had been thrown back from its deep channel and, wave upon wave, it seemed heaped upon itself in some narrow abyss, tormented and shuddering; and at last by its own strength, rather than by thought or prayer of hers, it had forced an outlet. it was then as if she found herself once more within the church. darkness, utter darkness was about her; but she was prostrated before the unseen altar. she knew herself once more, and with herself she knew her power to love. her life and all its illusions passed before her; by the truth that irradiated the illusions, she judged them and herself and saw what must be the atonement. all that she had believed to be the treasure of her life had been taken from her; but there was one thing left to her that she could give:--her truth to her son. when that price was paid, he would be hers to love; he was no longer hers to live for. he should found his life on no illusions, as she had founded hers. she must set him free to turn away from her; but when he turned away it would not be to leave her in the loneliness and the terror of heart that she had known; it would be to leave her in the church where she could pray for him. she answered her husband after her long silence, looking at her son. "it is true, augustine," she said. "you have been mistaken. i did not leave him for that." sir hugh drew a breath of satisfaction. he glanced round at augustine. it was not a venomous glance, but, with its dart of steely intention, it paid a debt of vengeance. "so,--we needn't say anything more about it," he said. "and--dearest--perhaps now you'll tell augustine that he may go and leave us together." amabel left her husband's side and went to her chair near the table. a strange calmness breathed from her. she sat with folded hands and downcast eyes. "augustine, come here," she said. the young man came and stood before her. "give me your hand." he gave it to her. she did not look at him but kept her eyes fixed on the ground while she clasped it. "augustine," she said, "i want you to leave me with my husband. i must talk with him. he is going away soon. tomorrow--tomorrow morning early, i will see you, here. i will have a great deal to say to you, my dear son." but augustine, clutching her hand and trembling, looked down at her so that she raised her eyes to his. "i can't go, till you say something, now, mother;"--his voice shook as it had shaken on that day of their parting, his face was livid and convulsed, as then;--"i will go away tonight--i don't know that i can ever return--unless you tell me that you are not going to take him back." he gazed down into his mother's eyes. she did not answer him; she did not speak. but, as he looked into them, he, too, for the first time, saw in them what she had seen in his. they dwelt on him; they widened; they almost smiled; they deeply promised him all--all--that he most longed for. she was his, her son's; she was not her husband's. what he had feared had never threatened him or her. this was a gift she had won the right to give. the depth of her repudiation yesterday gave her her warrant. and to amabel, while they looked into each other's eyes, it was as if, in the darkness, some arching loveliness of dawn vaguely shaped itself above the altar. "kiss me, dear augustine," she said. she held up her forehead, closing her eyes, for the kiss that was her own. augustine was gone. and now, before her, was the ugly breaking. but must it be so ugly? opening her eyes, she looked at her husband as he stood before the fire, his wondering eyes upon her. must it be ugly? why could it not be quiet and even kind? strangely there had gathered in her, during the long hours, the garnered strength of her life of discipline and submission. it had sustained her through the shudder that glanced back at yesterday--at the corruption that had come so near; it had given sanity to see with eyes of compassion the forsaken woman who had come with her courageous, revengeful story; it gave sanity now, as she looked over at her husband, to see him also, with those eyes of compassionate understanding; he was not blackened, to her vision, by the shadowing corruption, but, in his way, pitiful, too; all the worth of life lost to him. and it seemed swiftest, simplest, and kindest, as she looked over at him, to say:--"you see--lady elliston came this afternoon, and told me everything." sir hugh kept his face remarkably unmoved. he continued to gaze at his wife with an unabashed, unstartled steadiness. "i might have guessed that," he said after a short silence. "confound her." amabel made no reply. "so i suppose," sir hugh went on, "you feel you can't forgive me." she hesitated, not quite understanding. "you mean--for having married me--when you loved her?" "well, yes; but more for not having, long ago, in all these years, found out that you were the woman that any man with eyes to see, any man not blinded and fatuous, ought to have been in love with from the beginning." amabel flushed. her vision was untroubled; but the shadow hovered. she was ashamed for him. "no"; she said, "i did not think of that. i don't know that i have anything to forgive you. it is lady elliston, i think, who must try and forgive you, if she can." sir hugh was again silent for a moment; then he laughed. "you dear innocent!--well--i won't defend myself at her expense." "don't," said amabel, looking now away from him. sir hugh eyed her and seemed to weigh the meaning of her voice. he crossed the room suddenly and leaned over her:--"amabel darling,--what must i do to atone? i'll be patient. don't be cruel and punish me for too long a time." "sit there--will you please." she pointed to the chair at the other side of the table. he hesitated, still leaning above her; then obeyed; folding his arms; frowning. "you don't understand," said amabel. "i loved you for what you never were. i do not love you now. and i would never have loved you as you asked me to do yesterday." he gazed at her, trying to read the difficult riddle of a woman's perversity. "you were in love with me yesterday," he said at last. she answered nothing. "i'll make you love me again." "no: never," she answered, looking quietly at him. "what is there in you to love?" sir hugh flushed. "i say! you are hard on me!" "i see nothing loveable in you," said amabel with her inflexible gentleness. "i loved you because i thought you noble and magnanimous; but you were neither. you only did not cast me off, as i deserved, because you could not; and you were kind partly because you are kind by nature, but partly because my money was convenient to you. i do not say that you were ignoble; you were in a very false position. and i had wronged you; i had committed the greater social crime; but there was nothing noble; you must see that; and it was for that i loved you." sir hugh now got up and paced up and down near her. "so you are going to cast me off because i had no opportunity for showing nobility. how do you know i couldn't have behaved as you believed i did behave, if only i'd had the chance? you know--you are hard on me." "i see no sign of nobility--towards anyone--in your life," amabel answered as dispassionately as before. sir hugh walked up and down. "i did feel like a brute about the money sometimes," he remarked;--"especially that last time; i wanted you to have the house as a sort of salve to my conscience; i've taken almost all your money, you know; it's quite true. as to the rest--what augustine calls my dissoluteness--i can't pretend to take your view; a nun's view." he looked at her. "how beautiful you are with that white round your face," he said. "you are like a woman of snow." she looked back at him as though, from the unhesitating steadiness of her gaze, to lend him some of her own clearness. "don't you see that it's not real? don't you see that it's because you suddenly find me beautiful, and because, as a woman of snow, i allure you, that you think you love me? do you really deceive yourself?" he stared at her; but the ray only illumined the bewilderment of his dispossession. "i don't pretend to be an idealist," he said, stopping still before her; "i don't pretend that it's not because i suddenly find you beautiful; that's one reason; and a very essential one, i think; but there are other reasons, lots of them. amabel--you must see that my love for you is an entirely different sort of thing from what my love for her ever was." she said nothing. she could not argue with him, nor ask, as if for a cheap triumph, if it were different from his love for the later mistress. she saw, indeed, that it was different now, whatever it had been yesterday. clearly she saw, glancing at herself as at an object in the drama, that she offered quite other interests and charms, that her attractions, indeed, might be of a quality to elicit quite new sentiments from sir hugh, sentiments less shadowing than those of yesterday had been. and so she accepted his interpretation in silence, unmoved by it though doing it full justice, and for a little while sir hugh said nothing either. he still stood before her and she no longer looked at him, but down at her folded hands that did not tremble at all tonight, and she wondered if now, perhaps, he would understand her silence and leave her. but when, in an altered voice, he said: "amabel;" she looked at him. she seemed to see everything tonight as a disembodied spirit might see it, aware of what the impeding flesh could only dimly manifest; and she saw now that her husband's face had never been so near beauty. it did not attain it; it was, rather, as if the shadow, lifting entirely for a flickering moment, revealed something unconscious, something almost innocent, almost pitiful: it was as if, liberated, he saw beauty for a moment and put out his hands to it, like a child putting out its hands to touch the moon, believing that it was as near to him, and as easily to be attained, as pleasure always had been. "try to forgive me," he said, and his voice had the broken note of a sad child's voice, the note of ultimate appeal from man to woman. "i'm a poor creature; i know that. it's always made me ashamed--to see how you idealise me.--the other day, you know,--when you kissed my hand--i was horribly ashamed.--but, upon my honour amabel, i'm not a bad fellow at bottom,--not the devil incarnate your son seems to think me. something could be made of me, you know;--and, if you'll forgive me, and let me try to win your love again;--ah amabel--"--he pleaded, almost with tears, before her unchangingly gentle face. and, the longing to touch her, hold her, receive comfort and love, mingling with the new reverential fear, he knelt beside her, putting his head on her knees and murmuring: "i do so desperately love you." amabel sat looking down upon him. her face was unchanged, but in her heart was a trembling of astonished sadness. it was too late. it had been too late--from the very first;--yet, if they could have met before each was spoiled for each;--before life had set them unalterably apart--? the great love of her life was perhaps not all illusion. and she seemed to sit for a moment in the dark church, dreaming of the distant spring-time, of brooks and primroses and prophetic birds, and of love, young, untried and beautiful. but she did not lay her hand on sir hugh's head nor move at all towards him. she sat quite still, looking down at him, like a madonna above a passionate supplicant, pitiful but serene. and as he knelt, with his face hidden, and did not hear her voice nor feel her touch, with an unaccustomed awe the realisation of her remoteness from him stole upon sir hugh. passion faded from his heart, even self-pity and longing faded. he entered her visionary retrospect and knew, like her, that it was too late; that everything was too late; that everything was really over. and, as he realised it, a chill went over him. he felt like a strayed reveller waking suddenly from long slumber and finding himself alone in darkness. he lifted his face and looked at her, needing the reassurance of her human eyes; and they met his with their remote gentleness. for a long moment they gazed at each other. then sir hugh, stumbling a little, got upon his feet and stood, half turned from her, looking away into the room. when he spoke it was in quite a different voice, it was almost the old, usual voice, the familiar voice of their friendly encounters. "and what are you going to do with yourself, now, amabel?" "i am going to tell augustine," she said. "tell him!" sir hugh looked round at her. "why?" "i must." he seemed, after a long silence, to accept her sense of necessity as sufficient reason. "will it cut him up very much, do you think?" he asked. "it will change everything very much, i think," said amabel. "do you mean--that he will blame you?--" "i don't think that he can love me any longer." there was no hint of self-pity in her calm tones and sir hugh could only formulate his resentment and his protest--and they were bitter,--by a muttered--"oh--i say!--i say!--" he went on presently; "and will you go on living here, perhaps alone?" "alone, i think; yes, i shall live here; i do not find it dismal, you know." sir hugh felt himself again looking reluctantly into darkness. "but--how will you manage it, amabel?" he asked. and her voice seemed to come, in all serenity, from the darkness; "i shall manage it." yes, the awe hovered near him as he realised that what, to him, meant darkness, to her meant life. she would manage it. she had managed to live through everything. a painful analogy came to increase his sadness;--it was like having before one a martyr who had been bound to rack after rack and still maintained that strange air of keeping something it was worth while being racked for. glancing at her it seemed to him, still more painfully, that in spite of her beauty she was very like a martyr; that queer touch of wildness in her eyes; they were serene, they were even sweet, yet they seemed to have looked on horrid torments; and those white wrappings might have concealed dreadful scars. he took out his watch, nervously and automatically, and looked at it. he would have to walk to the station; he could catch a train. "and may i come, sometimes, and see you?" he asked. "i'll not bother you, you know. i understand, at last. i see what a blunder--an ugly blunder--this has been on my part. but perhaps you'll let me be your friend--more really your friend than i have ever been." and now, as he glanced at her again, he saw that the gentleness was remote no longer. it had come near like a light that, in approaching, diffused itself and made a sudden comfort and sweetness. she was too weary to smile, but her eyes, dwelling gently on him, promised him something, as, when they had dwelt with their passion of exiled love on her son, they had promised something to augustine. she held out her hand. "we are friends," she said. sir hugh flushed darkly. he stood holding her hand, looking at it and not at her. he could not tell what were the confused emotions that struggled within him; shame and changed love; awe, and broken memories of prayers that called down blessings. it was "god bless you," that he felt, yet he did not feel that it was for him to say these words to her. and no words came; but tears were in his eyes as, in farewell, he bent over her hand and kissed it. xii when amabel waked next morning a bright dawn filled her room. she remembered, finding it so light, that before lying down to sleep she had drawn all her curtains so that, through the open windows, she might see, until she fell asleep, a wonderful sky of stars. she had not looked at them for long. she had gone to sleep quickly and quietly, lying on her side, her face turned to the sky, her arms cast out before her, just as she had first lain down; and so she found herself lying when she waked. it was very early. the sun gilded the dark summits of the sycamores that she could see from her window. the sky was very high and clear, and long, thin strips of cloud curved in lessening bars across it. the confused chirpings of the waking birds filled the air. and before any thought had come to her she smiled as she lay there, looking at and listening to the wakening life. then the remembrance of the dark ordeal that lay before her came. it was like waking to the morning that was to see one on the scaffold: but, with something of the light detachment that a condemned prisoner might feel--nothing being left to hope for and the only strength demanded being the passive strength to endure--she found that she was thinking more of the sky and of the birds than of the ordeal. some hours lay between her and that; bright, beautiful hours. she put out her hand and took her watch which lay near. only six. augustine would not expect to see her until ten. four long hours: she must get up and spend them out of doors. it was too early for hot water or maids; she enjoyed the flowing shocks of the cold and her own rapidity and skill in dressing and coiling up her hair. she put on her black dress and took her black scarf as a covering for her head. slipping out noiselessly, like a truant school-girl, she made her way to the pantry, found milk and bread, and ate and drank standing, then, cautiously pushing bolts and bars, stepped from the door into the dew, the sunlight, the keen young air. she took the path to the left that led through the sycamore wood, and crossing the narrow brook by a little plank and hand rail, passed into the meadows where, in spring, she and augustine used to pick cowslips. she thought of augustine, but only in that distant past, as a little child, and her mind dwelt on sweet, trivial memories, on the toys he had played with and the pair of baby-shoes, bright red shoes, square-toed, with rosettes on them, that she had loved to see him wear with his little white frocks. and in remembering the shoes she smiled again, as she had smiled in hearing the noisy chirpings of the waking birds. the little path ran on through meadow after meadow, stiles at the hedges, planks over the brooks and ditches that intersected this flat, pastoral country. she paused for a long time to watch the birds hopping and fluttering in a line of sapling willows that bordered one of these brooks and at another stood and watched a water-rat, unconscious of her nearness, making his morning toilette on the bank; he rubbed his ears and muzzle hastily, with the most amusing gesture. once she left the path to go close to some cows that were grazing peacefully; their beautiful eyes, reflecting the green pastures, looked up at her with serenity, and she delighted in the fragrance that exhaled from their broad, wet nostrils. "darlings," she found herself saying. she went very far. she crossed the road that, seen from charlock house, was, with its bordering elm-trees, only a line of blotted blue. and all the time the light grew more splendid and the sun rose higher in the vast dome of the sky. she returned more slowly than she had gone. it was like a dream this walk, as though her spirit, awake, alive to sight and sound, smiling and childish, were out under the sky, while in the dark, sad house the heavily throbbing heart waited for its return. this waiting heart seemed to come out to meet her as once more she saw the sycamores dark on the sky and saw beyond them the low stone house. the pearly, the crystalline interlude, drew to a close. she knew that in passing from it she passed into deep, accepted tragedy. the sycamores had grown so tall since she first came to live at charlock house that the foliage made a high roof and only sparkling chinks of sky showed through. the path before her was like the narrow aisle of a cathedral. it was very dark and silent. she stood still, remembering the day when, after her husband's first visit to her, she had come here in the late afternoon and had known the mingled revelation of divine and human holiness. she stood still, thinking of it, and wondered intently, looking down. it was gone, that radiant human image, gone for ever. the son, to whom her heart now clung, was stern. she was alone. every prop, every symbol of the divine love had been taken from her. but, so bereft, it was not, after the long pause of wonder, in weakness and abandonment that she stood still in the darkness and closed her eyes. it was suffering, but it was not fear; it was longing, but it was not loneliness. and as, in her wrecked girlhood, she had held out her hands, blessed and receiving, she held them out now, blessed, though sacrificing all she had. but her uplifted face, white and rapt, was now without a smile. suddenly she knew that someone was near her. she opened her eyes and saw augustine standing at some little distance looking at her. it seemed natural to see him there, waiting to lead her into the ordeal. she went towards him at once. "is it time?" she said. "am i late?" augustine was looking intently at her. "it isn't half-past nine yet," he said. "i've had my breakfast. i didn't know you had gone out till just now when i went to your room and found it empty." she saw then in his eyes that he had been frightened. he took her hand and she yielded it to him and they went up towards the house. "i have had such a long walk," she said. "isn't it a beautiful morning." "yes; i suppose so," said augustine. as they walked he did not take his eyes off his mother's face. "aren't you tired?" he asked. "not at all. i slept well." "your shoes are quite wet," said augustine, looking down at them. "yes; the meadows were thick with dew." "you didn't keep to the path?" "yes;--no, i remember."--she looked down at her shoes, trying, obediently, to satisfy him, "i turned aside to look at the cows." "will you please change your shoes at once?" "i'll go up now and change them. and will you wait for me in the drawing-room, augustine." "yes." she saw that he was still frightened, and remembering how strange she must have looked to him, standing still, with upturned face and outstretched hands, in the sycamore wood, she smiled at him:--"i am well, dear, don't be troubled," she said. in her room, before she went downstairs, she looked at herself in the glass. the pale, calm face was strange to her, or was it the story, now on her lips, that was the strange thing, looking at that face. she saw them both with augustine's eyes; how could he believe it of that face. she did not see the mirrored holiness, but the innocent eyes looked back at her marvelling at what she was to tell of them. in the drawing-room augustine was walking up and down. the fire was burning cheerfully and all the windows were wide open. the room looked its lightest. augustine's intent eyes were on her as she entered. "you won't find the air too much?" he questioned; his voice trembled. she murmured that she liked it. but the agitation that she saw controlled in him affected her so that she, too, began to tremble. she went to her chair at one side of the large round table. "will you sit there, augustine," she said. he sat down, opposite to her, where sir hugh had sat the night before. amabel put her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. she could not look at her child; she could not see his pain. "augustine," she said, "i am going to tell you a long story; it is about myself, and about you. and you will be brave, for my sake, and try to help me to tell it as quickly as i can." his silence promised what she asked. "before the story," she said, "i will tell you the central thing, the thing you must be brave to hear.--you are an illegitimate child, augustine." at that she stopped. she listened and heard nothing. then came long breaths. she opened her eyes to see that his head had fallen forward and was buried in his arms. "i can't bear it.--i can't bear it--" came in gasps. she could say nothing. she had no word of alleviation for his agony. only she felt it turning like a sword in her heart. "say something to me"--augustine gasped on.--"you did that for him, too.--i am his child.--you are not my mother.--" he could not sob. amabel gazed at him. with the unimaginable revelation of his love came the unimaginable turning of the sword; it was this that she must destroy. she commanded herself to inflict, swiftly, the further blow. "augustine," she said. he lifted a blind face, hearing her voice. he opened his eyes. they looked at each other. "i am your mother," said amabel. he gazed at her. he gazed and gazed; and she offered herself to the crucifixion of his transfixing eyes. the silence grew long. it had done its work. once more she put her hands before her face. "listen," she said. "i will tell you." he did not stir nor move his eyes from her hidden face while she spoke. swiftly, clearly, monotonously, she told him all. she paused at nothing; she slurred nothing. she read him the story of the stupid sinner from the long closed book of the past. there was no hesitation for a word; no uncertainty for an interpretation. everything was written clearly and she had only to read it out. and while she spoke, of her girlhood, her marriage, of the man with the unknown name--his father--of her flight with him, her flight from him, here, to this house, augustine sat motionless. his eyes considered her, fixed in their contemplation. she told him of his own coming, of her brother's anger and dismay, of sir hugh's magnanimity, and of how he had been born to her, her child, the unfortunate one, whom she had felt unworthy to love as a child should be loved. she told him how her sin had shut him away and made strangeness grow between them. and when all this was told amabel put down her hands. his stillness had grown uncanny: he might not have been there; she might have been talking in an empty room. but he was there, sitting opposite her, as she had last seen him, half turned in his seat, fallen together a little as though his breathing were very slight and shallow; and his dilated eyes, strange, deep, fierce, were fixed on her. she shut the sight out with her hands. she stumbled a little now in speaking on, and spoke more slowly. she knew herself condemned and the rest seemed unnecessary. it only remained to tell him how her mistaken love had also shut him out; to tell, slightly, not touching lady elliston's name, of how the mistake had come to pass; to say, finally, on long, failing breaths, that her sin had always been between them but that, until the other day, when he had told her of his ideals, she had not seen how impassable was the division. "and now," she said, and the convulsive trembling shook her as she spoke, "now you must say what you will do. i am a different woman from the mother you have loved and reverenced. you will not care to be with the stranger you must feel me to be. you are free, and you must leave me. only," she said, but her voice now shook so that she could hardly say the words--"only--i will always be here--loving you, augustine; loving you and perhaps,--forgive me if i have no right to that, even--hoping;--hoping that some day, in some degree, you may care for me again." she stopped. she could say no more. and she could only hear her own shuddering breaths. then augustine moved. he pushed back his chair and rose. she waited to hear him leave the room, and leave her, to her doom, in silence. but he was standing still. then he came near to her. and now she waited for the words that would be worse than silence. but at first there were no words. he had fallen on his knees before her; he had put his arms around her; he was pressing his head against her breast while, trembling as she trembled, he said:--"mother--mother--mother." all barriers had fallen at the cry. it was the cry of the exile, the banished thing, returning to its home. he pressed against the heart to which she had never herself dared to draw him. but, incredulous, she parted her hands and looked down at him; and still she did not dare enfold him. "augustine--do you understand?--do you still love me?--" "oh mother," he gasped,--"what have i been to you that you can ask me!" "you can forgive me?" amabel said, weeping, and hiding her face against his hair. they were locked in each other's arms. and, his head upon her breast, as if it were her own heart that spoke to her, he said:--"i will atone to you.--i will make up to you--for everything.--you shall be glad that i was born." clotelle: a tale of the southern states by william wells brown contents i the slave's social circle. ii the negro sale. iii the slave speculator. iv the boat-race. v the young mother. vi the slave-market. vii the slave-holding parson. viii a night in the parson's kitchen. ix the man of honor. x the quadroon's home xi to-day a mistress, to-morrow a slave xii the mother-in-law. xiii a hard-hearted woman. xiv the prison. xv the arrest. xvi death is freedom. xvii clotelle. xviii a slave-hunting parson. xix the true heroine. xx the hero of many adventures. xxi self-sacrifice. xxii love at first sight and what followed. xxiii meeting of the cousins. xxiv the law and its victim. xxv the flight. xxvi the hero of a night. xxvii true freedom. xxviii farewell to america. xxix a stranger in a strange land. xxx new friends. xxxi the mysterious meeting. xxxii the happy meeting. xxxiii the happy day. xxxiv clotelle meets her father. xxxv the father's resolve. chapter i the slave's social circle. with the growing population in the southern states, the increase of mulattoes has been very great. society does not frown upon the man who sits with his half-white child upon his knee whilst the mother stands, a slave, behind his chair. in nearly all the cities and towns of the slave states, the real negro, or clear black, does not amount to more than one in four of the slave population. this fact is of itself the best evidence of the degraded and immoral condition of the relation of master and slave. throughout the southern states, there is a class of slaves who, in most of the towns, are permitted to hire their time from their owners, and who are always expected to pay a high price. this class is the mulatto women, distinguished for their fascinating beauty. the handsomest of these usually pay the greatest amount for their time. many of these women are the favorites of men of property and standing, who furnish them with the means of compensating their owners, and not a few are dressed in the most extravagant manner. when we take into consideration the fact that no safeguard is thrown around virtue, and no inducement held out to slave-women to be pure and chaste, we will not be surprised when told that immorality and vice pervade the cities and towns of the south to an extent unknown in the northern states. indeed, many of the slave-women have no higher aspiration than that of becoming the finely-dressed mistress of some white man. at negro balls and parties, this class of women usually make the most splendid appearance, and are eagerly sought after in the dance, or to entertain in the drawing-room or at the table. a few years ago, among the many slave-women in richmond, virginia, who hired their time of their masters, was agnes, a mulatto owned by john graves, esq., and who might be heard boasting that she was the daughter of an american senator. although nearly forty years of age at the time of which we write, agnes was still exceedingly handsome. more than half white, with long black hair and deep blue eyes, no one felt like disputing with her when she urged her claim to her relationship with the anglo-saxon. in her younger days, agnes had been a housekeeper for a young slaveholder, and in sustaining this relation had become the mother of two daughters. after being cast aside by this young man, the slave-woman betook herself to the business of a laundress, and was considered to be the most tasteful woman in richmond at her vocation. isabella and marion, the two daughters of agnes, resided with their mother, and gave her what aid they could in her business. the mother, however, was very choice of her daughters, and would allow them to perform no labor that would militate against their lady-like appearance. agnes early resolved to bring up her daughters as ladies, as she termed it. as the girls grew older, the mother had to pay a stipulated price for them per month. her notoriety as a laundress of the first class enabled her to put an extra charge upon the linen that passed through her hands; and although she imposed little or no work upon her daughters, she was enabled to live in comparative luxury and have her daughters dressed to attract attention, especially at the negro balls and parties. although the term "negro ball" is applied to these gatherings, yet a large portion of the men who attend them are whites. negro balls and parties in the southern states, especially in the cities and towns, are usually made up of quadroon women, a few negro men, and any number of white gentlemen. these are gatherings of the most democratic character. bankers, merchants, lawyers, doctors, and their clerks and students, all take part in these social assemblies upon terms of perfect equality. the father and son not unfrequently meet and dance alike at a negro ball. it was at one of these parties that henry linwood, the son of a wealthy and retired gentleman of richmond, was first introduced to isabella, the oldest daughter of agnes. the young man had just returned from harvard college, where he had spent the previous five years. isabella was in her eighteenth year, and was admitted by all who knew her to be the handsomest girl, colored or white, in the city. on this occasion, she was attired in a sky-blue silk dress, with deep black lace flounces, and bertha of the same. on her well-moulded arms she wore massive gold bracelets, while her rich black hair was arranged at the back in broad basket plaits, ornamented with pearls, and the front in the french style (a la imperatrice), which suited her classic face to perfection. marion was scarcely less richly dressed than her sister. henry linwood paid great attention to isabella which was looked upon with gratification by her mother, and became a matter of general conversation with all present. of course, the young man escorted the beautiful quadroon home that evening, and became the favorite visitor at the house of agnes. it was on a beautiful moonlight night in the month of august when all who reside in tropical climates are eagerly grasping for a breath of fresh air, that henry linwood was in the garden which surrounded agnes' cottage, with the young quadroon by his side. he drew from his pocket a newspaper wet from the press, and read the following advertisement:-notice.--seventy-nine negroes will be offered for sale on monday, september 10, at 12 o'clock, being the entire stock of the late john graves in an excellent condition, and all warranted against the common vices. among them are several mechanics, able-bodied field-hands, plough-boys, and women with children, some of them very prolific, affording a rare opportunity for any one who wishes to raise a strong and healthy lot of servants for their own use. also several mulatto girls of rare personal qualities,--two of these very superior. among the above slaves advertised for sale were agnes and her two daughters. ere young linwood left the quadroon that evening, he promised her that he would become her purchaser, and make her free and her own mistress. mr. graves had long been considered not only an excellent and upright citizen of the first standing among the whites, but even the slaves regarded him as one of the kindest of masters. having inherited his slaves with the rest of his property, he became possessed of them without any consultation or wish of his own. he would neither buy nor sell slaves, and was exceedingly careful, in letting them out, that they did not find oppressive and tyrannical masters. no slave speculator ever dared to cross the threshold of this planter of the old dominion. he was a constant attendant upon religious worship, and was noted for his general benevolence. the american bible society, the american tract society, and the cause of foreign missions, found in him a liberal friend. he was always anxious that his slaves should appear well on the sabbath, and have an opportunity of hearing the word of god. chapter ii the negro sale. as might have been expected, the day of sale brought an usually large number together to compete for the property to be sold. farmers, who make a business of raising slaves for the market, were there, and slave-traders, who make a business of buying human beings in the slave-raising states and taking them to the far south, were also in attendance. men and women, too, who wished to purchase for their own use, had found their way to the slave sale. in the midst of the throne was one who felt a deeper interest in the result of the sale than any other of the bystanders. this was young linwood. true to his promise, he was there with a blank bank-check in his pocket, awaiting with impatience to enter the list as a bidder for the beautiful slave. it was indeed a heart-rending scene to witness the lamentations of these slaves, all of whom had grown up together on the old homestead of mr. graves, and who had been treated with great kindness by that gentleman, during his life. now they were to be separated, and form new relations and companions. such is the precarious condition of the slave. even when with a good master, there is no certainty of his happiness in the future. the less valuable slaves were first placed upon the auction-block, one after another, and sold to the highest bidder. husbands and wives were separated with a degree of indifference that is unknown in any other relation in life. brothers and sisters were tom from each other, and mothers saw their children for the last time on earth. it was late in the day, and when the greatest number of persons were thought to be present, when agnes and her daughters were brought out to the place of sale. the mother was first put upon the auction-block, and sold to a noted negro trader named jennings. marion was next ordered to ascend the stand, which she did with a trembling step, and was sold for $1200. all eyes were now turned on isabella, as she was led forward by the auctioneer. the appearance of the handsome quadroon caused a deep sensation among the crowd. there she stood, with a skin as fair as most white women, her features as beautifully regular as any of her sex of pure anglo-saxon blood, her long black hair done up in the neatest manner, her form tall and graceful, and her whole appearance indicating one superior to her condition. the auctioneer commenced by saying that miss isabella was fit to deck the drawing-room of the finest mansion in virginia. "how much, gentlemen, for this real albino!--fit fancy-girl for any one! she enjoys good health, and has a sweet temper. how much do you say?" "five hundred dollars." "only five hundred for such a girl as this? gentlemen, she is worth a deal more than that sum. you certainly do not know the value of the article you are bidding on. here, gentlemen, i hold in my hand a paper certifying that she has a good moral character." "seven hundred." "ah, gentlemen, that is something like. this paper also states that she is very intelligent." "eight hundred." "she was first sprinkled, then immersed, and is now warranted to be a devoted christian, and perfectly trustworthy." "nine hundred dollars." "nine hundred and fifty." "one thousand." "eleven hundred." here the bidding came to a dead stand. the auctioneer stopped, looked around, and began in a rough manner to relate some anecdote connected with the sale of slaves, which he said had come under his own observation. at this juncture the scene was indeed a most striking one. the laughing, joking, swearing, smoking, spitting, and talking, kept up a continual hum and confusion among the crowd, while the slave-girl stood with tearful eyes, looking alternately at her mother and sister and toward the young man whom she hoped would become her purchaser. "the chastity of this girl," now continued the auctioneer, "is pure. she has never been from under her mother's care. she is virtuous, and as gentle as a dove." the bids here took a fresh start, and went on until $1800 was reached. the auctioneer once more resorted to his jokes, and concluded by assuring the company that isabella was not only pious, but that she could make an excellent prayer. "nineteen hundred dollars." "two thousand." this was the last bid, and the quadroon girl was struck off, and became the property of henry linwood. this was a virginia slave-auction, at which the bones, sinews, blood, and nerves of a young girl of eighteen were sold for $500; her moral character for $200; her superior intellect for $100; the benefits supposed to accrue from her having been sprinkled and immersed, together with a warranty of her devoted christianity, for $300; her ability to make a good prayer for $200; and her chastity for $700 more. this, too, in a city thronged with churches, whose tall spires look like so many signals pointing to heaven, but whose ministers preach that slavery a god-ordained institution! the slaves were speedily separated, and taken along by their respective masters. jennings, the slave-speculator, who had purchased agnes and her daughter marion, with several of the other slaves, took them to the county prison, where he usually kept his human cattle after purchasing them, previous to starting for the new orleans market. linwood had already provided a place for isabella, to which she was taken. the most trying moment for her was when she took leave of her mother and sister. the "good-by" of the slave is unlike that of any other class in the community. it is indeed a farewell forever. with tears streaming down their cheeks, they embraced and commanded each other to god, who is no respecter of persons, and before whom master and slave must one day appear. chapter iii the slave speculator. dick jennings the slave-speculator, was one of the few northern men, who go to the south and throw aside their honest mode of obtaining a living and resort to trading in human beings. a more repulsive looking person could scarcely be found in any community of bad looking men. tall, lean and lank, with high cheek-bones, face much pitted with the small-pox, gray eyes with red eyebrows, and sandy whiskers, he indeed stood alone without mate or fellow in looks. jennings prided himself upon what he called his goodness of heart and was always speaking of his humanity. as many of the slaves whom he intended taking to the new orleans market had been raised in richmond, and had relations there, he determined to leave the city early in the morning, so as not to witness any of the scenes so common the departure of a slave-gang to the far south. in this, he was most successful; for not even isabella, who had called at the prison several times to see her mother and sister, was aware of the time that they were to leave. the slave-trader started at early dawn, and was beyond the confines of the city long before the citizens were out of their beds. as a slave regards a life on the sugar, cotton, or rice plantation as even worse than death, they are ever on the watch for an opportunity to escape. the trader, aware of this, secures his victims in chains before he sets out on his journey. on this occasion, jennings had the men chained in pairs, while the women were allowed to go unfastened, but were closely watched. after a march of eight days, the company arrived on the banks of the ohio river, where they took a steamer for the place of their destination. jennings had already advertised in the new orleans papers, that he would be there with a prime lot of able-bodied slaves, men and women, fit for field-service, with a few extra ones calculated for house servants,--all between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five years; but like most men who make a business of speculating in human beings, he often bought many who were far advanced in years, and would try to pass them off for five or six years younger than they were. few persons can arrive at anything approaching the real age of the negro, by mere observation, unless they are well acquainted with the race. therefore, the slave-trader frequently carried out the deception with perfect impunity. after the steamer had left the wharf and was fairly out on the bosom of the broad mississippi, the speculator called his servant pompey to him; and instructed him as to getting the negroes ready for market. among the forty slaves that the trader had on this occasion, were some whose appearance indicated that they had seen some years and had gone through considerable service. their gray hair and whiskers at once pronounced them to be above the ages set down in the trader's advertisement. pompey had long been with jennings, and understood his business well, and if he did not take delight in the discharge of his duty, he did it at least with a degree of alacrity, so that he might receive the approbation of his master. pomp, as he was usually called by the trader, was of real negro blood, and would often say, when alluding to himself, "dis nigger am no counterfeit, he is de ginuine artikle. dis chile is none of your haf-and-haf, dere is no bogus about him." pompey was of low stature, round face, and, like most of his race, had a set of teeth, which, for whiteness and beauty, could not be surpassed; his eyes were large, lips thick, and hair short and woolly. pompey had been with jennings so long, and had seen so much of buying and selling of his fellow-creatures, that he appeared perfectly indifferent to the heart-rending scenes which daily occurred in his presence. such is the force of habit:- "vice is a monster of such frightful mien, that to be hated, needs but to be seen; but seen too oft, familiar with its face, we first endure, then pity, then embrace." it was on the second day of the steamer's voyage, that pompey selected five of the oldest slaves, took them into a room by themselves, and commenced preparing them for the market. "now," said he, addressing himself to the company, "i is de chap dat is to get you ready for de orleans market, so dat you will bring marser a good price. how old is you?" addressing himself to a man not less than forty. "if i live to see next sweet-potato-digging time, i shall be either forty or forty-five, i don't know which." "dat may be," replied pompey; "but now you is only thirty years old,--dat's what marser says you is to be." "i know i is more den dat," responded the man. "i can't help nuffin' about dat," returned pompey; "but when you get into de market and any one ax you how old you is, and you tell um you is forty or forty-five, marser will tie you up and cut you all to pieces. but if you tell urn dat you is only thirty, den he won't. now remember dat you is thirty years old and no more." "well den, i guess i will only be thirty when dey ax me." "what's your name?" said pompey, addressing himself to another. "jeems." "oh! uncle jim, is it?" "yes." "den you must have all them gray whiskers shaved off, and all dem gray hairs plucked out of your head." this was all said by pompey in a manner which showed that he know what he was about. "how old is you?" asked pompey of a tall, strong-looking man. "what's your name?" "i am twenty-nine years old, and my name is tobias, but they calls me toby." "well, toby, or mr. tobias, if dat will suit you better, you are now twenty-three years old; dat's all,--do you understand dat?" "yes," replied toby. pompey now gave them all to understand how old they were to be when asked by persons who were likely to purchase, and then went and reported to his master that the old boys were all right. "be sure," said jennings, "that the niggers don't forget what you have taught them, for our luck this time in the market depends upon their appearance. if any of them have so many gray hairs that you cannot pluck them out, take the blacking and brush, and go at them." chapter iv the boat-race. at eight o'clock, on the evening of the third day of the passage, the lights of another steamer were soon in the distance, and apparently coming up very fast. this was the signal for a general commotion on board the patriot, and everything indicated that a steamboat-race was at hand. nothing can exceed the excitement attendant upon the racing of steamers on the mississippi. by the time the boats had reached memphis they were side by side, and each exerting itself to get in advance of the other. the night was clear, the moon shining brightly, and the boats so near to each other that the passengers were within speaking distance. on board the patriot the firemen were using oil, lard, butter, and even bacon, with woody for the purpose of raising the steam to its highest pitch. the blaze mingled with the black smoke that issued from the pipes of the other boat, which showed that she also was burning something more combustible than wood. the firemen of both boats, who were slaves, were singing songs such as can only be heard on board a southern steamer. the boats now came abreast of each other, and nearer and nearer, until they were locked so that men could pass from one to the other. the wildest excitement prevailed among the men employed on the steamers, in which the passengers freely participated. the patriot now stopped to take in passengers, but still no steam was permitted to escape. on the starting of the boat again, cold water was forced into the boilers by the feed-pumps, and, as might have been expected, one of the boilers exploded with terrific force, carrying away the boiler-deck and tearing to pieces much of the machinery. one dense fog of steam filled every part of the vessel, while shrieks, groans, and cries were heard on every side. men were running hither and thither looking for their wives, and women wore flying about in the wildest confusion seeking for their husbands. dismay appeared on every countenance. the saloons and cabins soon looked more like hospitals than anything else; but by this time the patriot had drifted to the shore, and the other steamer had come alongside to render assistance to the disabled boat. the killed and wounded (nineteen in number) were put on shore, and the patriot, taken in tow by the washington, was once more on her journey. it was half-past twelve, and the passengers, instead of retiring to their berths, once more assembled at the gambling-tables. the practice of gambling on the western waters has long been a source of annoyance to the more moral persons who travel on our great rivers. thousands of dollars often change owners during a passage from st. louis or louisville to new orleans, on a mississippi steamer. many men are completely ruined on such occasions, and duels are often the consequence. "go call my boy, steward," said mr. jones, as he took his cards one by one from the table. in a few minutes a fine-looking, bright-eyed mulatto boy, apparently about sixteen years of age, was standing by his master's side at the table. "i am broke, all but my boy," said jones, as he ran his fingers through his cards; "but he is worth a thousand dollars, and i will bet the half of him." "i will call you," said thompson, as he laid five hundred dollars at the feet of the boy, who was standing, on the table, and at the same time throwing down his cards before his adversary. "you have beaten me," said jones; and a roar of laughter followed from the other gentleman as poor joe stepped down from the table. "well, i suppose i owe you half the nigger," said thompson, as he took hold of joe and began examining his limbs. "yes," replied jones, "he is half yours. let me have five hundred dollars, and i will give you a bill of sale of the boy." "go back to your bed," said thompson to his chattel, "and remember that you now belong to me." the poor slave wiped the tears from his eyes, as, in obedience, he turned to leave the table. "my father gave me that boy," said jones, as he took the money, "and i hope, mr. thompson, that you will allow me to redeem him." "most certainly, sir," replied thompson. "whenever you hand over the cool thousand the negro is yours." next morning, as the passengers were assembling in the cabin and on deck and while the slaves were running about waiting on or looking for their masters, poor joe was seen entering his new master's stateroom, boots in hand. "who do you belong to?" inquired a gentleman of an old negro, who passed along leading a fine newfoundland dog which he had been feeding. "when i went to sleep las' night," replied the slave, "i 'longed to massa carr; but he bin gamblin' all night an' i don't know who i 'longs to dis mornin'." such is the uncertainty of a slave's life. he goes to bed at night the pampered servant of his young master, with whom he has played in childhood, and who would not see his slave abused under any consideration, and gets up in the morning the property of a man whom he has never before seen. to behold five or six tables in the saloon of a steamer, with half a dozen men playing cards at each, with money, pistols, and bowie-knives spread in splendid confusion before them, is an ordinary thing on the mississippi river. chapter v the young mother. on the fourth morning, the patriot landed at grand gulf, a beautiful town on the left bank of the mississippi. among the numerous passengers who came on board at rodney was another slave-trader, with nine human chattels which he was conveying to the southern market. the passengers, both ladies and gentlemen, were startled at seeing among the new lot of slaves a woman so white as not to be distinguishable from the other white women on board. she had in her arms a child so white that no one would suppose a drop of african blood flowed through its blue veins. no one could behold that mother with her helpless babe, without feeling that god would punish the oppressor. there she sat, with an expressive and intellectual forehead, and a countenance full of dignity and heroism, her dark golden locks rolled back from her almost snow-white forehead and floating over her swelling bosom. the tears that stood in her mild blue eyes showed that she was brooding over sorrows and wrongs that filled her bleeding heart. the hearts of the passers-by grew softer, while gazing upon that young mother as she pressed sweet kisses on the sad, smiling lips of the infant that lay in her lap. the small, dimpled hands of the innocent creature were slyly hid in the warm bosom on which the little one nestled. the blood of some proud southerner, no doubt, flowed through the veins of that child. when the boat arrived at natches, a rather good-looking, genteel-appearing man came on board to purchase a servant. this individual introduced himself to jennings as the rev. james wilson. the slave-trader conducted the preacher to the deck-cabin, where he kept his slaves, and the man of god, after having some questions answered, selected agnes as the one best suited to his service. it seemed as if poor marion's heart would break when she found that she was to be separated from her mother. the preacher, however, appeared to be but little moved by their sorrow, and took his newly-purchased victim on shore. agnes begged him to buy her daughter, but he refused, on the ground that he had no use for her. during the remainder of the passage, marion wept bitterly. after a ran of a few hours, the boat stopped at baton rouge, where an additional number of passengers were taken on board, among whom were a number of persons who had been attending the races at that place. gambling and drinking were now the order of the day. the next morning, at ten o'clock, the boat arrived at new orleans where the passengers went to their hotels and homes, and the negroes to the slave-pens. lizzie, the white slave-mother, of whom we have already spoken, created as much of a sensation by the fairness of her complexion and the alabaster whiteness of her child, when being conveyed on shore at new orleans, as she had done when brought on board at grand gulf. every one that saw her felt that slavery in the southern states was not confined to the negro. many had been taught to think that slavery was a benefit rather than an injury, and those who were not opposed to the institution before, now felt that if whites were to become its victims, it was time at least that some security should be thrown around the anglo-saxon to gave him from this servile and degraded position. chapter vi the slave-market. not far from canal street, in the city of new orleans, stands a large two-story, flat building, surrounded by a stone wall some twelve feet high, the top of which is covered with bits of glass, and so constructed as to prevent even the possibility of any one's passing over it without sustaining great injury. many of the rooms in this building resemble the cells of a prison, and in a small apartment near the "office" are to be seen any number of iron collars, hobbles, handcuffs, thumbscrews, cowhides, chains, gags, and yokes. a back-yard, enclosed by a high wall, looks something like the playground attached to one of our large new england schools, in which are rows of benches and swings. attached to the back premises is a good-sized kitchen, where, at the time of which we write, two old negresses were at work, stewing, boiling, and baking, and occasionally wiping the perspiration from their furrowed and swarthy brows. the slave-trader, jennings, on his arrival at new orleans, took up his quarters here with his gang of human cattle, and the morning after, at 10 o'clock, they were exhibited for sale. first of all came the beautiful marion, whose pale countenance and dejected look told how many sad hours she had passed since parting with her mother at natchez. there, too, was a poor woman who had been separated from her husband; and another woman, whose looks and manners were expressive of deep anguish, sat by her side. there was "uncle jeems," with his whiskers off, his face shaven clean, and the gray hairs plucked out ready to be sold for ten years younger than he was. toby was also there, with his face shaven and greased, ready for inspection. the examination commenced, and was carried on in such a manner as to shock the feelings of anyone not entirely devoid of the milk of human kindness. "what are you wiping your eyes for?" inquired a fat, red-faced man, with a white hat set on one side of his head and a cigar in his mouth, of a woman who sat on one of the benches. "because i left my man behind." "oh, if i buy you, i will furnish you with a better man than you left. i've got lots of young bucks on my farm." "i don't want and never will have another man," replied the woman. "what's your name?" asked a man in a straw hat of a tall negro who stood with his arms folded across his breast, leaning against the wall. "my name is aaron, sar." "how old are you?" "twenty-five." "where were you raised?" "in ole virginny, sar." "how many men have owned you?" "four." "do you enjoy good health?" "yes, sar." "how long did you live with your first owner?" "twenty years." "did you ever run away?" "no, sar." "did you ever strike your master?" "no, sar." "were you ever whipped much?" "no, sar; i s'pose i didn't deserve it, sar." "how long did you live with your second master?" "ten years, sar." "have you a good appetite?" "yes, sar." "can you eat your allowance?" "yes, sar,--when i can get it." "where were you employed in virginia?" "i worked de tobacker fiel'." "in the tobacco field, eh?" "yes, sar." "how old did you say you was?" "twenty-five, sar, nex' sweet-'tater-diggin' time." "i am a cotton-planter, and if i buy you, you will have to work in the cotton-field. my men pick one hundred and fifty pounds a day, and the women one hundred and forty pounds; and those who fail to perform their task receive five stripes for each pound that is wanting. now, do you think you could keep up with the rest of the hands?" "i' don't know sar but i 'specs i'd have to." "how long did you live with your third master?" "three years, sar." "why, that makes you thirty-three. i thought you told me you were only twenty-five?" aaron now looked first at the planter, then at the trader, and seemed perfectly bewildered. he had forgotten the lesson given him by pompey relative to his age; and the planter's circuitous questions--doubtless to find out the slave's real age--had thrown the negro off his guard. "i must see your back, so as to know how much you have been whipped, before i think of buying." pompey, who had been standing by during the examination, thought that his services were now required, and, stepping forth with a degree of officiousness, said to aaron,-"don't you hear de gemman tell you he wants to 'zamin you. cum, unharness yo'seff, ole boy, and don't be standin' dar." aaron was soon examined, and pronounced "sound;" yet the conflicting statement about his age was not satisfactory. fortunately for marion, she was spared the pain of undergoing such an examination. mr. cardney, a teller in one of the banks, had just been married, and wanted a maid-servant for his wife, and, passing through the market in the early part of the day, was pleased with the young slave's appearance, and his dwelling the quadroon found a much better home than often falls to the lot of a slave sold in the new orleans market. chapter vii the slave-holding parson. the rev. james wilson was a native of the state of connecticut where he was educated for the ministry in the methodist persuasion. his father was a strict follower of john wesley, and spared no pains in his son's education, with the hope that he would one day be as renowned as the leader of his sect. james had scarcely finished his education at new haven, when he was invited by an uncle, then on a visit to his father, to spend a few months at natchez in mississippi. young wilson accepted his uncle's invitation, and accompanied him to the south. few young men, and especially clergymen, going fresh from college to the south, but are looked upon as geniuses in a small way, and who are not invited to all the parties in the neighborhood. mr. wilson was not an exception to this rule. the society into which he was thrown, on his arrival at natchez, was too brilliant for him not to be captivated by it, and, as might have been expected, he succeeded in captivating a plantation with seventy slaves if not the heart of the lady to whom it belonged. added to this, he became a popular preacher, and had a large congregation with a snug salary. like other planters, mr. wilson confided the care of his farm to ned huckelby, an overseer of high reputation in his way. the poplar farm, as it was called, was situated in a beautiful valley, nine miles from natchez, and near the mississippi river. the once unshorn face of nature had given way, and the farm now blossomed with a splendid harvest. the neat cottage stood in a grove, where lombardy poplars lift their tops almost to prop the skies, where the willow, locust and horse-chestnut trees spread forth their branches, and flowers never ceased to blossom. this was the parson's country residence, where the family spent only two months during the year. his town residence was a fine villa, seated on the brow of a hill at the edge of the city. it was in the kitchen of this house that agnes found her new home. mr. wilson was every inch a democrat, and early resolved that "his people," as he called his slaves should be well-fed and not over-worked, and therefore laid down the law and gospel to the overseer as well as to the slaves. "it is my wish," said he to mr. carlingham, an old school-fellow who was spending a few days with him,--"it is my wish that a new system be adopted on the plantations in this state. i believe that the sons of ham should have the gospel, and i intend that mine shall have it. the gospel is calculated to make mankind better and none should be without it." "what say you," said carlingham, "about the right of man to his liberty?" "now, carlingham, you have begun to harp again about men's rights. i really wish that you could see this matter as i do."' "i regret that i cannot see eye to eye with you," said carlingham. "i am a disciple of rousseau, and have for years made the rights of man my study, and i must confess to you that i see no difference between white and black, as it regards liberty." "now, my dear carlingham, would you really have the negroes enjoy the same rights as ourselves?" "i would most certainly. look at our great declaration of independence! look even at the constitution of our own connecticut and see what is said in these about liberty." "i regard all this talk about rights as mere humbug. the bible is older than the declaration of independence, and there i take my stand." a long discussion followed, in which both gentlemen put forth their peculiar ideas with much warmth of feeling. during this conversation, there was another person in the room, seated by the window, who, although at work, embroidering a fine collar, paid minute attention to what was said. this was georgiana, the only daughter of the parson, who had but just returned from connecticut, where she had finished her education. she had had the opportunity of contrasting the spirit of christianity and liberty in new england with that of slavery in her native state, and had learned to feel deeply for the injured negro. georgiana was in her nineteenth year, and had been much benefited by her residence of five years at the north. her form was tall and graceful, her features regular and well-defined, and her complexion was illuminated by the freshness of youth, beauty, and health. the daughter differed from both the father and visitor upon the subject which they had been discussing; and as soon as an opportunity offered, she gave it as her opinion that the bible was both the bulwark of christianity and of liberty. with a smile she said,-"of course, papa will overlook my difference with him, for although i am a native of the south, i am by education and sympathy a northerner." mr. wilson laughed, appearing rather pleased than otherwise at the manner in which his daughter had expressed herself. from this georgiana took courage and continued,-'"thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.' this single passage of scripture should cause us to have respect for the rights of the slave. true christian love is of an enlarged and disinterested nature. it loves all who love the lord jesus christ in sincerity, without regard to color or condition." "georgiana, my dear, you are an abolitionist,--your talk is fanaticism!" said mr. wilson, in rather a sharp tone; but the subdued look of the girl and the presence of carlingham caused him to soften his language. mr. wilson having lost his wife by consumption, and georgiana being his only child, he loved her too dearly to say more, even if he felt disposed. a silence followed this exhortation from the young christian, but her remarks had done a noble work. the father's heart was touched, and the sceptic, for the first time, was viewing christianity in its true light. chapter viii a night in the parson's kitchen. besides agnes, whom mr. wilson had purchased from the slave-trader, jennings, he kept a number of house-servants. the chief one of these was sam, who must be regarded as second only to the parson himself. if a dinner-party was in contemplation, or any company was to be invited, after all the arrangements had been talked over by the minister and his daughter. sam was sure to be consulted on, the subject by "miss georgy," as miss wilson was called by all the servants. if furniture, crockery, or anything was to be purchased, sam felt that he had been slighted if his opinion was not asked. as to the marketing, he did it all. he sat at the head of the servants' table in the kitchen, and was master of the ceremonies. a single look from him was enough to silence any conversation or noise among the servants in the kitchen or in any other part of the premises. there is in the southern states a great amount of prejudice in regard to color, even among the negroes themselves. the nearer the negro or mulatto approaches to the white, the more he seems to feel his superiority over those of a darker hue. this is no doubt the result of the prejudice that exists on the part of the whites against both the mulattoes and the blacks. sam was originally from kentucky, and through the instrumentality of one of his young masters, whom he had to take to school, he had learned to read so as to be well understood, and, owing to that fact, was considered a prodigy, not only among his own master's slaves, but also among those of the town who knew him. sam had a great wish to follow in the footsteps of his master and be a poet, and was therefore often heard singing doggerels of his own composition. but there was one drawback to sam, and that was his color. he was one of the blackest of his race. this he evidently regarded as a great misfortune; but he endeavored to make up for it in dress. mr. wilson kept his house servants well dressed, and as for sam, he was seldom seen except in a ruffled shirt. indeed, the washerwoman feared him more than any one else in the house. agnes had been inaugurated chief of the kitchen department, and had a general supervision of the household affairs. alfred, the coachman, peter, and hetty made up the remainder of the house-servants. besides these, mr. wilson owned eight slaves who were masons. these worked in the city. being mechanics, they were let out to greater advantage than to keep them on the farm. every sunday evening, mr. wilson's servants, including the bricklayers, assembled in the kitchen, where the events of the week were fully discussed and commented upon. it was on a sunday evening, in the month of june, that there was a party at mr. wilson's house, and, according to custom in the southern states, the ladies had their maidservants with them. tea had been served in "the house," and the servants, including the strangers, had taken their seats at the table in the kitchen. sam, being a "single gentleman," was unusually attentive to the ladies on this occasion. he seldom let a day pass without spending an hour or two in combing and brushing his "har." he had an idea that fresh butter was better for his hair than any other kind of grease, and therefore on churning days half a pound of butter had always to be taken out before it was salted. when he wished to appear to great advantage, he would grease his face to make it "shiny." therefore, on the evening of the party, when all the servants were at the table, sam cut a big figure. there he sat, with his wool well combed and buttered, face nicely greased, and his ruffles extending five or six inches from his bosom. the parson in his drawing-room did not make a more imposing appearance than did his servant on this occasion. "i is bin had my fortune tole last sunday night," said sam, while helping one of the girls. "indeed!" cried half a dozen voices. "yes," continued he; "aunt winny tole me i's to hab de prettiest yallah gal in de town, and dat i's to be free!" all eyes were immediately turned toward sally johnson, who was seated near sam. "i 'specs i see somebody blush at dat remark," said alfred. "pass dem pancakes an' 'lasses up dis way, mr. alf, and none ob your sinuwashuns here," rejoined sam. "dat reminds me," said-agnes, "dat dorcas simpson is gwine to git married." "who to, i want to know?" inquired peter. "to one of mr. darby's field-hands," answered agnes. "i should tink dat gal wouldn't frow herseff away in dat ar way," said sally; "she's good lookin' 'nough to git a house-servant, and not hab to put up wid a field-nigger." "yes," said sam, "dat's a werry unsensible remark ob yourn, miss sally. i admires your judgment werry much, i 'sures you. dar's plenty ob susceptible an' well-dressed house-serbants dat a gal ob her looks can git widout takin' up wid dem common darkies." the evening's entertainment concluded by sam relating a little of his own experience while with his first master, in old kentucky. this master was a doctor, and had a large practice among his neighbors, doctoring both masters and slaves. when sam was about fifteen years old, his master set him to grinding up ointment and making pills. as the young student grew older and became more practised in his profession, his services were of more importance to the doctor. the physician having a good business, and a large number of his patients being slaves,--the most of whom had to call on the doctor when ill,--he put sam to bleeding, pulling teeth, and administering medicine to the slaves. sam soon acquired the name among the slaves of the "black doctor." with this appellation he was delighted; and no regular physician could have put on more airs than did the black doctor when his services were required. in bleeding, he must have more bandages, and would rub and smack the arm more than the doctor would have thought of. sam was once seen taking out a tooth for one of his patients, and nothing appeared more amusing. he got the poor fellow down on his back, and then getting astride of his chest, he applied the turnkeys and pulled away for dear life. unfortunately, he had got hold of the wrong tooth, and the poor man screamed as loud as he could; but it was to no purpose, for sam had him fast, and after a pretty severe tussle out came the sound grinder. the young doctor now saw his mistake, but consoled himself with the thought that as the wrong tooth was out of the way, there was more room to get at the right one. bleeding and a dose of calomel were always considered indispensable by the "old boss," and as a matter of course, sam followed in his footsteps. on one occasion the old doctor was ill himself, so as to be unable to attend to his patients. a slave, with pass in hand, called to receive medical advice, and the master told sam to examine him and see what he wanted. this delighted him beyond measure, for although he had been acting his part in the way of giving out medicine as the master ordered it, he had never been called upon by the latter to examine a patient, and this seemed to convince him after all that he was no sham doctor. as might have been expected, he cut a rare figure in his first examination. placing himself directly opposite his patient, and folding his arms across his breast, looking very knowingly, he began,-"what's de matter wid you?" "i is sick." "where is you sick?" "here," replied the man, putting his hand upon his stomach. "put out your tongue," continued the doctor. the man ran out his tongue at full length. "let me feel your pulse;" at the same time taking his patient's hand in his, and placing his fingers upon his pulse, he said,-"ah! your case is a bad one; ef i don't do something for you, and dat pretty quick, you'll be a gone coons and dat's sartin." at this the man appeared frightened, and inquired what was the matter with him, in answer to which sam said, "i done told dat your case is a bad one, and dat's enuff." on sam's returning to his master's bedside, the latter said, "well, sam, what do you think is the matter with him?" "his stomach is out ob order, sar," he replied. "what do you think had better be done for him?" "i tink i'd better bleed him and gib him a dose ob calomel," returned sam. so, to the latter's gratification, the master let him have his own way. on one occasion, when making pills and ointment, sam made a great mistake. he got the preparations for both mixed together, so that he could not legitimately make either. but fearing that if he threw the stuff away, his master would flog him, and being afraid to inform his superior of the mistake, he resolved to make the whole batch of pill and ointment stuff into pills. he well knew that the powder over the pills would hide the inside, and the fact that most persons shut their eyes when taking such medicine led the young doctor to feel that all would be right in the end. therefore sam made his pills, boxed them up, put on the labels, and placed them in a conspicuous position on one of the shelves. sam felt a degree of anxiety about his pills, however. it was a strange mixture, and he was not certain whether it would kill or cure; but he was willing that it should be tried. at last the young doctor had his vanity gratified. col. tallen, one of dr. saxondale's patients, drove up one morning, and sam as usual ran out to the gate to hold the colonel's horse. "call your master," said the colonel; "i will not get out." the doctor was soon beside the carriage, and inquired about the health of his patient. after a little consultation, the doctor returned to his office, took down a box of sam's new pills, and returned to the carriage. "take two of these every morning and night," said the doctor, "and if you don't feel relieved, double the dose." "good gracious," exclaimed sam in an undertone, when he heard his master tell the colonel how to take the pills. it was several days before sam could learn the result of his new medicine. one afternoon, about a fortnight after the colonel's visit sam saw his master's patient riding up to the gate on horseback. the doctor happened to be in the yard, and met the colonel and said,-"how are you now?" "i am entirely recovered," replied the patient. "those pills of yours put me on my feet the next day." "i knew they would," rejoined the doctor. sam was near enough to hear the conversation, and was delighted beyond description. the negro immediately ran into the kitchen, amongst his companions, and commenced dancing. "what de matter wid you?" inquired the cook. "i is de greatest doctor in dis country," replied sam. "ef you ever get sick, call on me. no matter what ails you, i is de man dat can cure you in no time. if you do hab de backache, de rheumaties, de headache, de coller morbus, fits, er any ting else, sam is de gentleman dat can put you on your feet wid his pills." for a long time after, sam did little else than boast of his skill as a doctor. we have said that the black doctor was full of wit and good sense. indeed, in that respect, he had scarcely an equal in the neighborhood. although his master resided some little distance out of the city, sam was always the first man in all the negro balls and parties in town. when his master could give him a pass, he went, and when he did not give him one, he would steal away after his master had retired, and run the risk of being taken up by the night-watch. of course, the master never knew anything of the absence of the servant at night without permission. as the negroes at these parties tried to excel each other in the way of dress, sam was often at a loss to make that appearance that his heart desired, but his ready wit ever helped him in this. when his master had retired to bed at night, it was the duty of sam to put out the lights, and take out with him his master's clothes and boots, and leave them in the office until morning, and then black the boots, brush the clothes, and return them to his master's room. having resolved to attend a dress-ball one night, without his master's permission, and being perplexed for suitable garments, sam determined to take his master's. so, dressing himself in the doctor's clothes even to his boots and hat, off the negro started for the city. being well acquainted with the usual walk of the patrols he found no difficulty in keeping out of their way. as might have been expected, sam was the great gun with the ladies that night. the next morning, sam was back home long before his master's time for rising, and the clothes were put in their accustomed place. for a long time sam had no difficulty in attiring himself for parties; but the old proverb that "it is a long lane that has no turning," was verified in the negro's case. one stormy night, when the rain was descending in torrents, the doctor heard a rap at his door. it was customary with him, when called up at night to visit a patient, to ring for sam. but this time, the servant was nowhere to be found. the doctor struck a light and looked for clothes; they too, were gone.--it was twelve o'clock, and the doctor's clothes, hat, boots, and even his watch, were nowhere to be found. here was a pretty dilemma for a doctor to be in. it was some time before the physician could fit himself out so as to mike the visit. at last, however, he started with one of the farm-horses, for sam had taken the doctor's best saddle-horse. the doctor felt sure that the negro had robbed him, and was on his way to canada; but in this he was mistaken. sam had gone to the city to attend a ball, and had decked himself out in his master's best suit. the physician returned before morning, and again retired to bed but with little hope of sleep, for his thoughts were with his servant and horse. at six o'clock, in walked sam with his master's clothes, and the boots neatly blacked. the watch was placed on the shelf, and the hat in its place. sam had not met any of the servants, and was therefore entirely ignorant of what had occurred during his absence. "what have you been about, sir, and where was you last night when i was called?" said the doctor. "i don't know, sir. i 'spose i was asleep," replied sam. but the doctor was not to be so easily satisfied, after having been put to so much trouble in hunting up another suit without the aid of sam. after breakfast, sam was taken into the barn, tied up, and severely flogged with the cat, which brought from him the truth concerning his absence the previous night. this forever put an end to his fine appearance at the negro parties. had not the doctor been one of the most indulgent of masters, he would not have escaped with merely a severe whipping. as a matter of course, sam had to relate to his companions that evening in mr. wilson's kitchen all his adventures as a physician while with his old master. chapter ix the man of honor. augustine cardinay, the purchaser of marion, was from the green mountains of vermont, and his feelings were opposed to the holding of slaves; but his young wife persuaded him in into the idea that it was no worse to own a slave than to hire one and pay the money to another. hence it was that he had been induced to purchase marion. adolphus morton, a young physician from the same state, and who had just commenced the practice of his profession in new orleans, was boarding with cardinay when marion was brought home. the young physician had been in new orleans but a very few weeks, and had seen but little of slavery. in his own mountain-home, he had been taught that the slaves of the southern states were negroes, and if not from the coast of africa, the descendants of those who had been imported. he was unprepared to behold with composure a beautiful white girl of sixteen in the degraded position of a chattel slave. the blood chilled in his young heart as he heard cardinay tell how, by bantering with the trader, he had bought her two hundred dollars less than he first asked. his very looks showed that she had the deepest sympathies of his heart. marion had been brought up by her mother to look after the domestic concerns of her cottage in virginia, and well knew how to perform the duties imposed upon her. mrs. cardinay was much pleased with her new servant, and often mentioned her good qualities in the presence of mr. morton. after eight months acquaintance with marion, morton's sympathies ripened into love, which was most cordially reciprocated by the friendless and injured child of sorrow. there was but one course which the young man could honorably pursue, and that was to purchase marion and make her his lawful wife; and this he did immediately, for he found mr. and mrs. cardinay willing to second his liberal intentions. the young man, after purchasing marion from cardinay, and marrying her, took lodgings in another part of the city. a private teacher was called in, and the young wife was taught some of those accomplishments so necessary for one taking a high position in good society. dr. morton soon obtained a large and influential practice in his profession, and with it increased in wealth; but with all his wealth he never owned a slave. probably the fact that he had raised his wife from that condition kept the hydra-headed system continually before him. to the credit of marion be it said, she used every means to obtain the freedom of her mother, who had been sold to parson wilson, at natchez. her efforts, however, had come too late; for agnes had died of a fever before the arrival of dr. morton's agent. marion found in adolphus morton a kind and affectionate husband; and his wish to purchase her mother, although unsuccessful, had doubly endeared him to her. ere a year had elapsed from the time of their marriage, mrs. morton presented her husband with a lovely daughter, who seemed to knit their hearts still closer together. this child they named jane; and before the expiration of the second year, they were blessed with another daughter, whom they named adrika. these children grew up to the ages of ten and eleven, and were then sent to the north to finish their education, and receive that refinement which young ladies cannot obtain in the slave states. chapter x the quadroon's home a few miles out of richmond is a pleasant place, with here and there a beautiful cottage surrounded by trees so as scarcely to be seen. among these was one far retired from the public roads, and almost hidden among the trees. this was the spot that henry linwood had selected for isabella, the eldest daughter of agnes. the young man hired the house, furnished it, and placed his mistress there, and for many months no one in his father's family knew where he spent his leisure hours. when henry was not with her, isabella employed herself in looking after her little garden and the flowers that grew in front of her cottage. the passion-flower peony, dahlia, laburnum, and other plant, so abundant in warm climates, under the tasteful hand of isabella, lavished their beauty upon this retired spot, and miniature paradise. although isabella had been assured by henry that she should be free and that he would always consider her as his wife, she nevertheless felt that she ought to be married and acknowledged by him. but this was an impossibility under the state laws, even had the young man been disposed to do what was right in the matter. related as he was, however, to one of the first families in virginia, he would not have dared to marry a woman of so low an origin, even had the laws been favorable. here, in this secluded grove, unvisited by any other except her lover, isabella lived for years. she had become the mother of a lovely daughter, which its father named clotelle. the complexion of the child was still fairer than that of its mother. indeed, she was not darker than other white children, and as she grew older she more and more resembled her father. as time passed away, henry became negligent of isabella and his child, so much so, that days and even weeks passed without their seeing him, or knowing where he was. becoming more acquainted with the world, and moving continually in the society of young women of his own station, the young man felt that isabella was a burden to him, and having as some would say, "outgrown his love," he longed to free himself of the responsibility; yet every time he saw the child, he felt that he owed it his fatherly care. henry had now entered into political life, and been elected to a seat in the legislature of his native state; and in his intercourse with his friends had become acquainted with gertrude miller, the daughter of a wealthy gentleman living near richmond. both henry and gertrude were very good-looking, and a mutual attachment sprang up between them. instead of finding fault with the unfrequent visits of henry, isabella always met him with a smile, and tried to make both him and herself believe that business was the cause of his negligence. when he was with her, she devoted every moment of her time to him, and never failed to speak of the growth and increasing intelligence of clotelle. the child had grown so large as to be able to follow its father on his departure out to the road. but the impression made on henry's feelings by the devoted woman and her child was momentary. his heart had grown hard, and his acts were guided by no fixed principle. henry and gertrude had been married nearly two years before isabella knew anything of the event, and it was merely by accident that she became acquainted with the facts. one beautiful afternoon, when isabella and clotelle were picking wild strawberries some two miles from their home, and near the road-side, they observed a one-horse chaise driving past. the mother turned her face from the carriage not wishing to be seen by strangers, little dreaming that the chaise contained henry and his wife. the child, however, watched the chaise, and startled her mother by screaming out at the top of her voice, "papa! papa!" and clapped her little hands for joy. the mother turned in haste to look at the strangers, and her eyes encountered those of henry's pale and dejected countenance. gertrude's eyes were on the child. the swiftness with which henry drove by could not hide from his wife the striking resemblance of the child to himself. the young wife had heard the child exclaim "papa! papa!" and she immediately saw by the quivering of his lips and the agitation depicted in his countenance, that all was not right. "who is that woman? and why did that child call you papa?" she inquired, with a trembling voice. henry was silent; he knew not what to say, and without another word passing between them, they drove home. on reaching her room, gertrude buried her face in her handkerchief and wept. she loved henry, and when she had heard from the lips of her companions how their husbands had proved false, she felt that he was an exception, and fervently thanked god that she had been so blessed. when gertrude retired to her bed that night, the sad scene of the day followed her. the beauty of isabella, with her flowing curls, and the look of the child, so much resembling the man whom she so dearly loved, could not be forgotten; and little clotelle's exclamation of "papa! papa" rang in her ears during the whole night. the return of henry at twelve o'clock did not increase her happiness. feeling his guilt, he had absented himself from the house since his return from the ride. chapter xi to-day a mistress, to-morrow a slave the night was dark, the rain, descended in torrents from the black and overhanging clouds, and the thunder, accompanied with vivid flashes of lightning, resounded fearfully, as henry linwood stepped from his chaise and entered isabella's cottage. more than a fortnight had elapsed since the accidental meeting, and isabella was in doubt as to who the lady was that henry was with in the carriage. little, however, did she think that it was his wife. with a smile, isabella met the young man as he entered her little dwelling. clotelle had already gone to bed, but her father's voice roused her from her sleep, and she was soon sitting on his knee. the pale and agitated countenance of henry betrayed his uneasiness, but isabella's mild and laughing allusion to the incident of their meeting him on the day of his pleasure-drive, and her saying, "i presume, dear henry, that the lady was one of your relatives," led him to believe that she was still in ignorance of his marriage. she was, in fact, ignorant who the lady was who accompanied the man she loved on that eventful day. he, aware of this, now acted more like himself, and passed the thing off as a joke. at heart, however, isabella felt uneasy, and this uneasiness would at times show itself to the young man. at last, and with a great effort, she said,-"now, dear henry, if i am in the way of your future happiness, say so, and i will release you from any promises that you have made me. i know there is no law by which i can hold you, and if there was, i would not resort to it. you are as dear to me as ever, and my thoughts shall always be devoted to you. it would be a great sacrifice for me to give you up to another, but if it be your desire, as great as the sacrifice is, i will make it. send me and your child into a free state if we are in your way." again and again linwood assured her that no woman possessed his love but her. oh, what falsehood and deceit man can put on when dealing with woman's love! the unabated storm kept henry from returning home until after the clock had struck two, and as he drew near his residence he saw his wife standing at the window. giving his horse in charge of the servant who was waiting, he entered the house, and found his wife in tears. although he had never satisfied gertrude as to who the quadroon woman and child were, he had kept her comparatively easy by his close attention to her, and by telling her that she was mistaken in regard to the child's calling him "papa." his absence that night, however, without any apparent cause, had again aroused the jealousy of gertrude; but henry told her that he had been caught in the rain while out, which prevented his sooner returning, and she, anxious to believe him, received the story as satisfactory. somewhat heated with brandy, and wearied with much loss of sleep, linwood fell into a sound slumber as soon as he retired. not so with gertrude. that faithfulness which has ever distinguished her sex, and the anxiety with which she watched all his movements, kept the wife awake while the husband slept. his sleep, though apparently sound, was nevertheless uneasy. again and again she heard him pronounce the name of isabella, and more than once she heard him say, "i am not married; i will never marry while you live." then he would speak the name of clotelle and say, "my dear child, how i love you!" after a sleepless night, gertrude arose from her couch, resolved that she would reveal the whole matter to her mother. mrs. miller was a woman of little or no feeling, proud, peevish, and passionate, thus making everybody miserable that came near her; and when she disliked any one, her hatred knew no bounds. this gertrude knew; and had she not considered it her duty, she would have kept the secret locked in her own heart. during the day, mrs. linwood visited her mother and told her all that had happened. the mother scolded the daughter for not having informed her sooner, and immediately determined to find out who the woman and child were that gertrude had met on the day of her ride. three days were spent by mrs. miller in this endeavor, but without success. four weeks had elapsed, and the storm of the old lady's temper had somewhat subsided, when, one evening, as she was approaching her daughter's residence, she saw henry walking, in the direction of where the quadroon was supposed to reside. feeling satisfied that the young man had not seen her, the old women at once resolved to follow him. linwood's boots squeaked so loudly that mrs. miller had no difficulty in following him without being herself observed. after a walk of about two miles, the young man turned into a narrow and unfrequented road, and soon entered the cottage occupied by isabella. it was a fine starlight night, and the moon was just rising when they got to their journey's end. as usual, isabella met henry with a smile, and expressed her fears regarding his health. hours passed, and still old mrs. miller remained near the house, determined to know who lived there. when she undertook to ferret out anything, she bent her whole energies to it. as michael angelo, who subjected all things to his pursuit and the idea he had formed of it, painted the crucifixion by the side of a writhing slave and would have broken up the true cross for pencils, so mrs. miller would have entered the sepulchre, if she could have done it, in search of an object she wished to find. the full moon had risen, and was pouring its beams upon surrounding objects as henry stepped from isabella's door, and looking at his watch, said,-"i must go, dear; it is now half-past ten." had little clotelle been awake, she too would have been at the door. as henry walked to the gate, isabella followed with her left hand locked in his. again he looked at his watch, and said, "i must go." "it is more than a year since you staid all night," murmured isabella, as he folded her convulsively in his arms, and pressed upon her beautiful lips a parting kiss. he was nearly out of sight when, with bitter sobs, the quadroon retraced her steps to the door of the cottage. clotelle had in the mean time awoke, and now inquired of her mother how long her father had been gone. at that instant, a knock was heard at the door, and supposing that it was henry returning for something he had forgotten, as he frequently did, isabella flew to let him in. to her amazement, however, a strange woman stood in the door. "who are you that comes here at this late hour?" demanded the half-frightened isabella. without making any reply, mrs. miller pushed the quadroon aside, and entered the house. "what do you want here?" again demanded isabella. "i am in search of you," thundered the maddened mrs. miller; but thinking that her object would be better served by seeming to be kind, she assumed a different tone of voice, and began talking in a pleasing manner. in this way, she succeeded in finding out the connection existing between linwood and isabella, and after getting all she could out of the unsuspecting woman, she informed her that the man she so fondly loved had been married for more than two years. seized with dizziness, the poor, heart-broken woman fainted and fell upon the floor. how long she remained there she could not tell; but when she returned to consciousness, the strange woman was gone, and her child was standing by her side. when she was so far recovered as to regain her feet, isabella went to the door, and even into the yard, to see if the old woman was not somewhere about. as she stood there, the full moon cast its bright rays over her whole person, giving her an angelic appearance and imparting to her flowing hair a still more golden hue. suddenly another change came over her features, and her full red lips trembled as with suppressed emotion. the muscles around her faultless mouth became convulsed, she gasped for breath, and exclaiming, "is it possible that man can be so false!" again fainted. clotelle stood and bathed her mother's temples with cold water until she once more revived. although the laws of virginia forbid the education of slaves, agnes had nevertheless employed an old free negro to teach her two daughters to read and write. after being separated from her mother and sister, isabella turned her attention to the subject of christianity, and received that consolation from the bible which is never denied to the children of god. this was now her last hope, for her heart was torn with grief and filled with all the bitterness of disappointment. the night passed away, but without sleep to poor isabella. at the dawn of day, she tried to make herself believe that the whole of the past night was a dream, and determined to be satisfied with the explanation which henry should give on his next visit. chapter xii the mother-in-law. when henry returned home, he found his wife seated at the window, awaiting his approach. secret grief was gnawing at her heart. her sad, pale cheeks and swollen eyes showed too well that agony, far deeper than her speech portrayed, filled her heart. a dull and death-like silence prevailed on his entrance. his pale face and brow, dishevelled hair, and the feeling that he manifested on finding gertrude still up, told henry in plainer words than she could have used that his wife, was aware that her love had never been held sacred by him. the window-blinds were still unclosed, and the full-orbed moon shed her soft refulgence over the unrivalled scene, and gave it a silvery lustre which sweetly harmonized with the silence of the night. the clock's iron tongue, in a neighboring belfry, proclaimed the hour of twelve, as the truant and unfaithful husband seated himself by the side of his devoted and loving wife, and inquired if she was not well. "i am, dear henry," replied gertrude; "but i fear you are not. if well in body, i fear you are not at peace in mind." "why?" inquired he. "because," she replied, "you are so pale and have such a wild look in your eyes." again he protested his innocence, and vowed she was the only woman who had any claim upon his heart. to behold one thus playing upon the feelings of two lovely women is enough to make us feel that evil must at last bring its own punishment. henry and gertrude had scarcely risen from the breakfast-table next morning ere old mrs. miller made her appearance. she immediately took her daughter aside, and informed her of her previous night's experience, telling her how she had followed henry to isabella's cottage, detailing the interview with the quadroon, and her late return home alone. the old woman urged her daughter to demand that the quadroon and her child be at once sold to the negro speculators and taken out of the state, or that gertrude herself should separate from henry. "assert your rights, my dear. let no one share a heart that justly belongs to you," said mrs. miller, with her eyes flashing fire. "don't sleep this night, my child, until that wench has been removed from that cottage; and as for the child, hand that over to me,--i saw at once that it was henry's." during these remarks, the old lady was walking up and down the room like a caged lioness. she had learned from isabella that she had been purchased by henry, and the innocence of the injured quadroon caused her to acknowledge that he was the father of her child. few women could have taken such a matter in hand and carried it through with more determination and success than old mrs. miller. completely inured in all the crimes and atrocities connected with the institution of slavery, she was also aware that, to a greater or less extent, the slave women shared with their mistress the affections of their master. this caused her to look with a suspicious eye on every good-looking negro woman that she saw. while the old woman was thus lecturing her daughter upon her rights and duties, henry, unaware of what was transpiring, had left the house and gone to his office. as soon as the old woman found that he was gone, she said,-"i will venture anything that he is on his way to see that wench again. i'll lay my life on it." the entrance, however, of little marcus, or mark, as he was familiarly called, asking for massa linwood's blue bag, satisfied her that her son-in-law was at his office. before the old lady returned home, it was agreed that gertrude should come to her mother's to tea that evening, and henry with her, and that mrs. miller should there charge the young husband with inconstancy to her daughter, and demand the removal of isabella. with this understanding, the old woman retraced her steps to her own dwelling. had mrs. miller been of a different character and not surrounded by slavery, she could scarcely have been unhappy in such a home as hers. just at the edge of the city, and sheltered by large poplar-trees was the old homestead in which she resided. there was a splendid orchard in the rear of the house, and the old weather-beaten sweep, with "the moss-covered bucket" at its end, swung majestically over the deep well. the garden was scarcely to be equalled. its grounds were laid out in excellent taste, and rare exotics in the greenhouse made it still more lovely. it was a sweet autumn evening, when the air breathed through the fragrant sheaves of grain, and the setting sun, with his golden kisses, burnished the rich clusters of purple grapes, that henry and gertrude were seen approaching the house on foot; it was nothing more than a pleasant walk. oh, how gertrude's heart beat as she seated herself, on their arrival! the beautiful parlor, surrounded on all sides with luxury and taste, with the sun creeping through the damask curtains, added a charm to the scene. it was in this room that gertrude had been introduced to henry, and the pleasant hours that she had spent there with him rushed unbidden on her memory. it was here that, in former days, her beautiful countenance had made her appearance as fascinating and as lovely as that of cleopatra's. her sweet, musical voice might have been heard in every part of the house, occasionally thrilling you with an unexpected touch. how changed the scene! her pale and wasted features could not be lighted up by any thoughts of the past, and she was sorrowful at heart. as usual, the servants in the kitchen were in ecstasies at the announcement that "miss gerty," as they called their young mistress, was in the house, for they loved her sincerely. gertrude had saved them from many a flogging, by interceding for them, when her mother was in one of her uncontrollable passions. dinah, the cook, always expected miss gerty to visit the kitchen as soon as she came, and was not a little displeased, on this occasion, at what she considered her young mistress's neglect. uncle tony, too, looked regularly for miss gerty to visit the green house, and congratulate him on his superiority as a gardener. when tea was over, mrs. miller dismissed the servants from the room, then told her son-in-law what she had witnessed the previous night, and demanded for her daughter that isabella should be immediately sent out of the state, and to be sure that the thing would be done, she wanted him to give her the power to make such disposition of the woman and child as she should think best. gertrude was mrs. miller's only child, and henry felt little like displeasing a family upon whose friendship he so much depended, and, no doubt, long wishing to free himself from isabella, he at once yielded to the demands of his mother-in-law. mr. miller was a mere cipher about his premises. if any one came on business connected with the farm, he would invariably say, "wait tin i see my wife," and the wife's opinion was sure to be law in every case. bankrupt in character, and debauched in body and mind, with seven mulatto children who claimed him as their father, he was badly prepared to find fault with his son-in-law. it was settled that mrs. miller should use her own discretion in removing isabella from her little cottage, and her future disposition. with this understanding henry and gertrude returned home. in the deep recesses of his heart the young man felt that he would like to see his child and its mother once more; but fearing the wrath of his mother-in-law, he did not dare to gratify his inclination. he had not the slightest idea of what would become of them; but he well knew that the old woman would have no mercy on them. chapter xiii a hard-hearted woman. with no one but her dear little clotelle, isabella passed her weary hours without partaking of either food or drink, hoping that henry would soon return, and that the strange meeting with the old woman would be cleared up. while seated in her neat little bedroom with her fevered face buried in her handkerchief, the child ran in and told its mother that a carriage had stopped in front of the house. with a palpitating heart she arose from her seat and went to the door, hoping that it was henry; but, to her great consternation, the old lady who had paid her such an unceremonious visit on the evening that she had last seen henry, stepped out of the carriage, accompanied by the slave-trader, jennings. isabella had seen the trader when he purchased her mother and sister, and immediately recognized him. what could these persons want there? thought she. without any parleying or word of explanation, the two entered the house, leaving the carriage in charge of a servant. clotelle ran to her mother, and clung to her dress as if frightened by the strangers. "she's a fine-looking wench," said the speculator, as he seated himself, unasked, in the rocking-chair; "yet i don't think she is worth the money you ask for her." "what do you want here?" inquired isabella, with a quivering voice. "none of your insolence to me," bawled out the old woman, at the top of her voice; "if you do, i will give you what you deserve so much, my lady,--a good whipping." in an agony of grief, pale, trembling, and ready to sink to the floor, isabella was only sustained by the hope that she would be able to save her child. at last, regaining her self-possession, she ordered them both to leave the house. feeling herself insulted, the old woman seized the tongs that stood by the fire-place, and raised them to strike the quadroon down; but the slave-trader immediately jumped between the women, exclaiming,-"i won't buy her, mrs. miller, if you injure her." poor little clotelle screamed as she saw the strange woman raise the tongs at her mother. with the exception of old aunt nancy, a free colored woman, whom isabella sometimes employed to work for her, the child had never before seen a strange face in her mother's dwelling. fearing that isabella would offer some resistance, mrs. miller had ordered the overseer of her own farm to follow her; and, just as jennings had stepped between the two women, mull, the negro-driver, walked into the room. "seize that impudent hussy," said mrs. miller to the overseer, "and tie her up this minute, that i may teach her a lesson she won't forget in a hurry." as she spoke, the old woman's eyes rolled, her lips quivered, and she looked like a very fury. "i will have nothing to do with her, if you whip her, mrs. miller," said the slave-trader. "niggers ain't worth half so much in the market with their backs newly scarred," continued he, as the overseer commenced his preparations for executing mrs. miller's orders. clotelle here took her father's walking-stick, which was lying on the back of the sofa where he had left it, and, raising it, said,-"if you bad people touch my mother, i will strike you." they looked at the child with astonishment; and her extreme youth, wonderful beauty, and uncommon courage, seemed for a moment to shake their purpose. the manner and language of this child were alike beyond her years, and under other circumstances would have gained for her the approbation of those present. "oh, henry, henry!" exclaimed isabella, wringing her hands. "you need not call on him, hussy; you will never see him again," said mrs. miller. "what! is he dead?" inquired the heart-stricken woman. it was then that she forgot her own situation, thinking only of the man she loved. never having been called to endure any kind of abusive treatment, isabella was not fitted to sustain herself against the brutality of mrs. miller, much less the combined ferociousness of the old woman and the overseer too. suffice it to say, that instead of whipping isabella, mrs. miller transferred her to the negro-speculator, who took her immediately to his slave-pen. the unfeeling old woman would not permit isabella to take more than a single change of her clothing, remarking to jennings,-"i sold you the wench, you know,--not her clothes." the injured, friendless, and unprotected isabella fainted as she saw her child struggling to release herself from the arms of old mrs. miller, and as the wretch boxed the poor child's ears. after leaving directions as to how isabella's furniture and other effects should be disposed of, mrs. miller took clotelle into her carriage and drove home. there was not even color enough about the child to make it appear that a single drop of african blood flowed through its blue veins. considerable sensation was created in the kitchen among the servants when the carriage drove up, and clotelle entered the house. "jes' like massa henry fur all de worl," said dinah, as she caught a glimpse of the child through the window. "wondah whose brat dat ar' dat missis bringin' home wid her?" said jane, as she put the ice in the pitchers for dinner. "i warrant it's some poor white nigger somebody bin givin' her." the child was white. what should be done to make it look like other negroes, was the question which mrs. miller asked herself. the callous-hearted old woman bit her nether lip, as she viewed that child, standing before her, with her long, dark ringlets clustering over her alabaster brow and neck. "take this little nigger and cut her hair close to her head," said the mistress to jane, as the latter answered the bell. clotelle screamed, as she felt the scissors going over her head, and saw those curls that her mother thought so much of falling upon the floor. a roar of laughter burst from the servants, as jane led the child through the kitchen, with the hair cut so short that the naked scalp could be plainly seen. "gins to look like nigger, now," said dinah, with her mouth upon a grin. the mistress smiled, as the shorn child reentered the room; but there was something more needed. the child was white, and that was a great objection. however, she hit upon a plan to remedy this which seemed feasible. the day was excessively warm. not a single cloud floated over the blue vault of heaven; not a breath of wind seemed moving, and the earth was parched by the broiling sun. even the bees had stopped humming, and the butterflies had hid themselves under the broad leaves of the burdock. without a morsel of dinner, the poor child was put in the garden, and set to weeding it, her arms, neck and head completely bare. unaccustomed to toil, clotelle wept as she exerted herself in pulling up the weeds. old dinah, the cook, was as unfeeling as her mistress, and she was pleased to see the child made to work in the hot sun. "dat white nigger 'll soon be black enuff if missis keeps her workin' out dar," she said, as she wiped the perspiration from her sooty brow. dinah was the mother of thirteen children, all of whom had been taken from her when young; and this, no doubt, did much to harden her feelings, and make her hate all white persons. the burning sun poured its rays on the face of the friendless child until she sank down in the corner of the garden, and was actually broiled to sleep. "dat little nigger ain't workin' a bit, missus," said dinah to mrs. miller, as the latter entered the kitchen. "she's lying in the sun seasoning; she will work the better by and by," replied the mistress. "dese white niggers always tink dey seff good as white folks," said the cook. "yes; but we will teach them better, won't we, dinah?" rejoined mrs. miller. "yes, missus," replied dinah; "i don't like dese merlatter niggers, no how. dey always want to set dey seff up for sumfin' big." with this remark the old cook gave one of her coarse laughs, and continued: "missis understands human nature, don't she? ah! ef she ain't a whole team and de ole gray mare to boot, den dinah don't know nuffin'." of course, the mistress was out of the kitchen before these last marks were made. it was with the deepest humiliation that henry learned from one of his own slaves the treatment which his child was receiving at the hands of his relentless mother-in-law. the scorching sun had the desired effect; for in less than a fortnight, clotelle could scarcely have been recognized as the same child. often was she seen to weep, and heard to call on her mother. mrs. miller, when at church on sabbath, usually, on warm days, took nancy, one of her servants, in her pew, and this girl had to fan her mistress during service. unaccustomed to such a soft and pleasant seat, the servant would very soon become sleepy and begin to nod. sometimes she would go fast asleep, which annoyed the mistress exceedingly. but mrs. miller had nimble fingers, and on them sharp nails, and, with an energetic pinch upon the bare arms of the poor girl, she would arouse the daughter of africa from her pleasant dreams. but there was no one of mrs. miller's servants who received as much punishment as old uncle tony. fond of her greenhouse, and often in the garden, she was ever at the gardener's heels. uncle tony was very religious, and, whenever his mistress flogged him, he invariably gave her a religious exhortation. although unable to read, he, nevertheless, had on his tongue's end portions of scripture which he could use at any moment. in one end of the greenhouse was uncle tony's sleeping room, and those who happened in that vicinity, between nine and ten at night, could hear the old man offering up his thanksgiving to god for his protection during the day. uncle tony, however, took great pride, when he thought that any of the whites were within hearing, to dwell, in his prayer, on his own goodness and the unfitness of others to die. often was he heard to say, "o lord, thou knowest that the white folks are not christians, but the black people are god's own children." but if tony thought that his old mistress was within the sound of his voice, he launched out into deeper waters. it was, therefore, on a sweet night, when the bright stars were looking out with a joyous sheen, that mark and two of the other boys passed the greenhouse, and heard uncle tony in his devotions. "let's have a little fun," said the mischievous marcus to his young companions. "i will make uncle tony believe that i am old mistress, and he'll give us an extra touch in his prayer." mark immediately commenced talking in a strain of voice resembling, as well as he could, mrs. miller, and at once tony was heard to say in a loud voice, "o lord, thou knowest that the white people are not fit to die; but, as for old tony, whenever the angel of the lord comes, he's ready." at that moment, mark tapped lightly on the door. "who's dar?" thundered old tony. mark made no reply. the old man commenced and went through with the same remarks addressed to the lord, when mark again knocked at the door. "who dat dar?" asked uncle tony, with a somewhat agitated countenance and trembling voice. still mark would not reply. again tony took up the thread of his discourse, and said, "o lord, thou knowest as well as i do that dese white folks are not prepared to die, but here is old tony, when de angel of de lord comes, he's ready to go to heaven." mark once more knocked at the door. "who dat dar?" thundered tony at the top of his voice. "de angel of de lord," replied mark, in a somewhat suppressed and sepulchral voice. "what de angel of de lord want here?" inquired tony, as if much frightened. "he's come for poor old tony, to take him out of the world" replied mark, in the same strange voice. "dat nigger ain't here; he die tree weeks ago," responded tony, in a still more agitated and frightened tone. mark and his companions made the welkin ring with their shouts at the old man's answer. uncle tony hearing them, and finding that he had been imposed upon, opened his door, came out with stick in hand, and said, "is dat you, mr. mark? you imp, if i can get to you i'll larn you how to come here wid your nonsense." mark and his companions left the garden, feeling satisfied that uncle tony was not as ready to go with "de angel of de lord" as he would have others believe. chapter xiv the prison. while poor little clotelle was being kicked about by mrs. miller, on account of her relationship to her son-in-law, isabella was passing lonely hours in the county jail, the place to which jennings had removed her for safe-keeping, after purchasing her from mrs. miller. incarcerated in one of the iron-barred rooms of that dismal place, those dark, glowing eyes, lofty brow, and graceful form wilted down like a plucked rose under a noonday sun, while deep in her heart's ambrosial cells was the most anguishing distress. vulgar curiosity is always in search of its victims, and jennings' boast that he had such a ladylike and beautiful woman in his possession brought numbers to the prison who begged of the jailer the privilege of seeing the slave-trader's prize. many who saw her were melted to tears at the pitiful sight, and were struck with admiration at her intelligence; and, when she spoke of her child, they must have been convinced that a mother's sorrow can be conceived by none but a mother's heart. the warbling of birds in the green bowers of bliss, which she occasionally heard, brought no tidings of gladness to her. their joy fell cold upon her heart, and seemed like bitter mockery. they reminded her of her own cottage, where, with her beloved child, she had spent so many happy days. the speculator had kept close watch over his valuable piece of property, for fear that it might damage itself. this, however, there was no danger of, for isabella still hoped and believed that henry would come to her rescue. she could not bring herself to believe that he would allow her to be sent away without at least seeing her, and the trader did all he could to keep this idea alive in her. while isabella, with a weary heart, was passing sleepless nights thinking only of her daughter and henry, the latter was seeking relief in that insidious enemy of the human race, the intoxicating cup. his wife did all in her power to make his life a pleasant and a happy one, for gertrude was devotedly attached to him; but a weary heart gets no gladness out of sunshine. the secret remorse that rankled in his bosom caused him to see all the world blood-shot. he had not visited his mother-in-law since the evening he had given her liberty to use her own discretion as to how isabella and her child should be disposed of. he feared even to go near the house, for he did not wish to see his child. gertrude felt this every time he declined accompanying her to her mother's. possessed of a tender and confiding heart, entirely unlike her mother, she sympathized deeply with her husband. she well knew that all young men in the south, to a greater or less extent, became enamored of the slave-women, and she fancied that his case was only one of the many, and if he had now forsaken all others for her she did not wish for him to be punished; but she dared not let her mother know that such were her feelings. again and again had she noticed the great resemblance between clotelle and henry, and she wished the child in better hands than those of her cruel mother. at last gertrude determined to mention the matter to her husband. consequently, the next morning, when they were seated on the back piazza, and the sun was pouring its splendid rays upon everything around, changing the red tints on the lofty hills in the distance into streaks of purest gold, and nature seeming by her smiles to favor the object, she said,-"what, dear henry, do you intend to do with clotelle?" a paleness that overspread his countenance, the tears that trickled down his cheeks, the deep emotion that was visible in his face, and the trembling of his voice, showed at once that she had touched a tender chord. without a single word, he buried his face in his handkerchief, and burst into tears. this made gertrude still more unhappy, for she feared that he had misunderstood her; and she immediately expressed her regret that she had mentioned the subject. becoming satisfied from this that his wife sympathized with him in his unhappy situation, henry told her of the agony that filled his soul, and gertrude agreed to intercede for him with her mother for the removal of the child to a boarding-school in one of the free states. in the afternoon, when henry returned from his office, his wife met him with tearful eyes, and informed him that her mother was filled with rage at the mere mention of the removal of clotelle from her premises. in the mean time, the slave-trader, jennings, had started for the south with his gang of human cattle, of whom isabella was one. most quadroon women who are taken to the south are either sold to gentlemen for their own use or disposed of as house-servants or waiting-maids. fortunately for isabella, she was sold, for the latter purpose. jennings found a purchaser for her in the person of mr. james french. mrs. french was a severe mistress. all who lived with her, though well-dressed, were scantily fed and over-worked. isabella found her new situation far different from her virginia cottage-life. she had frequently heard vicksburg spoken of as a cruel place for slaves, and now she was in a position to test the truthfulness of the assertion. a few weeks after her arrival, mrs. french began to show to isabella that she was anything but a pleasant and agreeable mistress. what social virtues are possible in a society of which injustice is a primary characteristic,--in a society which is divided into two classes, masters and slaves? every married woman at the south looks upon her husband as unfaithful, and regards every negro woman as a rival. isabella had been with her new mistress but a short time when she was ordered to cut off her long and beautiful hair. the negro is naturally fond of dress and outward display. he who has short woolly hair combs and oils it to death; he who has long hair would sooner have his teeth drawn than to part with it. but, however painful it was to isabella, she was soon seen with her hair cut short, and the sleeves of her dress altered to fit tight to her arms. even with her hair short and with her ill-looking dress, isabella was still handsome. her life had been a secluded one, and though now twenty-eight years of age, her beauty had only assumed a quieter tone. the other servants only laughed at isabella's misfortune in losing her beautiful hair. "miss 'bell needn't strut so big; she got short nappy har's well's i," said nell, with a broad grin that showed her teeth. "she tink she white when she cum here, wid dat long har ob hers," replied mill. "yes," continued nell, "missus make her take down her wool, so she no put it up to-day." the fairness of isabella's complexion was regarded with envy by the servants as well as by the mistress herself. this is one of the hard features of slavery. to-day a woman is mistress of her own cottage; to-morrow she is sold to one who aims to make her life as intolerable as possible. and let it be remembered that the house-servant has the best situation a slave can occupy. but the degradation and harsh treatment isabella experienced in her new home was nothing compared to the grief she underwent at being separated from her dear child. taken from her with scarcely a moment's warning, she knew not what had become of her. this deep and heartfelt grief of isabella was soon perceived by her owners, and fearing that her refusal to take proper food would cause her death, they resolved to sell her. mr. french found no difficulty in securing a purchaser for the quadroon woman, for such are usually the most marketable kind of property. isabella was sold at private sale to a young man for a housekeeper; but even he had missed his aim. mr. gordon, the new master, was a man of pleasure. he was the owner of a large sugar plantation, which he had left under the charge of an overseer, and was now giving himself up to the pleasures of a city life. at first mr. gordon sought to win isabella's favor by flattery and presents, knowing that whatever he gave her he could take from her again. the poor innocent creature dreaded every moment lest the scene should change. at every interview with gordon she stoutly maintained that she had left a husband in virginia, and could never think of taking another. in this she considered that she was truthful, for she had ever regarded henry as her husband. the gold watch and chain and other glittering presents which gordon gave to her were all kept unused. in the same house with isabella was a man-servant who had from time to time hired himself from his master. his name was william. he could feel for isabella, for he, like her, had been separated from near and dear relatives, and he often tried to console the poor woman. one day isabella observed to him that her hair was growing out again. "yes," replied william; "you look a good deal like a man with your short hair." "oh," rejoined she, "i have often been told that i would make a better looking man than woman, and if i had the money i might avail myself of it to bid farewell to this place." in a moment afterwards, isabella feared that she had said too much, and laughingly observed, "i am always talking some nonsense; you must not heed me." william was a tall, full-blooded african, whose countenance beamed with intelligence. being a mechanic, he had by industry earned more money than he had paid to his owner for his time, and this he had laid aside, with the hope that he might some day get enough to purchase his freedom. he had in his chest about a hundred and fifty dollars. his was a heart that felt for others, and he had again and again wiped the tears from his eyes while listening to isabella's story. "if she can get free with a little money, why not give her what i have?" thought he, and then resolved to do it. an hour after, he entered the quadroon's room, and, laying the money in her lap, said,-"there, miss isabella, you said just now that if you had the means you would leave this place. there is money enough to take you to england, where you will be free. you are much fairer than many of the white women of the south, and can easily pass for a free white woman." at first isabella thought it was a plan by which the negro wished to try her fidelity to her owner; but she was soon convinced, by his earnest manner and the deep feeling he manifested, that he was entirely sincere. "i will take the money," said she, "only on one condition, and that is that i effect your escape, as well as my own." "how can that be done?" he inquired, eagerly. "i will assume the disguise of a gentleman, and you that of a servant, and we will thus take passage in a steamer to cincinnati, and from thence to canada." with full confidence in isabella's judgment, william consented at once to the proposition. the clothes were purchased; everything was arranged, and the next night, while mr. gordon was on one of his sprees, isabella, under the assumed name of mr. smith, with william in attendance as a servant, took passage for cincinnati in the steamer heroine. with a pair of green glasses over her eyes, in addition to her other disguise, isabella made quite a gentlemanly appearance. to avoid conversation, however, she kept closely to her state-room, under the plea of illness. meanwhile, william was playing his part well with the servants. he was loudly talking of his master's wealth, and nothing on the boat appeared so good as in his master's fine mansion. "i don't like dese steamboats, no how," said he; "i hope when massa goes on anoder journey, he take de carriage and de hosses." after a nine-days' passage, the heroine landed at cincinnati, and mr. smith and his servant walked on shore. "william, you are now a free man, and can go on to canada," said isabella; "i shall go to virginia, in search of my daughter." this sudden announcement fell heavily upon william's ears, and with tears he besought her not to jeopardize her liberty in such a manner; but isabella had made up her mind to rescue her child if possible. taking a boat for wheeling, isabella was soon on her way to her native state. several months had elapsed since she left richmond, and all her thoughts were centred on the fate of her dear clotelle. it was with a palpitating heart that this injured woman entered the stage-coach at wheeling and set out for richmond. chapter xv the arrest. it was late in the evening when the coach arrived at richmond, and isabella once more alighted in her native city. she had intended to seek lodgings somewhere in the outskirts of the town, but the lateness of the hour compelled her to stop at one of the principal hotels for the night. she had scarcely entered the inn before she recognized among the numerous black servants one to whom she was well known, and her only hope was that her disguise would keep her from being discovered. the imperturbable calm and entire forgetfulness of self which induced isabella to visit a place from which she could scarcely hope to escape, to attempt the rescue of a beloved child, demonstrate that over-willingness of woman to carry out the promptings of the finer feelings of the heart. true to woman's nature, she had risked her own liberty for another's. she remained in the hotel during the night, and the next morning, under the plea of illness, took her breakfast alone. that day the fugitive slave paid a visit to the suburbs of the town, and once more beheld the cottage in which she had spent so many happy hours. it was winter, and the clematis and passion-flower were not there; but there were the same walks her feet had so often pressed, and the same trees which had so often shaded her as she passed through the garden at the back of the house. old remembrances rushed upon her memory and caused her to shed tears freely. isabella was now in her native town, and near her daughter; but how could she communicate with her? how could she see her? to have made herself known would have been a suicidal act; betrayal would have followed, and she arrested. three days passed away, and still she remained in the hotel at which she had first put up, and yet she got no tidings of her child. unfortunately for isabella, a disturbance had just broken out among the slave population in the state of virginia, and all strangers were treated with suspicion. the insurrection to which we now refer was headed by a full-blooded negro, who had been born and brought up a slave. he had heard the crack of the driver's whip, and seen the warm blood streaming from the negro's body. he had witnessed the separation of parents from children, and was made aware, by too many proofs, that the slave could expect no justice from the hands of the slave-owner. the name of this man was nat turner. he was a preacher amongst the negroes, distinguished for his eloquence, respected by the whites, loved and venerated by the negroes. on the discovery of the plan for the outbreak, turner fled to the swamps, followed by those who had joined in the insurrection. here the revolted negroes numbered some hundreds, and for a time bade defiance to their oppressors. the dismal swamps cover many thousand acres of wild land, and a dense forest, with wild animals and insects such as are unknown in any other part of virginia. here runaway negroes usually seek a hiding-place, and some have been known to reside here for years. the revolters were joined by one of these. he was a large, tall, full-blooded negro, with a stern and savage countenance; the marks on his face showed that he was from one of the barbarous tribes in africa, and claimed that country as his native land. his only covering was a girdle around his loins, made of skins of wild beasts which he had killed. his only token of authority among those that he led was a pair of epaulettes, made of the tail of a fox, and tied to his shoulder by a cord. brought from the coast of africa, when only fifteen years of age, to the island of cuba, he was smuggled from thence into virginia. he had been two years in the swamps, and considered it his future home. he had met a negro woman, who was also a runaway, and, after the fashion of his native land, had gone through the process of oiling her, as the marriage ceremony. they had built a cave on a rising mound in the swamp, and this was their home. this man's name was picquilo. his only weapon was a sword made from a scythe which he had stolen from a neighboring plantation. his dress, his character, his manners, and his mode of fighting were all in keeping with the early training he had received in the land of his birth. he moved about with the activity of a cat, and neither the thickness of the trees nor the depth of the water could stop him. his was a bold, turbulent spirit; and, from motives of revenge, he imbrued his hands in the blood of all the whites he could meet. hunger, thirst, and loss of sleep, he seemed made to endure, as if by peculiarity of constitution. his air was fierce, his step oblique, his look sanguinary. such was the character of one of the negroes in the southampton insurrection. all negroes were arrested who were found beyond their master's threshold, and all white strangers were looked upon with suspicion. such was the position in which isabella found affairs when she returned to virginia in search of her child. had not the slave-owners been watchful of strangers, owing to the outbreak, the fugitive could not have escaped the vigilance of the police; for advertisements announcing her escape, and offering a large reward for her arrest, had been received in the city previous to her arrival, and officers were therefore on the lookout for her. it was on the third day after her arrival in richmond, as the quadroon was seated in her room at the hotel, still in the disguise of a gentleman, that two of the city officers entered the apartment and informed her that they were authorized to examine all strangers, to assure the authorities that they were not in league with the revolted negroes. with trembling heart the fugitive handed the key of her trunk to the officers. to their surprise they found nothing but female apparel in the trunk, which raised their curiosity, and caused a further investigation that resulted in the arrest of isabella as a fugitive slave. she was immediately conveyed to prison, there to await the orders of her master. for many days, uncheered by the voice of kindness, alone, hopeless, desolate, she waited for the time to arrive when the chains should be placed on her limbs, and she returned to her inhuman and unfeeling owner. the arrest of the fugitive was announced in all the newspapers, but created little or no sensation. the inhabitants were too much engaged in putting down the revolt among the slaves; and, although all the odds were against the insurgents, the whites found it no easy matter, with all their caution. every day brought news of fresh outbreaks. without scruple and without pity, the whites massacred all blacks found beyond the limits of their owners' plantations. the negroes, in return, set fire to houses, and put to death those who attempted to escape from the flames. thus carnage was added to carnage, and the blood of the whites flowed to avenge the blood of the blacks. these were the ravages of slavery. no graves were dug for the negroes, but their bodies became food for dogs and vultures; and their bones, partly calcined by the sun, remained scattered about, as if to mark the mournful fury of servitude and lust of power. when the slaves were subdued, except a few in the swamps, bloodhounds were employed to hunt out the remaining revolters. chapter xvi death is freedom. on receiving intelligence of the arrest of isabella, mr. gordon authorized the sheriff to sell her to the highest bidder. she was, therefore, sold; the purchaser being the noted negro-trader, hope h. slater, who at once placed her in prison. here the fugitive saw none but slaves like herself, brought in and taken out to be placed in ships, and sent away to some part of the country to which she herself would soon be compelled to go. she had seen or heard nothing of her daughter while in richmond, and all hopes of seeing her had now fled. at the dusk of the evening previous to the day when she was to be sent off, as the old prison was being closed for the night, isabella suddenly darted past the keeper, and ran for her life. it was not a great distance from the prison to the long bridge which passes from the lower part of the city across the potomac to the extensive forests and woodlands of the celebrated arlington heights, then occupied by that distinguished relative and descendant of the immortal washington, mr. geo. w. custis. thither the poor fugitive directed her flight. so unexpected was her escape that she had gained several rods the start before the keeper had secured the other prisoners, and rallied his assistants to aid in the pursuit. it was at an hour, and in a part of the city where horses could not easily be obtained for the chase; no bloodhounds were at hand to run down the flying woman, and for once it seemed as if there was to be a fair trial of speed and endurance between the slave and the slave-catchers. the keeper and his force raised the hue-and-cry on her path as they followed close behind; but so rapid was the flight along the wide avenue that the astonished citizens, as they poured forth from their dwellings to learn the cause of alarm, were only able to comprehend the nature of the case in time to fall in with the motley throng in pursuit, or raise an anxious prayer to heaven as they refused to join in the chase (as many a one did that night) that the panting fugitive might escape, and the merciless soul-dealer for once be disappointed of his prey. and now, with the speed of an arrow, having passed the avenue, with the distance between her and her pursuers constantly increasing, this poor, hunted female gained the "long bridge," as it is called, where interruption seemed improbable. already her heart began to beat high with the hope of success. she had only to pass three-quarters of a mile across the bridge, when she could bury herself in a vast forest, just at the time when the curtain of night would close around her, and protect her from the pursuit of her enemies. but god, by his providence, had otherwise determined. he had ordained that an appalling tragedy should be enacted that night within plain sight of the president's house, and the capitol of the union, which would be an evidence wherever it should be known of the unconquerable love of liberty which the human heart may inherit, as well as a fresh admonition to the slave-dealer of the cruelty and enormity of his crimes. just as the pursuers passed the high draw, soon after entering upon the bridge, they beheld three men slowly approaching from the virginia side. they immediately called to them to arrest the fugitive, proclaiming her a runaway slave. true to their virginia instincts, as she came near, they formed a line across the narrow bridge to intercept her. seeing that escape was impossible in that quarter, she stopped suddenly, and turned upon her pursuers. on came the profane and ribald crew faster than ever, already exulting in her capture, and threatening punishment for her flight. for a moment she looked wildly and anxiously around to see if there was no hope of escape. on either hand, far down below, rolled the deep, foaming waters of the potomac, and before and behind were the rapidly approaching steps and noisy voices of her pursuers. seeing how vain would be any further effort to escape, her resolution was instantly taken. she clasped her hands convulsively together, raised her tearful and imploring eyes toward heaven, and begged for the mercy and compassion there which was unjustly denied her on earth; then, exclaiming, "henry, clotelle, i die for thee!" with a single bound, vaulted over, the railing of the bridge, and sank forever beneath the angry and foaming waters of the river! such was the life, and such the death, of a woman whose virtues and goodness of heart would have done honor to one in a higher station of life, and who, had she been born in any other land but that of slavery, would have been respected and beloved. what would have been her feelings if she could have known that the child for whose rescue she had sacrificed herself would one day be free, honored, and loved in another land? chapter xvii clotelle. the curtain rises seven years after the death of isabella. during that interval, henry, finding that nothing could induce his mother-in-law to relinquish her hold on poor little clotelle, and not liking to contend with one on whom a future fortune depended, gradually lost all interest in the child, and left her to her fate. although mrs. miller treated clotelle with a degree of harshness scarcely equalled, when applied to one so tender in years, still the child grew every day more beautiful, and her hair, though kept closely cut, seemed to have improved in its soft, silk-like appearance. now twelve years of age, and more than usually well-developed, her harsh old mistress began to view her with a jealous eye. henry and gertrude had just returned from washington, where the husband had been on his duties as a member of congress, and where he had remained during the preceding three years without returning home. it was on a beautiful evening, just at twilight, while seated at his parlor window, that henry saw a young woman pass by and go into the kitchen. not aware of ever having seen the person before, he made an errand into the cook's department to see who the girl was. he, however, met her in the hall, as she was about going out. "whom did you wish to see?" he inquired. "miss gertrude," was the reply. "what did you want to see her for?" he again asked. "my mistress told me to give her and master henry her compliments, and ask them to come over and spend the evening." "who is your mistress?" he eagerly inquired. "mrs. miller, sir," responded the girl. "and what's your name?" asked henry, with a trembling voice. "clotelle, sir," was the reply. the astonished father stood completely amazed, looking at the now womanly form of her who, in his happier days, he had taken on his knee with so much fondness and alacrity. it was then that he saw his own and isabella's features combined in the beautiful face that he was then beholding. it was then that he was carried back to the days when with a woman's devotion, poor isabella hung about his neck and told him how lonely were the hours in his absence. he could stand it no longer. tears rushed to his eyes, and turning upon his heel, he went back to his own room. it was then that isabella was revenged; and she no doubt looked smilingly down from her home in the spirit-land on the scene below. on gertrude's return from her shopping tour, she found henry in a melancholy mood, and soon learned its cause. as gertrude had borne him no children, it was but natural, that he should now feel his love centering in clotelle, and he now intimated to his wife his determination to remove his daughter from the hands of his mother-in-law. when this news reached mrs. miller, through her daughter, she became furious with rage, and calling clotelle into her room, stripped her shoulders bare and flogged her in the presence of gertrude. it was nearly a week after the poor girl had been so severely whipped and for no cause whatever, that her father learned of the circumstance through one of the servants. with a degree of boldness unusual for him, he immediately went to his mother-in-law and demanded his child. but it was too late,--she was gone. to what place she had been sent no one could tell, and mrs. miller refused to give any information whatever relative to the girl. it was then that linwood felt deepest the evil of the institution under which he was living; for he knew that his daughter would be exposed to all the vices prevalent in that part of the country where marriage is not recognized in connection with that class. chapter xviii a slave-hunting parson. it was a delightful evening after a cloudless day, with the setting sun reflecting his golden rays on the surrounding hills which were covered with a beautiful greensward, and the luxuriant verdure that forms the constant garb of the tropics, that the steamer columbia ran into the dock at natchez, and began unloading the cargo, taking in passengers and making ready to proceed on her voyage to new orleans. the plank connecting the boat with the shore had scarcely been secured in its place, when a good-looking man about fifty years of age, with a white neck-tie, and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses on, was seen hurrying on board the vessel. just at that moment could be seen a stout man with his face pitted with the small-pox, making his way up to the above-mentioned gentleman. "how do you do, my dear sir? this is mr. wilson, i believe," said the short man, at the same time taking from his mouth a large chew of tobacco, and throwing it down on the ship's deck. "you have the advantage of me, sir," replied the tall man. "why, don't you know me? my name is jennings; i sold you a splendid negro woman some years ago." "yes, yes," answered the natchez man. "i remember you now, for the woman died in a few months, and i never got the worth of my money out of her." "i could not help that," returned the slave-trader; "she was as sound as a roach when i sold her to you." "oh, yes," replied the parson, "i know she was; but now i want a young girl, fit for house use,--one that will do to wait on a lady." "i am your man," said jennings, "just follow me," continued he, "and i will show you the fairest little critter you ever saw." and the two passed to the stern of the boat to where the trader had between fifty and sixty slaves, the greater portion being women. "there," said jennings, as a beautiful young woman shrunk back with modesty. "there, sir, is the very gal that was made for you. if she had been made to your order, she could not have suited you better." "indeed, sir, is not that young woman white?" inquired the parson. "oh, no, sir; she is no whiter than you see!" "but is she a slave?" asked the preacher. "yes," said the trader, "i bought her in richmond, and she comes from an excellent family. she was raised by squire miller, and her mistress was one of the most pious ladies in that city, i may say; she was the salt of the earth, as the ministers say." "but she resembles in some respect agnes, the woman i bought from you," said mr. wilson. as he said the name of agnes, the young woman started as if she had been struck. her pulse seemed to quicken, but her face alternately flushed and turned pale, and tears trembled upon her eyelids. it was a name she had heard her mother mention, and it brought to her memory those days,--those happy days, when she was so loved and caressed. this young woman was clotelle, the granddaughter of agnes. the preacher, on learning the fact, purchased her, and took her home, feeling that his daughter georgiana would prize her very highly. clotelle found in georgiana more a sister than a mistress, who, unknown to her father, taught the slave-girl how to read, and did much toward improving and refining clotelle's manners, for her own sake. like her mother fond of flowers, the "virginia maid," as she was sometimes called, spent many of her leisure hours in the garden. beside the flowers which sprang up from the fertility of soil unplanted and unattended, there was the heliotrope, sweet-pea, and cup-rose, transplanted from the island of cuba. in her new home clotelle found herself saluted on all sides by the fragrance of the magnolia. when she went with her young mistress to the poplar farm, as she sometimes did, nature's wild luxuriance greeted her, wherever she cast her eyes. the rustling citron, lime, and orange, shady mango with its fruits of gold, and the palmetto's umbrageous beauty, all welcomed the child of sorrow. when at the farm, huckelby, the overseer, kept his eye on clotelle if within sight of her, for he knew she was a slave, and no doubt hoped that she might some day fall into his hands. but she shrank from his looks as she would have done from the charm of the rattlesnake. the negro-driver always tried to insinuate himself into the good opinion of georgiana and the company that she brought. knowing that miss wilson at heart hated slavery, he was ever trying to show that the slaves under his charge were happy and contented. one day, when georgiana and some of her connecticut friends were there, the overseer called all the slaves up to the "great house," and set some of the young ones to dancing. after awhile whiskey was brought in and a dram given to each slave, in return for which they were expected to give a toast, or sing a short piece of his own composition; when it came to jack's turn he said,-"the big bee flies high, the little bee makes the honey: the black folks make the cotton, and the white folks gets the money." of course, the overseer was not at all elated with the sentiment contained in jack's toast. mr. wilson had lately purchased a young man to assist about the house and to act as coachman. this slave, whose name was jerome, was of pure african origin, was perfectly black, very fine-looking, tall, slim, and erect as any one could possibly be. his features were not bad, lips thin, nose prominent, hands and feet small. his brilliant black eyes lighted up his whole countenance. his hair which was nearly straight, hung in curls upon his lofty brow. george combe or fowler would have selected his head for a model. he was brave and daring, strong in person, fiery in spirit, yet kind and true in his affections, earnest in his doctrines. clotelle had been at the parson's but a few weeks when it was observed that a mutual feeling had grown up between her and jerome. as time rolled on, they became more and more attached to each other. after satisfying herself that these two really loved, georgiana advised their marriage. but jerome contemplated his escape at some future day, and therefore feared that if married it might militate against it. he hoped, also, to be able to get clotelle away too, and it was this hope that kept him from trying to escape by himself. dante did not more love his beatrice, swift his stella, waller his saccharissa, goldsmith his jessamy bride, or bums his mary, than did jerome his clotelle. unknown to her father, miss wilson could permit these two slaves to enjoy more privileges than any of the other servants. the young mistress taught clotelle, and the latter imparted her instructions to her lover, until both could read so as to be well understood. jerome felt his superiority, and always declared that no master should ever flog him. aware of his high spirit and determination, clotelle was in constant fear lest some difficulty might arise between her lover and his master. one day mr. wilson, being somewhat out of temper and irritated at what he was pleased to call jerome's insolence, ordered him to follow him to the barn to be flogged. the young slave obeyed his master, but those who saw him at the moment felt that he would not submit to be whipped. "no, sir," replied jerome, as his master told him to take off his coat: "i will serve you, master wilson, i will labor for you day and night, if you demand it, but i will not be whipped." this was too much for a white man to stand from a negro, and the preacher seized his slave by the throat, intending to choke him. but for once he found his match. jerome knocked him down, and then escaped through the back-yard to the street, and from thence to the woods. recovering somewhat from the effect of his fall, the parson regained his feet and started in pursuit of the fugitive. finding, however, that the slave was beyond his reach, he at once resolved to put the dogs on his track. tabor, the negro-catcher, was sent for, and in less than an hour, eight or ten men, including the parson, were in the woods with hounds, trying the trails. these dogs will attack a negro at their master's bidding; and cling to him as the bull-dog will cling to a beast. many are the speculations as to whether the negro will be secured alive or dead, when these dogs once get on his track. whenever there is to be a negro hunt, there is no lack of participants. many go to enjoy the fun which it is said they derive from these scenes. the company had been in the woods but a short time ere they got on the track of two fugitives, one of whom was jerome. the slaves immediately bent their steps toward the swamp, with the hope that the dogs, when put upon their scent would be unable to follow them through the water. the slaves then took a straight course for the baton rouge and bayou sara road, about four miles distant. nearer and nearer the whimpering pack pressed on; their delusion begins to dispel. all at once the truth flashes upon the minds of the fugitives like a glare of light,--'tis tabor with his dogs! the scent becomes warmer and warmer, and what was at first an irregular cry now deepens into one ceaseless roar, as the relentless pack presses on after its human prey. they at last reach the river, and in the negroes plunge, followed by the catch-dog. jerome is caught and is once more in the hands of his master, while the other poor fellow finds a watery grave. they return, and the preacher sends his slave to jail. chapter xix the true heroine. in vain did georgiana try to console clotelle, when the latter heard, through one of the other slaves, that mr. wilson had started with the dogs in pursuit of jerome. the poor girl well knew that he would be caught, and that severe punishment, if not death, would be the result of his capture. it was therefore with a heart filled with the deepest grief that the slave-girl heard the footsteps of her master on his return from the chase. the dogged and stern manner of the preacher forbade even his daughter inquiring as to the success of his pursuit. georgiana secretly hoped that the fugitive had not been caught; she wished it for the sake of the slave, and more especially for her maid-servant, whom she regarded more as a companion than a menial. but the news of the capture of jerome soon spread through the parson's household, and found its way to the ears of the weeping and heart-stricken clotelle. the reverend gentleman had not been home more than an hour ere come of his parishioners called to know if they should not take the negro from the prison and execute lynch law upon him. "no negro should be permitted to live after striking a white man; let us take him and hang him at once," remarked an elderly-looking man, whose gray hairs thinly covered the crown of his head. "i think the deacon is right," said another of the company; "if our slaves are allowed to set the will of their masters at defiance, there will be no getting along with them,--an insurrection will be the next thing we hear of." "no, no," said the preacher; "i am willing to let the law take its course, as it provides for the punishment of a slave with death if he strikes his master. we had better let the court decide the question. moreover, as a christian and god-fearing people, we ought to submit to the dictates of justice. should we take this man's life by force, an all-wise providence would hold us responsible for the act." the company then quietly withdrew, showing that the preacher had some influence with his people. "this" said mr. wilson, when left alone with his daughter,--"this, my dear georgiana, is the result of your kindness to the negroes. you have spoiled every one about the house. i can't whip one of them, without being in danger of having my life taken." "i am sure, papa," replied the young lady,--"i am sure i never did any thing intentionally to induce any of the servants to disobey your orders." "no, my dear," said mr. wilson, "but you are too kind to them. now, there is clotelle,--that girl is completely spoiled. she walks about the house with as dignified an air as if she was mistress of the premises. by and by you will be sorry for this foolishness of yours." "but," answered georgiana, "clotelle has a superior mind, and god intended her to hold a higher position in life than that of a servant." "yes, my dear, and it was your letting her know that she was intended for a better station in society that is spoiling her. always keep a negro in ignorance of what you conceive to be his abilities," returned the parson. it was late on the saturday afternoon, following the capture of jerome that, while mr. wilson was seated in his study preparing his sermon for the next day, georgiana entered the room and asked in an excited tone if it were true that jerome was to be hanged on the following thursday. the minister informed her that such was the decision of the court. "then," said she, "clotelle will die of grief." "what business has she to die of grief?" returned the father, his eyes at the moment flashing fire. "she has neither eaten nor slept since he was captured," replied georgians; "and i am certain that she will not live through this." "i cannot be disturbed now," said the parson; "i must get my sermon ready for to-morrow. i expect to have some strangers to preach to, and must, therefore, prepare a sermon that will do me credit." while the man of god spoke, he seemed to say to himself,-"with devotion's visage, and pious actions, we do sugar over the devil himself." georgiana did all in her power to soothe the feelings of clotelle, and to induce her to put her trust in god. unknown to her father, she allowed the poor girl to go every evening to the jail to see jerome, and during these visits, despite her own grief, clotelle would try to comfort her lover with the hope that justice would be meted out to him in the spirit-land. thus the time passed on, and the day was fast approaching when the slave was to die. having heard that some secret meeting had been held by the negroes, previous to the attempt of mr. wilson to flog his slave, it occurred to a magistrate that jerome might know something of the intended revolt. he accordingly visited the prison to see if he could learn anything from him, but all to no purpose. having given up all hopes of escape, jerome had resolved to die like a brave man. when questioned as to whether he knew anything of a conspiracy among the slaves against their masters, he replied,-"do you suppose that i would tell you if i did?" "but if you know anything," remarked the magistrate, "and will tell us, you may possibly have your life spared." "life," answered the doomed man, "is worth nought to a slave. what right has a slave to himself, his wife, or his children? we are kept in heathenish darkness, by laws especially enacted to make our instruction a criminal offence; and our bones, sinews, blood, and nerves are exposed in the market for sale. "my liberty is of as much consequence to me as mr. wilson's is to him. i am as sensitive to feeling as he. if i mistake not, the day will come when the negro will learn that he can get his freedom by fighting for it; and should that time arrive, the whites will be sorry that they have hated us so shamefully. i am free to say that, could i live my life over again, i would use all the energies which god has given me to get up an insurrection." every one present seemed startled and amazed at the intelligence with which this descendant of africa spoke. "he's a very dangerous man," remarked one. "yes," said another, "he got some book-learning somewhere, and that has spoiled him." an effort was then made to learn from jerome where he had learned to read, but the black refused to give any information on the subject. the sun was just going down behind the trees as clotelle entered the prison to see jerome for the last time. he was to die on the next day her face was bent upon her hands, and the gushing tears were forcing their way through her fingers. with beating heart and trembling hands, evincing the deepest emotion, she threw her arms around her lover's neck and embraced him. but, prompted by her heart's unchanging love, she had in her own mind a plan by which she hoped to effect the escape of him to whom she had pledged her heart and hand. while the overcharged clouds which had hung over the city during the day broke, and the rain fell in torrents, amid the most terrific thunder and lightning, clotelle revealed to jerome her plan for his escape. "dress yourself in my clothes," said she, "and you can easily pass the jailer." this jerome at first declined doing. he did not wish to place a confiding girl in a position where, in all probability, she would have to suffer; but being assured by the young girl that her life would not be in danger, he resolved to make the attempt. clotelle being very tall, it was not probable that the jailer would discover any difference in them. at this moment, she took from her pocket a bunch of keys and unfastened the padlock, and freed him from the floor. "come, girl, it is time for you to go," said the jailer, as jerome was holding the almost fainting girl by the hand. being already attired in clotelle's clothes, the disguised man embraced the weeping girl, put his handkerchief to his face, and passed out of the jail, without the keeper's knowing that his prisoner was escaping in a disguise and under cover of the night. chapter xx the hero of many adventures. jerome had scarcely passed the prison-gates, ere he reproached himself for having taken such a step. there seemed to him no hope of escape out of the state, and what was a few hours or days at most, of life to him, when, by obtaining it, another had been sacrificed. he was on the eve of returning, when he thought of the last words uttered by clotelle. "be brave and determined, and you will still be free." the words sounded like a charm in his ears and he went boldly forward. clotelle had provided a suit of men's clothes and had placed them where her lover could get them, if he should succeed in getting out. returning to mr. wilson's barn, the fugitive changed his apparel, and again retraced his steps into the street. to reach the free states by travelling by night and lying by during the day, from a state so far south as mississippi, no one would think for a moment of attempting to escape. to remain in the city would be a suicidal step. the deep sound of the escape of steam from a boat, which was at that moment ascending the river, broke upon the ears of the slave. "if that boat is going up the river," said he, "why not i conceal myself on board, and try to escape?" he went at once to the steamboat landing, where the boat was just coming in. "bound for louisville," said the captain, to one who was making inquiries. as the passengers were rushing on board, jerome followed them, and proceeding to where some of the hands were stowing away bales of goods, he took hold and aided them. "jump down into the hold, there, and help the men," said the mate to the fugitive, supposing that, like many persons, he was working his way up the river. once in the hull among the boxes, the slave concealed himself. weary hours, and at last days, passed without either water or food with the hidden slave. more than once did he resolve to let his case be known; but the knowledge that he would be sent back to natchez kept him from doing so. at last, with lips parched and fevered to a crisp, the poor man crawled out into the freight-room, and began wandering about. the hatches were on, and the room dark. there happened to be on board a wedding party, and, a box, containing some of the bridal cake, with several bottles of port wine, was near jerome. he found the box, opened it, and helped himself. in eight days, the boat tied up at the wharf at the place of her destination. it was late at night; the boat's crew, with the single exception of the man on watch, were on shore. the hatches were off, and the fugitive quietly made his way on deck and jumped on shore. the man saw the fugitive, but too late to seize him. still in a slave state, jerome was at a loss to know how he should proceed. he had with him a few dollars, enough to pay his way to canada, if he could find a conveyance. the fugitive procured such food as he wanted from one of the many eating-houses, and then, following the direction of the north star, he passed out of the city, and took the road leading to covington. keeping near the ohio river, jerome soon found an opportunity to cross over into the state of indiana. but liberty was a mere name in the latter state, and the fugitive learned, from some colored persons that he met, that it was not safe to travel by daylight. while making his way one night, with nothing to cheer him but the prospect of freedom in the future, he was pounced upon by three men who were lying in wait for another fugitive, an advertisement of whom they had received through the mail. in vain did jerome tell them that he was not a slave. true, they had not caught the man they expected; but, if they could make this slave tell from what place he had escaped, they knew that a good price would be paid them for the negro's arrest. tortured by the slave-catchers, to make him reveal the name of his master and the place from whence he had escaped, jerome gave them a fictitious name in virginia, and said that his master would give a large reward, and manifested a willingness to return to his "old boss." by this misrepresentation, the fugitive, hoped to have another chance of getting away. allured with the prospect of a large sum of the needful, the slave-catchers started back with their victim. stopping on the second night at an inn, on the banks of the ohio river, the kidnappers, in lieu of a suitable place in which to confine their prize during the night, chained him to the bed-post of their sleeping-chamber. the white men were late in retiring to rest, after an evening spent in drinking. at dead of night, when all was still, the slave arose from the floor, upon which he had been lying, looked around and saw that morpheus had possession of his captors. for once, thought he, the brandy bottle has done a noble work. with palpitating heart and trembling limbs, he viewed his position. the door was fast, but the warm weather had compelled them to leave the window open. if he could but get his chains off, he might escape through the window to the piazza. the sleepers' clothes hung upon chairs by the bedside. the slave thought of the padlock-key, examined the pockets, and found it. the chains were soon off, and the negro stealthily making his way to the window. he stopped, and said to himself, "these men are villains; they are enemies to all who, like me, are trying to be free. then why not i teach them a lesson?" he then dressed himself in the best suit, hung his own worn-out and tattered garments on the same chair, and silently passed through the window to the piazza, and let himself down by one of the pillars, and started once more for the north. daylight came upon the fugitive before he had selected a hiding-place for the day, and he was walking at a rapid rate, in hopes of soon reaching some woodland or forest. the sun had just begun to show itself, when the fugitive was astounded at seeing behind him, in the distance, two men upon horseback. taking a road to the right, the slave saw before him a farmhouse, and so near was he to it that he observed two men in front of it looking at him. it was too late to turn back. the kidnappers were behind him--strange men before him. those in the rear he knew to be enemies, while he had no idea of what principles were the farmers. the latter also saw the white men coming, and called to the fugitive to come that way. the broad-brimmed hats that the farmers wore told the slave that they were quakers. jerome had seen some of these people passing up and down the river, when employed on a steamer between natchez and new orleans, and had heard that they disliked slavery. he, therefore, hastened toward the drab-coated men, who, on his approach, opened the barn-door, and told him to "run in." when jerome entered the barn, the two farmers closed the door, remaining outside themselves, to confront the slave-catchers, who now came up and demanded admission, feeling that they had their prey secure. "thee can't enter my premises," said one of the friends, in rather a musical voice. the negro-catchers urged their claim to the slave, and intimated that, unless they were allowed to secure him, they would force their way in. by this time, several other quakers had gathered around the barn-door. unfortunately for the kidnappers, and most fortunately for the fugitive, the friends had just been holding a quarterly meeting in the neighborhood, and a number of them had not yet returned to their homes. after some talk, the men in drab promised to admit the hunters, provided they procured an officer and a search-warrant from a justice of the peace. one of the slave-catchers was left to see that the fugitive did not get away, while the others went in pursuit of an officer. in the mean time, the owner of the barn sent for a hammer and nails, and began nailing up the barn-door. after an hour in search of the man of the law, they returned with an officer and a warrant. the quaker demanded to see the paper, and, after looking at it for some time, called to his son to go into the house for his glasses. it was a long time before aunt ruth found the leather case, and when she did, the glasses wanted wiping before they could be used. after comfortably adjusting them on his nose, he read the warrant over leisurely. "come, mr. dugdale, we can't wait all day,"' said the officer. "well, will thee read it for me?" returned the quaker. the officer complied, and the man in drab said,-"yes, thee may go in, now. i am inclined to throw no obstacles in the way of the execution of the law of the land." on approaching the door, the men found some forty or fifty nails in it, in the way of their progress. "lend me your hammer and a chisel, if you please, mr. dugdale," said the officer. "please read that paper over again, will thee?" asked the quaker. the officer once more read the warrant. "i see nothing there which says i must furnish thee with tools to open my door. if thee wants a hammer, thee must go elsewhere for it; i tell thee plainly, thee can't have mine." the implements for opening the door are at length obtained and after another half-hour, the slave-catchers are in the barn. three hours is a long time for a slave to be in the hands of quakers. the hay is turned over, and the barn is visited in every part; but still the runaway is not found. uncle joseph has a glow upon his countenance; ephraim shakes his head knowingly; little elijah is a perfect know-nothing, and, if you look toward the house, you will see aunt ruth's smiling face, ready to announce that breakfast is ready. "the nigger is not in this barn," said the officer. "i know he is not," quietly answered the quaker. "what were you nailing up your door for, then, as if you were afraid we would enter?" inquired one of the kidnappers. "i can do what i please with my own door, can't i," said the quaker. the secret was out; the fugitive had gone in at the front door and out at the back; and the reading of the warrant, nailing up of the door, and other preliminaries of the quaker, was to give the fugitive time and opportunity to escape. it was now late in the morning, and the slave-catchers were a long way from home, and the horses were jaded by the rapid manner in which they had travelled. the friends, in high glee, returned to the house for breakfast; the man of the law, after taking his fee, went home, and the kidnappers turned back, muttering, "better luck next time." chapter xxi self-sacrifice. now in her seventeenth year, clotelle's personal appearance presented a great contrast to the time when she lived with old mrs. miller. her tall and well-developed figure; her long, silky black hair, falling in curls down her swan-like neck; her bright, black eyes lighting up her olive-tinted face, and a set of teeth that a tuscarora might envy, she was a picture of tropical-ripened beauty. at times, there was a heavenly smile upon her countenance, which would have warmed the heart of an anchorite. such was the personal appearance of the girl who was now in prison by her own act to save the life of another. would she be hanged in his stead, or would she receive a different kind of punishment? these questions clotelle did not ask herself. open, frank, free, and generous to a fault, she always thought of others, never of her own welfare. the long stay of clotelle caused some uneasiness to miss wilson; yet she dared not tell her father, for he had forbidden the slave-girl's going to the prison to see her lover. while the clock on the church near by was striking eleven, georgiana called sam, and sent him to the prison in search of clotelle. "the girl went away from here at eight o'clock," was the jailer's answer to the servant's inquiries. the return of sam without having found the girl saddened the heart of the young mistress. "sure, then," said she, "the poor heart-broken thing has made way with herself." still, she waited till morning before breaking the news of clotelle's absence to her father. the jailer discovered, the next morning, to his utter astonishment, that his prisoner was white instead of black, and his first impression was that the change of complexion had taken place during the night, through fear of death. but this conjecture was soon dissipated; for the dark, glowing eyes, the sable curls upon the lofty brow, and the mild, sweet voice that answered his questions, informed him that the prisoner before him was another being. on learning, in the morning, that clotelle was in jail dressed in male attire, miss wilson immediately sent clothes to her to make a change in her attire. news of the heroic and daring act of the slave-girl spread through the city with electric speed. "i will sell every nigger on the place," said the parson, at the break-fast-table,--"i will sell them all, and get a new lot, and whip them every day." poor georgiana wept for the safety of clotelle, while she felt glad that jerome had escaped. in vain did they try to extort from the girl the whereabouts of the man whose escape she had effected. she was not aware that he had fled on a steamer, and when questioned, she replied,-"i don't know; and if i did i would not tell you. i care not what you do with me, if jerome but escapes." the smile with which she uttered these words finely illustrated the poet's meaning, when he says,-"a fearful gift upon thy heart is laid, woman--the power to suffer and to love." her sweet simplicity seemed to dare them to lay their rough hands amid her trembling curls. three days did the heroic young woman remain in prison, to be gazed at by an unfeeling crowd, drawn there out of curiosity. the intelligence came to her at last that the court had decided to spare her life, on condition that she should be whipped, sold, and sent out of the state within twenty-four hours. this order of the court she would have cared but little for, had she not been sincerely attached to her young mistress. "do try and sell her to some one who will use her well," said georgiana to her father, as he was about taking his hat to leave the house. "i shall not trouble myself to do any such thing," replied the hard-hearted parson. "i leave the finding of a master for her with the slave-dealer." bathed in tears, miss. wilson paced her room in the absence of her father. for many months georgiana had been in a decline, and any little trouble would lay her on a sick bed for days. she was, therefore, poorly able to bear the loss of this companion, whom she so dearly loved. mr. wilson had informed his daughter that clotelle was to be flogged; and when felice came in and informed her mistress that the poor girl had just received fifty lashes on her bare person, the young lady fainted and fell on the floor. the servants placed their mistress on the sofa, and went in pursuit of their master. little did the preacher think, on returning to his daughter, that he should soon be bereft of her; yet such was to be his lot. a blood-vessel had been ruptured, and the three physicians who were called in told the father that he must prepare to lose his child. that moral courage and calmness, which was her great characteristic, did not forsake georgiana in her hour of death. she had ever been kind to the slaves under her charge, and they loved and respected her. at her request, the servants were all brought into her room, and took a last farewell of their mistress. seldom, if ever, was there witnessed a more touching scene than this. there lay the young woman, pale and feeble, with death stamped upon her countenance, surrounded by the sons and daughters of africa, some of whom had been separated from every earthly tie, and the most of whose persons had been torn and gashed by the negro-whip. some were upon their knees at the bedside, others standing around, and all weeping. death is a leveler; and neither age, sex, wealth, nor condition, can avert when he is permitted to strike. the most beautiful flowers must soon fade and droop and die. so, also, with man; his days are as uncertain as the passing breeze. this hour he glows in the blush of health and vigor, but the next, he may be counted with the number no more known on earth. oh, what a silence pervaded the house when this young flower was gone! in the midst of the buoyancy of youth, this cherished one had drooped and died. deep were the sounds of grief and mourning heard in that stately dwelling when the stricken friends, whose office it had been to nurse and soothe the weary sufferer, beheld her pale and motionless in the sleep of death. who can imagine the feeling with which poor clotelle received the intelligence of her kind friend's death? the deep gashes of the cruel whip had prostrated the lovely form of the quadroon, and she lay upon her bed of straw in the dark cell. the speculator had bought her, but had postponed her removal till she should recover. her benefactress was dead, and-"hope withering fled, and mercy sighed farewell." "is jerome safe?" she would ask herself continually. if her lover could have but known of the sufferings of that sweet flower,--that polyanthus over which he had so often been in his dreams,--he would then have learned that she was worthy of his love. it was more than a fortnight before the slave-trader could take his prize to more comfortable quarters. like alcibiades, who defaced the images of the gods and expected to be pardoned on the ground of eccentricity, so men who abuse god's image hope to escape the vengeance of his wrath under the plea that the law sanctions their atrocious deeds. chapter xxii love at first sight and what followed. it was a beautiful sunday in september, with a cloudless sky, and the rays of the sun parching the already thirsty earth, that clotelle stood at an upper window in slater's slave-pen in new orleans, gasping for a breath of fresh air. the bells of thirty churches were calling the people to the different places of worship. crowds were seen wending their way to the houses of god; one followed by a negro boy carrying his master's bible; another followed by her maid-servant holding the mistress' fan; a third supporting an umbrella over his master's head to shield him from the burning sun. baptists immersed, presbyterians sprinkled, methodists shouted, and episcopalians read their prayers, while ministers of the various sects preached that christ died for all. the chiming of the bells seemed to mock the sighs and deep groans of the forty human beings then incarcerated in the slave-pen. these imprisoned children of god were many of them methodists, some baptists, and others claiming to believe in the faith of the presbyterians and episcopalians. oh, with what anxiety did these creatures await the close of that sabbath, and the dawn of another day, that should deliver them from those dismal and close cells. slowly the day passed away, and once more the evening breeze found its way through the barred windows of the prison that contained these injured sons and daughters of america. the clock on the calaboose had just struck nine on monday morning, when hundreds of persons were seen threading the gates and doors of the negro-pen. it was the same gang that had the day previous been stepping to the tune and keeping time with the musical church bells. their bibles were not with them, their prayer-books were left at home, and even their long and solemn faces had been laid aside for the week. they had come to the man-market to make their purchases. methodists were in search of their brethren. baptists were looking for those that had been immersed, while presbyterians were willing to buy fellow christians, whether sprinkled or not. the crowd was soon gazing at and feasting their eyes upon the lovely features of clotelle. "she is handsomer," muttered one to himself, "than the lady that sat in the pew next to me yesterday." "i would that my daughter was half so pretty," thinks a second. groups are seen talking in every part of the vast building, and the topic on 'change, is the "beautiful quadroon." by and by, a tall young man with a foreign face, the curling mustache protruding from under a finely-chiseled nose, and having the air of a gentleman, passes by. his dark hazel eye is fastened on the maid, and he stops for a moment; the stranger walks away, but soon returns--he looks, he sees the young woman wipe away the silent tear that steals down her alabaster cheek; he feels ashamed that he should gaze so unmanly on the blushing face of the woman. as he turns upon his heel he takes out his white hankerchief and wipes his eyes. it may be that he has lost a sister, a mother, or some dear one to whom he was betrothed. again he comes, and the quadroon hides her face. she has heard that foreigners make bad masters, and she shuns his piercing gaze. again he goes away and then returns. he takes a last look and then walks hurriedly off. the day wears away, but long before the time of closing the sale the tall young man once more enters the slave-pen. he looks in every direction for the beautiful slave, but she is not there--she has been sold! he goes to the trader and inquires, but he is too late, and he therefore returns to his hotel. having entered a military school in paris when quite young, and soon after been sent with the french army to india, antoine devenant had never dabbled in matters of love. he viewed all women from the same stand-point--respected them for their virtues, and often spoke of the goodness of heart of the sex, but never dreamed of taking to himself a wife. the unequalled beauty of clotelle had dazzled his eyes, and every look that she gave was a dagger that went to his heart. he felt a shortness of breath, his heart palpitated, his head grew dizzy, and his limbs trembled; but he knew not its cause. this was the first stage of "love at first sight." he who bows to the shrine of beauty when beckoned by this mysterious agent seldom regrets it. devenant reproached himself for not having made inquiries concerning the girl before he left the market in the morning. his stay in the city was to be short, and the yellow fever was raging, which caused him to feel like making a still earlier departure. the disease appeared in a form unusually severe and repulsive. it seized its victims from amongst the most healthy of the citizens. the disorder began in the brain by oppressive pain accompanied or followed by fever. fiery veins streaked the eye, the face was inflamed and dyed of a dark dull red color; the ears from time to time rang painfully. now mucous secretions surcharged the tongue and took away the power of speech; now the sick one spoke, but in speaking had foresight of death. when the violence of the disease approached the heart, the gums were blackened. the sleep broken, troubled by convulsions, or by frightful visions, was worse than the waking hours; and when the reason sank under a delirium which had its seat in the brain, repose utterly forsook the patient's couch. the progress of the fever within was marked by yellowish spots, which spread over the surface of the body. if then, a happy crisis came not, all hope was gone. soon the breath infected the air with a fetid odor, the lips were glazed, despair painted itself in the eyes, and sobs, with long intervals of silence, formed the only language. from each side of the mouth, spread foam tinged with black and burnt blood. blue streaks mingled with the yellow all over the frame. all remedies were useless. this was the yellow fever. the disorder spread alarm and confusion throughout the city. on an average more than four hundred died daily. in the midst of disorder and confusion, death heaped victims on victims. friend followed friend in quick succession. the sick were avoided from the fear of contagion, and for the same reason the dead were left unburied. nearly two thousand dead bodies lay uncovered in the burial-ground, with only here and there a little lime thrown over them, to prevent the air becoming infected. the negro, whose home is in a hot climate, was not proof against the disease. many plantations had to suspend their work for want of slaves to take the places of those who had been taken off by the fever. chapter xxiii meeting of the cousins. the clock in the hall had scarcely finished striking three when mr. taylor entered his own dwelling, a fine residence in camp street, new orleans, followed by the slave-girl whom he had just purchased at the negro-pen. clotelle looked around wildly as she passed through the hall into the presence of her new mistress. mrs. taylor was much pleased with her servant's appearance, and congratulated her husband on his judicious choice. "but," said mrs. taylor, after clotelle had gone into the kitchen, "how much she looks like miss jane morton." "indeed," replied the husband, "i thought, the moment i saw her that she looked like the mortons." "i am sure i never saw two faces more alike in my life, than that girl's and jane morton's," continued mrs. taylor. dr. morton, the purchaser of maron, the youngest daughter of agnes, and sister to isabella, had resided in camp street, near the taylors, for more than eight years, and the families were on very intimate terms, and visited each other frequently. every one spoke of clotelle's close resemblance to the mortons, and especially to the eldest daughter. indeed, two sisters could hardly have been more alike. the large, dark eyes, black, silk-like hair, tall, graceful figure, and mould of the face, were the same. the morning following clotelle's arrival in her new home, mrs. taylor was conversing in a low tone with her husband, and both with their eyes following clotelle as she passed through the room. "she is far above the station of a slave," remarked the lady. "i saw her, last night, when removing some books, open one and stand over it a moment as if she was reading; and she is as white as i am. i almost sorry you bought her." at this juncture the front door-bell rang, and clotelle hurried through the room to answer it. "miss morton," said the servant as she returned to the mistress' room. "ask her to walk in," responded the mistress. "now, my dear," said mrs. taylor to her husband, "just look and see if you do not notice a marked resemblance between the countenances of jane and clotelle." miss morton entered the room just as mrs. taylor ceased speaking. "have you heard that the jamisons are down with the fever?" inquired the young lady, after asking about the health of the taylors. "no, i had not; i was in hopes it would not get into our street;" replied mrs. taylor. all this while mr. and mrs. taylor were keenly scrutinizing their visitor and clotelle and even the two young women seemed to be conscious that they were in some way the objects of more than usual attention. miss morton had scarcely departed before mrs. taylor began questioning clotelle concerning her early childhood, and became more than ever satisfied that the slave-girl was in some way connected with the mortons. every hour brought fresh news of the ravages of the fever, and the taylors commenced preparing to leave town. as mr. taylor could not go at once, it was determined that his wife should leave without him, accompanied by her new maid servant. just as mrs. taylor and clotelle were stepping into the carriage, they were informed that dr. morton was down with the epidemic. it was a beautiful day, with a fine breeze for the time of year, that mrs. taylor and her servant found themselves in the cabin of the splendid new steamer "walk-in-the-water," bound from new orleans to mobile. every berth in the boat wad occupied by persons fleeing from the fearful contagion that was carrying off its hundreds daily. late in the day, as clotelle was standing at one of the windows of the ladies' saloon, she was astonished to see near her, and with eyes fixed intently upon her, the tall young stranger whom she had observed in the slave-market a few days before. she turned hastily away, but the heated cabin and the want of fresh air soon drove her again to the window. the young gentleman again appeared, and coming to the end of the saloon, spoke to the slave-girl in broken english. this confirmed her in her previous opinion that he was a foreigner, and she rejoiced that she had not fallen into his hands. "i want to talk with you," said the stranger. "what do you want with me?" she inquired. "i am your friend," he answered. "i saw you in the slave-market last week, and regretted that i did not speak to you then. i returned in the evening, but you was gone." clotelle looked indignantly at the stranger, and was about leaving the window again when the quivering of his lips and the trembling of his voice struck her attention and caused her to remain. "i intended to buy you and make you free and happy, but i was too late," continued he. "why do you wish to make me free?" inquired the girl. "because i once had an only and lovely sister, who died three years ago in france, and you are so much like her that had i not known of her death i should certainly have taken you for her." "however much i may resemble your sister, you are aware that i am not she; why, then, take so much interest in one whom you have never seen before and may never see again?" "the love," said he, "which i had for my sister is transferred to you." clotelle had all along suspected that the man was a knave, and this profession of love at once confirmed her in that belief. she therefore immediately turned away and left him. hours elapsed. twilight was just "letting down her curtain and pinning it with a star," as the slave-girl seated herself on a sofa by the window, and began meditating upon her eventful history, meanwhile watching the white waves as they seemed to sport with each other in the wake of the noble vessel, with the rising moon reflecting its silver rays upon the splendid scene, when the foreigner once more appeared near the window. although agitated for fear her mistress would see her talking to a stranger, and be angry, clotelle still thought she saw something in the countenance of the young man that told her he was sincere, and she did not wish to hurt his feelings. "why persist in your wish to talk with me?" she said, as he again advanced and spoke to her. "i wish to purchase you and make you happy," returned he. "but i am not for sale now," she replied. "my present mistress will not sell me, and if you wished to do so ever so much you could not." "then," said he, "if i cannot buy you, when the steamer reaches mobile, fly with me, and you shall be free." "i cannot do it," said clotelle; and she was just leaving the stranger when he took from his pocket a piece of paper and thrust it into her hand. after returning to her room, she unfolded the paper, and found, to her utter astonishment that it contained a one hundred dollar note on the bank of the united states. the first impulse of the girl was to return the paper and its contents immediately to the giver, but examining the paper more closely, she saw in faint pencil-marks, "remember this is from one who loves you." another thought was to give it to her mistress, and she returned to the saloon for that purpose; but on finding mrs. taylor engaged in conversation with some ladies, she did not deem it proper to interrupt her. again, therefore, clotelle seated herself by the window, and again the stranger presented himself. she immediately took the paper from her pocket, and handed it to him; but he declined taking it, saying,-"no, keep it; it may be of some service to you when i am far away." "would that i could understand you," said the slave. "believe that i am sincere, and then you will understand me," returned the young man. "would you rather be a slave than be free?" inquired he, with tears that glistened in the rays of the moon. "no," said she, "i want my freedom, but i must live a virtuous life." "then, if you would be free and happy, go with me. we shall be in mobile in two hours, and when the passengers are going on shore, you take my arm. have your face covered with a veil, and you will not be observed. we will take passage immediately for france; you can pass as my sister, and i pledge you my honor that i will marry you as soon as we arrive in france." this solemn promise, coupled with what had previously been said, gave clotelle confidence in the man, and she instantly determined to go with him. "but then," thought she, "what if i should be detected? i would be forever ruined, for i would be sold, and in all probability have to end my days on a cotton, rice, or sugar plantation." however, the thought of freedom in the future outweighed this danger, and her resolve was taken. dressing herself in some of her best clothes, and placing her veiled bonnet where she could get it without the knowledge of her mistress, clotelle awaited with a heart filled with the deepest emotions and anxiety the moment when she was to take a step which seemed so rash, and which would either make or ruin her forever. the ships which leave mobile for europe lie about thirty miles down the bay, and passengers are taken down from the city in small vessels. the "walk-in-the-water" had just made her lines fast, and the passengers were hurrying on shore, when a tall gentleman with a lady at his side descended the stage-plank, and stepped on the wharf. this was antoine devenant and clotelle. chapter xxiv the law and its victim. the death of dr. morton, on the third day of his illness, came like a shock upon his wife and daughters. the corpse had scarcely been committed to its mother earth before new and unforeseen difficulties appeared to them. by the laws of the slave states, the children follow the condition of their mother. if the mother is free, the children are free; if a slave, the children are slaves. being unacquainted with the southern code, and no one presuming that marion had any negro blood in her veins, dr. morton had not given the subject a single thought. the woman whom he loved and regarded as his wife was, after all, nothing more than a slave by the laws of the state. what would have been his feelings had he known that at his death his wife and children would be considered as his property? yet such was the case. like most men of means at that time, dr. morton was deeply engaged in speculation, and though generally considered wealthy, was very much involved in his business affairs. after the disease with which dr. morton had so suddenly died had to some extent subsided, mr. james morton, a brother of the deceased, went to new orleans to settle up the estate. on his arrival there, he was pleased with and felt proud of his nieces, and invited them to return with him to vermont, little dreaming that his brother had married a slave, and that his widow and daughters would be claimed as such. the girls themselves had never heard that their mother had been a slave, and therefore knew nothing of the danger hanging over their heads. an inventory of the property of the deceased was made out by mr. morton, and placed in the hands of the creditors. these preliminaries being arranged, the ladies, with their relative, concluded to leave the city and reside for a few days on the banks of lake ponchartrain, where they could enjoy a fresh air that the city did not afford. as they were about taking the cars, however, an officer arrested the whole party--the ladies as slaves, and the gentleman upon the charge of attempting to conceal the property of his deceased brother. mr. morton was overwhelmed with horror at the idea of his nieces being claimed as slaves, and asked for time, that he might save them from such a fate. he even offered to mortgage his little farm in vermont for the amount which young slave-women of their ages would fetch. but the creditors pleaded that they were an "extra article," and would sell for more than common slaves, and must therefore be sold at auction. the uncle was therefore compelled to give them up to the officers of the law, and they were separated from him. jane, the oldest of the girls, as we have before mentioned, was very handsome, bearing a close resemblance to her cousin clotelle. alreka, though not as handsome as her sister, was nevertheless a beautiful girl, and both had all the accomplishments that wealth and station could procure. though only in her fifteenth year, alreka had become strongly attached to volney lapie, a young frenchman, a student in her father's office. this attachment was reciprocated, although the poverty of the young man and the extreme youth of the girl had caused their feelings to be kept from the young lady's parents. the day of sale came, and mr. morton attended, with the hope that either the magnanimity of the creditors or his own little farm in vermont might save his nieces from the fate that awaited them. his hope, however, was in vain. the feelings of all present seemed to be lost in the general wish to become the possessor of the young ladies, who stood trembling, blushing, and weeping as the numerous throng gazed at them, or as the intended purchaser examined the graceful proportions of their fair and beautiful frames. neither the presence of the uncle nor young lapie could at all lessen the gross language of the officers, or stay the rude hands of those who wished to examine the property thus offered for sale. after a fierce contest between the bidders, the girls were sold, one for two thousand three hundred, and the other for two thousand three hundred and fifty dollars. had these girls been bought for servants only, they would in all probability have brought not more than nine hundred or a thousand dollars each. here were two beautiful young girls, accustomed to the fondest indulgence, surrounded by all the refinements of life, and with the timidity and gentleness which such a life would naturally produce, bartered away like cattle in the markets of smithfield or new york. the mother, who was also to have been sold, happily followed her husband to the grave, and was spared the pangs of a broken heart. the purchaser of the young ladies left the market in triumph, and the uncle, with a heavy heart, started for his new england home, with no earthly prospect of ever beholding his nieces again. the seizure of the young ladies as slaves was the result of the administrator's having found among dr. morton's papers the bill-of-sale of marion which he had taken when he purchased her. he had doubtless intended to liberate her when he married her, but had neglected from time to time to have the proper papers made out. sad was the result of this negligence. chapter xxv the flight. on once gaining the wharf, devenant and clotelle found no difficulty in securing an immediate passage to france. the fine packet-ship utica lay down the bay, and only awaited the return of the lighter that night to complete her cargo and list of passengers, ere she departed. the young frenchman therefore took his prize on board, and started for the ship. daylight was just making its appearance the next morning when the utica weighed anchor and turned her prow toward the sea. in the course of three hours, the vessel, with outspread sails, was rapidly flying from land. everything appeared to be auspicious. the skies were beautifully clear, and the sea calm, with a sun that dazzled the whole scene. but clouds soon began to chase each other through the heavens and the sea became rough. it was then that clotelle felt that there was hope of escaping. she had hitherto kept in the cabin, but now she expressed a wish to come on deck. the hanging clouds were narrowing the horizon to a span, and gloomily mingling with the rising surges. the old and grave-looking seamen shook their weather-wise heads as if foretelling a storm. as clotelle came on deck, she strained her eyes in vain to catch a farewell view of her native land. with a smile on her countenance, but with her eyes filled with tears, she said,-"farewell, farewell to the land of my birth, and welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves. i care not where i go, so it is 'where a tyrant never trod, where a slave was never known, but where nature worships god, if in the wilderness alone.'" devenant stood by her side, seeming proud of his future wife, with his face in a glow at his success, while over his noble brow clustering locks of glossy black hair were hanging in careless ringlets. his finely-cut, classic features wore the aspect of one possessed with a large and noble heart. once more the beautiful clotelle whispered in the ear of her lover,- "away, away, o'er land and sea, america is now no home for me." the winds increased with nightfall, and impenetrable gloom surrounded the ship. the prospect was too uncheering, even to persons in love. the attention which devenant paid to clotelle, although she had been registered on the ship's passenger list as his sister, caused more than one to look upon his as an agreeable travelling companion. his tall, slender figure and fine countenance bespoke for him at first sight one's confidence. that he was sincerely and deeply enamored of clotelle all could see. the weather became still more squally. the wind rushed through the white, foaming waves, and the ship groaned with its own wild and ungovernable labors, while nothing could be seen but the wild waste of waters. the scene was indeed one of fearful sublimity. day came and went without any abatement of the storm. despair was now on every countenance. occasionally a vivid flash of lightning would break forth and illuminate the black and boiling surges that surrounded the vessel, which was now scudding before the blast under bare poles. after five days of most intensely stormy weather, the sea settled down into a dead calm, and the passengers flocked on deck. during the last three days of the storm, clotelle had been so unwell as to be unable to raise her head. her pale face and quivering lips and languid appearance made her look as if every pulsation had ceased. her magnificent large and soft eyes, fringed with lashes as dark as night, gave her an angelic appearance. the unreserved attention of devenant, even when sea-sick himself, did much to increase the little love that the at first distrustful girl had placed in him. the heart must always have some object on which to centre its affections, and clotelle having lost all hope of ever again seeing jerome, it was but natural that she should now transfer her love to one who was so greatly befriending her. at first she respected devenant for the love he manifested for her, and for his apparent willingness to make any sacrifice for her welfare. true, this was an adventure upon which she had risked her all, and should her heart be foiled in this search for hidden treasures, her affections would be shipwrecked forever. she felt under great obligations to the man who had thus effected her escape, and that noble act alone would entitle him to her love. each day became more pleasant as the noble ship sped onward amid the rippled spray. the whistling of the breeze through the rigging was music to the ear, and brought gladness to the heart of every one on board. at last, the long suspense was broken by the appearance of land, at which all hearts leaped for joy. it was a beautiful morning in october. the sun had just risen, and sky and earth were still bathed in his soft, rosy glow, when the utica hauled into the dock at bordeaux. the splendid streets, beautiful bridges, glittering equipages, and smiling countenances of the people, gave everything a happy appearance, after a voyage of twenty-nine days on the deep, deep sea. after getting their baggage cleared from the custom-house and going to a hotel, devenant made immediate arrangements for the marriage. clotelle, on arriving at the church where the ceremony was to take place, was completely overwhelmed at the spectacle. she had never beheld a scene so gorgeous as this. the magnificent dresses of the priests and choristers, the deep and solemn voices, the elevated crucifix, the burning tapers, the splendidly decorated altar, the sweet-smelling incense, made the occasion truly an imposing one. at the conclusion of the ceremony, the loud and solemn peals of the organ's swelling anthem were lost to all in the contemplation of the interesting scene. the happy couple set out at once for dunkirk, the residence of the bridegroom's parents. but their stay there was short, for they had scarcely commenced visiting the numerous friends of the husband ere orders came for him to proceed to india to join that portion of the french army then stationed there. in due course of time they left for india, passing through paris and lyons, taking ship at marseilles. in the metropolis of france, they spent a week, where the husband took delight in introducing his wife to his brother officers in the french army, and where the newly-married couple were introduced to louis phillippe, then king of france. in all of these positions, clotelle sustained herself in a most ladylike manner. at lyons, they visited the vast factories and other public works, and all was pleasure with them. the voyage from marseilles to calcutta was very pleasant, as the weather was exceedingly fine. on arriving in india, captain devenant and lady were received with honors--the former for his heroic bravery in more than one battle, and the latter for her fascinating beauty and pleasing manners, and the fact that she was connected with one who was a general favorite with all who had his acquaintance. this was indeed a great change for clotelle. six months had not elapsed since her exposure in the slave-market of new orleans. this life is a stage, and we are indeed all actors. chapter xxvi the hero of a night. mounted on a fast horse, with the quaker's son for a guide, jerome pressed forward while uncle joseph was detaining the slave-catchers at the barn-door, through which the fugitive had just escaped. when out of present danger, fearing that suspicion might be aroused if he continued on the road in open day, jerome buried himself in a thick, dark forest until nightfall. with a yearning heart, he saw the splendor of the setting sun lingering on the hills, as if loath to fade away and be lost in the more sombre hues of twilight, which, rising from the east, was slowly stealing over the expanse of heaven, bearing silence and repose, which should cover his flight from a neighborhood to him so full of dangers. wearily and alone, with nothing but the hope of safety before him to cheer him on his way, the poor fugitive urged his tired and trembling limbs forward for several nights. the new suit of clothes with which he had provided himself when he made his escape from his captors, and the twenty dollars which the young quaker had slipped into his hand, when bidding him "fare thee well," would enable him to appear genteelly as soon as he dared to travel by daylight, and would thus facilitate his progress toward freedom. it was late in the evening when the fugitive slave arrived at a small town on the banks of lake erie, where he was to remain over night. how strange were his feelings! while his heart throbbed for that freedom and safety which canada alone could furnish to the whip-scarred slave, on the american continent, his thoughts were with clotelle. was she still in prison, and if so, what would be her punishment for aiding him to escape from prison? would he ever behold her again? these were the thoughts that followed him to his pillow, haunted him in is dreams, and awakened him from his slumbers. the alarm of fire aroused the inmates of the hotel in which jerome had sought shelter for the night from the deep sleep into which they had fallen. the whole village was buried in slumber, and the building was half consumed before the frightened inhabitants had reached the scene of the conflagration. the wind was high, and the burning embers were wafted like so many rockets through the sky. the whole town was lighted up, and the cries of women and children in the streets made the scene a terrific one. jerome heard the alarm, and hastily dressing himself, he went forth and hastened toward the burning building. "there,--there in that room in the second story, is my child!" exclaimed a woman, wringing her hands, and imploring some one to go to the rescue of her little one. the broad sheets of fire were flying in the direction of the chamber in which the child was sleeping, and all hope of its being saved seemed gone. occasionally the wind would lift the pall of smoke, and show that the work of destruction was not yet complete. at last a long ladder was brought, and one end placed under the window of the room. a moment more and a bystander mounted the ladder and ascended in haste to the window. the smoke met him as he raised the sash, and he cried out, "all is lost!" and returned to the ground without entering the room. another sweep of the wind showed that the destroying element had not yet made its final visit to that part of the doomed building. the mother, seeing that all hope of again meeting her child in this world was gone, wrung her hands and seemed inconsolable with grief. at this juncture, a man was seen to mount the ladder, and ascend with great rapidity. all eyes were instantly turned to the figure of this unknown individual as it disappeared in the cloud of smoke escaping from the window. those who a moment before had been removing furniture, as well as the idlers who had congregated at the ringing of the bells, assembled at the foot of the ladder, and awaited with breathless silence the reappearance of the stranger, who, regardless of his own safety, had thus risked his life to save another's. three cheers broke the stillness that had fallen on the company, as the brave man was seen coming through the window and slowly descending to the ground, holding under one arm the inanimate form of the child. another cheer, and then another, made the welkin ring, as the stranger, with hair burned and eyebrows closely singed, fainted at the foot of the ladder. but the child was saved. the stranger was jerome. as soon as he revived, he shrunk from every eye, as if he feared they would take from him the freedom which he had gone through so much to obtain. the next day, the fugitive took a vessel, and the following morning found himself standing on the free soil of canada. as his foot pressed the shore, he threw himself upon his face, kissed the earth, and exclaimed, "o god! i thank thee that i am a free man." chapter xxvii true freedom. the history of the african race is god's illuminated clock, set in the dark steeple of time. the negro has been made the hewer of wood and the drawer of water for nearly all other nations. the people of the united states, however, will have an account to settle with god, owing to their treatment of the negro, which will far surpass the rest of mankind. jerome, on reaching canada, felt for the first time that personal freedom which god intended that all who bore his image should enjoy. that same forgetfulness of self which had always characterized him now caused him to think of others. the thoughts of dear ones in slavery were continually in his mind, and above all others, clotelle occupied his thoughts. now that he was free, he could better appreciate her condition as a slave. although jerome met, on his arrival in canada, numbers who had escaped from the southern states, he nevertheless shrank from all society, particularly that of females. the soft, silver-gray tints on the leaves of the trees, with their snow-spotted trunks, and a biting air, warned the new-born freeman that he was in another climate. jerome sought work, and soon found it; and arranged with his employer that the latter should go to natchez in search of clotelle. the good scotchman, for whom the fugitive was laboring, freely offered to go down and purchase the girl, if she could be bought, and let jerome pay him in work. with such a prospect of future happiness in view, this injured descendant of outraged and bleeding africa went daily to his toil with an energy hitherto unknown to him. but oh, how vain are the hopes of man! chapter xxviii farewell to america. three months had elapsed, from the time the fugitive commenced work for mr. streeter, when that gentleman returned from his southern research, and informed jerome that parson wilson had sold clotelle, and that she had been sent to the new orleans slave-market. this intelligence fell with crushing weight upon the heart of jerome, and he now felt that the last chain which bound him to his native land was severed. he therefore determined to leave america forever. his nearest and dearest friends had often been flogged in his very presence, and he had seen his mother sold to the negro-trader. an only sister had been torn from him by the soul-driver; he had himself been sold and resold, and been compelled to submit to the most degrading and humiliating insults; and now that the woman upon whom his heart doted, and without whom life was a burden, had been taken away forever, he felt it a duty to hate all mankind. if there is one thing more than another calculated to make one hate and detest american slavery, it is to witness the meetings between fugitives and their friends in canada. jerome had beheld some of these scenes. the wife who, after years of separation, had escaped from her prison-house and followed her husband had told her story to him. he had seen the newly-arrived wife rush into the arms of the husband, whose dark face she had not looked upon for long, weary years. some told of how a sister had been ill-used by the overseer; others of a husband's being whipped to death for having attempted to protect his wife. he had sat in the little log-hut, by the fireside, and heard tales that caused his heart to bleed; and his bosom swelled with just indignation when he thought that there was no remedy for such atrocious acts. it was with such feelings that he informed his employer that he should leave him at the expiration of a month. in vain did mr. streeter try to persuade jerome to remain with him; and late, in the month of february, the latter found himself on board a small vessel loaded with pine-lumber, descending the st. lawrence, bound for liverpool. the bark, though an old one, was, nevertheless, considered seaworthy, and the fugitive was working his way out. as the vessel left the river and gained the open sea, the black man appeared to rejoice at the prospect of leaving a country in which his right to manhood had been denied him, and his happiness destroyed. the wind was proudly swelling the white sails, and the little craft plunging into the foaming waves, with the land fast receding in the distance, when jerome mounted a pile of lumber to take a last farewell of his native land. with tears glistening in his eyes, and with quivering lips, he turned his gaze toward the shores that were fast fading in the dim distance, and said,-"though forced from my native land by the tyrants of the south, i hope i shall some day be able to return. with all her faults, i love my country still." chapter xxix a stranger in a strange land. the rain was falling on the dirty pavements of liverpool as jerome left the vessel after her arrival. passing the custom-house, he took a cab, and proceeded to brown's hotel, clayton square. finding no employment in liverpool, jerome determined to go into the interior and seek for work. he, therefore, called for his bill, and made ready for his departure. although but four days at the albion, he found the hotel charges larger than he expected; but a stranger generally counts on being "fleeced" in travelling through the old world, and especially in great britain. after paying his bill, he was about leaving the room, when one of the servants presented himself with a low bow, and said,-"something for the waiter, sir?" "i thought i had paid my bill," replied the man, somewhat surprised at this polite dun. "i am the waiter, sir, and gets only what strangers see fit to give me." taking from his pocket his nearly empty purse, jerome handed the man a half-crown; but he had hardly restored it to his pocket, before his eye fell on another man in the waiting costume. "what do you want?" he asked. "whatever your honor sees fit to give me, sir. i am the tother waiter." the purse was again taken from the pocket, and another half-crown handed out. stepping out into the hall, he saw standing there a good-looking woman, in a white apron, who made a very pretty courtesy. "what's your business?" he inquired. "i am the chambermaid, sir, and looks after the gentlemen's beds." out came the purse again, and was relieved of another half-crown; whereupon another girl, with a fascinating smile, took the place of the one who had just received her fee. "what do you want?" demanded the now half-angry jerome. "please, sir, i am the tother chambermaid." finding it easier to give shillings than half-crowns, jerome handed the woman a shilling, and again restored his purse to his pocket, glad that another woman was not to be seen. scarcely had he commenced congratulating himself, however, before three men made their appearance, one after another. "what have you done for me?" he asked of the first. "i am the boots, sir." the purse came out once more, and a shilling was deposited in the servant's hand. "what do i owe you?" he inquired of the second. "i took your honor's letter to the post, yesterday, sir." another shilling left the purse. "in the name of the lord, what am i indebted to you for?" demanded jerome, now entirely out of patience, turning to the last of the trio. "i told yer vership vot time it vas, this morning." "well!" exclaimed the indignant man, "ask here what o'clock it is, and you have got to pay for it." he paid this last demand with a sixpence, regretting that he had not commenced with sixpences instead of half-crowns. having cleared off all demands in the house, he started for the railway station; but had scarcely reached the street, before he was accosted by an old man with a broom in his hand, who, with an exceedingly low bow, said,-"i is here, yer lordship." "i did not send for you; what is your business?" demanded jerome. "i is the man what opened your lordship's cab-door, when your lordship came to the house on monday last, and i know your honor won't allow a poor man to starve." putting a sixpence in the old man's hand, jerome once more started for the depot. having obtained letters of introduction to persons in manchester, he found no difficulty in getting a situation in a large manufacturing house there. although the salary was small, yet the situation was a much better one than he had hoped to obtain. his compensation as out-door clerk enabled him to employ a man to teach him at night, and, by continued study and attention to business, he was soon promoted. after three years in his new home, jerome was placed in a still higher position, where his salary amounted to fifteen hundred dollars a year. the drinking, smoking, and other expensive habits, which the clerks usually indulged in, he carefully avoided. being fond of poetry, he turned his attention to literature. johnson's "lives of the poets," the writings of dryden, addison, pope, clarendon, and other authors of celebrity, he read with attention. the knowledge which he thus picked up during his leisure hours gave him a great advantage over the other clerks, and caused his employers to respect him far more than any other in their establishment. so eager was he to improve the time that he determined to see how much he could read during the unemployed time of night and morning, and his success was beyond his expectations. chapter xxx new friends. broken down in health, after ten years of close confinement in his situation, jerome resolved to give it up, and thereby release himself from an employment which seemed calculated to send him to a premature grave. it was on a beautiful morning in summer that he started for scotland, having made up his mind to travel for his health. after visiting edinburgh and glasgow, he concluded to spend a few days in the old town of perth, with a friend whose acquaintance he had made in manchester. during the second day of his stay in perth, while crossing the main street, jerome saw a pony-chaise coming toward him with great speed. a lady, who appeared to be the only occupant of the vehicle, was using her utmost strength to stop the frightened horses. the footman, in his fright, had leaped from behind the carriage, and was following with the crowd. with that self-forgetfulness which was one of his chief characteristics, jerome threw himself before the horses to stop them; and, seizing the high-spirited animals by the bit, as they dashed by him, he was dragged several rods before their speed was checked, which was not accomplished until one of the horses had fallen to the ground, with the heroic man struggling beneath him. all present were satisfied that this daring act alone had saved the lady's life, for the chaise must inevitably have been dashed in pieces, had the horses not been thus suddenly checked in their mad career. on the morning following this perilous adventure, col. g----called at jerome's temporary residence, and, after expressing his admiration for his noble daring, and thanking him for having saved his daughter's life, invited him to visit him at his country residence. this invitation was promptly accepted in the spirit in which it was given; and three days after, jerome found himself at the princely residence of the father of the lady for whose safety he had risked his own life. the house was surrounded by fine trees, and a sweet little stream ran murmuring at the foot, while beds of flowers on every hand shed their odors on the summer air. it was, indeed, a pleasant place to spend the warm weather, and the colonel and his family gave jerome a most cordial welcome. miss g. showed especial attention to the stranger. he had not intended remaining longer than the following day: but the family insisted on his taking part in a fox-hunt that was to come off on the morning of the third day. wishing to witness a scene as interesting as the chase usually proves to be, he decided to remain. fifteen persons, five of whom were ladies, were on the ground at the appointed hour. miss g. was, of course, one of the party. in vain jerome endeavored to excuse himself from joining in the chase. his plea of ill-health was only met by smiles from the young ladies, and the reply that a ride would effect a cure. dressed in a scarlet coat and high boots, with the low, round cap worn in the chase, jerome mounted a high-spirited horse, whip in hand, and made himself one of the party. in america, riding is a necessity; in england, it is a pleasure. young men and women attend riding-school in our fatherland, and consider that they are studying a science. jerome was no rider. he had not been on horseback for more than ten years, and as soon as he mounted, every one saw that he was a novice, and a smile was on the countenance of each member of the company. the blowing of the horn, and assembling of the hounds, and finally the release of the fox from his close prison, were the signals for the chase to commence. the first half-mile the little animal took his course over a beautiful field where there was neither hedge nor ditch. thus far the chase was enjoyed by all, even by the american rider, who was better fitted to witness the scene than to take part in it. we left jerome in our last reluctantly engaged in the chase; and though the first mile or so of the pursuit, which was over smooth meadow-land, had had an exhilarating effect upon his mind, and tended somewhat to relieve him of the embarrassment consequent upon his position, he nevertheless still felt that he was far from being in his proper element. besides, the fox had now made for a dense forest which lay before, and he saw difficulties in that direction which to him appeared insurmountable. away went the huntsmen, over stone walls, high fences, and deep ditches. jerome saw the ladies even leading the gentlemen, but this could not inspire him. they cleared the fences, four and five feet high with perfect ease, showing they were quite at home in the saddle. but alas for the poor american! as his fine steed came up to the first fence, and was about to make the leap, jerome pulled at the bridle, and cried at the top of his voice, "whoa! whoa! whoa!" the horse at the same time capering about, and appearing determined to keep up with the other animals. away dashed the huntsmen, following the hounds, and all were soon lost to the view of their colored companion. jerome rode up and down the field looking for a gate or bars, that he might get through without risking his neck. finding, however, that all hope of again catching up with the party was out of the question, he determined to return to the house, under a plea of sudden illness, and back he accordingly went. "i hope no accident has happened to your honor," said the groom, as he met our hero at the gate. "a slight dizziness," was the answer. one of the servants, without being ordered, went at once for the family physician. ashamed to own that his return was owing to his inability to ride, jerome resolved to feign sickness. the doctor came, felt his pulse, examined his tongue, and pronounced him a sick man. he immediately ordered a tepid bath, and sent for a couple of leeches. seeing things taking such a serious turn, the american began to regret the part he was playing; for there was no fun in being rubbed and leeched when one was in perfect health. he had gone too far to recede, however, and so submitted quietly to the directions of the doctor; and, after following the injunctions given by that learned esculapius, was put to bed. shortly after, the sound of the horns and the yelp of the hounds announced that the poor fox had taken the back track, and was repassing near the house. even the pleasure of witnessing the beautiful sight from the window was denied to our hero; for the physician had ordered that he must be kept in perfect quiet. the chase was at last over, and the huntsmen all in, sympathizing with their lost companion. after nine days of sweating, blistering and leeching, jerome left his bed convalescent, but much reduced in flesh and strength. this was his first and last attempt to follow the fox and hounds. during his fortnight's stay at colonel g.'s, jerome spent most of his time in the magnificent library. claude did not watch with more interest every color of the skies, the trees, the grass, and the water, to learn from nature, than did this son of a despised race search books to obtain that knowledge which his early life as a slave had denied him. chapter xxxi the mysterious meeting. after more than a fortnight spent in the highlands of scotland, jerome passed hastily through london on his way to the continent. it was toward sunset, on a warm day in october, shortly after his arrival in france, that, after strolling some distance from the hotel de leon, in the old and picturesque town of dunkirk, he entered a burial ground--such places being always favorite walks with him--and wandered around among the silent dead. all nature around was hushed in silence, and seemed to partake of the general melancholy that hung over the quiet resting-place of the departed. even the birds seemed imbued with the spirit of the place, for they were silent, either flying noiselessly over the graves, or jumping about in the tall grass. after tracing the various inscriptions that told the characters and conditions of the deceased, and viewing the mounds beneath which the dust of mortality slumbered, he arrived at a secluded spot near where an aged weeping willow bowed its thick foliage to the ground, as though anxious to hide from the scrutinizing gaze of curiosity the grave beneath it. jerome seated himself on a marble tombstone, and commenced reading from a book which he had carried under his arm. it was now twilight, and he had read but a few minutes when he observed a lady, attired in deep black, and leading a boy, apparently some five or six years old, coming up one of the beautiful, winding paths. as the lady's veil was drawn closely over her face, he felt somewhat at liberty to eye her more closely. while thus engaged, the lady gave a slight scream, and seemed suddenly to have fallen into a fainting condition. jerome sprang from his seat, and caught her in time to save her from falling to the ground. at this moment an elderly gentleman, also dressed in black, was seen approaching with a hurried step, which seemed to indicate that he was in some way connected with the lady. the old man came up, and in rather a confused manner inquired what had happened, and jerome explained matters as well as he was able to do so. after taking up the vinaigrette, which had fallen from her hand, and holding the bottle a short time to her face, the lady began to revive. during all this time, the veil had still partly covered the face of the fair one, so that jerome had scarcely seen it. when she had so far recovered as to be able to look around her, she raised herself slightly, and again screamed and swooned. the old man now feeling satisfied that jerome's dark complexion was the immediate cause of the catastrophe, said in a somewhat petulant tone,-"i will be glad, sir, if you will leave us alone." the little boy at this juncture set up a loud cry, and amid the general confusion, jerome left the ground and returned to his hotel. while seated at the window of his room looking out upon the crowded street, with every now and then the strange scene in the graveyard vividly before him, jerome suddenly thought of the book he had been reading, and, remembering that he had left it on the tombstone, where he dropped it when called to the lady's assistance, he determined to return for it at once. after a walk of some twenty minutes, he found himself again in the burial-ground and on the spot where he had been an hour before. the pensive moon was already up, and its soft light was sleeping on the little pond at the back of the grounds, while the stars seemed smiling at their own sparkling rays gleaming up from the beautiful sheet of water. jerome searched in vain for his book; it was nowhere to be found. nothing, save the bouquet that the lady had dropped and which lay half-buried in the grass, from having been trodden upon, indicated that any one had been there that evening. the stillness of death reigned over the place; even the little birds, that had before been twittering and flying about, had retired for the night. taking up the bunch of flowers, jerome returned to his hotel. "what can this mean?" he would ask himself; "and why should they take my book?" these questions he put to himself again and again during his walk. his sleep was broken more than once that night, and he welcomed the early dawn as it made its appearance. chapter xxxii the happy meeting. after passing a sleepless night, and hearing the clock strike six, jerome took from his table a book, and thus endeavored to pass away the hours before breakfast-time. while thus engaged, a servant entered and handed him a note. hastily tearing it open, jerome read as follows:-"sir,--i owe you an apology for the abrupt manner in which i addressed you last evening, and the inconvenience to which you were subjected by some of my household. if you will honor us with your presence to-day at four o'clock, i shall be most happy to give you due satisfaction. my servant will be waiting with the carriage at half-past three. i am, sir, yours, &c, j. devenant. jerome fletcher, esq." who this gentleman was, and how he had found out his name and the hotel at which he was stopping, were alike mysteries to jerome. and this note seemed to his puzzled brain like a challenge. "satisfaction?" he had not asked for satisfaction. however, he resolved to accept the invitation, and, if need be, meet the worst. at any rate, this most mysterious and complicated affair would be explained. the clock on a neighboring church had scarcely finished striking three when a servant announced to jerome that a carriage had called for him. in a few minutes, he was seated in a sumptuous barouche, drawn by a pair of beautiful iron-grays, and rolling over a splendid gravel road entirely shaded by trees, which appeared to have been the accumulated growth of many centuries. the carriage soon stopped at a low villa, which was completely embowered in trees. jerome alighted, and was shown into a superb room, with the walls finely decorated with splendid tapestry, and the ceilings exquisitely frescoed. the walls were hung with fine specimens from the hands of the great italian masters, and one by a german artist, representing a beautiful monkish legend connected with the "holy catharine," an illustrious lady of alexandria. high-backed chairs stood around the room, rich curtains of crimson damask hung in folds on either side of the window, and a beautiful, rich, turkey carpet covered the floor. in the centre of the room stood a table covered with books, in the midst of which was a vase of fresh flowers, loading the atmosphere with their odors. a faint light, together with the quiet of the hour, gave beauty beyond description to the whole scene. a half-open door showed a fine marble floor to an adjoining room, with pictures, statues, and antiquated sofas, and flower-pots filled with rare plants of every kind and description. jerome had scarcely run his eyes over the beauties of the room when the elderly gentleman whom he had met on the previous evening made his appearance, followed by the little boy, and introduced himself as mr. devenant. a moment more and a lady, a beautiful brunette, dressed in black, with long black curls hanging over her shoulders, entered the room. her dark, bright eyes flashed as she caught the first sight of jerome. the gentleman immediately arose on the entrance of the lady, and mr. devenant was in the act of introducing the stranger when he observed that jerome had sunk back upon the sofa, in a faint voice exclaiming,-"it is she!" after this, all was dark and dreary. how long he remained in this condition, it was for others to tell. the lady knelt by his side and wept; and when he came to, he found himself stretched upon the sofa with his boots off and his head resting upon a pillow. by his side sat the old man, with the smelling-bottle in one hand and a glass of water in the other, while the little boy stood at the foot of the sofa. as soon as jerome had so far recovered as to be able to speak, he said,-"where am i, and what does all this mean?" "wait awhile," replied the old man, "and i will tell you all." after the lapse of some ten minutes, jerome arose from the sofa, adjusted his apparel, and said,-"i am now ready to hear anything you have to say." "you were born in america?" said the old man. "i was," he replied. "and you knew a girl named clotelle," continued the old man. "yes, and i loved her as i can love none other." "the lady whom you met so mysteriously last evening was she," said mr. devenant. jerome was silent, but the fountain of mingled grief and joy stole out from beneath his eyelashes, and glistened like pearls upon his ebony cheeks. at this juncture, the lady again entered the room. with an enthusiasm that can be better imagined than described, jerome sprang from the sofa, and they rushed into each other's arms, to the great surprise of the old gentleman and little autoine, and to the amusement of the servants who had crept up, one by one and were hid behind the doors or loitering in the hall. when they had given vent to their feelings and sufficiently recovered their presence of mind, they resumed their seats. "how did you find out my name and address?" inquired jerome. "after you had left the grave-yard," replied clotelle, "our little boy said, 'oh, mamma! if there ain't a book!' i opened the book, and saw your name written in it, and also found a card of the hotel de leon. papa wished to leave the book, and said it was only a fancy of mine that i had ever seen you before; but i was perfectly convinced that you were my own dear jerome." as she uttered the last words, tears--the sweet bright tears that love alone can bring forth--bedewed her cheeks. "are you married?" now inquired clotelle, with a palpitating heart and trembling voice. "no, i am not, and never have been," was jerome's reply. "then, thank god!" she exclaimed, in broken accents. it was then that hope gleamed up amid the crushed and broken flowers of her heart, and a bright flash darted forth like a sunbeam. "are you single now?" asked jerome. "yes, i am," was the answer. "then you will be mine after all?" said he with a smile. her dark, rich hair had partly come down, and hung still more loosely over her shoulders than when she first appeared; and her eyes, now full of animation and vivacity, and her sweet, harmonious, and well-modulated voice, together with her modesty, self-possession, and engaging manners, made clotelle appear lovely beyond description. although past the age when men ought to think of matrimony, yet the scene before mr. devenant brought vividly to his mind the time when he was young and had a loving bosom companion living, and tears were wiped from the old man's eyes. a new world seemed to unfold itself before the eyes of the happy lovers, and they were completely absorbed in contemplating the future. furnished by nature with a disposition to study, and a memory so retentive that all who knew her were surprised at the ease with which she acquired her education and general information, clotelle might now be termed a most accomplished lady. after her marriage with young devenant, they proceeded to india, where the husband's regiment was stationed. soon after their arrival, however, a battle was fought with the natives, in which several officers fell, among whom was captain devenant. the father of the young captain being there at the time, took his daughter-in-law and brought her back to france, where they took up their abode at the old homestead. old mr. devenant was possessed of a large fortune, all of which he intended for his daughter-in-law and her only child. although clotelle had married young devenant, she had not forgotten her first love, and her father-in-law now willingly gave his consent to her marriage with jerome. jerome felt that to possess the woman of his love, even at that late hour, was compensation enough for the years that he had been separated from her, and clotelle wanted no better evidence of his love for her than the fact of his having remained so long unmarried. it was indeed a rare instance of devotion and constancy in a man, and the young widow gratefully appreciated it. it was late in the evening when jerome led his intended bride to the window, and the magnificent moonlight illuminated the countenance of the lovely clotelle, while inward sunshine, emanating from a mind at ease, and her own virtuous thoughts, gave brightness to her eyes and made her appear a very angel. this was the first evening that jerome had been in her company since the night when, to effect his escape from prison, she disguised herself in male attire. how different the scene now. free instead of slaves, wealthy instead of poor, and on the eve of an event that seemed likely to result in a life of happiness to both. chapter xxxiii the happy day. it was a bright day in the latter part of october that jerome and clotelle set out for the church, where the marriage ceremony was to be performed. the clear, bracing air added buoyancy to every movement, and the sun poured its brilliant rays through the deeply-stained windows, as the happy couple entered the sanctuary, followed by old mr. devenant, whose form, bowed down with age, attracted almost as much attention from the assembly as did the couple more particularly interested. as the ceremonies were finished and the priest pronounced the benediction on the newly-married pair, clotelle whispered in the ear of jerome,- "'no power in death shall tear our names apart, as none in life could rend thee from my heart.'" a smile beamed on every face as the wedding-party left the church and entered their carriage. what a happy day, after ten years' separation, when, both hearts having been blighted for a time, they are brought together by the hand of a beneficent and kind providence, and united in holy wedlock. everything being arranged for a wedding tour extending up the rhine, the party set out the same day for antwerp. there are many rivers of greater length and width than the rhine. our mississippi would swallow up half a dozen rhines. the hudson is grander, the tiber, the po, and the minclo more classic; the thames and seine bear upon their waters greater amounts of wealth and commerce; the nile and the euphrates have a greater antiquity; but for a combination of interesting historical incidents and natural scenery, the rhine surpasses them all. nature has so ordained it that those who travel in the valley of the rhine shall see the river, for there never will be a railroad upon its banks. so mountainous is the land that it would have to be one series of tunnels. every three or four miles from the time you enter this glorious river, hills, dales, castles, and crags present themselves as the steamer glides onward. their first resting-place for any length of time was at coblentz, at the mouth of the "blue moselle," the most interesting place on the river. from coblentz they went to brussels, where they had the greatest attention paid them. besides being provided with letters of introduction, jerome's complexion secured for him more deference than is usually awarded to travellers. having letters of introduction to m. deceptiax, the great lace manufacturer, that gentleman received them with distinguished honors, and gave them a splendid soiree, at which the elite of the city were assembled. the sumptuously-furnished mansion was lavishly decorated for the occasion, and every preparation made that could add to the novelty or interest of the event. jerome, with his beautiful bride, next visited cologne, the largest and wealthiest city on the banks of the rhine. the cathedral of cologne is the most splendid structure of the kind in europe, and jerome and clotelle viewed with interest the beautiful arches and columns of this stupendous building, which strikes with awe the beholder, as he gazes at its unequalled splendor, surrounded, as it is, by villas, cottages, and palace-like mansions, with the enchanting rhine winding through the vine-covered hills. after strolling over miles and miles of classic ground, and visiting castles, whose legends and traditions have given them an enduring fame, our delighted travellers started for geneva, bidding the picturesque banks of the rhine a regretful farewell. being much interested in literature, and aware that geneva was noted for having been the city of refuge to the victims of religious and political persecution, jerome arranged to stay here for some days. he was provided with a letter of introduction to m. de stee, who had been a fellow-soldier of mr. devenant in the east india wars, and they were invited to make his house their home during their sojourn. on the side of a noble mountain, whose base is kissed by the waves of lake geneva, and whose slopes are decked with verdure to the utmost peak of its rocky crown, is situated the delightful country residence of this wealthy, retired french officer. a winding road, with frequent climbs and brakes, leads from the valley to this enchanting spot, the air and scenery of which cannot be surpassed in the world. chapter xxxiv clotelle meets her father. the clouds that had skirted the sky during the day broke at last, and the rain fell in torrents, as jerome and clotelle retired for the night, in the little town of ferney, on the borders of lake leman. the peals of thunder, and flashes of vivid lightening, which seemed to leap from mountain to mountain and from crag to crag, reverberating among the surrounding hills, foretold a heavy storm. "i would we were back at geneva," said clotelle, as she heard groans issuing from an adjoining room. the sounds, at first faint, grew louder and louder, plainly indicating that some person was suffering extreme pain. "i did not like this hotel, much, when we came in," i said jerome, relighting the lamp, which had been accidentally extinguished. "nor i," returned clotelle. the shrieks increased, and an occasional "she's dead!" "i killed her!" "no, she is not dead!" and such-like expressions, would be heard from the person, who seemed to be deranged. the thunder grew louder, and the flashes of lightning more vivid, while the noise from the sick-room seemed to increase. as jerome opened the door, to learn, if possible, the cause of the cries and groans, he could distinguish the words, "she's dead! yes, she's dead! but i did not kill her. she was my child! my own daughter. i loved her, and yet i did not protect her." "whoever he is," said jerome, "he's crack-brained; some robber, probably, from the mountains." the storm continued to rage, and the loud peals of thunder and sharp flashes of lightening, together with the shrieks and moans of the maniac in the adjoining room, made the night a fearful one. the long hours wore slowly away, but neither jerome nor his wife could sleep, and they arose at an early hour in the morning, ordered breakfast, and resolved to return to geneva. "i am sorry, sir, that you were so much disturbed by the sick man last night," said the landlord, as he handed jerome his bill. "i should be glad if he would get able to go away, or die, for he's a deal of trouble to me. several persons have left my house on his account." "where is he from?" inquired jerome. "he's from the united states, and has been here a week to-day, and has been crazy ever since." "has he no friends with him?" asked the guest. "no, he is alone," was the reply. jerome related to his wife what he had learned from the landlord, respecting the sick man, and the intelligence impressed her so strongly, that she requested him to make further inquiries concerning the stranger. he therefore consulted the book in which guests usually register their names, and, to his great surprise, found that the american's name was henry linwood, and that he was from richmond, va. it was with feelings of trepidation that clotelle heard these particulars from the lips of her husband. "we must see this poor man, whoever he is," said she, as jerome finished the sentence. the landlord was glad to hear that his guests felt some interest in the sick man, and promised that the invalid's room should be got ready for their reception. the clock in the hall was just striking ten, as jerome passed through and entered the sick man's chamber. stretched upon a mattress, with both hands tightly bound to the bedstead, the friendless stranger was indeed a pitiful sight. his dark, dishevelled hair prematurely gray, his long, unshaven beard, and the wildness of the eyes which glanced upon them as they opened the door and entered, caused the faint hope which had so suddenly risen in clotelle's heart, to sink, and she felt that this man could claim no kindred with her. certainly, he bore no resemblance to the man whom she had called her father, and who had fondly dandled her on his knee in those happy days of childhood. "help!" cried the poor man, as jerome and his wife walked into the room. his eyes glared, and shriek after shriek broke forth from his parched and fevered lips. "no, i did not kill my daughter!--i did not! she is not dead! yes, she is dead! but i did not kill her--poor girl look! that is she! no, it cannot be! she cannot come here! it cannot be my poor clotelle." at the sound of her own name, coming from the maniac's lips, clotelle gasped for breath, and her husband saw that she had grown deadly pale. it seemed evident to him that the man was either guilty of some terrible act, or imagined himself to be. his eyeballs rolled in their sockets, and his features showed that he was undergoing "the tortures of that inward hell," which seemed to set his whole brain on fire. after recovering her self-possession and strength, clotelle approached the bedside, and laid her soft hand upon the stranger's hot and fevered brow. one long, loud shriek rang out on the air, and a piercing cry, "it is she!---yes, it is she! i see, i see! ah! no, it is not my daughter! she would not come to me if she could!" broke forth from him. "i am your daughter," said clotelle, as she pressed her handkerchief to her face, and sobbed aloud. like balls of fire, the poor man's eyes rolled and glared upon the company, while large drops of perspiration ran down his pale and emaciated face. strange as the scene appeared, all present saw that it was indeed a meeting between a father and his long-lost daughter. jerome now ordered all present to leave the room, except the nurse, and every effort was at once made to quiet the sufferer. when calm, a joyous smile would illuminate the sick man's face, and a strange light beam in his eyes, as he seemed to realize that she who stood before him was indeed his child. for two long days and nights did clotelle watch at the bedside of her father before he could speak to her intelligently. sometimes, in his insane fits, he would rave in the most frightful manner, and then, in a few moments, would be as easily governed as a child. at last, however, after a long and apparently refreshing sleep, he awoke suddenly to a full consciousness that it was indeed his daughter who was watching so patiently by his side. the presence of his long absent child had a soothing effect upon mr. linwood, and he now recovered rapidly from the sad and almost hopeless condition in which she had found him. when able to converse, without danger of a relapse, he told clotelle of his fruitless efforts to obtain a clew to her whereabouts after old mrs. miller had sold her to the slave-trader. in answer to his daughter's inquiries about his family affairs up to the time that he left america, he said,-"i blamed my wife for your being sold and sent away, for i thought she and her mother were acting in collusion; but i afterwards found that i had blamed her wrongfully. poor woman! she knew that i loved your mother, and feeling herself forsaken, she grew melancholy and died in a decline three years ago." here both father and daughter wept at the thought of other days. when they had recovered their composure, mr. linwood went on again: "old mrs. miller," said he, "after the death of gertrude, aware that she had contributed much toward her unhappiness, took to the free use of intoxicating drinks, and became the most brutal creature that ever lived. she whipped her slaves without the slightest provocation, and seemed to take delight in inventing new tortures with which to punish them. one night last winter, after having flogged one of her slaves nearly to death, she returned to her room, and by some means the bedding took fire, and the house was in flames before any one was awakened. there was no one in the building at the time but the old woman and the slaves, and although the latter might have saved their mistress, they made no attempt to do so. thus, after a frightful career of many years, this hard-hearted woman died a most miserable death, unlamented by a single person." clotelle wiped the tears from her eyes, as her father finished this story, for, although mrs. miller had been her greatest enemy, she regretted to learn that her end had been such a sad one. "my peace of mind destroyed," resumed the father, "and broke down in health, my physician advised me to travel, with the hope o recruiting myself, and i sailed from new york two months ago." being brought up in america, and having all the prejudice against color which characterizes his white fellow-countrymen, mr. linwood very much regretted that his daughter, although herself tinctured with african blood, should have married a black man, and he did not fail to express to her his dislike of her husband's complexion. "i married him," said clotelle, "because i loved him. why should the white man be esteemed as better than the black? i find no difference in men on account of their complexion. one of the cardinal principles of christianity and freedom is the equality and brotherhood of man." every day mr. linwood became more and more familiar with jerome, and eventually they were on the most intimate terms. fifteen days from the time that clotelle was introduced into her father's room, they left ferney for geneva. many were the excursions clotelle made under the shadows of mont blanc, and with her husband and father for companions; she was now in the enjoyment of pleasures hitherto unknown. chapter xxxv the father's resolve. aware that her father was still a slave-owner, clotelle determined to use all her persuasive power to induce him to set them free, and in this effort she found a substantial supporter in her husband. "i have always treated my slaves well," said mr. linwood to jerome, as the latter expressed his abhorrence of the system; "and my neighbors, too, are generally good men; for slavery in. virginia is not like slavery in the other states," continued the proud son of the old dominion. "their right to be free, mr. linwood," said jerome, "is taken from them, and they have no security for their comfort, but the humanity and generosity of men, who have been trained to regard them not as brethren, but as mere property. humanity and generosity are, at best, but poor guaranties for the protection of those who cannot assert their rights, and over whom law throws no protection." it was with pleasure that clotelle obtained from her father a promise that he would liberate all his slaves on his return to richmond. in a beautiful little villa, situated in a pleasant spot, fringed with hoary rocks and thick dark woods, within sight of the deep blue waters of lake leman, mr. linwood, his daughter, and her husband, took up their residence for a short time. for more than three weeks, this little party spent their time in visiting the birth-place of rousseau, and the former abodes of byron, gibbon, voltaire, de stael, shelley, and other literary characters. we can scarcely contemplate a visit to a more historic and interesting place than geneva and its vicinity. here, calvin, that great luminary in the church, lived and ruled for years; here, voltaire, the mighty genius, who laid the foundation of the french revolution, and who boasted, "when i shake my wig, i powder the whole republic," governed in the higher walks of life. fame is generally the recompense, not of the living, but of the dead,--not always do they reap and gather in the harvest who sow the seed; the flame of its altar is too often kindled from the ashes of the great. a distinguished critic has beautifully said, "the sound which the stream of high thought, carried down to future ages, makes, as it flows--deep, distant, murmuring ever more, like the waters of the mighty ocean." no reputation can be called great that will not endure this test. the distinguished men who had lived in geneva transfused their spirit, by their writings, into the spirit of other lovers of literature and everything that treated of great authors. jerome and clotelle lingered long in and about the haunts of geneva and lake leman. an autumn sun sent down her bright rays, and bathed every object in her glorious light, as clotelle, accompanied by her husband and father set out one fine morning on her return home to france. throughout the whole route, mr. linwood saw by the deference paid to jerome, whose black complexion excited astonishment in those who met him, that there was no hatred to the man in europe, on account of his color; that what is called prejudice against color is the offspring of the institution of slavery; and he felt ashamed of his own countrymen, when he thought of the complexion as distinctions, made in the united states, and resolved to dedicate the remainder of his life to the eradication of this unrepublican and unchristian feeling from the land of his birth, on his return home. after a stay of four weeks at dunkirk, the home of the fletchers, mr. linwood set out for america, with the full determination of freeing his slaves, and settling them in one of the northern states, and then to return to france to end his days in the society of his beloved daughter. the end. note.--the author of the foregoing tale was formerly a kentucky slave. if it serves to relieve the monotony of camp-life to the soldiers of the union, and therefore of liberty, and at the same time kindles their zeal in the cause of universal emancipation, the object both of its author and publisher will be gained. j. r. transcriber's notes: 1. page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/chiefjusticenove00franiala 2. the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. heinemann's international library. editor's note. there is nothing in which the anglo-saxon world differs more from the world of the continent of europe than in its fiction. english readers are accustomed to satisfy their curiosity with english novels, and it is rarely indeed that we turn aside to learn something of the interior life of those other countries the exterior scenery of which is often so familiar to us. we climb the alps, but are content to know nothing of the pastoral romances of switzerland. we steam in and out of the picturesque fjords of norway, but never guess what deep speculation into life and morals is made by the novelists of that sparsely peopled but richly endowed nation. we stroll across the courts of the alhambra, we are listlessly rowed upon venetian canals and lombard lakes, we hasten by night through the roaring factories of belgium; but we never pause to inquire whether there is now flourishing a spanish, an italian, a flemish school of fiction. of russian novels we have lately been taught to become partly aware, but we do not ask ourselves whether poland may not possess a dostoieffsky and portugal a tolstoi. yet, as a matter of fact, there is no european country that has not, within the last half-century, felt the dew of revival on the threshing-floor of its worn-out schools of romance. everywhere there has been shown by young men, endowed with a talent for narrative, a vigorous determination to devote themselves to a vivid and sympathetic interpretation of nature and of man. in almost every language, too, this movement has tended to display itself more and more in the direction of what is reported and less of what is created. fancy has seemed to these young novelists a poorer thing than observation; the world of dreams fainter than the world of men. they have not been occupied mainly with what might be or what should be, but with what is, and, in spite of all their shortcomings, they have combined to produce a series of pictures of existing society in each of their several countries such as cannot fail to form an archive of documents invaluable to futurity. but to us they should be still more valuable. to travel in a foreign country is but to touch its surface. under the guidance of a novelist of genius we penetrate to the secrets of a nation, and talk the very language of its citizens. we may go to normandy summer after summer and know less of the manner of life that proceeds under those gnarled orchards of apple-blossom than we learn from one tale of guy de maupassant's. the present series is intended to be a guide to the inner geography of europe. it presents to our readers a series of spiritual baedekers and murrays. it will endeavour to keep pace with every truly characteristic and vigorous expression of the novelist's art in each of the principal european countries, presenting what is quite new if it is also good, side by side with what is old, if it has not hitherto been presented to our public. that will be selected which gives with most freshness and variety the different aspects of continental feeling, the only limits of selection being that a book shall be, on the one hand, amusing, and, on the other, wholesome. one difficulty which must be frankly faced is that of subject. life is now treated in fiction by every race but our own with singular candour. the novelists of the lutheran north are not more fully emancipated from prejudice in this respect than the novelists of the catholic south. everywhere in europe a novel is looked upon now as an impersonal work, from which the writer, as a mere observer, stands aloof, neither blaming nor applauding. continental fiction has learned to exclude, in the main, from among the subjects of its attention, all but those facts which are of common experience, and thus the novelists have determined to disdain nothing and to repudiate nothing which is common to humanity; much is freely discussed, even in the novels of holland and of denmark, which our race is apt to treat with a much more gingerly discretion. it is not difficult, however, we believe--it is certainly not impossible--to discard all which may justly give offence, and yet to offer to an english public as many of the masterpieces of european fiction as we can ever hope to see included in this library. it will be the endeavour of the editor to search on all hands and in all languages for such books as combine the greatest literary value with the most curious and amusing qualities of manner and matter. edmund gosse. the chief justice the chief justice a novel by emil franzos translated from the german by miles corbet london william heinemann 1890 [_all rights reserved_] introduction. the remote austrian province of galicia has, in our generation, produced two of the most original of modern novelists, leopold von sacher-masoch and karl emil franzos. the latter, who is the author of the volume here presented to english readers, was born on the 25th of october 1848, just over the frontier, in a ranger's house in the midst of one of the vast forests of russian podolia. his father, a polish jew, was the district doctor of the town of czorskow, in galicia, where the boy received his first lessons in literature from his german mother. in 1858 franzos was sent, on the death of his father, to the german college at czernowitz; at the age of fourteen, according to the published accounts of his life, he was left entirely to his own resources, and gained a precarious livelihood by teaching. after various attempts at making a path for himself in science and in law, and finding that his being a jew stood in the way of a professional career, he turned, as so many german israelites have done before and since, to journalism, first in vienna, then at pesth, then in vienna again, where he still continues to reside. in 1876 franzos published his first book, two volumes entitled _aus halb-asia_ ("from semi-asia"), a series of ethnological studies on the peoples of galicia, bukowina, south russia, and roumania, whom he described as in a twilight of semi-barbaric darkness, not wholly in the sunshine of europe. this was followed in 1878 by _vom don zur donau_ ("from the don to the danube"), a similar series of studies in ethnography. meanwhile, in _die juden von barnow_ ("the jews of barnow"), 1877, he had published his first collection of tales drawn from his early experience. he followed it in 1879 by _junge liebe_ ("young love"), two short stories, "brown rosa" and "brandenegg's cousins," extremely romantic in character, and written in an elaborate and somewhat extravagant style. these volumes achieved a great and instant success. the succeeding novels of franzos have been numerous, and unequal in value. _moschko von parma_, 1880, was a pathetic study of the vicissitudes of a young jewish soldier in the wars. in the same year franzos published _die hexe_ ("the witch"). the best known of his writings in this country is _ein kampf um's recht_ ("a battle for the right"), 1882, which was published in english, with an introduction by mr. george macdonald, and attracted the favourable, and even enthusiastic, notice of mr. gladstone. _der präsident_, which is here translated, appeared in germany in 1884. edmund gosse. the chief justice. chapter i. in the higher court of bolosch, an important germano-slavonic town of northern austria, there sat as chief justice some thirty years ago, one of the bravest and best of those men on whom true justice might hopefully rely in that sorely tried land. charles victor, baron von sendlingen, as he may be called in this record of his fate, was the last descendant of a very ancient and meritorious race which could trace its origin to a collateral branch of the franconian emperors, and which had once upon a time possessed rich lands and mines on the shores of the wörther see: now indeed by reason of an adverse fate and the love of splendour of some of its scions, there had gradually come to be nothing left of all this save a series of high sounding titles. but the decline of fame and influence had not kept pace with the loss of lands and wealth; the sendlingens had entered the service of the hapsburgs and in the last two hundred years had given the austrian hereditary dominions not only several brave generals, but an almost unbroken line of administrators and guardians of justice. and so, although they were entirely dependent on their slender official salaries, they were reckoned with good reason among the first families of the empire, and a sendlingen might from his cradle count upon the office of chief justice of one of the higher courts. even unkind envy, to say nothing of honest report, was obliged to admit that these hereditary patricians of justice had always shown themselves worthy of their sacred office, and just as they regularly inherited certain physical characteristics--great stature, bright eyes and coal-black curly hair--so also gifted intellects, iron industry and a sense of duty which often enough bordered on self-denial, were always theirs. "the majesty of the law is the most sacred majesty on earth." thus spake the first of this family who had entered the service of the imperial courts of justice, the baron victor amadeus, chief judge of the vienna senate, in answer to an irregular demand of ferdinand the catholic, and his descendants held fast to the maxim in good days and evil, even in those worst days when themis threatened, in this country also, to sink to the level of the venal mistress of princes. the greatest of the hapsburgs, joseph ii., knew how to value this at its right worth, and although he much disliked hereditary offices, he on this account appointed the baron charles victor, in spite of his youth, as his father's successor in one of the most important offices of the state. this was the grandfather of that sendlingen whose story is to be told here, a powerful man of unusual strength of will who had again raised the reputation of the family to a most flourishing condition. but although everything went so well with him, the dearest wish of his heart was not to be realized: he was not to transmit office and reputation to his son. this son, franz victor, our hero's father, had to pass his life wretchedly in an insignificant position, the only one among the sendlingens who went to his grave in mature years, unrenowned and indeed despised. this fate had not overtaken him through lack of ability or industry. he too proved himself a true son of this admirable race; gifted, persevering, thorough, devoted heart and soul to his studies and his official duties. but a youthful escapade had embroiled him in the beginning of his career with father and relations: a girl of the lower orders, the daughter of the concierge at the courts where his father presided, had become dear to him and in a moment of passion he had betrayed her. when the girl could no longer conceal the consequences of her fault, she went and threw herself at the feet of the chief justice imploring him to protect her from her parent's wrath. the old man could hardly contain his agony of indignation, but he summoned his son and having heard from his lips the truth of the accusation, he resolved the matter by saying: "the wedding will take place next sunday. a sendlingen may be thoughtless, he must never be a scoundrel." they were married without show and in complete secresy, and at once started for a little spot in the tyrolean mountains whither baron von sendlingen had caused his son and heir to be transferred. this event made a tremendous sensation. for the first time a sendlingen had married out of his rank, the daughter of a menial too, and constrained to it by his father! people hardly knew how to decide which of the two, father or son, had sinned most against the dignity of the family; similar affairs were usually settled by the nobles of the land in all secresy and without leaving a stain on their genealogical tree. even kaiser franz, although his opinions about morality were so rigid, once signified something of the kind to the honourable old judge, but he received the same answer as was given to his son. the embittered old man was indeed equally steadfast in maintaining a complete severance of the bonds between him and his only son; the letters which every mail from the tyrol brought, were left unopened, and even in his last illness he would not suffer the outcast to be recalled. after the death of the judge, his son came to be completely forgotten: only occasionally his aristocratic relations used to recount with a shrug of the shoulders, that they had again been obliged to return a letter of this insolent fellow to the place where it came from. nevertheless they learnt the contents of these letters from a good-natured old aunt: they told of the death of his first child, then of the birth of a boy whom he had called after his grandfather, and while he obstinately kept silence about the happiness or unhappiness of his marriage, he more and more urgently begged for deliverance from the god-forsaken corner of the globe in which he languished and for promotion to a worthier post. although the only person who read these letters was, with all her pity, unable to help him, he never grew weary of writing. the tone of his letters became year by year more bitter and despairing, and whereas he had at first asked for special favours, he now fiercely demanded the cessation of these hostile intrigues. perhaps the embittered man was unjust to his relations in making this reproach,--they seemed in no way to concern themselves about him whether to his interest or his injury--, but he really was badly treated, and leaving out the influence of his name, he was not even able to obtain what he might have expected according to the regulations of the service. an excellent judge of exemplary industry, he was forced to continue for years in this tyrolean wilderness until at length, one day, he was promoted to a judgeship on the klagenfurth circuit. but he was not long able to enjoy his improved position: bitter repentance and the struggle with wretchedness had prematurely undermined his strength. he died, soon after his wife, and his last concern on earth was an imploring prayer to his relations to adopt his boy. this prayer would perhaps not have been necessary to secure the orphan that sympathy which his much-to-be-pitied father had in vain sought to obtain for himself. charles victor, now fourteen years of age, was carried off in a sort of triumph and brought to vienna: even the emperor gratefully remembered the faithful services which this noble house had for centuries rendered to his throne, and he caused its last surviving male to be educated at his expense in the academy of maria theresa. the beautiful, slender boy won the sympathies of his natural guardians by his mere appearance, the serious expression peculiar to his family and his surprising resemblance to his grandfather; excellent gifts, a quiet, steady love of work and a self-contained, manly sweetness of disposition, made him dear to both his masters and his comrades. he was the best scholar at the academy, and he justified the hopes which he had aroused by the brilliant success of his legal studies. but his eagerness to obtain a knowledge of the world and to see foreign countries was equally great, and the modest fortune left him by his grandfather made the fulfilment of these desires possible. when, being of age, he returned to austria and entered on his legal duties, it needed no particular insight to prophesy a rapid advancement in his career. in fact after a brief term of office as judge-advocate in the eastern provinces, he was transferred to bohemia, and shortly afterwards married a beautiful, proud girl who had been much sought after, a daughter of one of the most important counts of the empire. nobody was surprised that the lucky man had also this good luck, but the marriage remained childless. this only served to unite the stately pair more closely to one another, and this wedded love and the judge's triumphs on the bench and in the world of letters, sufficed to fully occupy his life. his treatises on criminal law were among the best of the kind, and the practical nature of his judgments obtained for him the reputation of one of the most thorough and sagacious judges of austria. and so it was more owing to his services than to the influence attached to the name and associations of this remarkable man, that he succeeded in scaling by leaps and bounds that ladder of advancement on the lowest rung of which, his unfortunate father had remained in life-long torture. as early as in his fortieth year he had obtained the important and honourable position of chief justice of bolosch. the stormy times in which he lived served as a good test of his character and abilities. the fierce flames of 1848 had been extinguished and from the ruins rose the exhalation of countless political trials. those were sad days, making the strongest demands on the independence of a judge, and many an honest but weak man became the compliant servant of the authorities. the chief justice von sendlingen, a member of the oldest nobility, bound to the imperial house by ties of personal gratitude, related by marriage to the leaders of the reaction, was nevertheless not one of the weak and cowardly judges; just as in that stormy year he had boldly confessed his loyalty to the emperor, so now he showed that justice was not to be abased to an instrument of political revenge. this boldness was indeed not without danger; his brother-in-law stormed, his wife was in tears; first warnings, then threats, rained in upon him, but he kept his course unmoved, acting as his sense of justice bade him. if those in authority did not actually interfere with him, he owed this entirely to his past services, which had made him almost indispensable. the methods of administering justice were constantly changed, juries were empanelled and then dismissed, the regulations of the courts were repeatedly altered: everywhere there were cases in arrear, and confusion and uncertainty. the bolosch circuit was one of the few exceptions. the chief justice remained unmolested by the ministry, and the citizens honoured him as the embodiment of justice, and lawyers as the ornament of their profession. respected throughout the whole empire, he was in his immediate circle the object of almost idolatrous love. and certainly the personal characteristics of this stately and serious man with his almost youthful beauty, were enough to justify this feeling. he was gentle but determined; dignified but affectionate: faithful in the extreme to duty, and yet no stickler for forms. when his wife died suddenly in 1850, the sympathetic love and veneration of all were manifested in the most touching manner. he felt the loss keenly, but only his best friend, dr. george berger, learnt how deep was the wound. this dr. berger was one of the most respected barristers of the town, and in spite of the difference of their political convictions--berger was a radical--he enjoyed an almost fraternal intimacy with sendlingen. this faithful friend did what he could for the lonely judge; and his best helper in the work of sympathy was his sense of duty which forbade a weak surrender to sorrow. he gradually became quiet and composed again, and some premature grey hairs at the temples alone showed how exceedingly he had suffered. in the midst of the regular work of his profession--it was in may, 1850--he was surprised by a laconic command from the minister of justice ordering him forthwith to surrender the conduct of his court to the judge next him in position, von werner, and to be in vienna within three days. this news caused general amazement; the reactionary party was growing stronger, and it was thought that this sudden call might mean the commencement of an inquiry into the conduct of this true but independent judge. he himself was prepared for the worst, but his friend berger took a more hopeful view; rudeness, he said, had become the fashion again in vienna, and perhaps something good was in store for him. this supposition proved correct; the minister wished the assistance of the learned specialist in drawing up a new statute for the administration of justice. the commission of inquiry, originally called for two months, continued its deliberations till the autumn. it was not till the beginning of november that sendlingen started for home, having received as a mark of the minister's gratitude the nomination as chief justice of the higher court at pfalicz, a post which he was to enter upon in four months. this was a brilliant and unexampled appointment for one of his years, but the thought of leaving the much-loved circle of his labours made him sorrowful. and this feeling was increased when the citizens testified by a public reception at the station, how greatly they were rejoiced at his return. his lonely dwelling too had been decorated by a friendly hand, as also the courts of justice. he found it difficult to announce his departure in answer to the speech of welcome delivered by his deputy. and indeed his announcement was received with exclamations of regret and amazement, and it was only by degrees that his auditors sufficiently recovered themselves to congratulate their beloved chief. only one of them did so with a really happy heart, his deputy, von werner, an old, industrious if not very gifted official, who now likewise saw a certain hope of promotion. with a pleased smile, the little weazened man followed sendlingen into his chambers in order to give him an account of the judicial proceedings of the last six months. herr von werner was a sworn enemy of all oral reports, and had therefore not only prepared two beautifully drawn-up lists of the civil and criminal trials, but had written a memorial which he now read out by way of introduction. sendlingen listened patiently to this lengthy document. but when werner was going to take up the lists with the same intention, the chief justice with a pleasant smile anticipated him. "we will look through them together," he said, and began with the criminal list. it contained the name, age and calling of the accused, the date of their gaol-delivery, their crime, as well as the present position of the trial. "there are more arrears than i expected," he said with some surprise. "but the number of crimes has unfortunately greatly increased," objected herr von werner, zealously. "especially the cases of child-murder." "you are right." sendlingen glanced through the columns specifying the crimes and then remained plunged in deep thought. "the number is nearly double," he resumed. "and it is not only here, but in the whole empire, that this horrible phenomenon is evident! the minister of justice complained of it to me with much concern." "but what else could one expect?" cried old werner. "this accursed revolution has undermined all discipline, morals and religion! and then the leniency with which these inhuman women are treated--why it is years since the death-sentence has been carried out in a case of child-murder." "that will unfortunately soon be changed," answered sendlingen in a troubled tone. "the minister of justice thinks as you do, and would like an immediate example to be made. it is unfortunate, i repeat, and not only because, from principle, i am an opponent of the theory of deterring by fear. of all social evils this can least of all be cured by the hangman. and if it is so rank nowadays, i do not think the reason is to be found where you and his excellency seek it, but in the sudden impoverishment, the uncertainty of circumstances and the brutality which, everywhere and always, follow upon a great war. the true physicians are the political economist, the priest and the schoolmaster!... or have you ever perhaps known of a case among educated people?" "oh certainly!" answered herr von werner importantly. "i have, as it happens, to preside to-morrow,--that is to say unless you will take the case--at the conclusion of a trial against a criminal of that class; at least she must be well-educated as she was governess in the house of a countess. see here--case no. 19 on the list." he pointed with his finger to the place. then a dreadful thing happened. hardly had sendlingen glanced at the name which werner indicated, than he uttered a hollow choking cry, a cry of deadly anguish. his face was livid, his features were distorted by an expression of unutterable terror, his eyes started out of their sockets and stared in a sort of fascination at the list before him. "great heavens!" cried werner, himself much alarmed, as he seized his chief's hand. "what is the matter with you? do you know this girl?" sendlingen made no reply. he closed his eyes, rested both arms on the table and tried to rise. but his limbs refused to support him, and he sank down in his chair like one in a faint. "water! help!" cried werner, making for the bell. a movement of sendlingen's stopped him. "it is nothing," he gasped with white lips and parched throat. "an attack of my heart disease. it has lately--become--much worse." "oh!" cried werner with genuine sympathy. "i never even suspected this before. everybody thought you were in the best of health. what do the doctors say?" again there was no answer. breathing with difficulty, livid, his head sunk on his breast, his eyes closed, sendlingen lay back in his chair. and when he raised his eyelids werner met such a hopeless, despairing look, that the old gentleman involuntarily started back. "may i," he began timidly, "call a doctor----" "no!" sendlingen's refusal was almost angry. again he attempted to rise and this time he succeeded. "thank you," he said feebly. "i must have frightened you. i am better now and shall soon be quite well." "but you are going home?" "why should i? i will rest in this comfortable chair for half an hour and then, my dear colleague, i shall be quite at your service again." the old gentleman departed but not without hesitation: even he was really attached to sendlingen. the other officials also received the news of this attack with genuine regret, especially as werner several times repeated in his important manner: "any external cause is quite out of the question, gentlemen, quite out of the question. we were just quietly talking about judicial matters. ah, heart disease is treacherous, gentlemen, very treacherous." hardly had the door closed, when sendlingen sank down in his chair, drew the lists towards him and again stared at that particular spot with a look on his face as if his sentence of death was written there. the entry read thus: "victorine lippert. born 25th january 1834 at radautz in the bukowina. governess. child-murder. transferred here from the district court at gölotz on the 17th june 1852. confessed. trial to be concluded 8th november 1852." the column headed "sentence" was still empty. "death!" he muttered. "death!" he repeated, loud and shrill, and a shudder ran through his every fibre. he sank back and hid his face which had suddenly become wasted. "o my god!" he groaned. "i dare not let her die--her blood would cry out against me, against me only." and he drew the paper towards him again and stared at the entry, piteously and beseechingly, as though he expected a miracle from heaven, as though the letters must change beneath the intensity of his gaze. the mid-day bells of the neighbouring cathedral aroused him from his gloomy brooding. he rose, smoothed his disarranged hair, forced on his accustomed look of quiet, and betook himself to werner's room. "you see," he said. "i have kept my word and am all right again. are there any pressing matters to be rid of?" "only one," answered werner. "the committee of discipline has waited your return, as it did not wish to decide an important case without you." "good, summon the committee for five o'clock today." he now went the round of the other offices, answered the anxious inquiries with the assurance that he was quite well again, and then went down a long corridor to his own quarters which were in another wing of the large building. his step was still elastic, his face pale but almost cheerful. not until he had given his servant orders to admit nobody, not even his friend berger, and until he had bolted his study-door, did he sink down and then give himself up, without restraint, to the fury of a wild, despairing agony. chapter ii. for an hour or more the unhappy man lay groaning, and writhing like a worm under the intensity of his wretchedness. then he rose and with unsteady gait went to his secretaire, and began to rummage in the secret drawers of the old-fashioned piece of furniture. "i no longer remember where it is," he muttered to himself. "it is long since i thought of the old story--but god has not forgotten it." at length he discovered what he was looking for: a small packet of letters grown yellow with time. as he unloosed the string which tied them, a small watercolour portrait in a narrow silver frame fell out: it depicted the gentle, sweet features of a young, fair, grey-eyed girl. his eyes grew moist as he looked at it, and bitter tears suddenly coursed down his cheeks. he then unfolded the papers and began to read: they were long letters, except the last but one which filled no more than two small sheets. this he read with the greatest attention of all, read and re-read it with ever-increasing emotion. "and i could resist such words!" he murmured. "oh wretched man that i am." then he opened the last of the letters. "you evidently did not yourself expect that i would take your gift," he read out in an undertone. and then: "i do not curse you; on the contrary, i ardently hope that you may at least not have given me up in vain." he folded the letters and tied them up. then he undid them again and buried himself once more in their melancholy contents. a knock at the door interrupted him: his housekeeper announced that dinner was ready. this housekeeper was an honest, elderly spinster, fräulein brigitta, whom he usually treated with the greatest consideration. to-day he only answered her with a curt, impatient, "presently!" and he vouchsafed no lengthier reply to her question how he was. but then he remembered some one else. "i must not fall ill," he said. "i must keep up my strength. i shall need it all!" and after he had locked up the letters, he went to the dining-room. he forced himself to take two or three spoonfuls of soup, and hastily emptied a glass of old rhine-wine. his man-servant, franz, likewise a faithful old soul, replenished it, but hesitatingly and with averted countenance. "where is fräulein brigitta?" asked sendlingen. "crying!" growled the old man. "hasn't got used to the new state of things! nor have i! nice conduct, my lord! we arrive in the morning ill, we say nothing to an old and faithful servant, we go straight into the courts. there we fall down several times; we send for no doctor, but writhe alone in pain like a wounded stag." the faithful old fellow's eyes were wet. "i am quite well again, franz," said sendlingen re-assuringly. "we were groaning!" said the old man in a tone of the bitterest reproach. "and since when have we declined to admit herr berger?" "has he been here?" "yes, on most important business, and would not believe that we ourselves had ordered him to be turned away.... and now we are eating nothing," he continued vehemently, as sendlingen pushed his plate from him and rose. "my lord, what does this mean! we look as if we had seen a ghost!" "no, only an old grumbler!" he intended this for an airy pleasantry but its success was poor. "do not be too angry with me." then he returned to his chambers. "the old fellow is right," he thought. "it was a ghost, a very ancient ghost, and its name is nemesis!" his eyes fell on the large calendar on the door: "7th november 1852" he read aloud. "a day like every other--and yet ..." then he passed his hand over his brow as if trying to recall who he was, and rang the bell. "get me," he said to the clerk who entered, "the documents relating to the next three criminal trials." he stepped to the window and awaited the clerk's return with apparent calm. he had not long to wait; the clerk entered and laid two goodly bundles of papers on the table. "i have to inform you, my lord," said the clerk standing at attention (he had been a soldier), "that only the papers relating to the trials of the 9th and 10th november are in the court-house. those for tomorrow's trial of victorine lippert for child-murder are still in the hands of counsel for the accused, dr. george berger." sendlingen started. "did the accused choose her counsel?" "no, my lord, she refused any defence because she is, so to speak, a poor despairing creature who would prefer to die. herr von werner therefore, ex-officio, allotted her dr. kraushoffer as counsel, and, when he became ill, dr. berger. dr. kraushoffer was only taken ill the day before yesterday and therefore dr. berger has been allowed to keep the papers till tomorrow morning early. does your lordship desire that i should ask him for them?" "no. that will do." he went back to the niche by the window. "a poor creature who would prefer to die!" he said slowly and gloomily. frightful images thronged into his mind, but the poor worn brain could no longer grasp any clear idea. he began to pace up and down his room rapidly, almost staggering as he went. "night! night!" he groaned: he felt as if he were wandering aimlessly in pitchy darkness, while every pulsation of lost time might involve the sacrifice of a human life. then his face brightened again, it seemed a good omen that berger was defending the girl: he knew his friend to be the most conscientious barrister on the circuit. "and if i were to tell him fully what she is to me--" but he left the sentence unfinished and shook his head. "i could not get the words out," he murmured looking round quite scared, "not even to him!" "and why should i?" he then thought. "berger will in any case, from his own love of justice, do all that is in his power." but what result was to be expected? the old judges, unaccustomed to speeches, regarded the concluding proceedings rather as a formality, and decided on their verdict from the documents, whatever counsel might say. it depended entirely on their opinion and what werner thought of the crime he had explained a few hours ago! and even if before that he had been of another opinion, now that he knew the opinion of the minister of justice.... "fool that i am," said sendlingen between his teeth, "it was i who told him!" again he looked half-maddened by his anguish and wandered about the room wringing his hands. suddenly he stopped. his face grew more livid, his brows contracted in a dark frown, his lips were tightly pressed together. a new idea had apparently occurred to him, a dark uncanny inspiration, against which he was struggling but which returned again and again, and took possession of him. "that would be salvation," he muttered. "if to-morrow's sentence is only for a short term of imprisonment, the higher court would never increase it to a sentence of death!" he paced slowly to the window, his head bowed as if the weight of that thought lay upon his neck like a material burden, and stared out into the street. the early shades of the autumn evening were falling; on the other side of a window in a building opposite, a young woman entered with a lamp for her husband. she placed it on his work-table, and lightly touched his hair with her lips. sendlingen saw it plainly, he could distinguish every piece of furniture in the room and also the features of the couple, and as he knew them, he involuntarily whispered their names. but his brain unceasingly continued to spin that dark web, and at times his thoughts escaped him in a low whisper. "what is there to prevent me? nobody knows my relationship to her and she herself has no suspicion. i am entitled to it, and it would arouse no suspicion. certainly it would be difficult, it would be a horrible time, but how much depends on me!" "wretch!" he suddenly cried, in a hard, hoarse voice. "the world does not know your relationship, but you know it! what you intend is a crime, it is against justice and law!" "oh my god!" he groaned: "help me! enlighten my poor brain! would it not be the lesser crime if i were to save her by dishonourable means, than if i were to stand by with folded arms and see her delivered to the hangman! can this be against thy will, thou who art a god of love and mercy? can my honour be more sacred than her life?" he sank back and buried his face in his hands. "but it does not concern my honour alone," he said. "it would be a crime against justice, against the most sacred thing on earth! o my god, have mercy upon me!" while he lay there in the dark irresolute, his body a prey to fever, his soul torn by worse paroxysms, he heard first of all a gentle, then a louder knocking at the door. at length it was opened. "my lord!" said a loud voice: it was herr von werner. "here i am," quickly answered sendlingen rising. "in the dark?" asked old werner with astonishment. "i thought perhaps you had forgotten the appointment--it is five o'clock and the members of the committee of discipline are waiting for us. has your indisposition perhaps returned?" "no! i was merely sitting in deep thought and forgot to light the candles. come, i am quite ready." "will you allow me a question?" asked werner, stepping forward as far as the light which streamed in from the corridor. "in fact it is a request. the clerk told me that you had been asking to see the documents relating to to-morrow's trial. would you perhaps like to preside at it?" sendlingen did not answer at once. "i am not posted up in the matter," he at length said with uncertain voice. "the case is very simple and a glance at the deed of accusation would sufficiently inform you. in fact i took the liberty of asking this question in order to have the documents fetched at once from herr berger. i myself--hm, my daughter, the wife of the finance counsellor, is in fact expecting, as i just learn, tomorrow for the first time--hm,--a happy event. it is natural that i should none the less be at the disposal of the court, but--hm,--trusting to your official goodnature----" sendlingen had supported himself firmly against the back of the chair. his pulses leapt and his voice trembled as he answered: "i will take the case." then both the men started for the court. when they came out into the full light of the corridor, werner looked anxiously at his chief. "but indeed you are still very white!" he cried. "and your face has quite a strange expression. you appear to be seriously unwell, and i have just asked you----" "it is nothing!" interrupted sendlingen impatiently. "whom does our present transaction relate to?" "you will be sorry to hear of it," was the answer, "i know that you too had the best opinion of the young man. it relates to herbich, an assistant at the board of trade office: he has unfortunately been guilty of a gross misuse of his official position." "oh--in what way?" "money matters," answered werner cursorily, and he beckoned to a messenger and sent him to berger's. they then entered the court where the three eldest judges were already waiting for them. the chief justice opened the sitting and called for a report of the case to be read. it was different from what one would have expected from werner's intimation: herbich had not become a criminal through greed of gain. his mother, an old widow, had, on his advice, lent her slender fortune which was to have served as her only daughter's dowry, to a friend of his, a young merchant of excellent reputation. without any one suspecting it, this honourable man had through necessity gradually become bankrupt, and when herbich one morning entered his office at the board of trade, he found the manager of a factory there who, to his alarm, demanded a decree summoning a meeting of his friend's creditors. instead of fulfilling this in accordance with the duties of his office, he hurried to the merchant and induced him by piteous prayers to return the loan on the spot. not till then did he go back to the office and draw up the necessary document. by the inquiries of other creditors whose fractional share had been diminished by this, the matter came to light. herbich was suspended, though left at liberty. there was no permanent loss to the creditors, as the sister had in the meantime returned the whole of the amount to the administrator of the estate. the report recommended that the full severity of the law should take effect, and that the young man should not only be deprived of his position, but should forthwith be handed over to justice. sendlingen had listened to the lengthy report motionless. only once had he risen, to arrange the lampshade so that his face remained in complete shadow. then he asked whether the committee would examine the accused. it was in no way bound to do so, though entitled to, and therefore herbich had been instructed to hold himself in waiting at the court at the hour of the inquiry. the conductor of the inquiry was opposed to any examination. not so baron dernegg, one of the judges, a comfortable looking man with a broad, kindly face. it seemed to him, he explained, that the examination was a necessity, as in this way alone could the motives of the act be brought fully to light. the committee was equally divided on the subject: the casting vote therefore lay with sendlingen. he hesitated a long while, but at length said with a choking voice: "it seems to me, too, that it would be humane and just to hear the unfortunate man." herbich entered. his white, grief-worn face flushed crimson as he saw the judges, and his gait was so unsteady that baron dernegg compassionately motioned him to sit down. the trembling wretch supported himself on the back of a chair as he began laboriously, and almost stutteringly, to reply to the chief justice's question as to what he had to say in his defence. he told of his intimate friendship with the merchant and how it was entirely his own doing that the loan had been made. when he came to speak of his offence his voice failed him until at length he blurted out almost sobbing: "no words can express how i felt then!... my sister had recently been betrothed to an officer. the money was to have served as the guarantee required by the war-office; if it was lost the wedding could not take place and the life's happiness of the poor girl would have been destroyed. i did not think of the criminality of what i was doing. i only followed the voice of my heart which cried out: 'your sister must not be made unhappy through your fault!' my friend's resistance first made me conscious of what i had begun to do! i sought to reassure him and myself by sophisms, pointing out how insignificant the sum was compared with his other debts, and that any other creditor would have taken advantage of making the discovery at the last moment. i seemed to have convinced him, but, as for myself, i went away with the consciousness of being a criminal." he stopped, but as he continued his voice grew stronger and more composed. "a criminal certainly! but my conscience tells me that of two crimes i chose the lesser. but to no purpose: the thing came out; my sister sacrificed her money and her happiness. i look upon my act now as i did then. happy is the man who is spared a conflict between two duties, whose heart is not rent, whose honour destroyed, as mine has been; but if he were visited as i was, he would act as i acted if he were a man at all! and now i await your verdict, for what i have left to say, namely what i once was, you know as well as i do!" a deep silence followed these words. it was for sendlingen to break it either by another question or by dismissing the accused. he, however, was staring silently into space like one lost to his surroundings. at length he murmured: "you may go." the discussion among the judges then began and was hotly carried on, as two opposite views were sharply outlined. baron dernegg and the fourth judge were in favour of simple dismissal without any further punishment, while the promoter, supported by werner, was in favour of his original proposition. the matter had become generally known, he contended, and therefore the dignity of justice demanded a conspicuous satisfaction for the outraged law. the decision again rested with sendlingen, but it seemed difficult for him to pronounce it. "it is desirable, gentlemen," he said, "that your verdict should be unanimous. perhaps you will agree more easily in an informal discussion. i raise the formal sitting for a few minutes." but he himself took no part in their discussion, but stepped to the window. he pressed his burning forehead against the cool glass: his face again wore that expression of torturing uncertainty. but gradually his features grew composed and assumed a look of quiet resolve. when werner approached and informed him that both parties still adhered obstinately to their own opinion, he stepped back to the table and said in a loud, calm voice: "i cast my vote for the opinion of baron dernegg. the dignity of justice does not, in my opinion, require to be vindicated only by excessive severity; dismissal from office and ruin for life are surely sufficient punishment for a fatal _error_." werner in spite of his boundless respect for superiors, could not suppress a movement of surprise. sendlingen noticed it. "an error!" he repeated emphatically. "whoever can put himself in the place of this unfortunate man, whoever can comprehend the struggles of his soul, must see that, according to his own ideas, he had indeed to choose between two crimes. his error was to consider that the lesser crime which in reality was the greater. i have never been a blind partisan of the maxim: 'fiat justitia et pereat mundus,'--but i certainly do consider it a sacred matter that every judge should act according to law and duty, even if he should break his heart in doing so! however, i repeat, it was an error, and therefore it seems to me that the milder of the two opinions enforces sufficient atonement." then he went up to werner. "forgive me," he said, "if i withdraw my promise in regard to tomorrow's trial. i am really not well enough to preside." "oh! please--hm!--well if it must be so." "it must be so," said sendlingen, kindly but resolutely. "good evening, gentlemen." chapter iii. sendlingen went to his own quarters; his old manservant let him in and followed him with anxious looks into his study. "you may go, franz!" he said shortly and sharply. "i am not at home to anybody." "and should dr. berger?" "berger?" he shook his head decidedly. then he seemed to remember some one else. "i will see him," he said, drawing a deep breath. the old man went out hesitatingly: sendlingen was alone. but after a few minutes the voice of his friend was audible in the lobby, and berger entered with a formidable bundle of documents under his arm. "well, how goes it now?" cried the portly man, still standing in the doorway. "better, certainly, as you are going to preside to-morrow. here are the papers." he laid the bundle on the table and grasped sendlingen's outstretched hand. "a mill-stone was rolled from my neck when the messenger came. in the first place, i knew you were better again, and secondly the chief object of my visit at noon to-day was attained without my own intervention." "did you come on that account?" "yes, victor,--and not merely to greet you." the advocate's broad, open face grew very serious. "i wanted to draw your attention to to-morrow's trial, not only from motives of pity for the unfortunate girl, but also in the interests of justice. old werner, who gets more and more impressed with the idea that he is combating the revolution in every case of child-murder, is not the right judge for this girl. 'there are cases,' once wrote an authority on criminal law, 'where a sentence of death accords with the letter of the law, but almost amounts to judicial murder.' i hope you will let this authority weigh with you, though you yourself are he. now then, if werner is put in a position to-morrow to carry out the practice to which he has accustomed himself in the last few weeks, we shall have one of these frightful cases." sendlingen made no reply. his limbs seemed to grow rigid and the beating of his heart threatened to stop. "how--how does the case stand?" he at length blurted out hoarsely and with great effort. "your voice is hoarse," remarked berger innocently. "you must have caught cold on the journey. well, as to the case." he settled himself comfortably in his chair. "it is only one of the usual, sad stories, but it moved me profoundly after i had seen and spoken to the poor wretch. victorine lippert is herself an illegitimate child and has never found out who her father was; even after her mother's death no hint of it was found among her possessions. as she was born in radautz, a small town in the bukowina, and as her mother was governess in the house of a boyar, it is probable that she was seduced by one of these half-savages or perhaps even a victim to violence. i incline to the latter belief, because hermine lippert's subsequent mode of life and touching care for her child, are against the surmise that she was of thoughtless disposition. she settled in a small town in styria and made a scanty living by music lessons. forced by necessity, she hazarded the pious fraud of passing as a widow,--otherwise she and her child must have starved. after eight years a mere chance disclosed the deception and put an end to her life in the town. she was obliged to leave, but obtained a situation as companion to a kind-hearted lady in buda-pesth, and being now no longer able to keep her little daughter with her, she had her brought up at a school in gratz. mother and child saw one another only once a year, but kept up a most affectionate correspondence. victorine was diligent in her studies, grave and accomplished beyond her years, and justified the hope that she would one day earn a livelihood by her abilities. this sad necessity came soon enough. she lost her mother when she was barely fifteen: the hungarian lady paid her school fees for a short time, and then the orphan had to help herself. her excellent testimonials procured her the post of governess in the family of the widowed countess riesner-graskowitz at graskowitz near golotz. she had the charge of two small nieces of the countess and was patient in her duties, in spite of the hardness of a harsh and utterly avaricious woman. in june of last year, her only son, count henry, came home for a lengthy visit." sendlingen sighed deeply and raised his hand. "you divine the rest?" asked berger. "and indeed it is not difficult to do so! the young man had just concluded his initiation into the diplomatic service at our embassy in paris, and was to have gone on to munich in september as attaché. naturally he felt bored in the lonely castle, and just as naturally he sought to banish his boredom by trying to seduce the wondrously beautiful, girlish governess. he heaped upon her letters full of glowing protestations--i mean to read some specimens to-morrow, and amongst them a valid promise of marriage--and the girl of seventeen was easily fooled. she liked the handsome, well-dressed fellow, believed in his love as a divine revelation and trusted in his oaths. you will spare me details, i fancy; this sort of thing has often happened." "often happened!" repeated sendlingen mechanically, passing his hand over his eyes and forehead. "well to be brief! when the noble count henry saw that the girl was going to become a mother before she herself had any suspicion of it, he determined to entirely avoid any unpleasantness with his formidable mother, and had himself sent to st. petersburg. meantime a good-natured servant girl had explained her condition to the poor wretch and had faithfully comforted her in her boundless anguish of mind, and helped her to avoid discovery. her piteous prayers to her lover remained unanswered. at length there came a letter--and this, too, i shall read to-morrow--in which the scoundrel forbade any further molestation and even threatened the law. and now picture the girl's despair when, almost at the same time, the countess discovered her secret,--whether by chance or by a letter of the brave count, is still uncertain. certainly less from moral indignation than from fear of the expense, this noble lady was now guilty of the shocking brutality of having the poor creature driven out into the night by the men-servants of the house! it was a dark, cold, wet night in april: shaken with fever and weary to death, the poor wretch dragged herself towards the nearest village. she did not reach it; halfway, in a wood, some peasants from graskowitz found her the next morning, unconscious. beside her lay her dead, her murdered child." sendlingen groaned and buried his face in his hands. "her fate moves you?" asked berger. "it is certainly piteous enough! the men brought her to the village and informed the police at golotz. the preliminary examination took place the next day. it could only establish that the child had been strangled; it was impossible to take the depositions of the murderess: she was in the wildest delirium, and the prison-doctor expected her to die. but fate," berger rose and his voice trembled--"fate was not so merciful. she recovered, and was sent first to golotz and then brought here. she admitted that in the solitude of that dreadful night, overcome by her pains, forsaken of god and man, she formed the resolve to kill herself and the child--when and how she did the deed she could not say. i am persuaded that this is no lie, and i believe her affirmation that it was only unconsciousness that prevented her suicide. doesn't that appear probable to you too?" sendlingen did not answer. "probable," he at length muttered, "highly probable!" berger nodded. "thus much," he continued, "is recorded in the judicial documents, and as all this is certainly enough to arouse sympathy, i went to see her as soon as the defence was allotted to me. since that i have learnt more. i have learnt that a true and noble nature has been wrecked by the baseness of man. she must have been not only fascinatingly beautiful, but a character of unusual depth and purity. one can still see it, just as fragments of china enable us to guess the former beauty of a work of art. for this vessel is broken in pieces, and her one prayer to me was: not to hinder the sentence of death!... but i cannot grant this prayer," he concluded. "she must not die, were it only for justice's sake! and a load is taken off my heart to think that a human being is to preside at the trial to-morrow, and not a rhetoric machine!" he had spoken with increasing warmth, and with a conviction of spirit which this quiet, and indeed temperate man, seldom evinced. his own emotion prevented him from noticing how peculiar was his friend's demeanour. sendlingen sat there for a while motionless, his face still covered with his hands, and when he at length let them fall, he bowed his head so low that his forehead rested on the edge of the writing-table. in this position he at last blurted forth: "i cannot preside to-morrow." "why not?" asked berger in astonishment. "are you really ill?" and as he gently raised his friend's head and looked into his worn face he cried out anxiously: "why of course--you are in a fever." sendlingen shook his head. "i am quite well, george! but even if it cost me my life, i would not hand over this girl to the tender mercies of others, if only i dared. but i dare not!" "you _dare_ not!" "the law forbids it!" "the law? you are raving!" "no! no!" cried the unhappy man springing up. "i would that i were either mad or dead, but such is not my good fortune! the law forbids it, for a father----" "victor!" "everything tallies, everything! the mother's name--the place--the year of birth--and her name is victorine." "oh my god! she is your----" "my daughter," cried the unfortunate wretch in piercing tones and then quite broke down. berger stood still for an instant as if paralysed by pity and amazement! then he hurried to his friend, raised him and placed him in his arm-chair. "keep calm!" he murmured. "oh! it is frightful!... take courage!... the poor child!" he was himself as if crushed by the weight of this terrible discovery. breathing heavily, sendlingen lay there, his breast heaving convulsively; then he began to sob gently; far more piteously than words or tears, did these despairing, painfully subdued groans betray how exceedingly he suffered. berger stood before him helplessly; he could think of no fitting words of comfort, and he knew that whatever he could say would be said in vain. the door was suddenly opened loudly and noisily; old franz had heard the bitter lamenting and could no longer rest in the lobby. "my lord!" he screamed, darting to the sufferer. "my dear good master." "begone!" sendlingen raised himself hastily. "go, franz--i beg!" he repeated, more gently. but franz did not budge. "we are in pain," he muttered, "and fräulein brigitta may not come in and i am sent away! what else is franz in the world for?" he did not go until berger by entreaties and gentle force pushed him out of the door. sendlingen nodded gratefully to his friend. "sit here," he said, pointing to a chair near his own. "closer still--so! you must know all, if only for her sake! you shall have no shred of doubt as to whom you are defending to-morrow, and perhaps you may discover the expedient for which i have racked my brain in vain. and indeed i desire it on my own account. since the moment i discovered it i feel as if i had lost everything. everything--even myself! you are one of the most upright men i know; you shall judge me, george, and in the same way that you will defend this poor girl, with your noble heart and clear head. perhaps you will decide that some other course is opened to me beside----" he stopped and cast a timid glance at a small neat case that lay on his writing-table. berger knew that it contained a revolver. "victor!" he cried angrily and almost revolted. "oh, if you knew what i suffer! but you are right, it would be contemptible. i dare not think of myself. i dare not slink out of the world. i have a duty to my child. i have neglected it long enough,--i must hold on now and pay my debt. ah! how i felt only this morning, and now everything lies around me shivered to atoms. forgive me, my poor brain can still form no clear thought! but--i will--i must. listen, i will tell you, as if you were the eternal judge himself, how everything came about." chapter iv. after a pause he began: "i must first of all speak of myself and what i was like in those days. you have only known me for ten years: of my parents, of my childhood, you know scarcely anything. mine was a frightful childhood, more full of venom and misery than a man can often have been condemned to endure. my parents' marriage--it was hell upon earth, george! in our profession we get to know many fearful things, but i have hardly since come across anything like it. how they came to be married, you know,--all the world knows. i am convinced that they never loved one another; her beauty pleased his senses, and his condescension may have flattered her. no matter! from the moment that they were indissolubly bound, they hated one another. it is difficult to decide with whom the fault began; perhaps it lay first of all at my father's door. perhaps the common, low-born woman would have been grateful to him for having made her a baroness and raised her to a higher rank in life, if only he had vouchsafed her a little patience and love. but he could not do that, he hated her as the cause of his misfortune, and she repaid him ten-fold in insult and abuse, and in holding him up, humbled enough already, to the derision and gossip of the little town. "betwixt these two people i grew up. i should have soon got to know the terms they were on even if they had striven anxiously to conceal them, but that they did not do. or rather: he attempted to do so, and that was quite sufficient reason for her to drag me designedly into their quarrels, for she knew that this was a weapon wherewith to wound him deeply. and when she saw that he idolized me as any poor wretch does the last hope and joy that fate has left him, she hated me. on that account and on that account alone, she knew that every scolding, every blow, she gave me, cut him to the quick. no wonder that i hated and feared her, as much as i loved and honoured my father. "what he had done i already accurately knew by the time i was a boy of six: he had married out of his rank and a sendlingen might not do that! for doing so his father had disowned him, for doing so he had to go through life in trouble and misery, in a paltry hole and corner where the people mocked at his misfortune. my mother was our curse!--oh, how i hated her for this, how by every fresh ill-usage at her hands, my heart was more and more filled with bitter rancour. "you shudder, george?" he said stopping in his story. "this glimpse into a child's soul makes you tremble? well--it is the truth, and you shall hear everything that happened. "if i did not become wicked, i have to thank my father for it. i was diligent because it gave him pleasure. i was kind and attentive to people because he commanded it. he was often ill; what would have become of me if i had lost him then and grown up under my mother's scourge, i dare not think. i was spared this greatest evil: his protecting hand continued to be stretched out over me, and when we moved to klagenfurth he began to live again. the intercourse with educated people revived him and he was once more full of hope and endeavour. my mother now began to be ill and a few months after our arrival she died. we neither of us rejoiced at her death, but what we felt as we stood by her open coffin was a sort of silent horror. "and now came more happy days, but they did not last long. mental torture had destroyed my father's vitality, and the rough mountain-climate had injured his lungs. the mild air of the plain seemed to restore him for a time, but then the treacherous disease broke out in all its virulence. he did not deceive himself about his condition, but he tried to confirm me in hope and succeeded in doing so. when, after a melancholy winter, in the first days of spring, his cough was easier and his cheeks took colour, i, like a thoughtless boy, shouted for joy,--he however knew that it was the bloom of death. "and he acted accordingly. one may morning--i had just completed my fourteenth year--he came to my bed-side very early and told me to dress myself with all speed. 'we are going for an excursion,' he said. there was a carriage at the door. we drove through the slumbering town and towards the wörther-see. it was a lovely morning, and my father was so affectionate--it seemed to me the happiest hour i had ever had! when we got to maria wörth, the carriage turned off from the lake-side and we proceeded towards the tauer mountains through a rocky valley, until we stopped at the foot of a hill crowned with a ruin. slowly we climbed up the weed-grown path; every step cost the poor invalid effort and pain, but when i tried to dissuade him he only shook his head. 'it must be so!' he said, with a peculiarly earnest look. at length we reached the top. of the old building, little remained standing except the outer walls and an arched gateway. 'look up yonder,' he said, solemnly. 'do you recognize that coat of arms?' it consisted of two swords and a st. andrew's cross with stars in the field." "your arms?" asked berger. sendlingen nodded. "they were the ruins of sendlingen castle, once our chief possession on austrian soil. my father told me this, and began to recount old stories, how our ancestor was a cousin of kaiser conrad and had been a potentate of the empire, holding lands in franconia and suabia, and how his grandson, a friend of one of the hapsburgs, had come to carinthia and there won fresh glory for the old arms. it was a beautiful and affecting moment,--at our feet the wild, lonely landscape, dreamily beautiful in the blue atmosphere of a spring day, no sound around us save the gentle murmur of the wind in the wild elder-trees, and with all this the tones of his earnest, enthusiastic voice. my father had never before spoken as he did then, and while he spoke, there rose before my eyes with palpable clearness the long line of honourable nobles who had all gloriously borne first the sword and then the ermine, and the more familiar their age and their names became, the higher beat my heart, the prouder were my thoughts and every thought was a vow to follow in their footsteps. "my father may have guessed what was passing in my heart, he drew me tenderly to him, and as he told me of his own father, the first judge and nobleman of the land, tears started from his eyes. 'he was the last sendlingen worthy of the name,' he concluded, 'the last!' "'father,' i sobbed, 'whatever i can and may do will be done, but you too will now have a better fate.' "'i!' he broke in, 'i have lived miserably and shall die miserably! but i will not complain of my fate, if it serves as a warning to you. listen to me, victor, my life may be reckoned by weeks, perhaps by days, but if i know my cousins aright, they will not let you stand alone after my death. they will not forget that you are a sendlingen, so long as you don't forget it yourself. and in order that you may continue mindful of it, i have brought you hither before i die! unhappy children mature early; you have been in spite of all my love, a very unhappy child, victor, and you have long since known exactly why my life went to pieces. swear to me to keep this in mind and that you will be strict and honourable in your conduct, as a sendlingen is in duty bound to be.' "'i swear it!' i exclaimed amid my tears. "'one thing more!' he continued, 'i must tell you, although you are still a boy, but i have short time to stay and better now than not at all! it is with regard to women. you will resist my temptations, i am sure. but if you meet a woman who is noble and good but yet not of your own rank, and if your heart is drawn to her, imperiously, irresistibly, so that it seems as if it would burst and break within your breast unless you win her, then fly from her, for no blessing can come of it but only curses for you both. curses and remorse, victor--believe your father who knows the world as it is.... swear to me that you will never marry out of your rank!' "'i swear it!' i repeated. "'well and good,' he said solemnly. 'now i have fulfilled my duty and am ready ... let us go, victor.' "he was going to rise, but he had taxed his wasted lungs beyond their strength: he sank back and a stream of blood gushed from his lips. it was a frightful moment. there i stood, paralysed with fear, helpless, senseless, beside the bleeding man--and when i called for help, there was not a soul to hear me in that deep solitude. i had to look on while the blood gushed forth until my father utterly broke down. i thought he was dead but he had only fainted. a shepherd heard the cry with which i threw myself down beside him, he fetched the driver, they got us into the carriage and then to klagenfurth. two days later my poor father died." he stopped and closed his eyes, then drew a deep breath and continued: "you know what became of me afterwards. my dying father was not deceived in his confidence: the innocent boy, the last of the sendlingens, was suddenly overwhelmed with favours and kindness. it was strange how this affected me, neither moving me, nor exalting, nor humbling me. whatever kindness was done me, i received as my just due; it was not done to me, but to my race in requital for their services, and i had to make a return by showing myself worthy of that race. all my actions were rooted in this pride of family: seldom surely has a descendant of princes been more mightily possessed of it. if i strove with almost superhuman effort to fulfil all the hopes that were set on me at school, if i pitilessly suppressed every evil or low stirring of the heart, i owe it to this pride in my family: the sendlingen had always been strong in knowledge, strict to themselves, just and good to others,--_must_ i not be the same? and if duty at times seemed too hard, my father's bitter fate rose before me like a terrifying spectre, and his white face of suffering was there as a pathetic admonition--both spurring me onward. but the same instinct too preserved me from all exultation now that praise and honour were flowing in upon me; it might be a merit for ordinary men to distinguish themselves, with a sendlingen it was a duty! "and so i continued all those years, first at school, then at the university, moderate, but a good companion, serious but not averse to innocent pleasures. i had a liking for the arts, i was foremost in the ball-room and in the students' réunions,--in one thing only i kept out of the run of pleasure: i had never had a love-affair. my father's warning terrified me, and so did that old saying: 'a sendlingen can never be a scoundrel!' and however much travelling changed my views in the next few years, in this one thing i continued true to myself. certainly this cost me no great struggle. many a girl whom i had met in the society i frequented appeared lovable enough, but i had not fallen in love with any, much less with a girl not of my own rank, of whom i hardly knew even one. "so i passed in this respect as an exemplary young man, too exemplary, some thought, and perhaps not without reason. but whoever had taken me at the time i entered upon my legal career, for an unfeeling calculator with a list of the competitors to be outstripped at all costs, in the place where other people carry a palpitating heart, would have done me a great injustice. i was ambitious, i strove for special promotion, not by shifts and wiles, but by special merit. and as to my heart,--oh! george, how soon i was to know what heart-ache was, and bliss and intoxication, and love and damnation!" he rose, opened his writing-table, and felt for the secret drawer. but he did not open it; he shook his head and withdrew his hand. "it would be of no use," he murmured, and remained for awhile silently brooding. "that was in the beginning of your career?" said berger, to recall him. "yes," he answered. "it was more than twenty years ago, in the winter of 1832. i had just finished my year of probation at lemburg under the eyes of the nearest and most affectionate of my relations, count warnberg, who was second in position among the judges there. he was an uncle, husband of my father's only sister. he had evinced the most cruel hardness to his brother-in-law, to me he became a second father. at his suggestion and in accordance with my own wish, i was promoted to be criminal judge in the district of suczawa. the post was considered one of the worst in the circuit, both my uncle and i thought it the best thing for me, because it was possible here within a very short time, to give conclusive proof of my ability. such opportunities, however, were more abundant than the most zealous could desire: in those days there prevailed in the southern border-lands of the bukowina, such a state of things as now exists only in the balkan provinces or in albania. it was perhaps the most wretched post in the whole empire, and in all other respects exceptionally difficult. the ancient town, once the capital of the moldavian princes, was at that time a mere confusion of crumbling ruins and poverty-stricken mud-cabins crowded with dirty, half-brutalized roumanians, jews and armenians. moreover my only colleague in the place was the civil judge, a ruined man, whom i had never seen sober. my only alternative therefore was either to live like an anchorite, or to go about among the aristocracy of the neighborhood. "when i got to know these noble boyars, the most educated of them ten times more ignorant, the most refined ten times more coarse, the most civilized ten times more unbridled than the most ignorant, the coarsest and the most unbridled squireen of the west, i had no difficulty in choosing: i buried myself in my books and papers. but man is a gregarious animal--and i was so young and spoiled, and so much in need of distraction from the comfortless impressions of the day, that i grew weary after a few weeks and began to accept invitations. the entertainments were always the same: first there was inordinate eating, then inordinate drinking, and then they played hazard till all hours. as i remained sober and never touched a card, i was soon voted a wearisome, insupportable bore. even the ladies were of this opinion, for i neither made pretty speeches, nor would i understand the looks with which they sometimes favoured me. that i none the less received daily invitations was not to be wondered at; a real live baron of the empire was, whatever he might be, a rare ornament for their 'salons,' and to many of these worthy noblemen it seemed desirable in any case to be on a good footing with the criminal judge. "one of them had particular reason for this, alexander von mirescul, a roumanianised greek; his property lay close to the moldavian frontier and passed for the head-quarters of the trade in tobacco smuggling. he was not to be found out, and when i saw him for the first time, i realized that that would be a difficult business; the little man with his yellow, unctuous face seemed as if he consisted not of flesh and bone, but of condensed oil. it was in his voice and manner. he was manifestly much better educated and better mannered than the rest, as he was also much more cunning and contemptible. i did not get rid of this first impression for a long while, but at length he managed to get me into his house; i gradually became more favourable to him as he was, in one respect at least, an agreeable exception; he was a tolerably educated man, his daughters were being brought up by a german governess and he had a library of german books which he really read. i had such a longing for the atmosphere of an educated household that one evening i went to see him. "this evening influenced years of my life, or rather, as i have learnt to-day, my whole life. i am no liar, george, and no fanciful dreamer, it is the literal truth: i loved this girl from the first instant that i beheld her." berger looked up in astonishment. "from the first instant," sendlingen repeated, and he struggled with all speed through his next words. "i entered, mirescul welcomed me: my eye swept over black and grey heads, over well-known, sharp-featured, olive-faces. only one was unknown to me: the face of an exquisitely beautiful girl encircled by heavy, silver-blond, plaited hair. her slender, supple figure was turned away from me, i could only see her profile; it was not quite regular, the forehead was too high, the chin too peculiarly prominent; i saw all that, and yet i seemed as if i had never seen a girl more beautiful and my heart began to beat passionately. i had to tear my looks away, and talk to the lady of the house, but then i stared again, as if possessed, at the beautiful, white unknown who stood shyly in a corner gazing out into the night. 'our governess, fräulein lippert,' said frau von mirescul, quietly smiling as she followed the direction of my looks. "'i know,' i answered nervously, almost impatiently; i had guessed that at once. frau von mirescul looked at me with astonishment, but i had risen and hurried over to the lonely girl: one of the most insolent of the company, the little bald popowicz, had approached her. i was, afraid that he might wound her by some insulting speech. how should this poor, pale, timorous child defend herself alone against such a man? he had leant over her and was whispering something with his insolent smile, but the next instant he started back as if hurled against the wall by an invisible hand, and yet it was only a look of those gentle, veiled, grey eyes, now fixed in such a cold, hard stare that i trembled as they rested on me. but they remained fixed upon me and suddenly became again so pathetically anxious and helpless. "at length i was beside her: i no longer required to defend her from the elderly scamp, he had disappeared. i could only offer her my hand and ask: 'did that brute insult you?' but she took my hand and held it tight as if she must otherwise have fallen, her eyelids closed in an effort to keep back her tears. 'thank you,' she stammered. 'you are a german, are you not baron sendlingen? i guessed as much when you came in! oh if you knew!' "but i do know all, i know what she suffers in this 'salon,' and now we begin to talk of our life among these people and our conversation flows on as if it had been interrupted yesterday. we hardly need words: i understand every sigh that comes from those small lips at other times so tightly closed, she, every glance that i cast upon the assembly. but my glances are only fugitive for i prefer looking straight into that beautiful face so sweetly and gently attractive, although the mouth and chin speak of such firm determination. she often changes colour, but it is more wonderful that i am at times suddenly crippled by the same embarrassment, while at the next moment i feel as if my heart has at length reached home after years and years,--perhaps a life-time's sojourn in a chill strange land. "an hour or more passed thus. we did not notice it; we did not suspect how much our demeanour surprised the others until mirescul approached and asked me to take his wife in to supper. we went in; hermine was not there. 'fräulein hermine usually retires even earlier,' remarked frau von mirescul with the same smile as before. i understood her, and with difficulty suppressed a bitter reply: naturally this girl of inferior rank, whose father had only been a schoolmaster, was unworthy of the society of cattle-merchants, horse-dealers and slave-drivers whose fathers had been ennobled by kaiser franz! "after supper i took my leave. mirescul hoped to see me soon again and i eagerly promised: 'as soon as possible.' and while i drove home through the snow-lit winter's night, i kept repeating these words, for how was i henceforth to live without seeing her?" "after the first evening?" said berger, shaking his head. "that was like a disease!" "it was like a fatality!" cried sendlingen. "and how is it to be explained? i do not know! i wanted at first to show you her likeness, but i have not done so, for however beautiful she may have been, her beauty does not unsolve the riddle. i had met girls equally beautiful, equally full of character before, without taking fire. was it because i met her in surroundings which threw into sharpest relief all that was most charming in her, because i was lonelier than i had ever been before, because i at once knew that she shared my feelings? then besides, i had not as a young fellow lived at high pressure. i had not squandered my heart's power of loving; the later the passion of love entered my life, the stronger, the deeper would be its hold upon me. "reasons like these may perhaps satisfy you; me they do not. he who has himself not experienced a miracle, but learns of it on the report of another, will gladly enough accept a natural explanation; but to him whose senses it has blinded, whose heart it has convulsed, to him it remains a miracle, because it is the only possible conception of the strange, overmastering feelings of such a moment. when i think of those days and how she and i felt--no words can tell, no subtlest speculation explain it. look at it as you may, i will content myself by simply narrating the facts. "and it is a fact that from that evening i was completely metamorphosed. for two days i forced myself to do my regular duties, on the third i went to oronesti, to mirescul's. the fellow was too cunning to betray his astonishment, he brimmed over with pleasure and suggested a drive in sleighs, and as the big sleigh was broken we had to go in couples in small ones, i with hermine. this arrangement was evident enough, but how could i show surprise at what made me so blessed? even hermine was only startled for a moment and then, like me, gave herself up unreservedly to her feelings. "and so it was in all our intercourse in the next two weeks. we talked a great deal and between whiles there were long silences; perhaps these blissful moments of speechlessness were precisely the most beautiful. during those days i scarcely touched her hand: we did not kiss one another, we did not speak of our hearts: the simple consciousness of our love was enough. it was not the presence of others that kept us within these bounds; we were much alone; mirescul took care of that." "and did that never occur to you?" asked berger. "yes, at times, but in a way that may be highly significant of the spell under which my soul and senses laboured at the time. a man in a mesmeric trance distinctly feels the prick of a needle in his arm; he knows that he is being hurt; but he has lost his sense of pain. in some such way i looked upon mirescul's friendliness as an insult and a danger, but my whole being was so filled with fantastic, feverish bliss that no sensation of pain could have penetrated my consciousness." "and did you never think what would come of this?" "no, i could swear to it, never! i speculated as little about my love, as the first man about his life: he was on the earth to breathe and to be happy; of death he knew nothing. and she was just the same; i know it from her letters later, at that time we did not write. and so we lived on, in a dream, in exaltation, without a thought of the morrow." "it must have been a cruel awakening," said berger. "frightful, it was frightful!" he spoke with difficulty, and his looks were veiled. "immediately, in the twinkling of an eye, happiness was succeeded by misery, the most intoxicating happiness by the most lamentable, hideous misery.... one stormy night in march i had had to stay at mirescul's because my horses were taken ill, very likely through the food which mirescul had given them.... i was given a room next to hermine's. "on the next day but one--i was in my office at the time--the customs superintendent of the neighbouring border district entered the room. he was a sturdy, honourable greybeard, who had once been a captain in the army. 'we have caught the rascal at last,' he announced. 'he has suddenly forgotten his usual caution. we took him to-night in the act of unloading 100 bales of tobacco at his warehouses. here he is!' "mirescul entered, ushered in by two of the frontier guards. "'my dear friend!' he cried. 'i have come to complain of an unheard-of act of violence!' "i stared at him, speechless; had he not the right to call me his friend,--how often had i not called him friend in the last few weeks. "'send these men away.' i was dumb. the superintendent looked at me in amazement. i nodded silently, he shrugged his shoulders and left the room with his officials. 'the long and the short of it is,' said mirescul, 'that my arrest was a misunderstanding: the officials can be let off with a caution!' "'the matter must first be inquired into,' i answered at length. "'among friends one's word is enough.' "'duty comes before friendship.' "'then you take a different view of it from what i do,' he answered coming still closer to me. 'it would have been my duty to protect the honour of a respectable girl living in my house as a member of the family. it would now be my duty to drive your mistress in disgrace and dishonour from my doors. i sacrifice this duty to my friendship!' "ah, how the words cut me! i can feel it yet, but i cannot yet describe it. he went, and i was alone with my wild remorse and helpless misery." sendlingen rose and walked up and down excitedly. then he stood still in front of his friend. "that was the heaviest hour of my life, george--excepting the present. a man may perhaps feel as helpless who is suddenly struck blind. the worst torture of all was doubt in my beloved; the hideous suspicion that she might have been a conscious tool in the hands of this villain. and even when i stifled this thought, what abominations there were besides! i should act disgracefully if for her sake i neglected my duty, disgracefully if i heartlessly abandoned her to the vengeance of this man! she had a claim upon me--could i make her my wife? my oath to my dying father bound me, and still more, even though i did not like to admit it, my ambition, my whole existence as it had been until i knew her. my father's fate--my future ruined--may a man fight against himself in this way? still--'a sendlingen can never be a scoundrel'--and how altogether differently this saying affected me compared to my father! he had only an offence to expiate, i had a sacred duty to fulfil: he perhaps had only to reproach himself with thoughtlessness--but i with dishonour. "and did i really love her? it is incomprehensible to me now how i could ever have questioned it, how i could ever have had those hideous doubts: perhaps my nature was unconsciously revenging herself for the strange, overpowering compulsion laid on her in the last few weeks, perhaps since everything, even the ugliest things, had appeared beautiful and harmonious in my dream, perhaps it was natural, now that my heart had been so rudely shaken, that even the most beautiful things should appear ugly. perhaps--for who knows himself and his own heart? "enough! this is how i felt on that day and on the night of that day. oh! how i writhed and suffered! but when at last the faint red light of early morning peeped in at my window, i was resolved. i would do my duty as a judge and a man of honour: i would have mirescul imprisoned, i would make hermine my wife. i no longer had doubts about her or my love, but even if it had not been so, my conscience compelled me to act thus and not otherwise, without regard to the hopes of my life. "i went to my chambers almost before it was day, had the clerk roused from bed and dictated the record of the superintendent's information and a citation to the latter. then i wrote a few lines to hermine, begging her to leave mirescul's house at once and to come to me. 'trust in god and me,' i concluded. this letter i sent with my carriage to oronesti; two hours later i myself intended to set out to the place with gendarmes to search the house and arrest mirescul. but a few minutes after my coachman had left the court, the jewish waiter from the hotel of the little town brought me a letter from my dear one. 'i have been here since midnight and am expecting you.' the lady looked very unwell, added the messenger compassionately, and was no doubt ill. "i hastened to her. when she came towards me in the little room with tottering steps, my heart stood still from pity and fear; shame, remorse and despair--what ravages in her fresh beauty had they not caused in this short space? i opened my arms and with a cry she sank on my breast. 'god is merciful,' she sobbed. 'you do not despise me because i have loved you more than myself: so i will not complain.' "then she told me how mirescul--she had kept her room for the two last days for it seemed to her as if she could never look anyone in the face again--had compelled her to grant him an interview yesterday evening. he requested her to write begging me to take no steps against him, otherwise he would expose and ruin us both. 'oh, how hateful it was!' she cried out, with a shudder. 'it seemed to me as if i should never survive the ignominy of that hour. but i composed myself; whatever was to become of me, you should not break your oath as judge. i told him that i would not write the letter, that i would leave his house at once, and when he showed signs of detaining me by force, i threatened to kill myself that night. then he let me go,--and now do you decide my fate: is it to be life or death!' "'you shall live, my wife,' i swore, 'you shall live for me.' "'i believe you,' said she, 'but it is difficult. oh! can perfect happiness ever come from what has been so hideously disfigured!' "i comforted her as well as i could, for my heart gave utterance to the same piteous question. "then we took counsel about the future; she could not remain in suczawa: we could see what vulgar gossip there would be even without this. so we resolved that she should go to the nearest large town, to czernowitz, and wait there till our speedy marriage. with that we parted: it was to have been a separation for weeks and it proved to be for a lifetime: i never saw the unhappy girl again. "how did it come about that i broke my oath? there is no justification for it, at best but an explanation. i do not want to defend myself before you any more than i have done: i am only confessing to you as i would to a priest if i were a believer in the church. "a stroke of fate struck me in that hour of my growth, i might have overcome it but now came its pricks and stabs. when i left hermine to return to my chambers, i met the customs superintendent. i greeted him. 'have you received my citation?' i asked. he looked at me contemptuously and passed on without answering. 'what does this mean?' cried i angrily, catching hold of his arm. "'it means,' he replied, shaking himself loose, 'that in future i shall only speak to you, even on official matters, when my duty obliges me. that, for a time, is no longer necessary. you released mirescul yesterday, you did not record my depositions. both were contrary to your duty: i have advised my superiors in the matter and await their commands.' "he passed on; i remained rooted to the spot a long while like one struck down; the honourable man was quite right! "but i roused myself; now at least i would neglect my duty no longer. scarcely, however, had i got back to my chambers, when my colleague, the civil-judge entered; he was as usual not quite sober, but it was early in the day and he had sufficient control of his tongue to insult me roundly. 'so you are really going to oronesti,' he began. 'i should advise you not, the man[oe]uvre is too patent. after twenty-four hours nothing will be found, as we set about searching the house just to show our good intentions--eh?' "'i don't require to be taught by you,' i cried flaring up. "'oh, but, perhaps you do, though!' he replied. 'i might for instance teach you something about the danger of little german blondes. but--as you like--i wish you every success!' "smarting under these sensations, i drove to oronesti. mirescul met me in the most brazen-faced way; he protested against such inroads undertaken from motives of personal revenge. and he added this further protest to his formal deposition; he would submit to examination at the hands of any judge but me who had yesterday testified that the accusation was a mistake and promised to punish the customs officials, and to-day suddenly appeared on the scene with gendarmes. between yesterday and to-day nothing had happened except that he had turned my mistress out of his house, and surely this act of domestic propriety could not establish his guilt as a smuggler. you know, george, that i was obliged to take down his protest--but with what sensations! "the search brought to light nothing suspicious; the servants, carters, and peasants whom i examined had all been evidently well-drilled beforehand. i had to have mirescul arrested: were there not the bales of tobacco which the superintendent had seized? not having the ordinary means of transit at night, he had had them temporarily stored in one of the parish buildings at oronesti under the care of two officials. i now had them brought at once to the town. "when i got back to my chambers in the evening and thought over the events of this accursed day, and read over the depositions in which my honour and my bride's honour were dragged in the mire, i had not a single consolation left except perhaps this solitary one, that my neglect would not hinder the course of justice, for the smuggled wares would clearly prove the wretch's guilt. "but even this comfort was to be denied me. the next morning mirescul's solicitor called on me and demanded an immediate examination of the bales: his client, he said, maintained that they did not contain smuggled tobacco from moldavia, but leaf tobacco of the country grown by himself and other planters, and which he was about to prepare for the state factories. the request was quite legitimate; i at once summoned the customs superintendent as being an expert; the old man appeared, gruffly made over the documents to my keeping and accompanied us to the cellars of the court house where the confiscated goods had been stored. when his eye fell on them he started back indignantly, pale with anger: 'scandalous!' he cried, 'unheard of! these bales are much smaller--they have been changed!' "'how is it possible?' "'you know that better than i do,' he answered grimly. "the bales were opened; they really contained tobacco in the leaf. my brain whirled. after i had with difficulty composed myself, i examined the two officials who had watched the goods at oronesti; the exchange could only have been effected there; the men protested their innocence; they had done their duty to the best of their ability; certainly this was the third night which they had kept watch although the superintendent, before hurrying to the town, had promised to release them within a few hours. this too i had to take down; the proof namely that my hesitation in doing my duty had not been without harm. and now my conscience forbade me to arrest mirescul, although by not doing so, i only made my case worse. "so things stood when two days later an official from czernowitz circuit arrived in suczawa to inquire into the case. you know him george; he was a relation of yours, matthias berger, an honest, conscientious man. 'grave accusations have been made against you,' he explained, 'by mirescul's solicitor, by the civil judge and by the customs superintendent, but they contradict each other: i still firmly believe in your innocence: tell me the whole truth.' "but that i could not do: i could not be the means of dragging my bride's name into legal documents, even if i were otherwise to be utterly ruined. so in answer to the questions why i had delayed twenty-four hours, i could only answer that an overwhelming private matter had deprived me of the physical strength to attend to my duties. with regard to hermine, i refused to answer any questions. berger shook his head sadly; he was sorry for me, but he could not help me. he must suspend me from my functions while the inquiry lasted and appoint a substitute from czernowitz: moreover he exacted an oath from me not to leave the place without permission of the court. mirescul was let out on bail. "a fortnight went by. it clings to my memory like an eternity of grief and misery. i have told you what i strove for and hoped for, you will be able to judge how i suffered. four weeks before i was one of the most rising officers of the state: now i was a prisoner on parole, oppressed by the scorn and spite of men, held up to the ignominy of all eyes. i dared hope nothing from my relations, least of all from my uncle, count warnberg: i knew that he would not save me so that i might marry a governess about whom--mirescul and his friends took care of that--there were the ugliest reports in circulation. and you will consider it human, conceivable, that every letter of hermine's was a stab in my heart. "she wrote daily. when she spoke of her feelings during our brief span of joy, it seemed to me as if she depicted my own innermost experiences. this at least gave me the consolation of knowing that i was not tied to an unworthy woman: but the bonds were none the less galling and cut into the heart of my life. only rarely, very gently, and therefore with a twofold pathos, did she complain of her fate; but her grief on my account was wild and passionate; she had heard of my plight but not through me. i sought to comfort her as well as i might; but ah me! there was no word of release or deliverance: how could i have broached it, how have claimed it from her? "one day there came her usual letter; it was written with a visibly trembling hand. my uncle had been to see her; he was hurrying from lemberg in great anxiety to see me, and had stopped at czernowitz to treat with her of the price for which she would release me. in every line there was the deepest pathos; she had shown him the door. "'he will implore you to leave me,' she concluded; 'act as your conscience bids you. and i will tell you something that i refused to tell count warnberg; he asked me whether i had another, a more sacred claim upon you. i don't know, victor, but as i understand our bond in which i live and suffer, that does not affect it; if you will not make me your wife for my own sake, neither could regard for the mother of your child be binding on you!' "two hours after i received this letter, my uncle arrived. i was terrified at the sight of him, his face was so dark, and hard, and strange. my father had once said to me shortly before his death: 'take care never to turn that iron hand against you; it would crush you as it has crushed me.' i had never before understood these words, indeed i had completely forgotten them, but now they came back to me and i understood them before my uncle opened his mouth. "'tell your story,' he began, and his voice sounded to me as if i had never heard it before. 'tell the whole truth. this at least i expect of you. you surely don't wish to sink lower than--than another member of your family. a sendlingen has at all events never lied! now tell your story.' "i obeyed: he was told what you have just been told, though no doubt it sounded different; confused, passionate and scarcely intelligible. but he understood it; he had no single question to ask after i had finished. "'the same story as before,' he said, 'but uglier, much uglier. the father only sullied his coat of arms, the son his judge's honour as well.' "i fired up. i tried to defend myself, he would not allow it. 'tirades serve no good purpose,' he said, coldly. 'you wish to convince me that you were not in criminal collusion with mirescul? i have never thought so. that he is really guilty and can be convicted in spite of your neglect of duty? i have been through the papers and have just cross-examined the customs superintendent. the police are already on the way to re-arrest him; he will be put in prison. but your fault will be none the less in consequence; if there is no lasting stigma on the administration of justice, there is upon your honour. your conduct in this man's house, your hesitation,--it would be bad for you if you had to suffer what you have merited! according to justice and the laws, your fate is sealed; it is only a question whether you will prove yourself worthy of pardon and pity!' "'in anything that you may ask,' i answered, 'except only in one thing: hermine is to be my wife. a sendlingen can never be a scoundrel.' "he drew himself up to his full height and stepped close up to me. 'now listen to me, victor, i will be brief and explicit. whether you stain your honour by marrying this girl, or whether you do so by not marrying her, the all-just god above us knows. we, his creatures, can only judge according to our knowledge and conscience, and in my judgment, the girl is unworthy of you. in this matter there is your conviction against my conviction. but what i do know better than you is, that this marriage would load you with ignominy before the whole world! you will perhaps answer: better the contempt of others than self-contempt, but that is not the question. if you marry this girl, i am as sure as i am of my existence, that you will soon be ashamed of it, not only before others but in your own heart. for pure happiness could not come of such a beginning--it is impossible. the gossip of the world, the ruin of your hopes, would poison your mind and hers,--you would be wretched yourself and make her wretched, and would at length become bad and miserable. the man who forgets his duty to himself and to the world for a matter of weeks and then recovers himself, is worthy of commiseration and help; but he who is guilty of a moral suicide deserves no pity. and therefore listen to me and choose. if you marry this girl your subsequent fate is indifferent to me; you will very likely be stripped of your office; or in the most favourable event, transferred, by way of punishment, to some out of the way place where your father's fate may be repeated in you. if you give her up you may still be saved, for yourself, for our family and for the state: then i will do for you, what my conscience would allow me to do for any subordinate of whose sincere repentance i was convinced, and i will intercede for the emperor's pardon as if you were my own son. to-morrow i return to lemberg, whether alone or with you--you must decide by to-morrow.' he went." sendlingen paused. "how i struggled with myself," he began again, but his voice failed him, until at length he gasped forth with hollow voice and trembling lips: "oh! what a night it was! the next morning i wrote a farewell letter to hermine, and started with count warnberg to lemberg." then there followed a long silence. at length berger asked: "you did not know that she bore your child in her bosom?" "no, i know it to-day for the first time. in that last letter of mine i had offered her a maintenance: she declined it at once. then i left that part of the country. a few months later i inquired after her; i could only learn that she had disappeared without leaving a trace. and then i forgot her, i considered that all was blotted out and washed away like writing from a slate, and rarely, very rarely, in the dusk, or in a sleepless night, did the strange reminiscence recur to me. but fate keeps a good reckoning--o george! i would i were dead!" "no, no!" said berger with gentle reproof. he was deeply moved, his eyes glistened with tears, but he constrained himself to be composed. "thank god, you are alive and willing, and i trust able to pay your debt. how great this debt may be--or how slight--i will not determine. only one thing i do know: you are, in spite of all, worthy of the love and esteem of men, even of the best men, of better men than i am. when i think of it all; your life up to that event and what it has been since, what you have made of your life for yourself and others, then indeed it overcomes me and i feel as if i had never known a fate among the children of men more worthy of the purest pity. this is no mere sad fate, it is a tragic one. against the burden of such a fate, no parade of sophistry, no petty concealments or prevarications will be of avail. you say it is against your feelings to preside at to-morrow's trial?" "yes," replied sendlingen. "it seems to me both cowardly and dishonourable; cowardly, to sacrifice the law instead of myself, dishonourable to break my judge's oath! but i shrink from doing so for another reason; an offence should not be expiated by an injustice; i dread the all-just fates." "i cannot gainsay you," said berger rising. "but in this one thing we are agreed. let us wait for the verdict, and then we will consider what your duty is. it is long past midnight, the trial will begin in seven hours. i will try and get some sleep. i shall need all my strength to-morrow. follow my example, victor, perhaps sleep may be merciful to you." he seized his friend's hands and held them affectionately in his; his feelings again threatened to overcome him and he hastily left the room with a choking farewell on his lips. sendlingen was alone. after brooding awhile, he again went to the secret drawer of his writing-table. at this moment the old servant entered. "we will go to bed now," he said. "we will do it out of pity for ourselves, and fräulein brigitta, and me!" his look and tone were so beseeching that sendlingen could not refuse him. he suffered himself to be undressed, put out the lamp, and closed his eyes. but sleep refused to visit his burning lids. chapter v. when the grey morning appeared, he could no longer endure to lie quietly in his bed while his soul was tormented with unrest, he got up, dressed himself, left his room and went out of doors. it was a damp, cold, horrid autumn morning: the fog clung to the houses and to the uneven pavement of the old town: a heavy, yellow vapor, the smoke of a factory chimney kept sinking down lower and lower. the lonely wanderer met few people, those who recognized him greeted him respectfully, he did not often acknowledge the greeting and when he did, it was unconsciously. most of them looked after him in utter astonishment; what could have brought the chief justice so early out of doors? it seemed at times as if he were looking for something he had lost; he would walk along slowly for a stretch with his looks fixed on the ground, then he would stop and go back the same way. and how broken down, how weary he looked today!--as if he had suddenly become an old man, the people thought. freezing with cold, while his pulses beat at fever-speed, he thus wandered for a long while aimlessly through the desolate streets, first this way, then that, until the morning bells of the cathedral sounded in his ears. he stood still and listened as if he had never heard their mighty sound before; they appeared to vibrate in his heart; his features changed and grew gentler as he listened; a ray of tender longing gleamed in his white face, and, as if drawn by invisible cords, he hurried faster and faster towards the cathedral. but when he stood before its open door and looked into the dark space, lit only by a dim light, the sanctuary lamp before the high-altar, he hesitated; he shook his head and sighed deeply, and his features again resumed their gloomy, painful look. he looked up at the cathedral clock, the hands were pointing to seven. "an hour more," he murmured and went over towards the court-house. it was a huge, straggling, rectangular building, standing on its own ground. in front were the chief justice's residence and the offices; at the back the criminal prison. he turned towards his own quarters. he had just set his foot on the steps, when a new idea seemed to occur to him. he hesitated. "i must," he hissed between his teeth and he clenched his hands till the nails ran painfully into the flesh; "i must, if only for a minute." he stepped back into the street, went around the building and up to the door at the back. it was locked; there was a sentinel in front of it. he rang the bell, a warder opened the door and seeing the chief justice respectfully pulled off his hat. "fetch the governor," muttered sendlingen, so indistinctly that the man hardly understood him. but he hurried away and the governor of the prison appeared. he was visibly much astonished. "does your lordship wish to make an inspection?" he asked. "no, only in one or two particular cases." "which are they, my lord?" but the unhappy man felt that his strength was leaving him. "later on," he muttered, groping for the handle of the door so as to support himself. "another time." the governor hastened towards him. "your lordship is ill again--just as you were yesterday--we are all much concerned! may i accompany you back to your residence? the nearest way is through the prison-yard, if you choose." he opened a door and they stepped out into the prison-yard; it was separated by a wall from the front building; the only means of communication was an unostentatious little door in the bare, high, slippery wall. it seemed to be seldom used; the governor was a long time finding the key on his bunch and when at length it opened, the lock and hinges creaked loudly. "thank you," said sendlingen. "i have never observed this means of communication before." "your predecessor had it made," answered the governor, "so that he might inspect the prison without being announced. the key must be in your possession." "very likely," answered sendlingen, and he went back to his residence. franz placed his breakfast before him. "there'll be a nice ending to this," he growled. "we are dangerously ill and yet we trapse about the streets in all weathers. dr. berger, too, is surprised at our new ways." "has he been here already?" "he was here a few minutes ago, but will be back at eight.... but now we have got to drink our tea." he did not budge till the cup had been emptied. with growing impatience sendlingen looked at the clock. "he can have nothing fresh to say," he thought. "he must guess my intention and want to hinder me. he will not succeed." but he did succeed. as he entered, sendlingen had just taken up his hat and stick. "you are going to the trial?" began his faithful friend almost roughly, "you must not, victor, i implore you. i forbid you. what will the judges think if you are too ill to preside, and yet well enough to be present with no apparent object. but the main thing is not to torment yourself, it is unmanly. do not lessen your strength, you may require it." he wrested his hat from him and forced him into an armchair. "my restlessness will kill me if i stay here," muttered sendlingen. "you would not be better in there, but worse. i shall come back to you at once; i think, i fear, it will not last long. don't buoy yourself up with any hopes, victor. before a jury, i could get her acquitted, with other judges, at a different time, we might have expected a short term of imprisonment ... but now----" "death!" like a shriek the words escaped from his stifled breast. "but she may not, she will not die!" continued berger. "i will set my face against it as long as there is breath in my body, nay, i would have done so even if she had not been your daughter. god bless you, victor." berger gathered up his bundle of papers and proceeded along the corridor and up some stairs, until he found himself outside the court where the trial was to take place. even here a hum of noise reached him, for the court was densely crowded with spectators. as far as he could see by the glimmer of grey morning light that broke its difficult way in by the round windows, it was a well-dressed audience in which ladies preponderated. "naturally," he muttered contemptuously. for a few seconds eye-glasses and opera-glasses were directed upon him, to be then again immediately turned on the accused. but her face could not be seen; she was cowering in a state of collapse on her wooden seat, her forehead resting on the ledge of the dock; her left arm was spread out in front of her, her right hung listlessly by her side. public curiosity had nothing to sate itself on but the shudders that at times convulsed her poor body; one of the long plaits of her coal-black, wavy hair had escaped from beneath the kerchief on her head and hung down low, almost to the ground, touching the muddy boots of the soldier who did duty as sentinel close beside her. berger stepped to his place behind her; she did not notice him until he gently touched her icy cold hand. "be brave, my poor child," he whispered. she started up in terror. "ah!" went from every mouth in court: now at length they could see her face. berger drew himself up to his full height; his eyes blazed with anger as he stepped between her and the crowd. "oh, what crowds of people!" murmured the poor girl. her cheeks and forehead glowed in a fever-heat of shame: but the colour soon went and her grief-worn face was white again; the look of her eyes was weary and faint. "to think that one should have to suffer so much before dying." "you will not die!" he spoke slowly, distinctly, as one speaks to a deaf person. "you will live, and after you have satisfied the justice of men, you will begin life over again. and when you do friendship and love will not be wanting to you." while he was saying this, and at the same time looking her full in the face, her resemblance to his friend almost overpowered him. she was like her father in the colour of her hair and eyes, in her mouth and her forehead. "love and care are waiting for you!" he continued with growing warmth. "this i can swear. do you hear? i swear that it is so! as regards the trial, i can only give you this advice: tell, as you have hitherto done, the whole truth. bear up as well as you can; oppose every lie, every unjust accusation." she had heard him without stirring, without a sign of agreement or dissent. it was doubtful whether she had understood him. but he had not time to repeat his admonition; the crown-advocate and the five judges had entered with werner at their head. if berger had hitherto cherished any hope, it must have vanished now; two of the other judges were among the sternest on the bench; the fourth never listened and then always chimed in with the majority; it was but a slender consolation to berger when he finally saw the wise and humane baron dernegg take his place beside the judges. werner opened the proceedings and the deed of accusation was then read out by the secretary of the court. its compiler--a young, fashionably dressed junior crown-advocate of an old aristocratic family, who had only been in the profession a short time,--listened to the recital of his composition with visible satisfaction. and indeed his representation of the matter was very effective. according to him the countess riesner-graskowitz was one of the noblest women who ever lived, the accused one of the most abandoned. a helpless orphan, called by unexampled generosity to fill a post which neither her years nor abilities had fitted her for, she had requited this kindness by entangling the young count henry in her wiles in order to force him into a marriage. after he had disentangled himself from these unworthy bonds, and after victorine lippert knew her condition, instead of repentantly confiding in her noble protectress, she had exhausted all the arts of crafty dissembling in order not to be found out. and when at length she was, as a most just punishment, suddenly dismissed from the castle, she in cold blood murdered her child so as to be free from the consequences of her fault. in his opinion, the accused's pretended unconsciousness was a manifest fable, and the crime a premeditated one, as her conduct at the castle sufficiently proved. her character was not against the assumption, she was plainly corrupted at an early age, being the daughter of a woman of loose character. "it is a lie! a scandalous lie!" like a cry from the deepest recesses of the heart, these words suddenly vibrated through the court with piercing clearness. it was the accused who had spoken. she had listened to the greatest part of the document without a sound, without the slightest change of countenance, as if she were deaf. only once at the place where it spoke of "manifest fable" she had gently and imperceptibly shaken her head; it was the first intimation berger had that she was listening and understood the accusation. but now, hardly had the libel on her dead mother been read, when she rose to her feet and uttered those words so suddenly that berger was not less motionless and dumfounded than the rest. and then broke forth the hubbub; such an interruption, and in such language, had never before occurred in court. the spectators had risen and were talking excitedly; the crown-advocate stood there helplessly; even herr von werner had to clear his throat repeatedly before he could ejaculate "silence!" but the command was superfluous for hardly had the poor girl uttered the words, when she fell back upon her seat, from thence to the ground, and was now lying in a faint on the boards. she was carried out; it was noticed by many and caused much scandal, that the counsel for the accused lifted the lifeless body and helped carry it, instead of leaving this to the warders. the proceedings had to be interrupted. it was another half hour before the accused appeared in court again, leaning on berger's arm, her features set like those of an animated corpse. there was a satirical murmur in the crowd, and werner, too, reflected whether he should not, there and then, reprove the counsel for unseemly behaviour. and this determined him to be all the severer in the reprimand which he addressed to the accused on account of her unheard of impertinence. she should not escape her just punishment, the nature and extent of which he would determine by the opinion of the prison-doctor. then the reading of the deed of accusation was finished; the examination began. there was a murmur of eager expectation among the spectators; their curiosity was briefly but abundantly satisfied. to the question whether she pleaded guilty, victorine lippert answered quietly but with a steadier voice than one would have supposed her capable of: "yes!... what i know about my deed, i have already told in evidence. i deserve death, i wish to die. it is a matter of indifference to one about to die what men may think of her; god knows the truth. he knows that much, yes most, of what has just been read here, is incorrect. i do not contest it, but one thing i swear in the face of death, and may god have no mercy on me in my last hour if i lie; my mother was noble and good; no mother can ever have been better and no wife more pure. she trusted an unworthy wretch, and he must have been worse than ever any man was, if he could forsake her--but she was good. i implore you, read her testimonials, her letters to me--i beseech you, i conjure you, just a few of these letters.-for myself i have nothing to ask--" her voice broke, her strength again seemed to forsake her and she sank down on her seat. there was a deep silence after she had ended: in her words, in her voice, there must have been something that the hearts of those present could not shut out; even the crown-advocate looked embarrassed. herr von werner alone was so resolutely armed to meet the hydra of the social revolution, which he was bent on combating in this forlorn creature, as to be above all pity. he would certainly have begun a wearisome examination and have spared the poor creature no single detail, but his daughter was expecting a happy event to-day, and baron sendlingen had, notwithstanding, not had sufficient professional consideration to take over the conduct of this trial, and the half hour's faint of the accused had already unduly prolonged the proceedings--so he determined to cut the matter as short as was compatible with his position. the accused had just again unreservedly repeated her confession; further questions, he explained, would be superfluous. the examination of the witnesses could be proceeded with at once. this also was quickly got through. there were the peasants, who had found victorine and her lifeless child on the morrow of the deed, and the prison doctor, none of whom could advance any fresh or material fact. the only witness of importance to the accused was the servant-girl who had helped her in her last few months at the castle. the girl had been shortly after dismissed from the countess' service, and in the preliminary inquiry, she had confirmed all victorine's statements; if she to-day remained firm to her previous declarations, the accusation of premeditated murder would be severely shaken. to berger's alarm she now evasively answered that her memory was weak,--she had in the meantime gone into service at graskowitz again. in spite of this and of the protest of the defence, she was sworn: berger announced his intention of appealing for a nullification of the trial. then the depositions of the countess and her son were read; the court had declined to subp[oe]na them. the countess had not spared time or trouble in depicting the murderess in all her abandonment; but the depositions which count henry had made at his embassy, were brief enough: as far as he recollected he had made the girl no promise of marriage, and indeed there was no reason for doing so. berger demanded, as proof to the contrary, that the letters which had been taken from the accused and put with the other papers, should he read aloud; this the court also declined because they did not affect the question of her guilt. then followed the speeches for and against. the crown-advocate was brief enough: the trial, he contended, had established the correctness of the charge. if ever at all, then in the present case, should the full rigour of the law be enforced. by her protestation that she had received a most careful bringing up from a most excellent mother, she had herself cut from under her feet the only ground for mitigation. all the more energetically and fully did berger plead for the utmost possible leniency; his knowledge of law, his intellect and his oratorical gifts had perhaps never before been so brilliantly displayed. when he had finished, the people in court broke out into tumultuous applause. the judges retired to consider their verdict. they were not long absent; in twenty minutes they again appeared in court. werner pronounced sentence: death by hanging. the qualification of "unanimous" was wanting. baron dernegg had been opposed to it. there was much excitement among the spectators. berger, although not unprepared for the sentence, could with difficulty calm himself sufficiently to announce that every form of appeal would be resorted to. the accused had closed her eyes for a moment and her limbs trembled like aspen-leaves, but she was able to rise by herself to follow the warders. "thank you," she said pressing berger's hands. "but the appeal----" "will be lodged by me," he said hastily interrupting her. "i shall come and see you about it to-day." he hurried away down the stairs. but when he got into the long corridor that led to sendlingen's quarters, he relaxed his pace and at length stood still. "this is a difficult business," he murmured and he stepped to a window, opened it and eagerly drank in the cool autumn air as if to strengthen himself. when a few minutes after he found himself in sendlingen's lobby, he met baron dernegg coming out of his friend's study. "too late!" he thought with alarm. "and he has had to hear it from some one else." the usually comfortable-looking judge was much excited. "you are no doubt coming on the same errand, dr. berger," he began. "i felt myself in duty bound to let the chief justice know about this sentence without delay. the way in which he received it showed me once more what a splendid man he is, the pattern of a judge, the embodiment of justice! i assure you, he almost fainted, this--hm!--questionable sentence affected him like a personal misfortune. please do not excite him any more about it and talk of something else first." "certainly," muttered berger as he walked into the study. sendlingen lay back in his arm-chair, both hands pressed to his face. his friend approached him without a word; it was a long, sad silence. "victor," he said at last, gently touching his shoulder, "we knew it would be so!" sendlingen let his hands fall. "and does that comfort me?" he cried wildly. and then he bowed his head still lower. "tell me all!" he murmured. berger then began to narrate everything. one thing only he omitted: how victorine had spoken of her mother's betrayer. "this very day," he concluded, "i shall lodge a nullity appeal with the supreme court. perhaps it will consider the reasons weighty enough to order a new trial; in any case when it examines the question, it will alter the sentence." "in any case?" cried sendlingen bitterly. "we cannot but expect as much from the sense of justice of our highest judges. perhaps the chief witness's suspicious weakness of memory may prove a lucky thing for us. if she had stuck by her former depositions, or if the court had not put her on her oath, then a simple appeal to the supreme court would alone have been possible. now, the case is more striking and more sensational." "and therefore all the worse!" interrupted sendlingen. "woe to him for whom in these days the voice of the people makes itself heard; to the gentry in vienna it is worse than the voice of the devil. besides, just now, according to the opinion of the minister of justice, the world is to be rid of child-murder by the offices of the hangman! and this is the first case in educated circles, a much talked of case,--what a magnificent opportunity of striking terror!" "you take too black a view of the matter, victor." "perhaps!--and therefore an unjust view! but how can a man in my position be just and reasonable. oh, george, i am so desolate and perplexed! what shall i do; merciful heaven, what shall i do?" "first of all--wait!" answered berger. "the decision of the supreme court will be known in a comparatively short time, at latest in two months!" "wait--only two months!" sendlingen wrung his hands. "though what do i care for myself! but she--two months in the fear of death! to sit thus in a lonely cell without light or air, or consolation,--behind her unutterable misery, before her death----. oh, she must either go mad or die!" "i shall often be with her, and father rohn, too, i hope. and then, too," he added, half-heartedly, "one or other of the ladies of the women's society for befriending female criminals. certainly these comforters are not worth much." "they are worth nothing," cried sendlingen vehemently. "oh, how they will torture the poor girl with their unctuous virtue and self-satisfied piety! i have to tolerate these tormentors, the minister of justice insists on it, but at least they shall not enter this cell, i will not allow it--or at least, only the single one among them who is any good, my old brigitta----" "your housekeeper?" asked berger, in perplexity and consternation. "that must not be! she might guess the truth. the girl!" he hesitated again--"is like you, very like you victor--and anyone who sees you so often and knows you so well as brigitta----" "what does that matter?" sendlingen rose. "she is discreet, and if she were not--what does it matter, i repeat. do you suppose that i never mean to enter that cell?" "you! impossible!" "i shall and i must! i will humour you in everything except in this one thing!" "but under what pretext? have you ever visited and repeatedly visited other condemned criminals?" "what does that matter to me? a father must stand by his child!" "and will you tell other people so?" "not until i am obliged; but then without a moment's hesitation. she, however, must be told at once, in fact this very day." "you must not do that, victor. spare the poor girl this sudden revelation." "then prepare her beforehand! but to-morrow it must be!" berger was helpless; he knew what victorine would say to her father if she suddenly encountered him. "give her a little more time!" he begged, "out of pity for her shattered nerves and agitated mind, which will not bear any immediate shock." this was a request that sendlingen could not refuse. "very well, i will wait," he promised. "but you will not wish to prevent me from seeing her to-morrow. i have in any case to inspect the prison. but i promise you: i will not betray myself and the governor of the jail shall accompany me." chapter vi. weighed down by sorrow, berger proceeded homewards. to the solitary bachelor sendlingen was more than a friend, he was a dearly loved brother. he was struck to the heart, as by a personal affliction, with compassion for this fate, this terrible fate, so suddenly and destructively breaking in upon a beneficent life, like a desolating flood. would this flood ever subside again and the soil bring forth flowers and fruit? the strong man's looks darkened as he thought of the future: worse than the evil itself seemed to him the manner in which it affected his friend. alas! how changed and desolated was this splendid soul, how hopeless and helpless this brave heart! and it was just their last interview, that sudden flight from the most melancholy helplessness to the heights of an almost heroic resolve, that gave berger the greatest uneasiness. "and it will not last!" he reflected with much concern. "most certainly it will not! perhaps even now, five minutes after, he is again lying back in his arm chair, broken down, without another thought, another feeling, save that of his misery! and could anything else be expected? that was not the energetic resolve of a clear, courageous soul, but the diseased, visionary effort of feverishly excited nerves! again he does not know whether he will see her or what he ought to do.... and do i know, would any one know in the presence of such a fate?" had he deserved this fate? "no!" cried berger to himself. "no!" he passionately repeated as he paced up and down his study, trying to frame the wording of the appeal. clumsy and uncouth, blind and cruel, seemed to him the power that had ordered things as they had come about. it seemed no better than some rude elemental force. "he can no more help it," he muttered, "than the fields can help a flood breaking in upon them." but he could not long maintain this view, comforting as it was to him, much as he strove to harbour it. "he has done wrong," he thought, "and retribution is only the severer because delayed." other cases in his experience occurred to him: long concealed wrongs and sins that had afterwards come into the light of day, doubly frightful. "and such offences increase by the interest accruing until they are paid," he was obliged to think. from the moment that he heard his friend's story, all the facts it brought to light seemed to him like the diabolical sport of chance; but now he no longer thought it chance but in everything saw necessity, and he was overcome by the same idea to which he had given voice at the conclusion of his friend's narration, namely that this was no mere sad fate, but a tragic one. it was a singular idea, compounded of fear and reverence. when berger reflected how one act dovetailed into another, how link fitted into link in the chain of cause and effect, how all these people could not have acted otherwise than they were obliged to act, how guilt had of necessity supervened, and now retribution, the strong man shuddered from head to foot: he had to bow his head before that pitiless, all-just power for which he knew no name ... but was it really all-just? if all these people, if sendlingen and victorine had not acted otherwise than their nature and circumstances commanded, why had they to suffer for it so frightfully? and why was there no end to this suffering, a great, a liberating, a redeeming end? "no!" cried an inward voice of his deeply agitated soul, "there must be such a glorious solution. it cannot be our destiny to be dragged into sin by blind powers which we cannot in any way control, like puppets by the cords in a showman's hands, and then again, when it pleases those powers, into still greater sins, or into an atonement a thousand times greater than the sin itself, and so, on and on, until death snaps the cords. no! that cannot be our destiny, and if it were, then we should be greater than this fate, greater, juster, more reasonable! there must be in sendlingen's case also, a solution bringing freedom, there _must_--and in his case precisely most of all! it would have been an extraordinary fate, no matter whom it had overtaken, but had it befallen a commonplace man, it would never have grown to such a crushing tragedy. a scoundrel would have lied to himself: 'she is not my daughter, her mother was a woman of loose character,' and he would have repeated this so often that he would have come to believe it. and if remorse had eventually supervened, he would have buried it in the confessional or in the bottle. "another man, no scoundrel,--on the contrary! a man of honour of the sort whose name is legion,--would not have hesitated for a moment to preside in court in order to obtain by his authority as chief justice, the mildest possible sentence. then he would have been assiduous in ameliorating the lot of the prisoner by special privileges, and after she had been set at liberty, he would have bought her, somewhere at a distance, a little millinery business or a husband, and every time he thought of the matter, he would have said with emotion: 'what a good fellow you are!' this has only become a tragic fate because it has struck one of the most upright, most sensitive and noble of men, and because this is so, there must come from that most noble and upright heart a solution, an act of liberation bursting these iron bonds! there must be a means of escape by which he and his poor child and justice herself will have their due! there _must_ be--simply because he is what he is!" there was a gleam of light in berger's usually placid, contented face, the reflection of the thought that filled his soul and raised him above the misery of the moment. notwithstanding, his looks became serious and gloomy again. "but what is this solution?" he asked, continuing his over-wrought reflections. "and how shall this broken-down, sick man, weary with his tortures, find it? and i--i know of none, perhaps no one save himself can find it. 'against the burden of such a fate, no parade of sophistry will be of any avail,' i said to him yesterday. but can small expedients be of any use? will it be a solution if i succeed with my appeal, if the sentence of death is commuted to penal servitude for life or for twenty years? can this lessen the burden of the fate?--for her, for him?" "what to do?" he suddenly exclaimed aloud. he wrung his hands and stared before him. suddenly there was a curious twitching about his mouth, and his eyes gleamed with an almost weird light. "no, no!" he muttered vehemently, "how can such a thought even occur to me. i feel it, i am myself becoming ill and unstrung!" he bounded up with a heavy stamp and hastily passed his hand over his forehead, as though the thought which had just passed through his brain stood written there and must be swiftly wiped away. but that thought returned again and again and would not be scared away, that enticing but fearful thought; how she might be forcibly liberated from prison and carried off to new life and happiness in a distant country? "madness!" he muttered and added in thought: "he would rather die and let her die, than give his consent to this or set his hand to such a deed! he whose conscience would not allow him to preside at the trial! and if in his perplexity and despair he were to go so far, i should have to bar the way and stop him even if it cost me my life.... what was it he said yesterday: 'an offence should not be expiated by an injustice!' and will he attempt it by another offence. 'cowardly and dishonourable!' yes, that it would be, and not that great deed of which i dream; greater and more just than fate itself." he seized the notes which he had made from the papers connected with the trial, and forced himself to read them through deliberately, to weigh them again point by point. this expedient helped him: that horrible thought did not return, but a new thought rose, bringing comfort in its train and took shape: "when a great act cannot be achieved, we should not on that account omit even the smallest thing that can possibly be done. i will set my energies against the sentence of death, because it is the most frightful thing that could happen!" and now he recovered courage and eagerness for work. he sat at his writing table hour after hour, marshalling his reasons and objections into a solid phalanx which in the fervour of the moment seemed to him as if they must sweep away every obstacle, even prejudice, even ill-will. he had bolted himself in, nobody was to disturb him, he only interrupted himself for a few minutes to snatch a hasty meal. then he worked away until the last sentence stood on the paper. for the first time he now looked at the clock; it was pointing to ten. it was too late to visit the poor prisoner, and he was grieved that he had not kept his promise. if she was perhaps secretly nourishing the hope of being saved, she would now be doubly despairing. but it could not now be helped and he resolved to make good his remissness early the next morning. sendlingen, however, he would go and see. "perhaps he is in want of me," he thought. "i should be much surprised if he were not now more helpless than ever." he made his way through the wet, cold, foggy autumn night; things he had never dreamt of were in store for him. when he pulled the bell, the door was at once opened: fräulein brigitta stood before him. the candlestick in her hand trembled: the plump, well-nourished face of the worthy lady was so full of anguish that berger started. "what has happened?" he cried. "nothing!" she answered. "nothing at all! it is only that i am so silly." but her hand was trembling so much that she had to put down her candle and the tears streamed down her cheeks as she continued with an effort: "he went out--and has not come back--and so i thought--but i am so silly." "so it seems," berger roughly exclaimed, trying to encourage both her and himself, but a sudden anguish so choked his utterance that what he next said sounded almost unintelligible. "may he not pay a visit to a friend and stay to supper there? is he so much under your thumb that he must give you previous notice of his intention? he is at baron dernegg's i suppose." "no," she sobbed. "he is not there, and franz has already looked for him in vain in all the places where he might be. he was twice at your house, but your servant would not admit him. and now the old man is scouring the streets. he will not find him!" she suddenly screamed, burying her face in her hands. "nonsense!" cried berger almost angrily. he forced the trembling woman into a chair, sat down beside her and took her hand. "let us talk like reasonable beings," he said, "like men, fräulein brigitta. when did he go out?" "seven hours ago, just after his dinner, which he hardly touched; it must have been about four o'clock. and how he has been behaving ... and especially since mid-day yesterday.... dr. berger," she cried imploringly, clasping her hands, "what happened yesterday in chambers? when he came back from vienna he was still calm and cheerful. it must be here and yesterday that some misfortune struck him. i thought at first that it was illness, but i know better now: it is a misfortune, a great misfortune! dr. berger, for christ's sake, tell me what it is!" she would have sunk down at his feet, if he had not hastily prevented her. "be reasonable!" he urged, "it is an illness, fräulein brigitta,--the heart, the nerves." she shook her head vigorously. "i guess what it is." she pointed in the direction of the jail. "something has happened in the prison over there that is a matter of life and death to him." he started. "why do you suppose that?" "because he behaved so strangely--just listen to this." but she had first the difficult task of calming herself before she could proceed. "well, when i went into his room to-day to tell him dinner was ready, he was standing in front of his writing-table rummaging in all the drawers. 'what are you looking for, my lord?' i asked. 'nothing,' he muttered and he sent me away, saying he was just coming. twenty minutes later i ventured to go back again; he was still searching. 'have you ever,' he now himself asked, 'heard of any keys that my predecessor is said to have handed over?' 'yes,' i replied, 'the keys of the residence.' 'no, others, and among them the key of the door which----' he checked himself suddenly and turned away as though he had already said too much. 'what door?' i asked in utter astonishment. he muttered something unintelligible and then roughly told me the soup could wait. it cuts me to the heart. dear heaven, how wretched he looks, and i am not accustomed to be spoken to by him in that way; but what does that matter? i went and spoke to franz. 'perhaps,' he said, 'he means the keys that are in the top drawer of his business table.' so we went and looked and there, sure enough, was a bunch of keys--quite rusty, dr. berger." "go on, to the point," said berger impatiently. "well, i took them to him; as i said, a whole bunch with a written label on each. he looked through them with trembling hands. dr. berger, and at last his face lit up. 'that's the one!' he muttered and took the key off the bunch and put it in his breast pocket. then he turned round and when he saw me--great heaven! what eyes he had--wicked, frightened eyes. 'are you still here?' he said flaring up into a rage. 'what do you want playing the spy here?' yes, dr. berger, he said 'playing the spy'--and he has known me for fifteen years." "he is ill you see!" said berger soothingly. "but go on!" "then he sat down to dinner and there he behaved very strangely. god forgive me ... usually he only drinks one glass of rhine-wine--you know the sort--to-day he gulped down three glasses one after another, took a few spoonfuls of soup and then went back to his room. and then i said: franz, i said--but you won't want to hear that. dr. berger. but what follows you must hear; it's very strange--god help us! only too strange." "well?" "after about ten minutes or so, i heard his step in the lobby; the door slammed; well, he had gone out. 'by all that's sacred!' thinks i in great trouble of mind. then franz came in quite upset. 'fräulein!' he whispered, 'he's going up and down in the court outside!' 'impossible!' said i, 'what does he want there?' we went to the bedroom window that looks down into the court and there, sure enough, is his lordship! he was going--or rather he was creeping along by the wall that separates our court from the prison yard. it was drizzling at the time and it was no longer quite light, but i could see his face plainly: it was the face of a man who doesn't know what to do--ah me! worse still--the face of a man who doesn't know what he's doing. and he behaved like it, dr. berger! he stopped in front of the little door in the wall, looked anxiously up at the windows to see if anyone was watching him--but the clerks and officials had all gone, we were the only people who saw him--he pulled out that key from his breast pocket and tried to unlock the door. for a long time he couldn't succeed, but at last the door opened. however, he only shut it again quickly and locked it. then he began anxiously to pace up and down again. it was just as if he had only wanted to try whether the key would open the door. what do you think of that?" "the door through which one can get from here into the prison?" berger spoke slowly, in a muffled tone, as if he were speaking to himself. then he continued in the same tone: "oh, how frightful that would be! this soul in the mire, this splendid soul!--go on!" he then muttered as he saw that the housekeeper was looking at him in amazement. "well, then he went quickly back through the hall into the street and on towards the square. franz crept after him at a distance. he seemed at first as if he wanted to go to your house, then he came back here, but to the other door, on the prison side. there he stood, close up to it, for a long time, a quarter of an hour franz says, and then went to the left down cross street and then--what do you think, dr. berger?" "back the same way," said berger slowly, "and again stood for a long time in front of the prison." "how can you know that?" asked the old lady in astonishment. berger's answer was a strange one. "i can see it!" he said. and indeed, with the eyes of his soul, berger could see his unhappy friend wandering about in the misty darkness, dragged hither and thither, by whirling, conflicting thoughts. "perhaps he is at this moment standing there again!" he had not meant to say this, but the thought had involuntarily given itself voice. "what now!" fräulein brigitta crossed herself. "we will go and see at once! come! oh, that would be a good thing! i will just go and fetch my shawl. but you see i was right. this trouble is connected with the prison; some injustice has been done, and he feels it nearly because he is such a just judge." "because he is such a just judge," repeated berger, mechanically, without thinking of what he was saying, for while he spoke those words he was saying to himself: "he has gone mad!" then, however, he shook off the spell of this horror that threatened to cripple both soul and body. "you stay at home," he said in a tone of command. "i will find him and bring him back, you may rely upon that. one thing more, where did franz leave him?" "ah, he was too simple! when his lordship came into the square for the third time, franz went up to him and begged him to come home. upon that he became very angry and sent franz off with the strongest language. but he called after him that he was going to baron dernegg's, only as i said, he has not been there, and----" "keep up your spirits, fräulein brigitta! i shall be back soon." he went down the steps, "keep up your spirits!" he called back to her once more; she was standing at the top of the steps holding the candle at arm's length before her. berger stepped into the street and walked swiftly round the building to the prison door. he himself was in need of the exhortation he had given: he felt as if in the next moment he might see something frightful. but there was nothing to be seen when he at length reached the place and approached the door, nothing save the muddy slippery ground, the trickling, mouldy walls, the iron-work of the door shining in the wet--nothing else, so far as the red, smoky light of the two lanterns above the door could show through the fog and rain. and there was nothing to be heard save the low pattering of the rain-drops on the soft earth or, when a sudden gust of the east-wind blew, the creaking of some loosened rafter and a whirring, long-drawn, complaining sound that came from the bare trees on the ramparts when they writhed and bent beneath its icy breath. "victor!" there was a movement in the sentry box by the door; the poor, frozen venetian soldier of the dom miguel regiment who had sheltered himself inside as well as he could from the rain and cold, poked out his heavy sleepy head so that the shine of his wet leather shako was visible for an instant. he muttered an oath and wrapped himself the closer in his damp overcoat. berger sighed deeply. a minute before he was sure he had seen the poor madman standing motionless in the desolate night, his eyes rigidly fixed upon the door that separated him from his daughter, and now that he was spared the sight, he could take no comfort, for a far worse foreboding convulsed his brain. hesitatingly he returned to the front part of the building and, increasing his pace, he went down the street towards the market-place, aimlessly, but always swifter, as if he had to go where chance led him, so as to arrive in time to stop some frightful deed. the streets were deserted, nothing but the wind roamed through the drenching solitude, nothing but the voices of the night greeted his ear; that ceaseless murmur and rustle and stir, which, drowned by the noise of the day, moves in the dark stillness, as though dead and dumb things had now first found a voice to reach the sense of men. he often had to stop; it seemed to him as if he heard the piteous groaning of a sick man, or the half stifled cry for help of one wounded. but it was nothing; the wind had shaken some rotting roof, or somewhere in the far distance a watch-dog had given a short, sharp bark. the lonely wanderer held his breath in order to hear better, looked also perhaps into some dark corner and then hurried on. he reached the market place. here he came upon human beings again, the sentries before the principal guard-house, and as he passed the column commemorative of the cholera in the middle of the square, there was the night-watchman who had pitched upon a dry sleeping place in one of the niches of the irregular monument. berger stopped irresolutely; should he wake him up and question him? another form at this moment emerged from a neighbouring street; a man who with bowed head and halting pace glided along by the houses: was this not franz? berger could not yet, by the light of the meagre lamps, accurately distinguish him in the all-pervading fog. but the man came nearer and nearer; he was behaving peculiarly; he was looking into every door-way, and when he came to the "sign of the arbour," a very ancient shop full of recesses, he went into each of these recesses, so that a spectator saw him alternately appearing and disappearing. when he at length reappeared just under a lamp berger recognised him; it was really the old servant. "like a faithful dog seeking his master," he said to himself as he hurried towards him. franz rushed to meet him. "you know nothing of him?" "be quiet, man. we will look for him together." "no, separately!" he seized berger's arm and grasped it convulsively. "you by the river-side and i up here. there is not a moment to lose." berger asked no more questions but hurried down the broad, inclined street that led to the river. here, in cross street, where most of the pleasure-resorts were, there were still signs of life; he had repeatedly to get out of the way of drunken men who passed along bawling; poor forlorn looking girls brushed past him. in one of the quieter streets he noticed a moving light coming nearer and nearer: it was a large lantern in the hand of a servant who was carefully lighting the gentleman who followed him. berger recognised the features of the little, wizened creature who, in spite of the awful weather was contentedly tripping along, with satisfaction in every lineament, under the shelter of a mighty umbrella; it was the deputy chief-justice, herr von werner. he would have passed by without a word, but werner recognised him and called to him. "eh! eh! it's dr. berger!" he snickered. "out so late! hee, hee! i seem to be meeting all the important people! first--hee! hee! the lord chief justice and now----" "have you seen him?" "why yes. you are surprised? so was i! just as i stepped out of my son-in-law's house, he passed by. i called after him because i wanted to tell him the news. for you may congratulate me, dr. berger. certainly, you annoyed me this morning, you annoyed me very much i but in my joy i will forgive you! my first grandson, a splendid boy, and how he can cry!" "where did you see him? when?" "eh! goodness me, what is the matter with you? it was scarcely five minutes ago, he was going--only fancy--towards wurst street. you seem upset! and he wouldn't listen to me! why, what is the matter?" berger made no reply. without a word of farewell, he rushed precipitately down the street out of which werner had come and turned to the right into a narrow, dirty slum which led by a steep incline to the river. this was wurst street, the poorest district of the town, the haunt of porters, boatmen and raftsmen; alongside the narrow quay in which the street ended, lay their craft; the corner building next the river was the public house which they frequented. a light still glimmered behind its small window-panes and, as berger hurried by, the sound of rough song and laughter greeted his ears. he did not stop till he came right up to the river's edge. its waters were swollen by the autumn rains; swift and tumultuous they coursed along its broad bed, perceptible to the ear only, not to the eye, so fearfully dark was the night. berger could not even distinguish the wooden foot-bridge that here crossed the river, until he was close up to it. hesitatingly he stepped upon the shaky structure. the bridge was scarcely two foot broad, its balustrade was rotten and the footway slippery. over on the other side a solitary light, a lantern, was struggling against wind and fog; its reflection swayed uncertainly on the soaking bridge; when it suddenly flared up in the wind, its flickering, red light revealed for a moment the angry, swollen flood. berger stood still irresolutely; the place was so desolate, so uncanny; should he stay any longer? then suddenly a low cry escaped him and he darted forward a step. the lantern opposite had just flared up and by its reflection he had seen a man approach the bridge and step upon it. it seemed to berger as if this were sendlingen, but he did not know for certain, as the lantern was again giving only the faintest glimmer. the man approached nearer, slowly, and with uncertain step, groping for the balustrade as he came. once more the lantern flared up--there was the long inverness, the gray hat--berger doubted no longer. "victor!" he would have shouted at the top of his voice, but the word passed over his lips huskily, almost inaudibly: he would have darted forward ... but could only take one solitary step more, so greatly had the weirdness of the situation overpowered him. sendlingen did not perceive him: he stopped scarcely ten paces from his friend and bent over the balustrade. resting on both arms, there he stood, staring at the wild and turbulent water. thus passed a few seconds. again the lantern flickered up, for a moment only it gave a clear light. sendlingen had suddenly raised himself and berger saw, or thought he saw, that the unfortunate man was now only resting with one hand on the railing, that his body was lifted up.... "victor!" in two bounds, in two seconds, he was beside him, had seized him, clasped him in his arms. "george!" awful, thrilling was the cry--a cry for help?--or a cry of baffled rage? then berger felt this convulsive body suddenly grow stiff and heavy--he was holding an unconscious burden in his arms. chapter vii. shortly after there was such vigorous knocking at the windows of the little river-side inn that the panes were broken. the landlord and his customers rushed out into the street, cursing. but they ceased when they saw the scared looking figure with its singular burden; silently they helped to bring the prostrate form into the house. the landlord had recognized the features; he whispered the news to the others, and so great was the love and reverence that attached to this name, that the rough, half-drunken fellows stood about in the bare inn-parlor, as orderly and reverent as if they were in church. the body lay motionless on the bench which they had fetched; a feather, held to the lips, scarcely moved, so feebly did the breath come and go. the one remedy in the poor place, the brandy with which his breast and pulses were moistened, proved useless; not till the parish doctor, whom a raftsman hurriedly fetched, had applied his essences, did the unconscious man begin to breathe more deeply and at length open his eyes. but his look was fixed and weird; the white lips muttered confused words. then the deep red eyelids closed again; they showed, as did the tear-stains on his cheeks, how bitterly the poor wretch had been weeping in his aimless wanderings. "we must get him home at once," said the doctor. "there is brain fever coming on." berger sent to the hospital for a litter; it was soon on the spot; the sick man was carefully laid on it. the bearers stepped away rapidly; the doctor and berger walked alongside. when they reached the market-place they came across franz. "dead?" he screamed; but when he heard the contrary, he said not another word, but hurried on ahead. in this way fräulein brigitta was informed; she behaved more calmly than berger could have believed. the bed was all ready; the doctor attached to the courts was soon on the spot. he was of the same opinion as his colleague. "a mortal sickness," he told berger, "the fever is increasing, his consciousness is entirely clouded. perhaps it is owing to overwork at the inquiry in vienna?" he added. "he may have caught a severe cold on the top of it." the parish doctor departed, franz was obliged to go to the chemist's; berger and the resident doctor remained alone with the invalid. the barrister had a severe struggle with himself; should he tell the doctor the whole truth? to any unsuspecting person, sendlingen's demeanor must have seemed like the paroxysm of a fever, but he knew better! certainly the sufferer was physically ailing, but it was not under the weight of empty fancies that he was gently sobbing, or burying his anguish-stricken face in the pillow; the excess of his suffering, the terror of his lonely wanderings had completely broken down his strength; all mastery of self had vanished; he showed himself as he was; in a torment of helplessness. and that which seemed to the doctor the most convincing proof of a mind unhinged berger understood only too well; as for instance when sendlingen beckoned to him, and beseechingly whispered, as if filled with the deepest shame: "go, george, can't you understand that i can no longer bear your looks?" after this berger went out and sank into a chair in the lobby, and the gruesome scene rose before him again; the lonely bridge lit by the flickering lantern; the roaring current beneath him ... "oh, what misery!" he groaned, and for the first time for many years, for the first time perhaps, since his boyhood, he broke out into sobs, even though his eyes remained dry. a rapid footstep disturbed him. it was franz returning with the medicine. berger told him to send the doctor to him at once. "doctor," he said, "you shall know the truth as far as i am at liberty to tell it." a misfortune, he told him, had befallen sendlingen, a misfortune great enough to crush the strongest man. "your art," he concluded, "cannot heal the soul, i know. but you can give my poor friend what he most of all needs; sleep! otherwise his torture will wear out both body and soul." the doctor asked no questions; for a long while he looked silently on the ground. then he said, briefly: "good! fortunately i have the necessary means with me." he went back to the sick-room. ten minutes later, he opened the door and made berger come in. sendlingen was in a deep sleep; and it must have been dreamless, for his features had smoothed themselves again. "how long will this sleep last?" asked berger. "perhaps till mid-day to-morrow," replied the doctor, "perhaps longer, since the body is so exhausted. at least, we shall know to-morrow whether there is a serious illness in store. but even if there is not, if it is only the torture of the mind that returns, it will be bad enough. very bad, in fact. do you know no remedy for it?" "none!" answered the honest lawyer, feebly. they parted without a word in the deepest distress. by earliest dawn, when the bells of the cathedral rang forth for the first time, berger was back again in his friend's lobby. "thank god, he is still sleeping," whispered fräulein brigitta. "the worse has past, hasn't it?" "we will hope so," he replied, constrainedly. for a long time he stood at the window and stared out into the court-yard; involuntarily his gaze fixed itself on the little door in the wall which was so small and low that he had never noticed it before; now he observed it for the first time. then he roused himself and went to the other part of the building to see his unfortunate client. "how is victorine lippert?" he asked of the governor who happened to be at the door. "poor thing!" he said, with a shrug of the shoulders. "it will soon be all over with her, and that will be the best thing for her." "has she been suddenly taken ill?" "no, dr. berger, she is just the same as before, but the doctor does not think she will last much longer. 'snuffed out like a candle,' he says. if she had any sort of hope to which her poor soul might cling; but as it is ... herr von werner had sent him to her to see what punishment she could bear for yesterday's scene in court, but the doctor said to him afterward: 'it would be sheer barbarity! let her die in peace!' but herr von werner was of opinion that he could not pass over the offence without some punishment, and that she would survive one day of the dark cell; he only relented when father rohn interceded for her. the priest was with her yesterday at two o'clock, and has made her peace with god. do you still intend to appeal? well, as you think best. but it will be labor in vain, dr. berger! she will die before you receive the decision." "god forbid!" cried berger. the governor shook his head. "she would be free in that case," he said. "why should you wish her to live? what do you hope to attain? commutation to penal servitude for life, or imprisonment for twenty years! does that strike you as being better? i don't think so; in my profession it is impossible to believe it, dr. berger. well, as you think best! if you want to speak to victorine lippert, the warder shall take you round." the governor departed; berger stood looking after him a long while. then he stepped out into the prison yard and paced up and down; he felt the need of quieting himself before going into her cell. "that would be frightful," he thought. "and yet, perhaps, the man is right, perhaps it would really be best for her--and for him!" he tried to shake off the thought, but it returned. "and it would mean the end of this fearful complication, a sad, a pitiable end--but still an end!" but then he checked himself. "no, it would be no end, because it would be no solution. in misery he would drag out his whole existence; in remorse; in despair! no, on the contrary, her death might be the worst blow that could befal him! but what is to be done to prevent it? it would be possible to get her ordered better food, a lighter cell, and more exercise in the open. but all that would be no use if she is really as bad as the doctor thinks! she will die--o god! she will die before the decision of the supreme court arrives." more perplexed and despairing than before, he now repaired to her cell. the warder unlocked it and he entered. victorine was reclining on her couch, her head pressed against the wall. at his entrance, she tried to rise, but he prevented her. "how are you?" he asked. "better, i hope?" "yes," she answered softly, "and all will soon be well with me." he knew what she meant and alas! it was only too plainly visible that this hope at least was not fallacious. paler than she had latterly been it was almost impossible that she should become, but more haggard berger certainly thought her; her whole bearing was more broken down and feeble. "she is right," he thought, but he forced himself and made every endeavour to appear more confident than he really was. "i am glad of that!" he tried to say it in the most unconstrained manner in the world, but could only blurt it out in a suppressed tone of voice. "i hope----" she looked at him, and, in the face of this look of immeasurable grief, of longing for death, the like of which he had never seen in any human eyes, the words died on his lips. it seemed to him unworthy any longer to keep up the pretence of not understanding her. "my poor child," he murmured, taking her hand, "i know. i know. but you are still young, why will you cease to hope? i have drawn up the appeal, i shall lodge it to-day--i am sure you will be pardoned." "that would be frightful!" she said in a low tone. "i begged you so earnestly to leave it alone. but i am not angry with you. you have done it because your pity constrained you, perhaps, too, your conscience and sense of justice--and to me it is all one! my life at all events, is only a matter of weeks: i shall never leave this cell alive! thank heaven! since yesterday afternoon this has become a certainty!" "the doctor told you? oh, that was not right of him." "do not blame him!" she begged. "it was an act of humanity. if he had only told me to relieve me of the fear of the hangman, he should be commended, not reproved. but it happened differently; at first he did not want to tell me the truth, it was evident from what he was saying, and when the truth had once slipped out, he could no longer deny it. he was exhorting me to hope, to cling to life, he spoke to me as you do, 'for otherwise' he said, 'you are lost! my medicines cannot give you vital energy!' his pity moved him to dwell on this more and more pointedly and decidedly. 'if you do not rouse yourself,' he said at last, 'you will be your own executioner.' he was frightened at what he had said almost before he had finished, and still more when i thanked him as for the greatest kindness he could have done me. he only left me to send father rohn. he came too, but----" she sighed deeply and stopped. "he surely didn't torture you with bigoted speeches?" asked berger. "i know him. father rohn is a worthy man who knows life; he is a human being ..." "of course! but just because he is no hypocrite he could say nothing that would really comfort me for this life. at most for that other life, which perhaps--no certainly!" she said hurriedly. "so many people believe in it, good earnest men who have seen and suffered much misfortune, how should a simple girl dare to doubt it? certainly, dr. berger, when i think of my own life and my mother's life, it is not easy to believe in an all-just, all-merciful god. but i do believe in him--yes! though so good a man as father rohn could only say: amends will be made up there. only the way he said it fully convinced me! but, after all, he could only give me hope in death, not hope for life." "certainly against his will," cried berger. "you did not want to understand him." "yes, dr. berger, i did want to understand him and understood him--in everything--excepting only one thing," she added hesitatingly. "but that was not in my power--i could not! and whatever trouble he took it was in vain." "and what was this one thing?" "he asked me if there was no one i was attached to, who loved me, to whom my life or death mattered? no, i answered, nobody--and then he asked--but why touch upon the hateful subject! let us leave it alone, dr. berger." "no," cried berger, white with emotion, "i implore you, let us talk about it. he asked you whether you did not know your father." she nodded; a faint red overspread her pale cheeks. "and you answered?" "what i have told you: that i did not know him, that if he were living i should not love and reverence him as my father, but hate and despise him as the wretch who ruined my mother!" she had half raised herself, and had spoken with a strength and energy that berger had not believed possible. now she sank back on her couch. he sighed deeply. "and you adhered to that," he began again, "whatever father rohn might say? he told you that on the threshold of--that in your situation one should not hate, but forgive, that whoever hopes for god's mercy must not himself condemn unmercifully!" "yes," she replied, "he said so, if perhaps in gentler words. for he seemed to feel that i did not require to depend on god's mercy, but only on his justice." "forgive me!" muttered berger. "for i know your fate and know you. but just because i know your affectionate nature and your need of affection----" he stopped. "gently," he thought, "i must be cautious." "don't consider me unfeeling," he then continued, "if i dwell upon this matter, however painful it may be to you. just this one thing: does it follow that this man must be a wretch? were there not perhaps fatal circumstances that bound him against his will and prevented him doing his duty to your poor mother?" "no," she answered. "i know there were not!" "you know there were not?" murmured berger in the greatest consternation. "but do you know him?" "yes. i know his heart, his character, and that is enough. what does it matter to me what his name is, or his station? whether he is living or dead? to me he has never lived! i know him from my mother's judgment, and that she, the gentlest of women, could not judge otherwise, proves his unworthiness. only one single time did she speak to me of him, when i was old enough to ask and to be told why people sometimes spoke of us with a shrug of the shoulders. 'if he had been thoughtless and weak,' she said to me, 'i could have forgiven him. but i have never known a man who viewed life more earnestly and intelligently: none who was so strong and brave and resolute as he. it was only from boundless selfishness, after mature, cold-blooded calculation that he delivered me to dishonor, because i was an obstacle in his career.' you see he was more pitiless than the man whom i trusted." "no," cried berger in the greatest excitement. "you do him injustice!" "injustice! how do you know that? do you know him?" he turned away and was silent. "no," he then murmured, "how should i know him?" "then why do you dissent from me with such conviction? oh, i understand," she went on bitterly, "you, even you, don't think my mother's words trustworthy, and simply because she allowed herself to be deluded by a wretch!" "no, indeed!" returned berger, trying to compose himself, "for i know how noble, how true and good your mother was, i know it from her letters. the remark escaped me unawares. but you are right. let us drop this subject." then he asked her if she would like to have some books. she answered in the negative and he left the cell. "sendlingen must never see her!" he thought when he was back in the street. "if he were to enter her cell he would betray himself and then learn what she thinks of him! it would utterly crush him. that, at least, he shall be spared." but the next few minutes were to show him that he had been planning impossibilities. as he passed the chief justice's residence, an upstairs window opened; he heard his name called loud and anxiously. it was fräulein brigitta. "quickly," cried she, beckoning him to come up. he hurried up the stairs, she rushed to meet him. "heaven has sent you to us," she cried, weeping and wringing her hands. "how fortunate that i accidentally saw you passing. we were at our wits' end? he insists on going out. franz is to dress him. we do not know what has excited him so. father rohn has been to see him, but he talked so quietly with him that we breathed again indeed. it is manifestly a sudden attack of fever, but we cannot use force to him." berger hurried to the bedroom. sendlingen was reclining in an arm-chair, franz was attending to him. at his friend's entrance he coloured, and held up his hand deprecatingly. "they have fetched you," he cried impatiently. "it is useless! i am not going to be prevented!" berger signed to franz to leave the room. not until the door was closed behind him did he approach the sick man, and take his hand, and look searchingly into his face. it reassured him to see that, though his eyes were dim, they no longer looked wild and restless as they did a few hours ago. "you are going to her?" he asked. "that must not be." "i must!" cried sendlingen despairingly. "it is the one thought to which i cling to avoid madness. when i awoke--i was so perplexed and desolate, i felt my misery returning--then i heard rohn's voice in the next room. they were going to send him away: i was still asleep, they said,--but i made him come in, because i wanted to hear some other voice than that of my conscience, and because i was afraid of myself. i did not dream that he was bringing me a staff by which i could raise myself again." "you asked him about her?" "no, by the merest chance he began to tell me of his talk with her yesterday, and how she was wasting away because there was no one on earth for whose sake she could or would rouse herself. oh, what i felt! despair shook my heart more deeply than ever, and yet i could have thanked him on my knees for these good tidings. now my life has an object again, and i know why fate has allowed me to survive this day." berger was silent--should he, dared he, tell the truth? "think it over a while," he begged. "if you were to betray yourself to the officials----" "i shall not do so. and if i did, how could that trouble me? don't you see that a man in my situation cannot think of himself or any such secondary consideration?" "that would be no secondary consideration. and could you save her by such a step? the situation remains as it was!" "are you cruel enough to remind me of that?" cried sendlingen. "but, thank god! i am clear enough to give you the right answer instead of allowing myself to be oppressed by misery. now listen; i shall do what i can! from the hangman, from the prison, i may not be able to save my child, but perhaps i can save her from despair, from wasting away. i shall say to her: live for your father, as your father lives for you! perhaps this thought will affect her as it has affected me; it has saved me from the worst. another night like last night, george!" he stopped and a shudder ran through his body. "such a night shall not come again! i do not know what is to be done later on, but my immediate duty is clear. i have been fighting against the instinct that drew me to her, as against a suggestion of madness; i now see that it was leading me aright." he laid his hand on the bell to summon franz. berger prevented him, "wait another hour," he implored. "i will not try to hinder you any more; i see that it would be useless, perhaps unjust. but let me speak to her first. humour me in this one thing only. you agreed to do so yesterday." "so be it!" said sendlingen. "but you must promise not to keep me waiting a minute longer than is absolutely necessary." berger promised and took his leave. he was not a religious man in the popular sense of the word, and yet as he again rang the prison bell, he felt as if he must pray that his words would be of effect as a man only can pray for a favour for himself. the warder was astonished when he again asked admission to the cell, and victorine looked at him with surprise. he went up to her. "listen to me," he begged. "i have hitherto wished to conceal the truth from you, with the best intentions, but still it was not right. for falsehood kills and truth saves, always and everywhere--i ought to have remembered that. well then; i know your father; he is my best friend, a man so noble and good, so upright and full of heart, as are few men on this poor earth." she rose. "if that were so my mother would have lied," she cried. "can i believe you rather than my mother? can you expect that of me?" "no," he replied. "your mother judged him quite correctly. he did not betray her through thoughtlessness, nor forsake her through weakness. but much less still from cold-blooded calculation. no external constraint weighed upon him but an internal,--the constraint of education, of his convictions, of his views of the world and men, in short, of his whole being, so that he could hardly have acted differently. with all this there was such a fatal, peculiar concatenation of external circumstances, that it would have needed a giant soul not to have succumbed. we are all of us but men. i would not trust anyone i know, not even myself, to have been stronger than he was! not one, victorine! will you believe me?" "my mother judged otherwise!" she replied. "and will you perhaps also attempt to justify the fact that he never concerned himself about his child?" "he knew nothing of you," cried berger. "he did not dream that he had a child in the world! and one thing i can assure you: if he had accidentally heard that you were alive, he would not have rested until he had drawn you to his heart, he would have sheltered you in his arms, in his house, from the battle with misery and the wickedness of men. not only his heart would have dictated this, but the absence of children by his marriage, and his sense of justice: so as to make good through you what he could no longer make good to your poor mother. if you could only imagine how he suffers!--you must surely be able to feel for him: a noble man, who suddenly learns that his offence is ten times greater than he had thought or dreamt; that he has a child in the world against whom also he has transgressed, and who learns all this at a moment when he can make no reparation--in such a moment--can you grasp this, victorine?" her face remained unmoved. "what shall i say?" she exclaimed gloomily. "if he really suffers, the punishment is only just. what did my mother not suffer on his account! and i!" "but can we ascribe all the blame to him?" he cried. "all, victorine?" "perhaps," she answered. "but if not all, then the most, so much that i will certainly believe you in one thing; if he is a human being at all, then he should now be suffering all the tortures of remorse. still, as great as my sorrow, his cannot be! and is my guilt greater than his? and has he, too, to expiate it with honour and life?" "quite possibly!" he cried. "perhaps with his life, seeing that he cannot, situated as he now is, expiate it with his honour. oh, if you knew all! if you knew what an unprecedented combination of circumstances has heightened the sense of his guilt, has increased his sorrow to infinite proportions. and you shall know all." "i will not hear it," she cried with a swift movement of repulsion, "i do not care, i may not care about it. i will not be robbed of my feelings against this man. i will not! his punishment is just--let us drop the subject." "just! still this talk about just! you are young but you have experienced enough of life, you have suffered enough, to know how far this justice will bring us. an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth--shall this pitiless web of guilt and expiation continue to spin itself everlastingly from generation to generation? can't you understand that this life would be unendurable if a high-minded deed, a noble victory over self, did not at times rend the web? you should understand this, poor child, you more than anyone. do such a deed, forgive this unhappy man!" "did he send you to me on this mission?" "no. i will be truthful in the smallest detail: i myself wrested from him permission to prepare you for his coming. i wished to spare you and him the emotions of a melancholy contest. for he does not even suspect what you think of him." "he does not suspect it?" she cried. "he thinks that the balance is struck, if he graces a fallen, a condemned creature with a visit! oh, and this man is noble and sensitive!" "you are unjust to him in that, too," protested berger. "and in that most of all. that he who can usually read the hearts of men like a book, has not thought of this most obvious and natural thing, shows best of all how greatly his misery has distracted and desolated him. he only wants one thing: to come to you, to console you, to console himself in you." "i will not see him, you must prevent it." "i cannot. i have tried in vain. he will come; his reason, perhaps his life, depend upon the way you may receive him." "do not burden me with such responsibilities," she sobbed despairingly. "i cannot forgive him. but i desire nobody's death, i do not wish him to die. tell him what you like, even that i forgive him, but keep him away, i implore you." she would have thrown herself at his feet but he prevented her. "no, not that," he murmured. "i will not urge any more. as god wills." a few minutes later he was again with sendlingen. "she knows all," he told him, "except your name and station. she does not desire your visit--she--dreads the excitement." he stopped short and looked anxiously at his friend; he feared another sudden outburst of despair. but it did not come. sendlingen certainly started as in pain, but then he drew himself up to his full height. "you are concealing the truth from me," he said. "she does not wish to see her mother's betrayer. i did not think of it before, but i read it at once in your looks of alarm. that is bad, very bad--but stop me, it cannot. where the stranger has tried in vain the father will succeed. my heart tells me so." he called for his hat and stick and leaning on berger's arm, went down the steps. in the street he loosed his hold: the energy of his soul had given his body new strength. with a firm step he walked to the prison door, and the quiver in his voice was scarcely perceptible as he gave the warder the order to open victorine lippert's cell. the official obeyed. the prisoner hardly looked up when she heard the bolts rattle yet another time. the warder felt himself in duty bound to call her attention to the importance of the visit she was about to receive. "his lordship, the chief justice, baron sendlingen!" he whispered to her. "inspection of the cells. stand up." he stepped back respectfully to admit sendlingen and locked the door after him. the two were alone. victorine had risen as she had been told: once only did she cast a transient and nonchalant look at the tall figure before her, then she remained standing with bowed head. similar inspections had frequently taken place before; in each case the functionary had briefly asked whether the prisoner wished anything or had any complaint to make. this question she was waiting for now in order to reply as briefly in the negative; she wanted nothing more. but he was silent, and as she looked up surprised--"merciful god!" she cried, and reeled back on to her couch, covering her face with her trembling hands. she knew who this man was at once, at the first glance. how she had recognised him with such lightning speed, she could not determine, even later when she thought the matter over. it was half dark in the cell, she had not properly seen his features and expression. perhaps it was his attitude which betrayed him. with bowed head, his hands listlessly hanging by his sides, he stood there like a criminal before his judge. at her exclamation, he looked up and came nearer. "victorine," he murmured. she did not understand him, so low was his stifled articulation. "my child!" he then cried aloud and darted towards her. she rose to her feet and stretched out her hands as if to repel him, gazing at him all the while with widely opened eyes. and again she did not know what it was that suddenly penetrated and moved her heart. was it because his face seemed familiar to her, mysteriously familiar, as if she had seen it ever since she could think?... yes, it was so! for what unknown to herself, had overpowered her, was the likeness to her own face. or was it perhaps the silent misery of his face, the beseeching look of his eyes? she felt the bitter animosity to which she had despairingly clung, the one feeling of which she would not be robbed, suddenly melt away. "i cannot," she still faltered, but in the same breath she lifted up her arms. "father!" she cried and threw herself on his breast. he caught her in his arms and covered her head and face with tears and kisses. then he drew her upon his knees and laid her head on his breast. thus they sat and neither spoke a word; only their tears flowed on and on. chapter viii. half an hour might have passed since sendlingen entered his daughter's cell: to berger, who was pacing up and down outside as sentry, it seemed an eternity. the warder, too, was struck by the proceeding. this zealous, but very loquacious official, whom berger had known for many years, approached him with a confidential smile. "there must--naturally enough--be something strange going on in there," he said as he pointed with a smirk towards the cell. "something very strange." berger at first stared at the man as much disconcerted as if he had said that he knew the secret. "what do you mean by that," he then said roughly. "your opinions are not wanted." the warder looked at him amazed. "well, such as we--naturally enough--are at least entitled to our thoughts," he replied. "there has been a run upon this cell since yesterday as if it contained a princess! first the doctor. father rohn and you, herr berger--and now his lordship the chief justice, and all in little more than an hour's time. that doesn't occur every day, and i know the reason for it." berger forced himself to smile. "of course you do, because you're such a smart fellow, höbinger! what is the reason of it?" "well with you, dr. berger, i can--naturally enough--talk about the matter," replied the warder flattered, "although you are the prisoner's counsel and a friend of the chief justice. but in 1848 you made great speeches and were always on the side of the people; you will not betray me, dr. berger. well--naturally enough--it is the old story: there is no such thing as equality in this world! if she, in there, were a servant-girl who had been led astray by a servant-man, not a soul would trouble their heads about her! but she is an educated person, and what is the principal thing--her seducer is a count--that alters matters. of course she had to be condemned--naturally enough--because the law requires it, but afterwards every care is taken of her, and if she were to get off with a slight punishment i, for one, shouldn't be surprised. of course the governor says that that's nonsense; if it were a case of favouritism he says, herr von werner would have behaved differently to her; the vice chief justice, he says, has a very keen scent for favouritism; you, höbinger, he says--naturally enough--are an ass! but i know what i know, and since his lordship has taken the trouble to come, not in a general inspection, but on a special visit that is lasting longer than anything that has ever been heard or dreamt of, i am quite convinced that it is not i, but on the contrary, the governor...." but the crafty fellow did not allow this disrespect to his superior to pass his lips, but contented himself by triumphantly concluding: "naturally enough--is it not, dr. berger?" berger thought it best to give no definite answer. if this chatter-box were to confide his suspicions to the other prison officials, it would at least be the most harmless interpretation and therefore he only said: "you think too much, höbinger. that has often proved dangerous to many men." another half hour had gone by and berger's anxiety and impatience reached the highest pitch. he was uncertain whether to put a favourable or an unfavourable interpretation upon this long stay of sendlingen's, and even if he had succeeded in touching his child's heart, yet any further talk in this place and under these conditions was a danger. how great a danger, berger was soon to see plainly enough. the artful höbinger was slinking about near the cell more and more restlessly. only berger's presence kept him from listening at the key-hole, or from opening the little peep-hole at the door, through which, unobserved by the prisoner, he could see the inside of every cell. the desire was getting stronger and stronger; his fingers itched to press the spring that would open it. at last, just as berger had turned his back, he succumbed to his curiosity; the little wooden door flew open noiselessly--he was going to fix his eyes in the opening.... at that moment berger happened to turn round. "what are you doing there?" he cried in such a way that the man started and stepped back. in a second berger was beside him, had seized his arms and flung him aside. "what impertinence!" he cried. the warder was trembling in every limb. "for god's sake," he begged, "don't ruin me. i only wanted to see whether--whether his lordship was all right." "that's a lie!" cried berger with intentional loudness. "you have dared----" he did not require to finish the sentence; his object was attained: sendlingen opened the door and came out of the cell. his face bore once more its wonted expression of kindly repose; he seemed to have recovered complete mastery of himself. "you can lock up again," he said to the warder. he seemed to understand what had just passed for he asked no questions. still höbinger thought it necessary to excuse himself. "my lord," he stammered, "i only wanted to do my duty. it sometimes happens that--that criminals become infuriated and attack the visitors." "does that poor creature in here strike you as being dangerous?" asked sendlingen. it seemed to berger almost unnatural that he could put forth the effort to say this, nay more, that he could at the same time force a smile. "my lord----" "never mind, höbinger! you were perhaps a little inquisitive, but that shall be overlooked in consideration of your former good conduct. besides, prisoners are allowed no secrets, at all events after their sentence." turning to berger he continued: "she must be taken to the infirmary this afternoon, it is a necessity. have you anything else to do here? no? well, come back with me." it all sounded so calm, so business-like--berger could hardly contain his astonishment. he would never have believed his friend capable of such strength and especially after such a night--after such an interview! "i admire your strength of nerve," cried he when they got out into the street. "that was a fearful moment." "indeed it was!" agreed sendlingen, his voice trembling for the first time. "if the fellow had cast one single look through the peep-hole, we should have both been lost! fancy höbinger, the warder, seeing the chief justice with a criminal in his arms!" "ah then, it came to that?" "should i otherwise be so calm? i am calm because i have now an object again, because i see a way of doing my duty. oh, george, how right you were: happy indeed am i that i live and can pay my debt." "what do you think of doing?" "first of all the most important thing: to preserve her life, to prepare her for life. as i just said, she shall be allotted a cell in the infirmary and have a patient's diet. i may do this without dereliction of duty: i should have to take such measures with anyone else if i knew the circumstances as accurately as i do in this case." "but you will not be able to visit her too often in the infirmary," objected berger. "certainly not," replied sendlingen. "i see that the danger is too great, and i told her so. yes, you were right in that too: it is no secondary consideration whether our relationship remains undiscovered or not. i cannot understand how it was that i did not see this before: why, as i now see, _everything_ depends upon that. and i see things clearly now; this interview has worked a miracle in me, george--it has rent the veil before my eyes, it has dispelled the mist in my brain. i know i can see victorine but seldom. on the other hand brigitta will be with her daily: for she is a member of the 'women's society,' and it will strike nobody if she specially devotes herself to my poor child." "it will not strike others, but will she not herself guess the truth?" "why, she shall know all! i will tell her this very day. she is entirely devoted to me, brave and sterling, the best of women. besides i have no choice. intercourse with a good, sensible woman is of the most urgent necessity to my poor dear. but i have not resolved on this step simply for that reason. i shall need this faithful soul later on as well." "i understand--after the term of imprisonment is at an end." sendlingen stood still and looked at his friend; it was the old look full of wretchedness and despair. "yes!" he said unsteadily. "certainly, i had hardly thought of that. i do not indulge any extravagant hopes: i am prepared for anything, even for the worst. and just in this event brigitta's help would be more than ever indispensable to me." "if the worst were to happen?" asked bergen "how am i to understand that?" sendlingen made no reply. not until berger repeated the question did he say, slowly and feebly: "such things should not be talked about, not with anyone, not even with a best friend, not even with one's self. such a thing is not even dwelt upon in thought; it is done when it has to be done." his look was fixed as he spoke, like a man gazing into a far distance or down into a deep abyss. then his face became calm and resolved again. "one thing more," he said. "you have finished drawing up the appeal? may i read it? forgive me, of course i have every confidence in you. but see! so much depends upon it for me, perhaps something might occur to me that would be of importance!" "what need of asking?" interrupted berger. "it would be doing me a service. we will go through the document together this very day." when he called on his friend in the evening with this object, fräulein brigitta came out to see him. the old lady's eyes were red with crying, but her face was, as it were, lit up with a strong and noble emotion. "i have already visited her," she whispered to berger. "oh believe me, she is an angel, a thousand times purer than are many who plume themselves or their virtue. i bade her be of good cheer, and then i told her much about his lordship--who knows better how, who knows him better? she listened to me peacefully, crying quietly all the time and i had to cry too--. but all will come right; i am quite sure of it. if the god above us were to let these two creatures perish, _these_ two----" her voice broke with deep emotion. berger silently pressed her hand and entered the study. he found his friend calm and collected. sendlingen no longer complained; no word, no look, betrayed the burden that oppressed his soul. he dispatched his business with berger conscientiously and thoroughly, and as dispassionately as if it were a law examination paper. more than that--when he came to a place where berger, in the exaltation of the moment, had chosen too strong an expression, he always stopped him: "that won't do: we must find calmer and more temperate words!" and usually it was he too who found these calmer and more temperate words. down to the last word he maintained this clearness, this almost unnatural calm. not until berger had folded his paper and was putting it in his pocket did the consciousness of his misery seem to return. involuntarily he stretched forth his hand towards the paper. "you want to refer to something again?" asked berger. "no!" his hand dropped listlessly. "besides it is all labour in vain. my lot is cast." "your lot?" cried berger. "however much you may be bound up with the fate of your child, you must not say that!" "_my_ lot, _only_ my lot!" berger observed the same peculiar look and tone he had before noticed when sendlingen said that such things should not be spoken of even to one's self.... but this time berger wanted to force him to an explanation. "you talk in riddles," he began; but he got no further, for, with a decision that made any further questions impossible, sendlingen interrupted him: "may i be spared the hour when you learn to know this riddle! even you can have no better wish than this for me! why vainly sound the lowest depths? good night, george, and thanks a thousand, thousand times!" chapter ix. six weeks had elapsed since the dispatch of the appeal: christmas was at the door. the days had come and gone quickly without bringing any fresh storm, any fresh danger, but certainly without dispelling even one of the clouds that hung threateningly over the heads of these two much-to-be-commiserated beings. berger was with sendlingen daily, and daily his questioning look received the same answer; a mute shake of the head--the decision had not yet arrived. the supreme court had had the papers connected with the trial brought under its notice; beyond the announcement of this self-evident fact, not a line had come from vienna. this silence was certainly no good sign, but it did not necessarily follow that it was a bad one. to be sure the lawyer examining the case, unless, from the first, he attributed no importance whatever to berger's statements, should have demanded more detailed information from the court at bolosch, and all the more because baron dernegg's dissentient vote was recorded in the papers. still, perhaps this silence was simply to be explained by the fact that he had not had an opportunity of going into the case. berger held fast to this consoling explanation, or at least pretended to do so, when the subject came up in conversation, which was seldom enough; he did not like to begin it, and sendlingen equally avoided it. it almost seemed to berger as if his unhappy friend welcomed the delay in the decision, as if he gladly dragged on in a torture of uncertainty from day to day--anything so as not to look the dread horror in the face. and indeed sendlingen every morning sighed with relief, when the moment of horrid suspense had gone by, when he had looked through the vienna mail and found nothing. but this did not arise from the motive which berger supposed, but from a better feeling. sendlingen rejoiced in every hour of respite that gave his poor child more time to gather strength of soul and body. the shattered health of victorine mended visibly, day by day. the deathly pallor disappeared, her weakness lessened, the look of her eyes was clearer and steadier. the doctor observed it with glad astonishment and no little pride; he ascribed the improvement to his remedies, to the better nourishment and care which on his representations had been allotted her. when he boasted of it to his friend, father rohn, the good priest met him with as bantering a smile as his kind heart would allow; he knew better. if this poor child was blossoming again, the merit was entirely his. had not the doctor himself said that she could only be saved by a change in her frame of mind? and had not this change really set in even more visibly than her physical improvement? a new spirit had entered into victorine. she no longer sat gazing in melancholy brooding, she no longer yearned for death, and when the priest sought to nourish in her the hope of pardon--in the sincerest conviction, for he looked upon the confirmation of the death-sentence as an impossibility--she nodded to him, touched and grateful. she seemed, now, to understand him when he told her that the repentance of a sinner and his after life of good works, were more pleasing to the good god above than his death. and when he once more led the conversation to the man who, in spite of everything, was her father and perhaps at this moment was suffering the bitterest anguish on her account, when he begged her not to harden her heart against the unknown, he had the happiness of hearing her say with fervour in her looks and voice: "i have forgiven him from the bottom of my heart. the thought of him has completely restored me! perhaps god will grant me to be a good daughter to him some day!" so the words of comfort and the exhortations of the good priest had really not been in vain. the true state of the case nobody even suspected; the secret was stringently kept. no doubt it struck many people and gave occasion to a variety of gossip, that fräulein brigitta visited the condemned prisoner almost daily, and the chief justice almost weekly, but a sufficient explanation was sought and found. good-natured and inoffensive people thought that victorine lippert was a creature so much to be pitied, that these two noble characters were only following their natural instincts in according her a special pity; the malevolent adopted the crafty höbinger's view, and talked of "favouritism"; the aristocratic betrayer and his mother the countess, they said, had after all an uneasy conscience as to whether they had not behaved too harshly to the poor creature, and the representations they had made to their fellow-aristocrat, baron von sendlingen, had not been in vain. certainly this report could only be maintained in uninitiated circles; anyone who was intimately acquainted with the aristocratic society of the province knew well enough, that the countess riesner-graskowitz was assuredly the last person in the world to experience a single movement of pity for the condemned girl. be that as it might, sendlingen behaved in this case as he had all his life behaved in any professional matter: humanely and kindly, but strictly according to the law and without over-stepping his duty by a hair's breadth. the better attention, the separate cell in the infirmary, would certainly have been allotted to any one else about whom the doctor had made the same representations. when father rohn, moved by his sense of compassion, sought to obtain some insignificant favour that went beyond these lines--it had reference to some absolutely trifling regulation of the house--the governor of the gaol was ready to grant it, but the chief justice rigidly set his face against the demand. when berger heard of this trivial incident, a heavy burden which he had been silently carrying for weeks, without daring to seek for certainty in a conversation on the subject, was rolled from his heart. he had put an interpretation on the mysterious words that sendlingen had uttered the day after the trial, which had filled him with the profoundest sorrow,--more than that with terror. now he saw his mistake: a man who so strictly obeyed his conscience in small matters where there was no fear of discovery, would assuredly in any greater conflict between inclination and duty, hold fast unrelentingly to justice and honour. he was soon to be strengthened in this view. it was three days before christmas-day when he once more entered his friend's chambers. he found him buried in the perusal of letters which, however, he now pushed from him. "the mail from vienna is not in yet," he said, "the train must have got blocked in the snow. but i have letters from pfalicz. the chief justice of the higher court there, to whose position i am to succeed, asks whether it would not be possible for me to release him soon after the new year, instead of at the end of february, as the minister of justice arranged. he is unwell, and ought to go south as soon as possible." "great heavens!" cried berger. "why, we have forgotten all about that." and indeed those stormy days and the succeeding weeks of silent, anxious suffering had hardly allowed him to think of sendlingen's impending promotion and departure. "i have not," replied sendlingen, gloomily. "the thought that i had to go, has often enough weighed me down more heavily than all my other burdens. how gladly i would stay here now, even if they degraded me to--to the post of governor of the prison! but i have now no option. i have definitely accepted the position at pfalicz and i must enter upon it." "and do you really think of departing at the new year?" "no, that would be beyond my duty. i should be glad to oblige the invalid, but as you know, i cannot. i shall stay till the end of february; the decision must have come by that time." he again bent over a document that lay before him. berger too, was silent, he went to the window and stared out into the grey dusk; it seemed as if the snow-storm would never cease. there was a knock at the door; a clerk of the court of record entered. "from the supreme court," he announced, laying a packet with a large seal on the table. "it has just arrived. personally addressed to your lordship." the clerk departed; berger approached the table. when he saw how excited sendlingen was, how long he remained gazing at the letter, he shook his head. "that cannot be the decision," he said. "it would not be addressed to you. it is some indifferent matter, a question of discipline, a pension." sendlingen nodded and broke the seal. but at the first glance a deathly pallor overspread his face, and the paper in his hands trembled so violently that he had to lay it on the table in order to read it to the end. "read for yourself," he then muttered. berger glanced through the paper; he too felt his heart beat impetuously as he did so. it was certainly not the decision, only a brief charge, but its contents were almost equivalent to it. the lawyers examining the appeal had, as berger hoped, been struck by baron dernegg's dissentient vote and the motives for this. dernegg was not of the opinion of his brother judges that this was a case of premeditated murder, maliciously planned months beforehand, but a deed done suddenly, in a paroxysm of despair, nay, most probably in a moment when the girl was not accountable for her actions. against this more clement view, there certainly were the depositions of the countess, and victorine's attempts to conceal her condition. but on the other hand, her only _confidante_, the servant-girl, had deposed at the preliminary inquiry that victorine had only made these attempts by her advice and with her help, and, moreover, with the sole object of staying in the house until the young count should come to her aid. this testimony, however, she had withdrawn at the trial. berger had chiefly based his appeal to nullify the trial, on the fact that the witness, in spite of this contradiction, had been put on her oath, and to the examining lawyer, also, this seemed a point of decisive importance. the chief justice was, therefore, commissioned to completely elucidate it by a fresh examination of the witness. probably the charge had been directed to him personally because, as it stated, neither herr von werner nor any of the other judges who had been in favour of putting her on oath, could very well be entrusted with the inquiry. but if sendlingen were actually too busy with other matters to conduct the examination, he might hand it over to the third judge, herr von hoche. "what will you do?" asked berger. "the matter is of the gravest importance. that the girl gave false evidence at the trial, that this was her return for being taken back into the countess' service, we know for a certainty. the only question is whether we can convict her of it. an energetic judge could without doubt do so, but will old hoche, now over seventy, succeed? he is a good man, but his years weigh heavily upon him, he is dragging himself through his duties till the date of his retirement--four weeks hence--i fancy as best he can. and therefore once again--what will you do, victor?" "i don't know," he murmured. "leave me alone. i must think it out by myself. forgive me! my conscience alone can decide in such a matter. good-bye till this evening, george." berger departed; his heart was as heavy as ever it had been. in the first ebullition of feeling, moved by his pity for these two beings, he had wished to compel his friend to undertake the inquiry, but now he had scruples. was not the position the same as on the day of the trial? and if he then approved of his friend's resolution not to preside, could he now urge him to undertake a similar task? certainly the conflict was now more acute, more painfully accentuated, but was sendlingen's duty as a judge any the less on that account? again the thought rose in berger's mind which a few weeks ago had comforted him and lifted him above the misery of the moment: that there was a solution of these complications, a great, a liberating solution--there must be, just because this man was what he was! but even now he did not know how to find this solution; one thing only was clear to him: if sendlingen undertook the inquiry and thus saved his child, it would be an act for which there would be all manner of excuses but it would assuredly not be that great, saving act of which he dreamt! and yet if hoche in his weakness ruined the case and did not bring the truth to light, if she perhaps had to die now that she had begun to hope again, now that she had waked to a new life ... berger closed his eyes as if to shut out the terrible picture that obtruded itself upon him, and yet it rose again and again. at dusk, just as he was starting to his friend's, fräulein brigitta called to see him. "i am to tell you," she began, "that his lordship wants you to postpone your visit until to-morrow. but it is not on that account that i have come, but because i am oppressed with anxiety. has the decision arrived? he is as much upset again as he was on the day of the trial." berger comforted her as well as he could. "it is only a momentary excitement," he assured her, "and will soon pass." "i only thought so because he is behaving just as he did then. it is a singular thing; he has been rummaging for those keys again. you know,--the one that opens the little door in the court-yard wall. i came in just in the nick of time to see him take it out of his writing-table drawer. and just as before, it seemed to annoy him to be surprised in the act.--isn't that strange?" "very strange!" he replied. but he added hastily: "it must have been a mere chance." "certainly, it can only have been a coincidence," he thought after brigitta had gone, "it would be madness to impute such a thing to him, to him who was horrified at the idea of conducting the trial and equally at the thought of conducting this examination. and yet when he first seized upon that key, the idea must certainly have taken a momentary possession of him, and that it should have returned to him to-day, to-day of all days." as he was the next day walking along the corridor that led to sendlingen's chambers, he met mr. justice hoche. the hoary old man, supporting himself with difficulty by the aid of a stick, was looking very testy. "only think," he grumbled, "what an odious task the chief justice has just laid upon me. it will interest you, you were counsel for the defence in the case." and he told him of the charge at great length. "well, what do you say to that? isn't it odious?" "it is a very serious undertaking!" said berger. "the matter is one of the greatest importance." "yes, and just for that reason," grumbled the old man, almost whimpering. "i do not want to undertake any such responsibility, now, when merely thinking gives me a head-ache. i suffer a great deal from head-aches, dr. berger. and it is such a ticklish undertaking! for you see either the maid-servant told the truth at the trial, in which case this fresh examination is superfluous, or she lied and _ergo_ was guilty of perjury and _ergo_ is a very tricky female! and how am i ever to get to the bottom of a tricky female, dr. berger?" "did you tell the chief justice this?" asked berger. "oh, of course! for half an hour i was telling him about my condition and how i always get a head-ache now if i have to think. but he stuck to his point, 'you will have to undertake the matter: you must exert yourself!' good heavens! what power of exertion has one left at seventy years of age! well, good morning, dear dr. berger! but it's odious--most odious!" berger looked after the old man as he painfully hobbled along: "and in such hands," he thought, "rests the fate of my two friends." under the weight of this thought, he had not the courage to face sendlingen. he turned and went home in a melancholy mood. when the next day towards noon, he was turning homewards after a trial at which he had been the defending barrister, he again met mr. justice hoche, who was just leaving the building, in the portico of the courts. the old gentleman was manifestly in a high state of contentment. "well," asked berger, "is the witness here already? have you begun the examination?" "begun? i have ended it!" chuckled the old man. "and _re bene gesta_ one is entitled to rest. i shall let the law take care of itself to-day and go home. i haven't even got a head-ache over it; certainly it didn't require any great effort of thought--i soon got at the truth." "indeed?--and what is the truth?" "h'm! i don't suppose it will be particularly agreeable to you," laughed the old judge, leaning confidentially on berger's arm. "though for the matter of that you may be quite indifferent about it: you have done your duty, your appeal was certainly splendidly drawn up, but what further interest can you have in this person? for she is a thoroughly good-for-nothing person, and that's why she is dying so young! what stories that servant-girl has told me about her, stories, my dear doctor, that an old barrack-wall would have blushed to hear. she was hardly seventeen years old when she came to the countess', but already had a dozen intrigues on her record, and what things she told her _confidante_ about them, and which were repeated to me to-day--why, it is a regular decameron, my dear doctor, or more properly speaking: boccaccio in comparison is a chaste carthusian." berger violently drew his arm out of the old man's. "that's a lie!" he said between his teeth. "a scandalous calumny!" the old judge looked at him, quite put out of countenance. "why, what an idea," he cried. "if it were not so, this servant-girl would be a tricky female." "so she is." "she is not! oh, i know human nature. on the contrary, she is good-natured and stupid. no one could tell lies with such assurance, after having just been solemnly admonished to speak the truth. it is all incontestably true; all her adventures: and how from the first she had hatched a regular plot to corrupt the young count. the crafty young person calculated in this way: if our _liaison_ has consequences, i shall perhaps inveigle the young man into a marriage, and if i don't succeed i shall kill the child and look out for another place!" "but just consider this one fact," cried berger. "if this had actually been victorine lippert's plan she would certainly have reflected: if i can't force a marriage, i shall at least get a handsome maintenance! and in that case she would not have killed her child, but carefully have preserved its life." the old judge meditatively laid his finger on his nose. "look here, dr. berger," he said importantly, "that is a very reasonable objection. but it has been adduced already, not by me, to tell the truth, but by my assistant, a very wise young man. but the witness was able to give a perfectly satisfactory explanation on the subject. to be sure, she only did so after repeated questions and in a hesitating and uncertain manner--the good, kind-hearted girl could with difficulty bring herself to add still more to the criminal's load, but at length she had to speak out. thus we almost accidentally extracted a very important detail that proved to be of great importance in determining the case. it is a truly frightful story. only fancy, this mere girl, this victorine lippert, has always had a sort of thirst for the murder of little children. she repeatedly said to the girl long before the deed, before the young count came to the castle at all: 'strange! but whenever i see a little child, i always feel my hands twitching to strangle it.' frightful--isn't it. dr. berger?" "frightful indeed!" cried berger, "if you have believed this poorly-contrived story of the wretched, perjured woman--poorly-contrived, and invented in the necessity of the moment so as to meet the objection of your assistant, so as not to be caught in her net of lies, so as to render the countess another considerable service." "really, you will not listen to reason," said the old man, now seriously annoyed. "i feel my head-ache coming on again. do you mean to say that you accuse the countess of conniving at perjury! a lady of the highest aristocracy! excuse me, dr. berger--that is going too far! you are a liberal, a radical, i know, but that doesn't make every countess a criminal. but if this is really your opinion of the witness, take out a summons for perjury at once!" "it may come to that," replied berger. the old man shook his head. "spare yourself the trouble," he said good-naturedly, "it will prove ineffectual, but you may certainly get yourself into great difficulties. why expose yourself, for the sake of such an abandoned creature, to an action for libel on the part of the countess and her servant? how abandoned she is, you have no suspicion! i have, thank heaven, concealed the worst of all from you, and you shall not learn it at my hands. you may read for yourself in the minutes. i do not wish to make a scene in the street. i was so enjoying this fine afternoon, and you have quite spoilt my good humour. well, good-bye. dr. berger, i will forgive you. you have allowed yourself to be carried away by your pity, but you are bestowing it upon an unworthy creature! the witness gave me the impression of being absolutely trustworthy, and i have stated so in the minutes! i considered myself bound in conscience to do so." "then you have a human life on your conscience!" berger blurted out. he had not meant to say anything so harsh, but the words escaped him involuntarily. the old man started and clasped his hands. his face twitched, and bright tears stood in his eyes. "what have i done to you?" he moaned. "why do you say such a horrible thing? why do you upset me? i have always considered you a good man, and now you behave like this to me!" berger stepped up to him and offered his hand. "forgive me," he said, "your intention is good and pure, i know. and just for that reason i implore you to reflect well before you let the minutes go out of your hands." "that is already done. i have just handed them to the chief justice." "and what did he say?" "nothing, what should he say? certainly he too seemed to be put out about something, for when i was about to enter on a brief discourse, he dismissed me a little abruptly." "but it is open to you to demand the minutes back, and examine the witness again. keep a sterner eye upon her, and the contradictions in which she gets involved will certainly become evident to you. at her first examination she could only say the best things of victorine lippert, at the trial she had lost her memory, and now of a sudden nothing is too bad." "oh, you barristers!" cried the judge. "how you twist everything! the kind-hearted creature wanted to save victorine lippert and pity moved her to lie at first: she has just openly and repentantly confessed that she did. but at the trial, before the crucifix, before the judges, her courage left her. she was silent, because like a good and chaste girl, she could not bring herself to speak before a crowd of people of all those repulsive details. you see, everything is explained. you are talking in vain." "in vain!" berger sighed profoundly. "good-bye," he said turning to go. but after he had gone a few steps, hoche called after him. the old man's eyes were full of tears. "you are angry with me?" he said. "no." "well, you have no reason to be angry, though i have--but i forgive you. by what you said you might easily have made me unhappy if the case had not been so clear. certainly i am upset now. to-morrow is christmas eve; my children and grand-children will come and bring me presents, and i shall give them presents, and i shall think all the time: hoche, what a frightful thing if you were a murderer! you will take back your words, won't you? i am no murderer, am i?" berger looked at the childish old man. "o tragicomedy of life!" he thought, but added aloud: "no, herr hoche, you are no murderer." in the evening he went to see sendlingen and look over the minutes which he too had the right of disputing. he would have been disconsolate enough if he had not already known their contents; as it was the extraordinary tone of the document cheered him a little. the 'wise young man' was perhaps himself an author, or at least had certainly read a great many cheap novels; the style in which he had reproduced the servant girl's imaginations was, in the worst sense of the word "fine!" how this lessened the danger of the contents was shown especially, by that worst fact of all which hoche could not bring himself to pronounce, and which was of such monstrous baseness that the faith of even the most vapid of judges must have been shaken in all the rest. "that is quite harmless," said berger. "more than that, these monstrous lies are just the one bit of luck in all our misfortunes." "certainly!" sendlingen agreed. "but we must not count too much upon them. the examining judge may not believe everything, but he will certainly not discredit everything. it could not be expected after hoche's enthusiastic advocacy of the witness' credibility." "and yet these minutes must be sent off. would it not be possible to hand over the inquiry to some one else?" "impossible, or i would have done so yesterday. either i or hoche--the charge of the supreme court is clear enough! and _i_ could not do it! it seemed to me mean and cowardly, treacherous and paltry, to break my judge's oath, trusting to the silence of the three people who beside me know the secret, trusting moreover never to have to undergo punishment for my offence. to this consideration it seemed to me that every other must give way." berger was silent. "would it not be possible to take out a summons for perjury?" he resumed. "no," cried sendlingen, "it would be an utterly useless delay! success in the present position of things is not to be hoped for." berger bowed his head. "then justice will suffer once again," he said in deep distress. "i will not reproach you. when i put myself in your place--i cannot trust myself to say that i should have done the same. i only presume i should, but this one thing i do know, that in accordance with your whole nature you have acted rightly. still, ever since the moment that i spoke to hoche, i cannot silence a tormenting question. ought fidelity to the law be stronger than fidelity to justice? you would not undertake the inquiry because a father may not take part in an examination conducted against his child, but were you justified in handing it over to a man who was no longer in a condition to find out the truth, to fulfil his duty? has not justice suffered at your hands by your respect for the law, that justice, i mean, which speaks aloud in the heart of every man?" sendlingen was staring gloomily at the floor. then he raised his eyes and looked his friend full in the face. the expression of his countenance, the tone of his voice became almost solemn. "i have fought out for myself an answer to this question. i may not tell you what it is; but one thing i can solemnly swear: this outraged justice to which you refer will receive the expiation which is its due." chapter x. christmas was past, new year had come, the year 1853, one of the most melancholy that the austrian empire had ever known. the atmosphere was more charged than ever, coercion more and more severe, the confederacy between the authorities of church and state closer and closer. melancholy reports alarmed the minds of peaceful citizens: the italian provinces were in a state of ferment, a conspiracy was discovered in hungary, and a secret league of the slavs at prague. how strong or how weak these occult endeavours against the authority and peace of the state might be, no one knew. one thing only was manifest: the severity with which they were treated; and perhaps in this severity lay the greatest danger of all. it was the old sad story that so often repeats itself in the life of nations, and was then appearing in a new shape; tyranny had called forth a counter-tyranny and this, in its turn, a fresh tyranny. the police had much to do everywhere, and in some districts the courts of justice too. one of the greatest of the political investigations had, since christmas 1852, devolved upon the court at bolosch. the middle classes of this manufacturing town were exclusively germans, the working-classes principally slavs. it was among these latter that the police believed they had discovered the traces of a highly treasonable movement. about thirty workmen were arrested and handed over to justice. sendlingen, assisted by dernegg, personally conducted the investigation. he had made the same selection in all the political arrangements of the last few years, although he knew that any other would have been more acceptable to the authorities. certainly neither he nor dernegg were liberals--much less radicals--who sympathised with revolution and revolutionaries. on the contrary both these aristocrats had thoroughly conservative inclinations, at all events in that good sense of the word which was then and is now so little understood in austria, and is so seldom given practical effect. they were, moreover, entirely honourable and independent judges. but there was a prejudice in those days against men of unyielding character, especially in the case of political trials. there was an opinion that "pedantry" was out of place where the interests of the state were at stake. sendlingen, on the other hand, was convinced that a political investigation should not be conducted differently from any other, and it was precisely in this inquisition into the conduct of the workmen that he manifested the greatest zeal, but at the same time the most complete impartiality. divers reasons had determined him to devote all his energy to the case. the diversion of his thoughts from his own misery did him good: the ceaseless work deadened the painful suspense in which he was awaiting the decision from vienna. moreover his knowledge of men and things had predisposed him to believe that these poor rough fellows had not so much deserved punishment as pity, and after a few days he was convinced of the justice of this supposition. these raftsmen and weavers and smiths who were all utterly ignorant, who had never been inside a school, who scarcely knew a prayer save the lord's prayer, who dragged on existence in cheerless wretchedness, were perhaps more justified in their mute impeachment of the body politic, than deserving of the accusations brought against them. they did not go to confession, they often sang songs that had stuck in their minds since 1848, and some of them had, in public houses and factories, delivered speeches on the injustice of the economy of the world and state as it was reflected in their unhappy brains. this was all; and this did not make them enemies of the state or of the emperor. on the contrary, the record of their examination nearly always testified the opinion: "the only misfortune was that the young emperor knew nothing of their condition, otherwise he would help them." sendlingen's noble heart was contracted with pity, whenever he heard such utterances. and these men he was to convict of high treason! no! not an instant longer than was absolutely necessary should they remain away from their families and trades. on the feast of the epiphany sendlingen was sitting in his chambers examining a raftsman, an elderly man of herculean build with a heavy, sullen face, covered with long straggling, iron-grey hair; johannes novyrok was his name. the police had indicated him as particularly dangerous, but he did not prove to be worse than the rest. "why don't you go to confession?" asked sendlingen finally when all the other grounds of suspicion had been discussed. "excuse me, my lord," respectfully answered the man in czech. "but do you go?" sendlingen looked embarrassed and was about to sharply reprove him for his impertinent question, but a look at the man's face disarmed him. there was neither impertinence nor insolence written there, but rather a painful look of anxiety and yearning that strangely affected sendlingen. "why?" he asked. "because i might be able to regulate my conduct by yours," replied the raftsman. "you see, my lord, i differ from my brethren. people such as we, they think, have no time to sin, much less to confess. the god there used to be, must surely be dead, they say, otherwise there would be more justice in the world; and if he is still alive, he knows well enough that anyhow we have got hell on this earth and will not suffer us to be racked and roasted by devils in the next world. but i have never agreed with such sentiments; they strike me as being silly and when my mates say: rich people have a good time of it, let them go to confession,--why, its arrant nonsense. for i don't believe that any one on earth has a good time of it, not even the rich, but that everybody has their trouble and torment. and therefore i should very much like to hear what a wise and good man, who must understand these things much better than i do, has to say to it all. it might meet my case. and i happen to have particular confidence in you. in the first place because you're better and wiser than most men, so at least says every one in the town, and this can't be either hypocrisy or flattery, because they say so behind your back. but i further want to hear your opinion, because i know for certain that you have an aching heart and plenty of trouble." "how do you know that?" novyrok glanced at the short-hand clerk sitting near sendlingen and who was manifestly highly tickled at the simplicity of this ignorant workman. "i could only tell you," he said shyly, "if you were to send that young man out of the room. it is no secret, but such fledglings don't understand life yet." the young clerk was much astonished when sendlingen actually made a sign to him to withdraw. "thank you," said the raftsman after the door was shut "well, how i know of your trouble? in the first place one can read it in your face, and secondly i saw you one stormy night--it may be eight weeks ago--wandering about the streets by yourself. you went down to the river; i was watchman on a raft at the time and i saw you plainly. there were tears running down your cheeks, but even if your eyes had been dry--well no one goes roaming alone and at random on such a night, unless he is in great trouble." sendlingen bowed his head lower over the papers before him. novyrok continued: "an hour later, your friend brought you into our inn whither i had come in the meanwhile after my mate had relieved me of the watch. you were unconscious. i helped to carry you and take you home.... i don't tell you this in the hope that you may punish me less than i deserve, but just that i may say to you: you too, my lord, know what suffering is--do you find the thought of god comforting, and what do you think of confession?" sendlingen made no reply; the recollection of that most fatal night of his existence and the solemn question of the poor fellow, had deeply moved him. "you must have experienced something, novyrok," he said at length, "that has shaken your faith." "something, my lord? alas, everything!--alas, my whole life! i don't believe there are many people to whom the world is a happy place, but such men as i should never have been born at all. i have never known father or mother, i came into the world in a foundling hospital on a sylvester's eve some fifty years ago--the exact date i don't know--and that's why they called me 'novyrok' (new-year). i had to suffer a great deal because of my birth; it is beyond all belief how i was knocked about as a boy and youth among strangers--even a dog knows its mother but i did not. and therefore one thing very soon became clear to me: many disgraceful things happen on this earth, but the most disgraceful thing of all is to bring children into the world in this way. don't you think so, my lord?" sendlingen did not answer. "and i acted accordingly," continued novyrok, "and had no love-affair, though i had to put great restraint upon myself. i don't know whether virtue is easy to rich people; to the poor it is very bitter. it was not until i became steersman of a raft and was earning four gulden a week that i married an honest girl, a laundress, and she bore me a daughter. that was a bright time, my lord, but it didn't last long. my wife began to get sickly and couldn't any longer earn any thing; we got into want, although i honestly did my utmost and often, after the raft was brought to, i chopped wood or stacked coal all night through when i got the chance. well, however poorly we had to live, we did manage to live; things didn't get really bad till she died. my mates advised me then to give the care of my child to other people--and go as a raftsman to foreign parts, on a big river, the elbe or the danube: 'wages,' they said, 'are twice as much there and you, as an able raftsman, can't help getting on.' but i hadn't got it in my heart to leave my little daughter. besides i was anxious about her; to be sure she was only just thirteen, and a good, honest child, but she promised to be very nice-looking. if you go away, i said to myself, you may perhaps stay away for many years, and there are plenty of men in this world without a conscience, and temptation is great! so i stayed, and so as not to be separated from her even for a week, i gave up being a raftsman and became a workman at a foundry. but i was awkward at the work, the wages were pitiful, and though my daughter, poor darling, stitched her eyes out of her head, we were more often hungry than full. i frequently complained, not to her, but to others, and cursed my wretched existence--i was a fool! for i was happy in those days; i did my duty to my child." novyrok paused. sendlingen sighed deeply. "and then?" he asked. "then, my lord," continued the raftsman, "then came the dark hour, when i yielded to my folly and selfishness. maybe i am too hard on myself in saying this, for i thought more of my child's welfare than my own, and many people thought what i did reasonable. but otherwise i must accuse him above, and before i do that i would rather accuse myself. but i will tell you what happened in a few words. a former mate of mine who was working at the salt shipping trade on the traun, persuaded me to go with him, just for one summer, and the high wages tempted me. my girl was sixteen at that time; she was like a rose, my lord, to look at. but before i went i told her my story, where i was born and who my mother very likely was, and i said to her: 'live honestly, my girl, or when i come back in the autumn i will strike you dead, and then jump into the deepest part of the river.' she cried and swore to me she'd be good. but when i came back in the autumn----" he sobbed. it was some time before he added in a hollow voice: "hanka was my daughter's name. perhaps you remember the case, my lord. it took place in this house. certainly it's a long while ago; it will be seven years next spring." "hanka novyrok," sendlingen laid his hand on his forehead. "i remember!" he then said. "that was the name of the girl who--who died in her cell during her imprisonment upon trial." "she hanged herself," said novyrok, sepulchrally. "it happened in the night; the next morning she was to have come before the judges. she had murdered her child." there was a very long silence after this. novyrok then resumed: "you didn't examine me about the case, you would have understood me. the other judge before whom i was taken didn't understand me when i said: 'this is a controversy between me and him up above, for either he is at fault or i am.' the judge at first thought that grief had turned my head, but when he understood what i said, he abused me roundly and called me a blasphemer. but i am not that. i believe in him. i do not blaspheme him, only i want to know how i stand with him. it would be the greatest kindness to me, my lord, if you could decide for me." "poor fellow," said sendlingen, "don't torment yourself any more about it; such things nobody can decide." novyrok shook his head with a sigh. "a man like you ought to be able to make it out," he said, "although i can see that it is not easy. for look here--how does the case stand? a wretched blackguard, a linendraper for whom she used to sew, seduced her in my absence. if i had stayed here, it would not have happened. when i came back i learnt nothing about it, she hid it from me out of fear of what i had said to her at parting, and that was the reason why she killed her child, yes, and herself too in the end. for i am convinced that it was not the fear of punishment that drove her to death, but the fear of seeing me again, and no doubt, she also wished to spare me the disgrace of that hour. now, my lord, all this----" they were interrupted. a messenger brought in a letter which had just arrived. sendlingen recognised the writing of the count, his brother-in-law, who was a judge of the supreme court. he laid the letter unopened on the table; very likely belated new-year's wishes, he thought. "go on!" he said to the accused. "well, my lord, all this seems to tell against me, but it might be turned against him too. i might say to him: 'wasn't i obliged to try and keep her from sin by using the strongest words? and why didst thou not watch over her when i was far away; hanka was thy child too, and not only mine! and if thou wouldst not do this, why didst thou suffer us two to be born? thou wilt make reparation, sayst thou, in thy heaven? well, no doubt it is very beautiful, but perhaps it is not so beautiful that we shall think ourselves sufficiently compensated.' you see, my lord, i might talk like this--but if i were to begin. he too would not be silent, and with a single question he could crush me. 'why did you go away?' he might ask me. 'why did you not do your duty to your child? i, o fool, have untold children; you had only this one to whom you were nearest. you say in your defence that you did not act altogether selfishly, that you wanted to better her condition as well. may be, but you did think of _your own_ condition, _of yourself_ as well, and that a father may not do! i warned you by your own life, and by causing your conscience and presentiments to speak to you--why did you not obey me? besides you would not have starved here?' you see, my lord, he might talk to me in this way and he would be right, for a father may not think of himself for one instant where his child's welfare is concerned. isn't that so? "yes, that is so!" answered sendlingen solemnly. "well, that is why i sometimes think: you should certainly go to confession! what do you advise, my lord?" this time, too, sendlingen could find no relevant answer, much as he tried to seek the right words of consolation for this troubled heart. he strove to lessen his sense of guilt, that sensitive feeling which had so deeply moved him, and finally assured him also of a speedy release. but novyrok's face remained clouded; the one thing which he had wished to hear, a decision of his singular "controversy" with "him," he had to do without, and when sendlingen rang for the turnkey to remove the prisoner, the latter expressed his gratitude for "his lordship's friendliness" but not for any comfort received. not until he had departed did sendlingen take up his brother-in-law's letter, which he meant hastily to run through. but after a few lines he grew more attentive and his looks became overcast. "and this too," he muttered, after he had read to the end, and his head sank heavily on his breast. the count informed him, after a few introductory lines, of the purport of a conversation he had just had with the minister of justice. "you know his opinion," said the letter, "he honestly desires your welfare, and a better proof of this than your appointment to pfalicz he could not have given you. all the more pained, nay angered, is he at your obstinate disregard of his wishes. he told you in plain language that he did not desire you and dernegg to take part in any political investigations. you have none the less observed the same arrangement in the present investigation against the workmen. i warn you, victor, not for the first time, but for the last. you are trifling with your future; far more important people than chief judges, however able, are now being sent to the right-about in austria. the anger of the minister is all the greater, because your defiance this time is notorious. scarcely a fortnight ago, the supreme court instructed you to undertake the brief examination of a witness; you handed the matter over to hoche and excused yourself on the plea of the pressure of your regular work; and yet this work now suddenly allows you personally to conduct a complicated inquiry against some three dozen workmen." the letter continued in this strain at great length and concluded thus: "i implore you to assign the inquiry to werner and to telegraph me to this effect to-day. if this is not done, you will tomorrow receive a telegram from the minister commanding you to do so. and if you don't obey then, the consequences will be at once fatal to you. you know that i am no lover of the melodramatic, and you will therefore weigh well what i have said." his brother-in-law--and sendlingen knew it--certainly never affected a melodramatic tone, and often as he had warned him, he had never before written in such a key. what should he do? it was against his conscience to submit and leave these poor fellows to their fate; but might he concern himself more about men who were strangers to him, than about the wellbeing of his own child? if he did not yield, would he not perhaps be suddenly removed from his office, and just at the moment when his unhappy daughter most of all required his help? he went to his residence in a state of grievous interior conflict, impotently drawn from one resolve to another. he sighed with relief when berger entered; his shrewd, discreet friend could not have come at a more opportune moment. but he, too, found it difficult to hit upon the right counsel, or at least, to put it into words. "don't let us confuse ourselves, victor," he said at length. "first of all, you know as well as i do, that the minister has no right to put such a command upon you. you are responsible to him that every trial in your court shall be conducted with the proper formalities; the power to arrange for this is in your hands. and therefore they dare not seriously punish your insistence on your manifest right. dismissal on such a pretext is improbable and almost inconceivable, especially when it is a question of a man of your name and services." "but it is possible." "anything is possible in these days," berger was obliged to admit. "but ought this remote possibility to mislead you? you would certainly not hesitate a moment, if consideration for your child did not fetter you. should this consideration be more authoritative than every other? in my opinion, no!" "because you cannot understand my feelings!" sendlingen vehemently interposed. "a father may not think of himself when his child's welfare is concerned. the voice of nature speaks thus in the breast of every man, even the roughest, and should it be silent in me?" "my poor friend," said berger, "in your heart, too, it has surely spoken loud enough. and yet, so far, you have not hesitated for a moment to fulfil your duty as a judge when it came into conflict with your inclination. you would not preside at the trial, you would not conduct the examination. the struggle is entering on a new phase, you cannot act differently now." "i must! i cannot help these poor people--besides werner himself will hardly be able to find them guilty. and the cases are not parallel; i should have broken my oath if i had presided at the trial: i do not break it if i obey the minister's command." "that is true," retorted berger. "but i can only say: seek some other consolation, victor,--this is unworthy of you! for you have always been, like me, of the opinion that it is every man's duty to protect the right, and prevent wrong, so long as there is breath in his body! if i admonish you, it is not from any fanatical love of justice, but from friendship for you, and because i know you as well as one man can ever know another. your mind could endure anything, even the most grievous suffering, anything save one thing: the consciousness of having done an injustice however slight. if you submit, and if these men are condemned even to a few years' imprisonment, their fate would prey upon your mind as murder would on any one else. this i know, and i would warn you against it as strongly as i can.... let us look at the worst that could happen, the scarcely conceivable prospect of your dismissal. what serious effect could this have upon the fate of your child? you perhaps cling to the hope of yourself imparting to her the result of the appeal; that is no light matter, but it is not so grave as the quiet of your conscience. it can have no other effect. if the purport of the decision is a brief imprisonment, you could have no further influence upon her destiny, whether you were in office or not; she would be taken to some criminal prison, and you would have to wait till her term of imprisonment was over before you could care for her. if the terms of the decision are imprisonment for life, or death (you see, i will not be so cowardly as not to face the worst), the only course left open to you is, to discover all to the emperor and implore his pardon for your child. is there anything else to be done?" sendlingen was silent. "there is no other means of escape. and if it comes to this, if you have to sue for her pardon, it will assuredly be granted you, whether you are in office or not. it will be granted you on the score of humanity, of your services and of your family. it is inconceivable that this act of grace should be affected by the fact that you had just previously had a dispute with the minister of justice. it is against reason, still more against sentiment. the young prince is of a chivalrous disposition." "that he is!" replied sendlingen. "and it is not this consideration that makes me hesitate, i had hardly thought of it. it was quite another idea.... thank you, george," he added. "let us decide tomorrow, let us sleep upon it." he said this with such a bitter, despairing smile, that his friend was cut to the heart. the next morning when berger was sitting in his chambers engaged upon some pressing work, the door was suddenly flung open and sendlingen's servant franz entered. berger started to his feet and could scarcely bring himself to ask whether any calamity had occurred. "very likely it is a calamity," replied the old man, continuing in his peculiar fashion of speech which had become so much a habit with him, that he could never get out of it. "we were taken ill again in chambers, very likely we fell down several times as before, we came home deadly pale but did not send in for the doctor, but for you, sir." berger started at once, franz following behind him. as they went along, berger fancied he heard a sob. he looked round: there were tears in the old servant's eyes. when they got into the residence, berger turned to him and said: "be a man, franz." then the old fellow could contain himself no longer; bright tears coursed down his cheeks. "dr. berger," he stammered. he had bent over his hand and kissed it before berger could prevent him. "have pity on me! tell me what has been going on the last two months! we often speak to brigitta about it--i am told nothing! why? we know that this silence is killing me. i could long ago have learned it by listening and spying, but franz doesn't do that sort of thing. if you cannot tell me, at least put in a word for me. surely we do not want to kill me!" berger laid his hand on his shoulder. "be calm, franz, we have all heavy burdens to bear." he then went into sendlingen's room. "the minister's telegram?" he asked. "worse!" "the decision? what is the result?" the question was superfluous; the result was plainly enough written in sendlingen's livid, distorted features. berger, trembling in every limb, seized the fatal paper that lay on the table. "horrible!" he groaned--it was a sentence of death. he forced himself to read the motives given; they were briefly enough put. the supreme court had rejected the appeal to nullify the trial, although the credibility of the servant-girl had appeared doubtful enough to it, too. at the same time, the decision continued, there was no reason for ordering a new trial, as the guilt of the accused was manifest without any of the evidence of this witness. the supreme court had gone through this without noticing either her recent statement incriminating the accused, nor her first favorable evidence. the countess' depositions alone, therefore, must determine victorine's conduct before the deed, and her motives for the deed. these seemed sufficient to the supreme court, not to alter the sentence of death. for a long time berger held the paper in his hands as if stunned; at length he went over to his unhappy friend, laid his arms around his neck and gently lifted his face up towards him. but when he looked into that face, the courage to say a word of consolation left him. he stepped to the window and stood there for, perhaps, half an hour. then he said softly, "i will come back this evening," and left the room. towards evening he received a few lines from his friend. sendlingen asked him not to come till to-morrow; by that time he hoped to have recovered sufficient composure to discuss quietly the next steps to be taken. he was of opinion that berger should address a petition for pardon to the emperor, and asked him to draw up a sketch of it. berger read of this request with astonishment. he would certainly have lodged a petition for pardon, even if victorine lippert had been simply his client and not sendlingen's daughter. but he would have done it more from a sense of duty than in the hope of success. that this hope was slight, he well knew. the petition would have to take its course through the supreme court, and it was in the nature of the case that the recommendation of the highest tribunal would be authoritative with the emperor; exceptions had occurred, but their number was assuredly not sufficient to justify any confident hopes. all this sendlingen must know as well as himself. why, therefore, did he wish that the attempt should be made? in this desperate state of things, there was but one course that promised salvation; a personal audience with the emperor. why did sendlingen hesitate to choose this course? berger made up his mind to lay all this strongly before him, and when on the next day he rang the bell of the residence, he was determined not to leave him until he had induced him to take this step. "we are still in chambers," announced franz. "we want you to wait here a little. we have been examining workmen again since this morning early, and have hardly allowed ourselves ten minutes for food." "so he has none the less resolved to go on with that?" said berger. perhaps, he thought to himself, the telegram has not arrived yet. "none the less resolved?" cried franz. "we have perhaps seldom worked away with such resolution and baron dernegg, too, was dictating to-day--i say it with all respect--like one possessed." berger turned to go. it occurred to him that he had not seen victorine for a week, and he thought he would use the interval by visiting her. "i shall be back in an hour," he said to franz. "in the meanwhile i have something to do in the prison." "in the prison?" the old man's face twitched, he seized berger's arm and drew him back into the lobby, shutting the door. "forgive me, dr. berger. my heart is so full.... you are going to her--are you not? to our poor young lady, to victorine?" "what? since when?" ... "do i know it?" interrupted franz. "since yesterday evening!" and with a strange mixture of pride and despair he went on: "we told me everything!... oh, it is terrible. but we know what i am worth! my poor master! ah! i couldn't sleep all night for sorrow.... but we shall see that we are not deceived in me.... i have a favour to ask, dr. berger. brigitta has the privilege naturally, because she is a woman and a member of the 'women's society.' but i, what can i appeal to? certainly i have in a way, been in the law for twenty-five years, and understand more of these things than many a young fledgling who struts about in legal toggery, but--a lawyer i certainly am not--so, i suppose, dr. berger, it is unfortunately impossible?" "what? that you should pay her a visit? certainly it is impossible, and if you play any pranks of that kind----" "oh! dr. berger," said the old man imploringly. "i did but ask your advice because my heart is literally bursting. well, if this is impossible, i have another favour, and this you will do me! greet our poor young lady from me! thus, with these words: 'old franz sends fräulein victorine his best wishes from all his heart--and begs her not to despair.... and--and wants to remind her that the god above is still living.'" berger could scarcely understand his last words for the tears that choked, the old man's voice. he himself was moved; as yesterday, so to-day, franz's tears strongly affected him, for the old servant was not particularly soft by nature. "yes, yes, franz," he promised, and then betook himself to the prison. he resolved to continue to be quite candid with victorine, but not to mention the result of the appeal by a single word. but when he entered her cell, she came joyfully to meet him, her eyes glistening with tears. "how shall i thank you?" she cried much moved trying to take his hand. he fell back a step. "thank me?--what for?" "oh, i know," she said softly with a look at the door as if an eavesdropper might have been there. "my father told me that it was not official yet. he hurried to me this morning as soon as he had received the news, but it is still only private information, and for the present i must tell nobody! whom else have i to thank but you?" "what?" he asked. and he added with an unsteady voice: "i have not seen him for the last few days. has he had news from vienna?" "to be sure! the supreme court has pardoned me. my imprisonment during trial is to be considered as punishment. in a few weeks i shall be quite free." berger felt all the blood rush to his heart. "quite free!" he repeated faintly. "in a few weeks!" and at the same time he was tortured by the importunate question: "great god! he has surely gone mad? how could he do this? what is his object?" "merciful heaven!" she cried. "how pale you have turned. how sombre you look! merciful heaven! you have not received other news? he has surely not been deceived? oh, if i had to die after all!--now--now----" she staggered. berger took her hand and made her sink down on to the nearest chair. "i have no other news," he said as firmly as possible. "it came upon me with such a shock! i am surprised that he has not yet told me anything. but then, of course, he did not hear of it till to-day. if he has told you, you can, of course, look upon it as certain." "may i not?" she sighed with relief. "i need not tremble any more? oh, how you frightened me!" "forgive me--calm yourself!" he took up his hat again. "are you going already? and i have not yet half thanked you!" "don't mention it!" he said curtly, parrying her remark. "au revoir," he added with more friendliness, and leaving the cell, hurried to sendlingen's residence. he had just come in; berger approached him in great excitement. "i have just been to see victorine," he began. "how could you tell this untruth? how _could_ you?" sendlingen cast down his eyes. "i had to do it. i was afraid that otherwise the news of her condemnation might reach her." "no," cried berger. "forgive my vehemence," he then continued. "i have reason for it. such empty pretexts are unworthy of you and me. you yourself see to the regulation of the courts and the prison. the accused never hear their sentence until they are officially informed." "you do me an injustice," replied sendlingen, his voice still trembling, and it was not till he went on that he recovered himself: "i have no particular reasons that i ought or want to hide from you. i told her in an ebullition of feeling that i can hardly account for to myself. when i saw her to-day she was much sadder, much more hopeless, than has been usual with her lately. she certainly had a presentiment--and i, in my flurry at this, feared that some report might already have reached her. such a thing, in spite of all regulations, is not inconceivable; chance often plays strange pranks. in my eager desire to comfort her, those words escaped me. the exultation with which she received them, robbed me of the courage to lessen their favourable import afterwards! that is all!" berger looked down silently for a while. "i will not reproach you," he then resumed. "how fatal this imprudence may prove, you can see as well as i. she was prepared for the worst and therefore anything not so bad, might perhaps have seemed like a favour of heaven. now she is expecting the best, and whatever may be obtained for her by way of grace, it will certainly dishearten and dispirit her. but there is no help for it now! let us talk of what we can help! you want me to lodge a petition for pardon? it would be labour in vain!" "well," said sendlingen hesitatingly, "in some cases the emperor has revoked the sentence of death in spite of the decision of the supreme court." "yes, but we dared not build on this hope if we had no other. fortunately this is the case. you must go to vienna; only on your personal intercession is the pardon a _certainty_. and my petition could at best only get the sentence commuted to imprisonment for life, whereas your prayer would obtain a shorter imprisonment and, after a few years, remission of the remainder. you must go to-morrow, victor--there is no time to lose." sendlingen turned away without a word. "how am i to understand this?" cried berger, anxiously approaching him. "you _will_ not?" the poor wretch groaned aloud, "i will----" he exclaimed. "but later on--later on----. as soon as your petition has been dispatched." "but why?" cried berger. "i have hitherto appreciated and sympathised with your every sentiment and act, but this delay strikes me as being unreasonable, unpardonable. i would spare you if less depended on the cast, but as it is, i will speak out. it is unmanly, it is----" he paused. "spare me having to say this to you, to you who were always so brave and resolute. there is no time to lose, i repeat. who will vouch that it may not then be too late? if my petition is rejected, the court will at the same time order the sentence to be carried out. do you know so certainly that you will still be here then, that you will still have time then to hurry to vienna? think! think!" berger had been talking excitedly and paused out of breath. but he was resolved not to yield and was about to begin again when sendlingen said: "you have convinced me; i will go to vienna sooner, even before the dispatch of your petition." "then you still insist that i shall proceed with it?" "please; it can do no harm; it may do good. and at least we shall gain time by it. i cannot undertake the journey to vienna until the inquiry against the working men is ended. in this, too, there is not a day to be lost; neither dernegg nor i know whether there is not an order on the road that may in some way make us harmless. i trust we shall by that time have succeeded in proving that no punishable offence has been committed. i have received the minister's telegram to-day, and at once replied that the inquiry was so complicated, and had already proceeded so far, that a change in the examining judges would be impracticable." "i am glad that you have followed my advice," said berger. "and in spite of these aggravated conditions! you hesitated as long as the decision was not known to you, as long as you simply feared it, and when your fears were confirmed, you were brave again and did not hesitate for an instant in doing your duty as an honourable man! victor, few people would have done the like!" he reached out his hand to say good-bye. "you have now taken old franz into your confidence?" he asked, "another participator in the secret--it would have been well to consider it first! but i will not begin to scold again. adieu!" chapter xi. more than two weeks had passed since this last interview. january of 1853 was drawing to a close and still there seemed no likelihood of an end to the investigations against the workmen. berger observed this with great anxiety. he had long since presented the petition for pardon: the time was drawing near when it would be laid before the emperor, and yet, whenever the subject of the journey to vienna arose, sendlingen had some reason or motive for urging that he could not leave and that there was still time. when he made such a remark berger looked at him searchingly, as if he were trying to read his inmost soul and then departed sadly, shaking his head. every day sendlingen's conduct seemed to him more enigmatical and unnatural. for this was the one means of saving victorine's life! if he still hesitated it could only proceed from fear of the agony of the moment, from cowardice! but as often as berger might and did say this to himself, he did not succeed in convincing himself. for did not sendlingen at the same time evince in another matter and where the welfare and sufferings of strangers to him were concerned, a moral courage rarely found in this country and under this government. the conflict between sendlingen and the minister of justice had gradually assumed a very singular character; it had become a "thoroughly austrian business," as berger sometimes thought with the bitter smile of a patriot. to sendlingen's respectful but decided answer, the minister had replied as rudely and laconically as possible, commanding him to hand over the investigation forthwith to werner. no one could now doubt any longer that a further refusal would prove dangerous, and sendlingen sent his rejoinder,--a brief dignified protest against this unjustifiable encroachment--with the feeling that he had at the same time undersigned his own dismissal. and indeed in any other country a violent solution would have been the only one conceivable; but here it was different. certainly a severe censure from the minister followed and he talked of "further steps" to be taken, but the lightning that one might have expected after this thunder, did not follow. the same result, was, however, sought by circuitous means, attempts were made to weary the two judges and to put them out of conceit with the case. when they proposed to the court that the case against one of the accused might be discontinued, the crown-advocate promptly opposed it and called the supreme court to his assistance. with all that, the police were feverishly busy and overwhelmed the two judges by repeatedly bringing forward new grounds of suspicion against the prisoners, and these had to be gone through however evidently worthless they might be at the first glance. there was not a single person attached to the law-courts with all their diversity of character, who did not follow the struggle of sendlingen for the independence of the judge's position, with sympathy, and the townspeople were unanimous in their enthusiastic admiration. this courageous steadfastness was all the more highly reckoned as it was visibly undermining his strength. his hair grew gray, his bearing less erect, and his face now almost always bore an expression of melancholy disquiet. people were not surprised at this; it must naturally deeply afflict this man who was so manifestly designed to attain the highest places in his profession, perhaps even to become the chief judge of the empire--to be daily and hourly threatened with dismissal. only the three participators in the secret, and berger in particular, knew that the unhappy man could scarcely endure any longer the torture of uncertainty about his child's fate. all the more energetic, therefore, were berger's attempts to put an end at least to this unnecessary torment but again and again he spoke in vain. this occurred too on the last day in january. sendlingen stood by his answer: "there is still time, the petition has not yet come into the emperor's hands," and berger was sorrowfully about to leave his chambers, when the door was suddenly flung open and herr von werner rushed in. "my lord," cried the old gentleman almost beside himself with joy and waving a large open letter in his hand like a flag, "i have just received this; this has just been handed to me. it means that i am appointed your successor, it is the decree." sendlingen turned pale. "i congratulate you," he said with difficulty. "when are you to take over the conduct of the courts?" "on the 22nd february," was the answer. "oh, how happy i am! and you i am sure will excuse me! why should the news distress you? you will in any case be leaving here at the end of february to----" he, stopped in embarrassment. "to go to pfalicz as chief justice of the higher court there," he continued hastily. "we will continue to believe so, to suppose the contrary would be nonsensical. you have annoyed the minister and he is taking a slight revenge--that is all! good-bye, gentlemen, i must hurry to my wife!" the old gentleman tripped away smiling contentedly. "that is plain enough," said sendlingen, after a pause, turning to his friend. "my successor is appointed without my being consulted: the decree is sent direct to him and not through me; more than that, i am not even informed at the same time, when i am to hand over the conduct of the courts to him. to the minister i am already a dead man! but what can it matter to me in my position? werner's communication only frightened me for a moment, while i feared that i had to surrender to him forthwith. but the 22nd february--that is three weeks hence. by that time _everything_ will be decided." two days later, on candlemas day, on which in some parts of catholic austria people still observe the custom of paying one another little attentions, sendlingen also received a present from the minister. the letter read thus: "you are to surrender the conduct of the courts on the 22nd february to the newly appointed chief justice, herr von werner. further instructions regarding yourself will be forwarded you in due course." the tone of this letter spoke plainly enough. for "further instructions" were unnecessary if the previous arrangement--his appointment to pfalicz--was adhered to. his dismissal was manifestly decreed. all the functionaries of the courts fell into the greatest state of excitement: who was safe if sendlingen fell? and wherever the news penetrated, it aroused sorrow and indignation. on the evening of the same day the most prominent men of the town met so as to arrange a fête to their chief justice before his departure. it was determined to present him with an address and to have a farewell banquet. berger, who had been at the meeting, left as soon as the resolution was arrived at, and hurried to sendlingen for he knew that his friend would need his consolation to-day most of all. but sendlingen was so calm that it struck berger as almost peculiar. "i have had time to get accustomed to these thoughts," he said. "how do you think of living now?" asked berger. "i shall move to gratz," replied sendlingen quickly; he had manifestly given utterance to a long-cherished resolve. "won't you be too lonely there?" objected berger. "why won't you go to vienna? by the inheritance from your wife, you are a rich man who does not require to select the pensionopolis on the mur on account of its cheapness. in vienna you have many friends, there you will have the greatest incitement to literary work, besides you may not altogether disappear from the surface. your career is only forcibly interrupted but not nearly ended. a change of system, or even a change in the members of the ministry, would bring you back into the service of the state, and, perhaps, to a higher position than the one you are now losing." "my mind is made up. brigitta is going to gratz in a few days to take a house and make all arrangements." they talked about other things, about the fête that had been arranged to-day. "i will accept the address," sendlingen explained, "but not the banquet. i have not the heart for it." berger vehemently opposed this resolution; he must force himself to put in an appearance at least for an hour; the fête had reference not only to himself personally, but to a sacred cause, the independence of judges. all this he unfolded with such warmth, that sendlingen at length promised that he would consider it. the next morning the vienna papers published the news of the measures taken with regard to sendlingen, which they had learnt by private telegrams. a severe censorship hampered the austrian press in those days; the papers had been obliged to accustom the public to read more between the lines than the lines themselves: and this time, too, they hit upon a safe method of criticism. as if by a preconcerted agreement, all the papers pronounced the news highly incredible; and that it was, moreover, wicked to attribute such conduct to the strict but just government which austria enjoyed. a severer condemnation than this defence of the government against "manifestly malicious reports" could not easily be imagined, and the public understood it as it was intended. in a moment, sendlingen's name was in every mouth, and the investigation against the workmen the talk of the day, first in the capital, soon throughout the whole country. a flood of telegrams and letters, inquiries and enthusiastic commendations, suddenly burst upon sendlingen. had there been room in his poor heart, in his weary tormented brain, for any lucid thought or feeling, he would now have been able, in the days of his disgrace, to have held up his head more proudly than ever. it was not saying too much when berger told him that a whole nation was now showing how highly it valued him. but he scarcely noticed it and continued, dark and hopeless, to do his duty and to drag on the sisyphus-task of his investigation in combat with both the police and the crown lawyers. suddenly those hindrances ceased. when sendlingen one morning entered his chambers soon after the news of his deposal had appeared in the papers, he for the first time, for weeks, found no information of the police on the table. that might be an accident, but when there was none the second day, he breathed again. the superintendent of police at bolosch was, the zealous servant of his masters; if he in twice twenty-four hours did not discover the slightest trace of high treason, there must be good reason for it. in the same way nothing more was heard from the crown-advocate. "they have almost lost courage in the face of the general indignation!" cried berger triumphantly. "franz has just told me that brigitta is to start the day after to-morrow for gratz. let her wait a few days, and so spare the old lady having to make the journey to pfalicz by the very round about way of gratz." "you cannot seriously hope that," said sendlingen turning away, and so berger went into brigitta's room later on to bid her good-bye. the old lady was eagerly reading a book which she hastily put on one side as he entered. "i am disturbing you," he said. "what are you studying so diligently?" "oh, a novel," she replied quickly. her eyes were red and she must have been crying a great deal lately. "i thought perhaps it was a description of gratz," said he jokingly. "it seems to me that you have a genuine fear of this weird city where life surges and swells so mightily!" and he attempted to remove her fears by telling her much of the quiet, narrow life of the town on the mur. while he was speaking, the book, which she had laid on her workbox, slid to the ground and he picked it up before she had time to bend down for it. it was a french grammar. "great heavens!" he cried in astonishment. "you are taking up the studies of your youth again, fräulein brigitta?" the old lady stood there speechless, her face crimson, as if she had been caught in a crime. "i have been told," she stammered, "that--that one can hardly get along there with only german." "in gratz?" berger could not help laughing heartily. "who has been playing this joke upon you? reassure yourself. you will get along with the french in gratz without any grammar." still laughing, he said good-bye and promised to visit her in gratz. meanwhile the excitement into which the press and the public were thrown by the "sendlingen incident" grew daily. in bolosch new proposals were constantly being made, to have the fête on a magnificent and uncommon scale. it did not satisfy the popular enthusiasm that the address to be presented was covered with thousands of signatures. a proposal was made in the town-council to call the principal street after sendlingen: some of the prominent men of the town wanted to collect subscriptions for a "sendlingen fund" whose revenue should be devoted to such officers of the state as, like sendlingen, had become the victims of their faithfulness to conviction; the gymnastic societies resolved upon a torch-light procession. the chairman of the committee arranging the festivities--he was the head of the first banking house of the town--was in genuine perplexity; he still did not know which acts of homage sendlingen would accept and he sought berger's interposition. "save me," implored the active banker. "people are pressing me and the chief justice is dumb. yesterday i hoped to get a definite answer from him but he broke off and talked of our business." "business? what business?" asked berger. "i am just doing a rather complicated piece of business for him," answered the banker. "i thought that you, his best friend, would have known about it. he is converting the austrian stock in which his property was hitherto invested, into french, english and dutch stock, and a small portion of it into ready money." "why?" asked berger in surprise. "he is going to stay in austria?" "so i asked," replied the banker, "and received an answer which i had, willy nilly, to take as pertinent. for he is hardly to be blamed, if after his experiences, his belief in the credit of the state has become a little shaky." berger could not help agreeing with this, and therefore did not refer to it in his talk with sendlingen. with regard to the fête he received a satisfactory answer. sendlingen without any further hesitation, accepted the banquet and even the torch-light procession. both were to take place on the 21st february, the last day of his term of office. all this was telegraphed to vienna and was bravely used by the papers. even in bolosch, they said, these melancholy reports, so humiliating to every austrian, were not seriously believed; how long would the government hesitate to contradict them? the demand was so universal, the excitement so great, that an official notice of a reassuring character was actually issued. the government, announced an official organ, had in no way interfered with the investigation; that this was evident, the present position of the inquiry, now without doubt near a close, sufficiently proved. with regard, however, to sendlingen's dismissal there was some "misunderstanding" in question. as so often before, in the case of the like oracular utterances from a similar source, everybody was now asking what this really meant. berger thought he had hit the mark and exultingly said to his friend: "hurrah! they have now entirely lost their courage! they are only temporising so as not to have to admit that public opinion has made an impression upon them." sendlingen shrugged his shoulders. "it is all one to me, george," he said. "now--that i can understand," replied berger warmly. "in a few months you will speak differently! when do you go to vienna?" sendlingen reflected. "on the seventeenth i should say," he at length replied hesitatingly. "that is to say if dernegg and i can really dismiss the workmen on the sixteenth as we hope to do." this hope was realised; on the 16th february 1852, the workmen were released from prison. their first step related to sendlingen: in the name of all, johannes novyrok made a speech of thanks of which this was the peroration: "we know well what we ought to wish you in return for all you have done for us: good-luck and happiness for you and for all whom you love! but mere good wishes won't help you, and we can do nothing for you, although every man of us would willingly shed his blood for your sake, and as to praying, my lord, it is much the same thing--you may remember, perhaps, what i have already said to you on the subject. and so we can only say: think of us when you are in affliction of mind and you will certainly be cheered! you can say to yourself: 'i have lifted these people out of their misfortune and lessened their burden as much as i could,'--and you will breathe again. for i believe this is the best consolation that any man can have on this poor earth. god bless you! for you are noble and good, and what you do is well done, and sin and evil are far from you. a thousand thanks, my lord. farewell!" "farewell!" murmured sendlingen, his voice choking as he turned away. ... on the next day, the 17th february, sendlingen should have started by the morning train to vienna; he had solemnly promised berger to do so the evening before. the latter, therefore, was much alarmed when he accidentally heard, in the course of the afternoon, that sendlingen was still in chambers. he hastened to him. "why have you again put off going?" he asked impetuously. sendlingen had turned pale. "i have not been able to bring myself to it," he answered softly. "and you know what is at stake!" cried berger in great excitement, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead. "victor, this is cowardice!" "it is not," he replied as gently as before, but with the greatest determination. "if i had been a coward, i would long since have had the audience." berger looked at him in astonishment. "i do not understand you," he said. "it may be a sophism by which you are trying to lull your conscience, but it is my duty to rouse you. o victor!" he continued with passionate grief, "you can yourself imagine what it costs me to speak to you in this way. but i have no option." sendlingen was silent. "i will talk about it later," he said. "let me first tell you a piece of news that will interest you. i have received a letter from the minister this morning.... you were right about their 'courage.'" he handed the letter to his friend. "the minister reminds me that it is my duty, in consequence of the appointment made last november, to be in pfalicz on the morning of the 1st march to take over the conduct of the higher court there." "after all!" cried berger. "and how polite! do you see now that we liberals and our newspapers are some good? the minister has no other motive for beating a retreat." "perhaps this letter, which came at the same time, may throw some light on it," observed sendlingen taking up a letter as yet unopened. "it is from my brother-in-law. count karolberg!" he opened it and glanced at the first few lines. "true!" he exclaimed. "just listen." "you do not deserve your good fortune," he read, "and i myself was fully persuaded that you were lost. but it seems that the minister talked to us more sharply than he thought, and that from the first he meant nothing serious. that he kept you rather long in suspense, proved to be only a slight revenge which was perhaps permissible. he meant no harm; i feel myself in duty bound to say this to his credit." "and your brother-in-law is a clever man," cried berger, "and himself a judge! does he not understand that this very explanation tells most of all against the minister? oh, i always said that it was another thoroughly austrian----" a cry of pain interrupted him. "what is this?" cried sendlingen horror-struck and gazing in deadly pallor at the letter. berger took the letter out of his trembling hands, in the next instant he too changed colour. his eyes had lit upon the following passage. "when do you leave bolosch? i hope that the last duty that you have to do in your office, will not affect your soft heart too much. certainly it is always painful to order the execution of a woman, and especially such a young one, and perhaps you can leave the arrangements for the execution to your successor who fortunately is made of sterner stuff." the letter fell from berger's hands. "o victor----" he murmured. "don't say a word," sendlingen groaned; his voice sounded like a drowning man's. "no reproaches!--do you want to drive me mad." then he made a great effort over himself. "the warrant must have come already," he said, and he rang for the clerk and told him to bring all the papers that had arrived that day. the fatal document was really among them; it was a brief information to the court at bolosch stating that the emperor had rejected the petition for pardon lodged by counsel for the defence, and that he had confirmed the sentence of death. the execution, according to the custom then prevailing, was to be carried out in eight days. "i will not reproach you," said berger after he had glanced through the few lines. "but now you must act. you must telegraph at once to the imperial chancellery and ask for an audience for the day after tomorrow, the nineteenth, and to-morrow you must start for vienna!" "i will do so," said sendlingen softly. "you _must_ do it!" cried berger, "and i will see that you do. i will be back in the evening." when berger returned at nightfall, franz said to him in the lobby: "thank god, we are going to vienna after all!" and sendlingen himself corroborated this. "i have already received an answer; the audience is granted for the nineteenth. i have struggled severely with myself," he then added, and continued half aloud, in an unsteady voice, as if he were talking to himself; "i am a greater coward than i thought. however fixed my resolve was, my courage failed me--and so i must go to vienna." berger asked no further questions, he was content with the promise. chapter xii. the 18th february 1853, was a clear, sunny day. at midday the snow melted, the air was mild; there seemed a breath of spring on the country through which the train sped along, bearing the unhappy man to vienna. but there was night in his heart, night before his eyes; he sat in the corner of his carriage with closed lids, and only when the train stopped, did he start up as from sleep, look out at the name of the station, and deeply sighing, fall back again into his melancholy brooding. was the train too slow for him? there were moments when he wished for the wings of a storm to carry him to his destination, and that the time which separated him from the decisive moment might have the speed of a storm. and in the next breath, he again dreaded this moment, so that every second of the day which separated him from it, seemed like a refreshing gift of grace. alas! he hardly knew himself what he should desire, what he should entreat, and one feeling only remained in his change of mood, despair remained and spread her dark shadow over his heart and brain. the train stopped again, this time at a larger station. there were many people on the platform, something extraordinary must have happened; they were crowding round the station-master who held a paper in his hand and appeared to be talking in the greatest excitement. the crowd only dispersed slowly as the train came in; lingeringly and in eager talk, the travellers approached the carriages. sendlingen looked out; the guard went up to the station-master who offered him the paper; it must have been a telegram. the man read it, fell back a step turning pale and cried out: "impossible!" upon which those standing around shrugged their shoulders. sendlingen saw and heard all this; but it did not penetrate his consciousness. "heldenberg," he said, murmuring the name of the station. "two hours more." the train steamed off, up a hilly country and therefore with diminished speed. but to the unhappy man it was again going too swiftly--for each turn of the wheels was dragging him further away from his child, for a sight of whose white face of suffering, he was suddenly seized with a feverish longing, his poor child, that now needed him most of all. "frightful!" he groaned aloud. his over-wrought imagination pictured how she had perhaps just received the news that she was to fall into the hangman's hands! it was possible that the sentence had passed through the court of records and been added to the rolls; some of the lawyers attached to the courts might have read it, or some of the clerks--if one of them should tell the governor, or the warders, if victorine should accidentally hear or it! "back!" he hissed, springing up. "i must go back." fortunately he was alone, otherwise his fellow travellers would have thought him mad. and there was something of madness in his eyes as he seized his portmanteau from the rack, and grasped the handle of the door as if to open it and spring from the train. the guard was just going along the foot-board of the carriages, the engine whistled, the train slackened, and in the distance the roofs of a station were visible. the guard looked in astonishment at the livid, distorted features of the traveller; this look restored sendlingen to his senses, and he sank back into his seat. "it is useless," he reflected. "i must go on to vienna." the train pulled up, "reichendorf! one minute's wait!" cried the guard. it was a small station, no one either got in or out; only an official in his red cap stood before the building. nevertheless, the wait extended somewhat beyond the allotted time. the guards were engaged in eager conversation with the official. sendlingen could at first hear every word. "there is no doubt about it!" said the official. "i arranged my apparatus so that i could hear it being telegraphed to pfalicz and bolosch. what a catastrophe." "and is the wound serious?" asked one of the guards. he was evidently a retired soldier, the old man's voice trembled as he put the question. "the accounts differ about that," was the answer. "great heavens! who would have thought such a thing possible in austria!" "oh! it can only have been an italian!" cried the old soldier. "i was ten years there and know the treacherous brood!" thus much sendlingen heard, but without rightly understanding, without asking himself what it might mean. more than that, the sound of the voices was painful to him as it disturbed his train of thought; he drew up the window so as to hear no more. and now another picture presented itself to him as the train sped on, but it was no brighter or more consoling. he was standing before his prince who had said to him: "it is frightful, i pity you, poor father, but i cannot help you! it is my duty to protect justice without respect of persons; i confirmed the sentence of death not because i knew nothing of her father, and supposed him a man of poor origin, but because she was guilty, by her own confession and the judges' verdict. shall i pardon her now because she is the daughter of an influential man of rank, because she is your daughter? is her guilt any the less for this, will this bring her child to life again? can you expect this of me, you, who are yourself a judge, bound by oath to judge both high and low with the same measure?" thus had the emperor spoken, and he had found no word to say against it--alas! no syllable of a word--and had gone home again. and it was a dark night--dark enough to conceal thieving and robbery or the blackest crime ever done by man--and he was creeping across the court-yard at home; creeping towards the little door that opened into the prison. "oh!" he groaned stretching out his hands as if to repel this vision, "not that!--not that!--and i am too cowardly to do it. i know--too cowardly! too cowardly!" once more the train stopped, this time at a larger station. sendlingen did not look out, otherwise he must have noticed that this was some extraordinary news that was flying through the land and filling all who heard it with horror. pale and excited the crowd was thronging in the greatest confusion; all seemed to look upon what had happened as a common misfortune. some were shouting, others staring as if paralyzed by fear, others again, the majority, were impatiently asking one another for fresh details. "it was a shot!" screamed an old gray-headed man in a trembling voice, above the rest, before he got into the train. "so the telegram to the prefect says." "a shot!" the word passed from mouth to mouth and some wept aloud.' "no!" cried another, "it was a stab from a dagger, the general himself told me so." confused and unintelligible, the cries reached sendlingen's ears till they were drowned by the rush of the wheels, and again nothing was to be heard save the noise of the rolling train. and again his over-wrought imagination presented another picture. the emperor had heard his prayer and said: "i grant her her life, i will commute the punishment to imprisonment for life, for twenty years. more than this i dare not do; she would have died had she not been your daughter, but i dare not remit the punishment altogether, nor so far lessen it that she, a murderess, should suffer the same punishment as the daughter of a common man had she committed a serious theft." and to this too he had known of no answer, and had come home and had to tell his poor daughter that he had deceived her by lies. she had broken down under the blow, and had been taken with death in her heart to a criminal prison, and a few months later as he sat in his office and dignity at pfalicz, the news was brought him that she had died. "would this be justice?" cried a voice in his tortured breast. "can i suffer this? no, no! it would be my most grievous crime, more grievous than any other." the train had reached the last station before vienna, a suburb of the capital. here the throng was so dense, the turmoil so great, that sendlingen, in spite of his depression, started up and looked out. "some great misfortune or other must have happened," he thought, as he saw the pale faces and excited gestures around him. but so great was the constraining force of the spell in which his own misery held his thoughts, that it never penetrated his consciousness so as to ask what had happened. he leant back in his corner, and of the babel of voices outside only isolated, unintelligible sounds reached his ears. here the people were no longer disputing with what weapon that deed had been done which filled them with such deep horror. "it was a stab from a dagger," they all said, "driven with full force into the neck." their only dispute was as to the nationality of the malefactor. "it was a hungarian!" cried some. "a count. he did it out of revenge because his cousin was hanged." "that is a lie!" cried a man in hungarian costume. "a hungarian wouldn't do it--the hungarians are brave--the austrians are cowards--the blackguard was an austrian, a viennese!" "oho!" cried the excited crowd, and in the same instant twenty fists were clenched at the speaker so that he began to retire. "a lie! it was no viennese! on the contrary, a viennese came to the rescue!" "yes, a vienna citizen!" shouted others, "a butcher!" "was not the assassin an italian?" asked the guard of the train, and this was enough for ten others to yell: "it was a milanese--naturally!--they are the worst of the lot!" while from another corner of the platform there was a general cry: "it was a pole! a student! he belonged to a secret society and was chosen by lot!" two poles protested, the hungarian and an italian joined them; bad language flew all over the place; fists and sticks were raised; the police in vain tried to keep the peace. then a smart little shoemaker's apprentice hit upon the magic word that quieted all. "it was a bohemian!" he screeched, "a journeyman tailor from pardubitz!" in a moment a hundred voices were re-echoing this. this cry alone penetrated the gloomy reflections in which sendlingen was enshrouded, but he only thought for an instant: "probably some particularly atrocious murder," and then continued the dark train of his thoughts.--now he tried to rouse himself, to cheer himself by new hopes, and he strove hard to think the solution of which berger had spoken, credible. he clung to it, he pictured the whole scene--it was the one comfort left to his unhappy mind. he chose the words by which he would move his prince's heart, and as the unutterable misery of the last few months, the immeasurable torment of his present position once more rose before him, he was seized with pity for himself and his eyes moistened--assuredly! the emperor, too, could not fail to be touched, he would hear him and grant him the life of his child. not altogether, he could not possibly do that, but perhaps he would believe living words rather than dead documentary evidence and would see that the poor creature was deserving of a milder punishment. and when her term of punishment was over--oh! how gladly he would cast from him all the pomp and dignity of the world and journey with her into a foreign land where her past was not known--how he would sacrifice everything to establish her in a new life, in new happiness.... a consoling picture rose before him: a quiet, country seat, apart from the stream of the world, far, far away, in france or in holland. shady trees clustered around a small house and on the veranda there sat a young woman, still pale and with an expression of deep seriousness in her face, but her eyes were brighter already, and there was a look about her mouth as if it could learn to smile again. "vienna." the train stopped; on the platform there was the same swaying, surging crowd as at the suburb, but it was much quieter for the police prevented all shouting and forming into groups. sendlingen did not notice how very strongly the station was guarded. the consoling picture he had conjured up was still before his mind; like a somnambulist he pushed through the crowd and got into a cab. "to the savage," he called to the driver; he gave the order mechanically, from force of habit, for he always stayed at this hotel. the shadows of the dusk had fallen upon the streets as the cab drove out of the station, the lamps' red glimmer was visible through the damp evening mist that had followed upon the sunny day. sendlingen leant back in the cushions and closed his eyes to continue his dream; he did not notice what an unusual stir there was in the streets. it was as if the whole population was making its way to the heart of the city; the vehicles moved in long rows, the pedestrians streamed along in dense masses. there was no shouting, no loud word, but the murmur of the thousands, excitedly tramping along, was joined to a strange hollow buzz that floated unceasingly in the air, and grew stronger and stronger as the carriage neared the centre of the town. more and more police were visible, and at the glacis there was even a battalion at attention, ready for attack at a moment's notice. even this sendlingen did not notice, it hardly entered his mind that the cab was driving much more slowly than usual. that picture of his brain was still before him and hope had visited his heart again. "courage!" he whispered to himself. "one night more of this torment--and then she is saved! he is the only human being who can help us, and he will help us." his cab had at length made way through the crowd that poured in an ever denser throng across the stefansplatz and up the graben towards the imperial palace--and it was able to turn into the kärtnerstrasse. it drew up before the hotel. the hall-porters darted out and helped sendlingen to alight, the proprietor himself hurried forward and bowed low when he recognised him. "his lordship, the chief justice!" he cried. "rooms 7 and 8. what does your lordship say to this calamity? it has quite dazed me!" "what has happened?" asked sendlingen. "your lordship does not know?" cried the landlord in amazement. "that is almost impossible! a journey-man tailor from hungary, johann libényi, attempted his majesty's life to-day at the glacis. the dagger of the miscreant struck the emperor in the neck. his majesty is severely wounded, if it had not been for the presence of mind of the butcher, ettenreich----" he stopped abruptly, "what is the matter?" he cried darting towards sendlingen. sendlingen tottered, and but for his help would have fallen to the ground. chapter xiii. on the evening of the next day count karolberg, sendlingen's brother-in-law, entered his room at the hotel. "well, here you are at last!" he cried, still in the door-way. "is this the way to go on after a bad attack of the heart on the evening before? three times to-day have i tried to get hold of you, the first time at nine in the morning and you had already gone out." "thank you very much!" replied sendlingen. "my anxiety for authentic news about the emperor's condition, drove me out of doors betimes, and so i went to the imperial chancellery as early as was seemly. but i only learnt what is in all the papers: that there was no danger of his life, but that he would need quite three weeks of absolute rest to bring about his complete recovery. meanwhile the cabinet is to see to all current affairs: the sovereign authority of the emperor is suspended, and none of the princes of the blood are to act as regent during the illness." "but you surely did not inquire about that?" cried count karolberg in astonishment. "that goes without saying." "goes without saying!" muttered sendlingen, and for a moment his self-command left him and his features became so listless and gloomy that his brother-in-law looked at him much concerned. "victor!" he said, "you are really ill! you must see oppolzer to-morrow." "i cannot. i must go back to bolosch to-night. i require two days at least, to arrange the surrender of matters to my successor. but then i shall come back here at once." "good! you are going to spend the week before entering on your new position here; the minister of justice has just told me. it was very prudent of you to visit him at once." "it was only fitting that i should," said sendlingen. alas! not from any motives of fitness or prudence had he gone to the minister of justice; it was despair that drove him there after the information he got at the chancellery, a remnant of a hope that by his help, he might at least attain the postponement of the execution till the emperor was better again. not until he was in the minister's ante-room, and had already been announced, did he recover his senses and recognise that the minister could as little command a postponement as he himself, and so he kept silence. "he was very friendly to me!" he added aloud. "he is completely reconciled to you," count karolberg eagerly corroborated. "he spoke to me of your ill-health with the sincerest sympathy, and told me that you had hinted at not accepting the post at pfalicz but contemplated retiring. i hope that is far from being your resolve! if you require a lengthy cure somewhere in the south, leave of absence would be sufficient. how could you have the heart to renounce a career that smiles upon you as yours does?" "of, course," replied sendlingen, "i shall consider the subject thoroughly." he then asked to be excused for a minute in order to write a telegram to bolosch. he sat down at the writing-table. he found the few words needed hard to choose. he crossed them out and altered them again and again--it was the first lie that that hand had ever set down. at length he had finished. the telegram read as follows: "george berger, bolosch. end desired as good as attained. have procured postponement till recovery of decisive arbiter. return to-morrow comforted. victor." he then drove with count karolberg to his house and spent the evening there in the circle of his relations. he was quiet and cheerful at he used to be, and when he took his leave of the lady of the house to go to the station, he jokingly invited himself to dinner on the 22d of february. the weather had completely changed, since the morning heavy snow had fallen: the bolosch train had to wait a long time at the next station till the snow-ploughs had cleared the line, and it was not till late next morning that it reached its destination. sendlingen was deeply moved that, notwithstanding, the first face he saw on getting out of the train, was that of his faithful friend. and at the same time it frightened him: for how could he look him in the face? but in his impetuous joy, berger did not observe how sendlingen shrank at his gaze. "at last!" he cried, embracing him, and with moistened eyes, he pressed his hand, incapable of uttering a word. "thank you!" said sendlingen in an uncertain voice. "it--it came upon you as a surprise?" "you may imagine that!" cried berger. "soon after your departure, i heard the news of the attempt on the emperor's life. i thought all was lost and was about to hurry to you when your telegram came. and then, picture my delight! i sent for franz--the old man was mad with joy!" they had come out to the front of the station and had got into berger's sleigh. "to my house!" he called to the driver! "what are you thinking of?" asked sendlingen. "you forget that you have no longer a habitable home!" cried berger. "there is such a veritable hurly-burly at the residence, that even franz hardly knows his way about--where do you mean to stay?" "at the hofmann hotel," replied sendlingen. "i have already commissioned franz to take rooms there. it is impossible for me to stay with you, george. please do not press me. i cannot do it." berger looked at him astonished. "but why not? and how tragically it affects you? to the hofmann hotel!" he now ordered the driver. "but now tell me everything," he begged, when the sleigh had altered its direction. "who granted you the postponement?" "the archduke ferdinand maximilian," replied sendlingen quickly, "the emperor's eldest brother. i had an interview with him yesterday. the order to werner to postpone the execution, should be here by the day after to-morrow. for my own part, i shall stay in vienna until the emperor has recovered. the archduke himself could not give a final decision." "once more my heartiest congratulations!" cried berger. "i will faithfully watch over victorine till you return. and now as to other things. do you know whom this concerns?" he pointed to some bundles of fir-branches that were being unloaded at several houses. here and there, too, some black and yellow, or black, red and yellow flags were being hung out. "you, victor. the whole of bolosch is preparing itself for to-morrow, it will be such a fête as the town has not seen for a long time. the committee has done nothing either about the decorations or the illuminations. both are spontaneous, and done without any preconcerted arrangement." "this must not take place!" cried sendlingen impatiently. "i cannot allow it! it would rend my heart!" "i understand you," said berger. "but in for a penny etc. besides your heart may be easier now, than at the time you agreed to accept the torch-light procession and the banquet. do not spoil these good people's pleasure, they have honorably earned your countenance. every third man in bolosch is inconsolable to-day because there are no more tickets left for the banquet, although we have hired the biggest room in the place, the one in the town-hall. the only compensation that we could offer them, was the modest pleasure of carrying a torch in your honour and at the same time burning a few holes in their sunday clothes. notwithstanding, torches have since yesterday become the subject of some very swindling jobbery." in this manner he gossiped away cheerfully until the sleigh drew up at the hotel. herr hofmann, the landlord, was almost speechless with pleasure. "what an honour," stammered the fat man, his broad features colouring a sort of purple-red. "your lordship is going to receive the procession on my balcony?" "yes indeed," sighed berger, "and it is i who got you this honour!" he drove away, promising to send franz who was waiting at his house. after a short interval franz appeared at the hotel; his face beamed as he entered his master's room, and a few minutes later, when he came out again, it was pale and distorted and his eyes seemed blinded; the old man was reeling like a drunkard as he went back to berger's house to fetch the trunks to the hotel. without making good his lost night's rest, sendlingen betook himself to his chambers. herr von werner was already waiting for him; they at once went to their task and began with the business of the civil court. it was not difficult work, but it consumed much time, especially as werner in accordance with his usual custom would not dispatch the most insignificant thing by word of mouth. seldom can any mortal have written his signature with the same pleasure as he to-day signed: "von werner, chief justice." sendlingen held out patiently, without a sign of discomposure, "like a lamb for the sacrifice" thought baron dernegg who was assisting with the transfer. they only interrupted their work to take a scanty meal in chambers; twice, moreover, franz sent for his master to make a brief communication. at length, about ten at night, the work was done. for the next day, when the affairs of the criminal court were to be disposed of, werner promised to be more brief. "you had better, if you value your life," cried dernegg laughing. "the citizens of bolosch won't be made fools of. woe to you if you don't release the hero of to-morrow's fête in good time!" sendlingen went to berger who had now been waiting for him several hours with increasing impatience. "i shall never forgive herr von werner this!" he swore as they sat down to their belated meal. "and it is the last evening in which i shall have you to myself! franz told me that you were going to vienna by the express at four in the morning, why will you not take a proper rest after the excitement of the fête? you had better go the day after to-morrow by the midday train." "i cannot," replied sendlingen. "the minister of justice has asked me to attend an important conference the day after to-morrow, and therefore i am even thinking of going by the mail-train to-morrow. it starts shortly after midnight and----" "that is quite impossible!" interrupted berger. "just consider, the procession takes place between eight and nine, the banquet begins at ten, it will be eleven before the first speeches are made--then you are to reply in all speed, rush out, hurry to the hotel, change your clothes, fly to the station----why, it is quite impossible, and the people would be justly offended if you fled from the feast in an hour's time as if it were a torment!" "and so it is!" cried sendlingen. "when you consider what my feelings are likely to be at leaving bolosch, then you will certainly not try to stop me, but will rather help me, so that the torment be not too long drawn out." berger shrugged his shoulders. "you always get your own way!" he said. "but it is not right to offend the people and then victimise yourself all night in a train that stops at even the smallest stations." then they talked of the political bearings, of the consequences, which the crime of the 18th february, the act of a half-witted creature, might have on the freedom of austria. victorine's name was not mentioned by either of them this time. sendlingen never closed his eyes all that night, although herr hofmann had personally selected for him the best pillows in the hotel. it was a dark, wild night; the snow alone gave a faint glimmer. an icy northeast wind whistled its wild song through the streets, fit accompaniment to the thoughts of the sleepless man. towards eight in the morning--it had just become daylight--he heard the sound of military music; the band was playing a buoyant march. at the same time there was a knock at his door and franz entered. the old man was completely broken down. "we must dress," he said. "the band of the jägers and the choral society are about to serenade. besides i suppose we have not slept!" "nor you either, franz?" "what does that matter! but we will not survive it!" he groaned. "oh! that this day, that this night, were already past." "it must be, franz." "yes, it must be!" the band came nearer and nearer. at the same time the footsteps, the laughter and shouts of a large crowd were audible. the old man listened. "that's the radetzky march!" he said. "ah! how merrily they are piping to our sorrow." the procession had reached the hotel. "three cheers for sendlingen!" cried a stentorian voice. the band struck up a flourish and from hundreds and hundreds of throats came the resounding shout: "hip, hip, hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" then the band played a short overture and the fingers followed with a chorus. meanwhile sendlingen had finished dressing; he went into the adjoining room, and, after the song was finished and the cheering had begun again, he opened a window and bowed his thanks. at his appearance the shouts were louder and louder; like the voice of a storm they rose again and again: "hurrah for sendlingen! hurrah! hurrah!" and mingling with them was the cry of the czech workmen: "slava--na zdar!" all the windows in the street were open; the women waved their handkerchiefs, the men their hats; as far as the eye could see, bright flags were floating before the snow-covered houses, and decorations of fir were conspicuous in all the windows and balconies. the unhappy man stared in stupefaction at the scene beneath him, then a burning crimson flushed his pale face and he raised his hand as if to expostulate. the crowd put another interpretation on the sign and thought that he wanted to make a speech. "silence," shouted a hundred voices together and there was a general hush. but sendlingen quickly withdrew, while the cheering broke forth afresh. "my hat!" he cried to franz. he wanted to escape to the courts by the back door of the hotel. but it was too late; the door of the room opened, and the committee entered and presented the address of the inhabitants of bolosch. then the mayor and town-council appeared bringing the greatest distinction that had ever been conferred on a citizen of bolosch--not only the freedom of the city, but the resolution of the town-council to change the name of cross street forthwith into sendlingen street. various other deputations followed: the last was that of the workmen. their leader was johannes novyrok; he presented as a gift, according to a slavonic custom, a loaf of bread and a plated salt-cellar, adding: "look at that salt-cellar, my lord! if you imagine that it is silver you will be much mistaken, it is only very thinly plated and cost no more than four gulden, forty kreutzer, and i must candidly say that the dealer has very likely swindled us out of a few groschen in the transaction; for what do we understand of such baubles? well, four gulden and forty kreutzer, besides fifteen kreutzer for the bread and five kreutzer for the salt, make altogether five gulden of the realm. now you will perhaps think to yourself, my lord: are these men mad that they dare offer _me_ such a trifling gift--but to that i answer: five gulden are three hundred kreutzer of the realm, and these three hundred kreutzer were collected in this way: three hundred workmen of this town after receiving their wages last saturday, each subscribed one kreutzer to give you a bit of pleasure. and now that you know this, you will certainly honour their trifling gift. we beg you to keep this salt-cellar on your table, so that your heart may be always rejoiced by the gift of poor men whose benefactor you have been." in the law courts, too, a solemn ovation was awaiting him. two judges received him at the entrance and conducted him to the hall of the senate, where all the members of the court were gathered. werner handed him their parting-gift: a water-colour painting of the courts of justice, and an album with the photographs of all connected with them. "to the model of every judicial virtue," was stamped on it in gold letters. then dernegg stepped forward. a number of the court officials had clubbed together to adorn the walls with sendlingen's portrait. dernegg made a sign and the curtain was withdrawn from the picture. "not only to honour you," he continued turning to sendlingen, "have we placed this picture here, but because we desire that your portrait should look down upon us to admonish and encourage us, whenever we are assembled here in solemn deliberation. it was here that four months ago you gave utterance to a sentiment that, to me, will always be more significant of your character than anything i ever heard you say. we were discussing the condemnation of an unfortunate government clerk. 'i have never been,' you said on that occasion, 'a blind adherent of the maxim fiat justitia et pereat mundum--but at least it must so far be considered sacred, as binding each of us judges to act according to law and duty, even if our hearts should break in doing so.' such things are easily said, but hard to do. fate, however, had decreed that you were, since then, to give a proof that this conviction had indeed been the loadstar of your life. who should know that better than i, your colleague in those sorrowful days. you never hesitated, even when all that the heart of man may cling to, was at stake in your life." he had intended to go into this at greater length, but he came to a speedy conclusion when he saw how pale sendlingen had turned. "very likely his heart is troubling him again," he thought. but the attack seemed to pass quickly. certainly sendlingen only replied in a very few words, but he went to work again with werner zealously. the three men--dernegg was assisting to-day as well--betook themselves to the prison. in the governor's office, the register of prisoners was gone through. werner started when he saw the list of the sick. "so many?" he cried. "our doctor would be more suited to a philanthropic institute than here. here, for instance, i read: 'victorine lippert. since the 9th november, 1852.' why that must be the child-murderess, that impertinent person who made such a scene at the trial. and here it says further: 'convalescent since the middle of december, but must remain in the infirmary till her complete recovery on account of grave general debility.' this person has been well for two months, and is still treated as if she were ill! isn't that unjustifiable?" sendlingen made no reply; he was holding one of the lists close to his eyes, so that his face was not visible. dernegg, however, answered: "perhaps the contrary would be unjustifiable. the doctor knows the case, we don't. he is a conscientious man." "certainly," agreed werner, "of course he is--but much too soft-hearted. let us keep to this particular case. well, this person has been tended as an invalid for more than two months. that adds an increase of more than twenty kreutzer daily to the public expenditure, altogether, since the middle of december, fourteen gulden of the realm. we should calculate, gentlemen, calculate. and is such a person worth so much money? well, we can soon see for ourselves whether she is ill!" they began to go the rounds of the prison. that was soon done with, but in the first room of the infirmary, werner began a formal examination of the patients. sendlingen went up to him. "finish that tomorrow," he said sharply, in an undertone. "you are my successor, not my supervisor." werner almost doubled up. "excuse me--" he muttered in the greatest embarrassment. "you are right,--but i did not dream of offending you--you whom i honour so highly. let us go." they went through the remainder of the rooms without stopping, until they came to the separate cells for female patients. here, only two female warders kept guard. werner looked through the list of the patients' names. "why, victorine lippert is here," he said. "actually in a separate cell. my lord chief justice," he continued in an almost beseeching tone of voice, turning to sendlingen, "this one case i should like at once to--i beg--it really consumes me with indignation--otherwise i must come over this afternoon." sendlingen had turned away. "as you wish," he then muttered, and they entered her cell. victorine had just sat down at her table and was reading the bible. she looked up, a crimson flush overspread her face, trembling with a glad excitement she rose--the pardon must at length have arrived from vienna, and the judges were coming to announce it. the danger increased sendlingen's strength. he had not been able to endure dernegg's words of praise, but now that the questioning look of his child rested on him, now that his heart threatened to stand still from compassion and from terror of what the next moment might bring forth, not a muscle of his face moved. perhaps it decisively affected his and victorine's fate, that this unspeakable torture only lasted a few moments. "there we are!" werner broke forth. "rosy and healthy and out of bed. a nice sort of illness. but this shall be put a stop to to-day." with a low cry, her face turning white, victorine staggered back. werner did not hear her, he had already left the cell, the other two followed him. "it was on account of your request that i was so brief," said werner in the corridor turning to sendlingen. "besides one glance is sufficient! tell me yourself, my lord, does she look as if she were ill?" "you must take the doctor's opinion about that," said dernegg. "that would be superfluous," said sendlingen, his voice scarcely trembling. "the sentence of death is confirmed; she must be executed in a few days; the 25th february at the latest, as the sentence reached here on the seventeenth. i can only share your view," he continued turning to werner, "she really looks healthy enough to be removed into the common prison. but what would be the good? we have not got any special 'black hole' in which condemned criminals spend the day before their execution, and one of these cells in the infirmary is always used for the purpose." "you are right as usual," werner warmly agreed. "she can remain in the cell for the two days: that will be the most practical thing to do. on the twenty-third, i will announce the sentence, on the twenty-fourth, the execution can take place." sendlingen gave a deep sigh. "we have finished with the prisons now," he said, "let us go back to chambers. allow me to show you the nearest way." he beckoned to the governor of the prison to follow them. the cells of the infirmary were in a short corridor that opened into the prison-yard. the governor opened the door and they stepped out into the yard. "i have a key to this door," said sendlingen to werner, "as well as to that over there." he pointed to the little door in the wall which separated the prison-yard from the front part of the building. "i will hand both these keys over to you presently. my predecessor had this door made, so as to convince himself, from time to time, that the prison officials were doing their duty. but he forgot to tell me about this, and so the keys have been rusting unused in my official writing-table. i first heard of this accidentally a few months ago." "certainly this means of access requires some consideration," observed dernegg. "an attempt at escape would meet with very slight obstacles here. anyone once in the infirmary corridor, would only need to break through two weak doors, the one in the yard and this one in the wall, and then get away scot free by the principal entrance which leads to the offices and private residence of the chief justice!" "what an idea!" laughed werner. "in the first place: how would the fellow get out of the sick-room or out of his cell into the corridor of the female patients? he would first have to break through two or three doors. and if he should succeed in getting out into the yard, he would perhaps never notice the door, it is so hidden away; and if, groping about in the dark, he were to find it, he would not know where it led to, or whether there might not be a sentry on the other side with a loaded rifle. no, no, i think this arrangement is very ingenious, very ingenious, gentlemen, and i purpose often to make use of it." sendlingen took no part in this talk; he had altogether become very taciturn and remained so, as they set to work again in chambers. but the evening had long set in, the illumination of the town had begun, and the lights were burning in the windows of the room where they were working, before they had completed all the formalities. when all was finished, sendlingen handed his successor the keys of which he had spoken. franz was waiting outside with a carriage from the hotel. it was a nasty night; an icy wind was driving the snow-flakes before it. notwithstanding sendlingen wanted to proceed on foot. "my forehead burns," he complained. but franz urged: "i have brought it on account of the crowds of people about. if we are recognised, we should never get along or escape from the cheering." so sendlingen got in. this precaution proved to be well-founded. in spite of the stormy weather, the streets were densely packed with people slowly streaming hither and thither, and admiring the unwonted spectacle of the illuminations. the carriage could only proceed at a walking pace: sendlingen buried himself deeper in its cushions so as not to be recognised. "the good people!" said old franz who was sitting opposite him. "i have always known who it was i was serving, but how much we are loved and honoured in this town, was not manifest till to-night. but we are not looking at the illuminations, they are very beautiful." "and who is it they are there for!" cried sendlingen burying his face in his hands. the carriage which had been going slower and slower, was now obliged to stop; it had come to the beginning of cross street which since the morning bore the superscription: "sendlingen street!" the inhabitants of this street in order to show themselves worthy of the honour, had illuminated more lavishly than anyone else, and as the hofmann hotel was situated here, the crowd had formed into such a dense mass at this point, that a passage through it was not to be thought of. sendlingen had to quit the carriage and, half deafened with the cheers, he hurried through the ranks and breathed again when he reached the shelter of the hotel. there berger, who had been impatiently awaiting him, met him. "now quick into your dress clothes," he cried, "in ten minutes the procession will be here." sendlingen had hardly finished dressing, when the sound of music and the shouts of the crowd, announced the approach of the procession. he was obliged to yield to his friend's pressure and go out on the balcony. there was a red glimmer from the direction of the river, and like a giant fire-serpent, the procession wound its way through the crowd. it stopped before the hotel, the torch-bearers formed themselves in line in the broad street. unceasingly, endlessly, like the roar of wild waves, resounded the cheers. berger's eyes sparkled. "this is a moment which few men live to see," he said. "know this, and be glad of it! he who has won such love is, in spite of anything that could happen, one of the favoured of this earth!" then they drove to the banquet at the town-hall. the large room was full to overflowing, and all agreed that this was the most brilliant assembly that had ever been gathered together within its walls, "but he deserves it," all said. "what has this man not suffered in the last few weeks through his fidelity to conviction! one can see it in his face--this agitation has broken his strength for years!" people therefore did not take it ill that his replies to the two toasts, "our last honorary citizen" proposed by the mayor, and the "rock of justice" proposed by the chairman of the committee, were very briefly put. he thanked them for the unmerited honour that had been done him, assured them that he would never forget their kindness, and, to be brief, made only the most commonplace remarks, without fulfilling either by his style or his thoughts, the expectation with which this speech had been looked forward to. nevertheless, after he had finished, he was greeted with wild cheering, and the same thundering applause followed him as he left the hall towards eleven o'clock. berger and dernegg accompanied him to the hotel, then to the station. the first bell had already rung when they got there; so their farewell had to be brief. silently, with moistened eyes, sendlingen embraced his friend before he got into the train; franz took his place in a second-class compartment of the same carriage. both waved from the windows after the train had moved off and was gliding away, swifter and swifter, into the stormy night. * * * * * next morning about nine o'clock, when berger had just sat down at his writing-table, there was a violent knock at his door and a clerk of the law courts rushed in. "dr. berger!" he cried, breathlessly, "herr von werner urgently begs you to go to him at once. victorine lippert has escaped from the prison in the night." berger turned deadly pale. "escaped?" "or been taken out!" continued the clerk. "herr von werner hopes you may be able to give some hint as to who could have interested themselves in the person." "very well," muttered berger. "i know little enough about the matter, but i will come at once." the clerk departed; berger sat at his table a long time, staring before him, his head heavily sunk on his breast. "unhappy wretch!" he thought. "now i understand all!" now he understood all: why sendlingen had hesitated so long in taking the journey to vienna, why he had taken franz and brigitta into his confidence, why he had spent the last two days at the hotel where he and his servant could make all preparations undisturbed, and why he had chosen the mail train which stopped at every station. the next station to bolosch was not distant more than half an hour's drive by sleigh. "they must both have left the train there," he thought, "and hurried back in a sleigh that was waiting for them, then released victorine and hastened away with her, perhaps to the first station where the express stops, perhaps in the opposite direction towards pfalicz. at this moment, very likely, she is journeying under franz's protection to some foreign country where brigitta awaits her, somewhere in france, or england, or italy, while he is hurrying to vienna, so as not to miss his appointment with the minister of justice!" "monstrous!" he groaned. and surely, the world had never before seen such a thing: such a crime committed by such a man, and on the very day when his fellow-citizens had done honour to him as the "rock of justice!" and such he would be for all time, in the eyes of all the world; it was not to be supposed that the very faintest suspicion would turn against him: he would go to pfalicz and there continue to judge the crimes of others. the honest lawyer boiled over, he could no longer sit still but began to pace up and down excitedly. bitter, grievous indignation filled his heart; the most sacred thing on earth had been sullied, justice, and by a man whom of all men he had loved and honoured. and then this same love stirred in his heart again. he thought of last night, of the moment when he had stood by his friend, while the thousands surged below making the air ring with their cheers. pity incontinently possessed his soul again. "what the poor wretch must have suffered at this moment!" he thought. "it is a marvel that he did not go mad. and what he must have suffered on his journey to vienna, and long weeks before, when the resolve first took shape in him!" he bowed his head. "judge not, that ye be not judged," cried a voice of admonition within him. his bitterness disappeared, and deep sorrow alone filled his heart: sin had bred other sins, crime, another crime and fresh remorse and despair. how to judge this deed, what was there to be said in condemnation, what in vindication of it: that deed of which he had once dreamed, it certainly was not; it was no great, liberating solution of these complications, but only an end of them, a hideous end! certainly victorine might have now suffered enough to have been granted freedom, and the opportunity of new life, and no less certainly would sendlingen, honourable and loving justice in the extreme, carry in his conscience through life, the punishment for his crime--but justice had been outraged, and this sacred thing would never receive the expiation that was its due. "a wrong should not be expiated by a crime!" sendlingen had once said to him--but now he had done it himself. "re-assure yourself," he had once exclaimed at a later date, "outraged justice shall receive the expiation that is its due!" this would not, could not be--never--never! berger roused himself and went forth on his bitter errand. when he reached the courts of justice, old hoche, who had entered on his retirement some weeks ago, was just coming out. berger was going to pass him with a brief salutation, but the old gentleman button-holed him. "what do you say to this?" he cried. "monstrous, isn't it? i am heartily glad that the misfortune has not befallen sendlingen! but do not imagine that i wish it to herr von werner. on the contrary, i have just given him a piece of advice--ha! ha! ha!--that should relieve him of his perplexity. you cross-examine dr. berger sharply, i said to him; that is the safest way of getting to know the secret of who took her out. for the way dr. berger interested himself in this person, is not to be described. me, a judge, he called a murderer for her sake, upon my word, a murderer. ha! ha! ha! there you have it." berger had turned pale. "this is not a subject of jest," he said, angrily. "oh, my dear dr. berger!" replied the old man soothingly, "i have only advised herr von werner--and naturally without the slightest suspicion against you--to formally examine you on oath as a witness. for anyone connected with the prisoner is likely to know best. and besides: a record of evidence can never do any harm--_ut aliquid fecisse videatur_, you know. they will see in vienna that werner has taken a lot of trouble. well, good-bye, my dear doctor, good-bye." he went. berger strode up the steps. his face was troubled and a sudden terror shook his limbs. he had never thought of that. supposing he should now be examined on oath? could he then say: 'i have no suspicion who could have helped her?' could he be guilty of perjury to save them both? "may god help them then," he hissed, "for i cannot." he entered the corridor that led to the chief justice's chambers. the examination of the prison officials had just been concluded, but a few warders were standing about and attentively listening to the crafty höbinger's explanation of this extraordinary case. "favouritism!" berger heard him say as he went by, "her lover, the young count, has got her out." the two female warders of the infirmary cells were there too, sobbing. berger entered the chief justice's chambers. baron dernegg and the governor of the prison were with werner. at a side-table sat a clerk; a crucifix and two unlighted candles were beside him. "at last!" cried werner. "i begged you so particularly to come at once. there is not a moment to be lost. light the candles!" he called to the clerk. "but that may be quite useless," cried dernegg. "do you know anything about the matter?" he then asked berger. "no!" the sound came hoarsely, almost unintelligibly, from his stifled breast. werner stood irresolute. "but dr. berger was her counsel," he said, "and the authorities in vienna----" "must see that you have taken trouble," supplemented dernegg. "they will hardly see this from documents with nothing in them. we have more important things to do now: the escape was discovered three hours ago, and the description of her appearance has not yet been drawn up and telegraphed to vienna and the frontier stations." werner still looked irresolutely at the lighted candles for a few seconds: to berger they seemed an eternity of bitter anguish such as his conscience had never endured before. "put out the candles! come, the description of her appearance!" he seized the papers relating to the trial. "please help me!" he said turning to dernegg. "my head is swimming! o god! that i should have lived to see this day!" while the clerks were writing at the dictation of the two judges, berger turned to the governor and asked him how the escape had been effected. "it is like magic!" he replied. "when one of the female warders was taking her breakfast to her this morning, she found the door merely latched and the cell empty. the lock must have been opened from the inside. her course can be plainly traced: she escaped through the yard; the locks of all the doors have been forced from inside by a file used by someone with great strength. this is the first riddle. such a thing could hardly be done by the hand of the strongest man; it is quite impossible that victorine lippert had sufficient strength! the doctor vouches for it, and for the matter of that you knew her yourself, dr. berger." berger shrugged his shoulders and the governor continued: "you see the theory of external assistance forces itself imperatively upon us, and yet it is not tenable. the help cannot have come from outside, as all the locks were forced on the inside. and in the prison she can likewise have received no assistance. there is not one of the warders capable of such a crime, besides there is only one door between the general prison and the corridor of the female patients, and that was locked and remained locked. since any external help is not to be thought of, we are obliged, difficult as it is, to credit victorine lippert with sufficient strength. but there we are confronted with the second riddle: how did she come by the file? and in the face of such incomprehensibilities, it is a small thing that she should also have been aware of an exit that is known to few!" "mysterious in every way!" said berger. "most extraordinary!" to him the rationale of the thing was plain enough: master and servant had by means of the official keys or of duplicates which they had had made, penetrated the prison, and on their return had filed the locks. by this ruse, all suspicion of external help would be removed, and at the same time, as far as sendlingen could do so, it would be averted from the prison officials. meanwhile the two judges had drawn up the description of the fugitive's appearance, and dernegg renewed his advice to telegraph it abroad at once. werner objected that this was "a new method" that he would not agree to. "everything according to rule!" he said. "we will publish the description in the official paper, distribute it among the police, and send a copy to vienna. it is inconceivable that the person has got out of the country; where would she get the money from? we will therefore not telegraph, and that is enough!" but after the old man had roused himself to this judgment of solomon, his self-control deserted him altogether. "what a calamity!" he moaned. "what a beginning to my life as chief justice! but i am innocent! alas! i shall, none the less, receive a reprimand from the minister which i shall carry about me all my life, unless sendlingen saves me. but my friend sendlingen, that best of colleagues, will speak for me and save me. excuse me, gentlemen--but i shall have no peace, until i have written and asked for his help!" he sat down to his writing-table, the others took their leave. the next morning berger received a letter from vienna, the handwriting of the address was known to him and, with trembling hands, he opened the envelope. this was the letter. "i know that you cannot forgive me and i do not ask you to do so. one favour only do i implore: do not give up hope that the time will one day come when i shall again be worthy of your regard. the first step to this i took yesterday: i have left the service of the state for ever, and i do not doubt that i shall have courage to take the second step, the step that will resolve all; when god will grant me the grace to do this, i know not. pray with me that i may not have too long to wait. "farewell, george, farewell for ever! "victor." berger stared for a long while at these lines, his lips trembled--he was very sore at heart. then he drew a candle towards him, lit it, and held the letter in its flame until it had turned to ashes. "farewell, thou best and purest of men," he whispered to himself, and a sudden tear ran down his cheek. chapter xiv. three years had passed, it was the summer of 1856. bright and hot, the june sun shone upon the valley of the rhine ripening the vineyards that hung upon its rocky declivities. the boat steaming down the valley from mayence to the holy city of cologne, had its sheltering awning carefully stretched over the deck, and all went merrily on board, merrily as ever. more beautiful landscapes there may be in the world, but none that make the heart more glad. and so thought two grave-looking men who had come aboard at mayence that morning. they had come from austria, and were going to london; they did not want to miss the opportunity of seeing the beautiful river, but at the beginning of the journey they made but a poor use of the favourable day. they sat there oppressed and scarcely looking up, consulting together about the weighty business that lay on their shoulders. but an hour later, when they got into nassau, they yielded to the charm of the scenery, and as they glided by rüdesheim, they began to consider whether, after all, the rhine was not the proper place to drink rhine-wine, and when they passed the castle called the pfalz at caub, they first saw this venerable building through their spectacles, and then through the green-gold light of the brimming glasses they were holding to their eyes. these two men were dr. george berger of bolosch and a fellow barrister from vienna. they had a difficult task to perform in london. one of the largest iron-foundries in austria, that at bolosch, had got into difficulties, and an attempt to stave off bankruptcy had failed, less from the action of the creditors, than from the miserable red-tapism of the chief justice of bolosch, herr von werner. the foundry, which employed thousands of men, would be utterly ruined if it did not succeed in obtaining foreign capital. with this object, these two representatives of the firm were making their way to england. on the rhine, everybody forgets their cares and this was their good-fortune too. and so greatly had the lovely river, which both now saw for the first time, taken possession of their hearts, that they could not part company with it even at cologne, where most people went ashore. they resolved to continue the journey by the river as far as arnhem, and they paced up and down the now empty deck cheerfully talking in the cool of the evening. no mountains, no castles, were any longer reflected in the stream, but the look of its shores was still pleasant, and when they saw the light of dying day spread its rosy net over the broad and swiftly flowing waters, they did not repent their resolve, and extolled the day that had ended as beautiful as it had begun. the shades of evening fell, the banks of the river grew more and more flat and bare, factories became more and more plentiful, and behind dusseldorf, they saw the red glare of countless blast-furnaces, brightly glowing in the dark. this sight reminded them of their task. "who knows," sighed berger's friend dr. moldenhauer, "how soon these fires at home may not be extinguished! and why? because of the narrow-mindedness of one single man. nothing in my life ever roused my indignation more than our dealings with your chief justice! what pedantry! what shortsightedness! now his predecessor, baron sendlingen, was a different sort of man!" berger sighed deeply. "that he was!" he replied. "the werners stay, the sendlingens go," continued dr. moldenhauer. "and they are allowed to go cheerfully, nay, even forced to go! at least it was generally said that, when baron sendlingen suddenly retired a few years ago, it was not on account of heart-disease, as officially reported, but because he had had a difference with the minister of justice. the regret at this was so great that his excellency had to hear many a reproach." "perhaps unjustly for once," said berger, heavy at heart. "i don't think so," cried moldenhauer. "sendlingen certainly went away in deep dudgeon, otherwise he would not have renounced his pension and then left austria for ever. even his brother-in-law, count karolberg, does not know where he has gone. you were very intimate with him, do you know?" "no!" "count karolberg thinks he may have died suddenly in some of his travels abroad." "that too is possible," answered berger shortly; he was anxious to drop the subject. but moldenhauer stuck to his theme. "what a thousand pities it is!" he continued. "how great a lawyer he was, his last work, 'on responsibility and punishment in child-murder,' which appeared anonymously some three years ago, most clearly shows--you know the book of course." "yes," said berger, "but i doubt whether it is by sendlingen." this was an untruth, he had never doubted it. "it is attributed to other writers as well," replied dr. moldenhauer, "but his brother-in-law is convinced that it is by him. he says he recognised the style and also some of the thoughts, which sendlingen explained to him in conversation. whoever the author may be, he need not have concealed his identity. the work is the finest ever written on this subject and has made a great sensation. it is chiefly owing to its influence, that our new penal code so definitely emphasizes the question of unsoundness of mind in such crimes, and has so materially lessened the punishment for them." he talked for a long time of the excellencies of the work, but berger hardly heard him, and was silent and absent-minded for the rest of the evening. when moldenhauer retired to his cabin for the night, berger still remained on deck; he was fascinated, he said, by this wondrous spectacle of the night. and indeed the aspect of the scene was strange enough and not without its charm. the moon-light lay in a faint glimmer on the stream that here, having almost poured forth its endless waters, was slowly flowing with a gentle murmur towards its grave, the vast sandy plain of the sea. on the level shores, the dim light showed the distant, dusky outlines of solitary high houses and windmills, and then again came blast-furnaces, smoking and flaming, denser and denser was the forest of them the further the boat glided on, and, here and there, where one stood close to the shore, it threw its blood-red reflex far on to the waters reaching almost to the boat, so that its lurid light and the faint lustre of the celestial luminary, seemed to be struggling for the mastery of it. the lonely passenger on the deck kept his eyes riveted on the scene, but his thoughts were far away. his recent conversation had powerfully stirred up the memory of his unhappy friend. since that last letter he had received no line, no sign or token of any sort from him. why? he asked himself. from mistrust? impossible. from caution? that would be exaggerated; the writing on the envelope would not betray to any meddlesome person in what corner of the earth he had buried himself with his child. besides he had no need to be apprehensive of any inquiry; no one knew of his child, victorine lippert's escape from prison had never been cleared up, the investigation had soon after been discontinued without result. the governor of the prison had been reprimanded for want of care in searching the cell, the little door in the wall had been bricked up, so that herr von werner had never been able to make use of the arrangement which he had thought so "ingenious"--those were the only consequences. among the prison officials as among the lower classes, the opinion was sometimes expressed that it was count riesner-graskowitz who had liberated his sweetheart, but this was not believed in higher circles; against sendlingen, however, there was never the slightest breath of suspicion. sendlingen himself must know this well enough, otherwise he would not have dared to let his book appear, that curious work in which every reader might perceive beneath the stiff, solid legal terminology, the beatings of a deeply-moved heart. he had not put his name to it, but he must have known that his name would rise to the lips of anyone who had carefully read his earlier writings. if he had not feared this, he might well have ventured upon a letter. if he was none the less silent, it must be because he preferred to be silent. had he, perhaps, thought berger, not had the courage to take that second step, had he perhaps renounced the intention and was now ashamed to confess it? that would be superfluous anxiety indeed. is there a man in the wide world, who would have the heart to blame him for this? or was he silent because he could speak no more? the thought had never entered his head before; now in this lonely hour of night it overmastered him. of course, his brother-in-law was right, he had died a sudden death and now slept his last sleep somewhere in a strange land and under a strange name. and if that were so, would it be cause for complaint? would not death have been a deliverer here? softly murmuring, the waters of the river glided on, not a sound came from its banks; in deep and solemn stillness, night lay upon the land and waters. the solitary figure on deck alone could find no rest, and the early dawn was trembling in the east over the distant hills of guelderland, ere he at length went in search of sleep. he had scarcely rested a couple of hours when the steward knocked at his cabin-door--the passengers were to come on deck, the boat was approaching lobith, on the dutch frontier, where the luggage had to be examined. the two travellers answered to the call. the steamer was already nearing the shore by the landing stage of the village of which the custom-house seemed the only inhabitable building. the dutch customs officers in their curious uniforms came on deck. the were speedily finished with the luggage of the two lawyers, as also with that of the few other passengers. on the other hand four mighty trunks, which the captain had with him, gave them much trouble. they were full throughout of things liable to duty: new clothes, linen, lace and articles of luxury. they required troublesome measuring, weighing and calculation. half an hour had passed, and scarcely the half had been gone through. "we shall miss the train at arnhem," said berger turning impatiently to the captain. "we must be in london to-morrow, you are responsible for the delay." "i shall make up the time by putting on steam," he reassuringly said in his broad cologne dialect. "excuse me, sir, but i did not imagine that women's finery would take up so much time." "you are getting a trousseau for a daughter, i suppose." "god forbid! thank heaven, i am unmarried. i have, out of pure goodnature, brought these things for someone else from cologne and undertaken to pay the duty for him. it is the most convenient thing to him, though certainly not to me. but what would one not do for a compatriot. he is a herr von tessenau." "tessenau?" the name seemed familiar to berger, but he could not remember where he had heard or read it. "yes, that is his name," said the captain. "he comes from bavaria, and is said to have been in the diplomatic service. he is now living with his daughter at oosterdaal house near huissen, the station before arnhem. i know both of them well, they sometimes use my boat for the journey to arnhem, and as they are such nice people, i could not refuse them this service. the wedding, which is to take place the day after to-morrow, would otherwise have had to be postponed--ask women and lovers." "so fräulein von tessenau is the happy bride?" "the daughter of the old gentleman, yes--but she is a 'frau,' a young widow. her name is von tessenau, because she was married to a cousin. it seems that she lost her husband after a brief married life, for she is still very young, scarcely twenty-two. a beautiful, gentle lady and still looks quite girlish. but i must hurry up these easy-going mynheers." he turned to the customs officers and paid them the required duty. they left the steamer which now began to proceed at a much greater speed. notwithstanding this, moldenhauer was pacing up and down excitedly, now and then consulting timetables and pulling out his watch every five minutes. it was another cause that robbed berger of calm. "if it should be they?" the thought returned to him however often he might say: "nonsense! an old father and a young daughter--the conjunction is common enough--and i know nothing else about them. that i must often have heard the name tessenau tells rather against the supposition--for sendlingen would hardly have chosen the name of some austrian family for his pseudonym!" still his indefinite presentiment gave him no rest, and he at length went up to the captain! "i once," he began, "knew a family of von tessenau, and would be very pleased if i were perhaps unexpectedly to come across them here. the old gentleman, you say, comes from bavaria?" "yes, you must certainly be a countryman of his?" "no. i am an austrian." "then the two dialects must be very much alike for you speak just like him. that he comes from bavaria i know for certain. herr willem van der weyden told me so quite recently, and he must surely know, as he is to become his son-in-law." "who is the bridegroom?" "a capital fellow," replied the captain. "a man of magnificent build--no longer young, somewhere in the forties i should say, but stately, brave and capable--all who know him, praise him. he holds a high position in batavia, he is manager of the java mines. some ten months ago he came back to europe, after a long absence, on a year's furlough: to find a wife, people say. none seemed to please him however. then he came to arnhem where his brother is settled, and in an excursion in the country about, he accidentally got to know the young frau von tessenau at oosterdaal house, and fell in love with her. there seemed at first to be great obstacles in the way; at all events he was always very melancholy when he rode on my boat from arnhem to huissen. well one day he was very happy, the betrothal was solemnized, and now the wedding is to come off. yes," added the captain pleasantly, "when one is everlastingly taking the same journey, one gets to know people by degrees and kills time by sharing their joys and sorrows." "and is herr van der weyden going back to java again?" "yes, in a month from now, when his furlough will be up. he is naturally going to take his young wife with him, and the old gentleman is going to join them too. he has no other relations. the father and daughter lived hitherto in great retirement with an old house-keeper and an equally old man-servant. but if you are interested in the family, come and look over when we get to huissen. the old man-servant at least, will be at the landing-stage to receive the trunks, and perhaps herr von tessenau himself." "do you know what the man-servant is called?" berger's voice trembled at this question. "franz is his name." the captain did not notice how pale berger had become, how hastily he turned away. "no more room for doubt," he thought. but the doubt did rise again. that some details agreed, might only be a coincidence, and the name of the man-servant--such a common name--was not sufficient proof. besides how much was against the supposition! it was inconceivable that sendlingen should have deceived his future son-in-law and passed off victorine as a widow! "it would be outrageous to impute such a thing to him!" he thought. with growing impatience, he looked out for the landing-stage, the steamboat had long since left the river and was steaming along the narrow pannerden canal. the monotonous, fruitful, thoroughly dutch landscape extended far and wide; rich meadows on which cattle were pasturing; narrow canals, on which heavily laden boats drawn by horses on the banks, slowly made their way; on the horizon a few windmills lazily turned by their large sails. at length a few large, villa-like buildings came in sight. "that is huissen," said the captain. "we will see who is at the landing-stage." he produced a telescope. "right, there is the man-servant," he said, handing berger the telescope. "see if you know the man." berger only held the glass to his eye for a second and then handed it back to the captain. "no," he said, "i don't know him, it must be another family of von tessenau." he went down to the cabin and stayed there, till the boat had got well beyond the landing-stage. it had been franz. berger had to stay in london a week before his task was done. he left the completion of the agreement to his colleague, and began his journey home. at first he intended to go by dover and calais. but at the station in london he was overcome by his feelings; he could not let his friend depart forever without seeing him again. he went back by holland, and the next day was in arnhem. not until he was in the carriage which he had hired to take him to oosterdaal, was he visited by scruples, the same sort of feeling which a week before had kept him from remaining on the deck of the steamer. was it not indelicate and selfish to gratify his own longing at the price of deeply and painfully stirring up his friend's heart? sendlingen did not wish to see him again, otherwise he would have written and told him of his whereabouts. and what would he not feel if he was so suddenly reminded of the fatality of his life, if his wounds were suddenly torn open again just as they were beginning to heal? and when berger thought of victorine, he altogether lost courage to continue the journey. unfriendly,--nay it would be cruel, inhuman, to remind the newly-married girl of the misery of the past, and to plunge her in fatal embarrassment. the roof of the house was already visible in the distance above the tops of the trees, when these reflections overmastered berger. "stop, back to arnhem!" he ordered the driver. but that could not be done at once; the horses would have to be fed first, explained the driver. the carriage proceeded still nearer the house, and stopped at a little friendly-looking inn opposite the entrance to the avenue of poplars which led up to the door. while the driver drove into the yard, the landlady suggested to berger to take the refreshment he had ordered in front of the house. this, however, he declined and entered the inn-parlour. his remorse increased every minute, and he feared to be seen, if by chance one of the occupants of the house went by. sighing deeply, he looked out of the window at the driver leisurely unharnessing his horses. the landlady, a young, plump, little woman, tried to console him by telling him he would not have to wait more than an hour. she spoke in broken german; she had been maid to the young german lady up at the house, she said, and had learnt the language there. they were kind, good people at oosterdaal, the driver had told her that the gentleman was going to have driven there, why had he given up the idea? they would certainly be very glad to see a countryman again, even if he were only a slight acquaintance. no german had ever come to see them, not even at the wedding. the festivities had altogether been very quiet, but very nice. had the gentry no relations in germany then? "how can i tell you," replied berger impatiently. "i don't know them." "indeed?" she asked astonished. "then i suppose you have come to buy the house?" several people had been with that intention, she added, but herr von tessenau had already made it over to his son-in-law, and he to his brother, herr jan van der weyden. in a fortnight they were all going to batavia. the housekeeper, fräulein brigitta, too, and the old german man-servant. "but won't you go up to the house after all?" she asked again. before he could answer, however, she cried out: "there they come!" and flew to the window. a carriage went by at a leisurely trot. "do come here," cried the landlady. berger had retired deeper into the room, but he could still plainly see his friend. sendlingen was looking fresher and stronger than when he saw him last; but his hair had the silver-white hue of old age, although he could hardly have reached the middle of the fifties. but in the young, blooming, happy woman at his side, berger would scarcely have recognized his once unfortunate client, if he had met her under other circumstances. she was just laughingly bending forward and straightening the tie of her husband opposite her. the stately, fair-haired man smilingly submitted to the operation. "how happy they are!" cried the landlady. "but they deserve it. why the carriage is stopping," she cried, bending out of the window. "what an honour, they are going to come in." berger turned pale. but in the next instant he breathed again: the carriage drove on. "oh, no!" cried the landlady, "only franz has got down! good day!" she cried to the old man as he went by. "a glass of wine!" "no," answered franz. "i am only to tell you to come up to the house. but for the matter of that as i _am_ here----" then berger heard his footsteps approaching on the floor outside; the door was opened. "well, a glass of----" he began, but the words died on his lips. pale as death, he started back and stared at berger as if he had seen a ghost. "it is i, franz," said berger, himself very pale. "don't be afraid--i only want----" "you have come to warn us?" he exclaimed, trembling all over as he approached berger. "it is all discovered, is it not?" "no!" replied berger. "why, what is there to discover?" he made a sign to draw franz's attention to the landlady, who was inquisitively drinking in the scene. "i am glad to see you," he said meaningly. "i am going to continue my journey at once." "excuse me, marie," said franz, turning to her, "but i have something to say to this gentleman. he is an old acquaintance." "after all!" she cried, and left the room shaking her head. "she will listen," whispered berger. "come here, franz, and sit beside me." "oh, how terrified i am," he replied in the same whisper. "so people suspect nothing? it would have been frightful if misfortune had come now, now, when everything is going so well. certainly my fears were foolish; how should it be found out? we had arranged everything with such care: even the duplicate keys were not made at bolosch, but at dresden, where brigitta was waiting for us." "enough!" said berger, checking him. "i don't wish to know anything about it. how has baron sendlingen been since?" "bad enough at first!" replied franz. "we did not eat, nor sleep, and we fell into a worse decline than at bolosch--but it was perhaps less from the fear of discovery than from remorse. and yet we had only done, what had to be done--isn't that so, dr. berger?" berger looked on the ground and was silent. old franz sighed deeply. "if even you--" he began, but he interrupted himself and continued his story. "gradually we became calmer again. fear vanished though remorse remained, but for this too there was a salve in seeing how the poor child blossomed again. then we began to write a book. it deals with the punishment of--h'm. dr. berger----" "i know the work," said berger. "indeed? we did not put our name to it. well, while we were working at the book, we forgot our own sorrow, and later on, after the work had appeared and all the newspapers were saying that it would have great influence, there were moments when we seemed happy again. then came this business with the dutchman, and we got as sad and despairing as ever. but we took courage and told the man everything; our real name, and that we were only called von tessenau here----" "how did he come by this name?" asked berger. "it sounds so familiar to me." "probably because it is one of the many titles of the family. tessenau was the name of an estate in carinthia, which once belonged to the family. we were obliged to choose this name, because on settling here it was necessary to prove our identity to the police. well, we confessed this to herr willem and also what the young lady's plight was----" berger gave a sigh of relief. "we said to him: she is not called von tessenau because she was married to a cousin, but because we adopted the name here with the proper formalities. she was never married, she was betrayed by a scoundrel. that we said no more, nothing of the deed that brought her to prison, nothing of the way she was released--that, dr. berger, is surely excusable." "of course!" assented berger. "and herr van der weyden?" "acted bravely and magnanimously, because he is a brave and magnanimous man, god bless him! he made her happy, her and himself. and now at length we got peace of heart once more. we are going to batavia. may it continue as heretofore!" "amen!" said berger deeply moved. "farewell, franz." "you are not going up to the house?" "no. don't tell him of my visit till you are on the sea. and say to him that i will always think of him with love and respect. with _respect_, franz, do not forget that!" he shook hands with the old servant, got into his carriage, and drove back to arnhem. chapter xv. three weeks later, on a glowing hot august day, the austrian minister of justice sat in his office, conferring with one of his subordinates, when an attendant brought him a card; the gentleman, he said, was waiting in the ante-room and would not be denied admittance. "sendlingen!" read the minister. "this is a surprise; it has not been known for years whether he was alive or dead. excuse me," he said to his companion, "but i cannot very well keep him waiting." the official departed, sendlingen was shown in. he was very pale; the expression of his features was gloomy, but resolved. the minister rose and offered his hand with the friendliest smile. "welcome to vienna," he cried. "i hope that you are completely recovered, and are coming to me to offer your services to the state once more." "no, your excellency," replied sendlingen. "forgive me, if i cannot take your hand. i will spare you having to regret it in the next instant. for i do not come to offer you my services as judge, but to deliver myself into the hands of justice. i am a criminal and desire to undergo the punishment due to me." the minister turned pale and drew back: "the man is mad," he thought. the thought must have been legible in his face, for sendlingen continued: "do not be afraid, i am in my senses. i have indeed abused my office in a fashion so monstrous, that perhaps nothing like it has ever happened before. i released from prison, by means of official keys, a condemned woman, who was to have been executed the next day, and suggested, furthered, and carried out her flight to a foreign country. her name was victorine lippert: the crime was done on the night of 21-22 february, 1853." "i remember the case," muttered the minister. "she escaped in the most mysterious way. but you! why should you have done this?" "a father saved his child: victorine is my natural daughter." the minister wiped the sweat from his forehead. "this is a frightful business." he once more searchingly looked at his uncomfortable visitor. "he certainly seems to be in his senses," he thought. "allow me to tell you how every thing came about?" the minister nodded and pointed to a chair. sendlingen remained standing. he began to narrate. clearly and quietly, in a hollow, monotonous voice, he told of his relations with herminie lippert, then how he had made the discovery in the lists of the criminal court, and of his struggles whether he should preside at the trial or not. "i had the strength to refuse," he continued. "my sense of duty conquered. sentence of death was pronounced. it was--and perhaps you will believe me although you hear it at such a moment, from such a man--it was a judicial murder, such as could have been decreed by a court of justice alone. and therefore my first thought was: against this wrong, wrong alone can help. i sought out the prison keys, and for some hours was firmly resolved to release my daughter. but then my sense of duty--perhaps more strictly speaking my egoism--conquered. for i said to myself that i, constituted as i was, could not commit this crime without some day making atonement for it. i knew quite well even then, that an hour would come in my life, like the present, and i could not find it in my heart to end as a criminal. but my conscience cried: 'then your child will die!' and so suicide seemed to me the only thing left. i was resolved to kill myself; whether i could not bring myself to it at the last moment, whether a chance saved me--i do not know: there is a veil cast over that hour that i have never since been able to pierce. i survived, i saw my daughter, and recovered my clearness of mind; the voice of nature had conquered. i now knew that it was highly probable that there was no means that could save us both, that the question was whether i should perish, or she, and i no longer doubted that it must be i. i was resolved to liberate her, and then to expiate my crime; but until extreme necessity compelled, i wanted to act according to law and justice. that i did so, my conduct proves when the supreme court ordered a fresh examination of the chief witness. everything depended upon that; i made over this inquiry also to another--who assuredly did not bring the truth to light. the supreme court confirmed the sentence of death; it was pronounced upon me, not upon my child; that extreme necessity had now arrived, i now knew that i must become a criminal, and only waited for the result of the counsel's petition for pardon, because the preparations for the act required time, and because i first wanted to save some men unjustly accused of political offences." "i remember, the workmen," said the minister. he still seemed dazed, it cost him an effort to follow the unhappy man's train of thought. "one thing only i do not understand," he slowly said, passing his hand over his forehead. "why did you not discover yourself to me, or why did you not appeal to the emperor for pardon?" "for two reasons," replied sendlingen. "i have all my life striven to execute justice without respect of persons. it was ever a tormenting thought to me that the aristocrat, the plutocrat, often receives where the law alone should decide, favours that would never fall to the lot of the poor and humble. and therefore it was painful to me to lay claim to such a favour for myself." "you are indeed a man of rare sense of justice," cried the minister. "and that such a fate should have, befallen you....." he paused. "is tragic indeed," supplemented sendlingen, his lips trembling. "certainly it is---but i will not make, myself out better than i am; there was another reason why i hesitated to appeal to the emperor. what would have been the result, your excellency? commutation to penal servitude for life, or for twenty years. the mere announcement of this punishment would have so profoundly affected this weakly, broken-down girl, that she would scarcely have survived it, and if she had--a complete pardon could not have been attained for ten, for eight, in the most favourable case for five years, and she would not have lived to see it. i was persuaded of that, quite firmly persuaded, still," his voice became lower, "i too was only a human being. when i received the confirmation of the death-sentence by the emperor, cowardice and selfishness got the better of me, i journeyed to vienna--it was the 18th february." "the date of the attempt!" cried the minister. "what a frightful coincidence! thus does fate sport with the children of men." "so i thought at first!" replied sendlingen. "but then i saw that that coincidence had not decided my fate: it was sealed from the first. by my whole character and by all that had happened. in this sense there is a fate, in this sense what happens in the world _must_ happen, and my fate is only a proof of what takes place in millions of cases. i returned to bolosch and liberated my daughter. how i succeeded, i am prepared to tell my judges so far as my own share in the act is concerned. i had no accomplice among the prison officials. your excellency will believe me, although i can only call to witness my own word, the word of honour of a criminal!" "i believe you," said the minister. "you took the girl abroad?" "yes, and sought to make good my neglect. fate was gracious to me, my daughter is cared for. and i may now do that which i was from the first resolved to do, although i did not know when the day would be vouchsafed me to dare it--i may present myself to you, the supreme guardian of justice in this land, and say: 'deliver me to my judges!'" sendlingen was silent; the minister, too, at first could find no words. white as a ghost, he paced up and down the room. "but there can be no question of such a thing!" he cried at length. "for thousands of reasons! we are not barbarians!" "it can be and must be! i claim my right!" "but just consider!" cried the minister, wringing his hands. "it would be the most fearful blow that the dignity of justice could receive. a former chief-justice as a criminal in the dock! a man like you! besides you deserve no punishment! when i consider what you have suffered, how all this has come about--good god, i should be a monster if i were not moved, if i did not say: if this man were perhaps really a criminal, he has already atoned for it a thousand times over." "then you refuse me justice?" "it would be injustice! go in peace, my lord, and return to your daughter." "i cannot. i could not endure the pangs of my conscience! if you refuse to punish me, i shall openly accuse myself!" "great heavens! this only was wanting!" the minister drew nearer to him. "i beseech you, let these things rest in peace! do not bring upon that office of which you were so long an ornament, the worst blemish that could befal it. and your act would have still worse consequences: it would undermine the authority of the state. consider the times in which we live--the revolution is smouldering under its ashes." "i cannot help it, your excellency. do your duty voluntarily, and do not oblige me to compel you to it." the minister looked at him: in his face there was the quiet of immovable resolve. "a fanatic," he thought, "what shall i do with him?" he walked about the room in a state of irresolution. "my lord," he then began, "you would oblige the state to take defensive measures. accuse yourself openly by a pamphlet published abroad, and i would give out that you were mad. i should be believed, you need not doubt." "i do doubt it," replied sendlingen. "i should take care that there was no room left for any question as to my sanity. once more, and for the last time, i ask your excellency, to what court am i to surrender myself?" again the minister for a long while paced helplessly up and down. at length a saving thought seemed to occur to him. "be it so," he said. "do what you cannot help doing; we, on the other hand, will do what our duty commands. you naturally want to conceal where your daughter is now living?" sendlingen turned still paler and made no reply. "but we shall endeavor to find out, even if it should cost thousands, and if we should have to employ all the police in the world. we shall find your daughter and demand her extradition. there is no state that would refuse to deliver a legally condemned murderess! you must decide, my lord, whether this is to happen." sendlingen's face had grown deadly pale--a fit of shuddering shook his limbs. there was a long silence in the room, it endured perhaps five minutes. at length sendlingen muttered: "i submit to your excellency's will. may god forgive you what you have just done to me." the minister gave a sigh of relief. "i will take that on my conscience," he said. "i restore the father to his child. farewell, my lord." sendlingen did not take the proffered hand, he bowed silently and departed. * * * * * two days later dr. george berger received a letter of sendlingen's, dated from trieste. it briefly informed his friend of the purport of his interview with the minister of justice, and concluded as follows: "it is denied me to expiate my crime: it is impossible to me, a criminal, to go unpunished through life; so i am going to meet death. when you read this, all will be over. break the news to my daughter, who has already set out on her journey, as gently as possible; hide the truth from her, i shall help you by the manner in which i am doing the deed. and do not forget franz, he is waiting for me at cologne; i was only able to get quit of him under a pretext. "farewell, thou good and faithful friend, and do not condemn me. you once said to me: there must be a solution of these complications, a liberating solution. i do not know if there was any other, any better than that which has come to pass. for see, my child has received her just due, and so too has justice: with a higher price than that of his life, nobody can atone for a crime. and i--i have seen my child's happiness, i have honourably paid all my debts, and now i shall find peace forever--i too have received my due!... and now i may hope for your respect again! "farewell! and thanks a thousand times! "victor." berger, deeply moved, had just finished reading this letter, when his clerk entered with the morning paper in his hand. "have you read this, sir?" he asked. "baron sendlingen----" he laid the paper before his chief and this was what was in it: "a telegram from vienna brings us the sad news that baron von sendlingen, the retired chief justice and one of the most highly esteemed men in austria, fell overboard while proceeding by the lloyd steamer last night from trieste to venice. he was on deck late in the evening and has not been seen since; very likely, while leaning too far over the bulwarks, a sudden giddiness may have seized him so that he fell into the sea and disappeared. the idea of suicide cannot for personal reasons be entertained for a moment; the last person he spoke to, the captain of the steamer, testifies to the cheerful demeanour of the deceased. he leaves no family, but everyone who knew him will mourn him. "all honour to his memory!" "all honour to his memory!" muttered berger, burying his face in his hands. the end. the broken gate _a novel_ by emerson hough author of "the man next door," "the magnificent adventure," "54° 40' or fight," "the mississippi bubble," etc. illustrated by m. leone bracker d. appleton and company new york london 1917 copyright, 1917, by emerson hough copyright, 1917, by the pictorial review company printed in the united states of america to arthur t. vance faithful and kindly counselor [illustration: he felt her hands resting on his head as though in shelter.] contents i. the homecoming of dieudonné lane ii. aurora lane iii. two mothers iv. in open court v. closed doors vi. the dividing line vii. at midnight viii. the extraordinary horace brooks ix. the other woman concerned x. the murder xi. in the name of the law xii. anne oglesby xiii. "as you believe in god!" xiv. aurora and anne xv. the angels and miss julia xvi. horace brooks, attorney at law xvii. at church xviii. at the county jail xix. the mob xx. the idiot xxi. a true bill xxii. miss julia xxiii. the state _vs._ dieudonné lane xxiv. the sackcloth of spring valley xxv. because she was a woman list of illustrations he felt her hands resting on his head as though in shelter. "your honor," said he, "i presume i am the defendant in this case." "i was kissing you and saying good-by ... when miss julia came in----" "anne! what made you come?" the broken gate chapter i the homecoming of dieudonné lane "eejit! my son john! whip ary man in jackson county! whoop! come along! who'll fight old eph adamson?" the populace of spring valley, largely assembled in the shade of the awnings which served as shelter against an ardent june sun, remained cold to the foregoing challenge. it had been repeated more than once by a stout, middle-aged man in shirt sleeves and a bent straw hat, who still turned a truculent gaze this side and that, taking in the straggling buildings which lined the public square--a quadrangle which had for its center the brick courthouse, surrounded by a plat of scorched and faded greensward. at his side walked a taller though younger man, grinning amiably. the audience remained indifferent, although the challenger now shifted his position to the next path leading out to a street entrance; and repeated this until he had quite traversed the square. only, at the farther corner back of him, a woman paused as she entered the courthouse inclosure--paused and turned back as she caught sight of the challenger and heard his raucous summons, although evidently she had been hurrying upon some errand. ephraim adamson walked hither and thither, his muscular arms now bared to the elbows; and at his side stalked his stalwart son, who now and then beat his fists together, and cracked his knuckles with a vehemence like that of pistol shots. but none paid great attention to either of the adamsons. indeed, the eyes of most now were following the comely figure of this woman, as usually was the case when she appeared. "take her now, right how she is," said one of the sidewalk philosophers, "and you got to admit yonder's the handsomest woman in this town, and has been for twenty years." he nodded to where she stood, hesitating. that she was a tallish woman, of less than middle age and of good figure, was perceptible even at some distance as she finally advanced. she was well clad enough, and with a certain grace and trimness in her appointings--indeed seemed smart in a quiet and unobtrusive way--very neat as to hands and feet, and trim as to the small turban which served now as her only defense against the heat of the summer sun. "'rory lane," said one languid citizen to another, as they sat on comfortable boxes in front of the leading grocery store. "wonder where _she's_ goin', this time of day? anyhow, she runs into old man adamson on his regular weekly spree. he wants to fight, as usual, him and his half-wit boy. it's a shame." "but they kin do it," responded the other ruminatingly. "it's got so lately, every saturday afternoon regular, him and his half-wit yonder stands off the whole town. no man wants to fight a eejit--it ain't proper." "some has," remarked the first citizen thoughtfully. "well, anyways, old joel tarbush, the town marshal, had ought to look after such things. there he sets now, over yonder under the awnings in front of the golden eagle, and he sees them two plain enough." his crony only chuckled. "reckon old man tarbush knows when he's well off," was his sententious reply. the first speaker again pointed a thumb toward the courthouse grounds, where the woman now was crossing toward the street. she was walking rapidly, apparently anxious to escape the notice of the two men in the yard, and intent on her purpose, as though she feared being late at some appointment. the younger and taller was hastening toward her, but shrinking from him she hurried on across through the turnstile, and out into the street. she advanced with a nod here and there to those whom she met along the street front, but she showed no effusiveness, and did not pause to talk with anyone, although all seemed to know her. some women smiled at her faintly. some men smiled at her also--after she had passed. all talked of her, sometimes nodding, head to head. the woman so frankly discussed presently disappeared around the corner of the street which led down to the railway station, a half-mile distant. and now could be heard the rumble of the town "bus," bringing in its tribute from the train to the solitary hotel. "huh!" said one of these twain, "'rory was too late, like enough, if she was plannin' to meet number four, fer any reason. here comes the bus a'ready." aurora lane had indeed been too late to meet the train, but not too late to attain the purpose of her hurried walk. a moment later the two watchers on the sidewalk, and all the other saturday loafers, saw her emerge again from the street that led up from the railway station. she was not alone now. a young man had spied her from his place in the hotel bus, and, whether in answer to a signal from her, or wholly of his own notion--regarding which there was later discussion by the two gossips above mentioned--had sprung out to join her on the street. he walked by her side now, holding her by the arm, patting her shoulder, talking to her volubly, excitedly, all the time--a tall young man in modern garb; a young man with good shoulders and a strong and easy stride. his face seemed flushed with eagerness and happiness. his hat, pushed back on his brow, showed the short curling auburn hair, strong and dense above the brown cheeks. those who were close might have seen the kindly, frank and direct gaze of his open blue eyes. a certain aloof distinction seemed to cling about the young man also as he advanced now, laughing and bubbling over with very joy of life and eagerness at greeting this woman at his side--this woman whose face suddenly was glorified with a light none ever had seen it bear before. why not? it was his mother--aurora lane, the best known woman of spring valley, and the woman with least reputation. the two passed directly into the center of the town's affairs, and yet they seemed apart in some strange way. they met greetings, but the greetings were vague, curious. no one knew this young man. "huh!" exclaimed one of the two town critics once more. "there they go. pretty sight, ain't it! who's he?" old silas kneebone leaned to his friend, aaron craybill, on the adjacent store box. "taller'n she is, and got red hair, too, like hers. i wonder--but law!--no, good law! no! it kain't be. she ain't nobody's wife, and never was." "but there they go, walking through the streets in broad daylight, as bold as you please," commented his crony. "i dunno as i'd call her bold, neither," rejoined silas. "'rory lane, she's kept up her head all these years, and i must say she's minded her own business. everybody knows, these twenty years, she had a baby, and that the baby died; but that's about all anybody ever did know. the baby's dad, if it had one, has hid damned well--the man nor the woman neither don't live in this town that can even guess who he was. but who's this young feller? some relative o' hern from somewheres, like enough--reckon she must 'a' been goin' down to the train to meet him. never told nobody, and just like her not to. she sure is close-mouthed. they're going on over towards her place, seems like," he continued. "say, don't she look proud? seems like she's glad over something. but why--that's what i want to know--why?" the two persons thus in the public eye of spring valley by this time had come again to the corner of the courthouse inclosure, and apparently purposed to pass diagonally through the courthouse yard. now and again the young man turned in friendly fashion to the onlookers, none of whom he knew, but whom he fancied to be acquaintances of his companion. he himself was altogether a stranger in the town. he felt a chill at the curious stares, the silent half smiles he encountered, but attributed that to bucolic reticence, so shrugged his shoulders and turned to aurora lane. had any at that time heard his speech, they surely must have felt yet more surprise. "mom!" said he. "mother! i've got a mother, after all--and such a splendid one! i can't believe it at all--it must all be a dream. to be an orphan all my life--and then to get word that i'm not--that i've a mother, after all--and you! why, i'd have known you anyhow, i'm sure, if i'd never seen you, even from the picture i had. it was when you were a girl. but you've not changed--you couldn't. and it's you who've been my mother all the time. it's fine to be home with you at last. so this is the town where you have lived--that i've never seen. and here are all your friends?" "yes, don," said she, "all i have, pretty much." aurora lane's speaking voice was of extraordinary sweetness. "well, you have lived here all your life." "yes," she smiled. "and they all know you." "oh, yes," noncommittally. "it was too bad you had to be away from me, don, boy. you seem like a stranger to me--i can't realize you are here, that you are my own boy, dieudonné! i'm afraid of you--i don't know you--and i'm so proud and frightened, so surprised, so _glad_--why, i don't know what to do. but i'd have known you anywhere--i _did_ know you. you're just as i've always dreamed of you--and i'm glad--i'm so very glad!" "mom! i loved your little picture, but i never knew how much i loved _you_ till now--why--you're my _mother_! my mother! and i've never seen you--i've never known you--till right now. you're a ripper, that's what you are! "and is that where you live, over yonder?" he added quickly, to conceal the catch in his throat, the quick moisture in his eyes. his mother! and never in all his life had he seen her face--this sweet, strange, wistful, wonderful face. his mother! he had not even known she was alive. and now, so overwhelmed was he, he did not as yet even think of unraveling the veil of ignorance or deceit--call it what one might--which had left him in orphanage all his life till now. "yes, over yonder," said aurora, and pointed across the square. "that little house under the shade trees, just at the corner. that's home and workshop for me, don." she spoke softly, her eyes still fixed on him, the color of her cheeks deepening. "not so much of a house, is it?" laughed the boy, tears on his face, born of his new emotion, so sudden, so tremendous and so strange. "not so very much," she assented, laughing gayly also, and also in tears, which gave him sudden grief--"but it has served." "well, never mind. we're going to do better out west, mom. we're going to have you with us right away, as soon as i can get started." "what--what do you say--with _us_! with _us_?" she spoke in swift dismay, halting in her walk. "what do you mean, don--_us_?" "i didn't tell you the news," said he, "for i've just got it myself. "what a week! i heard of you--that you were alive, that you were living here--though why you never told me i can't dream--and now, today, anne! two such women--and for me. i can call god kind to me. as if i deserved it!" he did not see her face as he went on rapidly: "we didn't know it ourselves much more than an hour or so ago--anne and i. she came out on the same train with me--we finished school together, don't you see! anne lives in columbus, fifty miles west. she's fine! i haven't had time to tell you." he didn't have time now--did not have time to note even yet the sudden pallor which came upon his mother's face. "anne?" she began. "huh!" said silas kneebone again from his place under the awning, "there she goes--'rory lane. wonder who that kin be with her! and i wonder what old eph adamson's goin' to say to them! watch at them now." the young man and his mother by this time were within the courthouse fence and coming face to face with the two public challengers, who had so fervently notified all mankind of their wish to engage in personal combat. those beneath the awnings now saw the tall figure of the half-wit boy, johnnie adamson, advance toward aurora lane. they saw her and the tall young stranger halt suddenly--saw the young man gently push the woman back of him and stand full front, frowning, questioning, almost directly against the half-wit. he reached out a hand and thrust him back, sternly, fearlessly, half contemptuously. "wait, don! come back!" called out aurora lane. "don't get into trouble here--come--come away!" she plucked at the sleeve of his coat to draw him back. it was too late. the half-wit, cracking his knuckles now yet more loudly, and knocking his fists together, had wholly lost his amiable smile. something primordial was going on, deep down in his rudimentary brain. as for eph adamson, he also stood scowling and silent, a sudden wave of resentment filling his soul at seeing the happiness of these two. "no, you don't--just you leave him be!" called out eph adamson, as the young man pushed the half-wit back from him, his own blue eyes now beginning to glint. "leave him alone, unless you want to fight. he can lick you anyways, whoever you are. do you want to fight?" "no, why should i? i don't know you." don lane turned toward the stranger, still frowning and somewhat wondering, but in no terror whatever. "i don't know you neither, nor what you're doin' here, but you've got to fight or 'pologize," said eph adamson, arriving at this conclusion through certain mental processes of his own not apparent. "you got to have our consent to cross this here courtyard. this is my son john, and you shan't insult him." "get on away--step back," said don lane. "i guess it's all right, but let my mother and myself alone--we're just going home." a sudden wave of rage and wonder, mingled, filled the soul of drunken eph adamson as his venom rose to the boiling point. "mother!" he half screamed, "your _mother_? who're you? you're a pretty pair, you two, ain't you? she said her baby died twenty years ago. did she have some more? who're you? _mother?_--say, after all, are _you_ the town's boy--coming pushing past my son with her--your _mother_! what do you mean? if you're her son, you ain't _got_ no mother, nor no father neither." and now there came a pause, an icy pause--icy it was, out there in the glare of the hot summer sun. these four who stood in view of all the village might have been statues for the time, so motionless, so tense was each. not many actually heard the words of old eph adamson--words wrung out of the bitterness of his own soul perhaps, but words intolerable none the less. none had heard the words of aurora lane and the young man as they had spoken previous to this. none guessed who the stranger was or might be--none but drunken eph adamson. but all could see what now happened. for one instant the young man stood almost like a statue. then with one sudden thrust of his fist he smote the old man full in the mouth, so swift and hard a blow that adamson dropped prostrate, and for the time motionless. a sudden, instantaneous, electric buzz, a murmur, ran all around the square. a sound of shuffling feet and falling boxes might have been heard as men here and there rose eagerly, their necks craned out toward this swiftly made arena. they saw the half-wit boy now advance upon don lane with a roar or bawl of rage, his arms swinging flail-like. all expected to see the newcomer turn and run. not so. he simply stood for a half instant, sidestepped, and again swung in close upon his foe. old silas kneebone described the affair many a time afterwards, at a time when spring valley knew more about don lane. "you see, the eejit, he gets up again, hollering, and he goes in again at dewdonny, bound for to knock his head off. but dewdonny, he ducks down like a regular prize-fighter--i hear tell, at colleges, them athaletes they have to learn all them sort of things--and he put up a fight like a regular old hand. but all the time he keeps hollering to the crowd, 'take him away! take him away! keep him off, i say! i don't want to hit him!' "well, folks begun to laugh at dewdonny then--before they knowed who he was--thinking he was afraid of that eejit; yet it didn't seem like he was, neither, for he didn't run away. at last he hits the eejit fair a second time, and he knocks him down flat. folks then begun to allow he could hit him whenever he wanted to, and knock him down whenever he pleased. "now, the eejit, he gets up and begins to beller like a calf. he puts his hand on his face where dewdonny lane had done hit him the last time or two and he hollers out, 'pa, he hit me!' "but his pa could only set up on the grass and shake his head. i reckon old eph was soberer then than he had been five minutes sooner. say, that boy had a punch like the kick of a full growed mule! "of course, you all know what happened then. it was then that old man tarbush come in, seeing the boy had both of them two licked. he got up his own nerve after that. so now he goes over there to the courthouse ground, through the gate where they all was, and he lays his hand on dewdonny lane and then on the eejit. "'i arrest you both for disturbing of the peace,' says he then. 'come on now, in the name of the law.' "'the law be damned!' says dewdonny lane then. 'go take this man to jail. are you crazy--what do you mean by arresting me when i'm just walking home with my mother? this wasn't my fault. i didn't want to hit him. "'come on, mom!' says he, and before tarbush could help hisself he'd took 'rory lane by the arm again and off they went, and right soon they was in their house--them two, the milliner and her boy. "and joel tarbush he heard him call her 'mom' right there--that's how it all begun to git out. "that's right--this was the town milliner and the boy she sent away, that never died none at all nohow.--'rory lane, and her boy we all thought was dead. and we'd never knowed it nor dreamed it till he spoke, right there in the public square! 'my mother!' says he. can you beat that? "then 'rory lane turns around and fronts the whole lot of them. says she: 'yes, it's true! this is my son, dewdonny lane,' says she. she said it cold. "that was before we knowed all about how she had put him through college, and that this was his first visit home, and the first time he'd ever seen her--his own mother! i heard as how he'd thought all his life he was a orphan, and someone on the inside that very week--just when he'd finished in college--had wrote him that he wasn't no orphan, but had a mother living right here! so here he comes, hot foot--and didn't he spill the beans! "she'd tried her durnedest to keep it all covered up--and you must say she'd made one big fight of it, fer it's hard fer a woman to keep her eyes and her hands off of her own flesh and blood, even if it ain't legal. but, somehow, it's hard to keep that sort of thing covered up, for a woman. it all comes out, time'n again--ain't it the truth? how she done it for twenty years is a miracle. but law! what's twenty years, come to forgettin' things like what she done?" chapter ii aurora lane while the doughty town marshal, endowed now with a courage long foreign to his nature, was leading away his sobbing prisoner, followed by the prisoner's dazed yet angered parent, these other two, mother and son, continued rapidly on their way toward the home of aurora lane. the young man walked in silence, his enthusiasm stilled, although he held his mother's hand tight and close as it lay upon his arm. his face, frowning and stern, seemed suddenly grown strangely older. they arrived at the corner of the tawny grassplot of the courthouse yard, crossed the street once more, and turned in at the long shady lane of maples which made off from that corner of the square. here, just in the neutral strip between business and residence property, opposite a wagon-making and blacksmith shop, and adjoining the humble abode of a day-laborer, they came to a little gate which swung upon a decrepit hinge. it made in upon a strip of narrow brick walk, swept scrupulously clean, lined with well-kept tulips; a walk which in turn arrived at the foot of a short and narrow stair leading up to the porch of the green-shuttered house itself. it was a small place of some half-dozen rooms, and it served now, as it had for these twenty years, as home and workshop alike for its tenant. aurora lane had lived here so long that most folk thought she owned the place. as a matter of fact, she owned only a vast sheaf of receipted bills for rent paid to nels jorgens, the wagon-maker across the street. in all these twenty years her rent had been paid promptly, as were all her other bills. aurora lane was a milliner, who sometimes did dress-making as well--the only milliner in spring valley--and had held that honor for many years. a tiny sign above the door announced her calling. a certain hat, red of brim and pronounced of plume, which for unknown years had reposed in the front window of the place--the sort of hat which proved bread-winning among farmers' wives and in the families of villagers of moderate income--likewise announced that here one might find millinery. when she first had moved into these quarters so many years ago, scarce more than a young girl, endeavoring to make a living in the world, the maples had not been quite so wide, the grass along the sidewalk not quite so dusty. it was here that for twenty years aurora lane had made her fight against the world. it had been the dream, the fierce, flaming ambition of all her life, that her son, her son beloved, her son born out of holy wedlock, might after all have some chance in life. it was for this that she aided in his disappearance in his infancy, studiously giving out to all--without doubt even to the unknown father of the boy--the word that the child had died, still in its infancy, in a distant state, among relatives of her own. she herself, caught in the shallows of poverty and unable to travel, had not seen him in all these years--had not dared to see him--had in all the dulled but not dead agony of a mother's yearning postponed her sweet dream of a mother's love, and with unmeasurable bravery held her secret all these awful years. schooling here and there, at length the long term in college, had kept the boy altogether a stranger to his native town, a stranger even to his own mother. he did not know his own past, nor hers. he did not dream how life had been made smooth for him, nor at what fearful cost. shielded about always by a mother's love, he had not known he had a mother. this was as his mother had wished. as for him, in some way he received the requisite funds. he wondered only that he knew so little of his own people, half orphan though he was. he had been told that his father, long since dead, had left a certain sum for the purpose of his education, although further of his own history he knew nothing. that he was not of honorable birth he never once had dreamed. and now he had heard this charge for the first time--heard it made publicly, openly, before all the world, on this which was to have been the happiest day in all his life. but if don lane knew little about himself, there lacked not knowledge of his story, actual or potential, here in spring valley, once his presence called up the past to spring valley's languid mind. there had not yet been excitement enough for one day. everyone, male and female, surging here and there in swift gossiping, now called up the bitter story so long hid in aurora lane's bosom. as for aurora, she had before this well won her fight of all these years. she was known as the town milliner, a woman honorable in her business transactions and prompt with all her bills. socially she had no place. she was not invited to any home, any table. the best people of the town, the banker's wife, the families of the leading merchants, bought bonnets of her. ministers--while yet new in their pulpits--had been known to call upon her sometimes--one had even offered to kneel and pray with her in her workroom, promising her salvation even yet, and telling her the story of the thief upon the cross. once aurora lane went to church and sat far back, unseen, but she did so no longer now, had not for many years, feeling that she dared not appear in the church--the church which had not ratified her nuptial night! she had her place, definite and yet indefinite, accepted and yet rejected, here in this village. but gradually, dumbly, doggedly she had fought on; and she had won. long since, spring valley had ceased openly to call up her story. if once she had been wearer of the scarlet letter, the color thereof had faded these years back. she was the town milliner, a young woman under suspicion always, but no man could bring true word against her character. she had sinned--once--no more. if she had known opportunity for other sins than her first one, she held her peace. human nature were here as it is elsewhere--women as keen; men as lewd. but the triumph of aurora lane might now have been called complete. she had "lived it down." this long and terrible battle of one woman against so many strangely enough had not wholly embittered her life, so strong and sweet and true and normal had it originally been. she still could smile--smile in two fashions. one was a pleasant, sunny and open smile for those who came in the surface affairs of life. the other was deeper, a slow, wry smile, very wise, and yet perhaps charitable, after all. aurora lane knew! but all these years she had worked on with but one purpose--to bring up her boy and to keep her boy in ignorance of his birth. he had never known--not in all these years! it had been her dream, her prayer, that he might never know. and now he knew--he must know. they stepped through the little picket gate, up the tiny brick walk and across the little narrow porch together, into the tiny apartments which had been the arena for aurora lane--in which she had fought for her own life, her own soul, and for the life of her son, her tribute to the scheme of life itself. here lay the _penetralia_ of this domicile, this weak fortification against the world. in this room were odds and ends of furniture, a few pictures not ill-chosen--pictures not in crude colors, but good blacks and whites. woman or girl, aurora lane had had her own longings for the great things, the beautiful things of life, for the wide world which she never was to see. her taste for good things was instinctive, perhaps hereditary. had she herself not been an orphan, perhaps she had not dared the attempt to orphan her own son. there were books and magazines upon the table, mixed in with odds and ends of scraps of work sometimes brought hither; the margin between her personal and her professional life being a very vague matter. back of this central room, through the open door, showed the small white bed in the tiny sleeping room. at the side of this was the yet more tiny kitchen where aurora lane all these years had cooked for herself and washed for herself and drawn wood and water for herself. she had no servant, or at least usually had not. daily she wrought a woman's miracles in economy. year by year she had, in some inscrutable fashion, been able to keep up appearances, and to pay her bills, and to send money to her son--her son whom she had not seen in twenty years--her son for whom her eyes and her heart ached every hour of every day. she sewed. she made hats. what wonder if the scarlet of the hat in the window had faded somewhat--and what wonder if the scarlet of the letter on her bosom had faded even more?... because it had all been for him, her son, her first-born. and he must never, never know! he must have his chance in the world. though the woman should fail, at least the man must not. so it was thus that, heavy-hearted enough now, she brought him to see the place where his mother had lived these twenty years. and now he knew about it, must know. it took all her courage--the last drop of her splendid, unflinching woman-courage. "come in, don," she said. "welcome home!" he looked about him, still frowning with what was on his mind. "home?" said he. "don!" she said softly. "tough work, wasn't it, waiting for me to get through, dear mom? for i know you did wait. i know you meant that some day----" he laid a hand on her head, his lips trembling. he knew he was postponing, evading. she shrank back in some conviction also of postponing, evading. all her soul was honest. she hated deceit--though all her life she had been engaged in this glorious deceit which now was about to end. "tough sometimes, yes," she said, smiling up at him. "but don't you like it?" "if my dad had lived," said don, "or if he had had very much to give either of us, you'd never have lived this way at all. too bad he died, wasn't it, mom?" he smiled also, or tried to smile, yet restraint was upon them both, neither dared ask why. she caught up his hand suddenly, spying upon it a strand of blood. "don!" she exclaimed, wiping it with her kerchief, "you are hurt!" he laughed at this. "surely you don't know much of boxing or football," said he. "you ought not to fight," she reproved him. "on your first day--and all the town saw it, don! you and i--we ought not to fight. what--on the first day i've seen you in all these years--the first day you're out of college--the first day i could ever in all my life claim you for my very own? i believe i _would_ have claimed you--yes, i do! but you came--when you knew you had a mother, why you came to her, didn't you, don? even me. but you mustn't fight." "why?" he turned upon her quickly, his voice suddenly harsh, his eyes narrowing under drawn brows. "why shouldn't i fight?" he seemed suddenly grown graver, more mature, strong, masterful, his eye threatening. she almost smiled as she looked at him, goodly as he was, her pride that she had borne him overpowering all, her exultation that she had brought a man into the world, a strong man, one fit to prevail, scornful of hurt--one who had fought for her! for the first time in her life a man had fought for her, and not against her. but on the soul of aurora lane still sat the ancient dread. she saw the issue coming now. "mother----" said he, throwing his hat upon the table and walking toward her quickly. "yes, don." (she had named her son dieudonné--"god-given." those who did not know what this might mean later called him "dewdonny," and hence "don.") "i didn't thrash them half enough, those fellows, just now." "don't say that, don. it was too bad--it was terrible that it had to be today, right when you were first coming here. i had been waiting for you so long, and i wanted----" "well, i tell you what i want--i want you just to come away with me. i want to get you away from this town, right away, at once, as quick as i can. i'm beginning to see some things and to wonder about others. i am ashamed i have cost you so much--in spite of what dad left, you had to live close--i can see that now--although i never knew a thing about it until right now. i feel like a big loafer, spending all the money i have, while you have lived like this. where did you get it, mom?" she swept a gesture about her with both hands. "i got it here," said she suddenly. "it _all_ came from--here. you father sent you--nothing! i've not let you know all the truth--you've known almost nothing of the truth." then her native instinct forced her to amend. "at least half of it came from here. it was honest money, don, you know it was that, don't you--you believe it was honest?" "money that would have burned my fingers if i had known how it came. but i didn't. what's up here? have you fooled me, tricked me--made a loafer of me? i supposed my father set aside enough for my education--and enough for you, too. what's been wrong here? what's under all this? tell me, now!" his mother's eyes were turned away from him. "at least we have done it, don," said she, with her shrewd, crooked smile. "we've not to do it over again. you can't forget what you have learned--you can't get away from your college education now, can you? you've got it--your diploma, your degree in engineering. you're a college man, don, the only one in spring valley. and i'm so proud, and i'm so glad. oh! don--don----" she laid a hand on his breast shyly, almost afraid of him now--the first hand she had ever laid upon the heart of any man these twenty years. it was her son, a man finished, a gentleman, she hoped.... could he not be a gentleman? so many things of that sort happened here in america. poor boys had come up and come through--had they not? and even a poor boy might grow up to be a gentleman--was not that true--oh, might it not after all be true? he laid his own hand over hers now, the hand on which the blood was not yet dried. "mom," said he, "i ought to go back and thrash the life out of that man yet. i ought to wring the neck of that doddering old fool marshal. i ought to whip every drunken loafer on those streets. whose business was it? couldn't we cross the square without all that?" he stopped suddenly, the fatal thought ever recurring to his mind. but he lacked courage. why should he not? was this not far worse than facing death for both of them? their eyes no longer sought one another. "mom----" said he, with effort now. "yes, my boy." "_where's my dad?_" a long silence fell. could she lie to him now? "the truth now!" he said after a time. "you have none, don!" said she gaspingly at last. "he's gone. isn't that enough? he's dead--yes--call him dead--for he's gone." he pushed back roughly and looked at her straight. "did he really leave any money for my education?" she looked at him, her throat fluttering. "i wish i could lie," said she. "i do wish i could lie to you. i have almost forgot how. i have been trying so long to live on the square--i don't believe, don, i know how to do any different. i've been trying to live so that--so that----" "so what, mother?" "so i could be worthy of _you_, don! that's been about all my life." "_i have no father?_" she could not reply. "then was what--what that man said--was _that the truth_?" after what seemed to both of them an age of agony she looked up. she nodded mutely. then her hand gripped fiercely at his coat lapel. a great dread filled her. must she lose also her boy, for whom she had lived, for whom she had denied herself all these years--the boy who was more than life itself to her? her face was white. she looked up into another face, a strange face, that of her son; and it was white as her own. "i didn't know it," said he simply at length. "of course, if i had known, i wouldn't have done what i did. i would have worked." "no, no! now you are just fitted to work. it's over--it's done--we have put you through." "you told me my father was dead. where is he--who is he?" "i will never tell you, don," said she steadily, "not so long as you live will i tell you. i have never told anyone on earth, and i never will." "then how do they know--then why should that man say what he did?" "they know--about you--that--that you happened--that's all. they thought you died as a child, a baby--we sent you away. they don't know who it was--your father--i couldn't have lived here if anyone had known--that was my secret--my one secret--and i will keep it all my life. but here are you, my boy! i will not say i am sorry--i will never say that again! i am glad--i'm glad for anything that's given me _you_! and you fought for me--the first time anyone ever did, don." he was turning away from her now slowly, and she followed after him, agonized. "it wasn't _your_ fault, don!" said she. "try to remember that always. haven't i taken it up with god--there on my knees?" she pointed to the little room where the corner of the white bed showed. "on my knees!" she followed him as he still walked away. "oh, don," she cried, "what do you mean, and what are you going to do?" "i'm going to try to forget everything of all my life. god! if i could undo it--if i could forget how i got my education," said he. "tell me, didn't he help at all--did you, all alone, bring me up, far away, never seeing me, educating me, keeping me--taking care of me--didn't he, my father, do anything at all--for you?" "no, i did it--or at least half of it." "and who the other half?" "never mind, don, never mind." she patted eagerly on the lapel of his coat, which once more she had caught and was fingering. "oh, this was to have been my very happiest day--i have been living and working for this all these long, long years--for the day when i'd see you. let me have a little of it, can't you, don? if you should forsake me now, i will know that god has; and then i'll know i never had a chance." quickly he laid a hand upon her shoulder. "no, i'll wait." "what do you mean?" she asked. "what is it that you will do?" "find out who he was," said he, his face haggard. "you will never do that, don." "oh, yes. and when i do----" "what then?" "i'll kill him, probably. at least i'll choke this lie or this truth, whichever it is, down the throats of this town. god! i'm _filius nullius_! i'm the son of no man! i'm worse. i'm a loafer. i've been supported by a woman--my own mother, who had so little, who was left alone--oh, god! god!" "don," she cried out now. "don, i'd died if i could have kept it from you. oh, my son--my son!" chapter iii two mothers the young man stood motionless, facing the white-faced woman who had pronounced his fate for him. happily it chanced that there came interruption, for a moment relieving both of the necessity of speech. the click of the little crippled gate as it swung to brought aurora lane to her senses now. she hastened to the door, toward the outer stair. she met someone at the door. "julia!" she exclaimed. "come in. oh, i'm so glad. come! he's here--he's come--he's right here now!" there entered now the figure of a youngish-looking woman, her hair just tinged with gray here and there upon the temples; a woman perhaps the junior of aurora lane by a year or so. of middle stature, she was of dark hair, and of brown eyes singularly luminous and soft. not uncomely, one would have called her at first sight. the second glance would have shown the limp with which julia delafield walked, the bent-top cane which was her constant companion. she was one of those handicapped in the race of life, a cripple from her childhood, but a cripple in body only. one might not look in her face without the feeling that here was a nature of much charm. miss julia likewise was owner of two smiles. the one was sad, pathetic, the smile of the hopeless soul. the other, and that usually seen by those about her, was wide and winning beyond words--the smile which had given her her place in the hearts of all spring valley. these many years "miss julia," as she was known to all, had held her place as "city librarian," in which quasi-public capacity she was known of all, and loved of all as well. she came in now smiling, and kissed aurora lane before she allowed herself to see, standing in the inner room, the tall young man, who seemed to fill up the little apartment. a swift color came into her face as, with a sort of summoning up of her courage, she went up to him, holding out her hands. even she put up her cheek to be kissed by him. it was her peculiarity when feeling any emotion, any eagerness, to flush brightly. she did so now. "oh, miss julia!" exclaimed don. "i'm glad to see you. why, i know you too--i feel as though i've always known you just as you are! so--you're my fairy godmother, who's got a real mother for me! all these years--till i was a man grown--how could you?--but i'd know you anywhere, because you're just the image of the picture you sent me with that of her. i mean when you wrote me last week for the first time--that wonderful letter--and told me i had a mother, and she was here, but that i mustn't ever come to see her. of course, i wired at once i _was_ coming! see now----" "you are tall, don," said miss julia softly. "you are very tall. you are--you are fine! i'm so glad you grew up tall. all the heroes in my books are tall, you know." she laughed aloud now, a rippling, joyous little laugh, and hooking her cane across the chair arm, sank back into aurora lane's largest rocker, her tender, wistful face very much suffused. don fetched his mother also a chair, and seated himself, still regarding miss julia curiously. he saw the two women look at one another, and could not quite tell what lay in the look. as for miss julia, she was still in ignorance of the late events in the public square, because she had come directly across to aurora lane's house after the closing of her own duties at the library this saturday afternoon, when most of her own patrons were disposed for the open than for books. "yes, don," said she again, "you are fine!" her eyes were all alight with genuine pride in him. "i'm so glad after all you came to see us before you went on west--even when i told you you mustn't! oh, believe me, your mother scolded me! but i presume you are in a hurry to get away? and you've grown up! after all, twenty years is only a little time. must you be in a hurry to leave us?" "i ought not to be," said he, smiling pleasantly after all. "surely i ought to come and see you two good partners first--i could not go away without that. oh, mother has told me about you--or at least i'm sure she was just going to when you came in. strange--i've got to get acquainted with my mother--and you. but i know you--you're two good partners, that's what you are--two good scouts together--isn't it true?" miss julia flushed brightly. his chance word had gone passing close to the truth, but he did not know the truth. don lane did not know that here sat almost the only woman friend aurora lane could claim in all spring valley. miss julia in fact was silent partner in this very millinery shop--and silent partner in yet other affairs of which don lane was yet to learn. this was a great day for miss julia as well as for don's mother. time and again these two women had sat in this very room and planned for this homecoming of the boy--this boy--time and again planned, and then agreed he must not come--their son. for--yes--they _both_ called him son! if don lane, dieudonné lane, was _filius nullius_, at least he might boast two mothers. how came this to pass? one would need to go back into the story of miss julia's life as well as that of aurora lane. she had been lame from birth, hopelessly so, disfiguringly so. yet callous nature had been kind to her, had been compassionate. it gave to her a face of wondrous sweetness, a heart of wondrous softness thereto. hopeless and resigned, yet never pathetic and never seeking pity, no living soul had ever heard an unkind or impatient word from julia delafield's lips, not in all her life, even when she was a child. she had suffered, yes. the story of that was written on her face--she knew she might not hope--and yet she hoped. she knew all the great romances of the world, and knew likewise more than the greatest romancer ever wrote of women. for her--even with her wistful smile, the sudden flashing of her wistful eyes--there could be no romance, and she knew that well. not for her was to be ever the love of man. she was of those cruelly defective in body, who may not hope for any love worth having. surrounded daily by her friends, her books, miss julia was an eager reader, and an eager lover. she knew more of life's philosophy perhaps than any soul in all her town, and yet she might enjoy less of life's rewards than any other. a woman to the heart, feminine in every item, flaming with generous instincts, and yet denied all hope of motherhood; a woman steeped in philosophy and yet trained in emotion--what must she do--what could she do--she, one of the denied? what miss julia had done long years ago was to select as her best friend the girl who of all in that heartless little town most needed a friend--aurora lane. she knew aurora's secret--in part. in full she never yet had asked to know, so large was she herself of heart. all spring valley had scorned aurora lane, for that she had no father for her child. and--with what logic or lack of logic, who shall say?--julia delafield had taken aurora lane close to her own heart--_because_ she had the child! it is not too much to say that these two hopeless women, the one outcast of society, the other outcast of god, had brought up that child between them. those who say women have no secrets they can keep should have noted this strange partnership in business, in life, in maternity! this had gone on for twenty years, and not a soul in spring valley could have told the truth of it. don lane did not know of it even now. "why, aurora," said miss julia more than once in those early years to her friend, "you must not grieve. see what god has given you--a son!--and such a son! how glad, how proud, how contented you ought to be. you have a son! look at me!" so aurora lane did look at julia delafield. they comforted one another. it was from miss julia that year by year, falteringly, she learned to hope, learned to hold up her head. thus gradually, by the aid of the love of another woman--a rare and beautiful thing, a wondrous thing--a thing so very rare in that world of jealousy in which by fate women so largely live--she got back some hold on life--she, mother of the son of no man, at the urge of a woman who could never have a son! "oh, we will plan, aurora!" said miss julia in those piteous earlier times. "we will plan--we will get on. we'll fight it out together." and so they had, shoulder to shoulder, unnoted, unpraised and unadvised, year by year; and because they knew she had at least one friend, those who sat in judgment on aurora lane came little by little to forgive or to forget her sin, as it once was called of all the pulpits there. and now a drunken tongue had recalled sharply, unforgivably, unescapably, that past which had so long lain buried--a past to which neither of them ever referred. in all these years time had been doing what it could to repair what had been. time wreathes the broken tree with vines to bind up its wounds. it covers the scarred earth with grasses presently. in all these years some men had died, others had left the village. certain old women, poisonous of heart, also had died, and so the better for all concerned. other women mayhap had their sacrifices--and their secrets. but as for aurora lane, at least she had won and held one friend. and so they two had had between them a child, a son, a man. one had gathered of the philosophy of life, of the world's great minds. the other had brought into the partnership the great equipment with which nature forever defies all law and all philosophy save her own. now, product of their twenty years of friendship, here he stood, tall and strong--don lane, their boy, blood on his hand because of that truth which he swiftly--too swiftly--had declared to be a lie; and which was no lie but the very truth. but don lane still was ignorant of the closeness of truth of his last remark. he only put such face now on all this as he might. "miss julia," said he lamely, and giving her instinctively the title which the town gave her, "i know you have been good to my mother." "why, no, i haven't, don," said she, "not at all. i've been so busy i have hardly seen your mother for a month or so. but we have kept track of you--why, don, i've got your class records, every one. you don't know how i got them? isn't it true, aurie?" "i don't know what i would ever have done without her," said aurora lane slowly. don lane laughed suddenly. "why," said he, "it's almost as if i had _two_ mothers, isn't it?" both women grew red now, and poor don, knowing little as he did, grew red as well. "but what's the matter with your hand, don--you've cut yourself! i've told your mother she ought to fix that gate-latch." don looked once more at his wounded hand, and sought to cover the blood-stain with his kerchief. he saw that miss julia had heard nothing of the affair of a few moments earlier in the public square. "why, that's nothing," he mumbled. this was too much for the straightforward nature of aurora lane, and rapidly as she might she gave some account to miss julia of these late events. she told all--except the basic and essential truth. a sad shame held her back from talking even before miss julia of the fact that her boy now knew he was the child of shame itself. "that's too bad," said julia delafield slowly, gravely, as she heard the half news. "i'm awfully sorry--i'm awfully sorry for your mother, don. you fought? my! i wish i had been there to see it." miss julia's face flushed once more, indicative of the heroic soul which lay in her own misshapen body. "i didn't want to hit that fellow," said don. "of course, they had no chance, either of them, with a man who could box a bit." "and you learned that--in college, don?" he only grinned in reply, and thrust the wounded hand into his pocket, out of sight. "i'll warrant you, don," said miss julia, "that if it hadn't been for you old tarbush, the town marshal, never would have taken johnnie adamson to jail. those two were a public nuisance every saturday afternoon. i'm glad you have ended it. but tell me, what made them pick on you?" don lane struggled for a time, not daring to look at his mother, before he spoke. "the half-wit wouldn't let us pass, and then his father called me a name--if that man or any other ever calls me that again, i'm going to beat him up till his own people won't know him. i can't tell you," he went on, flushing. he did not catch the sudden look which now passed between the two women. a sudden paleness replaced the flush on miss julia's cheek. a horror sat in her eye. "what does he know?" was the question she asked of aurora lane, eye only speaking the query. "at least, miss julia," said poor don, "you somehow certainly must know about me. i'll get all my debts squared around some time. as soon as i can get settled down in my new place west--i've got a fine engineering job out in wyoming already--i'm going to have my mother come. and if ever i get on in the world, there are some other things i'm not going to forget. any friend of hers----" his big hand, waved toward his mother, told the rest of what he could not speak. they sat on, uncomfortable, for a time, neither of the three knowing how much the others knew, nor how much each ought to know. of the three, aurora lane was most prepared. for twenty years she had been learning to be prepared. for twenty years she had been praying that her boy never would know what now he did know. don lane looked at his mother's face, but could not fathom it. life to him thus far had been more or less made up of small things--sports, books, joys, small things, no great ponderings, no problems, no introspections, no self-communings--and until but very recently no love, no great emotion, no passion to unsettle him. this shadow which now fell over him--he could not have suspected that. but his mother all these years had known that perhaps at any unforeseen time this very hour might come--had prayed against it, but known always in her heart that it might come, nay, indeed one day must come. "damn the place, anyhow!" he broke out at length. "you've lived here long enough, both of you. it's nothing but a little gossiping hell, that's all. i'll take you away from here, both of you, that's what i'll do!" he stretched out a hand suddenly to his mother, who took it, stroking it softly. "don, boy," said she, "i didn't run away. why should we run away now? if we did, we'd take ourselves with us wherever we went, wouldn't we? this is as good a place to live out life as any i could have found. you can't really evade things, you know." "as though i asked to! i'd rather fight things than evade them." "i think so," said his mother mournfully. "i suppose that's true." "but you've got to be happy, mother," said he, again taking her hand in his. "i'll _make_ you happy. i'm ready to work for you now--i'll pay you back." "and miss julia?" smiled his mother. "it was she who told you the news, you know, and you didn't obey her--you came against orders." "why, yes, of course. she's been so awfully good to you. i know what she's been, be sure of that." (as though he did know!) "don't be too bitter, don," said miss julia delafield, slowly now, hoping only to salve a wound she felt he might have, yet not sure herself what the wound might be. "don't be unrelenting. why, it seems to me, as we grow older and begin to read and think, we find out the best of life is just being--well, being charitable--just forgetting. nothing matters so very much, don. that's doctrine, isn't it?" don lane never finished what reply he might have made. there came yet another interruption, yet another footfall on the little walk without, following the clash of the crippled gate as it swung to. it was a man's footfall which they heard on the gallery. they all rose now as aurora threw open the door. it was the solemn visage of joel tarbush, the town marshal, which met aurora lane. "how do you do, mr. tarbush?" asked she. "won't you come in?" the gentleman accosted gave a quick glance up the street and down. "i'm a married man," said he, with something of a vile grin on his face as he looked at her. she answered him only with the level gaze of her own eyes, and pushed open the door. he followed her in, hesitatingly, and then saw the others in the little room. "ma'am," said he, "i come to summons you to the justice court this afternoon." "yes," said aurora lane. "why?" "it's that adamson case," said he--"he knows." he turned now to the tall figure of dieudonné lane, instinctively stepping back as he did so. "in what way do you want us?" asked don lane now. "as witnesses? my mother----?" "i want your--your _ma_ as a witness, yes," said tarbush, grinning, "since you've said it. for you, you'll have to come along on charge of resisting a officer; likewise for assault and battery, charge brought by ephraim adamson; likewise for disturbing the peace. likewise we're going to test the case of _habeas chorus_. old man adamson's got money. he's sober now, and he's got a lawyer--the best lawyer in town. they're going to get the eejit out of jail, and old man adamson's going to make trouble for you." how much longer tarbush might have prattled on in his double capacity of officer and gossip remained uncertain. miss julia turned upon him, her large dark eyes flashing: "why do you bring her into it? she's just told me--they were only crossing the square--she was only trying to go home--she wasn't troubling anyone in all the world! leave her out of it." "i ain't got no choice in it," said tarbush. "i'm serving the papers now. miss lane and the boy both comes. not that i got any feeling in the matter." "why should you have?" asked don lane, with a cynical smile. "you've been letting that ruffian run this town every saturday for years, they tell me, and you didn't dare call his bluff till you saw he was whipped. all right, we'll go. i'll see this thing through--but i want to tell you, you've started something that will be almighty hard to stop. you needn't think i'm going to let this thing drop here." "oh, now," began the man of authority, "i wish't you wouldn't feel thataway. i done my duty as i seen it. didn't i take him to jail?" "yes, you did, after i had turned him over to you. but you took the wrong man at that." "who should i of took?" "i don't know," laughed don lane bitterly. "all the town, i think. we'll see." this was too cryptic for joel tarbush. weakly he felt in his pocket for tobacco. "well," said he at length, "i done summonsed you." "we have no choice," said aurora lane, after a time. "we'll get ready. miss julia, can't you go with me?" "of course," said julia delafield quietly. chapter iv in open court in his narrow little room upstairs in one of the two-story brick buildings which framed the public square of spring valley sat j. b. blackman, justice of the peace, upholder of the majesty of the law. his throne was a knock-kneed, broken chair. in front of him stood a large scarred table, whereon rested the equipment of well-thumbed tomes which bolstered him in his administration of justice. in the room beyond stood a few scattered chairs, a long bench or two. on one wall, by way of ornament, was a steel engraving of daniel webster. on the opposite wall hung certain lithographs of political candidates of like party persuasion with blackman himself, for this was a presidential year, and certain crises of political sort existed, among others the choosing of a senator of the united states. among lesser likenesses on blackman's grimy wall loomed large the portrait of his party's candidate, to wit: the honorable william henderson, late county attorney, late district judge, late member of the legislature, late candidate for governor, late chairman of the state republican committee; and by virtue of the death of the late incumbent in the office of united states senator, himself now present candidate for that lofty honor. otherwise than as to these purposeful decorations the room had small adornment and appeared judicially austere. the hour was mid-afternoon, but so swiftly had the news of recent events spread abroad in the little village that already the room of justice of peace blackman was packed. aurora lane's baby--why, she had fooled everybody--her boy never had died at all--here he was--he had been through college--he'd been somewhere all the time and now he had come to life all at once, and had fought eph adamson and the eejit, and had been arrested and was going to be tried. naturally, the stair leading to the justice's office was lined, and sundry citizens were grouped about the bottom or under the adjacent awnings. much speculation existed as to the exact issue of the legal proceedings which, it seemed, had been instituted by old eph adamson. when that worthy appeared, escorted by the clerk of judge henderson's law office, room respectfully was made for the two, it being taken for granted that judge henderson would appear for adamson, as he always had in earlier embroglios. much greater excitement prevailed when presently there came none less than tarbush, city marshal, followed by don lane and the two women. then indeed all spring valley well-nigh choked of its own unsated curiosity. they walked steadily, these three, staring ahead, following close after the marshal, who now officiously ordered room for himself and his charges. when they entered blackman's court that worthy looked up, coughed solemnly, and resumed his occupation of poring over the legal authorities spread before him on the table. don lane made room for his mother and miss julia, and took his own place at the side of the marshal. the latter laid his hand upon his arm, as if to show the assembled multitude that he had no fear of his prisoner. don shook off the hand impatiently. outside, unable to restrain themselves sufficiently to be seated within the room, old kneebone and his friend craybill walked up and down in the narrow hall--lined with signs of attorneys, real estate men, and insurance agents--from which made off the door of blackman's office. "they'll bind him over," said old silas to his friend. "they'll do that shore." "bind who over, silas," said craybill. "you mean old man adamson and his eejit, don't you? the eejit's arrested, anyhow. but what's it all about? you don't believe it's true this here _is_ 'rory's son, now do you? how can that come?" "well, i ain't saying," replied old silas cryptically, and nodding only in the general direction of the door, "but you'll see." old aaron helped himself to a chew of tobacco thoughtfully. "they say old eph has got his dander up now, and's going to make plenty of trouble all along the line. reckon he's ashamed of his son being licked thataway by just a kid like this. come to think of it, it looks like eph ain't got much glory out of it so far, has he?" "no, and i'll bet he had to dig up some money--the judge, he likely wouldn't think of it for less'n fifteen dollars anyways. that's the price of a good shoat these days. if the case was appealed, or if it got into a court of _nisy prisus_, or maybe got over into another county on a change of _venoo_, you can bet judge henderson wouldn't be doing none of them things for nothing, neither. the law's all right for them that has plenty of money. sometimes i think there's other ways." "huh," said his companion, "old adamson tried the other way, didn't he? now look at him! if i was old man adamson, or if i was his eejit son either, the best thing we could do, seems to me, would be to get out of town. this here boy's a fighter, if i'm any judge. wonder if it is her boy! if it is, whoever was his father, huh? and how was he kep' hid for more'n twenty year?" "he looks sort of changed since a couple of hours ago," said his friend judicially. "he's quieter now--why, when he come into town he was just laughing and talking like a kid. of course, he must have knew--he knows who his father is all right. now, come to think of it, if this here boy had any money he could sue them adamsons for deefamation of character." "how comes it he could? i hear say that all old man adamson said was to call him nobody's son, and that's true enough, if he's her boy. if you call the truth to a man, that ain't no deefamation of character. as to 'rory lane, everybody knows the truth about her. you can't deefame a woman nohow, least of all her. we all know she had a baby when she was a girl, and it was sent away, and it died. leastways, we _thought_ we knew. i ain't right shore what we've knew. it looks like that woman had put up some sort of game on this town. what right had she to do that?" "she was right white," said the other, somewhat irrelevantly. "never seen no one no whiter than she was when she went in that door right now." "i don't reckon we can get no seats any more--the room's plumb full." they both were looking wistfully in at the packed assembly, when they had occasion to make room for the dignified figure of a man who now pushed his way through the throng. "how do, judge henderson," said old silas kneebone, who knew everybody. the newcomer nodded somewhat coldly. he nodded also, none too warmly, to another man who stood near the door--a tall man, of loose and bulky figure, with a fringe of red beard under his chin, a wide and smiling mouth, blue eyes, and a broad face which showed shrewdness and humor alike. "how are you, hod?" said henderson carelessly; thus accosting the only man at the spring valley bar for whom really he had much respect or fear--horace brooks, popularly known in spring valley as "old hod brooks," perhaps the most carelessly dressed man physically and the most exactly appointed man mentally then practising before that bar. a little sign far down the narrow hall betokened that the office of horace brooks might thereabouts be found by any in search of counsel in the law. "oh, are you retained in this case, hod?" judge hendenson spoke over his shoulder. "not at all, judge, not at all," said the other. none the less he himself followed on into the crowded little room. as judge henderson entered all eyes were turned upon him. conscious of the fact that he honored this assemblage, he comported himself with dignity proper for a candidate. he was a man well used to success in any undertaking, and he looked his part now. the full, florid face, the broad brow, sloping back to a ridge of iron-gray hair, the full blue eyes, the loose, easy lips, the curved chin, the large, white hands, the full chest, the soft body, the reddening skin of the face--all of these offered good index to the character of william henderson. lawyer, judge, politician and leading citizen--he was the type of these things, the village cæsar, and knew well enough the tribute due to cæsar. a few eyes turned from the adequate figure of judge henderson to the loose and shambling form of the man who edged in to the front of the table. rumor had it that in the early times, twenty years or more ago, judge henderson had come to that city with a single law book under his arm as his sole capital in his profession. old hod brooks had made his own advent in precisely similar fashion, belated much in life by reason of his having to work his way through school. since then his life had been one steady combat, mostly arrayed against henderson himself. perhaps it might have been said that they two from the first were rivals for the leading place at the local bar, little as henderson himself now cared for that. he was well intrenched, and all opponents, such as this shambling giant with the red beard and nondescript carriage, must attack in the open. judge blackman coughed ominously once more. "order in the court!" he intoned, pounding on the table in front of him. there was a general shuffling and scraping of chairs. those standing seated themselves so far as was possible. judge henderson alone stood for a time in front of the table of justice blackman. the afternoon was very warm, but he represented the full traditions of his profession, for he appeared in long black coat, white waistcoat, and folded collar, tied with a narrow white tie. in some way he had the appearance of always being freshly laundered. his fresh pink cheeks were smooth and clean, his hands were immaculate as his linen. one might have said that at one time in his life he had been a handsome man, a fine young man in his earlier days, and that he still was "well preserved." not so much might have been said of old hod brooks, who had slumped into a seat close to tarbush and his prisoner. that worthy wore an alpaca coat, a pair of trousers which shrieked of the golden eagle clothing store, no waistcoat at all, and it must be confessed, no collar at all, beyond a limp strip of wilted linen decorated by no cravat whatever. as he sat now brooks suddenly cast a keen, curious gaze upon the face of the young defendant who sat at the left of the city marshal--a gaze which, passing at length, rested steadily, intently, on the face of aurora lane, who sat, icy pale, staring straight in front of her. her left hand lay in that of miss julia delafield. the eyes of the latter--whose face was flushed, as was usual with her in any time of mental emotion--remained fixed upon the man who was to prosecute this boy, whose life was linked so closely with her own. the great lawyer seemed not to see these women at all, and at first cast no glance whatever at the defendant. the whole thing was rather trivial for him; for although his fee really had been five hundred dollars--in form of a note from ephraim adamson secured by a certain mortgage on certain live stock--he knew well enough he honored adamson and this court by appearing here in a mere justice trial. "order in the court!" said blackman once more. "the case coming on for trial is city of spring valley on the complaint of ephraim adamson against dewdonny lane." at this bold declaration of what had been a half credited secret to spring valley, all spring valley now straightened and sat up, expectant. a sort of sigh, half a murmur of intense curiosity went over the audience. it was indeed a great day for spring valley. "lane--dewdonny lane." so he _was_ the son of aurora lane--and had no family name for his own! justice blackman paused and looked inquiringly at the battered visage of old eph adamson. he coughed hesitatingly. "i understand this case is one of assault and battery. i believe, judge henderson, that you represent the plaintiff in this case?" "yes, your honor," said judge henderson slowly, turning his full eye upon the court from its late resting place upon the campaign portrait of himself as it appeared on the wall. "i have consented to be of such service as i may in the case. mr. ephraim adamson, our well-known friend here, is ready for the trial of the cause now, as i understand. i may say further, your honor, that there will be a writ of _habeas corpus_ sued out in due course demanding the body of the son of ephraim adamson, who is wrongfully restrained of his liberty at present in our city jail. "as for this defendant----" judge henderson turned and cast an insolently inquiring eye upon the young man at the side of the town marshal. "who appears for the defendant?" demanded judge blackman austerely, casting a glance upon the prisoner at the bar. don lane arose, half hesitatingly. "your honor," said he, "i presume i am the defendant in this case, although i hardly know what it's all about. i haven't any lawyer--i don't know anybody here--i'm just in town. all this has come on me very suddenly, and i haven't had time to look around. i don't see how i am guilty of anything----" [illustration: "your honor," said he, "i presume i am the defendant in this case."] just then arose the soft and kindly tones of a large voice which easily filled all the room. old hod brooks half rose. "your honor," said he, "it isn't customary for a member of the bar to offer his services unsolicited. i would say, however, that if the court desires to appoint me as counsel for this young man i will do the best i can for him, since he seems a stranger here and unprepared for a defense at law. if there were any other younger lawyer here i would not suggest this course to your honor--indeed, i have no right to do so now. i trust, however,"--and he smiled at judge henderson at the other end of the table--"that my learned brother will not accuse me of champerty, maintenance, or any other offense against my office as a servant of justice in this community. of course, i may add, your honor"--he turned to justice blackman again--"that in such circumstances my own services, such as they are, would be rendered entirely free of charge." people wondered, turning curious looks on the big, gaunt speaker thus suddenly offering himself as champion in a rôle evidently unpopular. justice blackman hesitated, and cast again a glance of query at judge henderson, on whom he much relied in all decisions. the latter waved a hand of impatient assent, and began to whisper with his clerk. "the court will allow this procedure," said justice blackman. "does the defendant accept mr. brooks as counsel?" don lane, embarrassed and somewhat red of face, half rose again, meeting full the fascinated, absorbed look on the face of hod brooks--a look which the keen eye of henderson also saw. he puckered a lip and frowned estimatingly. rumor said that old hod brooks was going to come out as candidate for u. s. senator on the opposing ticket. henderson began now to speculate as to what he could do with hod brooks, if ever they should meet on the hustings. he studied him now as a boxer, none too certain of himself, studies his antagonist when he strips and goes to his corner opposite in the ring. "your honor," said don, "i don't know this gentleman, but what he says seems to me most kind. i surely shall be glad to have his assistance now." he did not look at his mother's face, did not see the quick look with which hod brooks turned from him to her. "does my learned brother require time for preparation of his case?" inquired judge henderson sarcastically. "i will agree to a brief recess of the court in such case." "oh, not at all, not at all," said old hod brooks. "i know all about this case, better than my learned brother does. not having any special interest in anything but this case--that is to say, not any alien interest, political or otherwise--i am ready to go to trial right now to defend this young man. if judge henderson will move his chair so he can get a better look at his own picture on the wall, i don't see but what we might as well begin the trial." certain smiles passed over the faces of a few in the audience as they saw the quick flush spring to the face of judge henderson. the chief delight in life of old hod brooks was to bait his learned brother by some such jibes as this, whenever the fortunes of the law brought them together on opposing sides. judge henderson coughed. "your honor," said he hastily, "i am glad that in the course of justice this young man has secured counsel--even counsel such as that of my learned brother--who also, i am informed, is not beyond aspirations of a political nature. i have no time for idle jests. if the defense is ready i may perhaps state briefly what we propose to prove." "by criminy!" whispered silas to aaron at the hall door, peering in. "by criminy! i believe old hod's got him rattled right now!" but judge henderson pulled himself together. he now assumed his regular oratorical position, an eye upon his audience. "your honor," he said, "this case is very plain and simple. the quiet of our city has been violated by this young man, who has publicly assaulted one of our best-known citizens." "which one do you mean?" interrupted hod brooks, most unethically, and smiling behind his hand. "which do you mean, the old drunkard or the young idiot?" "order in the court!" rapped blackman, as still further smiles and shufflings became apparent at the rear of the room. judge henderson went on, flushing yet more. "my client, your honor," he said, "was standing peacefully in the public square, accompanied by his son. they were beaten up, both of them, by this young man who has been brought into this court by our properly constituted officer of the law. without any provocation whatever, this defendant inflicted great personal injury upon my client." "we will make eph's face 'exhibit a,' and let it go into evidence," smiled hod brooks amicably; and the audience smiled and shuffled yet more. "as to the unlawful detention of the son of my client," resumed judge henderson, beet-red now, "we have chosen the remedy of _habeas corpus_ rather than a simple discharge, because we wish to bring before our people the full enormity of the offense which has been committed here in the public view, actually upon the grounds of our temple of justice. we shall show----" "your honor," interrupted old hod brooks at this point, half rising, "if this were a political gathering indeed, and not the trial of a cause in a justice court, i would rise to a point of order. as it is, i rise to a point of law." "state your point," said justice blackman. "we are trying, as i understand it, the case of this defendant, dewdonny lane, accused by this plaintiff, ephraim adamson, of assault and battery?" justice blackman nodded gravely. "then why does my learned brother speak of _habeas corpus_ in this case, and what is the case which he is trying, or thinks he is trying? what is his evidence going to be? and why does he not get on?" "your honor," blazed henderson, "i shall not endure this sort of thing." "oh, yes, you will, my learned brother," said hod brooks, still smiling gently. if henderson had other resources, he needed them now, for keenly enough he sensed himself as slipping in this battle of wits before assembled electors; and it really was politics alone that had brought him here--he scented a crowd afar off. he now lost his temper utterly. "if the court will excuse us for a brief moment of recess," said he savagely, "i should like to ask the privilege of a brief personal consultation with the attorney for the defense. if he will retire with me for just a moment i'll make him eat his words! after that we can better shape these proceedings." the blue eye that hod brooks turned upon his opponent was calmly inquiring, but wholly fearless. on the other hand, some sudden idea seemed to strike him now. he resolved to change his tactics. he was shrewd enough to know that, irritated beyond a certain point, henderson would fight his case hard; and hod brooks did not want to lose this case. henderson, with a little wave of the hand, his face livid in anger, edged away from the table of the justice of the peace. hod brooks followed him out into the hall. "order in the court!" intoned the justice yet again. there was a rush toward the door. "there now, go back, men," said hod brooks, raising a hand. "there's not going to be any fight. let us two alone--we want to talk, that's all." don lane looked steadily at the face of justice blackman. aurora lane stared ahead, still icy pale, her hand clasped in that of miss julia's. she felt, rather than saw, the gazes of all these others boring into her very soul. here were her enemies--here in what had been her home. it seemed an hour to her before at length those standing about the door shuffled apart to allow the two forensic enemies to reënter, though really it had not been above ten minutes. neither man bore any traces of personal combat. the face of judge henderson was a shade triumphant--strangely enough, since now he was to admit his own defeat. * * * * * "i tell you, i heard the whole business," said old silas later on to his crony, who owned to a certain defect in one ear in hot weather such as this. "i heard the whole business. there wasn't no fight at all--not that neither of them seemed a bit a-scared. hod, he raises a hand, and that made the judge slow down. "'it's what you might expect, judge,' says hod, for appearing in a measly little justice court case.' he's got a mighty nasty way of smiling, hod has. but scared? no. not none. "'i'll fight this case as long as you like,' says the judge, 'and i'll win it, too.' "'maybe, maybe, judge,' says hod. 'but they's more ways than one of skinning a cat. suppose you do win it, what've you won? it's all plumb wrong anyhow, and it orto be stopped. these people all orto go on home.' "'so you want to try the case here, huh?' says the judge; and says hod: "'that's just what i do. i mean i don't want to try it none at all. i've got various reasons, beside, why i don't want to try this case, or have it tried. are you a good guesser?' i didn't know what he meant by that. "'what're you getting at?' says the judge. 'i know you've got something hid. there's a sleeper in here somewheres.' "'well, let it stay hid,' says hod. 'but one thing is sure, you ain't hiding it none that you're out for senator?' "'why should i? i'll win it, too,' says the judge. "'maybe, maybe,' says hod. 'all i was going to say was, maybe you'd like to have me help you, say left-handed, thataway? even left-handed help is some good.' "'what do you mean, hod?' says he. 'they tell me you're mentioned strong for the other ticket and are out after the place your own self?' he takes a kind of look-over at hod, no collar nor nothing, and that sleazy coat of his'n. "'that's so,' says hod. 'i've got a chance anyhow. even every bad-chance candidate out of your way is so much to the candy for you, judge, ain't it so?' says he. "'say now, you don't mean you'd talk of withdrawing?' judge henderson he was all lit up when he says this. 'on what terms?' says he. 'of course, there's terms of some sort.' "'easiest terms in the world,' says hod--though i don't think it was easy for him to say it, for he's got as good a chance as the judge, like enough. but he says, 'easiest sort of terms,' and laughs. "'talk fast,' says the judge. "'dismiss this suit--withdraw from this case--and i'll withdraw from all candidacy on any ticket! that goes!' he said it savage. "'do you mean it?' says the judge, and hod he says he does. 'i've got reasons for not wanting this case to go on,' says he. 'it's politics brought you here, judge, and i know that, but it's mighty good politics you'll be playing not never to try this case at all. drop it, judge. politics against politics; you win. lawyer against lawyer, _i_ win. but i pay the biggest price, and you know it mighty well, even if you're a poor guesser why i'm doing this. since you're getting all the best of the bargain, is it a bargain, then?' "henderson he thinks for a while, and says he at last, 'anyhow, i never knew you to break your word,' says he. "'no,' says hod, simple, 'i don't do that,' "'i'll go you!' says the judge, sudden, and he sticks out his hand. 'i shake politically, judge,' says hod. 'no more; but it's enough. we don't neither of us need explain no more,' and _damn me_! if they didn't quit right there, where it seemed to me a whole lot of explaining what they meant 'd a-ben a right good thing for me anyways, for i couldn't gether what it was all about. "but i heard the whole business--and there wasn't no fight, nor nothing, just only that talk like i said, and i don't know nothing of _why_ they done it, i only know what they done. _that's_ why there wasn't no fight, no trial after all--and us setting there that long! i want to say, some things is beginning to look mighty mysterious to me. but i ain't saying what i think. you'll see." * * * * * hod brooks was first to address the court. he stood, a tall and hulking figure, one hand upon the shoulder of dieudonné lane--stood in such fashion as in part to shield don's mother from the gaze alike of court and audience. "your honor," said he, and his face now was very grave; "i assume the court has been in recess. after conference with my learned brother i believe that he has some statement to make to the court." he turned now toward henderson, who straightened up. "may it please the court," he began, "i find it incumbent upon me to withdraw as counsel in this case. my learned brother has lived up to the full traditions of courtesy in our profession, but i will only say that i have learned certain facts which render it impossible for me to represent this client properly in this cause. there would seem to have been certain justifying circumstances, not at first put before me, which leave me more reluctant to prosecute this defendant. i shall counsel my client to withdraw his suit." blackman in his surprise scarcely heard the deep voice of don lane's attorney as he spoke in turn. "may it please the court," said he gently, "it is the best function of an attorney to counsel restraint and moderation; it is most honorable of any great counsel to decline any case which does not enlist his full convictions. it is the duty of all of us to uphold the actual peace and actual dignity of this community. i have never entertained a fuller respect for my learned brother than i have at this moment. i withdraw what i said about his portrait yonder--and may say i do not blame any man for being well content even in the offer of an honor which i cannot and do not contemplate for myself--the great honor of the candidacy for the senate of the united states. it is my own function, none the less, to state that there is no cause why my client should be longer detained. he and others, these witnesses, are virtually restrained of their liberty. i therefore move the dismissal of this case. i think these people all ought to go home. i further suggest that this court adjourn--if this latter suggestion be fully within my own province." he turned an inquiring gaze upon tarbush, city marshal, who by this time had fairly sunken down into the depths of his coat collar. "how about the plaintiff?" said blackman, turning a hesitating glance upon judge henderson, who seemed much relieved by what his opponent in fact and in _posse_ had said. "there is other counsel for him," said judge henderson, "but if he will take my own advice, he will drop the case now and at this point." "what does the plaintiff say?" blackman bent an inquiring gaze on the battered visage of ephraim adamson. the latter lifted up a swollen eyelid with thumb and finger, and turned a still confused gaze upon court and counsel. his reply, crestfallen though it was, brought a titter from the audience. "i guess i'm satisfied," said he. blackman looked from one to the other, and then back to the faces of the disappointed audience of the citizens of spring valley. "order in the court!" exclaimed blackman, j. p., fiercely. "this court is adjourned!" he spoke with a certain disgust, as of one aware of participation in a fiasco. with a rush and a surge the room began to empty. judge henderson departed, well in advance, looking straight ahead, and acknowledging none of the greetings which met him. he evidently was above such work, even disgusted with the whole affair. hod brooks remained, his curious glance still riveted on don lane. don stood hesitating before the table of justice. he had not known before that his burly counsel had any acquaintance with his mother, but he saw plainly the glance of recognition which passed between them. aurora lane and miss julia waited until the stair was clear, but as don would have followed them, hod brooks beckoned to him, in his blue eyes a sort of puzzled wonderment, a surprise that seemed half conviction. "i thank you, mr. brooks," said don lane, turning to his counsel. he wondered curiously why the big man should seem so red of face and so perturbed. "what can i do for you--i have not much----" the great face of hod brooks flushed yet more. "don't talk to me about pay, my boy," said he--"don't talk to me about anything. wait till things straighten out a little. the prosecution's dropped. that's all--or that's enough. now, listen. i knew you when i saw you come in here! they told me you were dead, but i knew you when first my eyes fell on you. you're like your mother. i've known your mother for years--i think a lot of her and her friend miss julia, don't you see? it's strange news to me you are alive, but you are, and that's enough. i must be going now. i'll see you and your mother both. but before i do, just come with me, for i've a little more counsel to give you--it won't cost you anything, and i think it will do some good." he beckoned don to join him once more in the hall, and what he said required but a moment. an instant later, and old brooks had hurried down the stair. a part of his words to don had been overheard by old silas, but the latter could only wonder what it all might mean. "aaron," said he, "i ain't no detecative, and don't claim to be, but now, some day if anything should happen--well, i ain't sayin', but i know what i know, and some day, some day, aaron, i may have to tell." brooks joined aurora lane and miss julia and walked with them along the shady street. they walked in silence, aurora lane still staring straight ahead, icy cold. it was not until they three halted at her little gate that she could find voice. "how can we thank you?" said she. "how can we pay?" the deep color came into the big man's moody face once more. he waved a hand. "you mustn't talk of that," said he. "i reckon i owe you that much and more--a lot more. i'm not done yet. i've done what i thought was right. but as for the case, i didn't fight it, and i didn't win it--the judge and i, we just didn't make any fight at all, that's all. we settled it out of court, on terms that suited him, anyhow. i'm sorry for blackman,--he was just honing to soak that boy the limit! _your_ boy, aurora--that ought to have stayed dead, i'm afraid, but didn't. "but peace and dignity," he added--"listen to me--we'll make a sabbath school out of this town yet! i can't talk very much more now." with a great uproarious laugh, somewhat nervous, very much perturbed, he raised his hat clumsily, turned upon his heel clumsily, and would have walked off clumsily. an exclamation from miss julia stopped him. "where's don?" asked she. "and what's that over yonder--what does the crowd mean?" she pointed down to the corner of the courthouse square, where indeed a closely packed group was thrusting this way and that, apparently about some center of interest. "oh, that?" said hod brooks, carelessly, turning his gaze thither; "that's nothing. pray don't be excited--it's only my--my client, carrying out the last of my legal instructions to him." "but what does it mean?" demanded aurora lane in sudden terror--"what's going on there? is there more trouble?" hod brooks broke off a spear of grass from its place between the sidewalk and the fence, and meditatively began to chew it. "oh, no, i think not," said he gently. "i don't think the boy will have much trouble. he's doing what i counseled him to do." "what have you told him--what is he doing--what does it all mean?" demanded aurora lane. "nothing," said the big man, still gazing ruminatingly at the scene beyond. "as a member of the bar i was bound to give him such counsel as should be of most practical benefit to him--i swore that in my oath of admission to the bar. so i told him that as soon as court was adjourned he ought to take old eph adamson and thrash him this time good and proper. i told him nothing would come of it if he did. i told him it was his plain duty to do it, and if he didn't do it i'd do it myself, because the dogs have got to be put to sleep again now in this town.... i must say," he added, "i am inclined to believe that my client is following his instructions to the letter!" after which hod brooks strolled on away. the crowd at the farther corner of the square broke apart before long. "by jinks! silas," said old aaron to his friend, "who'd a thought it? i've seen some fights, but that was the shortest i ever did see. and he made old eph adamson holler 'enough!' by criminy! he done that very thing. looks to me, safest thing right is not to talk too much about 'rory lane!" don lane emerged from the thick of the crowd, his coat over his arm, his face pale in anger, his eye seeking any other champion who might oppose him. "listen to me now, you people!" he said. "if there's another one of you that ever does what that man there has done, or says what he said, he'll get the same he did, or worse. you hear me, now--i'll thrash the life out of any man that raises his voice against anyone of my family. you hear me, now?" he cast a straight and steady gaze upon old man tarbush, who stood irresolute. "no, you'll not arrest me again," said he. "you know you won't. you'll leave me alone. if you don't, you'll be the next. i don't love you any too well the way it is. "get out now, all of you--you most of all," he added, and gave marshal tarbush a contemptuous shove as he elbowed his own way on out of the crowd. old hod brooks passed on down the street and took the opposite side of the public square, paying no attention to all this. he ambled on until he found his own office at length. a half hour later he might have been seen in his customary attitude, slouched deep down into his chair, his head sunk between his shoulders, his feet propped up on the table, and his eyes bent on the pages of a volume of the law. he had in his lap now no less an authority than "chitty on pleadings." he had sat there for some moments--and he had not seen a word on all the page. chapter v closed doors by the time don lane had reached his mother's house he partially had pulled himself together, but his face was still pale and sullen, not yet recovered from the late encounter. he cast himself down in a chair, his chin in his hand, looking everywhere but at his mother. his wounds, poor lad, were of the soul, slow to heal. the white-faced woman who sat looking at him had also her wounds, scarred though they were, these years. her features seemed sharpened, her eyes larger for the dark shadows now about them. but she was first to speak. "wasn't it enough, don," said she--"didn't i have enough without all this? and on the very day i have looked forward to so long--so long! you don't know how i have worked and waited for this very day. why, it's the first time i've ever seen you, since you were a baby. you're a stranger to me--i don't know you yet. and then all this comes--now, on my one happy day." "well, how about it, then?" he demanded brusquely. "you know what they've been saying--i couldn't let it go. i _had_ to fight!" "yes, yes, you have--and in a few hours you've undone twenty years of work for me. the sleeping dogs were lying. why waken them this late?" "_who was my father?_" demanded the young man, now, sternly. "come, it's time for me to know. i couldn't help loving you--no one could. but--him! tell me--was it that man who defended me? is my name don brooks?" she made him no answer, though her throat throbbed and she half started as though at a blow. "oh, no, oh, no! what am i saying! of course you understand, mother," he went on after a long, long silence, "i don't believe anything of this, not even what you have said to me about my being--well, _filius nullius_. there was a quick divorce--a hidden decree--you separated, you two--he was poor--that often happens. women never like to talk about it. i can't blame you for calling me 'nobody's son,' for that sort of thing does happen--secret and suppressed divorces, you know. but as to that other----" for a long time aurora lane sat facing a temptation to accept this loophole of escape which thus crudely her boy offered her--escape from the bitter truth. he would fight! he--and hod brooks--those two might defy all the town--might cow them all to silence even now. but--once more her inborn honesty and courage, her years-old resolution triumphed. "i cannot tell you who your father was, don," said she quietly, at length, ash pale, trembling. "when were you married--when--where?" "i was _never_ married, don! what i told you was true! oh, you make me say a thing to you i ought never to have been asked to say, but it is the truth. you may believe it--you must believe it--it's--it's no good keeping on evading--for it's true, all of it." she was gasping, choking, now. "this is a ghastly thing to have to do," she cried at last. "ah, it oughtn't ever to have been asked of me." the boy's breath also came in a quick sob now. "mother, that's not true--it _can't_ be! why, where does that leave you--where does it leave _me_?" her voice rose as she looked at him, so young and strong, so fine, so manly. "but i'm not sorry," she exclaimed, "i'm not--i'm _not_!" "so what they told me--what i made them all take back--_it was true_?" he sank back in his chair. "yes, don. we can't fight. we are ruined." "born out of wedlock!--but my father only ran away--you told me he was dead." "regard him so, don." "where is he--who was he? why did that man tell me to fight them all?" "i will never tell you, don, never." her dark eyes were turned upon him now, eyes unspeakably sad. "but you must! you wouldn't deny me my own chance in the world?" "you will have to make your own chance, don, as i did. we all must. i have my secret. the door is closed. there is no power ever can open that door--not even my love for you, my boy. besides, the knowledge could be of no use to you." "yes? is that indeed so? you would debar me from the one great right of all my life? tell me, is my guess right? i'll make that man marry you." "ah, you mean revenge?" he nodded, savagely, his jaws shut tight. but his brow grew troubled. "but not if he came out and stood by me and you, even this late. i suppose----" "there is no revenge for a woman, don. they only dream there is--once i dreamed there might be for me. i don't want it now. i am content. there's more pity than revenge about me now. i only want to be fair now, if i can, and now i'm glad--this is my one glorious day. for you're mine. you are my boy--and i'll never say that i am sorry. because i've got you. they can't help that, can they, don?" "he got us out of worse trouble, didn't he? why did he do that, mother? what made him look at us the way he did? and what made the other lawyer, henderson, drop the case? how did they settle it out of court? lucky for us--but _why_?" he spoke sharply, abruptly. a trifle of color came to aurora lane's cheeks. "it was his way," she said. "he's a good lawyer--advancing right along, more and more every year, they say. he's always had a hard time getting a start. he's like me." don lane sat silent for a time, but what he thought he held. he cast a discontented glance about him at the meager surroundings of his mother's home, with which he could claim no familiarity. "how did you manage it, mother?" he asked, at length. "how did you get me through--big, ignorant loafer that i've been all my life. you say he never helped any. was he so poor as all that?" "i couldn't have done it alone," said aurora lane, slowly. mechanically she smoothed down the folds of her gown in her lap as she spoke. "i have told you you had two mothers, if no father," said she at last, suddenly. "that's almost true. you don't know how much you owe to miss julia. she helped me put you through school! it was her little salary and my little earnings--well, they have proved enough." "go on!" said he, bitterly. "tell me more! humiliate me all you can! tell me more of what i ought to know. good god!" he squared his shoulders as if to throw off some weight which he felt upon them. his mother looked at him in silence for some time. "shall i tell you all about it, don?" she said. "all that i may?" he nodded, frowning. "let's have it over and done with." "when i came here i was young," said aurora lane, slowly, after a long time. "julia was young, too, just a girl. we both had to make our way. then--then--it happened." "you didn't love me, mother? you hated me?" "oh, yes, i loved you--you don't know what you say--you don't know how i loved you. but everything was very hard and cruel.... well, one night i had made up my mind what i must do.... "i washed you all clean that night. i dressed you the best i could--i didn't have much for you. but you were a sweet baby, and strong. i was kissing you and saying good-by to you then, when miss julia came in, right at the door." [illustration: "i was kissing you and saying good-bye ... when miss julia came in--"] "you were going to put me in a home--in some institution?" "no!" she spoke now in short, quick, sobbing breaths.... "don, do you know the little stream that runs through the edge of the town? do you know the deep pool beneath the bridge where the water turns around? well, i had washed you and dressed you.... i was going to put you _there_.... it was then that julia came." he turned upon her a face which it seemed to her never again could be happy and free from care. "i didn't know all this, mother," said he, quietly, whitely. "i ask your pardon. i ask you to forgive me." "no, i have told you i wanted to spare you all this--i wanted that door to remain closed forever. but now it is open--you have opened it. i will have to tell you what there is behind." it seemed many moments before she could summon self-control to go on. "...so we two sat here in this little room, julia and i. you were in my lap, holding up your hands and kicking up your feet, and we two wept over you--we prayed over you, too--she, that little crippled girl, hopeless, who could never have a boy of her own! i told her what i was going to do with you. she fought me and took you away from me.... and she saved you ... and she saved me. "so now you have it." he heard her voice trailing on somewhere at a distance which seemed immeasurable. "you owe your life not to one woman, but to two, after all. now you know why i called you dieudonné. god sent you to me. as i have known how, i have resolved to pay my debt to god--for you. i want to pity, not hate. i want to be grateful. i want to be fair, if i can learn how." aurora spoke no more for some moments, nor did her son. "we two talked it all over between us," said she after a time. "she asked me then, once, who was your father--julia did. i said he was poor. i told her never to ask me again. she never has. oh, a good woman, julia delafield--fine, fine as the lord ever made! "but she knew--we both knew--that i did not have the means of bringing you up. we put our hearts together--to own you. we put our little purses together--to bring you up. she took you away from me, pretty soon. she sent you to some of her people, very distant relatives. they were poor, too, but they took you in and they never knew--they died, both of them, who took you in. "then for a time we sent you to an institution for orphans. but we told everybody here that you had died. i told him so--your--your father--and i forbade him ever to speak to me again. i told you he was dead. i told him you were dead. he _is_ dead. so are _you_ dead. but all the dead have come to life. the lost is found. oh, don, don, the lost is found! i've found so much today--so much, so much. you're my boy, my own boy. a man!" he sat mute. at length she went on. "we schemed and saved and contrived, all the little ways that we could to save our money--we have both done that all our lives for you. we wanted to educate you, your mothers did. and oh! above all things we wanted the secret kept. i did the best i knew. they all thought you died. i didn't want you to come here--it was miss julia. i didn't know you were coming till you wired. i was going to tell you not to come up--even from the depot. but you got in the bus. i was delayed there in the square by those men. and then all this happened. and after twenty years!" she sat silent, using all her splendid command of her own soul to still the stubborn fluttering in her throat. dieudonné lane looked everywhere but at her. "mother," said he at length, "did you--did you ever--love him?" his own face flushed at the cruelty of this question, too late, after the words were gone. he saw her wince. "i don't know, don," said she, simply. "it happened. it couldn't again. you don't know about women. seal your lips now, as mine are sealed. never again a question such as that to me." the sight of her suffering at his own words stirred the elemental rage in his heart. "tell me," he demanded again and again. "who was he? is that the man? i begin to see--i'd kill him if i knew for sure." she only shook her head. "but you must!" said he at last. "you are cruel. you don't know." "what is that, don? what do you mean? oh, i see--_it is because of her_. it's anne! there's someone else you love, more than you do me." "yes!" he confessed, "more than i do life. _that's_ the reason i must know all about myself. can't you see i've got to play fair? there's anne!" "who is she, don--you've never told me very much yet." "anne oglesby--her family lived at columbus before she was left alone. you know her--why, she's the ward of judge henderson, here in town. i believe she was left a considerable estate, and he handles it for her. she's been here. she's told me about this place--she's seen you, maybe--before i ever did. yes--it's anne! i've got to think of her. i don't dare drag her into trouble--my hands are tied." he rose now, and in his excitement walked away from his mother, so that he did not note her face at the moment. "you see, we met from time to time back east in our college town. i never told her much about myself, because i didn't know much about myself, really, when it comes to that. i said i was an orphan, and poor. but--i'd made all the teams--and i've studied, too. i was valedictorian, in spite of all, mother. they don't amount to much, usually--valedictorians--but i was sure i would--when i knew that anne---"i didn't know about our caring for one another until we found we had to part--just now, today, this morning on the train before i got off here. then we couldn't part, you know. so just before we passed through this town, right on the train--today, in less than half an hour before i met you--this morning, this very day, i--we--well----" "yes, don," she said, "i know!" her eyes were very large, her face very pale. he choked. "but now we've got to part," said he. "if i am nobody, or worse, i've got to be fair with her." a look of pride came into his mother's face at his words. "i'm glad, don," said she. "you've got honor in you. but in no case could i see you marry that girl." he turned upon her in sudden astonishment. "isn't she as good as we are? isn't her family--don't you know the oglesbys of columbus--who they are and what they stand for--where they came from? can we say as much?" "they are better than we can claim to be, don, yes," said she, ignoring his brutal frankness. "i know her, yes. i knew her years ago--the ward of judge henderson. sometimes she has been here and kept his household for him--some day she'll live with judge henderson even if she marries. he's very fond of her. but as to your marrying anne oglesby, you must not think of it." "what on earth!" he began. "what have you against her?" "it is enough that i feel as i do about any girl who has been here and who knows about--about the way--the way i've lived. will she know who i am when she knows who _you_ are--and what you are not? has she identified us two--have you really been fair with her?" now the color began to rise in her paled cheeks. "i've not had time yet! i told you it all happened just a moment ago." then, still brutally, he went on. "why, what do you know of love? what do you know about the way i feel toward anne?" "be as cruel as you like," said she, flushing now under such words. "i presume you feel as all men think they feel sometimes. they see that woman for that moment--they think that they believe what they say--they think they must do what they do. you are a man, yes, don, or you could not have said to me what you have." he flung out his arms, impatient. "i am having a fine start, am i not? i'm a beggar, a pauper, and worse than that. i've got to pay you and miss julia. i've got to go on through life, with that secret on my mind. i can't confront that man and tell him. you and i--just today meeting--why, we begin to argue. and now i've got to face anne oglesby with that secret. it can't be a secret from her. i'd never ask her to join her life to one like mine. and--god! a woman like her.... i can't tell you.... death--why, i believe this is worse." "don't tell me, don, don't try." she turned to him, her voice hoarse and low. "it's a wrong thing for you to talk to me about things of that sort. birds out of the nest begin all over again--this must begin again, i suppose--but it's too awful--too terrible. i don't want to hear any more talk about love. but rather than see you live with her, rather than see you talk that way of her, it seems to me i'd rather die. because, she knows all about _me_--or will. what made you come? why didn't you stay away? why couldn't you find some other girl to love, away from here?" "which shows how much you really care for my happiness! i suppose, like many women, you are stubborn. is that it, mother?" she winced under this, wringing her hands. "if i could only lie--if i only could!" "and if i only could, also!" he repeated after her. "but she's coming tomorrow, mother--i've made her promise she'd come to see you. she said she'd make some excuse to come down and see her guardian. i'm going to meet her tomorrow. and when i do, i've got to tell her what i've learned today--every word of it--all--all! and i'll be helpless. i'll not be able to fight. i'll have to take it." "that's right, don, that's right. even if i loved her as you do, even if it were the best thing in the world for you if you could marry her, i'd say that you should not. don, whatever you do, don't ever be crooked with a woman. she's a woman, too. no matter what it cost, i couldn't see her suffer by finding out anything after it was too late." "it won't take long," said he, simply. "we'll part tomorrow. but oh! why did you save me--why did miss julia come that night? my place was under the water--there! then the door would have been closed indeed. but now all the doors are closed on ahead, and none behind. i'll never be happy again. and i'm making her unhappy, too, who's not to blame. it runs far, doesn't it?--far and long." "as you grow older, don," said she, "you will find it doesn't so much matter whether or not you are happy." he shook his head. "i'm done. it's over. there's nothing ahead for me. i never had a chance. mother, you and miss julia made a bad mistake." it seemed that she scarcely heard him, or as though his words, brutal, cruel though they were, no longer impinged upon her consciousness. she spoke faintly, as though almost breathless, yet addressed herself to him. "why, don, it was here in this very room ... and you lay in my arms and looked up at me and laughed. you were so sweet.... but what shall i do? i love you, and i want you to love me, and you can't. what have i done to you? oh, wasn't the world cruel enough to me, don? oh, yes, yes, it runs far--far and long, a woman's sin! you are my sin. and oh! i love you, and i will not repent! god do so to me--i'll not repent!" he looked at her, still frowning, but with tenderness under the pain of his own brow. at last he flung himself on his knees before her and dropped his head into her lap. he felt her hands resting on his head as though in shelter--hands that lay side by side, hands long and shapely once, but bruised and worn now with labor could he but have seen them--aurora's hands--he could not have helped but realize her long years of toil. he heard her faint, steady sobbing now. after a time she bent lower above his head as he knelt there, silent and motionless. slowly her hand began once more to stroke his hair. chapter vi the dividing line the commonplace sound of the telephone's ring broke the silence in the little room. aurora lane arose and passed into the adjoining room to answer it. her son regarded her with lackluster eyes when she returned. "it was miss julia," said she, "at the library. she wanted to know if you were here. she says we must be sure to come out tonight." "come out--to what?" "it's her annual jubilee, when she reports progress to the town. she is very proud of her new books and rugs and pictures. everybody will be there. you see, don, we don't have much in a town like this to entertain us. why, if i could see a real theater once--i don't know how happy i would be. we've had movies, and now and then a lecture--and miss julia." "i don't want to go, mother." "neither do i, don; so i'm going." "why should we go? it's nothing to us." "it's everything to miss julia--and it's everything to us, don. stop to think and you will realize what i mean. we can't run away under fire." "there's something in that," he rejoined after a time, slowly. "besides, what miss julia wishes we both ought to do." hands in pockets, he began once more gloomily to pace up and down the narrow room. "i can't stand this much longer, mother," said he. "i've got to get out--i've got to get hold of some money somehow." "yes," said she. "as for me, i have collected the last money due me--it went for your graduation suit. i don't know how you saved your railway fare home. i didn't want you to know these things, of course, but as things have happened, you had to know. a great many things today--well, they've gotten away from me." "it's i who have spoiled everything, too. but how could i help it--i just couldn't submit." "it's hard to submit, don," said she slowly. "perhaps a man ought not to learn it. a woman has to learn it." he turned to look at her wonderingly, and at length went over and put a hand on her shoulder. "dear mom!" said he gently. "you're wonderful. you are fine--splendid! i'm just getting acquainted with you, am i not? you're a good woman, mother; i'm so glad." she looked at him now with eyes suddenly wet, her face working strangely, and turned away. "come, don," said she after a time. "we must get ready for our little supper. spring valley, you see," she added, gaily, "dines at six and goes to the movies at seven." presently she left him to his own devices for a time, before calling him out into the little kitchen which served her also as a dining-room. "it's not much," said she, shrugging and spreading out her hands, "but it's all i'd have had--bread and milk and cereal. i don't use much sugar or butter." then, hurriedly, seeing the pain she had caused him, she went on. "you soon get used to such things. why, i have only two gowns to my name, and i put on my best one to meet you, when you wired you were coming, and i saw i'd have to meet you. this hat has been fixed over i don't know how many times--once more, for you. you will see, i'll not be at much trouble to dress for the entertainment tonight." she opened upon the table cover her little pocket book and showed its contents--one small, tightly-folded, much-creased bill, which still lay within its depths. "my last!" said she, grimacing. "that's our capital in life, don! and we have all the world against us now. we must fight, whether or not we want to fight." "but now," she added, "i can't talk any more. let us go. it may do us good. miss julia at least will be glad to see us, if no one else is." early as they were, they were not the first arrivals at the library room where miss julia delafield had devised her entertainment. she had borrowed certain benches from the public school, certain chairs as well. already a goodly portion of spring valley's best people filled these. the seats made back from the little raised platform which usually served as the librarian's desk place. this now was enlarged by the removal of all the desks. back of this narrow dais was draped a large flag of our union, and in the center of its folds was the campaign portrait of judge henderson, chief speaker of the evening. aurora lane and her son entered unnoticed for the time, and quietly took seats in the last row of benches at the rear, near to some awkward youths who had straggled in and seemed uncomfortable in their surroundings. not even miss julia noted them, for presently it became her flushing duty to escort judge henderson, and several of her other speakers, to the edge of the little platform, where they took their places back of the conventional table and pitcher of water. the leader in the town's affairs bent over affably to speak with his associates--three ministers of the gospel, reverend augustus wilson, of the u. p. church, reverend henry fullerton, of the congregationalist church, and reverend william b. burnham, of the methodists. there were many other ministers of the gospel in spring valley, which rejoiced exceedingly in the multiplicity of its churches; but to these, in the belief of miss julia, had more specially been given the gift of tongues. there came presently and seated himself on the bench next to aurora lane yet another minister of the gospel, old mr. rawlins, of the church of christ, the least important denomination of the village, so few of numbers and so scant of means that its house of worship must needs be located just at the edge of town, where land was very cheap. a kindly man, parson rawlins, and of mysterious life, for none might say whence came his raven-brought revenue. questioned, brother rawlins admitted that he was not in the least sure whether or not he had a definite creed. he held out his hand smilingly to aurora lane.... an old man he was, with white hair and a thin face, his chin shaven smooth and shining between his bushy white side whiskers. his eyes were very mild. "how do you do, aurora?" said he. "now, don't say a word to me--i know this boy." and he shook hands with don also. "i know him," said he, "and i know all he has done today--we all know all about it, aurora, so don't talk to me. tut, tut, my son! but had i been in your place very likely i should have done the same thing--i might have whipped old eph adamson. you know, sometimes even a minister asks, 'lord, shall we smite with the sword?'" the face of the old man grew grave as he looked from one to the other. some presentiment told him that a change had come across aurora lane's manner of life. could it be possible that she had grown defiant--was she restive under the weight of the years? had this sudden and sensational resurrection of her past brought rebellion to her heart, all these years so patient, so gentle? he waved a hand towards the backs of the assemblage. "i suppose you recognize some of your own handicraft, don't you, 'rory?" said he, laughing. aurora laughed, also. "a good many," said she frankly. "but the mail order business in ready-trimmed hats has cut into my trade a great deal of late. then there are excursions into columbus. still, i see some of my bonnets here and there--even now and then a gown." they both laughed yet again, cheerily, both knowing the philosophy of the poor. further conversation at the time was cut off by the entrance of the musicians of the evening, an organization known as the spring valley cornet band. these young men, a dozen in number, made their way solemnly to a place adjacent to the platform, where presently they busied themselves with certain mild tapping of drums and soft moanings of alto horns and subdued tootlings of cornets. the leader of the band was the chief clerk in the first national bank, mr. jerome westbrook by name, himself spring valley's glass of fashion and mold of form, and not unconscious of the public attention attracted to himself in his present capacity. now and again he looked out over the audience to see if he could locate a certain young lady, none less than sallie lester, the daughter of the president of his bank, upon whom he had bestowed the honor of his affections. he was willing to add thereto eke the honor of his hand. it was as aurora lane had said--this annual gathering of miss julia's was the social clearing house of the community. and this typical attendance, representative of the little city at its best, offered that strange contrast of the sexes so notable in any american assemblage. the men were ordinary of look and garb, astonishingly ordinary, if one might use the term; stalwart enough, but slouchy, shapeless, and ill-clad. not so the women, who seemed as though of another and superior social world. if here and there the face of a man seemed stolid, cloddish, peasant-like, not so any of the half dozen faces of the women next adjoining him. type, class--call what you like that which is owned by the average american woman, even of middle class--that distinction was as obvious as is usual in all such gatherings. scattered here and there through this audience, as in any audience of even the humblest sort in america, were a half dozen faces of young women, any of whom must have been called very beautiful, strikingly beautiful--beautiful as aurora lane must once have been. the apparel of the men was nondescript. that of the women, however or wherever secured, made them creatures apart. the men, too, sat uncommunicative, silent; whereas their daughters or spouses turned, chattering, laughing, waving a hand to this or that friend. in short, the women availed themselves fully, as women will, of this opportunity of social intercourse. and always, as head turned to head, there was a look, a whispered word, of woman to woman. little by little, in the mysterious way of such assemblages, every woman in the house came to know that aurora lane and her boy--who had only been hid, and not dead, all these years--were seated on the back seat, next to old man rawlins. did anyone ever hear the like of _that_? in reality spring valley was out to hear the rest of the news about aurora lane and her unfathered boy as soon as possible. gossip covers all the nuances, the shades, the inner and hidden things of information, especially when information may be classified as scandal. this is the real news. it never needs wings. it needed no wings now. naturally, it was incumbent upon judge henderson to introduce a minister of the gospel to open the meeting with prayer--we americans apologize to providence at all public occasions, even our political conventions. naturally thereafter judge henderson rose once more, took a drink of water, and signaled to the leader of the spring valley silver cornet band; whereupon mr. jerome westbrook, wiping all previous trace of german silver from below his mustache, essayed once more the leadership in concord of sweet sounds. this brought judge henderson up to his introductory remarks, properly so-called. he made no ill figure as he stood, immaculately clad as was his custom, his costume still being the long black coat, his white waistcoat, the white tie, which he had worn that afternoon in court. it was charged against him, by certain of his enemies, that judge henderson had been known to change his shirt twice in one day, but this was not commonly believed. that he changed it at least once every day had, however, come to be accepted in common credence, although this also was held as his sheer eccentricity. his face was smooth-shaven, for really he was shaved daily, and not merely on saturday nights. his wide, easy, good-humored mouth, his large features, his well-defined brows, his full eye, his commanding figure, gave him a presence good enough for almost any stage. he stood easily now, accepting as his right the applause which greeted him, and smiled as he placed on the table beside him the inevitable glass of water at which he had sipped. some said that in his own office judge henderson did not confine himself to water--but any leading citizen must have his enemies. the worthy judge made precisely what manner of address must be made on precisely such occasions. to him his audience was made up of fellow citizens, ladies and gentlemen. he accosted them with the deference and yet the confidence of some statesman of old. indeed, he might have been scarce less a figure than senator thomas hart benton himself, so profuse--and so inaccurate--were the classical quotations which he saw fit to employ. it had grown his custom to do this with care-free mind. indeed, there was but one here in this audience tonight who perhaps might have chided him for his greek--a young man who sat far back in the rear, in a place near the door--a young man who none the less, it must be confessed, paid small attention to the hendersonian allusions which had to do with literature, with history, the gentle arts, the culture, the progress of our proud republic, and of this particular american community. so now it came on to the time of reverend henry b. fullerton, who likewise spoke of literature and culture, patriotism and the glories of our republic. the other ministers also in due course, after certain uneasy consultation of the clock upon the opposite wall, spoke much in similar fashion. after these formidable preliminaries, it was time for judge henderson to give the real address of the evening--this latter now delivered with frequent consultations of the large watch which he placed beside him on the table. so presently he came to such portion of his speech as requires the orator to say, "but, my friends, the hour grows late." whereafter presently, figuratively, he dismissed the audience with his blessing, well satisfied from the applause that his campaign was doing well. he had but casually and incidentally allowed it to be known that his own annual check to the city library was for a thousand dollars--no more than would cover the librarian's salary. by this time, it was a half-hour past midnight, and none present might say that he had not had full worth of all the moneys expended for this entertainment. it had been a great evening for the candidate. moreover, most of the old ladies present had enjoyed themselves in social conversation regarding the absorbing news of the day. as for the half dozen young village beauties present, there was not one who did not know precisely where don lane sat--not even sally lester, who irritated jerome westbrook beyond measure when he saw her pretending to look at the clock at the back of the hall to see what time it was. really, as jerome westbrook knew very well, she was only trying to see don lane, the newest young man in town--wholly impossible socially, but one who had made sudden history of interest in feminine eyes. moody and intent upon his own thoughts, don lane himself by no means realized the importance of the occasion so far as he himself and his mother were concerned. he did not know that he was on trial here, that they two were on inspection. his ears were deaf to the impassioned words of all and several of the orators of the evening. before his eyes appeared only one face. it was that of a young girl with a face clean-cut and high-browed, with sweet and kindly eyes--the girl he was to meet tomorrow, to whom he was to say good-by--anne oglesby. "anne! anne!" his heart was exclaiming all the time. for now he knew that he in turn must bruise yet another human heart, because of what had been, and in his brain was room now for no other thought, no other scene, no other face. there swept down upon him, if he thought of it at all now and then, only a feeling of the insufficiency, the narrowness, the unworthiness, the tawdriness, of all this which lay about him. and yet it was this to which he must come back--this was his world--this at least was the world in which his mother had made her own battle--had won for a time, and now had lost. after midnight, when the assembly was dismissed, spring valley felt it had done its duty--it had come out to see miss julia's library. everyone who passed miss julia, as she stood near the door, flushed and pleased, congratulated her on the progress she had made, on the neatness of her desks and shelves. some said a word about the great work she was doing. others shook hands with the elevated elbow, smiled sweetly, and repeated, parrot-like, "so glad!" and "thanks so much!" in any case, little by little the room was cleared. there remained only the unspeakable desolation of any room lately occupied by a crowd--the litter of paper and odds and ends, the dulled lights, the heavy and oppressive air. in her place, back of the dividing line which fenced off the socially elect, stood aurora lane, pale, weary, and yet composed, her hands folded low before her. she looked straight ahead, nor asked any of these people passing out for that recognition which she knew they would not give her. don himself, speaking now and then to the kindly old man who retained his place at their side, found himself now and again in spite of himself wondering that of all these who passed, and of these many who turned and gazed their way, none ventured a greeting. his own face grew hard. all life to him had been a sweet, happy, sunny thing till now. he never had known any contest but that of sport, and there, even in defeat, he had met sportsmanship. he had not learned that in human life as we live it, honor and fair play and generosity and justice are things not in any great demand, nor sportsmanship in any general practice. "come, we must go," said aurora at length. they were the last to leave the room, although they might have been the first. in a brief lesson don lane's mother had taught him much. chapter vii at midnight miss julia, late mistress of ceremonies, passed here and there, turning out the lights. the bonnets and blouses all had departed, the coughs and shufflings had subsided. she might give way now to the weariness, the reaction, attendant upon long hours of eager enterprise. strange, she did not look about to find her friend, aurora lane, did not even hasten to take the hand of don lane before he had left the room. the little group at the door--aurora, don and the old minister, now was increased in the entry way by the addition of none less than the tall and awkward figure of horace brooks, who came forward, smiling uncertainly as the other three finally emerged from the door. aurora, quickly divining his purpose, made some hesitating excuse, and darted back into the hall, where now miss julia had well accomplished the purpose of extinguishing the lights. but what aurora saw caused her to withdraw softly, and not to speak to miss julia at all that evening! one by one the switches had cut off the side lights, the desk lights, those of the ceiling. two lights remained burning at the back of the little platform where the speakers had sat, one electrolier on each side of the portrait over which still hung the draped flag of the union--the portrait of the honorable william henderson, lawyer, judge, politician and leading citizen. before this portrait stood julia delafield, her smooth-topped stick resting on the little table against which she supported herself now. she stood, both her hands clasped at her bosom. she was looking up directly at the lighted features of this portrait, and on her face was so rapt a look, her gaze was so much that of one adoring a being of another world--so much ardor was in her face, pale as it was--that aurora lane, seeing and knowing much, all with a sudden wrench of her own heart, withdrew silently, thankful that miss julia had not known. "miss julia's tired," said she to her companions, who still stood waiting at the entry way. "we'll not disturb her tonight, don, after all. i know she wants to see you. you can imagine she has a thousand things to talk about--books, pictures, everything. but tonight we'll just go on home. we'll come again tomorrow." the people of spring valley scattered this way and that from the classical front of the carnegie library. they passed away in long streams in each direction on the street, which, arched across in places by the wide branches of the soft maples, lay half lighted by the moon, and yet more by the flickering arc light sputtering at the top of its mast at the corner of the public square, which made the shadows sheer black. so close did the trees stand to the street that the summer wind could not get through them to lighten the pall of the night's sultriness. in spring valley the climate in the summer time was at times so balefully hot that common folk were forced to take the mattress from the bed and spread it on the floor at the front door in order to get a partial breath of air. the atmosphere was close and heavy under the trees tonight, and some commented on the fact as they passed on toward the public square where yet further separations of the scattered groups must ensue. they passed along a street lined by residence houses, some small, others large, all hedged about with shrubs or trees, all with little flower beds; a certain conformity to accepted canons in good taste being exacted of all who dwelt in the village. each one of this dispersing assemblage knew his neighbor, and all the other neighbors of the town. this was general plebiscite. moreover, it seemed to have a certain purpose--an ultimate purpose of justice. this was the actual jury of peers--this long stream of halting, hesitating figures who at midnight strolled on across the patch-work shadows of the maples. and before it had come on for trial the case of aurora lane and her unfathered boy. "look at them go!" said old hod brooks, chuckling bitterly to himself as he and his companions turned toward the public square, this same thought occurring to him. "for instance, there's an even dozen just ahead of us now, if we cared to poll them." had this jury been polled it might have been found in some part resembling the original concourse which filled noah's ark, since for the most part they walked two and two. ben mcquaid, traveling salesman--the deadly rival of jerome westbrook in matters of fashion--who traveled out of chicago but had his home in spring valley, because it was cheaper living there--walked now arm in arm with newman, the clothing merchant of the golden eagle. he inquired solicitously as to the condition of business. newman said he "gouldn't gomplaim, though gollections mide be better." but that was not in the least what both were thinking of at that time. "seems like there was a little rukus on the square today," said mcquaid casually. "i just heard of it--number four come in a little late today." "vell, yes," said newman, looking around to see that he might not be heard. "i ain't saying a vord about it--but listen, that kid has the punch in either hand--the last time you should have seen it--you see, they got at it twice now already----" they drew apart, because they now saw approaching them too closely at the rear two of the ministers of the gospel. these found themselves none too happily assorted. "i enjoyed your remarks very much indeed, brother burnham," said reverend fullerton, with a mendacity for which no doubt the recording angel dropped a suitable tear. "i agree with you that the tendency towards looseness of living in modern life----" reverend fullerton coughed ominously. anyone very close to him might have heard half-whispered words of "brazen exhibition" and "necessity of public measures." but these did not speak freely, because close behind them came yet two--dr. arthur bowling, the homeopathic physician, who somewhat against his will had fallen into the company of miss elvira sonsteby. now, miss elvira sonsteby was the town's professional invalid. she tried regularly all the doctors in turn as they arrived. it was well known of all that she had suffered all the diseases ever known to man, as well as many of which no man ever had known. just now, with much eagerness, she was explaining to dr. bowling that she feared her neuritis had become complicated with valvular heart trouble, and that she suspected gall stones as well. as to her rheumatism, of course she had long since given up all hope of that--but this trouble in her arm----; and much other conversation extremely painful to dr. bowling at that time, because he was much possessed of the inclination to step forward a few paces and walk with sally lester, the banker's daughter. but even they hit common ground of converse when miss sonsteby voiced her belief that it was an outrage for a public personage like a certain milliner she could name if she cared to say, to appear in public on an occasion such as this, when only the most refined personages of the town should have been invited. "i am sure," said she in tense tones to the young doctor, "that although alone in the world myself--not so old as some would try to make me out, either--i would die rather than have anyone voice the slightest suspicion of blame against me--the slightest blemish on my name. now, _that_ woman...." back of these two came yet others. old mr. rawlins had gently said his farewells to aurora and her son when they emerged upon the open street, and as he advanced passed certain of these groups, until presently he fell in with none less than miss hattie clarkson, soprano and elocutionist of spring valley, who had favored the assemblage that evening with two selections, but who, it seemed, was not wholly satisfied. "it seemed to me, mr. rawlins," said she, throwing about her shoulders the light scarf of tulle which she always wore when entertaining professionally--"that the exercises rather dragged tonight. of course, we know what to expect when judge henderson speaks--he's very entertaining, to be sure. but it seemed to me that had there been a selection or two more of elocutionary sort it might have lightened up the evening----who is that coming just back of us?" she whispered, looking back over her shoulder. "that's aurora lane, my dear," said mr. rawlins, quietly. "her son is with her." "indeed!" "yes, indeed! there's one of the best women i ever knew, my dear." miss clarkson drew herself up proudly, and bent upon him an icy glance. by now they had approached the corner of public square. "i think i must say good _night_, mr. rawlins!" said she, with icy emphasis. "good night, my dear," said the old minister, sighing. not far ahead of ben mcquaid and merchant newman walked two other citizens, j.b. saunders, leading grocer and prominent knight templar, and nels jorgens, village blacksmith--the same whose shop was across the way from the home of aurora lane. it was said of mr. saunders that it would have been difficult to surprise him at any hour of the day or night when he was not in his uniform of a knight templar, or carrying his sword case and hat. for some reasons best known to himself, and anticipating all possible surprises, he had taken with him to the meeting this evening the two latter accessories of his wardrobe, which now he carried as he walked on in conversation. his neighbor wore an alpaca coat and no necktie whatever--a reticent, gray-whiskered man, whose bank account had a goodliness perhaps not to be suspected from first look at its owner. the two talked of many things, but naturally came around to the only topic which was in the mind of all. "what'll he do--old eph adamson," asked saunders. "it looks like he couldn't stand for what's been handed to him. that young fellow has pounded him up a couple of times. if i was adamson i certainly would have the law on him good and plenty." "well," said old man jorgens, comfortably, "i don't know much about it anyway, but it looks to me adamson has got pretty near enough already. he pays a lawyer to get him clear, and when he gets out of that court already he gets licked once more again. and he knows the boy can lick him." "you think he'll like enough lick him again?" "yeh, that's like enough, yeh. i heard things have been said of his mother by adamson. oh, yes, the news is out now--she couldn't hide it no more now--there is the boy she said was dead. but, you know, after all, my friend, a mother is a mother, and men is men. when they say things of how we was born, you would fought, i hope? me, i hope too. no man likes to hear his mother called of names. and she is his mother. too bad it is--a bad business all around." "but then--why, nels, we know----" "yes, we all know," said jorgens stolidly. "i know and you know, and we all know. and what i know is this:--for twenty years she lives across the street from me, as straight and as good a woman as anyone in this town--each first day of the month right in my hand here she pays the rent, not a month missed in twenty years. i rather rent a house to her as to any business man in this town, and i say she is straight as any woman in this town! no man goes there, not any more now in twenty years. the man who meets her on the public street he takes his hat off--now. her boy--well, he looks citified to me, but at least he can fight. yeh, i vote he was in the right. tomorrow my wife shall take some more eggs to aurora lane in her house; yeh, and coffee." there were two other members of the unpolled jury, and they paused now in the full light which came from the mast at the corner of the public square. judge henderson, wearied by the exertions of the evening, was disposed to ascend the stair to his own office in search of a manner of refreshment which he well knew he would find there. turning in this laudable enterprise he met face to face the city marshal, old man tarbush, who halted him for a moment's speech, drawing him apart to the edge of the sidewalk. "i just thought i'd ask you, judge, since i see you," said tarbush, "whether you think i done right or not." "what do you mean, mr. marshal," inquired the judge, none too happy at being interrupted. "you know how it was. he licked old man adamson again right at the foot of the stair, before the record of his trial was hardly dry on the books. it was unlawful, of course. i didn't arrest him no more, because i seen what had happened in the other trial. you pulled out of that. i didn't want to make no needless expense for the county. but i been sort of uneasy in my mind about it, and i just thought i'd ask you." "exactly, exactly," rejoined judge henderson. "well, now, tarbush, come to think it over, that matter came up for trial, and we concluded the best thing to do was to sort of let things take their course--you see, the young man in all likelihood will leave town very soon. in the conduct of my own affairs i sometimes have seen that it is well enough not to stir things up. leave them alone, and sometimes they will smooth themselves down." "then you wouldn't run him in if you was me?" "no, i think not, i think not. let it go for the time. perhaps there may be further developments, but with such information as i have at hand now, i would be disposed to approve your conduct. there's nothing like letting bygones be bygones in this world--isn't that the truth?" "but now, about the eejit, johnnie," resumed the city marshal once more, reaching out his hand still to detain the other, "i don't know as i done right about him, neither." "what have you done then, tarbush?" "well, i let him go. you see, i don't know but maybe the _habeas chorus_ proceedings would be squashed like the rest. besides, the eejit boy has been raising all kinds of hell down at the jail, raving and shouting and threatening me. about a hour ago or less i concluded to let him loose, so as to get shut of him." "you did let him go? and he was not discharged?" "well, now, what's the difference, judge," said the old man. "we couldn't really get no sleep down there, he was making so much fuss, so i just let him out. he lit out upon the street right thataway, towards home--not so very long ago." judge henderson gazed moodily in the direction to which tarbush pointed. "well," said he, "maybe you did right, and in any case this isn't the time and place to discuss it. my professional hours"--and he turned away and walked slowly up the stairs to his own office, intent upon the purpose already prominent in his mind. the arc light illumined fully the great town clock in the cupola of the courthouse. the hands pointed to a quarter of one, after midnight. the deliberations of the jury of spring valley might have been said to have concluded at the time when aurora lane, her son don, and old hod brooks--the last group of the slow procession--themselves turned the corner and emerged upon the public square. the matter of bringing in the verdict was another affair. chapter viii the extraordinary horace brooks something made aurora lane uneasy. she turned now and extended her hand to the tall man who walked at her side. "good night, mr. brooks," said she. but old hod brooks only put his hands deeper in his pockets and slouched on alongside. "i'll just go on along with you to the gate. it's hot tonight, isn't it? i don't know when we've had such a spell." she could not well dismiss him now, so indeed the three walked yet a while together. don lane still was silent, moody. there was little of the jesuit in his own frank soul. he knew nothing of dissembling, and had no art of putting a good face upon a bad matter. all these complications which so swiftly had come into his life seemed to him only a terrible and overwhelming thing in the total. the morrow was coming for him--nay, it already was at hand, and he knew what that must bring of additional grief. anne! anne! he must tell her. he must leave her. never in all his care-free life had he been so wretched, so miserable, as he was now. moreover, for reasons he could not stifle he did not like the presence of brooks here, even though he and his mother must acknowledge the debt under which he had laid them that day. "i'll tell you, mother," said he after a time, when he had turned off the square into their own street. "just excuse me for a few minutes, won't you? it's so hot and stuffy that i don't feel that i can sleep. i'll just take a little run down the street, if you don't mind." "but why, don?" she inquired. "you see, i've always been used to keeping fit, and i don't like to break my training--we always had to exercise in college, on the teams. i don't feel good when i don't. i'm used to doing my half mile or so every night just before i go to sleep." "huh!" said old hod brooks, looking at the young man appraisingly. "so that's how you keep in training, eh? well, it seems to work all right!" his sudden gusty laughter sounded loud in the night, but it lacked the note of ease. "go on, go on," he added--"as you get older maybe you'll find it takes all your gimp to take care of your mind and your money, and you'll let your body just about take care of itself. but go ahead--i'll just walk on down with your mother." "don't be long, don," said aurora lane; and she meant it, for she felt uneasy at thus being accompanied to her own gate, a thing unknown in her history. she was glad that old nels jorgens, on ahead, had just turned in at his own gate. don lane trotted off slowly, with long elastic stride, up on his toes, with his elbows tucked in and his chin high, filling his lungs as best he might with the hot and lifeless air. the sound of his footfalls passed down the street, and was lost as he turned at the further corner of the square. "good night, now," said aurora lane once more, as she and her companion approached her little gate. but hod brooks did not turn away, although he made no attempt to enter. instead he reached out a large hand impulsively and arrested hers as it would have pulled together the little crippled gate behind her. still she did close the gate--until the sudden impact of his own weight snapped off its last remaining hinge. he picked it up carelessly and set it within the fence, himself leaning against the post, filling the gap, his hands back in his pockets. "aurora," said he, with a strange softness in his voice, "this seems to me almost like providence." "what do you mean?" she said. "i must go----" "please, not yet," said he. "just think--how else could it have been possible for me to talk with you?" "without compromising yourself?" she smiled slowly and bitterly, but did not see the hot blood rise to his face. "that's not right!" said he. "without compromising _you_--that's what i meant. i only meant that there is no place where we well could meet. and i wanted to say something to you, at last--what sometime has got to be said between us." "we both know everything now, so why talk?" said she. "it was fine of you today in the trial. we owe so much--we'll pay when we can." the dull red in his face deepened. "you may stop that, if you please," said he. "it's not right between us. the showdown has come. why not settle up, at last?" she turned, not knowing what to do, unwilling to leave him standing there. "it's been years, aurora. now, listen--i'm going on up in the world myself, at last. i want to take you with me. i didn't want to say anything till the right time. it's been a long, hard pull for me, too, here in this town. it's hard for men like me to talk." "you mustn't talk," said she. "you mustn't say a word--you mustn't be seen here even." he looked at her slowly. "i'm here deliberately," said he. "listen now--i must tell you some things, aurora. i've loved you from the first day i saw you. can't you credit me at least a little? you're splendid--you're beautiful--and you're good." she choked a bit, raised a hand in swift protest. "you're still young, aurora," said he, not paying attention to what she said. "of course i'm older, but there's a lot of time left yet for you and me--a lot of living. you've had mighty little out of life, here by yourself. now i've stood it as long as i can. since the whole truth about the boy has broken out today and can't ever be covered up again, it seemed to me i just had to tell you that you needed me to take care of you--someone more than just yourself. things may go harder for you now. they've been hard enough already. you need help. who more natural to help you than myself, feeling as i have, as i do?" "oh, you _mustn't_ talk that way!" her voice trembled. "you must go on away. i'm not--good----" "you're good enough for me--good as i am, surely--and i want to get into this game with you now. you need me. that means we've got to be married. oh, the boy's fine, yes, but he'll be going away. you need a man--a husband--someone you can depend on, aurora. isn't there anything welcome in that thought for you? aurora, i want to marry you--at once, right away. i say that right now and here." aurora lane looked this way and that, every way. her gaze happened to go down the long vista beneath the maples, to fall upon the face of the town clock on the courthouse. the hour hand with a short jerk moved forward and the deep note of the bell boomed out--it was one o'clock of the night; and all was not well. she turned as she felt the tense grasp of his great knotted hands still upon her own. "you say that--to me----" she managed to say at last. "why, everybody knows--all the town knows----" her voice shook. "i suppose i'll have to leave here now after what's happened. but _you'd_ have to leave if you took up with such as me--even this late, it would ruin you. don't you think of your own prospects? why, i couldn't marry you, no matter how much i loved you." "you don't love me at all?" "how could i?" "that's true," said he simply. "how could you?" "i don't mean that," she corrected herself hastily. "it's just what i said," he rejoined. "this seems providential to me. i can't allow these people to murder you a dozen times a week the way they will do now. you can't make this fight alone any more, aurora--i can't any longer bear to see you try it. it's all out now. it's going to be harder for you after this." she did not make any answer to him at all, but she heard his big voice murmuring on. "i reckon it's love, after all, aurora--i don't know. i don't know much about women. i just feel as though i had to take care of you--i feel as though you ought to depend on me. can't you believe that?" "i ought not to believe that of any man," she broke out. "like enough, like enough," he nodded, "but you've known only one man--that's your full horizon. now, having had so hard a fight in business, i have put marrying to one side. let's not say that we're both young--for we're not. but let's remember what i told you--there's a lot of life left for you and me yet if you'll only say the word. don't you want to make anybody happy?" "oh, you mustn't say that to me!" said aurora lane. "but you would want me to be honest, wouldn't you? you wouldn't want me to lie? somehow, i've never learned to lie very much." "no," said he simply; "no, i reckon not. you never have." "no matter what----" "no matter what." "then tell me, how could i say i loved you now? for twenty years--all my life--i have put that thought away from me. i'm old and cold now. my heart's ashes, that part, can't you understand? and you're a man." "yes," he nodded, "i'm a man. that's so, aurora. but now you're just troubled. you've not had time to think. i've held my secret, too. i've never spoken out to you before. i tell you, you're too good a woman to be lost--that isn't right." "you pity me!" "maybe. but i want to marry you, aurora." "what could i do--what could be done--where would you have any pay in that?" "don't trouble about the pay. how much have the past twenty years paid you?" "little enough," said she bitterly, "little enough. about all they've given me--about all i've got left--is the boy. but i want to play fair." "that's it," said he. "so do i. that's why i tell you you're too good for me, when it comes to that, after all." "why, it would all have to come out--one way or the other. it all _has_ come out, as you say. we couldn't evade that now--it's too late. here's the proof--dieudonné--and i can't deny him." he nodded gravely. she went on: "everyone knows about the boy now--everybody knows he's--got no father. _that's_ my boy. too late now to explain--he's ruined all that by coming here. and yet you ask me to marry you. if i did, one of two things surely would be said, and either of them would make you wretched all your life." he turned to her and looked at her steadily. "they might say i was the father?" she nodded, flushing painfully. "they might guess. and a few might think that after all these years----" "maybe," said he slowly. "but you see, after all, it's only a theoretical hurt i'm taking if i stand between you and these damned harpies here. they're going to torture you, aurora, going to flay and burn you alive. i'd like to do about anything i could for you, anything a man can in such a case as ours. as for sacrifice--why, whatever you think i think of you, i believe we can both call it sure that i want to stand between you and the world. i want to have the _right_ to take care of you. it's what i want to do--must do. i've waited too long. but it's what i always have intended. you'd never let me. i never seemed to get around to it before. but now----" "impossible!" she whispered, white, her great eyes somber. "there is no way. love of man has gone by for me. it knocked once. it has gone by." "wait now, let us go on with the argument just a little further, my dear!" said he gently. "we have argued too long already," she said faintly. "you must go. please go--please don't talk to me. you must not." "i wish i could agree with you," said he, disturbed and frowning, "because i don't want to make you any more unhappy. but listen, it just seemed to me that this was providential--i had to come to you and tell you what i have told you tonight. why, widows remarry--time and again widows marry." "yes, _widows_!" he could barely hear the sob which she stifled in her throat. "well, then," said he, "how about you and me? i don't think it's a fair argument, but i ought to point out to you that perhaps i've got a chance in the world. they wanted me, for instance, to make the run for the senatorship--against judge henderson. today i agreed with him not to accept the candidacy. in return he agreed to drop that case against don. well, you've traded me out of the united states senate, aurora. but i made that trade--for you and the boy." she looked up at him in sudden astonishment. she could not evade the feeling of shelter in his great presence as he stood there, speaking calmly, absolutely in hand, a grotesque and yet a great soul--yes, a great soul as it seemed to her, so used to littler souls. after all, she never really had known this man. sacrifice? had he not given freely, as a sacrifice, the greatest gift a man has--his hope for power and preferment? and he spoke of it as though it were a little thing. aurora lane was large enough to know a large act, belittled though it were by the doer of the deed. "you see," he began, "we're old enough perhaps to talk plainly, plainer than young folks can--mostly i presume they don't talk at all--but i may talk plainly?" "oh, yes," said she, sighing. "i suppose we've made that certain." "now, now, don't say that--nothing of the sort, my dear. your past is out of this question altogether. you're a _widow_, that's all. your unknown husband is dead--he is unknown, but he is dead. that's the record, and accepted here. and isn't that our solution--the only one in all the world possible for us?" she did not answer at all. "the boy and i--i reckon the two of us could keep most of the people in this town or in this world attending to their own business, and not bothering about ours. don't you believe that, aurora? we've made a start--a sort of preliminary demonstration already." but still she did not answer, and, agonized now, he went on: "i'm a plain man, aurora, pretty ignorant, i expect. i didn't come from anywhere--there's no family much back of me--i have had really very little schooling, and i've had to fight my own way. i can't play bridge--i don't know one card from another. i don't dance--there's no human being could ever teach a dance step to me. i've never been in society, because i don't belong there. but, as i said, i've got some standards of a man and some feelings of a man. i love you a lot more than you can tell from what i've said, or what i've done. it'll be a great deal more to you than you can believe now. i'll do a great deal more for you than you can realize. i'll give you at last--later than i ought to have done it--something you've never had--your _life_--your _chance_ in the world--your chance at real love and real affection and real loyalty. you've never had that, aurora. i couldn't offer it, for i had my own secret to keep, and my own fight to make. but love and loyalty--they'd be sweet, wouldn't they?" she bent her head down upon her hands, which lay folded at the top of the pickets of the little fence. "sweet--sweet--yes, yes!" he heard her murmur. "well, then, why not end the argument?" he said. "why, i've seen you here, all these years. i know every hair of your head. i have come really to love you, all of you, as a man ought to love his wife. i can't resist it--it's an awful thing. i don't think i'll forget--it's too late in life for me to begin over again, it's you or nothing for me. there's never been any other woman for me--and that ought at least to speak for me. there's been no other man for you. so why not end it? the world's been cruel enough for you as it is. i'll not say it hasn't been cruel to me, too. i've sat tight and eaten my heart. i've had to fight, too. but don't i understand you, your fight, what it means to buck a game where all the cards are stacked? don't i know?" "it has been cruel, yes," said she at length, finding herself able to speak, "but it seems it has not been quite so cruel as it could be until--until now." "why, what do you mean? am i cruel? why?" "you said--you said something about my being a widow." he nodded. "yes. i pick you up now--it's as though i find you new--i know you now at a later stage altogether in your life. you've grown. i see you as new and fresh as though you were just risen from the sea.... and all the past is nothing to me." "you must not talk," said she, "because it only is to make us both the more unhappy. you are quixotic enough, or great enough--i don't know which--i can't tell which it is--to say you'd take the shame on your own shoulders in order to take it off of mine! you can't mean that! no! no! one life ruined is enough--you've ruined yours enough now, today, by what you've done for don and me." he seemed not to hear her. "i've watched you all these years, and you've lived like a recluse, like a widow. i can't reproach you. god! which of us may first cast a stone?" aurora lane turned to him now a brave face, the same brave face she had turned to the world all these years. "oh," said she, "if only i had learned to lie! maybe some women could lie to you. and women get so tired--so awfully tired sometimes--i couldn't blame them. i might marry you, yes--i believe i could. but i would never lie to you--i won't lie to you now." "what are you going to say to me, aurie?" "what i'm going to say to all the world! i've never been married to anyone and can't be now. it would be more horrible to me than--that other. it's too late. it--it means too much to me--marriage--marriage--marriage! don't--don't--you mustn't say some things to a woman. oh, if all this had happened twenty years ago, when i was young, i might have been weak enough to listen to what you say. i was weak and frightened then--i didn't know how i'd ever get on--all life was a terror to me. but that was twenty years ago. i've made my fight now, and i've learned that after a fashion at least i could get on--i did--i have. i can go on through alone the rest of the way, and it's right that i should. that's what i'm going to do!" she saw the great hand clutch the more tightly on two picket tops. they broke under the closing grip of his great hand. "that's right hard," said he simply. "we can't be married now? but--tell me, can't i help you?" "oh, no, no, don't--don't talk of that!" she said. she was weeping now. "don't try to help me," she sobbed bitterly. "you can't help me--nobody can help me--there's no help in the world--not even god can help me! you've been cruel--all the world has been nothing but cruel to me all my life. i've nothing to hope--there's nothing that can help me, nothing. i'm one of the lost, that's all. until today, i'd hoped. i never will hope again." now she felt the great hand closing once more on top of hers above the broken pickets. "listen, aurora," said he, "if it doesn't seem that you and i can be married, there's nothing in the world which makes it wrong for me to help you all i can--you mustn't think i didn't love you. you don't think that, do you?" "i don't know what i think!" said she, rubbing at the ceaseless tears, so new to her. "all these matters have been out of my life--forever, as i thought. but sometimes--i've been so lonesome, you know, and so helpless--i'm tempted. it's hard for a woman to live all alone--it's almost a thing impossible--she's so lonesome--sometimes i almost think i could depend on you, even now." "that's fine!" said he, choking up; "that's fine. i expect that's about all i had coming to me after all. so i oughtn't to be sorry--i ought to be very happy. that's about the finest thing i ever heard in all my life." "and about the sweetest words i ever heard in all my life were what you said just now--after knowing all you do about me." "but you won't tell me that you'll marry me now?" he bent and picked up her hand in both his great ones. "i know you will not." he kissed her hand reverently. "good night," said he gently. and presently she was sensible that his shambling figure was passing away down the street under the checkered shadows of the maples. aurora lane stood yet for just a moment, how long she did not know. there came to her ear the sound of running footsteps. her boy came down the street, passing horace brooks with a wave of his hand. he reached her side now as she still stood at the gate. he was panting, perspiring a trifle. "fine!" said he. "let's go in. maybe i can sleep--i'd like to sleep." "what kept you so late?" asked aurora lane. she hurried in ahead of him. chapter ix the other woman concerned the sultry night at last was broken by a breathless dawn, the sun rising a red ball over the farm lands beyond the massed maple trees of the town. not much refreshed by the attempt at sleep in the stuffy little rooms, don and his mother met once more in the little kitchen dining-room where she had prepared the simple breakfast. he did not know, as he picked at the crisp bacon strips, that bacon, or even eggs, made an unusual breakfast in his mother's household. he trifled with his cereal and his coffee, happily too considerate to mention the lack of butter and cream, but grumblingly sensible all the time that the bread was no longer fresh. he was living in a new world, the world of the very poor. his time had not yet been sufficient therein to give him much understanding. he looked about him at the scantily furnished rooms, and in spite of himself there rose before his mind pictures he had known these last few years--wide green parks, with oaks and elms, stately buildings draped with ivy, flowers about, and everywhere the air of quiet ease. he recalled the fellowship of fresh-cheeked roistering youths like himself, full of the zest of life, youth well-clad, with the stamp of having known the good things of life; young women well-clad, well-appointed, also. books, art, the touch of the wide world of thought, the quiet, the comfort, the beauty, the physical well-being of everything about him--these had been a daily experience for him for years. he unthinkingly had supposed that all life, all the world, must continue much like this. he had supposed, had he given it any thought at all, that the last meager bill in his pockets when he started home would in some magic way always remain unneeded, always unspent. he had opportunity waiting for him in his profession, and he knew he would get on. never before in all his life had he known the widow's cruse. so this was life, then--this little room, this tawdry, sullen town, this hot and lifeless air, this hopelessly banal and uninteresting place that had been his mother's home all these years--this was his beginning of actual life! the first lesson he had had yesterday; the next, yet more bitter, he must have today. the uninviting little kitchen seemed to him the center of a drab and dismal world, in which could never be aught of happiness for him or his. "it's not much, don," said his mother, smiling bravely as her eyes noted his abstraction. "i live so simply--i'm afraid a big man like you won't get enough to eat with me." she did not mention her special preparations for his arrival. he did not know that the half-dozen new serviettes had been bought for his coming. he did not know that a new chair also had been purchased, and that he himself was sitting in it at that very time. in short, he knew nothing of the many sacrifices needful even for these inexpensive things about him. he did not know that marvel of the widow's cruse, filled against dire need by the hand of merciful providence. "it's all right, mother," said he, toying with his fork; "fine, fine." "coffee strong enough, don?" she looked at him anxiously. usually she made it weak for herself. "oh, they never let us have it at all when we're training, mother," said he, "and not strong at any time. i know the simple life." he smiled as best he might. "i have lived it here, too, don," said she slowly, "because i couldn't well help it. i don't suppose anybody likes it when it's too simple. i like things nice, so much. i've always longed to travel. you know, don, i hear of people going over to europe, and i'm guilty of the sin of envy. i live right here in this little place all the time--i've done so all my life. i've scarcely been out of this town in twenty years. if i could see pictures--if i could go to see the great actors--if i could see a real theater--just once, don--you don't know how happy i'd be. and i'm sure there must be more beautiful countries than this. still"--and here she sighed--"miss julia and i have lived quite a life together--in the books, the magazines--pictures too, sometimes." he looked at her dumbly now, trying to understand the steady heroism of a life such as hers. the real character of his own mother never yet fully had impressed itself upon him. don lane was a college graduate, but now for the first time in his life he was beginning to think. "one thing," she added, "i'd never do. i'd never pretend to be what i was not--i didn't ever pretend to have what i didn't have. you see me, don, and my life, pretty much as we are." "and all this has been for me?" "yes," simply. "but although we grew up apart, i don't think i could endure it if i thought we really were to part--if you would leave me now. "i was half hoping," she went on musingly, "that you could find it in your heart to stay here in this town." he shook his head. "impossible! that's one thing you really mustn't ask of me." "yes, i feared you would think of it in that way! but, as for me, this is my place--i've made my bed here, and i must lie in it. i know the people of this town--i know what they'll all do to me now. you see, you don't know these things yet." "no," said he, "but you and miss julia both will be paid back--the money part of it--some time. as for me, i'm not going to have any home." she sat silent for quite a time, the meager breakfast now being ended for both. "oh, can't you forget her, don? can't you give her up?" she said finally. "i can't forget her, mother, but i'll have to give her up. it all happened there on the car--just at once--in public." "i'm glad you never kissed her, don," said she. "you're both so young." she shook her head slowly as she went on. "love has to be loved in any case. that means--i suppose it means--that for the very young, if it be not one, it may later be another." he only smiled bitterly at this. "it all comes to the same thing in any case," said he. "i'll have to tell her what i know, and we'll have to part. it would be the same with any other woman, if there could be any other. there can't be." "i've been frank with you, don, and i don't know whether to be glad or sorry for that. i'd love nothing so much in the world as to see you happily married--but nothing in the world could so much hurt me as to see you marry anne oglesby." "no fear of it!" "you'll tell her?" "yes. today." chapter x the murder once more the strident call of the telephone broke in, and aurora lane stepped aside. "it's miss julia," said she excitedly, turning upon her son eyes suddenly grown large. "why, it's something awful! don--a terrible thing has happened--last night." "what's wrong--what's happened?" he demanded. "mr. tarbush--the city marshal--why, you know--he was killed--murdered--last night--found this morning! it was about one o'clock, as near as they can tell, miss julia says. it's all over town." an exclamation left the young man's lips. "what's that? murdered?" "yes, yes--wait----" she spoke on into the telephone. "yes, julia, don and i were just at breakfast--no, we've not been on the street yet--one o'clock, you said? that was when we were just coming home from the library!" "mother," said don, "that's right! it must have been just about one o'clock, wasn't it?" she looked at him steadily for a time, as she dropped the receiver, her own face a trifle pale. "yes--we hadn't gone to sleep at the time it happened. he was killed right in front of his own house, miss julia says." "and where is that?--you see, i don't know much about the town." "beyond the square, about three blocks from the farther corner--the little house with the low fence in front, and the deep front yard." "we didn't pass that when we came up from the station?" "no, we came another street. but, don----" "yes?" "when you were running last night, you must have passed right close to there! you didn't see anything strange?" "of course not! i'd have looked into it. i don't recall that particular house. "well," he added, after a moment's silence, "in spite of all that happened yesterday between him and us, i'm not going to call him anything but a good man--now." she looked at him strangely--studied his face steadily. "i'll be going out now, i think--i'm going to run over to see julia for a time. please don't go out on the street, don. stay right here. we got into trouble enough yesterday." "you needn't fear," said he. "there's nothing and nobody in this town i want to see. i'll be glad when i shake the dust of it off my feet--when i once get squared away in my own business you shall leave this place and live with me." and then, as there came to him again and again the anticipated pain of parting with the one he himself loved, he came up to his mother and put his arms once more upon her shoulders. again her hands found his hair. she cast a quick glance about her, as though in his defense. "don," said she, "i think i'll never get over thinking of you as just a boy, a little boy." he tried to smile. "pity you didn't drown me in the pool yonder," said he. it was the most cruel thing he could have found to say, although he spoke only in his own bitterness, careless, as a man so often is, of a woman's hurts. but she left him without comment; and soon he had resumed his own restless walking up and down in the narrow quarters which seemed to him such a prison. meantime all spring valley was afoot and agog over this news. it was the most sensational thing that had happened, as aaron craybill said, since ben wilson's wife went crazy out on the farm, come four years ago, and killed her four babies, and hid in the haystack until they found her three days later, and sent her to the asylum. and so forth, and so forth. all the good folk met in groups at home or in the streets, so that within an hour after breakfast there was not a soul in all spring valley did not know that the town marshal had just been killed by some unknown person for some unknown reason. the news seemed dulling, stupefying. the clerks who opened the drug stores around the public square, the only shops open of the sunday, were slow in their sweeping out that morning. pedestrians on the streets walked slowly. the entire life of the town seemed slow. the sluggish, arresting solemnity of death sat upon all the little community. spring valley had no daily newspaper, and even the weekly _clarion_, a production of some six pages, had its trials in making a living there, so close was the village to larger towns which reached out and covered most of its commercial needs in this time of telegraph and trolley. the editor of the _clarion_ was, naturally, the correspondent of the largest daily of the near-by metropolis. twice in all his life he had had opportunity for a first page story in the great city daily. his first metropolitan opportunity was when the aforementioned farmer's wife had killed her children, some four years ago. and now here was something quite as big. editor anderson sat at his own breakfast table for more than half an hour pondering on the opening sentence which he was going to write in his dispatch to the morning daily. by eleven-thirty he had written his story, and had taken it down to the station agent for transmission by wire; and that worthy told him that as soon as number five got by he would begin to send the message. "i can't stop for anything so long as that now," said he. it was somewhat longer as written than as printed, but mr. anderson described the murder of the city marshal in the following terms: the progressive little city of spring valley, jackson county, this state, was electrified this morning by the startling news of the murder of the well-known city marshal, mr. joel tarbush, a man of sterling qualities, who has held the office for many years, and who had endeared himself in the hearts of the community not only for his discharge of his official duties, but for his kindliness of heart. the funeral will occur tomorrow afternoon at half-past three. reverend william d. rawlins will give the funeral address. the city of spring valley is all excitement at this writing. no trace of the cowardly assassin has yet been found, and the entire affair remains shrouded in the deepest mystery, which not even the keenest intellects have been able to penetrate. there is no one who can ascribe a motive sufficient to inspire the murder of so respected and harmless a citizen. some have ascribed the fiendish act to some hobo or tramp who may have taken revenge on the marshal for some real or fancied injury in the past. but no one can recall any instance in which the deceased has ever incurred the enmity of any such characters, so that all remain at a loss how to account for this act. there seems to have been no eyewitness, and therefore all is but mere conjecture. your reporter was among the first at the premises early this morning, and thus gained all the information that can be secured at this writing. he has interviewed miss audrey tarbush, daughter of the deceased, who had for many years kept house for him in their residence on mulberry street, about five blocks from the courthouse, where the deceased had a small garden and raised vegetables and flowers which he sold in the best families of our flourishing city. miss audrey tarbush, when interviewed by our reporter, said that she had last night, according to her usual custom, retired at the hour of half-past nine. she did not attend the exercises at the city library, where most of the elite of the town were present last night, because of a headache from which she suffered. she left the front door unlocked, as was her custom, for the entry of her father when he had finished the duties of his day's work. usually, marshal tarbush came home at about ten o'clock, and himself then retired. on this night, by reason of certain extraordinary occurrences during the preceding day, he thought it wise to remain out later than usual. this was in accordance with his well-known courage and his conscientious endeavor to protect the residents of the city against any possible danger. it was about a quarter after one o'clock, as near as miss audrey tarbush can recall, that she was awakened by the sound of footfalls on the front porch. she called out, "who's there?" but got no answer. as she went to the door her father succeeded in opening it and staggered in. he sank down into a chair near the center table. she saw then that he was very pale, and had a wound upon his head from which blood was still flowing. much alarmed, she inquired of him what had occurred. the deceased was unable to answer. he seemed to be approaching a sort of coma. "who was it? who did it?" miss audrey tarbush demanded of him. it was a dramatic situation. the deceased was unable to make an intelligent reply. "someone hit me," he muttered. that was all he could manage to say, and that was all she could catch of his last words. before long his head sank forward and he breathed his last almost in her arms. unassisted she was able to carry the body of her father to the near-by sofa. at that late hour the telephone operator had gone home, so she was unable to call any of the neighbors by means of the telephone. she does not recall how long she was alone with the dead body of her esteemed parent, but after a time her cries from the front porch were heard. the neighbors came to her assistance, but nothing could be done. examination of the remains of the deceased revealed a long and ragged wound over the upper and left-hand part of the head, breaking the cuticle for a distance of some four or five inches. the marshal's hat had been on when he was struck. the skull was broken for a distance of more than two inches, according to the examination of dr. amos n. beals, who examined the body, the left parietal bone being crushed in as by some heavy instrument. your reporter deduces the following theory of the crime. at a late hour, after city marshal tarbush had finished his duties in the public square, he went towards his home, the public meeting at the library having by this time been dismissed. at a distance of perhaps fifty feet west of the front gate of his own home the deceased was approached by some miscreant, who with some heavy blunt instrument struck him down from behind, and who then made his escape, leaving no sign behind him. no club or weapon of any kind was found. after receiving his death blow this estimable citizen seems to have walked, steadying himself against the top rail of the fence, until he reached the gate. the bloody finger prints upon the top of the fence were no doubt made by his own fingers, which he must have raised up to his head. he was able to enter his own gate, come up his own walk, and ascend his own front steps. up to that time no one can tell the story. what ensued after that has been told by your reporter in the interview with miss audrey tarbush, his loving daughter. so ended a long and honorable life. the pallbearers will be chosen from leading citizens of the town, but their names have not yet been determined. he will be buried by the knights templar, to which order he belonged, probably on sunday afternoon, because, although such haste may appear unseemly, this early funeral will allow a representative attendance of all the members of the order, including practically all our leading citizens, with their full music, so that the concluding exercises may thus show a greater tribute of respect, the attendance at any later day being sure to be far less general. your reporter has interviewed prominent citizens as to the cause of this crime which has so shocked our community. when approached by your reporter, judge william henderson, well-known candidate for the united states senatorship, former member of the republic state central committee and prominent citizen in this state, said, "i cannot hazard even a guess at the perpetrator of this ghastly crime which has so shocked our community." the story written by mr. anderson ended at this point. as printed it ended considerably in advance of this point; but at least, as he later told his wife, he had done his best to give his paper a good story. by the time his message was waiting in the hands of the station agent, telephone wires were busy between spring valley and other larger towns. the early afternoon papers in columbus were on the streets by eleven-thirty with big headlines, and a few lines of type about the murder of "county sheriff abel tarbush of spring valley, jackson county, for which murder four tramps had been suspected and placed in jail." the deceased was described as a prominent mason. by that time the star reporters of the morning dailies were on the through train, number five, bound east from columbus to spring valley, as many learned by telephone; so that the arrival of number five this day would be a matter of special importance. of exact details in all these matters, don lane knew but little. it was for reasons of his own, easily obvious, that he went down to the little station to meet the through train from the west. anne oglesby was coming! his mother did not accompany him, of course, and he therefore was quite alone. of all those whom he encountered hurrying in the same direction, all those who packed the little platform and who stood here and there in groups speaking solemnly one with the other, he could count not a friend, not an acquaintance. dully he felt that here and there an eye was turned upon him, that here and there a word was spoken about him. he dismissed it as part of the aftermath of his own troubles of the previous day. he walked nervously up and down, impatiently looking westward down the line of rails, his own contemptuous hatred for all these lost in the greater emotion that filled his heart. anne was coming--she was almost here! and he must say good-by. meantime, in the courthouse, there was going forward due action on the part of the officers of the law intrusted with the solution of such mysteries as this murder. the sheriff, a large and solid man, dan cowles by name, was one of the first to inspect the premises where the crime had been committed. shortly after that he went over to the office of blackman, justice of the peace and coroner, who by ten o'clock that morning had summoned his jury of six men--nels jorgens, the blacksmith; mr. rawlins, the minister of the church of christ; ben mcquaid, the traveling man; newman, the clothing merchant; j. b. saunders, the knight templar; jerome westbrook, clerk in the first national bank. it chanced that the county prosecutor, a young man by the name of slattery, was out of town at this time, so that the executive side of the law for a moment hesitated. the sheriff therefore called up judge henderson and asked his presence at the courthouse for a consultation. the two were closeted for some time in the sheriff's office. at this time the deliberations of the coroner's jury would have been well advanced; therefore, sheriff cowles took up the telephone and called up coroner blackman at the tarbush residence, just as the latter was upon the point of calling for a verdict of the jury in the accustomed words, "murder at the hands of party or parties unknown." "wait, mr. coroner!" said sheriff cowles. "there's going to be some more witnesses. keep your jury together." a few moments later the long shrieking whistle of number five was heard as she came up out of the paw paw creek bottoms, climbing the hill at the brick yards, and swung around the curve through south spring valley into the stretch of straight track leading down to the station. as the grinding brakes brought the heavy train finally to a standstill, three or four young men swung down from the day coaches--reporters from outside towns. don lane elbowed his way to the edge of the platform. his eye was searching eagerly along the train exits for someone else--someone else whom he longed and yet dreaded to see. chapter xi in the name of the law don's moody face suddenly lighted up. a young woman was stepping down from one of the cars at the farther end of the train, the porter assisting her to the footstool. now she was coming steadily along the edge of the platform, carrying in one hand a trim little bag, in the other a trim little umbrella. now she was looking about, expectant. it was she--anne! his heart leaped out to her, his love rose surgingly at sight of her, sweet and beautiful as she seemed, and all so fit for love of man. a tall young girl she was, who walked with head well up and the suggestion of tennis about her--an indefinable something of chic also about her, as indicative of physical well-being as that suggested by some of the young faces on the magazine covers of the day; which would explain why in her college anne oglesby always was known as "the magazine girl." she had straightforward gray eyes, a fine mouth of much sweetness. above her forehead rose a deep and narrow ruff of dense brown hair, golden brown. trim, yet well-appointed, she was one of those types whom unhesitatingly we class as aristocrats. a young woman fit for any higher class, qualified for any rank, she seemed--and a creature utterly apart from the crowd that now jostled her on the narrow platform. her eyes, too, lighted up at sight of the young man who now hurried forward to meet her, but no unseemly agitation marked her own personal conduct in public. demure, clean, cool and sweet, all in hand, she did not hasten nor hold back. dieudonné lane had told his mother that never yet had he kissed anne oglesby. now, at sight of her and at the thought that almost at once they must part forever, a great rebellion rose in his heart. he stepped forward swiftly, impulsively, irresistibly. he caught her quickly in his arms before all the crowd and kissed her--once. it was his great salutation to love--a salutation of great longing--a salutation which meant farewell. she gasped, flushed rosy red, but walked straight along with him as he caught the bag from her hands. she looked up at him, astonished, yet not wholly resentful. it was no place for speech on the part of either. the dust of the street seemed naught to him or her, and as for this curious crowd, they did not chill nor offend--anne oglesby suddenly wished to take all the world into her arms and greet it. anne oglesby at that moment loved--the touch of this man's lips on hers had wrought the irrevocable, immortal, awful change. they had not yet spoken a word, these two, at the time he left her to call some vehicle for her use. he turned and looked directly into the face of dan cowles, sheriff, a man whom he had never seen before, but who now reached out and laid a hand upon his shoulder. cowles had that instant reached the station platform. don would have passed, but the sheriff spoke: "i want you. come with me." the tempestuous blood of the young man flamed at this, but now, as he looked into the solemn face before him, he found something to give him pause. "what's up?" he demanded. "who are you?" "i'm the sheriff of this county," said cowles. "come with me." "what do you want?" again demanded don. "i'm with this young lady." "that's no difference," said cowles. "it must be about the tarbush matter," said dewdonny lane. "i'll testify, but i know nothing of that. i'll come on over directly. this young lady is going to judge henderson's." the sheriff looked at the young girl curiously. the crowd now had surged about them. like so many cattle at the smell of blood, a strange low sound, animal-like, a sort of moan of curiosity, seemed to rise. wide-eyed, the girl turned. "what is it, don?" she exclaimed. "what has happened? the tarbush case--what do you mean?" "i'm going to take him to the coroner's hearing, miss," said the sheriff in a low tone of voice. "why, you see, anne," began don, "the city marshal of this town was killed last night. i suppose the coroner is looking into it. it's a terrible thing--the town's all upset--haven't you heard anything of it?" "why, no. i left home before any of our papers came out. how did it happen?" don felt the sheriff again touch his arm. "step into my car," said he, "both of you--you get on the front seat with me." a moment later they were whirling off up the dusty street toward the central part of the town. the crowd, breaking into little groups, came hurrying on along the sidewalks, some even falling into a run in the middle of the street. "well, he got him!" said one citizen to another. "quick work for the sher'ff, wasn't it? a little more and that fellow would 'a' got off on that train, like enough. that's what he was down here for. i seen him lookin' for the train." "yes, and that young fellow had a dangerous look on him, too," said another. "he's _bad_, that's what he is! look how he showed it yesterday--right after court, too." each had this or that comment to make, but all followed on now toward the scenes where the further action in the drama of the day must now ensue. cowles pulled up on the side of the square on which judge henderson had his office. "you may get out here, miss," said he. "i think you'll find the judge in right now." "but why--what's the reason----" she began, much perturbed, and looking at don. "what's wrong, don? aren't you coming?" "yes, mr. sheriff," said don, "let me go up with her. i'll be right on over." the big man looked at the two, a sort of pity in his face. "i'm sorry," said he, "but you'll have to come with me right away. tell me, are you miss oglesby, his kin from over columbus way?" "yes, yes," said she. "i've been here before. but tell me, what does this mean--this murder? it's an awful thing, isn't it? it seems to me i remember the marshal's name--maybe i've seen him. who did it--whom do they suspect?" "that's what we don't know for sure," said the sheriff, "and it's what we've got to find out." "why, who would ever have thought it of this little town!" "things happen in this little town, i reckon, about the same as they do anywhere," said the sheriff. "don----" she turned to him once more as she stood on the pavement, he still remaining on the front seat of the car where the sheriff's hand restrained him. "why, don----" but the sheriff's solemn face was turned towards her. he shook his head. an instant and the car had whirled away from the curb. they had parted, almost before they had met! to dieudonné lane, ignorant as he was of the cause of all this, it seemed that the final parting of all had come, and, bitterly he reflected, they had had no chance--no chance whatever--for what was due them from their love, their life itself. anne oglesby, the kiss of her lover's lips still sweet and trembling upon her mouth, her own mind confused, her own heart disturbed, turned towards the dusty stair, all her senses in a whirl. and within five minutes don lane, very pale and much distressed, was in the front part of the little home of joel tarbush. the officer had brought him before justice blackman, the coroner, and the coroner's jury, six solemn-faced men who sat now in the front parlor which had no other occupants save the red-eyed daughter of the dead man, and save the long and shrouded figure which lay upon the couch near by. don lane could not misread the hostility of the gaze turned upon him by most of these whom now he saw. something suddenly caught at his heart--his first feeling of fear, of uncertainty; but even this was mingled with a rage at fate, which could be so cruelly unjust to him. and always, in spite of himself, he felt his eyes turning to look, awed, terrified, upon the long thing which lay upon the couch. and always the eyes of these six men saw what he did, saw what he saw. "this is dewdonny lane," said the sheriff briefly, and himself sat down to await the progress of events. the formalities were few. "you may be sworn," said the coroner to him--"it's just as well." then the oath administered, blackman began the regular questions, and don answered steadily. "my name is dieudonné lane. i am twenty-two years of age. i have no residence as yet. i am a graduate in engineering. i'm going to wyoming some time this month to take up my work there." there was a little silence in the room, and then the coroner began again: "where were you just now?" he asked. "we sent for you at your home." "i was at the station--i went to meet a friend." "what friend was it?" don lane flushed red. "what difference is it? oh, if i must answer, it was miss anne oglesby, of columbus. i went down to the train to meet her." sheriff cowles nodded. "that's true," said he. "i took her up to judge henderson's office myself." "what relations have you with this young lady?" asked blackman. "that's not the business of anyone," said don lane hotly. "do you want counsel to protect you now?" "no, why should i? i am perfectly willing to tell all i know about the case, and that's all i can do. there's no lawyer i'd send for anyhow." "where were you last night at about midnight?" "i was at the library meeting with my mother." "when did you leave there?" "it must have been midnight or later--oh, yes, i remember seeing the town clock as we passed through the square. that was just before one o'clock--perhaps ten or fifteen minutes. we were out late--every one was." "who was with you when you were going home?" "my mother, and for a time mr. rawlins here--one of you gentlemen of the jury. he will know. just as we left the library we were joined by mr. horace brooks." "where did you go?" "we three walked on together. it was at the second corner of the square, where mulberry street turns off, that mr. brooks left me." nels jorgens, one of the jury, now spoke up. "that's true," said he. "i saw the three of them walking along the front of the square, and saw them turn in at mulberry street. across from where i live i saw two people at the gate. it was a man--a tall man--and her--aurora lane." "you yourself were not at the gate then?" "no," said don, "i had left just at the corner of the square." "why did you leave them?" "well, i wanted to have a little run before i went to bed. i'm used to taking exercise every night--i always did at college, to keep up my training." "where did you go when you were running?" "i may be mistaken in the directions, but it was across the square, opposite from mulberry street. i turned to the right. i must have run perhaps four or five blocks, i don't know just how far it was. it was quite warm." "did you come into this street?" "i don't really know." "you didn't see anybody?" "not a soul. i didn't hear a sound." "what time was that?" "i heard the clock strike one before i turned back." "gentlemen of the jury," said the coroner, "it was just about that time that joel tarbush was killed, right here." "that's true," said don lane. "it's terrible to think of--but why----" "you heard judge henderson's testimony, gentlemen," went on the coroner. "he told of seeing these three people pass by on the square in front of his office stair. just before that he had said good night to tarbush himself. he saw tarbush start right over this way for his home. now, just in time to catch him before he got into his home--if a man was running fast--a man _did_ run from the square over in this direction!" the members of the jury remained silent. their faces were extremely grave. "and, gentlemen, you have heard the testimony of other witnesses here before now, stating that this witness was heard to make threats to tarbush yesterday afternoon, right after he was dismissed from my own court upstairs. mr. jorgens, i believe you were there. what did this young man say after he had for the second time assaulted ephraim adamson--twice in one day, and entirely regardless of the rebuke of the law?" "he said, mr. coroner," replied nels jorgens gravely, even with sadness in his face, "just when he came out of the crowd where he had left adamson laying on the ground already--he said to tarbush, 'you'll come next'--or i'll get you next'--something of that kind." "was he angry at that time?" "yes, mr. coroner, he was," said nels jorgens, against his will. ben mcquaid leaned over to whisper to jerome westbrook. "it seems like this young fellow comes in here with his college education and undertakes to run this whole town. pretty coarse work, it looks like to me." jerome westbrook nodded slowly. he recalled sally lester's look. of all the six faces turned toward him from the scattered little group of the coroner's jury, not more than two showed the least compassion or sympathy. don lane's hot temper smarted under the renewed sense of the injustice which had assailed him yet again. "what's the game?" he demanded. "why am i brought here? what's the matter with you people? do you mean to charge me with killing this man? what have i done to any of you? damn your town, anyhow--the rotten, lying, hypocritical lot of you all!" "the less you say the better," said the coroner; and the sheriff's steady gaze cautioned don lane yet more. "now, gentlemen," went on blackman, "we have heard a number of witnesses here, and we have not found any man here that could bring forward any sight or sound of any suspicious character in this town. there hasn't been a tramp or outsider seen here, unless we except this young man now testifying here. the man on whose body we now are a-setting hadn't a enemy in this town, so far as has been shown here--no, nor so far as anyone of us knows. there has been no motive proved up here which would lead us to suspect anyone else of this crime." ben mcquaid once more leaned over to whisper to his seat-mate: "it's a likely thing a man would be running for his health, a night like last night, when he didn't have to! ain't that the truth?" the coroner rapped with his pencil on the table top. he was well filled with the sense of his own importance. in his mind he was procureur-general for spring valley. and in his mind still rankled the thought of the fiasco in his courtroom but the day before, in which he had made so small a figure. "i want to ask you, mr. cowles," he said, turning to the sheriff, "if you ever have seen this young man before." "only once," said the sheriff, standing up. "last night or this morning, just after the clock had struck one--say, two or three minutes or so after one o'clock--i was going out of my office and going over to the east side of the square. i met this young man then. as he says, he was running--that is, he was coming back from this direction, and running toward the southeast corner of the square, the direction of his own home." "was he in a hurry--did he seem excited?" "he was panting a little bit. he was running. he didn't seem to see me." "oh, yes, i did," said don. "i remember you perfectly--that is, i remember perfectly passing some man in the half darkness under the trees as i came along that side of the square. as i said, it was warm." "now, gentlemen, we have thought it over for a long time," said the coroner, after a solemn pause. "we must bring in our verdict before long. it must either be 'party or parties unknown,' or we must hold someone we do suspect. "we have had no one here that we could suspect until now. take this young man--he is practically a stranger. he proves himself to be of violent and ungovernable temper. allowed to go once from the justice of the law, he forgets that and goes violent again. he assaults a second time one of our citizens, mr. adamson. he resists arrest once by a officer of the law, and in the same afternoon he threatens that officer. he says, 'i'll get you.' "this young man is seen just before one o'clock running over in this direction. just a little ahead of him the victim of this crime was seen walking. he was killed, as his daughter testifies, somewhere just about one o'clock--it was at that time that he staggered into the house here. "just after one o'clock this young man is seen running--one of the hottest nights we have had this summer--running away from the scene of the crime, and toward his own home. "i don't want to lead your own convictions in any way. i am willing to say, however, that if we have not found a man to hold for this crime, then we ain't apt to find him!" "but, gentlemen, you don't mean"--poor don began, his face pale for the first time, a sudden terror in his soul--"you _can't_ mean that _i_ did this!" but he gazed into the faces of six men, upon whom rested the duty of vengeance for the wrong done to the society which they represented. of these six all but two were openly hostile to him, and those two were sad. rawlins, minister of the church of christ; nels jorgens, the blacksmith--they two were sad. but they two also were citizens. "this witness," went on coroner blackman, "has in a way both abused us and defied us. he said he was not on trial. that is true. we can't try him. all we can do is to hold any man on whom a reas'nable suspicion of this crime may be fixed. we could hold several suspects here, if there was that many. all we do is to pass the whole question on to the grand jury when it meets here. that's tomorrow morning. before the grand jury any man accused can have his own counsel and the case can be taken up more conclusive. so the question for us now is, shall we call it 'party or parties unknown,' or shall we----" don lane dropped into a seat, his face in his hands, in his heart the bitter cry that all the world and all the powers of justice governing the world had now utterly forsaken him. the sheriff rose, and taking him by the arm, led him into another room. in ten minutes a half-dozen reporters, trooping up from the train and waiting impatiently at the outer door, knew the nature of the verdict: "we the jury sitting upon the body of joel tarbush, deceased by violence, find that deceased came to his death by a blow from a blunt instrument held in the hands of dieudonné lane." chapter xii anne oglesby judge william henderson was sitting alone in the front room of his cool and spacious office, before him his long table with its clean glass top, so different from the work-bench of the average country lawyer. everything about him was modern and perfect in his office equipment, for the judge had reached the period in his development in which he brought in most of his own personal ideas from an outer and a wider world--that same world which now occupied him as a field proper for one of his ambitions. as he sat he was a not unpleasing figure of middle-aged success. his gray hair was swept back smoothly from his temples; his red cheeks, fresh reaped, bore the tinge of health. the large white hand before him on the glass-topped table betokened prosperity and success in every faint and fat-hid line. judge henderson now was absorbed in the contemplation of a bit of paper which lay in his hand. it was a message from the telephone company, and it came from slattery, county prosecutor. something in it was of disturbing nature. judge henderson's brow was furrowed, his face was troubled. he seemed, thus alone and not stimulated by an audience, years older than he had been but now. he had been looking at this bit of paper for some time so intently that now he did not hear his hall door open--did not see one who paused there and then came, lightfooted, swiftly, across the space, to catch him and blindfold him as he sat. he heard the rustle of her skirts, and knew at once the deep counterfeit of her voice. "who is it?" she demanded, her hand over his eyes. "anne!" he exclaimed, catching at her hand. "you are here--when did you come?" she went round and kissed him. "just now," said she, "on the train from the city. you were not expecting me?" "no, not at all." "well, here i am, nunkie,"--she sometimes called her guardian by this pet name, although really they were not akin--"i'm finished and turned out complete--i'm done my college work now and ready for what we graduates call the battle of life. do you think i'll do?" she drew back and made him a pretty curtsey, spreading out her skirts. indeed, she was very fair to look upon and he smiled at her admiringly. "you are beautiful, anne," said he. "you are very beautiful--you are fine." "do i please you in every way?" said she. "perfectly, my dear. you cannot do otherwise." she looked at him demurely. "i'm not so sure," said she. "wait until you have heard all i have to tell you." "what's wrong? are you in debt?" "worse than that, nunkie dear--i'm engaged!" now indeed he looked at her with sudden consternation in his face. "what's that? you haven't told me anything of the sort." "i never knew it until just now--at the station." she came now and sat down upon the arm of his chair. "it just happened yesterday--and today." she put up a finger to her lips and rubbed them, fearing that he might see there the flame of the kiss they but now had borne. "who is the young man--if you are really in earnest about all this? where did you meet him? whoever he is, you've hardly done your duty by me. i'm your guardian--i stand _in loco parentis_ for you. when did all this happen?" "yesterday, on the train. i didn't expect it myself. but i promised. he's promised me. we were going to tell you about it at once." she was the very picture of happy and contented young womanhood as she spoke. not so happy was the man whom she addressed. "i can't guess at all whom you mean," said he. "is he anybody--is he a man of station--has he any business--has he any means? how old is he--who is he?" "i can't answer so many questions all at once, nunkie," said she. "but i'm going to be very happy, i know that. perhaps you can answer some of the questions for yourself--perhaps you know him. well, it's dieudonné lane!--he's in town right now--a schoolmate of mine for four years. surely, i know all about him." judge henderson swiftly turned and looked at her steadily, cold consternation on his face. "anne!" he exclaimed. "that can't be! it's absurd." "oh, i expected that," said she easily. "that's because he hasn't any money. i knew that. as for his family--he told me long ago that he was an orphan, that his father died when he was very young, and left only enough for his education, and that he would have to make his own way. very well, some men have had to do that--you have had to yourself, nunkie, isn't it true? and don was born here in this very town----" he put out his hand over hers as it lay upon the table-top. "anne!" said he. "my child! you're but a child--an impulsive, foolish child. what have you done? you have not pledged your word--to _him_?" "oh, yes, i have. i'm promised--my promise is given. more----" "it's folly and worse than folly. it can't be--i won't have it--you hear me?" he broke out savagely now. "i heard you--yes, but i'll jolly well not pay too much attention to you, even when you roar at me that way. as i understand it, i'm of age. i've been studying for four years to get ready to be able to know my own mind--and i do! my own heart also. and i know what's due me." her voice was low and very sweet, but the man who heard her winced at its cutting calm. "you would marry a man like that, of no family, of no place, of no name?" "yes, i've just said that. i know all about it. we'll have to start at the bottom; and i ask you, didn't you start that way?" "that's an entirely different proposition, my dear girl," said her guardian. "times were different then. you are an heiress--you are a woman of family and place--and you don't have to go back to the old days--you don't need to ruin your own life through such terrible beginnings. "but now, do you know who this young man's people are?" he asked this last after a considerable pause, during which his ward sat silent, looking at him steadily. "oh, yes. he told me he is an orphan--his father's dead long ago. and his mother----" "you know his mother?" "yes, a milliner--i believe. but a good woman." "ah!" she still looked at him, smiling. "i am 'advanced,' you see, nunkie! in college we studied things. i don't care for the social rank--i want to marry a _man_. i love don. i love--well, that kind of man. i'm so happy!" she squeezed him tight in a sudden warm embrace. "i love all the world, i believe, nunkie--even you, and you are an old bear, as everybody knows! and i thank you for all those papers in the long envelopes--with the lines and the crosses on them, and the pencil mark 'sign here'--powers of attorney and receipts, and bonds and shares and mortgages and certificates--all that sort of thing. am i very rich, nunkie?" "not very, as heiresses go these days," said he. "you're worth maybe four or five hundred thousand dollars, not very much. but that's not the question. that's not really everything there is at stake in this--although i'm well enough satisfied that's all this young man cares for." "thank you!" said she proudly. "i had not known that." "a good many things you have not known, my dear. now listen here. do you know what this marriage would mean to me? i want to be united states senator from this state--and everything bids fair to see my ambition gratified. but politics is a ticklish game." "well, what on earth has that to do with me and don?" "it has everything to do! i'm _not_ 'advanced,' i'm old fashioned enough to know that social rank does count in my business at least. in politics every little thing counts; so i tell you, for every reason in the world you must dismiss this young man from your thoughts. you are quixotic, i know--you are stubborn, like your mother--a good woman, but stubborn." he was arguing with her, but anne could not read his face, although she sought to do so--there seemed some veil hiding his real thoughts. and his face was troubled. she thought he had aged very much. "in one particular matter," said she slowly, at last. "it seems to me a woman should be stubborn. she should have her own say about the man she is to marry." "how much time have you had to decide on this?" "plenty. twenty-four hours, or a little less--no, i'll say twenty minutes. plenty. uncle--he kissed me--before the world. i can't take it back--we have given--i have promised. uncle, i have promised--well, all through me." "stop where you are!" said he. "have you disgraced us all so soon? has it gone so far? however that is, you shall go no further." he rose, his fingers on the table-top, rapping in emphasis. "my dear," he said, "i am older than you, and i have seen the world more than you have. i recognize fully enough the dynamic quality of what you call love--what i call merely sex in younger human beings. it is a thing of extreme seriousness, that's true. but the surest thing about all that sort of thing is that it changes, it passes. you will forget all this." "you do me much honor!" said anne oglesby, coloring. "you speak with much delicacy. but love me, love my lover." the swift resistance of a strong nature seemed suddenly to flash out at judge henderson from her gray eyes. suddenly he turned and took her arm. he escorted her to the inner room, which served as his own study and consultation chambers. "come here," said he. "well have to talk this thing over quietly. this is a terrible matter--you don't know how terrible. there's a lot under this that you don't know at all. anne, my dear girl, what can i say to you to alter you in this foolish resolve?" "nothing! i'm going to see his mother this very afternoon. he told me to come, so i could meet his mother----" "you're going to do nothing of the kind!" said judge henderson in sudden anger. "you're going to stay here and listen to reason, that's what you're going to do! you undertake to go into a situation which reaches wider than this town, wider than this state, do you? it is your duty, then, to prevent me from _my_ duty? are you so selfish, so egotistic as all that?" she smiled at him amusedly, cynically, a wide and frank smile, which irritated him unspeakably. he frowned. "it is time now for you to reflect. first--as you say--this young man has no father. his mother----" he paused suddenly, his pallid face working strangely now. the shrill summons of the telephone close at his hand as he sat had caused him to start, but it was with relief. he took down the receiver and placed his hand for the moment over the mouthpiece. "aurora lane--you don't know about her?" he began. then she saw a sudden change of expression which passed over his face. "yes--yes," he said, into the telephone. "the jury has brought in its verdict? _what's that?_----" the phone dropped clattering from his hand on the desk, so shaking and uncertain was his grasp. he turned to his ward slowly. "you don't know!" said he. "you don't know what that was i have just heard this moment! well, i'll tell you. dieudonné lane has been held to the grand jury--while we've been sitting here. they've charged him with the murder of tarbush, the city marshal. my god! anne----" it seemed an hour to both before she spoke. her face, first flushed, then pale, became set and cold as she looked toward the man who brought this news. once she flinched; then pulled together. but yesterday a girl, this hour a young woman, now she was all at once mature, resolved. "you heard me, did you not?" he went on, his voice rising. "charged--with murder! no one in the world knew he was alive--no one but you, and you never told me of him--no one ever dreamed of him till the last twenty-four hours, when he came blundering in here--out of his grave, i say! and in twenty-four hours he has made his record here--and _this_ is his record. do you know what this means? he may not come through--i want to say the chances look bad for him, very bad indeed." judge henderson's smooth face showed more agitation than ever it had in all his life before. "uncle," she said, after a long time, reaching out a hand to him, "now is your opportunity!" "what do you mean? _my_ opportunity? it's--it's a terrible thing--you don't know." "yes, yes. but you say you have been in the place of a parent to me. that's true--i owe you much--you have been good--you have been kind. be good, be kind now! oh, don't you see what is your duty? now you can use your learning, your wisdom, your oratory. you can save don--for me. you're my parent--can't you be his, too? we're both orphans--can't you be a father for us both? of _course_ you will defend him. he hasn't much. he couldn't pay you now. but i have money--you've just told me that i have. "oh, no, i don't mean that, about the money--but listen," she went on, since he made no reply. "do you think _i'd_ desert him now that he's in trouble? do you think any woman of my family would do that? we're not so low, i trust, either of us, either side. you are not so low as that, i trust, yourself. why, you'd not desert anyone, surely not an orphan boy, just starting out--you'd never in the world do that, i know." in answer he smoothed out before her on the desk top the crumpled paper he had